I wish I could get to New York more often. Every six months, say, often enough to have a few favorite places to go to, ideas about hotels. Alas, I am not that person. Enough time passes between visits that the place remakes itself two or three times over.

The last time I visited with Alan and Kate, we stayed on what I called the far west side, i.e., Jersey City. Back then, there were a few hotels, populated mainly by south Asian men who shlepped off to work in the financial district in the morning, in polo shirts and lanyards, on the PATH train. Now those hotels are surrounded by high-rise apartment buildings and a few restaurants, and the area is now called Wall Street West.

We actually stayed in the same hotel — a suite thing, just a couple blocks from the PATH. Manhattan is even more a gated community for tourists and the super-wealthy than ever, with most of the tourists gathered around the World Trade Center site. Seriously. On Saturday, I think English speakers were in the minority, with guided tours going on in about a million other languages. But we were bound for Brooklyn, and ended up in DUMBO, which I’m told stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge, with the O added so it’s not a neighborhood called simply DUMB. Correction: Directly Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. Thanks, commenters.

Walked around. Ate meatballs. Went up to Prospect Park. Came back over to Manhattan and strolled the east Village. Talked and walked and talked and walked, until I had a giant blister on one toe, at which point it was back under the river via PATH and a bottle of wine in the suite.

Repeat on Sunday. I bought Kate a CBGB T-shirt, which her government teacher told her was worth extra-credit points. And then home, where after about 48 hours, my feet have finally stopped hurting. Mostly.

But I’m grateful for every chance I get to see the place, although I have to say: Shopping in New York isn’t the thrill it once was. What’s there is outrageously expensive, and what isn’t you can find on the internet. Maybe if I had a few more days to wander. But then I’d need new shoes. Or maybe a wheelchair.

One photo from Dumbo (I’m done with the capitalization):

Yes, what a crazy idea! Come into the tent and type a letter! Wacky.

There is so much good stuff about the shutdown today, I can’t possibly cover it all. But here’s Paul Krugman, and here’s Charles Pierce, and everything else is out there for the finding.

For a chance of pace, how about this? Two idiots scuffle with the police. In the process, a paddleboat — yes, a paddleboat — is used in an escape attempt and capsized. It is difficult to capsize a paddleboat. In fact, i”d think it was nearly impossible, in anything other than extraordinary circumstances. And yet they managed.

Why I will never live in Florida. EVER.

Due to the government shutdown and events beyond my control last night (i.e., television, wine), we’re having an open thread today.

Question to start things off: Is Ted Cruz wearing fake eyelashes?

Back tomorrow.

Like the true moderate I am, I watch — watched (sob) — “Breaking Bad” from a perspective in the vast acreage between casual and obsessive. I went to college and have dabbled in criticism, so when I learned the final episode would be called “Felina,” I immediately thought of Marty Robbins’ “El Paso,” but didn’t consider that the title is an anagram for “finale.”

(My appreciation for “El Paso” comes from pushing quarters into the jukebox at the Scioto Trails, a great roadhouse from my youth that long ago fell to the developer’s wrecking ball. MarkH, I’m sure you were there.)

Anyway, if you know the song at all, you know it’s about the tragic fate of a jealous cowboy. And at this point, I guess we have to say SPOILER ALERT FOR THE FINAL EPISODE OF “BREAKING BAD.” If you don’t know what happened, why are you even reading this? Seriously.

The lyrics of “El Paso” are as effective as a beat sheet (TV writer jargon; it’s an outline) for the final episode, which — all seem to agree — was as satisfying as it could be, without being entirely perfect.

Cowboy music has a lot in common with bluegrass — a tragic story told in many, many verses. But let’s take it from the turning point:

Just for a moment I stood there in silence,
Shocked by the foul evil deed I had done.
Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there;
I had but one chance and that was to run.

As we all know, Walt was on the run for the last two episodes, deep in not “the badlands of New Mexico,” but the very cold landscape of New Hampshire. Brooding. Broken. Ready to give up. Until, galvanized by the Charlie Rose ramblings of his former partner and girlfriend (now man and wife), he finds the strength to return to the scene of his many crimes and set things right.

Back in El Paso my life would be worthless.
Everything’s gone in life; nothing is left.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen the young maiden
My love is stronger than my fear of death.

Walt’s young maiden is his guilt, or maybe it’s what remained of Heisenberg, meth king and rampaging angel. His love for his family is what it most certainly isn’t, and Vince Gilligan gets credit for the pivotal line of the episode, the final shred of self-delusion falling from Walt’s eyes: “I did it for me. I liked it. I was good at it. And I was really … I was alive.” Remember, he made this decision when he was under a death sentence. And that feeling of being alive is cited often enough by people in criminal enterprises that “adrenaline junkie” doesn’t really cover it. In “Thelma & Louise,” not long before they hurtle toward the cliff OOPS SPOILER, Geena Davis says, “I feel awake.” That’s a powerful feeling.

And at last here I am on the hill overlooking El Paso;
I can see Rosa’s cantina below.
My love is strong and it pushes me onward.
Down off the hill to Felina I go.

Off to my right I see five mounted cowboys;
Off to my left ride a dozen or more.
Shouting and shooting I can’t let them catch me.
I have to make it to Rosa’s back door.

To Rosa’s back door he made it, in the sense that he touched base with the Schwartzes, Skyler, Lydia and Todd before finally facing the music at the Nazis’ meth compound. This was the most implausible sequence, but it’s not like Walt invented the idea of using the trunk of a car as a shooting station.

Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel a deep burning pain in my side.
Though I am trying to stay in the saddle,
I’m getting weary, unable to ride.

And we all know the rest. Because recaps and criticism aren’t my strong suit, I’ll leave the rest to you. I would like to note one thing, however: For all his self-justification of doing this for the money, Walt was never all that driven by it. Granted, a man trying to hide criminal activity would be unwise to flash cash around town, but beyond the episode with the car(s), he didn’t even allow himself the little luxuries that wouldn’t have drawn attention — a kitchen remodel, a cashmere pullover. That’s why I loved the scene in the Schwartzes’ ridiculous mansion, with Walt gazing at the appointments and proportions like an archaeologist. One of my favorite episodes of the whole series was when Walt and Skyler go to a birthday party at their place, Skyler wearing what looks like a repurposed bridesmaid dress and all the other guests so effortlessly and expensively underdressed. One of the gifts is a guitar once owned, and signed, by Eric Clapton. Walt’s wounded seething was something to see.

The whole series was something to see. RIP, and on to the next one.

Of all the last-episode recaps out there, I recommend Hank’s and Matt Zoller Seitz’.

So, back from New York, where much fun was had and many miles were walked. My feet feel like old bread dough in need of some serious kneading. More on that tomorrow.

Screw these internet problems. I’m off to New York this morning, and I’ll be back Sunday.

Open thread. Here’s one conversation-starter, about Michigan football, but I think the impulses behind it apply to a lot more than just one school. Greed ruins everything.

See you after the weekend.

The New York Times had a great piece on an old episode of “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” one I saw once as a child and never again. Over the years, I’d ask others if they remembered it, and I think only one did. Thank God for him, because it almost seemed I’d hallucinated it:

“Remember that episode where Rob was convinced they’d taken the wrong baby home from the hospital?” Blank stare. (Except for Lance Mannion, who watched every episode of every show ever aired, evidently.)

Well, I didn’t. “That’s My Boy??” is a classic of the civil-rights era, and — critic Neil Genzlinger points out — a milestone of racial relations in TV entertainment.

The plot: Rob is recounting the days around little Richie’s birth. He’s getting ready to take Laura and the baby home from the hospital, and the nurse delivers the wrong envelope of jewelry. No, this is Mrs. Peters’ jewelry, Laura says, remarking that it’s been happening all week: She got Mrs. Peters’ flowers, and Mrs. Peters got her rice pudding. Their names are similar, after all — Peters, Petrie. This starts Rob thinking that maybe they swapped something else, too. Something more important.

The rest of the episode is Rob staring into the bassinet, trying to find any family resemblance. Finally, he calls the Peters, who live nearby, and tells them his suspicions. They agree to stop by that night.

The doorbell rings in the middle of a squabble between Rob and Laura, who refuses to believe the baby is anything other than hers. Rob goes to the door, opens it:

“Hi! We’re Mr. and Mrs. Peters!” And they step into the room. It’s Greg Morris and another African-American actress, although then she would have been a Negro actress. The studio audience is howling with laughter. Morris can’t keep a straight face, either. I remember laughing so hard in my own living room that I almost peed. It was one of the funniest moments of TV I’ve ever seen. Here’s a two-minute clip of the big reveal.

Genzlinger:

Today TV seems to push various envelopes with a vengeance, often clumsily so, trying for shock value in a world that is increasingly hard to shock. You have to admire the bravery and the unwillingness to tolerate any barrier, whether it be the one against gay characters or characters with disabilities or unsettling subjects like rape and child abuse. But you also sometimes are left mourning the lack of subtlety and art.

Carl Reiner knew what he was doing, that’s for sure.

I started writing this with some gusto, and then my connection started flickering again, so let’s get this going:

Make a man 300 sandwiches, earn an engagement ring! Jezebel takes it apart — hilariously.

Yet another reason Kid Rock sucks: His Malibu house — of course he has a Malibu house — has a stripper pole in the living room.

Thursday already? You don’t say.

First things first: As most of you have figured out by now, our connectivity problems continue. It is out of our hands, in large part, but J.C. is sitting in the NN.C control room, which is encased in lead and concrete and located deep beneath the earth in an undisclosed location, working on it. To the extent that he can. Long story short, we hope it will improve soon. If not, we’ll find a new hosting company.

In the meantime, don’t try to resubmit comments! J.C., yesterday: We’re doing a cache thing to help our poor hobbled server and the downside of that is that you may not see your comment show up immediately.

Thanks for hanging in there with us. This site is nothing without you guys.

Because I don’t have much to offer, many days, do I? But here’s this: A movie recommendation, now that it’s out on streaming/DVD — “The Bling Ring,” which we watched over the weekend. (Alan’s a big Sofia Coppola fan.) A light fictionalization of a real story, about how a gang of Los Angeles teens robbed a series of Hollywood stars’ homes, aided and abetted by the internet and the stars’ own carelessness (for the most part, they entered through unlocked doors and windows). They took clothes, jewelry and cash, but mainly seemed interested in stealing as much stardust as possible.

“Is this Herve Leger? I LOVE it!” one says, pawing through Paris Hilton’s closet. “This. Is a Birkin,” says another, helping herself. In a world where luxury brands are shoved in the faces of these vapid teenagers — or all of us — it’s almost a case of can-you-blame-them? Paris Hilton kept the key to her front door under the mat, and had to be informed of the thefts; she had so much stuff, she didn’t notice anything missing. And so this aimless and empty little band drifted from one house to the next — getting tips on their owners’ absences from TMZ and other gossip sites — collecting luxury items and cash and crap. An emptier existence could hardly be imagined, but uncommon? No way. Didn’t we spend some time yesterday batting around those Emmy runway photos? “Who are you wearing?” is a common question. We all know who Herve Leger is.

It’s not a great movie. It’s sort of depressing, especially when you consider how many stories I’ve read about what a clotheshorse Sofia Coppola is, how much she swims in this world she holds in such contempt. But I liked it anyway.

We have some good bloggage today.

Newspapers have stripped away so much of their content in recent years I almost forget how much I enjoy reading a smart critic from time to time. Especially Hank Stuever, writing about a forgettable sitcom that wants to be a nostalgia trip:

You could set your atomic clock by the predictable rhythms of retromania: When I was a boy in the ’70s, we briefly wanted nothing more than to be Fonzie in the ’50s (inasmuch as “Happy Days” struggled to depict the ’50s; in reruns it just looks like the ’70s). Out came the Dippity-Do and switchblade combs.

If only our forebears had possessed the wisdom to outlaw public displays of nostalgia! When I got to college in the mid-’80s, every other dorm room had a Jim Morrison or John Lennon poster on the wall, yet our preoccupation with the ’60s while living in the ’80s is something you never see in today’s films and TV shows that are set in the ’80s. The anachronisms — then and now — require too much nuance and an understanding that the passage of time and accumulation of popular culture is a fluid experience: It’s less like a free-flowing river and more like a dammed-up lake.

Meanwhile, someone explain to me how this bizarre story about a horse biting a man’s penis works: It’s written in English, but the quotes are in (presumably) Tagalog.

Criticizing AIG bonuses is just like being a Nazi. The AIG executives say so. Talk about confirmation bias.

Hump day. Thank ya lord.

I don’t know about you, but on the day after a big awards show, I could spend hours reading Tom & Lorenzo’s take on the red-carpet outfits. Of course, the pans are the most fun, what with Zosia Mamet’s bizarre leather boobs, and Christian Hendricks’ ace putdown of Ryan Seacrest:

…she told Ryan Seacrest she picked this dress because it looked “like a Sargent painting,” which is absolutely true and the stating of such caused Seacrest to blink vapidly for a few seconds and weakly repeat “… a Sargent painting… ” because he CLEARLY had no frikkin clue what she was talking about. Anyone who can reveal Seacrest for the uncultured tool he is with one phrase is someone who deserves all the neck rolls and finger snaps in the WORLD.

(The Sargent painting in question.)

Cat Deeley’s rueful regret:

A lot of arching of the back with the arms clamped to her sides. A shame. Your instincts were telling you not to wear this, hon, but you fell in love with the sheer Bob Mackie-ness of it all, didn’t you? We can understand.

My personal best in show: Anna Gunn.

Claire Danes’ mistake:

You just barely have your nipples covered and you’re going with anchorwoman hair, clean eyes, and sensible diamond studs in your ears? Girl, no.

But if you’re just perusing the home page, the best of all is Miley Cyrus, trotting out yet another of her fun outfits, which includes black pasties, panties with suspenders, and a fishnet dress with a bunchy zipper.

Nothing says “I have no persona of my own” than freezing your face into nothing more than a logo for pictures and thinking that it makes you look interesting.

Yeah, she’s doing that tongue thing again.

I’m talking fashion because I can’t talk about “Breaking Bad” — the last few episodes are killing me. It’s simply magnificent, brave television, and you can read dozens of great TV critics pulling it apart. You don’t need me.

I’m out of gas. Enjoy the dresses.

The Tour de Troit was pretty cool, and if Saturday’s picture looks muddy and pixelated, well, I apologize. I tried to fix the tiny picture — bug in WordPress for mobile devices, IMO — and it ‘sploded. Oh, well. It’s not like there aren’t 90 zillion other pix out there if you feel like searching #tdt2013 in the usual social networks.

More than 6,000 riders, we were told. You’d think riding in a group that size, it would be difficult to go off course, but somehow we managed. Don’t look at me, I was just following the people in front of me when suddenly there was a SCREEEECH of brakes and a very pissed-off driver what-the-hell’d us as we rolled through an intersection. An intersection without the usual police, corking it. And hey, there weren’t any at that last intersection, either, were they? A bunch of us stopped and consulted with the map, and a bunch more took out their phones and stared at those, and we managed to cobble together a way back to the route. It involved taking a group of three dozen or so down Woodward, a daunting proposition for some people who thought they’d be riding in a tunnel of police protection, but we got everybody back to the group, and now a few out-of-towners will have a better story to tell.

Afterward, there was beer and food and music. I observed a man at the next table learn that you are supposed to take the corn husk off before you eat a tamale. (“That’s nothing,” said Alan. “I’ve seen Hispanic people learn that lesson.”) A chilly morning turned into a glorious afternoon, one of those days when you’re happy to be right here, right now.

Then I took a nap. Because of the beer.

The weekend didn’t go so well elsewhere. I’m reading about the Kenyan mall attack now, one of those events you’re frankly amazed doesn’t happen more often. I am, anyway. Terrorists are fond of bombs, but there’s nothing like a few well-trained, or even adequately trained men with guns to do maximum damage in the right environment. If only all those shoppers had been armed! I’m not saying we wouldn’t get our hair mussed. But I do say no more than ten to twenty million killed, tops.

And if you haven’t seen it yet, you should check out this remarkable NYT photo blog of the massacre, with pictures taken by a staff photographer who was actually in the mall at the time of the shooting.

Speaking of shooting, I also strongly recommend this piece from the WashPost, about the life of shooting-rampage survivor, and of their loved ones. It is, what’s the word? Oh yeah: Searing.

“Thoughts and prayers and it ends there,” said Lori Haas, whose daughter was shot and injured at Virginia Tech. “I can’t do anything anymore with thoughts and prayers.”

“I’m learning that you have to be brutal with these people,” said Patricia Maisch, who wrestled away a magazine clip and disarmed the shooter at a 2011 event in Tucson where Gabrielle Giffords and 18 others were shot. Maisch took out a picture she carried of the six people killed at that event and set it on the table. “Now I show this to people and start getting graphic,” she said. “This is not a pretty death like you see on ‘NCIS’ or ‘Law and Order.’ This is six people murdered on the sidewalk on a beautiful Arizona day.”

“Bloody and scared,” said Bill Badger, who was shot in the back of the head that day.

“Oh, and by the way, loved ones aren’t lost. They are killed,” Haas said.

“Murdered,” said Roxanna Green, whose 9-year-old daughter was murdered at the event in Arizona.

“I just want to shake people,” Badger said. “If this was some disease . . . we’d be in a national emergency.”

“You’d see planes dropping medicine,” Maisch said. “Instead, it’s another day. It’s nothing.”

Also searing, but in a very different way: “Tomato Can Blues,” also from Sunday’s NYT, a story about a mid-Michigan loser MMA fighter and the tangled web he wove along the way to faking his death and holding up a store called, I am not kidding, Guns & Stuff.

It’s an entertaining kind of searing. I kept imagining Bunchy Donovan as the tomato can, and if you get that reference, fine, and if not, I’m not going to explain it.

And so the week begins. May yours be filled with smooth sailing and apple cider.

Tour deTroit. Over 6,000 cyclists. Fun.

OK, let’s give this a try. All my devices are getting on my nerves at some level today, partly because I went and IOS 7’d the mobile ones, and the iPad is having a little freakout over it. I’m not at all sure I like the new look, but it’s too late to turn back now.

For some reason, all this downloading and syncing is taking hours I might have spent here serving youuuu, my little minions, although back-to-school night might have had something to do with it. I’m always impressed by Kate’s teachers at these things, and even though the event itself is of minimal true value, it’s nice to put a face with the names we’ll be hearing about for the next few months. The biggest character was her physics teacher, a fast-talking wiseacre made for the age of edutainment. In his seven-minute pitch, he put on three demonstrations of SCIENCE! Kind of a Walter White without the resentment and sociopathy.

It was a warm evening, and I rode my bike there, and ran into two of the grade-school parents when I was locking up; they’d walked. The parking lot was stuffed like a foie gras goose, and I heard one mother saying parking was such a pain, they really should have walked. “It’s only two blocks,” she said. Imagine driving a car two blocks on a beautiful night, and then bitching about the parking situation, and you have Detroit in a nutshell. Support the local economy!

I feel like I’m out of things to say, and surely I am. How about some bloggage?

Bridge dropped a couple of stories lately you might be interested in. Me, on the changing nature of marriage in the middle class, and my colleague Ron’s package on building a better teacher. The main story, about the failure to support teachers, may be a little too Michigan-centric for most of you, but the sidebar, about the difference between U.S. and Canadian teacher training, was fascinating:

It’s easier to get into university teacher training programs in Michigan than in Ontario. There’s less mentoring and professional development here. And far more young Michigan teachers flee the profession after just a year or two, before attaining journeyman levels of classroom competency.

I like doing stories like this. I like reading them. I like my job.

Prince Fielder does the Bill-Clinton-at-McDonald’s thing. Funny video.

A downmarket update on the two-Samurai-in-the-rain story. In Michigan.

Have a great weekend, all.