I liked “The Hunger Games” more than I thought I would. Normally I don’t go to franchise movies based on young-adult fiction empires; I still haven’t seen more than a couple minutes of any Harry Potter flick, and the first “Twilight” bored both Kate and me so much we never went back for the rest. (For a girl in love, Bella Swan wears a look on her face throughout that suggests nothing so much as constipation.)

But honestly, after “Winter’s Bone,” I’d follow that nice Jenny Lawrence pretty much anywhere, and what I knew of the story made it sound like an action-movie version of that indie darling. A tough girl from a poor neighborhood kicks ass by way of saving her little sister from doom? Same log line!

So I went in more or less unspoiled, having not read the books or the pregame chat or the fan fiction. And even though I think young adults need to read about fewer dystopian worlds where all the grownups are cruel fops, I give Suzanne Collins, the author of this particular one, a lot of credit. She did what all these great bestselling authors do, i.e., take something familiar and make it unfamiliar enough we still want to read about it. The dystopian nation of Panem is a cartoon of cruelty and foppery, almost preposterously so, but it’s an entertaining one. Stanley Tucci lives there; how bad can it be?

Ultimately, though, I have to agree with David Edelstein: The film’s major flaw is that it didn’t go far enough. Of course, the violence is toned down for the PG-13 rating, but what I wanted more of were the creepy parts that reminded me of my own dystopian world — more of the reality show (hosted by Tucci) that broadcasts the games to the rest of the nation, mostly. The event where the girls and boys are chosen from the nation’s 12 impoverished districts to be warriors is kicked off with a short film telling everyone why this is happening, and it’s such a perfect piece of propaganda, it could have been made by Roger Ailes. The thuggish soldiers who enforce the grinding bootheel of oppression are referred to as “peacekeepers.” A brief riot back home is shot almost entirely in shakycam closeup and medium shots, so you don’t get a sense of the odds everyone is facing.

I wanted to know more about the districts, and I understand that may come in the sequel. I hope it’s not downplayed in favor of the Young Love storyline, which drove me nuts. The main character has a boyfriend back home who pouts because she’s playacting attraction for another player in the arena; doesn’t he know she’s fighting for her life here?

Well, that’s what the script called for.

But, all things considered, not a bad action flick for the whole family. As long as you don’t mind 23 kids dying along the way. But you get Stanley Tucci, so it evens out.

For a much funnier movie review, here’s Lindy West on the new, 3D-ified “Titanic.”

And to make this an all-movie blog post, I spent this evening at the Mitten Movie Project. One of the shorts was about this place, the Goat Yard, a famous riverside boat club here in Detroit. I’m not sure if this was an extended cut from a larger feature or not, but it was the story of the goat that gave the place its name. He was a large billy named Nemo, and there was a story about him jumping up and down on a Porsche.

I want a goat.

And I want a happy Wednesday for you.

Tuesday links and pix, because I’m tired and all I want to do is watch “Game of Thrones” on my iPad, because wouldn’t you?

Flickr isn’t turning up anything good, so I went through my own photo library. Have I used this before?

Yet another Saturday Morning Market shot — a couple of skinny little boys with a very involved mother, singing “Folsom Prison Blues” between market sheds. They didn’t appear to have a busker’s license, and my guess is they were booted pretty quickly, provided the enforcers could get through the layers of awwwwwing fans.

And now on to the links:

Neil Steinberg, the Sun-Times columnist, took note of Ann Romney’s bon mot yesterday with a note of respect:

I thought it was a joke when I first read it. But no. Ann Romney, Mitt’s wife, when asked how she responded to those who said her husband is “too stiff,” really did say “I guess we better unzip him and let the real Mitt Romney out because he is not.”

Satire must bow and recognize a force greater than itself. No exaggeration can improve upon what these people are actually capable of saying. The mind reels.

Meanwhile, Strip Search Sammy Alito lives up to his nickname. Along with his confederates.

A couple of you mentioned going to the Titanic exhibit at the Henry Ford here in the other D (Dearborn). We’ll be doing so as well, and if anyone wants a drinkie or two with the hostess, you just rustle me up.

Something I did not know: “Dixie,” the unofficial anthem of the ol’ Souf’, wasn’t written until 1859. It was written in New York City, of all places, for a minstrel show.

Zzzzz.

Such a strange story in the Freep Sunday, a Rochelle Riley special on the aftermath of a case everyone who was paying attention in 2005 knows about — a mother and her two sons, killed instantly by a drunk driver. The case was especially egregious in the details: It happened at midday. The driver was utterly shitfaced. He hit her car, stopped to make a left turn into the dentist’s office, at an estimated 70 miles per hour. There wasn’t a single skid mark to indicate he tried to slow down first. He was driving a Yukon, she an Accord. So, so awful. All Gary Weinstein’s chickens and their dam in one fell swoop.

This was in 2005. The driver, Tom Wellinger, was tried and convicted of second-degree murder, and is serving 19-30 years in prison. So what’s the story about? Forgiveness.

Now. If you know me at all, you know I am a world-champion grudge holder. If you were filling out brackets for this sport, you’d be smart to have me and David Simon in the final four, perhaps with an Albanian and Sicilian blood-feuder. It’s not that I’m incapable of forgiveness. I just don’t like the version peddled today, in which you forgive someone who has wronged you by hugging them on Oprah’s set and then adding them to your Christmas-card list. This seems crazy to me. This is the forgiveness I practice: I decide to put stuff behind me. And then I move on. But I reserve the right to not like the other person forever and ever.

Because what else can you do? It’s been my experience that when you get seriously fucked over, it’s pretty rare for the fucker to come back later and say, “I did a terrible thing to you. I apologize, and I ask your forgiveness.” Nooooo. They go on about their lives, eating ice cream and otherwise not being bothered by the face they see in the mirror every day. Life could hardly go on, otherwise. Because we’ve all been that fucker, sometime, to someone. We might not even be aware of it.

But this new brand of forgiveness is the hot thing now, and it’s the bass line of this piece by Riley, which promotes a film project called Project Forgive, being produced by a woman who knew both men at the center of this story — Weinstein the widower and Wellinger the drunk driver, and here’s where I start to look around for the nearest exit:

“There are two Toms,” she said (of the killer), “Tom, this man who killed a family and is in jail, and Tom, a beautiful, loving family man who happened to make a horrific mistake.”

Sure, that guy. Stories at the time indicated this beautiful man was on an epic bender at the time, with a blood-alcohol content around .4. Riley picks up on this ironic detail:

The saddest twist of fate, she said, was that Tom Wellinger’s immediate family had flown to Michigan the day of the accident to stage an intervention over his drinking.

It was scheduled for the next day.

That is not the saddest twist of fate, sorry, no. The saddest twist of fate is the three dead people, and have you ever been to an intervention? Frequently, the person at the center says, “No, I’m not checking into your little rehab center. In fact, I’m leaving right now” and walks out of the room. But she’s going somewhere here, and it’s in the direction of forgiveness. Then this mushroom pops up in the middle of the copy:

(Weinstein) also attributes much of his success and life philosophy to Landmark personal development seminars, something that he said chased away many girlfriends but intrigued the woman he eventually married. (His wife) attended a seminar with him and eventually became a Landmark leader.

What is a Landmark personal development seminar? There’s no explanation. So I went a-Googling. And wow:

If, like me, you are not in the habit of sharing highly personal tidbits of your life with 148 strangers for 13 hours a day, three days in a row, then let me, uh, share with you what that experience feels like. It feels like intergalactic jet lag, or like someone has pumped your head full of a global weather system, heavy on the cumulonimbus. Some of the 148 strangers were crying so much, they looked as if they had been boiled.

And wow:

After nearly 40 hours inside the basement of Landmark Education’s world headquarters, I have not Transformed. Nor have I “popped” like microwave popcorn, as the Forum Leader striding back and forth at the front of the windowless gray room has promised. In fact, by the time he starts yelling and stabbing the board with a piece of chalk around hour 36, it’s become clear that I’ll be the hard kernel left at the bottom of this three-and-a-half-day Landmark Forum. I have, however, Invented the Possibility of a Future in which I get a big, fat raise, a Future I’ll Choose to Powerfully Enroll my bosses in, now that I am open to Miracles Around Money.

And an even bigger wow:

Though it’s hardly a secret, Landmark does not advertise that it is the buttoned-down reincarnation of the ultimate ’70s self-actualization philosophy, est.

Dragging that around in your backpack — to borrow an image from “Up in the Air” — you almost have to find yourself confronting your wife’s killer in a jail cell, and asking after his kids.

“I want him to speak so that the world will know he’s not a monster,” Weinstein said. “My understanding is that he’s not. I can appreciate that people who know what happened to me think I should be vindictive against him for what he did. But I don’t come at it from that point at all.”

Again: Wow. I can’t figure if this is brilliant or not. If I’d done something like Wellinger did, I think a fate worse than death would be to have my victim’s survivors embrace me like this. To care about my family. To tell people I’m not a monster. Maybe this is jujitsu. But there was a strange undercurrent to this story. Some things can’t be forgiven in that way.

Or maybe I’m just in dire need of a Landmark personal-development seminar. Has anyone here done one of these?

How was your weekend. We saw “The Hunger Games,” about which I’ll have more to say tomorrow. In the meantime? Bloggage:

For you photography nerds, inside the 3D conversion of “Titanic.”

Thirty-six billions dollars’ worth of student-loan debt is held by people 60 and older. (Speaking of wow.)

Remember when college riots were sparked by politics and anger over national policy? Yeah, me neither.

Monday awaits! Another slog of a week, but one I’m happy to participate in.

I was having office hours today when the department secretary stuck her head in the door.

“You haven’t responded to your invitation to the diversity awards,” she said.

“I never got an invitation to the diversity awards,” I said.

“It’s in your mailbox.”

“I have a mailbox?” Kidding. I learned I had a mailbox about six months ago, maybe longer. I hadn’t checked it since. So I found it — it’s in an office I never visit — and pulled out the invitation to the diversity awards. Also, one to the department Christmas party and something from the president informing us of the rich menu of learning experiences available on campus. I reached all the way back, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.

And pulled out something that looked like the paychecks I used to receive before I signed up for direct deposit. Surely it was some sort of tax document. Dammit, already filed, I thought, ripping off the zip tabs on the ends, wondering if I’d have to file an amended return.

Unfolded it. It was a check. Made out to me. For several hundred dollars. Dated April 27, 2011. I have no idea why I was paid by check when it was supposed to be coming electronically. Don’t know why I didn’t notice I was short, except that adjuncts are paid through the term and when the term stops, the money stops, and this was likely the last one of the term. I probably thought it just stopped early.

I could go on at great length explaining my budgeting process to you, but it would only serve to make me sound even stupider. As it was, the two or three people I had to explain this to by way of getting it voided and repaid looked at me like I’m some silly rich twit who didn’t even know she was short an entire paycheck a whole year previous.

“I’m not rich!” I told them. “I’m just dumb.”

In three to five days, I will have a brand-new check. In four to six days, I predict a bill will arrive for precisely that amount.

One of my longer-term resolutions this year is to get certain financial ducks in a row. So if you owe me any money, please send a check now. Or just order lots of Amazon through the Kickback Lounge.

The WSJ had a story Thursday about how high schools are dealing with the prom-dress problem, i.e., enforcing the dress code necessitated by the new prom dresses.

“New prom dresses?” you ask. “How new can they be?”

How about this new, to use an extreme example, but not all that unusual, evidently. The story says that the trend toward cut-down-to-there, slit-up-to-here, tight/plunging/see-through dresses is coming out of Hollywood, driven by “Dancing With the Stars,” the Real Housewives and J-Lo, mainly. I urge you to take a walk through the Promgirl online catalog, and marvel — at the models, all of whom look like Kardashians on the far side of 30; at the cutouts; at the boob jobs; at the…whatever this is. Do any of the girls whose mothers permit them to walk outside the house dressed like this have any sense of propriety? Or are they all raising their girls to be sold into white slavery? I tell Kate if she wants to dress like this, I will teach her to say, in Russian, “My name is Olga, and I cost two hundred dollars.”

Best line from the story:

Southmoore High’s guidelines say male students must keep their shirts on all night. “We don’t care that you work out,” the guide states.

OK, then! Got any bloggage? Yes, and a wide variety of it.

From New York magazine, President John Tyler, born in 1790, our 10th president, has a living grandson. Yes, grandson:

Both my grandfather — the president — and my father, were married twice. And they had children by their first wives. And their first wives died, and they married again and had more children. And my father was 75 when I was born, his father was 63 when he was born. John Tyler had fifteen children — eight by his first wife, seven by his second wife — so it does get very confusing.

A T-shirt company in town sells a wide variety of shirts promoting various parts of the Metro — one emblazoned Taylortucky, for a downriver community; another showing a sombrero-wearing cactus for Mexicantown. But it wasn’t until it released one for Dearborn that featured the city’s name in Arabic letters that the shit hit the fan. Maybe that’s too strong. It was more like a vile fart in front of an air conditioner. I still want one.

Dig it: A nice piece on a Detroit urban farmer, and mine on the Mower Gang, if you missed the link in the comments yesterday.

There’s a second Mad Style post today! T-Lo, the gift that keeps on blogging.

A good weekend, all. Sorry I’ve been so uninspired, of late. It’s been a killer week.

Thank our lucky stars above for the Mad Style postings of Tom & Lorenzo. Those two queens may not have lived through it, but they understand fashion in times gone by. It so happens this era on “Mad Men” — 1966 — is when I first started paying close attention to what women wore, and what it said about them. This post is dead on. In fact, I think that whole party scene was staged to give T-Lo something to write about.

And if you can’t get enough — and who can ever get enough ’60s fashion? — Slate has a slideshow with commentary by the costume designer.

Spring was here and not so much anymore, but the calendar says yes and so it’s time to start thinking Easter. And what does Easter mean? Newspaper-sponsored Peep contests, that’s what — so let’s check out the winners of the Washington Post Peeps Show contest, eh? A fun way to blow five minutes.

And while we’re speaking of Easter and birds, Coozledad’s story of how a four-legged chicken came to live on his place:

Our first chicken was a by-product of a Perdue farm. Every twenty thousand iterations or so of their bloodline of Cornish Rock moribunds they get a chick that manages to form up from two yolks, crack the shell, get up on its multiple legs and avoid the cruel fate of being eaten by its thousands of broodmates. A friend of ours whose father contracted for Perdue told him about us, and he hit on the idea that we might be the perfect kind of idiots with which to place one of these grievous instances of broiler production.

He was right. When my wife broached the subject at dinner I was naively enthused. I pictured a sort of plush chicken car with legs instead of tires.

When it arrived, huddled and wheezing in its travel box, it looked more like a late model sedan pulling a homemade trailer brimming with liquid shit. I wasn’t just deflated, I was a little horrified.

If I had more to do, I’d be the president. Good night and good Thursday.

A woman approached me at a freeway exit today, holding a gas can and rattling off a mile-a-minute story about running out of gas, being late for work and panicked about losing her job. She didn’t look like she worked at Victoria’s Secret at Macomb Mall, but it wasn’t out of the question, either. Please, please, please, she said.

I gave her $4. There’s at least a 50-50 chance she spent it in a nearby crack house, but I always consider the possibility she really needed the money. You have to make a decision about these things in half the cycle of a red light, and what the hell — will your karma be terribly dented by a kindness to a drug addict, even if it’s not the kindness they need? The last thing she said as she moved to the next car?

“I’ll pay it forward. I will.”

Let’s hope so.

I felt the need to rearrange karma a bit yesterday, having read about what most seem to consider a fairly disastrous argument for the Affordable Care Act earlier. Well. If it goes down, I look forward to the GOP’s “modest, incremental fixes” of the existing unsustainable reality, not to mention the usual preening about the greatest health-care system in the world.

What happened to the solicitor general? It sounds like he was utterly unprepared to be aggressively questioned. He was asked if the government could require people to buy a burial plot. Maybe if a burial plot cost $100,000, and your failure to afford one meant we all had to chip in for yours? I’d say yeah. (My boss Derek says, “Ask the government if you can bury your aunt in the back yard, and see what they say.”) The more polite commentators are pretending John Roberts is a wild card — ha! — and, of course, Clarence Thomas sat there like a toad who hasn’t had quite enough hours in direct sunlight yet.

A long day, followed by a long evening. Grading papers. Grading, grading, grading. My eyes are crossed.

Looks like Gawker noticed Frank Bruni’s column Sunday, too:

…Here are a couple questions.

1) If you were a vocal anti-abortion protester, and you needed to get an abortion, would you select the very abortion clinic that you had protested for years? The one that is staffed be people you had stared in the face and called “murderers” for years? Would you seek out those “familiar faces”? Or would you maybe go somewhere else?

2) How did this young lady enter the clinic without being spotted by any of her co-protesters?

3) If you were a virulent anti-abortion protester who suddenly and hypocritically sought out an abortion from the very people you had been calling murderers for years, would you return to that very same clinic a week later to call those very same people murderers, even though you knew that they knew you were a horrible liar?

These are the very same questions I asked! Bruni hasn’t responded to Gawker, but he has his defenders out there, and I seriously don’t get it.

Did I mention my eyes are crossed with fatigue? They are. I’m going to bed.

I’ve run through the “Mad Men” premiere episode twice now, and my conclusion is this: Too much is written about this show. So I don’t have much to say about it, other than: I hope this season delivers. The number of commercials in the second half were over-the-top obnoxious, but I can’t deny it — it’s good to see the gang back together, dragging their old baggage, along with a few new pieces, just for grins.

I caught much of Matthew Weiner’s “Fresh Air” appearance today, and I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. But like Hank, I can find myself oddly impatient with it — the weird diversions (creepy Glen, and I need say no more), the slow-moving plot lines. On the other hand, is there anything on TV close to it (at the same time)? Not bloody much. I’m in for the duration, and I’m glad it’s back. A few random impressions:

Joan’s mixed feelings of being torn between work and motherhood are so common now I don’t think their uncommonness in 1966 is playing well. Joan’s baby’s name is Kevin. I don’t know any Kevins under the age of 20 these days.

Megan = fabulous. I’m so glad hemlines are climbing and the hair is softening. I’m sure T-Lo will have a great Mad Style post on her any minute now. The sexual interlude toward the end suggests the Draper marriage is an entirely new things, however — she’s madonna and whore, and looks great in a miniskirt.

Don’s journey no longer interests me. It doesn’t interest him, either.

Peggy, now — that girl has some serious pluck. Hair looks great this summer, too, especially when she accessorizes with pencil.

What are your thoughts?

More madness than you could ever ask for, via Zorn.

I need to go to bed.

Another perfect — mostly, anyway — weekend. The heat abated, a little rain fell down, we went to a party, I hit the gym. The grocery-shopping went off without incident. (It usually does.) And I started, and finished, our taxes. They were easier than ever, and unless I screwed up something completely, we’re getting a small refund. Weak with relief, we immediately celebrated by going out to dinner at Cliff Bell’s. Red meat! Bottle of wine! Two fingers of Knob Creek over ice for my gentleman friend! The director of Kate’s jazz program at the DSO was playing with his band, and they were very fine. Who could ask for more?

I am a child of children of the Depression, however. When a few days go well, I automatically brace for twice that many to go the other way. And when they go the other way, I rarely think things will be better soon. This is what the last decade in the newspaper business taught me: Things can always get worse, and likely will.

Still, a good weekend. How many read Frank Bruni’s Sunday column? No, not the one about his gout, but the tidy little tale of the unnamed college acquaintance who recently came back in his life, reading from a script that sounds more or less exactly like the one you can hear in every tent revival, except everything is flipped around — the guy starts out as a religious prig, and gradually the scales fall from his eyes, and now he performs abortions.

The comments are piling up, and they’re what you’d expect — “deeply moving,” “amazing,” “wonderful,” etc. I didn’t read every one, but I wonder how many had a b.s. meter start wailing at the final anecdote of the column:

He shared a story about one of the loudest abortion foes he ever encountered, a woman who stood year in and year out on a ladder, so that her head would be above other protesters’ as she shouted “murderer” at him and other doctors and “whore” at every woman who walked into the clinic.

One day she was missing. “I thought, ‘I hope she’s O.K.,’ ” he recalled. He walked into an examining room to find her there. She needed an abortion and had come to him because, she explained, he was a familiar face. After the procedure, she assured him she wasn’t like all those other women: loose, unprincipled.

She told him: “I don’t have the money for a baby right now. And my relationship isn’t where it should be.”

“Nothing like life,” he responded, “to teach you a little more.”

A week later, she was back on her ladder.

Excuse the longer-than-normal quote, but I wanted to get it all in. It so happens I’ve heard this before. Over the years I’ve interviewed several abortion providers, and they’ve all — every one — spoken of this phenomenon, of the protester they all know who shows up as a patient one day, claiming her abortion is different, and her abortion is justified. I’m not calling them liars, and I’m not calling Bruni one, either; to be sure, I recall reading a NYT piece on abortion on one of the Roe vs. Wade anniversaries that quoted a couple of women in clinic waiting rooms expressing this very sentiment. I’m opposed to abortion, but this time is different.

I get it. But this particular case just doesn’t pass my personal smell test. She needs an abortion, so she goes to the clinic she stands outside, on a ladder, no less? What did she tell her fellow protesters, all of whom would have recognized her as she walked in or out? She chooses the same doctor she regularly calls a murderer? She tells him a story, trusting that he’ll keep her secret — which he’s obliged to, by law and ethics — and then gets back on her ladder to call him a murderer again? This is one too-perfect anecdote too far. Also, note this saint-in-human-form’s reaction when he sees her missing one day — not thank God that bitch isn’t here today, but I hope she’s OK.

I get suspicious when people in stories like this don’t act like people, but more like characters from Central Casting. That’s all.

I’d be interested in hearing other takes on this one.

Which might as well take us to the bloggage, which is good ‘n’ plentiful today. Sorry to dump another NYT link on you; I know they’re curtailing the monthly allotment of free reads soon, if not already. But this is a good one, a look at the now-closed Wigwam, the legendary high-school gym in Anderson, Ind., the second-largest in the state. It seated 9,000 and once upon a time, every seat was filled. But times are different now, in Indiana and everywhere, and the expense of maintaining such a facility could no longer be justified by the cost-staggered school district.

It’s a good story because it looks at all the reasons this is happening, which is more than most Hoosier journalists do; they tend to lay the blame on the 1997 decision to divide the hoops championship by enrollment, still seen in the state as the end of the magic — “Hoosiers” could never happen again!, etc. The NYT story points out that decision was a long time coming. It’s a sad story, and it’s more complicated, in every way, than you might think.

Yesterday was the 101st anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist fire; LGM has a briefing. I bring it up because “This American Life” replayed the retraction of the Daisey-monologue show Friday, and I heard Charles Duhigg, NYT reporter, speak the essential truth of Apple and its factory conditions in China. He said something like: We once had harsh working conditions in this country, and we decided to end them, so that no American worker should ever suffer the fate of the girls who leapt from the Triangle windows to escape the fire at their backs. We could export that, our humanity, but we haven’t, and now countries around the world are waiting for their own Triangle tragedies.

Wonkette had the best single snark on Dick Cheney’s heart transplant. It’s funny, but I’ll let you read it yourself. As for me, I wish him a thorough healing, in the best sense of the word. I’ll let you figure it out.

Finally, although I do not wish to bum you out at the beginning of the week, this really must be seen to be believed. Thanks, Zorn, for alerting us to “Obamaville.” (He’s calling this stuff “scaroin.” Fitting.)

A great week to all. Onward to Monday.

I don’t think Alan’s been to Lansing since we’ve lived in Michigan, and now that I’m here a day or two every week, it’s not like I’m an expert or anything, but I know my way around more than he does.

The other day I commented that Lansing reminded me of another place we’ve lived before — Fort Wayne.

“Really?” he said.

Sure. Sorta-high-rise buildings, a certain Stalinesque look to a few of them, a domed structure at the middle of it all, and of course, that low, evergray sky.

He was surprised. He thought Lansing was like Ann Arbor, with a major university weaving its way through the town, his wife wandering out at lunch to eat at some cool vegan restaurant where the wait staff all have dreadlocks. That kind of thing.

Alas, no. East Lansing is nowhere near the capitol building. Here’s the sign on the lawn of one of our neighbors:

Ah, the rich economic loam of a white-collar government-dependent city — consultants. My favorite is CPAN. And, of course, the Rockstar Factory.

If there’s a cool vegan place within walking distance, I haven’t found it. The other day we ambled over to the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet.

Speaking of government, perhaps you’ve heard what’s happening in Detroit these days. The city is teetering on the brink of Chapter 9, with fighting over what role the state will take in whatever comes next — emergency financial manager or consent agreement. There are public meetings and lots of yelling.

So, you might ask: What’s the city council president up to? This.

You know what I love best about this? It’s a two-camera production.

I know the set of “fans of smart medical ethicists” isn’t very large, but I’m in it, and my favorite is Art Caplan. He used to write a syndicated column that was distributed on the Knight Ridder wire, and I admired how he could take cases from Baby M to something you never heard of, and always manage to say something interesting about them. Later on, I’d love him for a more personal reason — you could call him, and even though he’s a big fromage and you’re just some yutz from Fort Wayne, he would take your call, or call you back, or give you his personal cell number, or whatever.

Anyway, he’s leaving the University of Pennsylvania, where he’s been forever, and going to New York University. The Philadelphia City Paper marked his exit in their Bell Curve column:

Famed medical ethicist Arthur Caplan is leaving UPenn to work for NYU. “They promised me an unlimited supply of drifters to just fuck around with in my lab,” he shrugs. “I’m making a monster that I plan to marry and then hunt for sport. Is that wrong?”

Both Ron and Derek had good blogs at 42 North yesterday. Ron’s here — on lying liars and their lying lyingness, and Derek’s here, about the various outrageous abuses of sunshine laws in this state, and probably yours, too.

These issues wouldn’t be so critical if we didn’t have so many people like this holding public office:

Five (International Baccalaureate) students who traveled to the Dominican Republic over spring break – Abhijay Kumar, Rahul Gannapureddy, Kyla Roland, Jessica Khoury and Kate Kreiss – described a program that makes them want to come to school every day.

“You learn how to talk to people who have different views than you, in a constructive way,” Kreiss said. “I personally believe the IB program is preparing me more for the real world.”

…Board member Murray Kahn said students who spoke glowingly of the program used some of the same language he had read on the IB program website.

“I’m hearing indoctrination,” he said, “and it concerns me a lot, because of where this program originates.”

Your school board. Hard at work.

Hello, weekend! Think I’ll do our taxes.

Detroitblogger John, aka John Carlisle, spoke to my feature-writing class today. A joy. He talked about starting his blog as a way to keep his writing skills sharp, which morphed into his Metro Times column (down on the DL), which morphed into being named Detroit’s Journalist of the Year, and a reconciliation of sorts with his current employer, a suburban chain where he doesn’t write anything other than headlines.

I was struck, once again, by how far we’ve fallen as a business and how much we’ve changed as a craft, that a writer as talented as he is has to literally hide it away, and this in a town where the newspapers once stood in national company as places where a writer could really flex. I wanted to work at the Detroit Free Press once, and no, it wasn’t the Gannett sale that wrecked the place. Some great writers passed through that newsroom, a tiny few might still be there, but when I look for good examples of the craft to share with my students, I almost always go to the big four or five — WSJ, NYT, WashPost, St. Petersburg Times, et al.

And that’s a crime.

I should be out riding my bike or something, but I’m not. I skipped lunch today, and just broke the fast with some pasta with cannellini beans, rosemary and onions. It made me feel so warm and happy I just want to enjoy the feeling for a while. How do people who live forever on zero-carb diets do it? How can one feel warm and happy without beans and pasta? No wonder they’re so nasty all the time.

I wonder if anyone has done that research before — correlating one’s diet with their politics. I follow a few blogs not listed on the sidebar, and it’s so strange how often a switch to paleo eating is followed by aggressive assertion of right-wing political views. They eat a few steaks and start thinking they actually went out and slaughtered the beef themselves, using only their stone-tipped spears that they sharpened themselves. No government program for them, no sir!

Maybe it’s the growth hormones talking.

Not that I have ever turned down a nice steak. But then, I’m a moderate.

My head has been immersed in politics and policy all day, and I’m craving a palate-cleanser. When I do, I pop in on T&L and see who they’re taking apart (or not). I’m totally with them on Jennifer Lawrence and Beyonce, ditto Emma Stone and Shelley O. I LOVE that dress, hate the brooch. Maybe it’s part of her security equipment.

And when I’m done palate-cleansin’, I may take us out to see “The Hunger Games” this weekend, but only if I have two signed affidavits that it doesn’t suck. I just sampled some pages from the book online, and I’m not sure if I’m up for two hours of dystopia, but on the upside? Jennifer Lawrence. She seems to be playing the same character she did in “Winter’s Bone,” only with more sci-fi and Elizabeth Banks, and no meth. And she looks so cute in that black dress, right T&L?

Is this book any good? Anyone?

Late afternoon brought a phone call: Lance Mannion, telling me that Mrs. Mannion was the college classmate of the Romney aide who made the Etch-a-Sketch faux pas today. For the record, I loved it. Romney, and his staff, have such a tin ear for this sort of thing that it will make for a truly entertaining campaign season. One step forward, two gaffes back. If nothing else, it will be more entertaining than the escalating spiral of the-world-is-ending campaign speechifying, which Eric Zorn has been dutifully cataloging.

What else? Here’s a Gawker rant on fabrications by This American Life contributors who aren’t named Mike Daisey.

And with that, I’m off to Lansing. Happy Thursday, all.