The Monty Python killer rabbit scene from the Holy Grail film is funny in and of itself, but it achieves a whole new level of humor when you actually keep a pet bunny, or “house rabbit,” as the English say. It’s funny because it’s true. I can’t tell you how many times our own killer has launched herself at one or another of us, furious because we’ve done …something. Her latest trick is to lurk under the dining room table, then aggressively confront anyone who walks through the room. Thankfully, she does not nip in these situations, only threaten.

This is the point at which many pet owners would be dialing the Rabbit Rescue — or boiling water on the stove — but I cannot be distressed by this. In fact, I’m amused. It gives me an opportunity to say, “Behold the cave of Caerbannog!” in a Scottish accent. And I cannot help but respect an animal that doesn’t weigh two pounds but is willing to fight the giants she finds herself living among. And she’s not always bad-tempered. Just now, she jumped up on the couch, accepted some petting and gave me a few licks on the forehead. Rabbits don’t lick for salt, so the book says, so that can be interpreted as a gesture of affection. Like all victims, I choose to see it that way.

Aw, she just rolled over on her back. So cute. Bought herself another week of indulgence.

(Perhaps you’re wondering: Is Nance one of those people who talks to her rabbit as though it were a person, and depicts the rabbit talking back in a funny voice? You know me too well.)

I went over to my local Target to buy wrapping paper yesterday. I know the time to do that is the day after Christmas, but I cannot face another present-wrapping session with the stuff I’ve been trying to use up for a decade now. The mall the Target is part of has fallen on hard times. It has its anchors — Sears, Macy’s, the big bull’s-eye — but the rest of it is all game-over, stores that might as well rename themselves House of Russian Prostitute Style. And there was a shooting there Thanksgiving weekend, so that pretty much iced the cake for the holidays. For more than a year, I’ll occasionally get an e-mail with 16 forwards on it from someone claiming there’s a FORCIBLE RAPE IN THE PARKING LOT EVERY SINGLE DAY, AND THE POLICE ARE COVERING IT ALL UP. I ignore this stuff and shop there anyway, but yesterday, as I made my way in via the rutted back road that I usually take, I had a glimpse of spring. And it nearly broke my axle.

Last week’s snowstorm started in very warm temperatures, and it rain/snowed all day before the temperature plunged 25 degrees overnight, which made all that standing water and slush freeze solid, which means the badly maintained parts of the parking lot are already nursing embryonic potholes the size of graves, and I’m sure the streets in our destitute communities are going to be just as bad. I’m wondering if maybe Coozledad will be willing to share a mule come spring.

Oh, hell. Let’s change the tone. Bloggage awaits:

I know Gwyneth Paltrow is beautiful and fit and perfect and a much better person than me. I also feel a dress like this is a hostile gesture that underlines all of the above, and drives it home with a big F.U. I’m going to assume that after two pregnancies, she’s benefitting from some sort of hidden boob support built into the bodice, but what about the bottom? I guess she has to entirely denude her lady garden to avoid tacky bush assertion, and what if her period arrived unexpectedly? Ew. Just ew. This dress came from the luxury department in the House of Russian Prostitute Style.

What browser do you use? Did you know what you’re charged for goods and services online can depend on this? I wish I were kidding. And I have already found a use for Chrome.

Interesting piece on a Canadian company that has found its market niche as the Comment Police. They cleaned up NPR and saved its comments sections in the bargain. A nice reminder that not everyone’s comments are as fabulous as ours.

The always-interesting Laura Miller on why readers love bad writing. Via Hank.

Jim at Sweet Juniper has found something for his dog Wendell to pull this winter.

Finally, a little “Silent Night” for you, excerpts from the Facebook posting of a friend of a friend, who lived through last week’s blizzard in northwest Indiana:

What an incredible weekend. Wound up stranded because of the blizzard, but we made it to the fire station in Wanatah where about 30 other stranded motorists spend the night. Met some very interesting people and we turned it into a party. Many thanks to the firefighters and Wanatah officials for their hospitality. …It really was an incredible experience. First, space was set aside for the four Muslims stranded so they could spread their prayer rugs to pray. Then there was the family from Romania on their way to Chicago. Their 11-year-old son serenaded us with a violin solo of Christmas carols at 3 a.m. Everyone was still up and talking and the young man received a standing ovation. Never experienced anything like it.

When we want to be, we can be pretty good.

Here’s one reason I don’t listen to media conspiracy theories. Our case in point:

Here’s a locally bylined story in my morning newspaper. Both of them, actually. Headline: Group seeks ban on new Detroit fast-food eateries; City’s high rate of heart disease triggers request

The lead:

If nutritionists have it their way, Detroit fast-food restaurants would do more than hold the pickles and the lettuce.

Most people will read no further. As my fingers peck out these words, someone, somewhere in this place of two million souls is saying, “Jesus Christ, like this shithole doesn’t have enough problems” — we talk salty here — “now they want to ban fast food.”

The mysterious “they” always plays a big role in these conversations. “They” always want to “ban” something. Most people have only a dim idea of how the world works, and their understanding hasn’t advanced much since middle school. And most of us only listen to the news with half our attention. Who has time?

Back to our story:

The Washington, D.C.-based Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine on Tuesday called for Mayor Dave Bing to impose a moratorium on new fast food restaurants. The group said Detroit needs a diet because it has the fourth-highest heart disease rate in the nation, killing 3,400 city residents each year.

“We decided to take on fast food in general because the quality of most menu items is rather poor,” said Susan Levin, the group’s director of nutrition. “The whole country is suffering from these kinds of statistics.”

Oh, OK. Those guys. The noble-sounding Physicians’ Committee for Responsible Medicine, aka the Vegan Doctors Group, likes to advocate all sorts of crazy stuff, including ending the use of all animals in medical research, which you don’t have to be a vegan to realize puts them in some pretty fringe-y territory, vis-a-vis the medical community. We had a vegetarian news editor in Fort Wayne who liked to put their “news” in our pages, including one memorable Thanksgiving, when the fattest paper of the year landed on 60,000 front steps with a banner story above the flag detailing just how toxic today’s holiday meal would be.

But the PCRM knows how to play the game in a crowded media marketplace. First, assume a sober, serious-sounding name. Second, focus your press releases narrowly; notice the group isn’t advocating a moratorium on fast-food restaurants everywhere (at least not in this case), but in one city. (Local media outlets are easier to penetrate than the New York Times.) Third, call for a ridiculously empty gesture that has no chance of passing, but can be easily summarized by a pretty reporter doing a stand-up outside a McDonald’s: A doctors’ group is asking the city of Detroit to adopt a moratorium on new fast-food restaurants. I’ll have more at 6.

And then wait for the magic to happen.

You have to wait until the fifth paragraph to get to the point:

Some cities have taken on burger joints, but that doesn’t appear to be on Bing’s menu. Mayoral spokeswoman Karen Dumas said the Health Department is educating residents “so they can make informed decisions.”

In other words, the mayor is not only ignoring the request, he won’t even waste a quote on them. But it doesn’t matter; for a group that counts a total membership of 120,000, fewer than 10 percent of them actual doctors, this story is WIN all around. They’re in both papers. They’re on the local Fox affiliate. In fact, Fox even found a city councilman who agrees; anyone want to guess which one? (If you said, “Charles Pugh, the dumbest man in journalism and city government,” you win.) The system was gamed, the newsroom hacked. As they say around here, their name rang out. And that’s how you do it, folks. Easy-peasey.

Fun facts to know and tell: Guess who the PCRM’s director of public affairs is? One-time FLILF Elizabeth Kucinich. Detroit already has 73 fast-food restaurants, no citation given. That seems shockingly low for a city of 800,000. Grosse Pointe has one (a Wendy’s). The last time I was jonesin’ for a Taco Bell bean burrito, I had to go to Harper Avenue in Detroit, appropriately so, as that’s where the former Mrs. Eminem went to buy her drugs, once upon a time. The drive-through window was a marvel of bulletproof technology; I don’t think people who check weapons in a prison have seen such a contraption.

I don’t eat much fast food. But when I do, I find a crispy-chicken snack wrap at McDonald’s, plus one of their fruit smoothies, fits the bill nicely.

A little bloggage on yet another clear, cold morning? Why not:

In a nightmare blizzard scenario you probably didn’t hear much about outside of Michigan and western Ontario, hundreds of motorists were stranded on a 60-mile stretch of Canadian highway between Sarnia and London, blinded by whiteout conditions caused by 50 mph winds blowing over southern Lake Huron, creating — anyone? — yes, massive lake-effect snow. Maybe because it’s Canada, with their very own accent and Mountie-like diction, but I love police quotes like this:

“We have rescued everyone that was stranded; 237 souls brought to safety,” said Ontario Provincial Police Sgt. David Rektor.

Two hundred thirty-seven souls. We always get our man, down to the last one.

How Gawker, et al was hacked, and how they handled it. (Badly.)

I heard some political gossip a while back that said outgoing Michigan Gov. Jennifer Granholm was looking to leave the state come New Year’s Day. I also heard California. No, probably Washington.

A good day to all.

The big political news today, of course, is the overturning of the individual-mandate portion of the health-care bill, which means today will be another one of those days for me, when up is down and down is sideways and who the hell are these people, anyway?

The “victory for liberty” the GOP is celebrating today is the death of an idea born in Republican Hospital, attended by…well, I think Steve Benen gets to the point well enough:

The record here may be inconvenient for the right, but it’s also unambiguous: the mandate Republicans currently hate was their idea. It was championed by the Heritage Foundation. It was part of Bob Dole’s 1996 presidential campaign platform*. Nixon embraced it in the 1970s, and George H.W. Bush kept it going in the 1980s.

For years, it was touted by the likes of John McCain, Mitt Romney, Scott Brown, Chuck Grassley, Bob Bennett, Tommy Thompson, Lamar Alexander, Lindsey Graham, John Thune, Judd Gregg, and many others all notable GOP officials.

My personal favorite is Grassley, who proclaimed on Fox News last year, during the fight over Obama’s plan, “I believe that there is a bipartisan consensus to have an individual mandate.” (A year later, Grassley signed onto a legal brief insisting that the mandate is unconstitutional.)

Yes, the “liberty” the opponents of health-care reform are celebrating is what, exactly? The freedom to not have health insurance? Woot! How many of the aforementioned go bareback, for that old-time freedom-y feeling enjoyed by our forefathers? Oh, none of them? But of course. They work for the government, which has traditionally provided excellent bennies.

As at my last address, I live in a community surrounded by Republicans. They tip more to the moderate/sane wing of the party than in Fort Wayne, but election after election, the vote tallies show it plainly: This is GOP country. Which is why I was chuckling over a story for my hyperlocal that I edited last night, about my own city’s enforcement of a ban on neon signage. The council passed it two years ago with a sunset period, which is coming to an end, which means businesses like this must part with their little piece of Vegas in the front window:

I chuckle because I was always told — continue to be told — that Republicans believe in less government, in personal liberty, and in the near-unquestioned belief that business knows best. And yet, throughout the Pointes, you can be bored into unconsciousness at council meetings while the members wrestle over matters like this, over zoning regulations for fencing and signs and cracks in the driveway. And for good reason — I was stunned to see a local sneering on Facebook that a T-Mobile storefront in a particular shopping district was indisputable evidence of a dangerous comedown. People worry aloud that sidewalk tables at a restaurant might attract the wrong element.

The rallying cry, the unifying force, is property values!, which is even more of a bedrock value than liberty and limited government. You don’t hear that so much outside of city councils, however.

What’s the old joke? Republican boys marry Republican girls, but they want to fool around with a few Democrats first? Republican voters support Republican candidates, but they want a few Democrats on their local zoning boards. Even a few homosexual gentlemen, with their famous good taste.

Six degrees this morning. I just took out the trash. Brr. So how’s about some bloggage?

Do you have the Big Picture blog bookmarked? You should, although I don’t. That way I forget about it until they put up another buttload of pictures that reminds us that even in the age of ubiquitous video and a camera in every cell phone, there’s something about a single, well-composed, professionally taken photograph that’s worth the proverbial thousand words. Behold, 37 Christmas photos that say more about the holiday than 37,000 words.

(Which seems a perfect time to mention that Hank Stuever’s great book about the holiday, Tinsel, is out in a paperback edition, with a much better cover at half the price, available now in the Kickback Lounge.) “Best book about Christmas, ever!” — MMJeff (I made up that quote, by the way. But I know he thinks very highly of it.)

For you military people, an excellent essay on today’s fighting force by a young Marine, on Thomas Ricks’ first-rate military-affairs blog. He gets right to the point:

As an OIF vet and Jarhead, and above all someone trying to find a healthy balance as a civilian once more, I’ve watched the military from within and without and the truest observation I can make is that we fight with a conscripted force in all but name.

The Huffington Post says it will post a profit this year. Of course it won’t pay its contributors, silly — then it wouldn’t be profitable.

And with that, better go some work of my own. Have a good one, all.

Winter, he hath arrived. So of course I had to go to the Apple Store in the blizzard. Kate’s laptop was acting up, and of course it had to be fixed. So out I went, early on, and it wasn’t too bad, as long as you didn’t try to drive at Detroit speeds. Some people didn’t get the message; one spun out right in front of me on the way home, one exit before mine. He had just passed me going at least 60. (I was doing 45, which felt safe.)

I recall thinking: If this jerk hits me I am going to be so pissed.

He didn’t hit me. He was one lucky spinner, crossing three lanes of freeway before coming to rest facing traffic, but in the shoulder. Assuming everything was still inflated and aligned, all he had to do was wait for a break in traffic and do a U-turn.

Boy, was I glad to come home and see this:

Now it can be told: Deep inside, I’m a big ol’ L7 who puts up Christmas lights.

It doesn’t look like much snow. It isn’t much snow. Although it snowed heavily all day, the temperature hovered right around 31 degrees, so we mostly got slush. Then the temperature plunged overnight and the wind picked up, however, and I expect all day we’ll have falling limbs, power outages and ice upon ice. I can feel my character building.

Of course it could have been worse, and it was worse, elsewhere, and how many disappointed Vikings fans must be today, with either a worthless ticket to a football game or a very expensive one, should they be in any mood to book a last-minute flight to Detroit to watch their Vikes play tonight. Spare the jokes. OK, don’t: First prize, tickets to a Vikings-Giants game in a badly designed, unsafe stadium. Second prize, the same game in Detroit. Ha ha. We can laugh because, due to the unexpected turn of events, the game here is absolutely free. Show up, take your seat. If only I didn’t have to work. If only I cared enough about football to go downtown in single-digit temperatures, wrangle a parking place and trudge through near-gales (now blowing 29 knots) to watch a game in a warm stadium with a non-collapsing roof.

Think I’ll make beef stew instead.

And skip to the bloggage, before I go outside and attempt to chip my car out of the ice.

I missed this on Friday: John Lennon vs. Bono, and the death of the celebrity activist. Whatever shred of respect I retained for Bono blew away with his latest Louis Vuitton ad, which shows him arriving in Africa with his wife and about nine million dollars’ worth of luxury luggage, and no, I don’t care who they donated their goddamn fees to. It’s still disgusting.

Gene Weingarten can make running out of gas — no, not running out of gas — funny.

The Australian papers frequently go as far over the top as their British cousins, so caveat emptor, but here you go: Islamic biker gangs! They’re called “bikie” gangs in Oz, which for some reason makes me picture guys riding vehicles made by Fisher-Price.

And Dick Nixon gives us another gift from beyond the grave. If you read all the way to the end, you found this rancid morsel:

Nixon and Mr. Kissinger were brutally dismissive in response to requests that the United States press the Soviet Union to permit Jews to emigrate and escape persecution there.

“The emigration of Jews from the Soviet Union is not an objective of American foreign policy,” Mr. Kissinger said. “And if they put Jews into gas chambers in the Soviet Union, it is not an American concern. Maybe a humanitarian concern.”

“I know,” Nixon responded. “We can’t blow up the world because of it.”

Maybe a humanitarian concern. But nothing to get excited about.

OK, time to put on the parka and the long johns. It’s brutal out there.

Running errands to Target yesterday, I heard a little Christmas music. I heard a lot of Christmas music, actually. For some reason, this time it took me back, to eighth-grade choir practice. Our teacher was demanding and a little crazy, as the best choir teachers frequently are. We were having our first run-through of “The Holly and the Ivy,” one of my favorite old English carols, not as well known then as it is today, and the lyrics even less so. Many of us were reading them for the first time:

The holly and the ivy,
When they are both full grown
Of all the trees that are in the wood
The holly bears the crown
The rising of the sun
and the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ
Sweet singing in the choir

We got to the last line, and it became evident many of my classmates had never seen the word “choir” on the page. About 80 percent of the chorus sang kwire, but the rest sang choyre. I thought Mr. Yenser was going to go insane, but that would come later, on “O, Holy Night,” when we were lectured over and over on the correct pronunciation of divine. Short i, people, short i! Di-vine, not dee-vine. He was also painstaking in his conducting, insisting we not start belting too early. It’s a long song that requires a slow build, and if we dared to bring it before “fall on your knees,” there was hell to pay. Even then, we had to keep it dialed down a notch, so as to really cut loose on the last three lines:

Oh niiiiight
Oh hoooooly night
Oh night DI-vine….

I tell you, Mariah Carey could learn a thing or three from him. I was strictly another face in the crowd in choir, no solos for me, although I would have my chance to disappoint him face-to-face later that season. He had an idea that would call for someone who lived close to school to carry out; would I be interested? I was only half a block away, so I said sure, and this was the idea: To welcome students to school with the sounds of Christmas music playing from speakers on the third floor. I’d have to arrive about 30 minutes early, and I’d be given access to a closed room at the top of the building, where I’d set up the record player, open the window, put the speaker on the ledge and let loose with some “Sleigh Ride” and other Christmas classics until the first bell. He had a few records to choose from, but left the mix up to me, and as I considered myself a natural DJ at the time, I was flattered. I even brought some of my parents’ albums from home and added some oddities — the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Mahalia Jackson, a little Gregorian chant.

The gig was for two weeks, and by the second week, I was pretty sick of “Jingle Bells,” so I threw in “Sunshine of Your Love” as my final cut, when everyone was rushing to get through the doors and my audience was biggest. This got me some awrights from my classmates in homeroom, and that was all the encouragement I needed. The next day’s set consisted of Led Zeppelin, some early Stones and Jefferson Airplane. And this was before it was trendy for rock ‘n’ rollers to put out Christmas records. It was just “Born to be Wild” and “Somebody to Love” and to hell with Christmas. This is the devil’s music.

It might have gone on all week, until another teacher asked Mr. Yenser, who traveled between schools and arrived later in the day, why the Vanilla Fudge was being played from the third floor before school. And I’d stupidly left a few LPs in the room, so as not to have to haul them back and forth. The jig was up, and he expressed his profound, deep disappointment while I clutched “Disraeli Gears” to my chest and looked at the floor.

“But why this music? This?” he pleaded. I spluttered, and tried to explain that I just wanted to hear some cool tunes right before school, but this was clearly a violation of our agreement. I didn’t tell him people had liked it a lot better than “Joy to the World.” He couldn’t hear that at all; it was clear he was not one of those adults who secretly appreciated the Beatles. It was all noise and long hair to him. “I think you’re not right for this job,” he said, and I agreed. The last two days before vacation I slunk to school with everyone else, under the closed, silent window, covered in shame.

It’s funny — I think of Mr. Yenser whenever I hear Johnny Mathis sing oh night DEEvine, but I hadn’t even thought of this darkly comic chapter until today.

When I Google his name, I see he had many students who remember him fondly. I also see he was quite the square — taking his best students to a Fred Waring concert? Even in the early ’60s, that was pretty lame. I also see others disappointed him, too.

As culture-war skirmishes go, this one hardly counts. But I carry a wound, obviously.

And I’m sorry, Mr. Yenser, but the world will remember Eric Clapton a lot longer than they will Fred Waring. If you couldn’t see it then, I hope you saw it eventually.

So, a wee bit of bloggage?

I know we have many Civil War fans here, so for you — a period map of the slave-holding states, showing the concentrations of slave ownership by county, based on the 1860 census. I love maps, and I love this one. So did A. Lincoln.

“I loves me some me” — now pay Mr. Owens to say that.

Finally, a sad story from the WashPost — told mainly in Facebook status updates.

Where did this week go? I hope the ending is something to look forward to. Have a good one, all.

I had 30 minutes to spare yesterday in between errands and picking up Kate from school. That’s pretty much the perfect slice of time, if you ask me — not enough to squeeze one last chore in, but plenty of time to drink an eggnog latte at Starbucks and play Angry Birds on the iPhone while eavesdropping on a trio of geezers at the next table. I love eavesdropping, and I love geezers. None of them had iPhones, for one thing, which meant their attention was 100 percent on one another. For another, they were difficult to slot politically and didn’t hate the president, although one had recently been acquainted with the concept of the body man and marveled over it at some length:

“He has one guy whose job it is to carry all his stuff. His handkerchief, his cigarettes, whatever.”

“He’s not still smoking, is he?”

“I’m pretty sure he is, yeah. Guy carries his cigarettes and a lighter. He also plays basketball with the president whenever he’s asked. Now that’s a job.”

They also discussed the proliferation of crappy — i.e., benefit-free — jobs in recent years, and suggested it wasn’t good for the region as a whole, all those people not making enough and still having to pay their own medical bills and/or insurance. They discussed Alan Trammell, who had just passed through with his agent. And then they switched to Donald Trump, whom all agreed would be an excellent choice to rebuild New Orleans. I concentrated extra-hard on Angry Birds and reminded myself that eavesdropping is its own reward. I tried to imagine a New Orleans by Donald Trump’s design team. Then I tried to remember if I’ve ever seen a picture of him smiling, as he seems to have trademarked the Trump Scowl, which he wears 24/7 — it’s his brand. MogulFace. I couldn’t remember, but, as always, Professor Google could. Good lord, how many swirls is that combover making these days?

And then the latte was gone, I’d advanced several levels in Angry Birds and it was time to pick up the kid. A big night last night — the holiday instrumental-music concert. As always, my own personal rule of seating prevailed, i.e., whichever seat I choose, my child will be as far away as possible, foiling photo ops. Behold:

I’m so glad her hair is purple — otherwise I could never pick her out.

“Mission: Impossible” came off pretty well, although she said the teacher told her at their final practice that they would “suck.”

“Did he use that word?”

“No. But that was the idea.”

They didn’t suck, but they could have been a tetch tighter. Although, for sure, in seven rehearsals you can’t expect miracles from middle-schoolers. And the bassist wasn’t part of the problem, so, whew.

Ready for bloggage? Sure, and we’ve got some good stuff, too:

Hank Stuever, the Washington Post Style writer too tempestuous to tame! Bigfooted by none other than Oprah! I honestly don’t know what she feared from Hank, who is as upbeat and sunny as SpongeBob SquarePants. Maybe she feared his gay would rub off on her because she totally is not. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

How fair-and-balanced Fox spun the health-care debate, all the while remaining fair and balanced: Just add “government” and serve!

Do you know how to speak Hoosier? I don’t, but I got some valuable tips from this series:

Part two, part three, part four.

Indiana is the only place I’ve ever heard a college-educated person ask if “that guy was one of your guys’s guys.” And now, if you’ll excuse me, that rabbit needs caught and I’m off to drink some pop.

I can’t tell you how many times I was reminded yesterday that it was the 69th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, and I expect to be reminded at least that many times that today is the 30th anniversary of the murder of John Lennon. As someone who has always disliked anniversary journalism — the lazy morning-show producer’s friend, as s/he fills hour after hour with salutes to marshmallow fluff (celebrating its 50th, all this year!) and looks back at the O.J. Simpson case, now 16 years past — well, I disapprove.

I guess I do, anyway. When I’m bored, sometimes I look to Google for amusement. Today’s search: “today is the” + “anniversary of” and the results, while Pearl Harbor- and Lennon-specific today, reveal just how far we will go for a news peg:

March 15, 2010 — Today is the 25th anniversary of the first .com URL.

July 21, 2010 — Today is the anniversary of the Diana Ross downpour concert in Central Park.

November 28, 2010 — Today is the 115th anniversary of the first car race.

September 8, 2010 — Today is the 26th anniversary of Gerald Ford’s pardon of Richard Nixon.

And so on. Anniversary journalism is cheap, easy and makes everyone feel good, even on bad-news anniversaries. People who weren’t alive when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor can post “I remember” on their Facebook pages and maybe change their profile picture to a flag. So patriotic! So easy!

I’ll grant you John Lennon, today. Anniversaries that end with a zero or 5 get dispensation. But cool it for 31, please.

I can’t believe I once followed Ted Turner around CNN on the day of its birth and watched as he was asked, over and over, “But how will you fill 24 hours with all-news programming?” The answer: With people yelling at one another. And with anniversary pieces.

A late update today. I apologize. I’ve been reading a bit about Elizabeth Edwards, and hoping I die forgotten and obscure, so as to not scare up the squadrons of drive-by biographers Edwards did. She’s a saint, she’s a bitch, she’s a devoted mother, she’s a selfish mother, she’s this, that and the other thing. Of course she is — was — all these things, which the better obits captured. My favorite was the Washington Post’s, which contains this gem:

(Screeching right-wing harpy Ann) Coulter verbally attacked her husband and said she wished “he had been killed in a terrorist assassination plot.” Ms. Edwards, spotting Coulter on the MSNBC talk show “Hardball,” called in and on the air insisted politely but firmly that she refrain from personal attacks. Coulter refused to apologize and attacked the Edwards campaign for raising money by using her words. But the confrontation appeared to be a tipping point, costing Coulter advertisers and clients for her opinion column.

That right there is worth a free pass to heaven in my book, or at least a millennium of time off in purgatory. I know Ann has fallen on leaner times of late, but I didn’t know the dustup with Edwards was the instigator.

And then there’s Christine O’Donnell’s take. Why is this woman still in my newspaper? Don’t losers know enough to go away anymore?

She’s going to report him to President Obama? Is Helen Thomas old, confused or just a little spluttery, as we all get from time to time?

And now to do some real work for a change.

Not exactly a desultory morning, this — I have plenty of work to do. But I’m having a hard time getting started. Reading about Julian Assange, wondering why someone thought this lame-ass blog about Aretha Franklin needed to be Facebooked, thinking about making scrambled eggs, waiting for the coffee to brew. Unfocused. Sapped of energy. And then…

This.

Whoa, that’ll wake you up. I think I actually yeeped a little when I saw it. The third Mrs. G is a strict Catholic, who screwed another woman’s husband for six years — her prime childbearing years, during which I’m sure she used only natural family planning for birth control, along with her paramour’s favorite sex act — before the jig was finally up and he made an honest woman of her. (Don’t worry; I’m sure she’s gone to Confession.) She urged him to convert, and he surfaced from the baptismal waters with the zeal typical of the breed, criticizing Notre Dame for giving an honorary degree to Barack Obama. Among many other things.

She’s only 44. Sometimes a person’s soul shows right in their face, ain’a?

Shudder.

Oh, who am I to judge? We all got to this moment in time via a different road, and my soul-face has many dings and dents. I guess I’ll always reserve a special contempt for women who Do That, although I’ve known a few who Did That, and they’re not bad at all. (Confession: I was always on Team Camilla.) Maybe it’s because Elizabeth Edwards, poor Elizabeth, is in her homestretch right now, and all I can think about is her children, 11 and 13, about to lose their mother. I can only assume that she has taken pains, in recent years, to erect every possible wall between them and their putative stepmother. Or perhaps she’s reached the place where it no longer matters, when you know for sure that life goes on without you, and you can only extend your influence on it for a short time after your death, if at all.

But I sure hope she built those walls. Because as vile as Mrs. G the Third is, Rielle Hunter is worse, worse by far. I wouldn’t want her anywhere near my kids.

Change of subject. The coffee has kicked in.

Alan set up our bird feeders over the weekend, moved the birdbath closer to the house and installed a heater. Did you know birds have a harder time finding water in winter than food? True. Anyway, our deck is now Bird Central, and I’ve been enjoying watching them navigate the main feeder, the Hylarious. I can’t find a website for it, so maybe I’m hallucinating that name, but I distinctly remember it, and that spelling, from when we bought it years ago. It has a spring-loaded landing platform in front of the food, which will support birds and allow them to eat, but not a squirrel — the platform dips and a door closes over the food. (If I were president of the company, I’d add a WAH-wah sound effect.) That doesn’t stop them from trying, and at least once an hour I look out to find some fat bastard trying desperately to get into the thing. And every so often one too many birds will land, and the door will close on one’d head. The trapped bird flings its wings out in alarm, everyone flies away, the platform rises, and the bird is freed. It is truly hylarious to watch, if you have nothing else to amuse you at the moment, like a photo of Mrs. Gingrich.

Bloggage: If you’re watching “Detroit 1-8-7” tonight, wave hello to local-guy Scott Norman, who plays a bit part in tonight’s episode:

He plays the cop who leads the detectives to the bomb shelter. Yay, Scott. He starred in our last short, trailer seen here:

Dig that CGI! Zeppelins! Poison gas! Tanks!

Our governor-elect has made no secret of his dislike for the filmmaking tax incentives, so I expect this golden period in our cultural history will be coming to an end soon, and we can go back to cop shows set in New York and Los Angeles. Maybe Mrs. Governor-elect has a soft spot for some movie star, who can be prevailed upon to pay a call and kiss her hand. Release the Clooney!

An odd bit of bloggage I haven’t gotten through yet: New York magazine asks five novelists, one of them Glenn Beck (!!), to imagine the last decade if Bush v. Gore had gone the other way. Part one, by Kurt Andersen, starts here, which the link to each new chapter at the bottom. So far: Semi-amusing, mostly baffling.

As for me, it’s time to get to work. Release me, why doncha?

An unexpected night off last night, or a partial one. I was two hours into a seven-hour shift, typical Sunday night, the world of business slowly coming back from the weekend as Monday’s sun moved around the globe. There was a flurry in Australia, not much out of India, Europe ditto and then the equivalent of a five-bell bulletin for the pharmaceuticals industry — the CEO of Pfizer was throwing in the towel, unexpectedly. He said he was tired (which put Madeline Kahn in my head for the rest of the night, singing “…tired of playing the game…”). I got the first few of what surely would be an avalanche of stories into the queue and then my internet went out.

Restarted the laptop. Nothing. Restarted laptop and router. Nothing. Restarted laptop, router and cable modem, ditto. Repeated everything. Nothing. Tried to call Comcast, and the service line was busy. Hmm, a clue. Went on Twitter via my phone, searched “comcast” and got page after page of tweets from “one minute ago” from people using words like SUX and FAIL. Obviously, this wasn’t just our house. So I called the main office in Ann Arbor and got the payroll person/office manager, or rather she would be the office manager if we had an office. She said she thought the überboss was awake, but he was in California. Lucky I have his cell number. Called him, and he covered while I went off to Caribou Coffee and got on their network.

This all took about half an hour.

But Caribou was closing at 10, so the office manager roused the guy who would replace me at 1 a.m., and he agreed to come on three hours early. Meanwhile, we had the Pfizer story dripping into our client’s breaking-news queue right on schedule. My relief IM’d me at 9:55 and took the helm, and I left as Caribou was getting ready to lock up.

Went home, internet still out. But the cable worked, so I watched “Boardwalk Empire” and treated myself to a pre-midnight bedtime. This morning, on Facebook, I saw the guy who replaced me last night, tagged in a photo. It was the first time I’d ever seen his face. (He lives in Texas.)

And I’m telling you all this why? Because it occurred to me during all this what a very modern workplace this is, how very much of the modern world it is. One of our editors is famous for taking a multi-week tour of Europe a few years back, and never missing a shift. He did his research carefully, and made sure he was always near a good wifi hotspot, did his job, and let his bank account reliably refill every payday. He lives across town, in Detroit. Never met him, either, although my friend Michael has, at a party.

“I met your colleague Zack,” he e-mailed.

“Really?” I replied. “What does he look like?”

I know some of you are baffled by all this. (And I know I lost some of you back when I used the phrase “five-bell bulletin.”) I have a part-time job. Title: Editor. I call myself a news farmer. We track news of interest to our corporate clients. We’re entirely virtual, we’re all contractors, and we’re scattered from sea to shining sea. Advantage: Work at home, on your couch, in your jammies and slippers. Disadvantage: Work at home, see no one, communicate with colleagues entirely via IM and e-mail. And so when someone invites you to a party, with actual living flesh-and-blood guests, you’re pathetically grateful, which is how I found myself at a gorgeous Palmer Woods mansion — the Van Dusen, if you’re interested — on Saturday night.

This was part of the Palmer Woods holiday home tour, Palmer Woods being the grandest of Detroit’s grand old neighborhoods, every house a showplace, with a truly diverse population of well-to-do buppies and yuppies and flamboyantly creative and artistic gentlemen. Two of the latter were the official hosts of the afterglow, with their spectacular flower arrangements everywhere and samovars of Pama martinis. And I looked up, and who was leaning against the piano but James McDaniel, whom most of you remember as Lt. Fancy on “NYPD Blue,” but is known around here as Sgt. Longford on “Detroit 1-8-7.”

No, I didn’t talk to him. I think the absolute worst thing about being an actor would be having people flock around you like toadies, telling you how much they like your work. Although Michael did, and said he was a really nice guy.

All in all, not a bad weekend. How was yours?

I’ll tell you what, parties and “Boardwalk Empire” sure beat the news this weekend, which takes us to the bloggage:

Krugman on Bush tax cuts: Just say no:

So Mr. Obama should draw a line in the sand, right here, right now. If Republicans hold out, and taxes go up, he should tell the nation the truth, and denounce the blackmail attempt for what it is.

Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes. Why is this so hard?

Alex says that if I make this column the lead in today’s entry, the headline should be Blow: Me. Whaddaya think? I think the column is stupid, personally.

No, I will not be changing my Facebook profile picture to a cartoon today. As LGM puts it:

It’s an under-publicized historical fact that A. Lincoln was persuaded to issue the Emancipation Proclamation after millions of union supporters changed their Facechapbook avatars to dageuerreotypes of famous abolitionists.

Monday, Monday. Gotta get to it.

We’ve had a missing-child — children — case going here for about a week now, although everyone is now pretty much resigned to the fact it will not end well. As far as I can tell, as much as I can stand to read about it, the case involves an estranged couple and three little boys, 5, 7 and 9. Last weekend there was an Amber Alert issued with extreme prejudice, with a warning that the kids were in “extreme danger” in the company of a woman who had taken them at their father’s request. The father intended to commit suicide, and didn’t want them to see it. So he said.

A couple days later, the alert was canceled, and the police said there was never any woman. They also said they didn’t expect the search to end well. The father, who had been on a 72-hour psychiatric hold, was released and immediately arrested. Having beaten bushes all around the rural landscape near where the family lived, now searchers are combing the St. Joseph River. And every day, the faces of the three kids appear on the front page of the newspaper. Presumably dad killed them, but he appears to have been flattened by depression, and isn’t saying anything.

I wish I had a wider point to make here, but I don’t except to note, once again, that there’s no squalor like rural squalor, and there’s no soul more lost than the uninvolved parent in a case like this. I recall a similar one in Fort Wayne, a father killing his children and then himself, leaving his ex-wife to find the carnage — and that is the only word for it — when she arrived to pick them up after custody weekend. She issued a statement about the third day afterward, telling everyone they were wrong about her ex, that he was a “wonderful father.” Of course people responded the only way they knew how — by showering her with money. She paid for the funerals, and spent the change on a tattoo. It was on her back, and depicted her two little boys as angels. I know this because my neighbor was the tattoo artist; he worked from their school pictures.

I had far more interesting neighbors in Indiana — I’ll say that. Now I live surrounded by management consultants. And I wonder why our block parties are so boring.

I’ll say this, too: We certainly are well-acquainted with violence in this country. Two details from the story of the Ronni Chasen murder case in Hollywood, which took a turn yesterday when a “person of interest” wanted for questioning committed suicide. First detail:

(A neighbor) said she heard a pop about 6 p.m. that she mistook for a car backfiring.

Second detail:

When she went downstairs at 8 p.m., she said she got a brief glimpse of the lobby before the police hurried her out the door. “There was blood all over the floor, and it looked like brain matter,” she said.

When was the last time you heard a car backfire? I think I’ve heard that sound once in my life, and it was more than 30 years ago. In a city where real gunfire rings out daily, where every other movie and TV show features hails of bullets, someone actually hears some, and thinks: Car backfire. The car backfire is to shootings what freight trains are to tornados, and in this case something for witnesses to tell the police and excuse why they didn’t call 911. And yet, the same woman, in the very next paragraph, speaks authoritatively on what was in the gore spilled on the floor of the lobby of her apartment building.

Let me tell you something: I have heard gunfire many times in my life. (It didn’t sound anything like how I remember a car backfire sounding.) But everything I know about brain matter I learned from watching Quentin Tarantino movies.

Want some fun? Google the phrase “sounded like a car backfire.” Seven hundred thirty results. Seven hundred thirty-one, now.

Well, we are certainly circling the drain this morning, ain’a? Let’s do some bloggage:

And the lawyers took their third: Google pays couple $1 for putting their house on Street View. Looking at the picture, I’d say that’s the most glory that humble little abode every got, or will get.

eHow answers your question: How to stop a car from backfiring. First lulu: It’s a “common problem.” Second: Check your carburetor, then your distributor cap. I haven’t seen either one of those since I peeked under the hood of a 1975 Camaro.

I want to see “Black Swan,” but it looks like it has too many dirty parts for my teenager to accompany me. Someone who gets to these things on opening weekend, please report.

Now must run. Have a great weekend. I intend to try.