One thing about Mondays — I always sleep well on Monday night. Awake at 5 a.m., out the driveway at 6:30, in Lansing by 8-ish, work work work, home by 6-ish, an hour bike ride and then the sort of dinner Kate would reject with a sneer: Mujadara a la the New York Times, which I think I read about at 5 a.m. or so.

The chores concluded at 9 p.m. Time to blog! Zzzzzz.

Seriously, it’s always a comfort to be back in the saddle after some time away. Human beings need to find stuff to do. Our job is usually good enough.

So before I start drooling on the keyboard, some quick bloggage:

A really interesting story in the NYT today on water usage in the desert southwest, specifically Arizona. I know we have some Phoenix residents who read and comment here (hey, Scout). Having lived my whole life in a wet climate, it’s hard for me to imagine the sort of relations with water Arizonans must have. I’ve been hearing rumblings of a coming push for a transcontinental water pipeline to quench its drier regions for years, although I pay them little mind. Still, I read passages like this and my eyes bug out:

PHOENIX — The hiss of sprinklers serenades improbably green neighborhoods early in the morning and late at night, the moisture guarding against the oppressive heat. This is the time of year when temperatures soar, water consumption spikes and water bills skyrocket in this city, particularly for those whose idea of desert living includes cultivating a healthy expanse of grass.

Half of the water consumed in homes here is used to irrigate lawns, but there is a certain curiosity about the way water is used in Phoenix, which gets barely eight inches of rain a year but is not necessarily parched.

I’ve never been to Phoenix, but I have been to Tucson a time or two, and one of the things I liked about the place was the virtual absence of grass in most neighborhoods. Yards were xeriscapes, and even the golf courses used sod stingily. You live where you live and you make peace with what nature gives you. The idea of spending half of a dry city’s annual rainfall on something as stupid as a lawn just seems nuts to me, but I live a long way away from Arizona. Maybe a local can explain.

Remember “Sixteen Tons” — “I owe my soul to the company store,” etc.? Here’s the latest wrinkle: A minimum-wage worker at McDonald’s is paid in the form of a bank debit card, which she didn’t ask for, which she didn’t want. No, there’s no other option. And yes, there are fees:

According to the complaint filed, the JP Morgan Chase payroll card lists several fees, including a $1.50 charge for ATM withdrawals, $5 for over-the-counter cash withdrawals, $1 per balance inquiry, 75 cents per online bill payment and $15 for lost/stolen card.

The complaint was filed because this woman called a lawyer, and good for her. Who ARE the people who try to pull shit like this?

Finally, a story about a widely despised piece of public art, and the drunk driver who hit it. Take a look at the before-and-after pictures and tell me whether it makes a bit of difference in the piece. Seriously. They could remove the plastic fencing and I doubt anyone would feel cheated.

And so the week lurches to a start. Enjoy yours.

Well, I will not deny it: This is outrageous. I know, I know — no one is looking at your stuff, nor mine, but this is outrageous.

However, at the moment I’m just going to let shit slide. I’m now on vacation, and I’m in shit-sliding mode. You discuss. I’m still in absorption mode on this one.

What I can’t let slide is this column by Virginia Postrel, on the possible liquidation of Detroit’s art museum. Every idiot libertarian I’ve ever known has had a big googly-eyed crush on her, but this hits a little close to home:

Parochial interests aside, however, great artworks shouldn’t be held hostage by a relatively unpopular museum in a declining region. The cause of art would be better served if they were sold to institutions in growing cities where museum attendance is more substantial and the visual arts are more appreciated than they’ve ever been in Detroit. Art lovers should stop equating the public good with the status quo.

The cause of art. Hmm, what do you suppose that is? Postrel thinks our collection would be better off in those two artistic oases — Los Angeles and, get this, Dallas. God, what an odious twit.

I really need to go on vacation. So I think I will.

To repeat: Next week, five from the ancient archives. They suck, but they will suck free of charge, as always. I’ll be back, live and in the flesh, June 17.

OK, it’s decided: Next week will be one of Ancient Archives, selections from the work of a newspaper columnist who toiled in relative obscurity in the northeast corner of Indiana. You might like ’em, you might not, but at least you’ll have fresh entries to comment on, and under, every day.

I have three lined up so far. If I can find two more that don’t turn my stomach — and so, so many of them do; I see only the flaws — we’ll have a week’s worth.

A difficult day, spent mostly staring at the mockery of a cursor, which had this to say: Blink. So let’s get to some bloggage, because it’s good today:

Only in Detroit! Teenagers walking to school look down an alley, and see the astonishing sight of a man having sex with a pit bull, so they do what any kid would do: Take out their phones and shoot some video. After showing it to a school security guard, police came to the scene and found the man sitting on the ground naked, but he took off. From here the story becomes a little murky, but it appears the man was taken to the psych ward, the dog to a shelter, and the final verdict, from the man’s brother, is that he had “mental issues, and also drug issues.” But of course. And because this is local TV news, there had to be a shot of the reporter getting tough with the brother. I hate local TV news. (That link explains why, admirably. It’s not enough to bug people who don’t want to be interviewed on a nothing story. You have to bug and bug and bug, and make sure the camera catches it all.)

Meanwhile, if great news photos had been taken with an iPhone.

It’s the new dance craze that’s sweepin’ the nation: Artisanal distillery. A natural for Cooz, I think.

Why conservatives hate the Citibike program in New York, in one Venn diagram. This is actually hilarious to watch unfold. We’ll see how it goes.

It appears all the good has been bred out of the Kennedy line. Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is an anti-vaccine advocate. Lots of links to follow in that one, so I won’t quote any of it.

Back to packing, and that damn cursor.

I’m sorry for yesterday’s absence. I had one of those very long days on little sleep, and still managed to drag my flabby ass to the gym, and re-watch “Mad Men” just for the hell of it, and by the time I realized it was 10:30 and I hadn’t written a word, my head was nodding. But I did squeeze out a few! They were these

Brian Stouder, this is for you.

Also, this. Dorothy Rabinowitz, ack ack ack. I’ll be in later, because for now I’m simply too pooped.

And then, evidently, I forgot to hit Publish. Well, that’s how it goes.

But now it’s Tuesday evening, I’m better-rested, and besides the links above, a few notes:

We leave Friday to take Kate to camp, where she’ll rehearse for a week and then jet off to the Continent. We are celebrating by taking our first just-us vacation in a decade, and we’ll be far from wi-fi and the rest of the internet. I COULDN’T BE HAPPIER, she said, right before her eye started to twitch.

How will the week go? Not sure. I still have a bunch of old newspaper columns (thanks, Mark P.!) I might dust off and rerun. As I recall, it took me forever to find five that I could stand to re-read the last time I did this two years ago. But I just scanned a couple, and find they don’t suck as much as I remember. We’ll see. But you’ll be on your own otherwise. If your comment gets stuck in the spam filter — Prospero, I am looking at YOU — it’ll stay there for days.

It sorta hurts — in a non-painful way — to write this. Just returned from my one-month post-op check at the eye doctor’s, and was reminded anew how much I’m not looking forward to this stage of my life. The appointment was screwed up, and they tried to hit me for a $50 co-pay I contend I didn’t owe. I won easily, which should give you an idea of medical-office economics. That colonoscopy piece in the NYT should have been horrifying to anyone still trying to defend the American health-care system in its current form.

Anyway, my eye is healing, but the cataract — which I was told was a possible complication, years down the road — is already starting to form. Fuckety-fuck.

So since we’ve already started with a jab at American health care, let’s start the bloggage with a charming BBC story about the fascinating miracle known as the Finnish baby box. Every expectant mother in Finland gets one:

The maternity package – a gift from the government – is available to all expectant mothers.

It contains bodysuits, a sleeping bag, outdoor gear, bathing products for the baby, as well as nappies, bedding and a small mattress.

With the mattress in the bottom, the box becomes a baby’s first bed. Many children, from all social backgrounds, have their first naps within the safety of the box’s four cardboard walls.

The box, with a shower’s worth of useful products to take care of the new critter, is only part of the miracle. To get it, women have to see a doctor before their fourth month of pregnancy. So it’s win-win — mothers get prenatal care, and the government sees fewer babies in NICU units, leading to Finland having a tiny infant-mortality rate. A good investment, I’d say. A great read, especially if you’re a mother.

Two stories about rich people:

A few days ago, Detroit’s Masonic Temple — a wonderful Gothic pile sadly fallen on hard times — was at the risk of foreclosure due to unpaid taxes. In the nick of time, an anonymous check for $142,000 arrived to save it from becoming yet another empty building in a city full of them. Today, the anonymous donor was revealed: Jack White. Who really wanted to remain anonymous, but the Masonic owners insisted on naming the central theater after him.

Meanwhile, in California, the damage to the Big Sur redwood forest done by Sean Parker’s (Napster/Facebook Silicon Valley shithead) wedding was tallied, and this Atlantic explication of it is such a delicious read, I don’t want to spoil it for you. But this is some shameful shit here, the sort of willful, stupid behavior for which the term “rich douchebag” was invented.

Finally, I see the Chicago Sun-Times, in its nonstop effort to strip the paper of every possible reason to buy it, has cut off Neil Steinberg to spite its face. I am a late-coming fan of his column, but I find this amazing — he’s a consistently good read, and this is an invitation to find the exit. I hope someone reconsiders, or snaps him up elsewhere.

And with that, I leave you to a good Wednesday, I hope.

It’s official: After a lifetime of sneering after retirees moving to warmer climates, I now totally get it. It occurred to me today that I could live the rest of my life at 72 degrees and three weeks before the summer solstice. I have more energy, eat better, find exercise a temptation and not a chore and feel optimistic about the day ahead.

Florida! I take it all back! Except for that part about the heat and the bugs.

Yes, it was a good weekend. Got out, got around, lazed around re-reading a Travis McGee novel. Make a homemade pizza topped with roasted red peppers, tomatoes, spinach, garlic and fresh mozz. Made hamburgers. Drank some craft beers and pinot noir. Watched, via Netflix, “The Way,” which I expect you religious types have seen by now, and “Drive,” just to see if it was still disappointing, and yes it was. Had a 20-mile bike ride and a short sail. If that ain’t summer living, I’d like to know what is.

A little bloggage? OK:

Why are colonoscopies thousands of dollars in the U.S. and only hundreds in the rest of the developed world? The New York Times explains:

The high price paid for colonoscopies mostly results not from top-notch patient care, according to interviews with health care experts and economists, but from business plans seeking to maximize revenue; haggling between hospitals and insurers that have no relation to the actual costs of performing the procedure; and lobbying, marketing and turf battles among specialists that increase patient fees.

You don’t say.

How did Michael Douglas develop oral cancer? Now it can be told:

Michael Douglas – the star of Basic Instinct and Fatal Attraction – has revealed that his throat cancer was apparently caused by performing oral sex.

In a surprisingly frank interview with the Guardian, the actor, now winning plaudits in the Liberace biopic Behind the Candelabra, explained the background to a condition that was thought to be nearly fatal when diagnosed three years ago. Asked whether he now regretted his years of smoking and drinking, usually thought to be the cause of the disease, Douglas replied: “No. Because without wanting to get too specific, this particular cancer is caused by HPV [human papillomavirus], which actually comes about from cunnilingus.”

Mercy. Well, this is why I believe in HPV vaccination. Does the world need any more discouragement of this practice? I think not!

What else can split Republicans? How about Common Core?

The opposition’s momentum was evident this week in Michigan, where Republican lawmakers moved toward delaying Common Core despite entreaties from former Florida governor Jeb Bush, a respected voice within the party on education and one of the most vocal GOP champions of the new standards.

Bush, who is considering a run for president in 2016, defended Common Core during a closed-door lunch on Tuesday with state House Republicans in Lansing, then reiterated his arguments Wednesday in appearances with Snyder during a policy conference on Mackinac Island.

“Do not pull back. Please do not pull back from high, lofty standards,” Bush said in a pleading tone. He described Common Core as a “clear and straightforward” strategy that would “allow for more innovation in the classroom, less regulation.”

Good luck with that. And good luck with the week ahead.

Michelle Rhee was the big speaker at Mackinac today. Judging from my social-media feeds, it was either a huge success or, well, this:

There exists very little difference between her “reform” scheme and the broken system she seeks to fix. Both sides of this argument seek to reinforce a one-size-fits-all educational program that, to quote The Simpson’s Superintendent Chalmers, prepares the next generations for “tomorrow’s mills and processing plants.”

Thrive in a school envisioned by Michelle Rhee and you’ll likely make an ideal Secretary of State employee or insurance claims adjuster.

This is from Jeff Wattrick, who is covering the conference for Deadline Detroit. He’s not 100 percent my cup of tea, but he brings a certain zing to an event that encourages a sort of complacent, polite, inside-the-Beltway, respectful coverage that, frankly, it doesn’t always deserve.

The Center for Michigan is celebrating a big win up north, however — after about a year of work, a significant bump in early-childhood education funding is a done deal — $65 million a year more, to help another 10,000 kids attend high-quality preschool. A lot of shit is going down in Michigan at the moment that is unsettling — the DIA stuff is only the start of it — but this is good news.

Sorry for the late update, but it was one of those days where I hit the tape and collapsed into a heap. Eighty-eight degrees yesterday had something to do with it. Thursday had something to do with it. Laziness had something to do with it. And now I sit here on Friday morning, coffee at hand, and think: Cronuts? Well, OK.

What is a cronut?

A cronut, if you’re unfamiliar, is the new hybrid pastry — half croissant, half doughnut — that is sweeping New York. Or would be sweeping New York, if people could get their hands on them. As of today, the only place cronuts are sold is at the Dominique Ansel Bakery in Soho, where people now line up down the block as early as 6 a.m. — two hours before opening — for the chance to snag one of the 200 cronuts the bakery produces daily.

People will line up for pastry in other places, but they have to be Krispy Kreme.

We got to talking about doughnuts at dinner the other day. Alan revealed that a long, filled doughnut — long as opposed to round — is known as a “lunch stick” in northwest Ohio. This just goes to show you can spend nearly all of the last 25 years with a person and still not know everything about them. Why lunch stick? Who knows? Alan’s Defiance family is full of those country expressions — calling a green pepper a mango, calling lunch dinner, etc.

The other thing they’re known for is refrigerating everything. Alan once bought a dozen warm Krispy Kreme on the way to the lake one Saturday. Everyone had one upon arrival, and he went off to do some chore. When he came back for a second, they’d already been put in the refrigerator, i.e., ruined. Refrigerating doughnuts is the work of a woman who fears ants in the kitchen more than a cold, slimy KK.

Do cops still eat doughnuts? The ones I see are more likely to be eating Mexican food.

Speaking of public-safety workers, I wonder why Detroit firefighters even bother anymore. A short video on a blaze at one crappy corner liquor store that ended up critically injuring two firefighters. And then the ambulance didn’t show within 15 minutes. I ask you.

OK, time to wrap. Or rather, time to take the Slate news quiz and score miserably.

Have a good weekend, all.

Jeb Bush kicked off the Big Expensive Speakers series at the Mackinac Policy Conference, and as one Detroit columnist said, it sounds like he’s running for president, in the sense that he said GOP-primary-type things. Like:

He praised the power of “opportunity,” condemned the politics of waste and excuse-making in Washington and cities like Detroit. He pumped education reform that focuses on achievement rather than “self-esteem,” and praised Republican Gov. Rick Snyder for being a practical, rather than ideological, leader.

And:

Bush tied his discussion of education to platitudes, rather than practical solutions. He praised Michigan for aping some of what Florida has done, for pushing charter schools and contemplating online learning — which has a remarkably sketchy track record — but didn’t address crucial areas like funding, or independent school accountability.

It was the self-esteem crack that chapped my ass. I have a sophomore leaning in for her finals, and believe me, she is not stinting on the achievement. And when I think about it, I have never heard the phrase “self esteem” mentioned, ever, by any of her teachers. Not in Fort Wayne, not in Ann Arbor, not here. Not in preschool, not in grade school, not in — you get the idea. Where are these self-esteem academies that Republicans are always bitching about?

There was also this, which shows there’s a reason he’s the Smart Bush:

2:33 PM: Asian-Americans have higher education achievement, higher incomes, higher entrepreneurial rates. More than 70% of Asian-Americans voted for Obama even though, Bush tells Detroit News’ Daniel Howes in the post-speech Q&A, they should be part of the GOP coalition but too many conservative voices have made the party seem exclusionary to minorities and immigrants.

Hmm, how did that happen?

Oh, well. Friends, I did a two-a-day today — weights in the morning, 12 bike miles in the afternoon, and I’m whipped. I think I’m headed for bed, but I’ll be up at the usual insane bird-chirpy hour of 5:30 or so. Because that is my lot in life. We’re looking at a thunderstorm eventually — it’s bearing down on central Wisconsin as I write this — so if we’re in for a big one, hey, let me know.

You guys were talking in comments yesterday about finding caches of old porn under the rafters of one another’s houses, which is the standard hiding place, or was. (As my old neighbor the cleaning lady could tell you some folks just leave it lying around and expect the help to put it away.) It reminded me of a story I’m sure I’ve told before, but these things will happen as we all get old, right? Anyway: Some friends of mine rehabbed an old farmhouse west of Columbus, probably dating from the mid’19th century. As part of the kitchen restoration, they pulled off the mantelpiece for the fireplace. And found two items:

1) An addressed, stamped, but apparently never delivered invitation to a high-school graduation. You could almost see that it must have been part of a stack of them, and slipped off the top and down between the mantelpiece and the wall. How many hurt feelings did that lead to, you wonder?

2) A pamphlet, absolutely authentic and almost perfectly preserved, for a patent medicine that pledged to cure young men of the urge toward self-abuse. It went on for several pages about the dangers of this practice, how it could lead to a loss of vigor and general malaise, irritability, etc. I wondered how the homeowners came to pick it up at their local pharmacy — a bad-tempered teenage son, perhaps, paired with some spotted sheets? An embarrassing moment walking in on the boy at work in the bathroom? Who can say. The despairing mother confides in a druggist; he proffers some literature. I wonder if she ever bought any of the stuff. I wonder what it might have contained.

History tells us most likely it was alcohol. Which, when you think about alcohol’s relationship with human sexuality, is sort of funny. He probably switched to the livestock.

I started to write yesterday about the news that broke Friday, that the city-owned collection of the Detroit Institute of Arts could be at risk of liquidation should the city declare municipal bankruptcy (which most believe is a foregone conclusion). Opinion about the emergency manager’s statement on this is all over the map — it’s a trial balloon, it’s a negotiating technique, it’s a bargaining chip, it’s madness, it’s about time. At this point it’s safe to say that if you’re planning a trip to visit the Rivera murals, you don’t need to rush, but you never know. This will be in court for eleventy jillion years if it gets that far, but at this point, all I know to do is sigh heavily.

As you can imagine, the usual racists have stood up and thundered that those ghetto hood rats don’t deserve a great art museum, so why not sell every last watercolor. Some have said, “Oh, cheer up — it’ll just go to another bunch of museums,” which strikes me as one of the dumber things said in the last 72 hours, and that’s saying something. If the unthinkable happens, and some or all of it is sold to satisfy pensioners and bondholders, it’s pretty obvious it would go into the drawing rooms of Ron Lauder and Barry Diller, et al. I think about “Detroit Industry,” the Rivera murals, painted by a Trotskyite, commissioned by an aristocrat, celebrating the working class. It’s about the most recognizable single piece in the building, and the single best artistic distillation of what Detroit is, what it was, that probably exists today. (OK, a ridiculous statement, but I’m no critic.) I wonder what would happen to that.

Elsewhere here in the land where anything can happen, a disgraced former Supreme Court justice, a Democrat, was sentenced to 366 days in prison for bank fraud, i.e., shenanigans on a short sale. I have zero sympathy, but I don’t wish her ill. She’ll spend her year in a Martha Stewart federal prison for well-behaved lady criminals and be home in time for next year’s Memorial Day barbecue, and maybe even Christmas, with good behavior. She retains a generous state pension and the luxurious Florida home that led to all this crap.

I’ll tell ya — real estate never leads people down the paths of righteousness, does it?

I am on a dedicated campaign to get out from under my mortgage sooner rather than later — we went to a 15-year note two years ago, and I make extra principal payments — so I guess the fact the market is recovering should be good news for us, but somehow I don’t think so. Basically, real estate is the devil. I look forward to the communal apartments my old age surely has in store.

A short work week, and already we’re at Wednesday? How’d that happen? Happy Hump Day to you, too.

I hope it says something about this week that my options for this evening are: a) drinks; and b) yoga, and I’m considering the yoga. Seriously. It’s a special full-moon yoga pachage — an hour of kundalini, followed by an hour of gong immersion. I mean, why the hell not?

There was a woman who used to take a weights class at the same time I did a while back. She was, what’s the word? Insufferable. Whippet-thin and toned down to the last muscle, she was the sort who, when the instructor said, “If you’d like an extra challenge, raise your legs into table position,” would raise her legs into table position and add something extra on top of that. Just to be insufferable. She never sweated. During breaks, she’d say things like, “I never have to watch what I eat. Just eat whatever I want. Must be my genes.”

In fine weather, she would ride hr bike to the gym, like me. No helmet. No lock. “Yeah, I should probably get one of those,” she’d say, wrinkling her pretty nose before pedaling off, her unsweaty hair trailing behind her. She never did.

But one day we were doing a yoga strength move, and she confided something someone had told her: “Guys? It’s anti-Christian.” After that, I resolved to do downward-facing dog for the rest of my life, and I will probably think of her skinny ass every time I do.

Yeah, I’m thinking yoga tonight. And then drinks.

Much good bloggage today, so let’s get to it.

Once upon a time, the president was a young man, and he went to his prom. With pictures.

As we’re on a happy hour theme, two booze stories. First, the pricey stuff:

Even though I know it’s coming, it’s hard not to feel sticker shock when I get the bill at The Rye Bar in Georgetown’s new Capella hotel. On my tab: a $22 Manhattan and an $18 Old Fashioned. With tax and tip, the whole thing rounds out to $50. For two drinks.

Don’t get me wrong, the cocktails at The Rye Bar are very good, and the Manhattan is one of the best I’ve ever tasted. It’s made with Dad’s Hat rye, a small-batch whiskey from Bristol, Pa., Dolin sweet vermouth, and French aperitif Byrrh quinquina, all aged together for six weeks in American white oak barrels, making it so smooth that the buzz catches you by surprise.

It so happens I recently interviewed a craft distiller, and the products were wonderful. On the other hand, the day I pay $22 for a drink is the day I go back to Budweiser in bottles.

Now, the cheap stuff:

Twenty-nine bars and restaurants, nearly half of them TGI Fridays, filled premium brand liquor bottles with lower-quality booze and sold it to patrons who thought they were buying the good stuff, authorities said Wednesday.

Worse yet, investigators said at least one New Jersey bar was mixing food dye with rubbing alcohol and serving it as scotch. Officials would not say who used the rubbing alcohol. But they said no health issues were reported.

Nothing about this surprises me, I regret to say. Speaking of which, don’t get the Sno-Cones at Minute Maid Park.

But let’s try to close on an up note — Gene Weingarten observes a neighborhood eviction. As only he can.

Oh, let’s all try to have a good long weekend, shall we?

It was one of those ai-yi-yi sorts of days, punctuated with some bright spots. I am seeing, just in glimpses and just at the outermost periphery of my vision, some glimpses of clarity. But like the bright elusive butterfly of love, it refuses to be captured. When I look for it, I can’t find it. When I’m not, THERE IT IS. For just an instant.

I will take this as a good sign.

Hit the weight room at the end of it, because sometimes, that’s what you have to do — pump iron. Lately, I’m digging the Jammer in the weight room. All the college students are out and back in the gym now, clanging plates around and making all kinds of noise. I like to bring my schvitzing old ass right in the middle of them. Get used to granny, kids.

So let’s make this short and sweet and picture-ific.

I’m trying to eat more vegetables, without going to too much trouble. This is becoming a favorite lunch/breakfast — shakshuka. Or, in this case, Extremely Low-Rent Shakshuka:

You make a little tomato sauce, get it how you like it, then drop a couple of eggs on top and cover the pan. When the eggs are done, you have a wonderful lunch, with protein and a cup or so of veg. You can season it hot or mild, add whatever you want. This one was spicy. The one I made for lunch today was mostly black beans. And that is how you console yourself as an at-home worker, at charge of your own lunch.

I’m sorry, but this just cracks me up:

Gerald Ford, spending a summer on Mackinac. It’s a piece from ArtPrize, called “Our President,” and the thought of it menacing tourists for the season is simply hilarious.

The Atlantic’s photo blog collection of tornado photos from Oklahoma.

Will this week ever end? We’ll see. But we’re now over the hump.