Pix ‘n’ linx on a night when it’s so windy I regret that I live under tall trees. Only on nights like this, but they happen often enough that I pass an uneasy night every few months. We are paying for yet another April-in-January morning — nearly 50 today. And now the warmth must be banished. In 35 mph gusts.

So let’s ask Flickr for “wind” in the Creative Commons area. This is nice:

Thanks, Richard White. That’s a lovely country you have there. (England.)

Now, some linkage:

New York magazine, in what we all hope is hyperbole, promises us the slimiest campaign season ever. It probably isn’t hyperbole. Oh, I can’t wait.

If you want to feel better, though, here’s Gabrielle Giffords finishing the town meeting she started a little over a year ago, and didn’t finish. I love her bad-guys-don’t-get-to-win spirit. This is a great country.

Duff McKagan — yes, that one — on the SOPA affair:

The legislation’s meant to combat theft of creative works like movies and music from overseas web sites. But when I turned to the Twitter and Facebook, I saw an overwhelming dog pile of support against the bills. Excuse me, but where were you all when piracy started to decimate the music industry? Why didn’t you take a stand against that? Those free records felt good, huh?

The fury from the Internet class is that the broad language in the pieces of legislation will be bad for start-ups, might prevent the next YouTube, or give the government the ability to take down a whole site because of one link to copyrighted works. In short, they’re opposed to the legislation because they think it will be bad for the Internet business.

Bad for business. Anti-piracy legislation could be bad for the Internet business. It almost takes my breath away. Internet piracy has claimed half of the recorded music business, and made the prospect of making a living as a musician harder for artists of all rank and file. Why didn’t Google, or Facebook, or Wikipedia ever stand in solidarity with musicians, actors, and writers – most of whom have never known fame and fortune – as their works were stolen with no recourse on their sites?

You gotta admit, the guy has a point. Barn doors and horses and all that, but someone needs to say it.

And now it’s, what? Tuesday? Is that all? Seemed like a long Monday. Let’s hope it speeds by.

So, Joe Paterno is dead.

[Pause.]

He got off easy. He died surrounded by family and the echo chamber that allowed him to leave the world secure that even if he “wishes he’d done more,” what could he have done, anyway? He’s an old man. He’d never heard of that “rape and a man” thing. He’s olllld. Stop picking on him. He’s a national treasure and he lives in the same house he bought as a newlywed and he walks across campus and he endowed a library and he’s Joe Pa.

Trials, and investigations, and more probing questioning, might have turned up a few things that wouldn’t have gone over well. When you say you “wish you’d done more,” Mr. Paterno, when exactly did you reach that conclusion? In 2002, 2003, or last November?

When I heard the news this morning, I posted a tweet that said only, “JoePa beats the rap.” One of you who saw it replied at some length via Facebook. I’ll let you read it and tell me what you think:

One that was self-inflicted, and deeply deserved.

I don’t even pretend to be unbiased about this. I was sexually abused when I was a kid, and like this situation all of the adults who could have done something pretended that it didn’t happen. But that was in the 1970’s and what my family did was more or less the societal norm for the time. Yes, they should have had the backbone to confront it head on instead of letting me sort it out for myself at age ten, but they at least had that fig leaf of an excuse.

Paterno doesn’t get that pass. McQueary came to him in 2002 and told him he had seen Sandusky RAPING a boy in a Penn State locker room shower. Paterno was then 75 years old and he had never heard about molestation or even gay sex between consenting male adults? Like hell. You can’t spend one week, let alone five decades, in male team sports without getting a thorough description of how male-male sex works. To believe that Paterno was able to morally guide his teams for decades on drugs, cheating and sportsmanship but he didn’t know that some sick men like to stick their pee-pees in boy’s behinds (Paterno wanted to act like he was an infant on the subject so I’ll put it in terms he might have preferred) – is to be delusional. He knew what McQueary meant. You can not be a functioning adult – or a parent – and not be aware of child molesters and what they do.

Not acting on what McQueary reported was bad enough, but what was worse is that everyone – Paterno, McQueary, the AD and president – did not lift their eyes even a millimeter to see all of the other ways Sandusky could be destroying the lives of many boys. They knew he ran a home for troubled boys. They continued to allow him to run his youth football camps at Penn State. What were they thinking? That fucking a ten year-old in a semi-public place was a fluke? That just because he took extraordinary measures to have access to young boys it wouldn’t happen again?

They were wrong.

There are eight known victims of Jerry Sandusky, I guarantee there are a lot more who won’t come forward. Paterno, McQueary, and the PSU admins involved knew about this for at least nine years, possibly longer, and they did nothing. I suspect because they didn’t know how to stop Sandusky without killing themselves professionally and the football program, but their motives are irrelevant. They could have stopped a serial child molester, and all of them made a conscious decision not to. They didn’t rape those kids, they just made it possible for Sandusky to do it.

Since this broke I’ve heard a lot of sportswriters say that this was “difficult” because you had to consider Paterno record outside of covering up a molester in his program. I think that’s kind of the ultimate real-life “Otherwise, what did you think of the play, Mrs. Lincoln?” moment, and I think that moral character is defined when it’s tested.

But if you want to make that claim, then you also need to look at the reach of what Sandusky did and Paterno enabled.

I am exceptionally lucky. I didn’t turn to alcohol or drugs to cope with this and, most gratefully of all I didn’t become an abuser myself. For years I was terrified that I would this to a child someday. In my late 40’s, I have a good marriage to an amazing woman. I have friends, and I have peace.

But it wasn’t until my late 30’s that I stopped having flashbacks where I would taste his cock in my mouth. (I would apologize for the language but this was an assault. I need for you to feel it like a punch so you can understand what these kids will go through.) I went from being a kid who they wanted to bump up two grades to not caring. I became a clown and that was helpful in other ways, but it’s not going to get you into college. I learned how to deal with any problem I’d face on my own, at the expense of never making myself fully vulnerable to anyone. There’s nothing anyone can do to destroy me – because I won’t let you get that close. That’s how I’ve found peace.

Some of Sandusky’s victims won’t be as lucky. Thirty years from now some of them will be addicts, some will be alcoholics, some will be abusers and molesters themselves. The ones who are lucky will patch together something that works for them without hurting anyone else. It will get smaller in their mirrors but it will never fully disappear.

It may not be as personal for someone who hasn’t gone through this, but putting that aside I can’t understand how attachment to a college sports program can trump even an academic understanding of what molestation is and what it does to its victims, and how those two things should be prioritized. And I live in Bloomington freaking Indiana – I know something about iconic coaches, winning programs, and how people lose their shit when both end badly. But Bob Knight never hurled a flower pot at a kid, and Woody Hayes didn’t swing at a ten year-old. Is the infatuation with adults playing a children’s game so great that not even covering up for and enabling a molester doesn’t deserve a hearty “How fucking dare you?” If this doesn’t cross the line, what would?

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. And rot in hell, Joe.

That’s pretty powerful, don’t you think? We have a long history in our culture of not speaking ill of the recently dead, and I’m not so cross-eyed on this subject that I can’t see that Paterno did good things along the way, and not all of them in coaching football. I know we all hope we won’t be judged by the worst thing we’ve done in our lives, but I also agree with our commenter — character is defined when it’s tested. Paterno was tested, and failed. By failing, he almost certainly enabled Jerry Sandusky to abuse other boys. All the endowed libraries in the world won’t balance that scale.

Another writer says much the same thing.

I should say, finally, that I’m not smug about this. But I’m not blind, either. I only hope that when the chips are down, I’ll be able to do the right thing. It’s not easy for anyone.

[Pause.]

So, with that, some bloggage?

The great Emma Downs on a rift between bookselling brothers:

At one time, Sam and Joel Hyde were more than brothers. They were business partners, co-owners of Hyde Brothers Booksellers, the dusty, crowded and cozy used bookstore on Wells Street.

The partnership lasted 10 years and both Sam and Joel describe the parting as amicable. But it was also fraught with long discussions about what Sam owed Joel and vice versa. The process of divvying up the store’s inventory alone was a slow process, Sam says.

At one point, Joel asked Sam what he would pay for the paperbacks Joel was leaving behind.

“Nothing,” Sam said.

And the discussions would start all over again.

It’s a good read no matter where you’re from, but better if you’ve shopped at the original Hyde Brothers. Thanks for the find, Brian.

And with that, the week begins. Sorry to bum you out so early, but I’ve spent the last two hours reading nothing but apologias for kindly Grampa Joe. Not here you won’t.

In the interest of being anti-SOPA but pro-intellectual property respect, no photo today, because I don’t think the Associated Press allows wholesale reproduction without a license. A link, then, to L.L. Bean’s answer to the comical automotive corporate mascot: the Bootmobile.

I want one.

Linx ‘n’ pix today, then. What do we have?

Speaking of SOPA, looks like young Ben Quayle was a co-sponsor. Apples, trees, and what they say about them.

I thought Sally Jenkins’ piece about Joe Paterno was a bit much, but I wasn’t half as offended as this guy was. By that I mean, I know Paterno (and his handlers) were playing the Poor Sick Old Man card, but I didn’t think Jenkins was playing it, too. (I’ve been far more offended by her close relationship with Lance Armstrong.) YMMV, as we say on the Internets.

No dispute about this, though: Sports Illustrated’s piece on the Thrilla in Manila, unearthed from the vault this week in honor of Muhammed Ali’s 70th birthday. Fabulous.

PJs in public — threat or menace? Menace!

Happy Thursday, all.

After yesterday’s overcast start, the day brightened into something a little less leaden. The sun was safe behind many veils of clouds, but the rain stopped and what ho, I have an interview at the coffee shop on the corner? Think I’ll wear my raincoat in this mild, 50-degree weather. I called my editor in Lansing after I got home. It was 52 here, but 100 miles to the west, 32. And sure enough, soon the sky darkened again, the wind changed from southwest to northwest justlikethat, rain blew horizontally for a while and tomorrow it’ll be winter again. Highs in the 20s.

Do I start every blog with a weather report? Yes, I do. I am a Midwesterner, after all.

And at the moment I’m a Midwesterner with just two squares of a Green & Black white-chocolate bar left, the spoils of a splurge trip to Whole Foods Saturday. Whole Foods in Ann Arbor, I should add — a childhood friend was passing through, and thought she’d give me a shout, see if I was up for lunch. These days, I have a refuse-no-friends-who-are-passing-through policy, especially when I haven’t seen them in years. You never know when you’ll get another chance.

So we went to Zingerman’s Roadhouse. It was an episode of “Portlandia” come to life, with the waiter introducing himself, sketching out the restaurant’s philosophy (“comfort food and barbecue”), its policy on sourcing (local, of course) and then expressing his deep delight that he would get to break my friends’ Z-cherry, so to speak. All of this would be intolerable if Zingerman’s didn’t dollar up on the hoof so well. You pay through the nose, you put up with this seemingly endless bullshit, but when the food arrives, there is nothing to do but say, “This may be a side dish of macaroni and cheese priced at $7.50, but if there’s a dish of macaroni and cheese worth $7.50? It tastes like this.”

Cindy ordered the go-go grilled cheese sandwich. She asked if she could change the cheeses. But of course. Could she maybe have some cheddar with a little Maytag bleu? Certainly, our waiter said, adding:

“How old?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How old on the cheddar?” There was a choice. One year, two years, or five. She asked for the one-year vintage. It was an excellent sandwich, and the mushroom soup was even better.

I had lentil soup, with a side of sauteed spinach. I’m going through a big sauteed-spinach phase. So easy. Buy it by the bag, prewashed, throw a little olive oil and garlic into the pan, get it going, toss in the greens and wait until they wilt down into iron-rich deliciousness. Sometimes I have it for breakfast, with a poached egg. Florentine, but without the mornay sauce. Popeye never asked for mornay sauce. It gives me the strength of 10 old bags.

Weather and food. Yep, that’s about right.

Fortunately, we have much good bloggage today:

First, quite the arresting slide show of the Italian cruise-ship disaster. Alan tells me they actually drifted to that position so close to the rocks, but I’m not sure. This overhead view plainly shows barely submerged rocks. How much pinot grigio was this captain drinking? The first rule of marine navigation: If you see rocks sticking out of the water, don’t drive the boat there. (It’s possible that’s some sort of lens flare or other trick of the light. Still. Awful close to those rocks, cap’n.)

My education sources keep telling me the lecture is dead. It’s not only not dead, it’s pretty lucrative — if you’re the lecturer, anyway:

In official Washington, there is an afterlife, and it’s a crowded, cacophonous place. Called the public speaking circuit, this D.C. Elysium is bound by the same transactional laws as the realm that preceded it. But instead of political parties, it is governed by speakers bureaus that promise visibility to those who sign up. In the past 30 years, a proliferation of bureaus has promoted, booked and enriched former lawmakers, candidates, consultants, Cabinet members, political reporters and gadflies.

“Let’s say you are secretary of something — there are two ways you are going to make a really good living: a lobbyist or a speaker, or a combination of the two,” said James Carville, the political consultant and a client of the Washington Speakers Bureau.

The bulls got out at Coozledad’s place again. Spoiler: Purley was OK after his encounter with the truck. I’m so glad, as Purley is the cutest bull ever. You let Mrs. Gingrich set eyes on him, and he’ll be a character in her next children’s book.

Me, on one side effect of the college competition — the common-app crush.

For once, a photo I find more interesting than Tom & Lorenzo. Spike Lee is a Christian now? Mariah Carey looks drunk, but considering she showed up in a version of the same dress that other lady did, maybe she had a reason. And yeah, Shelley shut it down. She looks better every year.

And with that, the hump day commences. Not you, Purley! Down, boy.

Tuesday morning comin’ down, in the form of what looks to be an all-day rain. After a brief cold snap we’re back into the 40s, and while the warmth is better than cold (I guess), it’s certainly dreary. Let’s pick an appropriate picture from the ol’ Flickr stream. Ah, here’s one:

Chili — with or without corn — will taste good today. Photo by J.C. Burns, nicked from his Flickr stream, used under a Creative Commons license. Let’s hop to the links, shall we?

Jim Griffoen at Sweet Juniper! on how they managed to sneak a bit of American toy kitsch into their neighbors’ perfect apartment. How perfect?

So we’ve got these wonderful German neighbors who are such sophisticated design nerds they make us look like Randy Quaid and his wife emptying our RV’s septic tank into the storm drain. One is a professor of architecture (and since most architects already try to look like Germans, you can imagine how ahead of the curve these two are). They have pretty much every piece of iconic midcentury furniture in their immaculate Mies van der Rohe townhouse. It’s like the furniture wing at MOMA.

We had a neighborhood garage sale a few months ago and when this family stopped at ours, the architect saw her four-year-old son having a blast while playing with some of my son’s old toys and she said with a delightful German bluntness:

“I see he likes these toys, but the design is not good and they would not really fit in our home.”

The New Yorker on Callista Gingrich. Fact I didn’t know: She writes children’s books! Well, of course she does, being a strict Catholic who spent her prime childbearing years in unmarried congress with a married man, only to win the big prize (the man) and discover it really wasn’t what she wanted anyway, but it came with a shitload of fancy jewelry and the chance to play Pretend Mommy with her children’s book-authoring career. Every self-respecting child I know would flee from her in terror. Well, book-signings are rare, anyway.

Finally, I am long overdue with this, which ran last week, when my friend Sammy Smith, spouse of J.C. Burns and likely the creator of today’s pot of chili, was settling affairs in Michigan following the death of her mother. She and her father (the Botanist) visited the Michigan Women’s Historical Center and Hall of Fame, and found a photo of then-governor Albert Sleeper signing the bill granting women’s suffrage while selected members of the gender “look on,” as the caption-writers always put it. One is Sammy’s great-grandmother. I like the picture because the women, dowagers all, look like they have the assembled power to stab the governor to death with their hatpins if he doesn’t come across.

Anyway, condolences to Sammy, and a good Tuesday to all.

Car prom! Took my camera! Let’s get started:

The North American International Auto Show is held in the vast space of Cobo Center, which may not be as vast as your city’s convention center, but is pretty big. The show runs for two weeks — the first couple of days is the media preview, followed by industry days, the Charity Preview (aka Car Prom) for one night, and then the show opens to the public, and once it does it’s no longer possible to be handed a flute of champagne by an Italian beauty at the Maserati space, which goes to show you the public always takes a screwing. But Alan worked a week’s worth of hours and then some in about three days, and deserved a pleasant night out. That’s what we got.

So let’s go to the show. Hi, Miss Michigan USA!

As you can see, some people took the black-tie designation seriously and some people went with the modern designation. Everybody looked fine, if a little Fellini-like under the lights. But no matter, the wine is flowing and let’s stop for loyalty’s sake at the hometown heroes, Ford.

That’s the 2013 Ford Fusion, one of the hits of the show. The auto writers called that grill “aggressive,” apparently because it protrudes a bit, which along with the squinty-eyed headlights gives it an aggressive, don’t-mess-with-me face, a new feeling for a mid-priced mid-size sedan. The female Ford car models, er, “product specialists” all wore those white dresses. They looked sharp.

Over to Lincoln. This is the MKZ concept, but mostly it’s just me trying to do something with all the shiny in the frame:

The Cadillac ATS:

They’re touting this as a competitor for the BMW 3 series, which made BMW scoff, I’m told. Whatever. I’d market it as a domestic-made luxury sedan for patriotic Americans who want to support the 99 percent. Domestic is back, baby.

Speaking of luxury, this is a Maserati SUV which will be made in Detroit. Yup:

Side view at the link. I guess I was taken with yet another set of squinty headlights. Also the idea of a Maserati SUV. Someone call LeBron.

If Kate had rich parents, they’d buy her this for a Sweet Sixteen present:

Too bad for her she doesn’t. It’s one of the redesigned Beetles, made a little flatter and less cute, now with guitar-y rock’n’roll-osity. Maybe it’s because I remember the special-edition lemons of the ’70s — anyone for a blue-jeans Pacer? — but I think they’re all kind of silly. The King Ranch interior package for the Ford trucks and SUVs has been around for a while; some people found the cup holders a good place to leave their empties:

The many open vehicles made for a nice place to take a load off. I think this was a Mini Cooper I was sitting in:

Speaking of cute little cars, here’s the front end of that Smart pickup-truck concept from last week:

Look, it’s smiling at you! Aren’t you all ashamed of all the mean things you said about it? It’s like you were picking on a kitten or something.

A few odds and ends. I seem to recall one of you regulars is a foot man; here’s some eye candy for you:

I can’t remember if that was on a guest or one of the product specialists.

Black tie on the People Mover:

Finally, the afterglow at the Ren Cen, where the view from the glass elevator (how ’70s!) was of America Junior across the river:

Better pictures of the Charity Preview and the show in general are available at the Detroit News website. Especially this one.

And this is your correspondent, signing out:

But no, we have some bloggage first:

Joe Paterno speaks, to Sally Jenkins at the WashPost:

Paterno’s hope is that time will be his ally when it comes to judging what he built, versus what broke down. “I’m not 31 years old trying to prove something to anybody,” he said. “I know where I am.” This is where he is: wracked by radiation and chemotherapy, in a wheelchair with a broken pelvis, and “shocked and saddened” as he struggles to explain a breakdown of devastating proportions.

…How (Jerry) Sandusky, 67, allegedly evaded detection by state child services, university administrators, teachers, parents, donors and Paterno himself remains an open question. “I wish I knew,” Paterno said. “I don’t know the answer to that. It’s hard.” Almost as difficult for Paterno to answer is the question of why, after receiving a report in 2002 that Sandusky had abused a boy in the shower of Penn State’s Lasch Football Building, and forwarding it to his superiors, he didn’t follow up more aggressively.

It’s worth reading for the account of how he was fired alone.

Every audience-member’s nightmare — one’s cell phone goes off during a performance of the New York Philharmonic — turns the culprit into the culture-pages version of That Guy Who Cost the Cubs a Pivotal Game. You can see why he insisted on anonymity. I recall a profile of Wynton Marsalis from a few years back, which described a similar incident. Marsalis, without missing a note, picked up the tune of the ringtone, wove it into his improv and wove it back out to the exact point where it went off — the last two notes in “I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance With You.” And that’s why he’s Wynton Marsalis and everyone else is just a player.

Oh, I can’t wait until campaign season ramps up, so we can see more ads like this. Evil French!

The week awaits. If you have the day off today, enjoy it.

Pix ‘n’ linx goes into its second day with? More cars, with a little for you leg men:

This one’s called “I’ll take one in red,” by Thomas Hawk, used under a Creative Commons license.

Busy-busy day today, so let’s get right to the linkage:

As someone whose lizard-brain fears are heights and falling, I can say this is a death I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I wonder why he wasn’t harnessed.

Via LGM, a nomination for Worst Column of the Month (and setting a high bar for the rest of the year): Tim Tebow for President! Seriously:

Obama, and so too the Republican candidates for president, can learn a lot from what is going on in the Mile High City. Our economy, and this country, are struggling with huge deficits of confidence and faith. We need a leader who can bring us together, exude confidence in us as a team, and lead us to where we need to go in the 21st century. A leader who is willing to admit mistakes and approach politics not by pointing fingers or scoring points but by helping us all be better people.

Har.

The second part of the Bridge package on Michigan’s higher-ed costs is on the student-loan anchor. All here. All worth reading.

My day tomorrow has to be timed almost to the five-minute window, so that I can make it from a can’t-miss meeting in Lansing to Detroit in time for Car Prom. So after depriving us of a white Christmas and giving us 50-degree days in January, when does winter finally arrive in the Midwest? Guess.

Happy Thursday, all. The weekend is in sight.

Inaugural pix ‘n’ linx! Given the week’s theme in Detroit, let’s go with a car:

That’s the Smart concept, an “urban pickup.” Grabbed from the Flickr stream of Michelin Media, and used under a Creative Commons license.

The interior:

Would I want one? Hmm, prolly not. But I admire the thinking.

To kick off the linkage, a painful story to read about one of those guys. Everybody knows someone like this, a utility player at a company who doesn’t necessarily contribute to the bottom line, but supports those who do. In this case, he worked at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. The rest you can read for yourself. Spoiler: It’s not a happy story. But it is important.

When Charles Pierce referred to our new super-PAC era as one of “fully weaponized money,” I think this is what he was talking about. Josh Marshall:

Last night I saw a link on Twitter to the news that Sheldon Adelson, the billionaire casino mogul had given $5 million to a Gingrich-backing SuperPAC to run a brutal series of ads against Mitt Romney in South Carolina. (The ad campaign will be based on snippets from a half-hour swift-boat style ‘documentary’ about Mitt’s time at Bain Capital.) I knew this was big if for no other reason than the fact that $5 million thrown at a relatively small state like South Carolina over little more than a week is enough to totally change the calculus of a race. …But there’s much more afoot here.

Beyonce, celebrity maternity monster.

Oh, and me, on the play the other night. Actually, on the guy who made it possible. We should all be so fearless.

Early in the Iowa caucusing, and I’m watching the live coverage. Why?

1) Because it’s too early for “Downton Abbey,” “Game of Thrones” or the Westminster Dog Show.
2) Because I’m so giddy at having a fairly typical American weeknight — drive home, dinner, a second glass of wine — that it just seems the thing to do.

Although jeez, it’s excruciating. Is American broadcast media ever worse than when it’s devoting all its attention to something of very little real consequence that won’t actually throw off any news for a few hours yet? It’s like watching someone toast an ant on a sidewalk with a magnifying glass. All agree that if Romney loses tonight, it’s a terrible setback for his campaign. Feh. They said Newton was done when he went on that Greek cruise and all of his top staff quit. Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?

Eh, time for a Sopranos episode on demand. That’s why we have premium cable.

Oh, and “Southland” isn’t back yet, either. But soon. It’s not the best cop show ever, but it’s better than most, and I find myself oddly drawn in by Regina King and Michael Cudlitz. The latter plays a hard-working, first-class police officer with a painkiller addiction. Addict antiheroes are all the rage these days — hello, Nurse Jackie — and I’m not sure why, as drug addicts can be some truly despicable people, or rather, they’re people who do some truly despicable things. Both Cudlitz’ John Cooper and Edie Falco’s Nurse Jackie play competent, highly decent people who just happen to suck down Vicodin and Oxycontin like it’s going out of style. While I have to admire the writers’ impulse to dramatize a growing social problem, please — Cooper or Jackie need to be stealing a little more from their own family members, and a little less rough-around-the-edges.

Back to the caucuses.

Ron Paul is leading.

Have a nice year, GOP.

Bloggage?

Dan Savage is running out of patience with some of these people. You know it.

Keith Olbermann, cratering again? Oh, probably.

Is Stephen Glass forgivable? Hey, if Tim Goeglein is, I don’t see why not.

Man, all this pheasant and champagne and pie and the rest of it has taken a toll. I feel like crap, not in an I’m-getting-sick kind of way, more like an I’m-missing-the-gym deal. But I refuse to be one of those Jan. 1 newbies. (You like that logic? I’m missing the gym, but I won’t go to the gym. Because.) I considered my non-gym options and did something insane: I went for a walk.

Bipedal motion! What a crazy idea. I made it crazier yet — I didn’t use my iPod. Just me and my thoughts, and feet moving back and forth. Yesterday I walked about two miles and felt like someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to the bottoms of my feet, and yes, I was ashamed. Today I walked three and a half, and felt much better. Just needed to get the kinks out. I made both walks errands: Have a destination, get something done along the way. Yesterday I gave blood. Today, went to the library to return a DVD. (“Meek’s Cutoff,” don’t bother.) Things I noticed:

Couple of squabbling blue jays;
About a million storefronts I hadn’t seen up close;
The world. All snowy ‘n’ cold ‘n’ stuff.

When did we decide whatever was on our smartphone screens was so goddamn interesting? What if they’d told us the truth back in first grade, when we were first promised personal jetpacks? You won’t get that, but you will get a computer smaller than a deck of cards that you will carry in your pocket, one that will facilitate instant communication with the rest of the world. You will mainly use it to play Angry Birds and see what a celebrity is eating for lunch.

OK, enough. It was a good day. But tomorrow everything hits another gear. Today is the Iowa caucuses, and we’ll have lots to talk about In the meantime…

Dave Barry’s Year in Review. The same year after year, but always good for a chuckle or three.

My old News’n’Sentinel colleague Ash Khalil has a new book out. Unlike Herr Goeglein’s, I think I’ll read this one.

Eric Zorn notices two apocalyptic pronouncements from GOP candidates and wonders, hyperbole or hysteria? What’s scary is how many people agree with them.

Anyone want to make predictions on Iowa results?