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

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

“I’ll pay it forward. I will.”

Let’s hope so.

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

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

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

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

…Here are a couple questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A week later, she was back on her ladder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A great week to all. Onward to Monday.

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

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

“Really?” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your school board. Hard at work.

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

Before I forget, a movie recommendation we caught last weekend on On Demand cable. (It sounds strange to write “on On Demand,” but stranger to write, “a movie we demanded to watch last weekend.” How about “a movie we watched via On Demand.” Does that work for everyone?)

Anyway: “The Other F Word,” which I thought we could enjoy as a fam, seeing as how it had cross-generational appeal — a documentary about some of the most notorious punk rockers of the ’80s, now responsible fathers. It was an amusing little trifle, and if it boiled down to, essentially, “one day you’ll have children, and you’ll understand,” it didn’t make it any less charming.

The central through-line was the story of Jim Lindberg, lead singer in Pennywise (I’ve never heard of them, either, although I’m told they were big. Or maybe the pictures got small.). He has one of those double-edged swords — a band that has enough success after a couple of decades to provide him and his quartet of blondes (wife, three adorable daughters) with a comfortable California living, but only if he’s willing to spend three-quarters of every year on the road, screaming into microphones. It’s not exactly a hard-knock life, except it is. He’s a funny guy, and at one point, pausing near the bunk area on the band’s tour bus, notes that the smell is “a mix of farts, ass, feet…and a hint of balls.” I’m sure it sounded like heaven when he was 25, less so today. But what do fathers do? Take care of their families. And so he soldiers on, worrying about father-daughter dances and recitals.

Around him, his fellow punkers do the same, with varying degrees of success. The women are all but invisible, not all the stories charming — it’s depressing to hear how many of these angry men started as angry boys, abandoned by their fathers. But you have to salute their onward-and-upward response of trying to do better by their own children.

Was it worth a night out in the theater? No. Was it worth $5 and a bowl of homemade popcorn on the couch? Sure. Warning: If you choose to do the same, know that the R rating is due to profanity so thick it turns the air blue, but unfortunately isn’t deployed very imaginatively. Lee Ermey, a nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Woo woo woo.

So let’s skip to the bloggage:

Only in Ann Arbor:

A 34-year-old Ann Arbor man was sent to the hospital with a head injury after another man punched him on Saturday during a literary argument, according to police.

Things missing from this story: WHAT THEY WERE ARGUING ABOUT, although there is mention of a condescending remark that led to the fracas.

(A word we should all use more: Fracas.)

I think Prospero/Malvolio could probably riff on that one for a while. Me, I’m off to bed.

I didn’t hear every word of the “This American Life” walkback of “Mr. Daisey Goes to China,” the riveting hour of radio aired in January that turned out to have…well, you can read the stories everywhere. The economical phrase is “numerous fabrications.” But I heard enough, and for the record, the most interesting segment was the one at the end of Act 2, where, after an agonizing grilling by Ira Glass, Mike Daisey (the monologuist whose truthy monologue the show was based on) asks to come back and say a few more things.

Glass notes that he thought Daisey was going to cop to a few more fabrications. But no. He wanted to make an extended argument that embroidering the facts of his monologue about Apple’s manufacturing processes was defensible to make an emotional connection with the theatrical audience, and that emotion raised awareness, and therefore, was a type of truth, if not a journalistic one. (At least, I think that’s what he was saying.)

Glass countered that theater was one thing, and journalism was quite another, but if a person stands up on stage and says, “This happened to me, it really did,” even in a theater, then the audience has an expectation that what they’re going to hear is factual.

This fascinates me. Every so often I go on a tear against urban legends, which used to arrive regularly via email and now arrive regularly via Facebook updates. No, U.S. congressmen and presidents don’t get obscene, six-figure salaries FOR LIFE because someone told you via email. No, a bunch of U.S. Marines didn’t beat the crap out of a guy who stole the Toys for Tots donation bowl; the thing that looks like a clipping from the paper is doctored. No, the Obamas didn’t have that conversation in a restaurant, the punchline of which suggests that Michelle made her husband what he is. And every time I do, someone says, “Oh, I figured it was bullshit, but I passed it along because it’s a good story.” In other words, Daisey may be onto something. When Mitch Albom was caught pre-writing a story that hadn’t actually happened yet — an act he called “a wrong assumption,” some of his biggest defenders were readers, who said, essentially, big deal. He thought it was going to happen, and he’s real busy, and anyway it’s a good story and what’s the harm?

The harm is that facts are facts and truth is truth, and sometimes they don’t always mesh perfectly.

I think that’s the last time Ira Glass uses a theatrical piece as the basis for a show, however.

Some purty good bloggage today, plus a picture. Stand by for links!

Adrianne? Hank? Adrianne’s friend whose name I forget? Remember that bar we went to in D.C. by Union Station, the one Adrianne picked because she has that Irish nose for a good place to meet friends and raise a glass or two? Place called the Dubliner? Guess who stopped by on St. Patrick’s Day. And we missed him.

A great piece in the WashPost about the culture clash perfectly crystalized in the case of the Priest and the Lesbian and the Communion Wafer at Mom’s Funeral, which we discussed last week. A piece of work, that priest:

In 2008, he lectured at the Conservative Institute of M.R. Stefanik in Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia. He called for moving “away from secular political democracy or political liberalism” in order to “usher in what I would call post-secular democracies.”

“An urgent return to the religion and the metaphysical realism of the West, combined with the promotion of free economies and a sound political foundation is what is now needed to preserve civilization,” he said, according to text provided of his speech, adding that “the Western radicals think they have seen that dark world and they like it, the Eastern Europeans can awake them from their deadly delusion.”

Post-secular democracies. Wonderful.

Finally, how my husband, who just last week remarked, “Never do I feel more out of touch with my fellow Americans than I do during March madness,” spent part of the weekend:

Taking down our basketball hoop.

A wild weather evening in our part of the world yesterday. I’m sitting in the car place, waiting on an oil change and watching the news footage scroll by, and it’s a standard-issue tornado damage — houses reduced to matchsticks, the usual. But no injuries. Presumably someone will get a splinter or a nail puncture before the mess is cleaned up, but it’s times like this we should all join hands and thank civilization for our infrastructure, the things we all take for granted — weather alerts, in this case.

I remember turning my ankle on a sidewalk-repair job in Buenos Aires that didn’t have so much as a strip of yellow tape to warn the pedestrian. The Argentine capital has many charms, but for all our whining about the lawyerizing of American culture and so forth, we live in a pretty safe country, all things considered.

(If I were writing this screenplay, this is the part in the story where I am killed by a stray bullet fired by an armed citizen practicing their right to self-defense, perhaps with ammo purchased from Michi-Gun, the actual name of an actual gun store in the next strip mall. Actual motto: “We aim to please!” God bless America.)

Speaking of which! Here’s an actual movie trailer for an actual movie with that actual title — God Bless America — which seems to consist entirely of sweet Freddie Rumson from “Mad Men” on a killing spree, taking out people who chap his ass. You know, the standard antihero thing. I’m interested in what sort of arc Bobcat Goldthwait might be able to squeeze out of that story, but not enough to pay to see it. Even with Freddy Rumson.

If you feel like going on a killing spree — or even just stamping your feet a little — watch Stephen Colbert take apart Rick Santorum’s latest. I heard the NPR version today, in which Santorum claims his previously quoted remarks — that he thought Puerto Rico could become a state, but only if they were willing to make English the “main language” — were twisted. OK, whatever. I’m sure he believes it in his heart.

The hell with that — how about a stop by the South by Southwest festival. Thanks, Hank, for the tip on this lively read of the music part of the deal. Lively turns of phrase: The Mean Jeans are “a Portland trio who sound like the Ramones with a colony of fire ants dumped down their boxer-briefs.” Yeah.

And for me, that’ll have to be it. Enjoy your weekend. I’m spending mine grading papers.

I didn’t make a pie for Pi Day. But I did eat a cupcake, in keeping with my contrarian mindset.

I wished it was pie. But sometimes you settle.

Another day I’m ending with a cluttered head, but nothing really coming to the forefront. I’m more of a stew today, so let’s see what sort of things will rise to the top with a good stir.

“Luck,” the HBO series about horse racing, was cancelled today, after a third horse had to be put down, following an on-set injury. Hmm. I’ve been giving it a chance, but I wonder why — it’s a little too self-consciously arch. (That’s redundant, isn’t it? Archness is self-conscious by nature, right?) But I liked the racing scenes, and the horses in general, although if you know anything about riding, you could see the jockeys struggling to ride the races they’d been directed to, with some hauling so hard on their mounts, the horses’ mouths gaped open. There was one making-of featurette that showed just how the cameras got that close — jib arms and a speeding truck, mostly. I liked Gary Stevens, a real jockey who acts on the side. I liked Kerry Condon as an Irish exercise rider trying to break into the bigs.

Didn’t like: All that Milchian dialogue, which some people love, but mostly gets on my nerves. And the dead horses, of course.

Great headline on a newspaper story — the only place you find ‘em anymore — about the primaries Tuesday.

Page through a WashPost special section on cherry blossoms. (Man, I’m getting tired. I just typed “cherry bottoms.”)

And while we’re there, check out the photo gallery for the White House state dinner last night. As usual, Shelley O shut it DOWN, as T-Lo would say. But there were some other contenders.

And now it’s the Ides of March, only it feels more like the Ides of April around here. Yesterday I opened the windows for the first time, and once the morning rain passes, I think I’ll do it again.

But before that? Poached eggs.

Wow, what a day. So warm I drove home from Lansing with the sun roof open, IGNORING THE NEWS. I had to switch to the iPod about halfway there this morning, and it held through the afternoon commute, too. It was this story that did it; the sound of the Deep South voices saying this…

John Gentile of Crossville, Tenn., still doesn’t believe Obama is allowed to be president because his father was born in Kenya.

“I just don’t like the directions that he’s headed in, and personally I don’t think he qualifies to be president under the ‘natural born citizen.’ In the Constitution it states that you have to have two parents that were born in the United States, so that there’s no alternative allegiance by any member of the family,” Gentile said.

The Constitution actually doesn’t say that.

…just sent me around the bend. So much more calming to listen to Rod Stewart in his glory days. It made me want to learn how to play “Every Picture Tells a Story” on some random stringed instrument.

Has any one ever read anything I’ve written and said, “I wish I could turn a phrase like that girl?” I mean, other than Tim Goeglein? Because we all have gifts, but mine isn’t the guitar. (Or mandolin, in this case.)

A good day all around, today. I brought my iPad in, so Ron could watch “Game Change” on his lunch hour, and could hear him giggling from his office. His fave line: “Thanks for cutting your mullet, Levi.” I can’t believe I objected to the rate increase that made HBO Go and online streaming possible — old “Sopranos” and “The Wire” episodes have been the reason a number of boring household chores even got done in this house. Now, if only they’d add “John From Cincinnati,” a series that’s been so thoroughly scrubbed from HBO memory I’m convinced it might be my own private hallucination. Kem Nunn + David Milch = incoherence.

And now, I’m watching the returns come in from Dixie. Santorum just took Alabam’. I think I’ll celebrate with another glass of Cote du Rhone, like the urban elitist I am.

Meanwhile, some bloggage?

Charter schools by moi, mainbar and sidebar. Click and keep me employed.

A lead I think we can all agree we never want written about our death:

Charges were announced Tuesday for a gas station clerk in Detroit accused in a fatal shooting over the price of condoms in a late-night dispute over the weekend.

The kid was shot in the back. I understand the life of a Detroit gas-station clerk is perilous, but that is wrong.

I cannot get enough of Animals Talking in All Caps. Sorry, but it’s a joke that never gets old. (So far.)

Wednesday, almost! Huzzah.

As someone who has always thought it was silly that certain ethnic holidays are celebrated mainly by white people, eating in restaurants being served by the people whose holiday it allegedly is, I don’t find this cartoon — about Cinco de Mayo in Brentwood — particularly offensive. Not offensive at all, in fact.

What say you? The attached tweet says it got a Patch editor fired. Seems an overreaction to me. But that’s Patch for ya.

Sorry. All that Palin talk must have rubbed off on me.

I don’t have a great deal today, as you have probably suspected by now. The project that’s been blotting out my personal sun runs today in Bridge. Charter schools. Some of you may find this more interesting than others.

If you want something a little spicier, one of the good guys of newspaper journalism has died. Nelson Rockefeller-style.

More tomorrow, but for now — gotta work.

Someone sent me Marilyn Hagerty’s column about the Olive Garden opening in Grand Forks, N.D. about 10-ish Thursday morning. By late afternoon, the story was everywhere and, hence, played. And so the bristling pace of the Internet’s snark cycle leaves me sucking hind tailpipe once again.

But just in case you didn’t see it, here it is, a little masterpiece of business reporting:

The place is impressive. It’s fashioned in Tuscan farmhouse style with a welcoming entryway. There is seating for those who are waiting.

My booth was near the kitchen, and I watched the waiters in white shirts, ties, black trousers and aprons adorned with gold-colored towels. They were busy at midday, punching in orders and carrying out bread and pasta.

Some years back, Alan was contacted by a journalism headhunter who asked if he’d be interested in a department head-level position in Fargo. The answer: No. Grand Forks was once part of the Knight-Ridder family, so I guess that might have beem an option, too. The answer was still no. But as the tireless, steroidal snarkers at Gawker demonstrate, this is not a North Dakota thing, it’s an Olive Garden thing; the OG appears in newspaper restaurant reviews over and over. And all I have to say about that is what Hagerty herself told the Village Voice — I told you this thing went viral — today:

If you were going to review the fine dining here, you’d be done in three weeks–there’s only about three places you could call “fine dining.”

But while we’re on the subject, let’s skip to another exemplar of North Dakota journalism, the amusingly named Jon Flatland:

Jon Flatland, a columnist, a former president of the North Dakota Newspaper Association and one-time newspaper owner, has been exposed as a serial plagiarist.

When confronted with the evidence gathered by humor writer Dave Fox, Flatland abruptly resigned from his position as interim managing editor of the Times in Blooming Prairie, Minnesota and “quickly and quietly left town,” according to the paper’s publisher.

In a profile last month of Jon Flatland and his wife, whom he met online, the Minnesota native said, “Don’t try to be someone you’re not, because if and when you do meet someone through a service like eHarmony, they’re going to find out pretty quickly you weren’t being honest. Just be yourself.” It’s unclear how many humor columns of Flatland’s included stolen material, but it appears to go back many years and involves work taken from a variety of columnists.

This guy makes Tim Goeglein look like a piker. Having seen a few clips from the papers that were running him — links in the piece — I bet I know what happened: This guy thought he might as well have been stationed on Mars, and even Google doesn’t reach that far. His mistake: Once Olive Garden gets there, Google is right behind.

But what I really want to talk about today was this little moment from earlier this week, as detailed by Jonathan Chait:

Earlier this week, a pretty interesting and telling exchange took place at a Mitt Romney town hall meeting. A student asked Romney what he would do to make college more affordable for students who struggle to pay for it. Romney’s reply was jarring:

“It would be popular for me to stand up and say I’m going to give you government money to pay for your college, but I’m not going to promise that,” he said, to sustained applause from the crowd at a high-tech metals assembly factory here. “Don’t just go to one that has the highest price. Go to one that has a little lower price where you can get a good education. And hopefully you’ll find that. And don’t expect the government to forgive the debt that you take on.”

Wow. This is the candidate who has promised to keep the pillows plumped for everyone now over 55, but if you had the misfortune of being born later (even by a year or two, like, um, me), too bad. And if you have, oh, children on the other side of the line? What then? Find a nice community college, sucka. Too bad you weren’t born rich, like my kids! This sort of redefines cynicism, doesn’t it? What country can long survive betting against its youngest members?

Ed Kilgore at Washington Monthly has more.

Boy, am I not looking forward to this campaign. Maybe we need some levity.

Shit girls say to gay guys.

And if you don’t like that, the Northern lights over Lake Superior, night before last. I’m sure if you were there, it made the cell-phone interference totally worth it.

Great weekend, all!