When I go to the market on Saturdays, I generally confine myself to the sheds and the Gratiot Central Market, aka the Meat Mall, across the freeway. But recently someone said I had to check out Saad’s, a halal meat place a block or two away, and so this week I did.

My befuddlement must have been evident when I walked in and looked around a blank anteroom, because a kindly girl directed me: Take a number, and step through the plastic flap door to do my shopping. It was a little like Dorothy leaving the house after it’s landed in Oz. I don’t think I’ve seen a retail arrangement quite like it. You shop amid a row of hanging carcasses — lamb, they looked like — with open cases offering meat in every imaginable cut and preparation, from frozen pre-marinated shwarma to beef skin and goat heads, complete with eyeballs, not to mention bins of tripe, frozen and carved into blocks. Women in headscarves and men in skullcaps gathered great shopping bags full of product; I have to assume they were restaurateurs, stocking for the week ahead. But I didn’t laugh out loud until I saw this:

Sharifables. Halal Lunchables. I’m always cheered by stuff like this. It suggests we have more in common than not. Even Mecca-Cola, born out of an explicit desire to buy non-American, pro-Palestinian products, doesn’t seem all bad. We have different faiths, but we all enjoy a refreshing cola beverage from time to time.

I’d wandered in thinking I might get the ingredients for a nice lamb stew, but left without buying anything. I think I need a more sedate experience. Still glad I went, though. I hope Stephen Colbert learns about Sharifables soon:

Meanwhile, a sad story unfolded elsewhere in Detroit. I’m sure any of you who have dealt with mental illness can understand how this happened:

Kelly Pingilley was trying to make sense of the voices in her head when she went looking for answers on the Internet.

She stumbled upon a website promoting a religion that believes in UFOs, vampires, conspiracy theories and doomsday prophecies.

Pingilley was drawn to the writings of time travel and people’s thoughts being controlled by cell phone towers, friends said. With the teachings feeding into her delusions, Pingilley’s behavior grew increasingly erratic.

The woman killed herself late last year. Lots of good detail. This one jumped out at me:

Kellie Pingilley declined to say why the family failed to get help for her granddaughter’s apparent affliction.

I really hope they did what they could. It’s a terrible situation to have to deal with. I hope they did something. But what makes this story interesting is the fact the reporter reached the crazy person who clicked with this other crazy person, and then said, when all this was explained to her, “Some stuff was pretty out there. It was just crazy.”

Good to know.

And now another week lies ahead. Let’s hope for a good one.

Something a little different from the buskers, today. That washtub bass sounded pretty sweet.

It’s a good thing we all communicate through the written word here, because Hugo Chavez died today, and I’ve already decided the first person I hear call him “Oo-go” is going to have to go. Will have to oo-go.

This is just my personal prejudice. Carry on.

My favorite Chavez story isn’t a story at all, but a picture, of him on a rope line of sorts. A woman is coming forward to shake his hand with a baby on her breast. V-neck pulled down, kid in one hand, the other outstretched to her president. He’s not looking anywhere but at her smiling face. Hey, a kid’s gotta eat.

Guys, I have little to say today, even though was a good one. Got out for two whole hours in some fine late-winter sunshine, strong enough that it actually warmed my face as I drove. You know spring is on its way when that happens.

And scanning around for bloggage, I don’t even have much of that. How about a piece of graffiti I ran across last week? From the p.s. off to the side — “she said yes!!! March 2012″ — it’s a bit dated, but it’s interesting that in a year, it hasn’t been defaced yet. True love!

For the longest time, seeing a person riding a bicycle in the depths of winter meant one thing to me: Chronic drunk driver. That is, someone who has offended so many times their license has been suspended and sacramentally burned, whose insurance agent blocks their calls and whose face is deeply lined with the toll of ten million drinks, not to mention the lash of the winter wind as they pedal to the package store in 15-degree weather.

(In Indiana, these guys were also allowed to ride mopeds. I once passed one hauling a case of Old Style strapped on the back. Actually, I saw this a lot of times.)

But lately, bike culture has taken its rejection of the motor to new lengths. I now see people winter riding in expensive outerwear that only slightly blurs the contours of their impressive leg muscles. These people are not alcoholics, just tough-ass cyclists.

It snowed overnight when we were in Chicago, a heavy, wet one, but we still saw many cyclists out there plowing through it. Full-face masks are pretty standard, and one guy had added skier’s goggles.

I see them in Detroit, too, but not so many. One of the bars I visit regularly keeps a large rack outside, and it’s been stowed for the winter. (Either that, or stolen for scrap. You never know.)

There’s a guy at the Eastern Market who sells sprouts year-round. A few weeks back he showed up with a Dutch grocery bike crossed with a limo — solid metal body with a long front section where he can store his toddler, all encased in sturdy clear plastic. A trailer hitch on back is for the produce trailer. Saturday he didn’t have it.

“Where’s the limo?” I asked.

“My wife needed it for a doctor’s appointment,” he said. “She has the boy with her.”

I wondered if she might be feeling too poorly to pedal to the doctor in 25-degree weather. Oh, she’s not sick, he said. Only pregnant. Due in three weeks. I didn’t ask about how they were planning to get to the hospital, as I suspect it’s not part of their plan.

They’re the couple with the baby in this story. One-fifth of an acre in the most bombed-out part of east-side Detroit.

I think I’ve said before my misery index is 40 degrees, and my cycling hiatus is November 1, give or take, through the ides of March. I did a 60-minute spinning class today, in an effort to start feeling it again. This might be a new-bike year.

So, today’s bloggage? The Florida sinkhole story is the latest testimony to the essential weirdness of the Sunshine State. It’s good to know that whatever happens in Detroit, Florida always has a countermove.

After Dad Shot Mom, a story in the WashPost Sunday magazine, and the headline says it all.

And since I don’t have any more links to throw at you, some photos, from Rob Kantner, one of my Facebook friends, who lives north of here. The first is jet engines purchased in South America by one of his clients, slated for recycling:

Next, what was found living in one of them, after its arrival in Michigan:

A northern caiman lizard, most likely. But do you realize what this means? This is the snake in the carpet urban legend! Redeemed!

Have a good week, all. Hope it’s lizard-free.

Haven’t done one of these for a while. Today’s theme: The good ol’ days.

Me: So what does sassafras tea taste like?

Seller: About what you’d expect.

Me: So …boiled bark?

Seller: Yeah.

No sale, but amused.

Got up early and headed down to the Motor City Casino and Hotel for the Detroit Policy Conference, put on by the regional chamber of commerce. You know how these things go: There’s an exhibitor space for sponsors. There’s coffee and bagels. There are skirted tables and name tags and a stage with a sectional seating arrangement, where the panelists will sit and be questioned.

(Oddity: In many ways, this was a 3/4-day version of the June Mackinac Policy Conference, also a regional chamber event. Same typography, same big-screen TVs, same coffee and bagels, same furniture. I assumed the Mackinac furniture was provided by the Grand Hotel, but it was exactly the same as today’s furniture, in all but color, making me wonder if the chamber’s event people actually have a furniture stash, and whether it comes over on the ferry. Today’s furniture was pure white. Nobody said anything that drew blood.)

And there was a “buzz board,” provided by one of the media sponsors. What is a buzz board? A new wrinkle at these events — an electronic screen that scrolls tweets from the audience using an agreed-upon hashtag. I cannot look at one without feeling an overwhelming sense of mischief. The last event I attended had one, and it was entirely automated; if the hashtag was correct, the tweet went into the stream. And so one guy tweeted: “My name is misspelled in the program.” Another said, “Anyone want to duck out early and get some beers?” The possibilities for bad behavior are almost limitless, particularly if the buzz board is behind the speaker.

The most interesting single detail: A young venture-capital executive speculated we’re only a few years away from commercial use of drone aircraft — small, helicopter-like deals that will enable, say, same-day deliveries from Amazon. They could land on your driveway, or some sort of community helipad. You could rent one for a few bucks to send a frozen casserole across town to your flu-bound mother-in-law.

There was also a keynote that painted a picture of a thriving downtown, complete with photos that would leave many suburbanites agog. People on the street! People gazing out floor-to-ceiling windows of tastefully decorated loft workspaces! STREET-LEVEL SHOPPING FOR NORMAL STUFF LIKE SWEATERS!!!!! That was the opening session. The closer said the city is
done for, stop dreaming. So you really can’t say the chamber doesn’t entertain an alternate viewpoint from time to time.

Bloggage? I have virtually none. Being on Twitter all day, I could only dimly perceive the outlines of this ridiculous Bob Woodward story. One word: Sheesh.

Limping into the weekend on insufficient sleep, I can only say: I hope yours is restful.

My shocking-and-mocking meter must need recalibration. I saw this story — about a prankster/conceptual artist/asshole who posted a sign reading “Arbeit macht frei” on an overpass in the abandoned Packard plant and I wasn’t outraged, insulted or wounded. I just thought “jerk, or jerky artist, or mean jerk.”

For those of you not up on your history, the phrase in its original context:

That’s Auschwitz, if you can’t tell. It means “work will set you free.”

No one has taken the credit/blame for the Detroit installation, but my money’s on hipster dildos who are either trying to be provocative or just liked the idea of the words on an archway leading to a crumbling ruin. Not well thought-out, but what do you want?

The reaction, however, was a bit much:

Stephen Goldman, executive director of the Holocaust Memorial Center on Orchard Lake Road in Farmington Hills, was appalled by the message.

“It’s offensive on a number of levels,” Goldman said. “Metro Detroit has one of the largest Jewish communities, and largest survivor communities in the country.

“It’s a mocking message from when Jews saw that message over the gates of concentration camps, and then learned what was going to happen after passing under that gate.”

OK, with you so far. Then…

Goldman also sees it as an insult to the auto industry.

“Does it mean that working in the auto plants is the same as working as slaves in a concentration camp?” Goldman said. “Yes, the Packard Plant is a derelict facility, but so are the concentration camps still in Europe, although some serve as museums.

“Slave labor is insulting, and this is an insult to the auto industry.”

Oh.

Moving on! I was paying some bills today, checking out my online banking for the first time in a while. Hmm, when did I spend $125 at a Sunoco station? In, whu-? Brooklyn? THAT Brooklyn? And I spent $125 there yesterday, too? And the day before that?

Yep, my debit card had been hacked. For a four-figure sum. I’ll get it all back — so the bank lady said — but it was something of a shock, particularly as I’d spent much of New Year’s weekend strengthening all my passwords, making them as firm and unbreakable as Popeye’s biceps. I used Farhad Manjoo’s method, and while this didn’t include a password crack, it was still ironic.

The good news is, I still have some money left, and my account isn’t frozen, although my debit card is toast. Back to buying things with checks and that other funny, paper-based method known as cash.

I always wanted to write a story about paying every bill I had with cash for, say, a month, just to see if it made me spend any differently. Over the years I’ve gradually transitioned into debit-plastic for everything, and online for everything else. My mother used to remark on the separate line at her credit union on payday, for those who were literally cashing their entire paycheck. Who would do such a thing? I wondered. “Installers,” she said. (She worked for the phone company.)

Alan’s parents paid all their bills in person every month. It was an outing — go downtown, buy groceries, pay the electric bill. They didn’t get a checking account until he went to college. It was a common behavior at the time for working-class people. Then all the working-class people got credit cards and home equity lines of credit, and you know how that worked out.

OK, a li’l bloggage?

Tom & Lorenzo give the little girl with the hard-to-spell name who was in “Beasts of the Southern Wild” a baby WERQ for her outfit at the Oscars nominee luncheon. It’s the purse that sells it.

Interesting essay on guns, from NYMag.

And now it is Wednesday. Let us get over the hump in one piece.

I don’t know how far news from Detroit travels, but this particular news is odd enough that it might have reached your corners.

For months now, the city’s been wrangling over the fate of Belle Isle, its island park, which is beautiful and unique and, like so many of Detroit’s assets, too expensive for the city to maintain. The sane answer — which the city council, in its insanity, has opposed so far — is to turn it over to the state to manage on a long-term lease, accompanied by serious infrastructure investment and a nominal entry fee. (Ten dollars a year, which would also include admission to all other state parks.)

A second idea was floated last week, and oh, but it’s a doozie: A group of rich men, including a former president of Chrysler, the former head of the state chamber of commerce, a former Senate candidate and a local political consultant, want to buy the island from the city. Buy it for $1 billion, after which they would turn it into the “Commonwealth of Belle Isle,” a Randian wet dream of income tax-free city-state living. Not just anyone could live there; you have to buy your way in:

Under the plan, it would become an economic and social laboratory where government is limited in scope and taxation is far different than the current U.S. system. There is no personal or corporate income tax. Much of the tax base would be provided by a different property tax — one based on the value of the land and not the value of the property.

It would take $300,000 to become a “Belle Islander,” though 20 percent of citizenships would be open for striving immigrants, starving artists and up-and-coming entrepreneurs who don’t meet the financial requirement.

You can read more at the link, but that’s the gist. And no, even among an invitation-only audience of their peers, the idea mostly didn’t go over well. Although there were plenty of crazy dreamers who clapped very loudly:

But the Commonwealth of Belle Isle idea found several supporters, too, among the invited guests at the DAC. John Rakolta, chairman and CEO of the Walbridge construction firm based in Detroit, said the Lockwood vision could produce $20 billion in new investment and create 200,000 jobs in the city in 10 years, although he admitted the numbers were just guesses.

If I weren’t so certain the parties behind this don’t understand the idea of performance art, I would swear this was a piece of it, a little bit of wackiness for everyone to chuckle over on the next National Review cruise. And I thought it would sink quickly, but I overlooked one detail in that first story. This:

(One of the organizers), the former chairman of the Michigan Chamber of Commerce and current board member of the free-market-oriented Mackinac Center for Public Policy has written a self-published book about the plan called “Belle Isle: Detroit’s Game Changer.”

I figured that of course this would be a tract of some sort, filled with patriotism and flag-waving and Rand-iness. But no. IT’S A NOVEL. Or a novella, I guess — 140 pages or so set years into the future, when… oh, let Jeff Wattrick at Deadline Detroit sketch it out. It sounds FABulous:

The plot, set 30 years into the future, involves a visit to the pleasant island community of Belle Isle by Joe, a 6’2″ blond-haired, blue-eyed Syrian-American doctor and Detroit native who now lives in Damascus. Joe’s high school best friend, Darin, is kind of Belle Isle’s Wizard of Oz. He’s portrayed (heroically) as a cross between Robert Moses, Thomas Jefferson, and the president of the Del Boca Vista Phase Two condo association.

Both characters are fastidious middle-aged men who take pride in their appearance and watch what they eat. Darin, we learn, used to help girls shop for clothes in high school.

Neither Joe nor Darin appears to be married now or have children. If either was ever married, or currently has a romantic partner, it is a secret kept from readers. This is particularly odd considering the novel basically consists of conversations between the two long-time friends who, it is explained, have rarely kept in touch over the last 20 years. In their time together never once do they say anything about their personal lives.

Perhaps, like many a confirmed bachelor, these men are simply married to their work. Affairs of the heart are handled are handled with, let’s call it, discretion.

A homoerotic self-published novella written by a former head of the state chamber of commerce! I literally clapped my hands at this news. I can’t WAIT to read it.

There’s more, so much much more, at the Deadline Detroit link. I’d happily quote it all, but let’s give DD the traffic, eh? The account of the “Italian gray stone pavers” in the foyer of the Belle Isle condo make it worth the price of purchase. (Although I plan to steal one.)

I had something else to blog about today, but I’m going to hold off — tomorrow promises to be brutal, and I’ll need a cushion at day’s end. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to watch Sunday’s “Downton Abbey,” which I DVR’d. I hear Lady Sybil’s baby is being born tonight! That’ll be such a fun episode!.

Good Tuesday, all.

I came across the term “paddy wagon” in this Atlantic piece about the Stonewall uprising today, and it sent me spinning back to the era of extreme political correctness in American newsrooms, which is to say, the ’90s.

I don’t like the term “politically correct” anymore, because it’s been twisted so from its original, ironic usage, not to mention utterly co-opted by people who use it as a code for “I’m a jerk.” (Really, if someone says to you, “I’m not what you’d call politically correct,” isn’t that precisely what they’re saying?)

But there was without a doubt a time when it looked like we might lose terms like “paddy wagon,” “gypped” and other American slang to those who would rinse the language of even its pastel color, not to mention coherence. I mean, everyone knows what a paddy wagon is, right? A “prisoner transport vehicle” might be anything.

I try not to get too excited about these things anymore. Language is elastic, and some of this stuff is, to be sure, offensive, even obscene. You let in paddy wagon and pretty soon someone thinks “n*gger-rig” is just fine, too. But in general, I give this a pass, and I’d be willing to bet a show of hands among people under 40 would reveal precious few who can even tell you a) “paddy” is slang for an Irishman, and b) the wagons got that name because they were so often filled with brawling Irish drunks.

I’ll go almost as far with “gypped.” I had no idea it referred to gypsy scams until adulthood, but given how often I’ve read press releases from law enforcement, warning business and home owners about scams being perpetrated by “travelers,” I can’t say the term doesn’t have at least some legs. But OK, if you want, it’s now “swindled.”

What else? I recall being lectured about the use of the syllable “jap” in a story slug — i.e., the file name. If you’re like me, sometimes you shorten words in file names. SALESPROJ, maybe, or VACAYEXPNS. But woe fell upon the wire editor who shortened an account of the Sino-Japanese trade talks to SINOJAP.

Also, we were instructed not to ever use the word “gay” to describe a homosexual female. She would be, of course, a lesbian. But could you say, “The move was applauded by gay people across the country?” You could not. The move was applauded by gays and lesbians.

“Can I say lesbians aren’t funny?” I asked my boss, who was gay, once, just to bait him. I was writing about the spectacular tanking of Ellen DeGeneres’ sitcom after she came out. What had been a pleasant little half-hour about a woman running a book store turned into a weekly lecture about gay rights — er, rights for gays and lesbians, and also bisexual, transgendered and questioning persons.

“Sure,” he said. I now regret that column. Wanda Sykes is a funny lesbian. So is Tig Notaro, and so are many others. I’d also like to say the only person who made that string of individual categories work in a sentence was Lady Gaga.

What happened to ease up on all the oversensitivity? Something happened around 9/11 — all of a sudden people were running around talking about bombing Afghanistan back to glass. You started hearing “c*nt” on premium cable. A whole new crop of insult comics made objecting to “paddy” and “gyp” sound like squalling over using the wrong fork at dinner. And with the collapse of the newspaper business, well, who had time to worry about that?

Speaking of what gets in the paper, I guess Kirk wasn’t working this particular night.

And with that, we have pivoted to the bloggage at the end of a very long week. I don’t have much, but I have this silky video of a skateboarder navigating a decayed but oddly beautiful Detroit. Or maybe that’s just the Portishead talking.

Enjoy your weekend. I plan to.

So, I forgot to mention that on my way to Lansing Tuesday I was, as usual, listening to NPR, and I heard this story by Wade Goodwyn, reporting form Texas on the reaction to the inauguration.

It being Texas, of course it wasn’t a happy-type story. This part didn’t surprise me:

GOODWYN: Burke said he wasn’t sure exactly what to expect, but he was not expecting a vigorous defense of liberal ideals.

BURKE: I thought he would go ahead and have a little more of, let’s go ahead and work together as a team, and get America back on the right track. However, he doesn’t appear to have that kind of agenda. It appears to be, let’s go ahead and see if we can go ahead and whip everything our way, and make it a socialist state.

Yes, because sober bipartisanship worked very well the last time.

But this part chapped my ass:

GOODWYN: Down the street, Republican precinct chair Ann Teague is still not sure Obama is constitutionally qualified to take the oath of office.

ANN TEAGUE: We never saw a birth certificate. We never met any of the professors who went to school with our president.

And because I didn’t hear Goodwyn say, “Lady, you’re crazy, and I’m sorry to have bothered you, but I’m getting out of this nuthatch,” followed by a click and a few seconds of dead air, I have to ask:

How much longer are these people going to get a respectful ear?

I remind you, Ann Teague isn’t some lunatic raving on the street, but a precinct chairman. Which isn’t exactly the equivalent of chief justice, but for cryin’ out loud. If the Republicans want to know why so many people think they’re doomed to a future on the margins, if they wonder why they’re so often called racists, well, say hello to Ann Teague.

Or say hi to Bill Clayton, alderman of Rapid City, South Dakota, who, when a reporter asked him how he planned to vote on an upcoming property-tax increase question, replied by asking her how she planned to vote in the presidential election.

And then he said, “Should we deport you back to Kenya with Obama?”

He finally apologized, and by “finally,” I mean, this incident happened last August. He says he’s not a birther anymore, and that he didn’t realize he was speaking to an African American. Hallelujah, he saw the light.

When the GOP comes down on him with hobnail boots, him and the scores of others out there who are embarrassing the sane factions of the party, then maybe we can talk. I’ll not hold my breath.

So, I know we have a few librarians in the crowd. Did y’all see this sweet little story in the NYT, about the American Girl doll available for lending at a branch of the New York Public Library? Gotta love this lead:

After one visit, she returned with her hair in dreadlocks. Another time, her long blond locks were primly fashioned into a traditional bun. One day, she came back wearing a uniform of the exclusive all-girls Brearley School on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

These have been the many phases of Kirsten Larson, an American Girl doll who sat on a shelf in the Ottendorfer branch of the New York Public Library, in the East Village, until a resourceful children’s librarian began lending her to girls, many of whose parents, because of financial or feminist reasons, resist buying the dolls.

I’d love to have seen photos of the dreads, but oh well. I found the librarian whose idea this was on Facebook and messaged her, offering her at least two American Girls from our basement-bin collection, but haven’t heard back. I’m sure she’s been inundated with donations by now, but honestly, I can’t see the Grosse Pointe Public Library doing such a cool thing, if for no other reason that far fewer families have “financial or feminist” objections to the pricey playthings. But I would love for our AGs to see a second life as New York City girls. If any of you librarians are willing to take Marisol Luna (who, as a Latina, garners diversity points) and the other one, the blonde, let me know.

Some good bloggage today:

How the pro-life movement bears at least some blame for rising rates of single parenthood, aka the Bristol Palin effect.

My husband’s office is moving. Eventually.

I literally marked my calendar: “Mad Men” is back April 7.

A good Thursday to all.