Too many years ago, back when Knight-Ridder was a going concern, the mandarins of the chain had a nationwide reporting project going, called Real Voters, or some such. I think this was 1992, when Bill Clinton, George Bush and Ross Perot were running. The idea was to use the vast resources of our chain to tap into the wellspring of the people’s wisdom, etc.

One of our reporters wrote a piece on three different couples. The young couple were worried; the old couple were worried; the middle-aged couple figured things would work out. And no, I don’t think this was a function of their age. The latter couple had seen a lot of shit, figured they’d see more, but they had jobs, a house and a decent life, and they were grateful.

I recognized them from the photo. I passed their house several times a week. They often sat in their garage, door up, in lawn chairs, drinks in hand, watching the world go by. They looked content with the world.

I think it was the garage-sitting that did it. Nothing like a seat among the comforting odors of the lawn mower and garden tools to instill a deep feeling of calm. At least in a Midwesterner. I know there are parts of the country where a garage is a rarity, but not here. I’ve waited out thunderstorms in a garage. I’ve sheltered in them. And I’ve enjoyed hospitality in quasi-garages converted to man caves.

Which is why my mouth dropped when I read this story in the DetNews, about “concerns” in Dearborn over too much use of garages as social spaces. It pushes cars out, “clogging side streets.”

Oh, puh-leeze. Garages are indeed social spaces in Dearborn, and have been for some time. Arab-Americans bought the little houses there, raised big families in them, and needed extra space for the usual reasons — to get away from someone bugging you, to invite in neighbors without going to a whole lot of trouble, and especially for smoking hookahs, which is very much a part of the social scene there. Those things put out more smoke than a three-alarm fire; you really wouldn’t want one in your house.

See this very amusing video, “Arab-American Cribs,” for an illustrative glance.

Of course there are toxic comments on the story — it does involve Arabs, after all — but a surprising number of supporters. Detroit was known for years for big families in small houses. Some people just got used to chillin’ in the garage.

Some good bloggage before I finish dinner:

American health care, THE GREATEST IN THE WORLD. Well, at least as it pertains to the bill. Especially for maternity care:

When she became pregnant, (Renée) Martin called her local hospital inquiring about the price of maternity care; the finance office at first said it did not know, and then gave her a range of $4,000 to $45,000. “It was unreal,” Ms. Martin said. “I was like, How could you not know this? You’re a hospital.”

Midway through her pregnancy, she fought for a deep discount on a $935 bill for an ultrasound, arguing that she had already paid a radiologist $256 to read the scan, which took only 20 minutes of a technician’s time using a machine that had been bought years ago. She ended up paying $655. “I feel like I’m in a used-car lot,” said Ms. Martin, a former art gallery manager who is starting graduate school in the fall.

Like Ms. Martin, plenty of other pregnant women are getting sticker shock in the United States, where charges for delivery have about tripled since 1996, according to an analysis done for The New York Times by Truven Health Analytics. Childbirth in the United States is uniquely expensive, and maternity and newborn care constitute the single biggest category of hospital payouts for most commercial insurers and state Medicaid programs. The cumulative costs of approximately four million annual births is well over $50 billion.

And though maternity care costs far less in other developed countries than it does in the United States, studies show that their citizens do not have less access to care or to high-tech care during pregnancy than Americans.

Sigh.

Neil Steinberg, stripped of most of his columns, makes his single count. On gay marriage, so be advised it’s satisfying for supporters, less so for others.

Finally, I mostly ignore my old newspaper, mainly because its content embarrasses me, most days. But spurred by Alex’ posting of a link over the weekend, I looked up the columnist who replaced me. Taking his cue from a right-wing website, he wonders if the military can survive “the pinup police.” The subhead is particularly witless, which I assume he didn’t write: Who will inspire the troops, now that they can’t ogle Betty Grable?

This is all pegged to an order by Chuck Hagel that military facilities be purged of materials that can be degrading to women. What a world these people live in, that they imagine barracks draped with Betty Fucking Grable. (The paper’s illustrations also included Rita Hayworth, as I live and breathe.) I’d like to post what I imagine is a more typical contemporary pinup — a Hustler Beaver Hunt winner spreading her shaved labia, with a buttplug inserted just for laffs — over the paper’s copy desk, and see how many people find it beautiful and inspiring.

I was embarrassed by this column, yes. But also pissed off. And ashamed that there’s a 20-year interval on my resume that says I worked for this fishwrap.

It’s one-third over — in the June/July/August sense of the word — but I am enjoying this summer tremendously. Don’t want to jinx it. I’ve been out plenty, seen friends, seen some music, done some things I haven’t done before, eaten lots of vegetables. The weather’s been nice, and even the rain is cooperating (for now).

Today I and two friends took a bike ride through Midtown, Mexicantown and Downriver. We were out two hours and saw, among other things:

** the studio where parts of “Hot Buttered Soul” were recorded (now closed);
** part of the Koch brothers’ pet coke stash (suspected);
** a seagull rookery;
** a steel mill;
** the Iron Coffins’ Detroit clubhouse;

…and a lot more I’m probably forgetting. When it was all over, a cold Oberon. Tonight? Fireworks.

I hope your season is going as swimmingly.

By the way, I can’t swim yet. Not until my eye doctor signs off on it. Truth be told, I’m not missing it. (Yet.)

My trip up north was interesting, and I’ll tell you more about it as the stories gel. It was pleasant to come back downstate — to terrible weather, but a little more balance in the media. The Free Press makes a case I expect we’ll hear a lot more of in coming weeks and months: Excluding gays from full participation in public life is an economic-development issue, and we’re not just talking about weddings.

Thanks to Roy for pointing out the obvious about the week’s other culture-war story: It’s not “liberals” who are beating up on Paula Deen and causing her economic pain, but, duh, corporations. When Walmart and Target are doing the heavy lifting, how is it liberals’ fault?

Look, straight people getting married! “We’re almost a minority now.” Um, no.

More on the growing trend of employers of low-wage employees paying them via debit-card.

And into the holiday week we go.

Garlic scapes = pesto fodder. So glad to be back in the
world.

I’m rolling out of town as you read this, off on what we used to call “assignment.” (Actually, we still call it that.)

But if you’re sensing this is yet another lame-ass phone-it-in, why…you’re right!

I do have one piece of bloggage, this Detroit Jalopnik roundup of what breaking news is like these days, at least as it pertains to the Detroit fireworks. Long story short: Someone set off a string of ‘crackers at the larger civic explosion-fest. Some spectators thought it was gunfire and set off a brief panic, which TV — always, TV — jumped into with both feet. What, we verify? is the new code of journalism, along with hey, nice tie.

I will post when I can for the remainder of the week, but I don’t know when or what that will be. If I’m not here, enjoy the rest of it. I’ll be back for sure on Monday.

Count me among those who were underwhelmed by most of the just-concluded “Mad Men” season, but blown away by the finale. It’s a hard thing to do, to drag out an unpleasant story for 10 or so hours and then turn on a dime and make you see why it had to go like that. It certainly wasn’t perfect — I could see a million squandered opportunities to flesh out lesser characters and bring them to bear on the main plot lines, but ultimately, eh, that’s showbiz.

I think it was hearing Judy Collins singing “Both Sides Now” over the credits, a song that applies to most of the main characters (especially Peggy), and is sort of sentimental, but worked more or less perfectly.

I’m easy to please in these matters. I loved it. Now to wait another year.

“Low Winter Sun,” the show they’ve been promo-ing during the last few episodes, is being shot in Detroit as we speak. The executive producer is renting on a one-block-long oasis street called Harbor Island, one of those little-known places that never gets mentioned in the national stories about the decline of Detroit.

Speaking of which, this Michael Barone piece in RealClearPolitics is a perfect example of the form — the ignorant Detroit essay. You’ll never guess what caused our current predicament. Ready? Lean in close: Liberals. I know, I’m as amazed as you are. Deadline Detroit runs down the inaccuracies.

If you didn’t see Sherri’s link to Ta-Nehisi Coates’ piece on Paula Deen, it’s here. And it’s good.

For those of you paying attention, it’s looking like Wendy may stick as the dog’s name. I got her a dog-park pass today, which catapulted her quality of life well beyond that of many Detroit children. That’s the unfortunate truth around here: A Grosse Pointe dog will live better than thousands of human beings in the city next door. She has: a comfortable place to sleep, high-quality food, focused attention, medical care and, now, a pass to a restricted park reading “Wendy Derringer.” She’s looked at life from both sides now. I ask you.

So, with Kate out of the house for a spell, we have found we cannot leave well enough alone. I’ve been feeling my next pet out there looking for me for some time, and I’m thinking I may have found her.

This is Wendy:

I’m not sure if we’ll get her; there are a couple of other applications in for her, but I’m hopeful. I went down to the shelter in Detroit to meet her Thursday, and man — you think you’ve seen it all, and then you visit a Detroit animal shelter. I honestly don’t know how people who work in these places do it, but I expect it’s a matter of getting hardened, and also deaf. Not to mention growing accustomed to, for example, people like the woman who walked in midway through my application interview, looking for a place to drop off her cat, which needed to be euthanized. She was old, in her 60s at least (although it’s possible she was just a 45-year-old crackhead, or ex-crackhead), with several tattoos of spiders crawling up her neck and across her face. Alternating-color nail polish. Deeply wrinkled. She didn’t want the cremation option at $130, because she didn’t have the money. She didn’t want to see the cat afterward either, lord no.

Here were some of the interview questions:

Did I understand that dogs required veterinary care that could total $100 a year or more?

Where would the dog sleep? Inside?

Was I employed?

How did I intend to treat chewing or destructive behavior? (“Um, chew toys?”)

What would we do with the dog if we had to leave town?

Who would be responsible for her care?

And so on. I felt myself rising in esteem with every inquiry, and stood there, next to Spider Woman, in my Bermuda shorts and clean black T-shirt thinking, “These people are not going to kick too hard about us not having a fenced yard.”

In fact, I think we may have vaulted to the top of the list. I tried to get another picture of Wendy during our visit back in the kennel, but she wouldn’t hold still. I think I captured the most important part, though:

She’s not quite a year old, and has spent the last four months at the shelter. She was picked up as a stray, and had an old fracture of her right foreleg surgically repaired to the best of the vet’s ability. The office staff seem to think very highly of her, and like all Jack Russells, she thinks very highly of herself, too.

We’ll see. If she goes home with us, it won’t be for another week, as I have to take a short work-related road trip next Wednesday (photo posting only, I fear). This didn’t seem to be a problem.

Wendy, you silly pup. Are you my next dog?

No bloggage tonight. I’m thinking about dogs right now.

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.

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.

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.