I was buying pine nuts at the Eastern Market Saturday, at one of the bricks-and-mortar stores. I was there relatively early, but by no means break-of-dawn hours, and something seemed to be missing. They’re rearranging the checkout area, but it wasn’t that. The crowds? The store wasn’t overrun, but was plenty busy. The sound system clicked to life with the opening hand claps in “Where Did Our Love Go?” and the woman behind me in line began to sing along with Diana Ross.

Of course. The Motown was missing.

It’s hard to overstate how pervasive Motown music is in Motown. Close to half a century since some of these songs were on the charts, and you still hear them, daily, in an average day’s errands. It’s the preferred Muzak in stores all over the Metro, presumably because in a vast, multiracial, frequently acrimonious place, it’s the one thing everyone can agree on. We all like the Supremes. Everyone knows “Mickey’s Monkey.” It doesn’t matter if you go stag, it doesn’t matter if you go drag, you’re sure to have some fun, I’m telling everyone, most every taxi that you flag is going to a go-go. And when you get there, they’ll be spinning some Stevie Wonder.

I hear Motown in the grocery store, Motown at the gas-station pumps, Motown at fancy-dress affairs, because it’s a way of honoring the city’s history and African American population and pre-riots glory, while still getting even suburban toes tapping. There’s a Motown store in the airport, where you enter the Northwest (now Delta) terminal, and of course it’s always playing Motown. I wonder if the clerks go insane with it after a while, or if it just becomes white noise.

You think about Motown the record label, and the way it has squatted over Motown the city, and it’s no wonder most people elsewhere know little about the depth and breadth of music the city has produced, before and after. I understand why you don’t hear Eminem or Kid Rock at the airport, but couldn’t they throw in some John Lee Hooker or White Stripes? The MC5 didn’t have “motherfucker” in all their lyrics. They play Bob Seger, you say, and yes, they do. But for every Bob Seger song, you’ll hear 25 spins of “Tears of a Clown.”

I love this music as much as anyone, but even I can get a little impatient with it. If you’re going to play it that much, give us some B-sides and deep cuts for variety, if nothing else. And stop playing “Tears of a Clown.” I mean it. That one’s about to join “Respect” and “Dark Side of the Moon” on my If I Never Hear It Again, I’ve Already Heard It Quite Enough, Thank You playlist.

So, it sounds like everyone had a nice holiday. We’re having a heat wave in my part of the world — maybe in yours, too. As during cold snaps, now is the time when general-assignment reporters at newspapers all over the affected area pick up their phones and pretend to be deeply engrossed in productive conversations when their bosses stand at the end of the bullpen with that eenie-meenie-minie-moe look in their eyes. No one wants to do this weather story. A good tornado? Sure, I’ll roll on that in a heartbeat. But the heat-wave story makes you stupider just thinking about it, let alone reporting it. You talk to an indulgent ER doctor at a local hospital, one who is perhaps being hazed by his colleagues. He gives you his expert medical opinion on how one might avoid heat exhaustion: Stay in air-conditioned buildings as much as possible. If you must go out, make sure to drink plenty of fluids, but not alcohol or caffeine. Really, water is best. Avoid standing in direct sun — seek shade. If you feel dizzy or otherwise impaired, by all means, stop what you’re doing and rehydrate.

On the metro desk of the Nance Times, we tell people that heat waves are an excellent time to exercise strenuously outdoors, right around 4 p.m. Don’t drink water; in fact, high heat is an excellent time to lose that pesky water weight. Have a beer if you’re thirsty. Have five! Then have a long nap on the front lawn, preferably in direct sunlight.

So, some bloggage for an indoors-in-the-AC day? Sure:

When I was growing up, Cracked magazine was the B-team version of Mad. When did they start running stories like this? It’s actually fairly smart.

What do we think of Floyd Landis’ latest spill on Saint Lance? I find it pretty convincing, but you? Maybe not.

If you’re not reading Coozledad when he gets cranky, you should.

Via Hank: One of the Stranger’s better writers goes to see Gallagher’s act in suburban Seattle. Yeah, he’s still alive. No, it ain’t pretty.

Welcome back to the week. Short one. Yay.

The Johnny and Billy Blues Band, singing “I Walk the Line.”

It’s well-known that no one can speak or use the English language correctly no more, and I should stop fussin’ about it. I’ve had many teachers in my journey from illiterate neophyte to somewhat competent writer-person, one of them our own Kirk Arnott, who had a way of condemning sloppy usage at the Columbus Dispatch, where we worked together for a time, that struck terror in my soul. There was something about the way he could mutter from the desk all the way to the coffeepot and back that made me want to never, ever be the cause of that muttering.

One of his biggies was the misuse of the legal term garnish, which is what happens when your wages are seized. An order of garnishment is made by a court, and one day you open your paycheck to discover the IRS, or your ex-spouse, or minor children, or some other party has already lopped off a chunk. Kirk insisted that we write “his wages were garnisheed,” pronounced gar-ni-SHAYed, and muttered if anyone wrote “garnished,” because that is what you do with parsley.

Well, times and language changes times change and language changes, and now “garnished” is pretty widely accepted, and even my online dictionary says it’s OK. Nevertheless, when I read a sentence like this…

Carey Torrice’s $622-a-week commission salary is being garnished by an insurance company that claims the couple have failed to make court-ordered restitution payments.

…I cringe. Especially when I’ve already cringed over this:

…a private investigator and actress who gained national attention two years ago for posting scantily clad photos of herself online.

The photos are not scantily clad, although “nude photos” is pretty much how we describe photos depicting nudity, so I guess that’s OK, too. And “photos of herself, scantily clad” sounds strange. Actually, “scantily clad” is one of those stupid cliché phrases you only read in newspapers, anyway. It’s one case where I’d actually advocate for more words, if it paints a more vivid picture in the reader’s mind. In the case of Torrice, I’d write:

Photos of herself in several ridiculous, “sexy” outfits reveal her toned physique and obvious breast implants, including one suggesting a policewoman, if the policewoman were the co-star in a porn film.

Evidence.

Actually, the story is pretty amusing, cringeworthy usage and all, and people will read the shit out of it, if only for the headline:

Did sexy politician, husband stalk her election rival?

Although I take issue with the lead:

It has all of the makings of an old-fashioned mystery — a sexy private investigator, a handgun and a bizarre car accident.

I’m sorry, but try again. An old-fashioned mystery, by my lights, features Sherlock Holmes, a drawing room, or Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with the lead pipe. A sexy private investigator, a handgun and a bizarre car accident belong in the dirty movie described above.

And ouch, dude:

According to a police report obtained by the Free Press, Sprys was driving home at 10:15 p.m. after a board meeting when an acquaintance of the Torrices, another private investigator, appeared to lunge himself into Sprys’ SUV, one witness said.

Lunge himself? Did the whole blue-pencil staff take the buyout? Launch himself, or just lunge into.

As for the story itself, besides being entertaining, my only comment is: Too Macomb County for words. Which is a very Grosse Pointe thing to say, but honestly, people, once you’ve put scantily clad photos of yourself on the internet, all bets are off. Check out the “fun stuff” section, here. Fun fact to know and tell: Besides being a Macomb County commissioner leading a campaign to end euthanasia in the county’s animal shelter, she’s also a foot model.

Someone told me once there’s a gay men’s group in Macomb County that calls itself “the 586s,” for the area code. The gay men in the 248, and even the 313, think this is hilarious.

Well, as you can probably guess, I’m already in my holiday-weekend head, although I’m working on the holiday and the day after. Today, however, I think I’m going to the pool. Any bloggage? Oh, we can probably scare some up:

Mel Gibson, radical Catholic and sinner.

Funniest thing I’ve read today was the Facebook status of one of our commenters, Velvet Goldmine: I’m working on a Bollywood-style TV show about a group of plucky kids trying to start a show choir in India. I call it: Ghee!

Want to watch a sports movie free of sports-movie clichés? Rent “The Damned United.” Great to play in the background at your World Cup parties, too.

Have a great holiday weekend. I’ll be back…at some point.

It’s fish fly season in the Pointes:

I think these are very cool, as bugs go — non-biting, non-pooping, mellow and beautiful — but they drive some people crazy. It’s the numbers. There is something a little unnerving about a cloud of huge bugs swarming every light, or even anything vaguely light-colored. Frequently you hear of cars sliding through intersections on a road covered with their carcasses. And then there’s the smell, which is distinctive but not overpowering. They bring the odor of the bottom with them to the surface. To me, it’s the smell of early summer.

This is from Saturday morning, under a security light at ThreeCapitalLetters Bank. I expect there’ll be a new fee for their cleanup on my next statement.

Seeing as how we were discussing him only last week, it seems fitting to kick things off today with the recent unlucky turn of events for the Painter of Light (registered trademark, all rights reserved). Which was? Oh, a little drunky-drivey over the weekend. No word on his BAC, and the story says the California Highway Patrol isn’t releasing it, although it does say he submitted to a blood test. Around here, they ask you to take a breath test, and you may refuse, although if they think you’re drunk, they can easily get a warrant for a blood draw, and then they add a refusal ticket to the mixed grill of misery you just ordered.

I’ve known quite a few people who’ve faced DUI charges in their time, and about half were the wakeup call that yes, you have a drinking problem. Here’s hoping Kinkade seeks help for not only his drinking, but also for the voice from the yawning void inside him that shrieks, YOU SELLOUT, YOU FILTHY WHORE at him in the wee hours. Yes, the one that drives him into the arms of the lady on the neon sign, the one under the blinking COCKT IL , the S and the A having burned out years ago. Strength and courage, Painter of Light.

Fun fact to know and tell: When Susan Orlean was writing her profile of Kinkade for the New Yorker, he challenged her to a wager that he would have a show in “a major museum,” sometime in their lifetime. Money on the line: One million dollars. She told this story at a seminar at Wallace House during my fellowship year at the University of Michigan, and at the time, and we all had a laugh over a) the ridiculousness of the boast; and b) the chance, however slim, that Orlean might be called upon to pay up, because of course even successful journalists are poor, relative to art tycoons like Kinkade. (Obviously, this was before the world learned about her house.)

Thanks to the first link in that previous paragraph, I found this LATimes story, which suggests Kinkade has not only a drinking problem but an impulse-control problem, too, even allowing as how the two go hand in hand:

And then there is Kinkade’s proclivity for “ritual territory marking,” as he called it, which allegedly manifested itself in the late 1990s outside the Disneyland Hotel in Anaheim.

“This one’s for you, Walt,” the artist quipped late one night as he urinated on a Winnie the Pooh figure, said Terry Sheppard, a former vice president for Kinkade’s company, in an interview.

Oh, well. A fellow human being’s delamination should not be cause for glee. So let’s not.

I don’t know if any of you noticed, but Holly Haimerl, Duncan “Whitebeard” Haimerl’s daughter, stopped by in the comments yesterday to direct us to the Legacy.com obituary on her father. She adds, It is very heartwarming to keep finding positive comments about my Dad on the net.

I got caught up with “Treme” yesterday, and I don’t want to spoil it for anyone who hasn’t, but let me just say this of Creighton Bernette, the character inspired by our own late community member, Ashley Morris: Lovely. And if you’re not reading the Back of Town blog, that’s your go-to place for Treme discussion. Dexter, do not miss Ray Shea’s excellent post on the use of music as a counterpoint to the narrative. I had an early inquiry about participating in this blog, I never really pursued it, and I’m glad I didn’t, because I’m not good enough to hang back of town. Also: Dark Brown Waffles, doing much excellent analysis.

Touchdown Jesus burns, spectacularly. Who knew statues could burn? When they’re made of fiberglass, they burn like the fires of hell. Thanks, Cooz.

Another redonkulous day of chores and obligations. Have at it, all. I’m off to, among other things, find out how two teenagers drove their car into the lake at 5 a.m. Kids, a tip: Tell your dad you lost control in a cloud of fish flies. Even money says it’s true.

A Cobb salad of flowers, today. This is what backs traffic up down the freeway ramps — cheap annuals.

A couple of days on one topic, and the bloggage piles up. So let’s hop to it, shall we? There’s some good stuff here:

First, the Palin family continues to stain the nation’s carpets as young Bristol mama-sees-mama-does herself into a potentially lucrative career as a public speaker. Her fee is said to be somewhere between $15K-$30K, depending on “what she has to do to prepare” to speak on such topics as abstinence claptrap and anti-abortion claptrap. Hey, you know what index cards cost these days? Sorry, that’s editorializing. I’m choosing not to be upset by this, as the sorts of groups who would pay such a fee very likely need to be separated from their money somehow. Also, Bristol needs to start her five-school college education odyssey one of these days, and needs the bucks for tuition. My only regret is, this increases the chances we’ll see her on regular old non fee-paying media. One more reason to confine my media consumption to NPR exclusively.

Also, the don’t-make-fun-of-public-figures’-families rule no longer applies. Not that it stopped anyone, but good lord, when you ask for it like this…

The people who came up with the Bacon Explosion evidently have Google alerts, because I was copied on their e-mail notification that they have sampled the KFC Double Down sandwich, found it lacking, and monkeyed with it. How? By adding a slice of Bacon Explosion, sillypants. Taste test and many photographs here.

I’m a sucker for a certain kind of liberal patriotism, and this story, about the United Nations of Hamtramck High preparing for its senior prom, touched me. DetNews columnist Neal Rubin calls Hamtramck “absurdly diverse,” and it is, more diverse than an after-school special:

“You tell ’em, ‘It’s something seniors do,’ ” says Mohamed Algehaim, 18, the class secretary. He was born here, but his parents are from Yemen, and the part about the tuxedo took some work, too.

“If you’re the first child, it’s harder to get across,” says Emina Alic, 18, the Bosnia-born class president. “If your brothers and sisters already went, your parents tell you you’re going.”

The 200 current seniors had read the memo early on. “There’s competition between classes,” says class historian Sabbir Noor, 17, whose roots go back to Bangladesh…

Throw in the Poles who still live in the old neighborhood, the African Americans who moved there in their own flight from Detroit and the rest of the ethnic fruit salad, and you get a sense of the place.

Moving on, a few couples who will not want to hyphenate their names.

Finally, it can be told: This is the project I’ve been working on since January, the 75th anniversary book for the Detroit Economic Club. It’s a custom-publishing job, i.e., work-for-hire, but it was really interesting and I count myself lucky to have gotten the gig. The DEC is a noontime speaker’s club, but one of the most sought-after podiums in the country, and lemme tell you, they have heard from everyone. (Except the Palin family.) I had full access to their archive at the Detroit Public Library, and it was pretty cool, going through files of correspondence with letters from people like Richard Nixon and Henry Ford II. The story of Detroit in the 20th century was the story of America, and it was fascinating to see who came to town and what they had to say when they got here. It certainly left me with some new ideas about how we learn history.

Anyway, the anniversary celebration starts tonight, I have to write about it for the book, and I need to throw together an outfit that won’t disgrace me in front of the movers and shakers. Both the News and Freep did stories pegged to it.

I also have an early meeting tomorrow morning, so this may have to serve for the week’s blogging. One question I leave you with: Where’s Coozledad? He hasn’t spoken up for a few days. Did he get kicked by a mule?

Every so often, I tell our Wayne State students that everything you need to know about writing an engaging feature story can be learned by reading Detroitblog. I think I’m going to be doing it again soon.

I have to leave and run my car off to the broken-windshield place. Until I get back and get sufficiently caffeinated, enjoy. I promise: You will.

A while back I believe I mentioned that scrapping is so virulent here that businesses have taken to securing their rooflines — the frontier that must be crossed to get at the valuable rooftop air conditioners, with their coils of tasty, yummy copper — with razor wire. That was so 2006. Note the adaptation of this gas station/mini mart on the Grosse Pointe border:

A tasteful cage. Adaptation! There’s hope for us yet.

In honor of Hell Week, more three-dot linkaliciousness:

First came the earthquakes, great heavings of the earth the made a mockery of all man’s works. Sandra Bullock won the Oscar for wearing a blonde wig and sporting the worst southern accent since community theater. But mankind didn’t know it was doomed, that this truly was the first rumblings of that rough beast, its hour come round at last, until sunspots drove all the Toyotas crazy.

Roy Edroso is leaving New York for love. Best of luck, Roy. That must be some love to trade Brooklyn for Bryan (Texas). He’ll still be blogging, at least until he gets shot in a bar for being a filthy hippie.

The New York Times business section takes a look at the sticky topic of feminine hygiene advertising. Hmm. Well. OK:

Merrie Harris, global business director at JWT, said that after being informed that it could not use the word vagina in advertising by three broadcast networks, it shot the ad cited above with the actress instead saying “down there,” which was rejected by two of the three networks. (Both Ms. Harris and representatives from the brand declined to specify the networks.)

“It’s very funny because the whole spot is about censorship,” Ms. Harris said. “The whole category has been very euphemistic, or paternalistic even, and we’re saying, enough with the euphemisms, and get over it. Tampon is not a dirty word, and neither is vagina.”

I’d like to see the script that uses that word before I pass judgment. Vagina may not be a dirty word, but it’s certainly an overused one. I’ve carried one around every day of my life, but it only took about 18 months from the day you started hearing it on broadcast television to get thoroughly sick of it, especially at an all-star event like a Joan Rivers roast. I’m with the screenwriter of “The Opposite of Sex” on that one:

Lucia: Vagina, vagina, vagina. Does that word do anything for you?
Bill Truitt: I don’t think it does much for anyone, gay or straight.

The ad executive complains you can’t say “vagina” in a tampon ad, but I’m not sure I want to see it there. “Buy Tampax tampons! Your vagina will thank you!” (That could work, actually.)

J.C. was cleaning out his video archive and sent this. Always nice to remember the good times.

My friend Michael called mid-week to wonder if I’d be free for some cross-country skiing Sunday. Sure. The temperature rose to 38 that day, and continued balmy through yesterday, so we melted down to a walk through Elmwood Cemetery. It’s the oldest in the city. We were on the lookout for the titans — Coleman Young, Russell Alger, Sonic Smith. We found only Alger, but it was a lovely day and we weren’t really looking that hard. We did see the liquor king:

And the beer king:

There’s a group site for firefighters:

I didn’t know firemen would seek common burial, but I suppose these were the men without families, or maybe the ones who thought no one could understand them like the guys. The emblem was a mystery to me, but Michael’s dad was a firefighter. He said they’re bugles, which were the “get out of the way” alarm, blown by the crews in the days before sirens. Learn something new every day.

I’ll come back on my bike in the spring. This is a place to spend a morning.

The balminess ended today:

Who wants to go skiing?

OK, then. Speaking of skiing, I gather there was a hockey game last night, which “we” won, and as a result I am supposed to be exultant. Reader, I am not. I am wearying of the every-other-year we-fest that is the Olympic games. Excuse me: the (kettle drums go bum-bum-bum-bum; cue trumpets DAAAH DAAAH DA DA DA DA DA, etc.) games of the 23rd Olympiad, or whatever. I want some grumpier color commentators; I am sick of being told how proud I am of “Team USA.” I want someone to ask, “Why do the snowboarders look like they put on all the clothes in the hamper? Snowcross? What’s next? Demolition derby?” This event always seems to go on four days too long. I know it’s coming when the voice of Morgan Freeman makes me want to throw things.

On the other hand, what else is there to do? It’s February. Anyway, Alessandra Stanley looks at the jingoism angle today:

Even the calm, professional Bob Costas, who is the great exception to the NBC rule of smarminess, felt he had to explain himself on Saturday night for enthusing about the unexpected victory — and infectious joy — of Mark Tuitert, a 29-year-old Dutch speed skater who surprised everyone, including himself, by beating the American Shani Davis in the 1,500-meter race.

“And this is to take nothing away from the interest in the States about Shani Davis and Chad Hedrick,” Mr. Costas said apologetically, “but what this means in the Netherlands, I mean, this is their national pastime, this is so huge there.” As Mr. Costas spoke about the new Dutch hero, the screen behind him carried a huge portrait of Mr. Davis, who took the silver medal.

Well, exactly.

Bloomberg follows Rachel Maddow on the great underreported story: Republicans who thundered against the stimulus who now say, dude, where’s my stimulus? (Quietly.)

And with that, I’m away. Monday waits for no one, even with five inches of snow in the forecast.

Late in the comments yesterday, someone asked me to share my parallel-parking secret. I’m happy to. In the interest of clarity, I will dispense with the stuff about safety and signals and all that. You’re a grownup, you know how to drive. This is just about the raw technique, OK?

1) Pull up even with the car ahead. About two feet away, more or less.

2) Look over your right shoulder and back up straight until the parked car’s rear bumper is even with the roof support behind your back seat. (This was easier in the ’70s when all cars were boxes, but the proportions are still there. When the bumper is just ahead of your rear tires, if that’s clearer.) Stop and crank the wheel all the way to the right.

3) Switch your focus to your driver’s side outside rear-view mirror and start backing again. As soon as you see the curbside headlight of the car behind, turn your wheel to the left two full turns.

At this point the technique starts to vary depending on your vehicle’s size, but after the two-turn move, keep turning left while continuing to back up, and with any luck at all, you should find yourself parallel to the curb well within the one-foot range. Eight out of 10 times it works for me the first time. When it doesn’t it’s usually because I’ve rushed it. Rushing it is one of my big failings as a human being. Now you know.

The biggest mistake most people make is starting the turn into the space too soon. (If you have one of those cars with nothing behind the back seat, you might want to play around with this formula a bit, although it’s worked fine on hatchbacks I’ve owned.) Or they try to go in head-first — big mistake. Take your time, leave yourself room, and don’t be intimidated if you have to slow traffic for 12 seconds or so. It’ll wait.

Reverse all the motions if you’re parking on the left side of a one-way street, or in the U.K. or Japan.

By the way, I got 100 on the parking portion of my driving test, way back in the year 16.

Not a terrible day yesterday. Had lunch out, in a restaurant, with a waitress, rather than the usual standing-up-at-the-sink model of the work-at-home freelancer, so that was a plus. The snow was pretty and more or less entirely cleared by the time I set out, another big win, as the kids say. I found a parking spot on Woodward directly in front of the place, which I backed into with great smoothness and elan. And then I came home to discover my health insurance is holding me responsible for a portion of the cost of the flu shots I received a few weeks back, to the tune of $.01.

I know how these things happen. Computers can’t judge. All they see is, if you owe, you get a bill. And I owe a penny.

I’m ignoring it, by the way. I plan to wreck my credit score over this. Or else I’ll spend 42 cents to mail them a penny, so they can then reply that they don’t accept cash payments. When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.

So, a little bloggage? Sure, why not:

Jim at Sweet Juniper once observed that one of the cool things about Detroit is, frequently there’s nobody around to tell you you can’t do something. A couple of my filmmaking friends went out during the snowstorm and discovered how true that is:

My role as a parent requires me to disapprove of this behavior, although I am relieved to see Sean put on a helmet and wrist guards (guffaw) before snow-surfing behind a car with another car following closely behind, and then running a stop sign. Doesn’t the Detroit ghet-toe have a marvelously creepy feeling at 1 a.m.? And no, I don’t know what that strange cutaway at the 30-second mark is.

While we’re posting video, here’s one Hank found, from the fittingly named website, I Love Local Commercials. Although I think that lady buck is actually a donkey:

Yes, I saw the newly released 9/11 photos. I don’t know what there is to say about them other than, that sure was a bad day.

It’s been a great week for weather clichés. Here’s one Alan hates: “the white stuff.” Which leads me to wonder: During the Dust Bowl years, did meteorologists call for “the brown stuff?”

OK, I’m flailing. Have a good day, all.