…I’m trying something different.

A friend wonders if I could increase my site traffic if I stopped including the entire post in my RSS feed. I said huh, I dunno, might be worth trying, so I am. For the record, I don’t care much about traffic at all — in all my enterprises, I remain stubbornly unambitious and opposed to financial success of any kind — but I’m curious what effect it might have.

It could go either way, a “feh, more nose-picking from Little Miss Boring, no need to see more,” or “let’s go over and click ALL her Google ads and make her rich.” I’ll be watching my analytics for a while. Let the experiment begin.

It goes without saying that if you really hate it, let me know. Reader service is what we’re all about her at NN.C.

My search for a DV camera is slowly driving me insane. Thanks to Basset for his tips in the comments a few posts ago, but I fear they’re of no help. You see, I want a camera that will handle not just home movies but amateur journalism — among my many hopes for 2008 here at NN.C, as we enter our EIGHTH DAMN YEAR of web-based mediocrity, is to bring an occasional video to the mix. And the problem is, I know just enough about video to know that nothing will do.

I want something in the upper end of the prosumer range, with lots of features but not too expensive. I make a list of no-negotiation features, then find a model that has everything I want except for one. Or it has everything, but costs $1,200. Or is too big. Or has a user’s review calling it a p.o.s. that underlays every clip with the high-pitched weeeeee of camera noise. John says get Mini-DV for quality, but the users say the format is entering its obsolescence. Hold out for 3CCD? An accessory shoe? Manual shutter control? High-def? AN EXTERNAL MIC JACK? THE ROOM, IT IS SPINNING.

What usually happens is, I read and shop online for 45 minutes, then throw up my hands in despair and go eat a cookie. And then I see something like this, and redouble my efforts. It’s a vicious circle.

This, by the way, is New York magazine’s roundup of the best of online video. I’m working my way through them all, but so far the one I want to recommend is The Jeannie Tate Show, a talk show in a minivan. Yes, really. It’s hilarious.

That was a quick jump to the bloggage today, wasn’t it? Well, yes, but it’s pretty good bloggage, and yesterday was tops in boring. I’m off to the gym. OK, one more:

Once it was scandalous to show too much of your bosom. Now it’s apparently de rigueur to show the world your nether cleft, and not the one in back. (Although I’ve always liked Sharon Stone, that crazy old bat, so I’m giving her a pass, just this once.)

More later.

Just one question: When Rudy Giuliani took that call from his wife, why didn’t the audience stand up and throw pens at him? What a strange, screw-you moment. For once more or less agree* with the WSJ editorial page.

Anyone like to imagine what that editorial would have read if it had been, oh, John Edwards taking the call? Ball-busting bitch henpecks husband, no doubt. It’s all in how you spin things.

Surly, surly, surly. I can tell it’s Wednesday. Sleep deprivation is starting to catch up, but it’ll be several days before relief beckons from my fluffy pillows. Ah, well. That’s life in these hardscrabble times. A break for blogging, and then we’re back in the saddle.

One of the things I like about Safari, Mac’s Own Browser, is the way it lets you organize bookmarks. I have several folders right on the menu bar: NN.C, News, Blogs, Money, Detroit, Shopping, RSS and Reference. They’re self-explanatory, right? Any questions? I have one rule — no drop-down menu can drop down longer than the depth of the screen, so I cull and refresh regularly. That’s mainly a problem with the News and Blogs folders, but the surprise (for me, anyway) li’l bookmark folder that could is turning out to be Reference. It’ll soon have to be culled, it’s growing so fast. This is where I keep all the handy sites for looking stuff up; as a journalist, of course facts are very important to me. (Yes: Kidding.) But sometimes I just page through some of these sites to turn up Fun Facts to Know and Tell.

Top four on the list: Google maps, Wikipedia, WHOIS lookup, Bartleby. That last one’s toast, most likely; nothing beats the Google in looking up famous quotations, although Bartleby has a bit more authority, I guess. Anyway, I bookmarked it to have Bartlett’s close by, and it sucks, or else it’s incomplete. I just asked Bartlett’s to find me the original source of the phrase “better angels of our nature,” figuring I’d give it a slow pitch right over the middle. Citation not found. Click “all sources” and Bartleby finds it no prob, but by then I could have Googled it and written three more paragraphs. I’ll keep it around, but it’s on probation.

Screenplays — I use this one a lot when I can’t remember a line of dialogue. It only works if the movie’s in the database, however, and lately IMDb’s “quotes” section in individual movies is kicking butt. But let’s give it a try: Ooh, what’s that line John Goodman yells over and over as he’s running down the blazing hotel corridor in “Barton Fink?” I can’t quite recall…I’ll show you…something. Ahh, here it is:

Charlie: Look upon me! I’ll show you the life of the mind!

And as a bonus, here’s the rat-a-tat-tat between the two police detectives investigating a disappearance:

Mastrionotti: Started in Kansas City. Couple of housewives.
Deutsch: Couple days ago we see the same M.O. out in Los Feliz.
Mastrionotti: Doctor. Ear, nose and throat man.
Deutsch: All of which he’s now missin’.
Mastrionotti: Well, some of his throat was there.
Deutsch: Physician, heal thyself.
Mastrionotti: Good luck with no fuckin’ head.
Deutsch: Anyway.

Psst: Don’t even go to “The Big Lebowski” quote page. You’ll be there All. Day.

I warned you.

OK. One little taste:

The Dude: Jesus, man, could you change the channel?
Cab Driver: Fuck you man. If you don’t like my fuckin’ music get your own fuckin’ cab!
The Dude: I had a rough…
Cab Driver: I pull over and kick your ass out!
The Dude: Come on, man. I had a rough night and I hate the fuckin’ Eagles, man!

Ha ha. Moving on, Worldometeres, world statistics updated in real time. I hope you’re not among the 69,792 who will die today.

Hard-to-find 800 numbers, none of which I’ve ever called. How to Beautify a Face in Photoshop. Turns out it ONLY works on photos, damn it all. (Bossy has another P’shop tutorial, which features a picture of her Great Dane. LA Mary, go check it out.

Who is Sick? for the medical writer, or just the geek hypochondriac, in all of us.

Tired of taking calls from an editor? Post a word meter on your site and tell them to talk to the hand.

I did NOT write that/Yes you DID and the Internet Wayback Machine might be able to prove it.

If I ever get a ticket for parking in the old handicapped spots at my local drugstore, which are no longer legal handicapped spots but still have blue lines on them, the ADA Accessibility Guidelines will get it thrown out of court. (And yes, there are other, legal spots, and I never park there. Although sometimes I will take the “expectant mother” space at Kroger, if it’s raining and I’m in a bad mood. Because it’s stupid, that’s why. And I’m hoping, if I’m ever challenged, that I will have the presence of mind to say, “Isn’t it wonderful? I’m expecting twins!”)

The Electric Eclectic, because sometimes you’re just bored.

What’s a reference site you can’t live without? Leave it in the comments. Me, I’m back to work.

* edited from “total agreement,” which was sloppy and inaccurate, earlier.

You can see, perhaps, that when I really have work to do, I shut down both my browser and my e-mail. The web is a bottomless pit of timewasters, but Google Analytics is a sinkhole with my name on it. Behold, a map of my readership by state. I believe it reveals two things:

1) No matter how much I run, I will never leave Indiana behind, and;
2) I really need to boost my numbers in South Dakota.

And maybe one more:

3) California is my true home outside the Midwest.

I can’t tell you how much praise I read about “Half Nelson” before finally getting it at Blockbuster the other night. Ryan Gosling got an Oscar nomination for his performance, and the thing picked up a whole bunch of other nominations and statues. I was really looking forward to it.

It’s the story of a talented inner-city teacher who is hiding a secret that is revealed about 10 minutes into the script and also in the trailer, so here it is: He’s a drug addict. A crackhead, specifically.

Well. It’s not that it wasn’t good, exactly. I mean, if you like feature films that move very slowly, are shot entirely in ShakyCam and don’t have a whole lot of talking, you’re going to love this. But I remembered a lesson from my screenwriting class. Our teacher said your story won’t be satisfying if the main character doesn’t change, and then we discussed degrees of change. It’s more believable for a character to change from A to B (flawed person starts to understand how his behavior affects others, and makes a move in the direction of changing; see “You Can Count on Me”) than A to Z (flawed person sees error of ways, makes 180-degree turn and is reborn as a totally different person; see “Tuesdays With Morrie”). In “Half Nelson” — and I really don’t thing this counts as a spoiler — Gosling changes from A to…A.1, say. He doesn’t get all the way to B. He shaves. This seems to be the big change.

I found it fascinating to watch, but oddly unsatisfying, for exactly that reason.

Because I think my tastes in pictures are at least small-c catholic, though, I took Kate to see “Hairspray” this afternoon. It was too long by about 20 percent, and John Travolta couldn’t fill Divine’s girdle, but otherwise, it wasn’t a total waste of time for a mom and a kid to see on a rainy afternoon. And I caught the John Waters cameo, which was amusing and appropriate. Did you?

This will be the final post for this week — another mini-hiatus planned, this one to scramble some deadline eggs. I might pop in from time to time, but no more that that until Monday. Hey, it’s August. It’s what all the cool kids are doing.

People keep telling me I need to “network” more, digitally. OK. So now I’m on LinkedIn and Facebook. Can someone explain what I’m supposed to do next? (If you want to be my close personal friend, I’m ID’d by my tiresome, 19th-century-lady-painter byline these days — Nancy Nall Derringer.)

Also, a housekeeping note for those who didn’t see it yesterday: Comments are now editable, at least for 30 minutes after posting.

For some reason, a couple of you have been spam-booted today, including the fab Laura, and I don’t know why. If you’re posting comments and they’re not appearing, let me know.

And this is for all the mothers, struggling hard every day to do the best job we can. On days when it’s difficult, I always ask myself one question:

What would Sharon Stone do?

When I first signed up for Google AdSense, the money came in at, if not a brisk clip, then certainly a found-money sort of way. For about three days, my little craptastic monument to personal narcissism and avoiding my paying gigs was bringing in about $5 a day. My goodness, this will pay the cable bill and have money left over for lattes, I thought giddily. Why didn’t I do this years ago?

I don’t know what happened. It’s as though Google sniffed around for a while, then left me behind, because soon I was getting bupkis, pennies per day. Apparently your demographically desirable eyeballs are worth a mere fraction of your stupid click finger. Not that this should be construed as a prod to click on the ads, because I’m forbidden by my user agreement to tell you to do so — I’m just explaining how the system works. (You’re starting to see, perhaps, why web advertising doesn’t even bring a wan smile to publishers’ faces.) I think I mentioned, the day of my Lileks screed, when I got linked all over the place and saw something like 9,000 unique visitors in a single day — about 10 times the usual traffic — I made 15 cents. So much for the new-media business model.

After a while I stopped checking daily, it was so disappointing. They don’t write you a check until you reach $100, after all. The other day was my first log-in for some time, and I saw that I had cracked $93 and would maybe get to $100 within a few more …weeks, maybe. But it felt like a C-note in my pocket, so I decided to do what my friend Fatih advised the last time I was broke: “Nancyderringer,” (he always called me by my married name, mushed together like that) “in Turkey we have a saying: ‘You must spend your money so the money that’s trying to find you will know where you are.'” Someone else will have to tell me if this is true, but Fatih is such a dear, and it sounded so amusing in his accent, that I’ve used it ever since as an excuse to stay broke.

So I decided to give most of the $100 away. To other bloggers. I spend $600 a year to get the New York Times delivered to my home, and a couple hundred more in magazine subscriptions; surely I can spread a little to the volunteer pundits of the world. There won’t be many bequests — I’m parceling it out in $10 to $20 chunks so as not to be entirely insulting — but I’m hoping it will be a small gesture of thanks to some of my favorites, who amuse me daily with the work they give away free. I sent $10 to the Send John Scalzi to the Creation Museum fund, which raised an astonishing $5,118.36 for Americans United for Separation of Church and State, a worthy achievement indeed. (And I can’t wait for the report from the Creation Museum.) I sent TBogg a bauble from his Amazon Wish List. Lance got a tenner in his tip jar. The Poor Man suggested a donation to Oxfam in the name of The Poor Man Institute for Freedom and Democracy and a Pony. I asked Roy to make a wish, too, and he declined, because he’s prosperous at the moment, but did tell me his birthday, so I have to think of something. (I think, for Roy, it has to be a gesture in the Bob Evans/Joe Eszterhas note-in-vagina spirit.)

That’s about half my stash. Who else deserves a little spare change? I went through my bookmarks, and my other faves either aren’t asking, haven’t replied to e-mails, have well-paying professional jobs or would, I’m convinced, spend it all on crack. Make a suggestion, you folks who follow the blogosphere with more attention than I do. Someone out there has cancer or is facing foreclosure. For a gesture this small and meaningless, the sky’s the limit.

(Or maybe I should take the remaining $45 down to the casino and try to figure out craps once and for all. I’ve read the rules a million times, and they go through my head like grass through a goose. Every time I’ve been to one of the three downtown gambling palaces, it’s the only game that interests me even a little. The slots are full of crabby old people with oxygen tanks, the poker tables populated with guys who watch way too much poker on TV, and yes I’m talking about you in the sunglasses, and blackjack, my old favorite, seems to have lost its mojo — it’s all funereal mopes at those tables, too. Whereas at least one craps table is ringed by seven or eight threatening-looking rapper types, laughing and having a high old time and waving cash around like flags at a GOP convention. I want to go to that party.)

The good news about summer: I’m getting more sleep, at least at night, as long as the AC is on and I’m not awakened at dawn by squabbling blue jays, surely a sound they will play on infinite loop in hell. The bad news: Lawn services. Times are tough in the Mitten, and I’m reluctant to criticize anyone who’s found a way to make a living, but the other day I was grilling at something like 7:30 p.m. on a freakin’ Saturday, and the people two doors down had their service there, running two gas blowers and a string trimmer. It was like standing at the end of the runway with the Concorde taking off five inches overhead, only louder.

They have a noise ordinance in Bloomfield Hills, and I’m told it’s never questioned and strictly enforced. Ah, to live in Bloomfield Hills.

I have no tasty bloggage for you, no wait, I do. Those of you who spend less time online than I do may not be familiar with the LOLcats phenom; go here for a dry, Wikipedia take on things. It’s not hard to understand, as the wildly addictive I Can Has Cheezburger can attest. (Warning: FLYPAPER!)

And it was only a matter of time before someone took it in a new direction:

Have a hot, sticky day with scattered thunderstorms. That’s what I’m planning for.

Today is a big housekeeping post, plus bloggage. I’m hoping that tying up loose ends and answering reader requests here will inspire me to do the same in my physical space. Kate brought home the contents of her desk and locker this week, which apparently are like those little cars that the clowns pile out of. What am I bid for a pink plastic recorder, people?

Starting things off, someone — Joel Nelson, it says on the packing slip — sent me this CD, “Lazarus Beach,” by a band called Through the Sparks. I’m having a horrible senior moment, wondering if someone offered to send it and I said yeah, or if it was just unsolicited. Whatever, I appreciate it. Noodling around the band’s website, it seems they’re blurbing their blog mentions, so let me add one. Disclosure: I stole it from my husband. Ahem:

“Reminds me of Guided by Voices.”

I simply cannot top the band’s own self-description, from their website again: While there are still the noise and synth-laden marshes, horn and big-harmony choruses and crescendos loom over beds of ukulele, honky-tonk piano, funeral home organ and pedal steel. Of course, there’s still a copious amount of gleaming guitars and a few signature triplet beats.

Booyah.

A few random snapshots (click for larger):

The new behind-the-garage space, by reader request:

You can see the grass is starting to come in. Spriggy can’t wait to pee on it. No, I don’t know why that tree is already dropping yellow leaves. I suspect it has Detroit Tree Death Syndrome; you have never seen so much standing deadwood in your life as in this area. Most of it is because of the emerald ash borer, another product of globalization — it’s an Asian native. That tree is not an ash, but maybe it’s dying in sympathy.

This handsome devil was waiting on my pool chair the other day:

Yes, it’s the dawning of fish-fly season here in the Pointes. Last year I vowed to have a new video camera by June, so I could shoot my long-planned short feature: “Night of the Fish Flies.” Oh, well.

If you’re trying to reach me via cell phone lately, try an e-mail. I lost it yesterday (bad news). Now I can get an iPhone (good news). Not really — I need a $600 cell phone like I need a $100 million diamond skull — but I guess I can dream. Besides, I have faith the pink Razr will turn up somewhere. As I tell Kate, it’s not lost, you just can’t see it at the moment.

UPDATE: Found it. And Alan, I also found your GPS quick-start guide, missing for eight months, in the same place (under the driver’s seat in my car).

LA Mary wants a T-shirt with this on it, and OMG, so do I:

Mitch Harper says he has a line on custom T-shirts; maybe he can hook us up.

Because I know how bad summer Fridays in the office can be, Iron Butterfly line dancing:

I said I had bloggage, but I don’t want to break the mood of the Iron Butterfly. But if you’re in a self-punishing mood, join me and Glenn Greenwald in our mystification that a journalist with a national platform (Chris Matthews), would say something like this about a presidential candidate (Fred Thompson):

Does [Fred Thompson] have sex appeal? I’m looking at this guy and I’m trying to find out the new order of things, and what works for women and what doesn’t. Does this guy have some sort of thing going for him that I should notice? . . .

Gene, do you think there’s a sex appeal for this guy, this sort of mature, older man, you know? He looks sort of seasoned and in charge of himself. What is this appeal? Because I keep star quality. You were throwing the word out, shining star, Ana Marie, before I checked you on it. . . .

Can you smell the English leather on this guy, the Aqua Velva, the sort of mature man’s shaving cream, or whatever, you know, after he shaved? Do you smell that sort of — a little bit of cigar smoke? You know, whatever.

Yeah. You know, whatever. Have a swell weekend.

My neighbors have a big TV. Really big TV. How big is it? Can’t say — I’ve never seen it up close, because I don’t have to. If the curtains are open even a little bit, I can tell what they’re watching with 75 percent accuracy. (Right now, hockey.) And they live across the street and one door down; it’s a good 200 feet or more from my couch to their TV. That’s a big TV.

Big TVs are all the rage, now that the bugs have been worked out, now that they no longer have the footprint of a Volkswagen Beetle. Everybody I know is buying one. (True story: My friends John and Mary bought one, and hired a guy to hang it on the wall. He said he’d just finished a similar job at then-Sixer/now-Piston Chris Webber’s house. [Yes, he’s a Pointer.] He’d hung 13 of them. Thirteen flat-screens in one house! It’s like an episode of “Cribs.”)

Anyway, I guess eventually we’ll have a giant TV, too, once the price drops to $1.98, which it seems on track to do by year’s end. But I won’t feel good about it. I love TV now that TV is so much better than it used to be — thanks, HBO. I love watching DVDs at home. But my TV guilt-meter was calibrated in the days of “Three’s Company,” and there’s something about a giant TV that suggests a world of La-Z-Boy recliners with built-in cupholders and crocheted Kleenex-box cozies. It rings every snob bell I have, and I have a tower full of them. I hate myself. Why? Because part of me wants one, and the other part is covered in shame for doing so.

Here’s the thing about a giant TV: It wants to be on, all the time. I like a TV to be off most of the time. My first and most hard-core TV rule is this: If it’s on, the people in the room must be paying attention to it. If you leave the room for any reason other than a bathroom break or to fetch another beer, it must go off. Once I interviewed some lottery winners, plain old hardscrabble people who woke up one morning $9 million richer, courtesy of the state of Ohio. I caught them after they’d had the money for several months, which is to say, their old house was full to the rafters with new toys, but the new house — 1,000-square-foot master suite, cement pond out back, the works — was still under construction. There was a rock on her finger and a Corvette in his garage, and a giant TV in the living room, which was too small to accommodate it. It was mid-morning, around the time a movie old enough to shave was on TBS. I took a seat to the right of the screen, they sat opposite me. The TV stayed on. When I was talking, they both watched the TV. When they were talking, the one who was talking looked at me, the other one watched TV.

That was a formative experience in giant-TV culture. I still haven’t shaken it.

Oy, we had ourselves a day in the D yesterday. A “workplace shooting,” as they’ve come to be known. Guy fired from an accounting firm on Friday came back on Monday and shot a retiree helping out for tax season and two partners. The retiree died. The other two are still alive. Of course we have a sidebar story on how this might be avoided in the future. Grim humor within: An HR expert says Friday is “traditionally” the day to fire people. Really? I didn’t know that. I tried to think of firings I’ve witnessed, and the only common denominator they all had was the Box. You know the Box, usually a banker’s box, filled by either the fired party (or security) with the detritus of one work life — a few personal files, a stained coffee cup, a framed picture. Is there a sadder sight than a banker’s box with a “you don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps” mug overturned in the bottom? I don’t think so.

“The Office” has gone a long way toward pointing out the thousand soul-abrading, death-by-a-thousand-cuts indignities of life in cubicle land, but I don’t think they’ll tackle this subject for a while.

I predict [raises finger aloft] that we will come through this blogging thing, turn 320 degrees or so, and out the other side — yes, this is metaphor is intentional — with newfound respect for our unsung friend, the editor. Yesterday’s post was up for hours before I noticed I wrote “…for years I’ve tried very hard to annoy my site statistics.” I meant I ignore them. They’re like the quicksand of narcissism. I’ve read about people who monitor their credit scores daily, who track their eBay feedback nearly as often. And some people track their site stats obsessively, which is one reason I’ve avoided doing so. I mean, I like affirmation as much as the next person, but please.

However, Google Analytics is just out there waiting to be installed and noodled over, and today, my first day with it, was nearly enough to run me off the rails. I have a reader — or else a robo-reader — in Reykjavik. (Holla back, Iceland.) Someone came here via Googling the phrase “what hoody does TI wear in chevy commercial.” (Who’s TI?) And then there are those of you whom I can call by name. One reader in Portland (hey, Vince). One in Cincinnati (Rob!). Forty in Fort Wayne, approximately the remaining readership of the News-Sentinel. I have to stop. I have enough things to procrastinate with.