Remember that line in “Witness” before Harrison Ford witnesses the touching purity of Amish neighborliness, and makes lots of eyes at Kelly McGillis? The old Amish man, witnessing the tumult of the barn-raising threatening to fall into just another day of socializing, barks out:

“We’ve a barn to build and a day to do it!”

Well, I have 2,500 words to write before noon today. Not quite a barn, but not quite a whole day, either. So enjoy yourself an open thread, and I’ll see what I can dig up this afternoon.

Conversation starter: If you’re counting on a Democrat being elected president in November, and it doesn’t happen — never underestimate the ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory — could you live with President John McCain? Why or why not? (My take, in a nutshell: Sure. If I could live with George W. Bush, I could live with anyone. But, you know, I’m a crazy dreamer.)

Or: Discuss the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field. Every time one of those guys came down hard on that cement decorated with dead grass masquerading as turf, one of my ribs cracked in sympathy.

Now, off to the mines for me.

Iowa means nothing. Pat Buchanan won the Iowa caucuses, remember. Iowa means everything. A black man, in a rural state, virtually unknown until four years ago? That’s something.

As for Huckabee, ha ha ha ha ha. It appears the GOP meltdown still has legs. Buy more popcorn. This could be good.

And that, I’m afraid, is about all I have to say about that. Years of living in an irrelevant state (Indiana, widely ignored by candidates from across the political spectrum) taught me not to waste hard-drive space thinking about political candidates who will be forgotten by the time I got a chance to cast my ballot (Steve Forbes, anyone?). The Michigan primary is in two weeks, but apart from a Romney ad that runs on the local news, I’ve seen little evidence of a campaign here. Of course, we’re being punished by the DNC, for daring to want a say in things. Takes a little of the wind out of the sails.

I admit to being a bit excited. Man, Obama. (I truly wish Chris Matthews would stop calling him a “son of Kenya,” however.) At this point, the Democrats could nominate a Hannibal Lecter/Britney Spears ticket, and I’d vote for it, so discontented am I with the status quo. The GOP has lost any claim on leading the country. In many ways, it’s just that simple.

Sorry no posts yesterday. I was tired. About once every week or 10 days, the collected weight of sleep deprivation collapses on my wee head, and there’s nothing to do for it but submit. That didn’t stop many of you from getting chatty in the comments, about architects, of all things. I love you guys. (P.S. I’ve never had to hire an architect in my life. Maybe that should be my goal for the second half of my life: Do something that requires an architect. Use NN.C commenters as consultants. I could use a new kitchen.)

One housekeeping note before we go further: Someone mentioned, in the comments, having to boycott this site until “The Wire” runs its course, but that won’t be necessary — all my Wireblogging will take place over at The New Package, with no mention here other than the customary link-whoring. The New Package is up and running, by the way, with a nice look at the numeric themes in season four, by our blogmistress, Virgotex.

And now, a shower. More later. Discuss Iowa, if you like.

This was the plan: To celebrate Christmas with my family in Columbus on Saturday, head for Defiance on Sunday and celebrate with Alan’s family then. It was all going according to plan and we were en route to northern Ohio Sunday when Alan’s sister called with the news that his mother had fallen and was being taken to the ER with a goose egg rising rapidly on her forehead.

This was no surprise, in that Alan’s mom is 89, has had a series of strokes and was generally weak as a kitten. Also not surprising, though upsetting, was that the blow to the head was now a “significant” subdural hematoma, bleeding in the brain, the only treatment for which was invasive surgery. What was more surprising were the preposterous hassles all this touched off, even after her children made the difficult decision that this injury was not survivable in any meaningful way and that she be given comfort care only in the final days of her life, but, well, life begins in pain and ends the same way.

Alan’s mom, Marian Derringer, died Thursday afternoon in a hospice in Defiance. As you can imagine, this will preoccupy us for a while. We thank you in advance for your condolences, and we’re doing fine. Once all the hoops had been jumped early in the week — did you know you have to be in a facility where you can have brain surgery before you can refuse brain surgery? Visit beautiful Toledo! — the last few days were about as peaceful as can be expected. The hospice movement has been a great comfort to many families going through a difficult time. I expect that’s because after a long interaction with the medical profession, it’s pleasant to interact with nurses who speak plain English, move at a leisurely pace and let you have a dog in the room.

That’s what we did Wednesday — had our family Christmas at the hospice, with the dog. It was a nice afternoon.

There’s a lot going on in the world this week, and I’ve been jotting notes everywhere. (Heard there was a big to-do in Pakistan; you might want to check the papers.) But for now, I’m laying that stuff aside, closing the laptop and stepping out for a bit. Be back…let’s say New Year’s Day. You’ve been a great audience, and we’ll see you then.

Because the true lesson of middle age is to never say, “Things couldn’t get any worse” — because there’s always a way for anything to get worse — a warning that my presence may be scarce around here the next couple days. We’re preoccupied with a family situation. Nothing for you folks to worry about; we’re all healthy and safe. But others aren’t, and we’ll be traveling today, and out of touch.

But that’s OK, because we have a truly fabulous photo from Julie Robinson, who writes: For the holdiays at the Robinson household, we like to encourage our children to engage in cross-dressing. This is our son in his Madrigals tunic and tights. He doesn’t understand how girls can wear such short skirts. Carefully, said Mom, very carefully.

She doesn’t tell us the young man’s name. Let’s call him…Ashley.

On day one of Kwanzaa, I wish you all umoja. Let’s try this again tomorrow.

Sometimes, here, we talk about Ashley, our valued reader and commenter. That’s Ashley Morris, Warren Zevon fan, New Orleans radical. Professor of computer science at DePaul University. (Yes, in Chicago. It’s a very long commute.)

When we talk about Ashley here, sometimes someone will say, “Who does this Ashley Morris think she is?”

It happened again this week, in a private e-mail. I already straightened my correspondent out, but just to state for the record…

This is Ashley Morris, the NN.C reader:

He’s the one in the Devils jersey. The woman in the picture is Mrs. Ashley Morris, whom you don’t want to mess with, either, as she’s six feet tall six feet two and currently on the Big Easy Rollergirls’ DL.

This is Ashley Morris, the actress:

(As you might expect, Our Ashley says of his namesake, “I’d hit it.”)

As to how Ashley got a girl’s name, all I can say is, haven’t any of you people seen “Gone With the Wind?”

That is all. Carry on.

Not much today, friends, but you’re free to play like kittens in the comments. Just to get you started…

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be Mitch Albom, to get up every morning, look in the mirror and say, “I am worth every penny.” Think he does that? Or does he, like so many other successful people, secretly believe he has pulled off an illusion worthy of Ricky Jay, and tremble inwardly at what will happen when the audience finds out? I dunno. All I know is, I have never been a sportswriter and everything I know about baseball could fit in a shoebox, and I could have written a better column about the Mitchell Report than this. In fact, if you’d given me the Mitchell Report as a challenge, and asked me to write something about it, something suitable for a daily newspaper, I would have turned in something very much like Albom’s column. Watch me as I reveal the mysteries of punditry:

First, state facts already in evidence:

… the report was not earth-shattering, only because we already have suspected much of what it contained. Sure, many more names were thrown on the bonfire, including All-Stars such as Roger Clemens, Andy Pettitte and Miguel Tejada, and as you read this, analysts and fans are screaming over how to view their careers.

Then, ask a lot of rhetorical questions:

So now what? … And if they had nothing to hide, why didn’t any of them talk? …Or will the net result be, as many suspect, a big fat nothing?

Sign off with that time-tested waffler:

Where we go next is anyone’s guess.

Cash check.

Michael Rosenberg, the other Freep sports columnist, does a better job. Not hugely better, but better. Writing a first-day column about a big event expected to have wide repercussions someday, but not today, is always an exercise in thumb-twiddling. But some twiddle better than others. For instruction on how to do it well, I recommend Thomas Boswell and Harvey Araton.

For the scores of you keeping track at home, let me report the dog’s health has taken a dramatic turn for the better on his new food. Within 24 hours, his energy improved, his tucked-in skinny flanks began to fill out and he stopped looking like a sick dog, and more like a very healthy one. There was a trip to the groomer in there for a bath and haircut, which helped, but you can’t fake weight gain. He goes back next week for another blood test, and unless my eyes deceive me, the results will be good.

Something to think about for later this month. Last year we spent that down week between the holidays posting pictures submitted by you folks. Because we have so many regular commenters here, it’s nice to get a closer look at one another when there’s not much else going on. So send in some holiday pictures, and we’ll fill the waning days of the year sharing them here.

So have a great weekend. Mine will be exhausting. Hope yours isn’t.

As should be obvious from my remarks here and there, my video-camera problem has been solved. My dear friend J.C. Burns sent me his Canon GL1 on extended loan-with-option-to-buy, and my new Flip, aka “the second unit,” can go places the Canon can’t. So I’m hoping to have some video up here within a few weeks, as soon as I can suss out the complexities of getting everyone talking to everyone else, as well as the new version of iMovie, which is a pain in the ass.

However, it appears the real genius piece of gear in all of this is my new Gorillapod, which I strongly recommend to anyone who likes to fool around with cameras. Yesterday I used a long drive to Northville (a distant suburb that was, frankly, not worth the tire rubber) to do some video note-taking for an upcoming feature, working title “Let’s Go Drivin’ in the D with Nance.” I splayed the Gorillapod on the dashboard, affixed the Flip, and prepared for the usual freeway mayhem. The disappointment was that motorists were unusually well-behaved; I was only passed on the right at 85 mph by one or two cell-phone yakkers. But the G’pod was a revelation. It shifted not a millimeter, stayed steady on corners and exit ramps, and together with the Flip took up no more space than a dash-mounted GPS system, which is what it looked like.

Trust me: It’s the best $20 you’ll spend for good pictures. There’s even a Flickr group dedicated to its wonders.

After the Virginia Tech shooting, in which a few bold conservatives took a new step down the yea-guns road by blaming the victims for their own death (because they failed to “rush the guy” while he was reloading), I could hardly wait to see what would be said in the bullshitosphere after the next mass shooting — the brush had been cleared, after all. It didn’t take long: now Instapundit, who declares himself a libertarian, is suggesting that properties that declare themselves gun-free should be held personally liable for violence that occurs there: Perhaps we need legislation. If it saves just one life, it’s worth it.

Roy Edroso points out what you might suspect: That the rootin’, tootin’ western state of Nebraska has no effective restraints on long-barreled firearms, although it does restrict carrying concealed weapons. You need a permit to purchase a handgun, but not to own one. The “gun-free zone” that the right-wingers are all up in arms about is likely the legal opt-out that private-property owners employ these days. When I was in Minnesota a few years back, you saw signs everywhere declaring this or that building gun-free. It wasn’t enforced with metal detectors or anything; I suspect it was a liability dodge, or maybe a corporate bumper sticker, or something. So the mall in Omaha had these signs, and now a leading libertarian is suggesting some legislation to, what? Outlaw gun-free zones? Allow victims to sue?

I have a libertarian proposition for you: Let some savvy, pistol-packin’ real-estate developer open the OK Corral Mall down the street from this one. Go ahead and scratch up some tenants, and proudly display a sign: Everyone’s packin’ a peacemaker. Enter at your own risk. Let’s let the market sort it out!

Just speaking for myself, having a heavily armed populace just next door in Detroit makes me feel extra-safe there.

It occurs to me from my recent linkage there, some might think Roy’s is the only blog I read. If only. But I am trying to cut down, at least on the political stuff. Roy’s niche is arts, culture and calling out wingnuts. Works for me. But if you’re wondering, I also read TBogg; Lawyers, Guns and Money and a few others. Lately I’ve been reading more non-politics sites, like Bossy and, of course, the Fug Girls, even though they were way too tough on Beyoncé this week, if you ask me. That green dress does make her look a little like one of the guppies in my fish tank, but a very sexy one.

I’m adding a new tag here: Metro mayhem, for stories like this. Why do men beat their wives? (Answer, at least in this case: Because he was drunk.) Bonus: Two 911 recordings that demonstrate just how horrible 911 operators are around here.

OK, paying work awaits. Have a great day.

…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.