Talked to a couple of old friends in the past few days. One recently had a hysterectomy, and it went well. She described the moment when the doctor came in to her hospital room and announced she could be released, just as soon as the surgical packing was removed from her vagina — gauze, mostly.

“You know that trick where the magician pulls out a long string of scarves, and it just goes on and on and on?” she said. “It was like that, only grosser.”

The other one told a few stories about her work life, which are the best stories ever. I’d pay money to see her one-woman show someday, and maybe I will. If you want to collect good stories about people, don’t bother becoming a bartender. Become a house cleaner instead. Better stories. One of my editors used to say a mailman knew more about your life than any other stranger who touched it. I say it’s your house cleaner, who knows the state of your marriage from the remains of your romantic dinners for two, and certainly by the number of votive candles arrayed around your bathtub. This friend used to clean empty houses for Realtors, and could tell the ethnicity of the former owners with astonishing accuracy:

“Asians lived there,” she said. “Long black hairs in the bathroom, lots of spilled rice in the pantry.” Indians left behind cooking smells, and favored certain paint colors. (White folks like neutrals.)

The best story she told me was about a lovely house in an upscale suburban area that one of her clients picked up very very cheap. It had been trashed, she said, by the previous owner’s children. It seemed that one day mom ran off with her boyfriend and moved to a faraway state. Then, a few months later, dad accepted a job in another distant city. When the teenage children, who were entering their junior and senior year of high school, objected to the relocation, he said, “OK, you kids can live here until you finish school. You’re old enough to take care of yourselves. I’ll send you some money. Bye.” You can imagine what happened: It became party central, a cushy crash pad for every local kid who needed a place to drink, get high or get laid. And over time, no doubt egged on by the effectively orphaned tenants, the place was very nearly destroyed — they threw cans of house paint out the window onto the driveway to see what it would look like, let the pool go back to nature, wrecked the furniture and carpets, punched holes in the walls and so on. Rehabbing it was a six-figure job, and it was practically a new house to begin with.

That should be a movie, don’t you think? The most interesting stories are be-careful-what-you-wish-for stories.

I have the bestest friends.

Bloggage:

My new rock-star husband, Don Was — yes, Rodney Crowell, while I will always love you, it’s all over between us — was in the Metro Times last week. I missed the show he was promoting, The Don Was Detroit Super Session, and yes I am kicking myself. But he’s so generous in his interviews, which is one reason I love him. They just go on and on and on, and he says so many interesting things. I bring this up because we were talking about the Jill Sobule album-financing deal a while back, and lo, guess what happened:

MT: Other than the Todd Snider project, do you have anything else major coming up?

WAS: Well, just before that, I finished an album with Jill Sobule. She did the original “I Kissed A Girl,” but she shouldn’t be judged on that. She’s a really deep songwriter — both funny and profound. She has a devoted fan base, and she had a “telethon” on her website where fans could contribute as little as $18, for which they got a T-shirt and an early download of the album. For $10,000 — which some people actually bought — you got the hyper-platinum package which allowed you to come and sing background vocals on the album. And she raised $85,000 in about three weeks. Then we made that album — recorded and mixed it — in less than two weeks. Same basic principle. And, you know, there’s just, something about it – that immediacy.

And also in the Metro Times, one of the Starbucks that’s closing is the one on Jefferson in Detroit. Alas, it was beloved by someone other than the usual nobodies:

Long before Renee Zellweger’s brief marriage to country “singer” Kenny Chesney, long before Jack White married model Karen Elson while floating down a Brazilian river, the movie star and the rock star were, as your grandparents might have called ’em, an item. Zellweger spent much time in Detroit, in fact, which was a shocker to us regular folk who spotted her wandering about in supermarkets and dining in restaurants like someone who is, as she calls herself, “just kind of normal”… “Oh, yeah,” she says, drawing the “yeah” out with a few extra vowels. “I’d like to say hi to my friends at the Starbucks on Jefferson. Nice guys.”

A little housekeeping: I’m now on Twitter, as NNall. Like Facebook, I don’t quite get it, but maybe I can figure it out.

I’ve run dry, folks. Blogging may resume mid-week, depending on my internet connections, or it may not. Consider this an open thread for whatever you want to discuss. Active this week: Bloggers at The New Package start in on Generation Kill, and I’m sure Coozledad will have a few stories to tell. Back July 21 at the latest.

Some housekeeping notes, as the summer moves into a higher gear:

I’ll be traveling a bit this month, so posting may be spotty. Wednesday it’s wheels-up for the Lou (as native son Nelly calls it), city of my birth, gateway to the west. I’m only sleeping there, however; on Thursday, I’m renting a car and driving a few hours into central Illinois, where I’m leading a workshop on blogging for the Prairie Writing School, part of the 2008 Cornerstone Festival. And what is the Cornerstone Festival, you ask? I’m told it’s the “Christian Burning Man.” Yes, I’m as intrigued as you are.

The week of July 14 will be off-and-on, too, as NN.C departs for a real family vacation. I keep hoping we can afford Turkey one of these days, but alas, the U.S. dollar is now the new Russian ruble, and it’s just too expensive. But we had a great time in NYC last year, so we told Kate to pick an American city she’s always wanted to visit, trusting she wouldn’t choose someplace like Colorado Springs. She thought for only a minute, and said, “San Francisco.” That’s my girl. So that’s where we’ll be (there, and Monterey). Intermittent blogging that week.

And with that, I realize I’ve left an important event off my morning calendar, so best skedaddle. What must we absolutely, positively do when we’re in SF? I mean, besides visit City Lights Books. That’s a given.

Back in a bit.

It wasn’t until I saw the flag box in the grocery store vestibule that I remembered how patriotic this part of the state is. A retired mailbox, it was repainted white and emblazoned (in red and blue, natch): DEPOSIT WORN-OUT FLAGS HERE FOR PROPER DISPOSAL. I own a flag, but it’s only been flown on patriotic occasions, so I figure it’ll last a lifetime. I can’t imagine going through so many that I’d need to use a special flag-disposal box, but like I said, Mio, Mich. is a patriotic place.

We were in Mio to launch the boat for a little downstream floating, part of CampFest 2008, the first of three planned summer trips. Somehow, two people who rarely passed a year without a camping trip managed to give it up entirely when the kid came along. (Wonder why? Wonder no longer than it takes you to imagine changing diapers in a tent. Keeping toddlers happy in a tent. And so on.) So this was Kate’s first, but not her last. At least, I hope so. We had torrential downpours both nights, our campsite was invaded by tent caterpillars, the mosquitos were vicious, and there was a war going on across the river, and she still had fun. Fingers crossed.

Yes, a war. We camped in Grayling, home of Camp Grayling, and as usual, maneuvers were under way. The town was clogged with camouflage, and at night, the sound of machine-gun and artillery fire rang through the woods. It’s actually not objectionable at all — it wasn’t terribly loud, they’re good neighbors, and the plug is pulled at 10 p.m., which, at this time of year and at that latitude, isn’t even full dark.

Most people around here know the charming story of the Kirtland’s Warbler, an endangered little songbird once thought extinct, until a few were found nesting near the National Guard’s firing ranges. KWs nest in jack pine forest, but only in trees about head-high; they need a recently burned landscape to survive. In the years of vigorous fire suppression, they lost habitat, and only found it in the places where artillery shells had started small fires, stimulating regrowth. And so the wee birdie found refuge with the big soldiers, and if we could add some kittens and rainbows to this story, we would.

Actually, we can. This was Saturday:

Yep, that’s a threatening sky. I’m just glad the hailstorm came when we were in the car.

More video later. I have a busy morning, and then a busy week. I think I mentioned this once before, but lo it has come to pass: I’m on a team participating in the Detroit-Windsor International Film Festival Challenge, which takes place this coming weekend. Everybody meets at a central location, and each team is given a genre, a location, a line of dialogue and a prop, and we’re given 48 hours to make a four- to seven-minute film incorporating all four. The location has already been leaked — the Ambassador Bridge. There are six possible genres, which means I (the writer) have to have at least six vague ideas for short stories in each one. That’s not too daunting, is it?

Also, a final note: I freely admit to being the most out-of-touch writer in the world, but even I was amazed at the Princess Diana-ization of Tim Russert’s death. My last media intake was Friday night, after midnight, when MSNBC was still live “Remembering Tim Russert.” When I resurfaced Monday, glancing at the headlines in USA Today at the Grayling McDonald’s (did I mention I forgot the coffee in the camp kitchen), there were stories about sudden cardiac arrest and “what it means for your health.” It must suck to be famous. Is there really a demand for this? Judging from some of the vox populi out there, a lot of people felt personally connected to the guy. I don’t get it, but I’m sorry for the loss.

Back in a bit.

Back and better-rested. Maybe a little housekeeping, to get the blood moving:

In comments from time to time, most lately earlier this week, someone asks why I don’t block the rambling of michaelj/caliban (we all figured that out, right? No, I don’t know why he changed his posting name, either.). The answer is pretty clear to me, but if it isn’t to you, here’s why:

At its best, which is pretty damn often in this blog, the commenting here reminds me of something, a place I once held dear — the bar after work at the Anytown Post. It starts with three reporters bitching about work, and they are joined by two more, which necessitates pushing some tables together. Then a couple editors come over, including one that the original gang of three was bitching about, which changes the subject and increases the tension. Then a couple more, then a state legislator who happens to be unwinding after work, and maybe one of the reporter’s friends from the courthouse. Soon lots of tables are pushed together, the waitress is serving them almost exclusively, and everybody is talking. Maybe there’s one big theme to the main thread, but two people are discussing recipes for barbecue rubs, or the best places to eat cheap in Chicago or New York. Two more are handicapping a local election, and two more are talking about the funny things a bookie said while everyone waited for the jury trying him on gambling charges to deliberate.

(In my experience, he said this: “Dave Thomas may have a few million bucks, but I told him, ‘Dave, you’re still a hillbilly in a thousand-dollar suit.'” This was when a thousand dollars bought a nice suit. The bookie was convicted, after which he told far fewer jokes. Columbus, c. early ’80s.)

Anyway, what’s my role in this? Sometimes I’m in the original group. Sometimes I’m the waitress. If the bar were very long, I’d be the bartender. Sometimes I’m the single sitting nearby who is eavesdropping. I just want the conversation to continue, and to amuse me.

And who is Caliban? He’s the drunk at the bar who walks past the table en route to the bathroom, stops and makes a speech. Sometimes he makes no sense. Sometimes he seems inordinately angry. Sometimes he’s mellow and expansive. Sometimes his fingers go off the home row z c nkx ;lxgd dnc .k,d gkx/

As long as he refrains from insulting the regulars beyond the point of medium teasing, as long as he throws no punches, as long as he keeps stopping in, his money’s good in my bar.

I ban only two people (so far). Even those are still on a case-by-case basis, which is to say, their IPs aren’t blocked — they just go to moderation, where I delete them. One is a very, very angry man who works somewhere at North American Van Lines in Fort Wayne (according to his IP lookup) and is frequently racist. The other is Rich Reynolds, Fort Wayne’s self-appointed media critic, who abused me on a regular schedule (i.e., constantly) for a decade, and still does. (I expect another big outburst after he reads this.) I can always take the abuse, but he regularly swings into wild inaccuracy and targeted lying, and besides, he still has his stupid little website, faxes and approximately 12,000 blogs to post on. The last comment to NN.C submitted from his IP/screen name said, “You are a piece of shit.” That’s as much of a platform I’ll give him, while I await news of his death.

It’s my bar. I’m a magnanimous bartender. But I have my limits, and that’s what they are.

If you’ll allow me a moment of gratitude: I read a lot of blogs, and a lot of comment sections. Of course I am biased, but I think this is one of the best. Really. I’m consistently amazed by how smart and funny everyone is, how often you add real value and good information to whatever we’re discussing. I’m glad I have some people here who don’t agree with me politically, but still chime in — Danny, Jeff the mild-mannered, basset, et al. I’m pleased we’re not an echo chamber of ass-kissing and back-slapping. I’m glad we can disagree in a respectful but not boring manner. I’m glad we can disagree, go home angry and still return, hopeful, the next day. But most of all, I’m astonished by the range our bar pulls in — unchurched ministers in Ohio, urban planners in Nashville, engineers in San Diego, journalists everywhere. For a blog that is, most days, about nothing in particular, I’m honored that you all come to drink here.

Finally, it’s sort of thrilling that every day we reinvent the writer/reader model, twist and reshape the feedback loop and become, in a cliché phrase I used earlier in the week in another context, something greater than the sum of our parts.

That’s why I don’t ban Caliban. You can always skip his posts. Besides, he’s part of our strange community, and I still like him.

That seems a good enough note to start the weekend on. Current temperature: 86. Wind: 17 miles per hour. Humidity: Brutal. Think I’ll go ride the bike. See you Monday.

Nothing like turning the page of your calendar and reading “boat in” on a day you’d totally forgotten about. So let’s make this an open discussion thread. It’s blog Calvinball — whoever has the ball gets to determine what the topic is. “But Nance,” you query. “Isn’t that the way it always is?” Why yes, but now it has a name — Blog Calvinball.

Take the talking stick and beat on someone with it (or don’t). I’ll be back this afternoon.

(On the off chance we have new readers today — an off chance because I stupidly forgot to plug NN.C in my shirttail yesterday — be advised that all new comments go to moderation first, but once you’re approved you’re in. So if you don’t see you comment right away, be patient.)

Last night brought the sad and surprising news that our very own Ashley Morris died yesterday in Florida. I don’t know anything more than what his wife, Hana, posted last night; if I find out anything more, I’ll pass it along.

In the meantime, keep good thoughts, prayers, whatever your inclination is. He will be missed.

The morning newspaper was a real remind-me-why-I-live-here moment today, a survey course of local misery. Factories are dismantled and sold to the highest bidder. Those stamping presses aren’t just melted down; they’re disassembled, sent by freighter overseas, and go on stamping in Korea or someplace. (Sometimes, that is. The one in the lead of this story went across town.) More perjury suspected among the mayoral minions — there’s dog-bites-man. The freeways are going to be a mess for the foreseeable future, such as it is in Michigan.

Yeesh. Turned to the business page. More good news about the housing market — average home equity slipped below 50 percent for the first time since 1945. Don’t remind me. So what’s opening at the cineplex this weekend? “College Road Trip?” Grade: F, says the Sun-Times critic.

Well, Daylight Saving Time starts Sunday. There’s that.

A couple of housekeeping notes: As you might imagine, the volume of unanswered e-mail around here is reaching amnesty levels. I don’t plan to do that, but am working through the pile at a slower pace than I’d like. It was great to hear from so many people I haven’t heard from in ages — and I’m talking to you, Carol Salad Girl — and I want to at least tag them back. So if you’re waiting for a reply, wait a little longer, and I should have everything answered by next week. Maybe.

As for more literal housekeeping, you should see the state of my bathrooms at the moment. Also, my lovely orchid, which sits on its own stand next to my luxurious Ikea chaise, my preferred writing place most days, has something called scale infestation. I downloaded a six-page treatment outline, and now I feel like a freshman with a very heavy backpack. My impulse is to pitch it and buy another at the Eastern Market tomorrow, but I fear being without something of beauty to contemplate when the creative well runs dry. God knows the landscape outside isn’t doing much for us at the moment, even though I did see a nice hawk far up in a neighbor’s oak the other day. Too far away for positive ID, but I’d put my next freelance check on it being Cooper’s or Red-tail.

Which is my long-winded way of saying, I’m outta here for the weekend. (Like I said: You should see my bathrooms.) Be kind to one another.

At 5 p.m. today, I’m closing comments on the original Goeglein post, and maybe on the second one, as well. Keeping up with the moderation queue is making it tough to get anything else done, and I think all that needs to be said has been said. The more recent poo-flinging is starting to get on my nerves as well. As many of our regulars have noted, this is a blog that keeps things fairly friendly, even when we’re fighting. I’m putting pretty much everything through in the interest of letting everyone have a say, but it’s really unwieldy now.

I have some real (i.e., paying) work to do today, and after that I think we need a big palate cleanser. I shot some video at the Detroit Kennel Club dog shows Sunday, so stand by for Napoleon mastiffs, eventually.