The various elite news outlets of the world are doing their thing over fellow elitist Graydon Carter’s memoir, publishing…Tuesday, I expect. It does sound like an amusing, if name-droppy, read. But I was taken with this brief passage quoted in the NYT; it’s about certain rules Carter enforced when he edited Vanity Fair:

Out went words like abode, opine, plethora and passed away (for died). Out went glitzy, wannabe and even celebrity. Out went chops (for acting abilities), donned (as in put-on), A-list, boasted (as in had or featured), coiffed, eatery (for restaurant), flat (for apartment), flick (for movie) … honcho, hooker, schlep (as in to lug something somewhere), scribe (as in writer) and Tinseltown. All found their way into the copyedit boneyard.

Most of these words are journalese, i.e. the language spoken only in print. No one calls a writer a scribe except in print. No one says, “I don’t care for that Nancy Nall and her constant opining.” Once someone used the phrase “ink” to describe signing a contract in a casual conversation with me, and I kinda cringed. But the larger point is, all editors have such lists. One of my former bosses hated the word “butt” to describe the place where your legs join your back, and insisted it be replaced with “hips,” which isn’t even accurate. There was the guy who hated the word “moist,” in all its forms. I read Carter’s list to Alan because I spotted two of my husband’s on there – “donned” and “Tinseltown.” He also immediately strikes “mustachioed” if he sees it in any copy he handles. My own peeves are pretty much aligned. I despise any deep description of a person’s appearance, if that appearance is entirely ordinary, unless that ordinariness is important somewhere down the line. Back when newspapers had money, they’d send reporters to writing conferences, where well-known writers would say, “Describe people! Use adjectives!” And the reporters all came home and dutifully detailed the city manager’s khaki pants, Oxford-cloth button-down and navy blazer. I recall seeing one story that described a deer as “honey-colored.” They’re all honey-colored, hon; tell me if it’s a pinto.

OK, then. The last few days have been a little action-packed. I’m recertifying my lifeguarding credential, and it turns out the recert class is just the original class, but free. So it’s me and a dozen teenagers, and they are way stronger than me. But I’m hanging in there. Just way more tired. Also, the news of the day is bringing me down. I’m so disappointed in the waste of oxygen who calls himself one of my senators that I don’t know what to do. My old friend Vince the fellow Fellow describes himself as “beyond despondent.” If Democrats won’t fight, what good are they?

On edit: Here’s a beautiful story for St. Patrick’s Day. Gift link.

I’ve mentioned one of my “retirement” gigs here. I am on the social-media team for a local nonprofit, which I won’t name because they didn’t ask to have an online loudmouth in the group. I respect that. It’s enjoyable work and pays enough to make it worth my time. It won’t last forever, anyway, and that’s fine.

But as such, I am more or less required to have a Facebook account. I can use the nonprofit’s login for every other major platform — Xitter, Threads, Instagram — but because the Facebook presence is a “business” page, I can only access it from my own personal account. And Facebook is the 900-pound gorilla, still, of social media, where the vast majority of users who pay attention to us dwell.

Many of the people I used to follow with pleasure are leaving Facebook these days. Who can blame them? Of all the tech bros, Mark Zuckerberg’s grovel to Trump has been the most cringey. And the platform has deteriorated, sharply, in recent years. Not as bad as Xitter’s Nazification, true, but it’s just hot garbage now, for the most part. I think I might have mentioned a month or so, I was served a post about Secretariat, the mid-’70s Triple Crown winner, probably because I once clicked on a video of him winning the 1973 Belmont. The post included an AI picture, ostensibly of that very horse, only the markings were wrong, the jockey’s silks were wrong and — this part was hilarious — he was running the wrong way on the track. Then yesterday I was served another one, an AI rewrite of a famous anecdote about the first time Ron Turcotte (his jockey) saw Secretariat as a two-year-old. The illustration, also AI, was a horse with palomino paint markings, as different from Secretariat as George Clooney is from Donald Trump; the prompt was probably something like “beautiful horse.”

Who needs this shit? Not me.

But. There are still pockets of the platform, nearly all local, that I need to access to keep up with things happening around here. This, too, is increasingly like watching a sluice of bullshit fly by, with an occasional well-wrapped sandwich coming through. My community’s newspaper is terrible and used as a cudgel by its wealthy owner, so I don’t subscribe. The bullshit posts — Did I just hear gunshots? (18 hours ago) Does anyone know if a particular store is open? (12 hours ago) I’m mad the garbage collectors left my can tipped over!!! (3 days ago) — sometimes have a worthwhile Marketplace item tucked in there, or, even more rarely, news of interest.

And also, Facebook is probably the only place where a fair number of people who read what I have to say disagree with me. In other words, it’s still a target-rich environment for needling assholes.

Lately I’ve been reading about how we can resist the current catastrophe. I’ve been through my back-turning phase, and it’s over; my new resolution is simply to stop 2 a.m. doomscrolling. But not paying attention is a sucker’s game, in the end. We must pay attention. We just have to. And my skill is that I’m a writer, and a fairly good one. While I know that the aforementioned assholes may not even follow me — I certainly unfollowed many of them years ago — I also know we have to feel less alone these days, that we have fellow travelers out in the ether.

I stepped away from Facebook around New Year’s Day. I still comment here and there, but I haven’t made a new post, in writing, since then. I have changed my “cover” photo twice, to images that make clear how I feel about All This Shit, and the reaction to it makes me wonder if dropping the platform entirely (which, again, I can’t do with this job) isn’t the wrong strategy. Meet people where they are, in other words, and for now they’re still on Facebook.

If you’ve read this far, I’d be interested in opinions.

Jesus, what a week, which is to say, another fucking week. Here’s a treat, though, speaking of keeping up the good fight: A hilarious piece by Roy Edroso on the new, Trumpified Kennedy Center. It made me laugh and I hope it does the same for you. Happy Valentine’s Day.

I watched “Emilia Pérez” this week. It’s, shall we say, a rather experimental film. One critic described it as “Mrs. Doubtfire” meets “Sicario,” plus a musical. Written and directed by a Frenchman (and filmed almost entirely in Paris), it has received a buttload of cultural criticism; one critic noticed none of the characters in this Mexico-set story spoke Spanish with a Mexican accent. To this I can only shrug; it was so weird and imaginative it seemed to take place in a world where accents were the least of anyone’s worries. The plot, in a nutshell:

Rita, a female lawyer (Zoe Saldana) frustrated with her work, is plucked off the street, literally, by a Mexican drug lord, Manitas, who wants her to do an unusual service: To relocate him and his family, separately, to a place where his enemies will never find him or them. His motivation: He intends to complete his gender transition and become a woman. For this service Rita will be rewarded with riches beyond her wildest dreams. She does so; this is the first act. Manitas, now Emilia, is in London, his wife and children in Switzerland. After some years, Emilia misses her children and wants to live with them again, and Rita is again enlisted to reunite them, this time with the cover story that Emilia is a long-lost aunt, and this is where the Mrs. Doubtfire stuff comes in. The story gets even more spirited from there, and I won’t tell you more, other than to say: I liked it short of loving it. The performances were excellent, and I even identified with Emilia in the sense that we have similar high-school-linebacker-size bodies; every time I saw her in the frame with the Hollywood-tiny Saldana, or Selena Gomez, who plays her wife, I was startled by the contrast.

As a rule, the Oscar-bait films come out at the end of the year and I haven’t seen many this year. I get dispirited by 10 months of superheroes, toy-based crap, animated garbage and so forth in the local multiplexes, and can’t always find a dozen free weekends between Labor Day and the King holiday to cram all the good stuff in. I think the last thing we saw in theaters was “Megalopolis.” But we’ve set aside tonight for “A Complete Unknown,” so there.

Anyway, I’ve come to admire art that really swings for the fences, and while “Emilia Perez” has many many flaws, it does indeed do that.

It’s been a weird week. Every time I look at a news site, I see further evidence we’re doomed. I don’t want to look away, as many have; it’s our responsibility to stay woke, as we once said. But there are days I have to think about the movies for a while. So I leave you with some bloggage, OK?

A smart piece on Pamela Paul, departing NYT columnist.

Finally, a photo I’ve vividly remembered from my college years, and could never find, until the name the photographer gave it when it made the contest rounds came to me all at once, burped up by my memory. A quick Google, and there it was. Not wanting to violate whatever copyright might still pertain, here’s a link. The backstory: The Ohio KKK held a rally on the Statehouse steps and some anti-racists showed up to fuck up their shit, so to speak. One made it all the way to where the Grand Wizard, or whatever those douchebags call themselves, was standing and delivered a fine blow, caught at the exact instant of impact by a UPI photographer. Title: “The Wizard Gets Walloped,” an image that regrettably will probably be duplicated in our own time. This may mark me as old-school, but I love, purely love, black-and-white news photography, and no video will ever change that.

Have a good weekend, all. Welcome to new readers. Thanks for stopping by.

I read “Misery.” Saw the movie, too. I recall Stephen King talking in an interview about his inspiration for the novel, i.e. meeting his fans, and how quickly they can turn from “I love every word you’ve ever written, including the grocery lists” to “I will kill you, you motherfucker.” Usually this happens because you’ve turned down a fan’s perfectly reasonable request, perhaps that you come to their home, lay hands on their dying grandparent, and then stand as godparent to their child.

I have listened to “Stan,” the Eminem song that gave the world “stan,” lower-case, as a word for a certain kind of superfan. I’m aware of the Swifties, the Beyhive, and probably a dozen other self-named fan groups. There was an Amazon series a year or two back about a woman who was devoted to a fictional pop star similar to Beyonce, and I watched it, or enough of it. And Kate’s partner works at a local business founded by a local celebrity, and he talks about the superfans who come in, and solemnly hand the staff pictures they’ve drawn and other stuff, begging that they pass it along to that celebrity.

So I know that today’s fandom is nothing like yesterday’s, at least in my opinion. (Yes, I know about the suicides after Rudolph Valentino’s death, ditto Elvis, but the internet changed everything, and you’ll never convince me otherwise.)

This week I read the New York magazine piece on Neil Gaiman, the fantasy novelist. It starts out being a fairly familiar piece about Gaiman being, as we say now, “problematic,” but if you stick with it, it gets darker and darker, and while I have a long-standing policy of judging art, not artists, I finished it tempted to burn every Gaiman book in my possession. (One, as it turns out, with another on the Kindle app.) He stands revealed as not just a sexual abuser, but a sexual assailant, a particularly nasty variety of same, as well as a parent who should probably never see his child again. His ex-wife, Amanda Palmer, doesn’t come off much better.

There will no doubt be plenty of commentary on Gaiman, and the claims made by the women in the story, but I want to talk about fandom, as described in two short passages from a very long article:

Women would turn up to his signings dressed in the elaborate Victorian-goth attire of his characters and beg him to sign their breasts or slip him key cards to their hotel rooms. One writer recounts running into Gaiman at a World Fantasy Convention in 2011. His assistant wasn’t around, and he was late to a reading. “I can’t get to it if I walk by myself,” he told her. As they made their way through the convention side by side, “the whole floor full of people tilted and slid toward him,” she says. “They wanted to be entwined with him in ways I was not prepared to defend him against.” A woman fell to her knees and wept.

People who flock to fantasy conventions and signings make up an “inherently vulnerable community,” one of Gaiman’s former friends, a fantasy writer, tells me. They “wrap themselves around a beloved text so it becomes their self-identity,” she says. They want to share their souls with the creators of these works. “And if you have morality around it, you say ‘no.’”

It’s not a spoiler to reveal that Gaiman did not have morality around it, at least with some of them. But mercy! That quote about self-identity — that hits the nail on the head. I have my own fan enthusiasms, to be sure, but they begin and end with wearing a band’s T-shirt to their next show. I’ve met enough people I admire to know that “never meet your heroes” advice is sound. And yet, today’s fandoms seem to always take it too far.

It’s the larping and the cosplay — speaking of two words I had to look up, and not that long ago — and the WhateverCons and the fanfic (another one) and the cultivation of websites and Reddit groups, so you can find other people who share your enthusiasm and will talk-talk-talk about it with you forever. Until it seems perfectly reasonable to fall to your knees, weeping, when the object of your obsession passes close by. And those people become sitting ducks for the sort of abuse Gaiman dished out. (It should be noted that the worst of the abuse detailed in the article was inflicted upon babysitters, but there were ugly incidents with fans, too.)

Fans are important, of course, but if you ever wonder why your favorite actors, musicians, writers, et al have to live behind walls and fences, and rarely go out in public, and have to hold themselves aloof from the rest of humanity, well, this is one reason.

Various people have postulated over the years that the loss of religion on a wide scale led to…all sorts of stuff. Our obsession with our bodies, with food and diets, our naive belief that we are somehow perfectible. It suggests that worship — of God, of heroes — is something we need. Jesus is a pretty good role model, all around. Beats a novelist.

How’s your week going?

Because I once clicked on a Facebook post about Secretariat’s win in the 1973 Belmont Stakes, I now get lots of Secretariat content shoveled at me on that platform. The other day a pic came up, allegedly of Secretariat racing in the Belmont, except that the markings on the horse were wrong, the tack was wrong and the horse was going the wrong way on the track. Many of these garbage postings are from groups with names like “We love secretariat,” no capitalization, or from accounts attached to individuals allegedly named “An Du” or “Moo Iu,” or suchlike. In other words, they’re AI crap.

The explosion of AI crap is not confined to a crap platform like Facebook. So-called pink slime journalism is everywhere, too. The other day a local lunatic posted a story from one of those sites, and it’s obvious — stories based on data scrapes about school testing, all with the same picture. Weird hiccups like opinion columns from 2021, themselves aggregations of crap published elsewhere, popping up on the home page. The parent company publishes dozens of these things in Michigan alone; their domain registry is anonymous, of course.

People sometimes ask if I miss journalism. I do not.

Facebook, or Meta, made news yesterday when Mark Zuckerberg announced he was bending the knee and shitcanning the platform’s fact-checking, in favor of “community notes,” the same as Xitter does. My first reaction: Facebook does fact-checking? I haven’t seen a checked fact on that shit-tastic platform in ages. Even the AI Secretariat got past.

I have a decent monthly stipend doing social-media work for one client. If I didn’t, I’d be outta there justlikethat.

In other news at this hour, Los Angeles is on fire. Hope LA Mary and any readers we might have out that way are staying safe. Kate and I just texted, and she wondered if the unpaid interns who succeeded her at her 2019 gig are stuffing the boss’ valuables into their own cars and fleeing in those cars, while the boss evacuates in some more dignified conveyance, maybe a golden helicopter or a flying limo. Not that she is bitter, but those four months turned her into a hard-core lefty.

Funny how there are some people who go through a rough period as a bottom-of-the-ladder underling and think, “I can’t wait until I’m a boss and can shit on people, too!” and others think, “When I become a boss, I will never shit on people the way I was shit on.” Proud to have raised the latter type, but I can’t take credit for it. Like all human beings, she basically emerged from the womb fully herself. I just fed her.

OK, work calls.

The last two years of the Carter presidency coincided with the first two years of my career in newspapers, and one of my early tasks was to help edit the vast amounts of wire copy that went into the Sunday women’s section at the Columbus Dispatch. Fashion, advice, all that stuff, but today I’m thinking about Betty Beale, who covered Washington society. Her columns about parties at the French embassy seemed a little out of touch with central Ohio readers, but like I said, we had a lot of space to fill.

Beale, like most of permanent Washington, despised the Carters, considered them cornpone country white trash and never missed a chance to sneer at them. To be sure, the Carters were a very different first couple than we’d seen in previous administrations, and certainly did things differently than the Nixons, Fords, Kennedys and even the Johnsons. Rosalynn, you might remember, recycled the gown for the presidential inaugural that she wore to her husband’s gubernatorial inaugural celebration some years before. This was before stylists had coined the term “vintage” and “shopping your closet,” and Beale echoed the opinions that the First Lady has some responsibility to wear and promote American designers, and their current collections, not the old stuff. Jimmy preferred to carry his own bags, and she didn’t like that much, either. How trifling! How low-class! Doesn’t he know the American president should not humble himself to manual labor? When they elected to walk the inaugural parade route, rather than ride in a limo, why you could hear the tut-tutting all the way to Ohio.

It went on and on like this, and not just from Beale. The Carters, who voters elected in large part because they were so different from official Washington, were expected to just figure these things out. The country was in a weird, stressed-out place, having just survived Vietnam and Watergate, and I can’t really blame them for not going whole-hog for creature comforts, not when inflation was out of control and the OPEC oil crisis was still delivering shock waves to the economy. They were Democrats, after all.

Anyway, nothing Rosalynn could do would make bitches like Betty happy, and it seemed she knew that, and didn’t try very hard to please her. After Carter’s 1980 loss and the imperial Reagans’ arrival, Betty wallowed like a pig in slop. The Return of Glamour, etc. Nancy Reagan, an average-pretty former actress with no charisma to speak of, was hailed as the second coming of Jackie Kennedy. Her bedazzled dresses hung on her skinny shoulders, but they made the editors of fashion magazines fairly orgasmic with glee, simultaneously praising her “birdlike” size-2 figure and her choice of styles that would “showcase” it — whatever that means.

I also thought a lot in the last day about the extended Carter family, which was also looked down upon by official Washington. There was Billy Carter, the president’s brother, a classic good ol’ boy and drunk. There was Ruth Carter Stapleton, his sister and an evangelist, who converted pornographer Larry Flynt (it didn’t take). There were his children, four sons and a daughter, the latter, Amy, being a little girl when the family moved into the White House. She was criticized, too, because official Washington didn’t think children belonged at adult events. (These people fell silent when the Trumps would parade a 12-year-old Barron Trump, in black tie no less, into the Mar-a-Lago New Year’s Eve party. That was the last time I felt sorry for the little monster; imagine sitting with your parents, in a tuxedo, at a party where most of the guests are about 90 years old and all the women have strange, ruined, plastic-surgery faces. No wonder he never spoke a word aloud.)

And there was Miss Lillian, Jimmy’s mother, who had even hard-core city folk calling her “Miz Lill-yun” about 10 minutes after meeting her. Basically, the whole clan was the Waltons, at least for a while. Then they were Ma and Pa Kettle and their hillbilly fambly.

Soon we’ll say our official farewell. I really, really, really hope you-know-who doesn’t show up. I hope he has that much decency. (Ha ha! I know he doesn’t, the cunt.)

Lotsa links today, but that’s the kind of week it’s shaping up to be.

I was listening to a podcast a few years back — I think it was Chapo Trap House — when one of the dudebros said something that stuck with me: Eventually, every con man will try to sell you supplements.

And whaddaya know, in a grifter-led administration, many of the incoming grifters are cut from the same cloth:

President-elect Donald Trump’s top political appointees want you to buy supplements.

Dr. Janette Nesheiwat, Trump’s pick for surgeon general, sells her own line of vitamins. Kash Patel, Trump’s choice to lead the Federal Bureau of Investigation, recommended pills on Truth Social in February that he said could “rid your body of the harms” from Covid-19 vaccines.

Mehmet Oz, the TV personality whom Trump named to lead the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, promotes supplements sold by online retailer iHerb. He has advertised multivitamins, supplements for “brain power” and fish-oil pills that he said “probably slowed” the progression of his mother’s Alzheimer’s disease.

Kash Patel has pimped even skeevier supplements.

I wonder if these people are expected to kick up to the boss as a result. Probably buying a Mar-a-lago membership at full retail will do.

A friend of mine wrote about the sketchy FDA oversight of various nutritional supplements a while back. The most horrifying was so-called black salve, offered as a treatment for skin cancer:

In late October 2018, a 50-year-old woman filed a complaint with the Food and Drug Administration, claiming that a topical salve she’d purchased to remove a spot on her nose had a horrifying, disfiguring side effect. The paste, called Indian Herb, wound up “eroding” her nose, she said, burning a hole through her skin.

FDA inspectors were dispatched two weeks later to visit the product’s manufacturer, McDaniel Life-Line. But if they were expecting to find a legitimate manufacturing operation when they arrived in tiny Felt, Okla. (pop. 149) that November, they may have been surprised to find that Indian Herb was being prepared in an ordinary kitchen, using a blender and other household utensils, by Bruce McDaniel and his wife, as the FDA wrote later in a letter to the company. The blender was stored in a trash bag kept in the garage when not in use, the letter noted.

And this is the sort of thing so-called “crunchy moms” will reach for instead of a phone to call a doctor. And the likely incoming head of Health and Human Services will think it’s just fine.

Speaking of which, one reason I’m not feeling quite as blue about the incoming administration is due to this story, which I read today, about how so many of the policies cheered on by Trump Country will come back to bite…Trump Country:

The Archer Daniels Midland wet mill on the outskirts of Decatur, Ill., rises like an industrial behemoth from the frozen, harvested cornfields of Central Illinois. Steam billowed in the 20-degree cold last week, as workers turned raw corn into sweet, ubiquitous high-fructose corn syrup. Three miles away, a Primient mill, which sprawls across 400 acres divided by North 22nd Street, was doing the same.

To Robert F. Kennedy Jr., President-elect Donald J. Trump’s nominee for secretary of health and human services, this bedraggled city — set deep in Trump country — is the belly of the agribusiness beast, churning out products that he says poison America, rendering its children obese and its citizens chronically ill.

To the workers here, those mills — the largest in the world — are their livelihoods.

Yep. If nothing else, it’ll be entertaining, watching the leopards eat all those faces. Although I suspect nothing will happen.

Good thing the information ecosystem is in such good shape! Oops, maybe not:

The Ashland Daily Tidings — established as a newspaper in 1876 — ceased operations in 2023, but if you were a local reader, you may not have known. Almost as soon as it closed, a website for the Tidings reemerged, boasting a team of eight reporters, Minihane included, who cranked out densely reported stories every few days.

…The reality was that none of the people allegedly working for the Ashland Daily Tidings existed, or at least were who they claimed to be. The bylines listed on Daily Tidings articles were put there by scammers using artificial intelligence, and in some cases stolen identities, to dupe local readers.

That’s a simultaneously horrifying and entertaining story, because one of the bylines that kept appearing in this so-called pink-slime publication was that of a real journalist. Sure, he lives in the U.K. and has only been to Oregon once in his life, but there’s his name on all those AI-written stories. I can hardly wait to see what someone could do with mine.

And that’s the midweek wrap-up. What a time to be alive.

Excuse the absence earlier. That silly column I wrote blotted out the sun for a couple days. On Monday I was toiling away at something else when my doorbell rang. On the front porch was a reporter from the local Fox affiliate, who wanted to interview me about it.

“Me? That column?” I asked, astounded.

“My news director says it’s a talker.”

I welcomed her in. I mean, I’m not going to turn a reporter away. But when she started asking questions, it became clear that she thought I’d dropped a policy brief on the mayor’s desk, complete with suggested GPS coordinates for sinking the Boblo boat, not a whimsical column chiding Detroit for its constant backward-looking gaze. I closed the door behind her thinking, I’m gonna look like an idiot, and I expect I did, although I haven’t watched the piece yet, and won’t. My takeaway is this: No one knows how to read anymore. For a while now, I’ve been wincing at how upset people get over headlines, knowing how many of them are likely written by interns or the web staff or whoever, some of whom may not even reside in the same city where the story was generated. But given how many people read no further, maybe it’s more important. Apparently there’s an entire Reddit thread of people who think I literally want to scuttle a precious childhood memory. I don’t! It’s a metaphor, folks. We covered that in seventh-grade English.

But lots of people liked it, so that’s cool.

Oh, and I haven’t told you the best part: I was invited to be on the Mitch Albom show. HAHAHAHAHAHA. I had to lifeguard during the time they wanted me, so I declined. I don’t think the producer is clued in to my online claim to fame.

But now it’s Wednesday, and as editors have been saying for millennia, what do you have coming for tomorrow? In these parts, a possible snowstorm. Nothing insane, but three inches will announce winter pretty emphatically, and it’d be wise to get the snowblower gassed up and in the front of the garage, where it will swap places with the lawn mower.

So I guess that’s what’s coming for tomorrow. Snow. And probably the erection of the Nall-Derringer Co-Prosperity Sphere Christmas tree.

In bloggage, don’t have much, but news is breaking that the CEO of UnitedHealthcare was shot to death this morning in Manhattan. Police are calling it a targeted attack, so: very interesting. As always, more will be revealed. Refrain from jumping to conclusions. And I’ll see you later this week.

Thanks so much to everyone who shared Thanksgiving menus, greetings, memories and more. Ours was fine. We traveled to Alan’s sister’s in Defiance, bringing half the meal. I already posted this in the comments on the last post, but if you’re not a comments reader, here you go, my favorite disruptor to the earth-toned Thanksgiving table:

That’s a cranberry curd tart, a New York Times recipe (gift link), and it was the bomb. A bit of a hassle to assemble all the ingredients, but fortunately a local nut shop — a nuttery? — had blanched hazelnuts so the skin-shedding step was taken care of. And I didn’t sieve the cooked cranberries; I pulverized them in the blender. It turned out fab. Try it at the next holiday table. Pro tip: If you have a non-stick tart pan, use it.

We took Alan’s new (new to us, that is) car, which has satellite radio, still in its trial period. He gets a one- or two-month trial, then so many months at $5 per, and then it bumps to its regular charge of $20. We’ve already decided that’s more than we want to pay to have it in one car, but as soon as I mentioned it to a friend, he said we have to get Sirius on the horn, inform them we won’t be paying that much, and let them counter. He pays $10/month, and that seems more reasonable.

Overeating and consumerism — I guess this means we’re in the holidays for real. It beats talking about Kash Patel turning the FBI into Donald Trump’s personal revenge machine. And the very real chance he’ll get confirmed. If you haven’t read Sherri’s thoughtful comment toward the end of the last thread, I suggest you do so now. I spend a lot of time thinking about this, too: How we can dig ourselves out of the morass we’re in. Because of my work experience, I spend much of it concentrating on the news media. The same NYT that gave us that wonderful cranberry tart also served up this headline over the weekend: Trump Disavowed Project 2025 During the Campaign. Not Anymore.

What? Say wha-? You’re joking! Of course, many of us were screaming HE IS LYING ABOUT THIS throughout the campaign, but so glad to hear he’ll now be held accountable, lol.

I don’t have the stomach for this now. Let’s make fun of Mitch Albom.

I’ve been saying for a while how I’m marveling at the anachronistic nature of Albom’s work; it really doesn’t seem to have changed one bit since he started this job in the ’80s. He pulls the same mangy rabbits out of his hat:

The one-line paragraph.

The repeating phrase (in this case, “rub your eyes,” often delivered in a one-line paragraph). The noodling, the telling us what we already know, the HOW BOUT DEM WOLVERINES AMIRITE message delivered, and re-delivered, through several hundred words. And then there’s the tortured simile:

On a bracing cold afternoon when Ohio State, at 10-1 and ranked No. 2 in the nation, and Michigan, at 6-5 and ranked somewhere between “Why” and “Bother?”, the Wolverines marched into Columbus like the fiercest theater critic at the biggest box-office play.

That makes zero sense. Critics go to plays in their opening days, not after they’ve become boffo box office. But as Boon says to Otter, “Forget it, he’s rolling.”

Also note that there’s no dateline, and all the quotes came from Fox Sports, which means Mitch watched the game on TV and filed a column about it. You could do that job! I bet Sherri, for one, would do it better.

But at this point, who cares? It’s the last weeks of the last good year. Let’s enjoy it as they play out.

Back to the basement for me, where we are reassembling my home gym after months of idleness (for the equipment, not me). The week is ours for the taking, so let’s.

I’m having an Unsubscribe party for myself this week. My inbox was a stew of misery, even with most posts going to their proper folders on Gmail. I figured it would end after the election, but it didn’t — I even got fundraising emails after the campaigns, with STAY INFORMED in the subject line, that sort of thing. I didn’t hesitate. Every candidate I sent money to this cycle lost, and I’m not inclined to stay informed about their activities. I’m replying STOP to end text contacts. I’m just done. Uncle.

The ones that gave me the best feeling were Axios, a.m. and p.m. I still get the Axios Detroit newsletter, but it’s about one eyeroll away from getting shitcanned, too. Fortunately it isn’t run by the same people who are now giving the president-elect the Strange New Respect treatment. Take a moment and tell us why you’re leaving, Axios begged. Because I’m sick of you polishing Trump’s knob, I wrote in the designated box. What could we do to keep you? Stop polishing Trump’s knob. And with that, I hit Unsubscribe with grim satisfaction.

Somehow I got on some right-wing mailing lists, on my other account. They all sold my address to their friends, too. I used to get some amusement out of seeing how they whip up the proles, but ultimately it wasn’t worth it. They all use the same Unsubscribe reply: Hate to see you go! Fuck off, assholes.

Needless to say, I dropped Amazon Prime.

I’ll be off Twitter soon enough. Find me on BlueSky at @nderringer. I have to stay on Facebook for my social-media work, but I’m trying to go dark there, too. (I may fail.)

Along with Unsubscribe, I’m also doing a limited number of paid subs, too. There’s Roy Edroso on Substack, although I think he comps me. He shouldn’t, because he brings me real pleasure and I’d gladly pay. I don’t pay for Eric Zorn, only because his paid content is all Chicago-oriented and would be wasted on me, but if you’re a Chicagoan, consider it. I like his Thursday newsletter because it’s amusing and topical. My friend Jimmy is on Substack, doing daily short fiction; I pay because he’s an artist and I sometimes attend his monthly writing workshop. I just subscribed to Caryn Rose, a freelancer who specializes in rock ‘n’ roll, because I’m so out of touch and should be in better touch. There are a couple of others.

You might see this as turning inward, and you might be right. I’m just trying to preserve my sanity in an insane time. How insane? Have you met our incoming secretary of defense?

Maybe I should start a paid service, called You Voted For This. A few bucks a year gets you an email sent to three addresses of your choice — friends, parents, colleagues, whatever. Once a week I will round up the horrors of the last seven days and mail them to the people you can no longer stand to speak to: Hi! Did you know the incoming secretary of defense just had his third child with an affair partner, is going through his second divorce and lies like a rug? Now you do! And he’s going to be in charge of the Pentagon!

Oh, well. Enough for now. Join me in the high point of the week: Figuring out why my vacuum lost its suction, via deductive reasoning. Answer: The head piece was clogged with schmutz. Later, gators.