Bright, sunny morning. Alan’s on vacation all week; Spriggy’s getting a haircut this morning; Project Table reaches a turning point. I have one story to finish, then jury duty in the latter part of the week. Jury duty! In Detroit! This is why we live in Wayne County, so that we can be called for jury duty in Elmore Leonard country, not out in suburbia somewhere. I hope you know that I speak from the heart when I say: I can’t wait.

Really, I can’t. I love jury duty, even though it’s always the same for a journalist. You sit around, you shuffle here and there, and if it ever gets as far as questioning by an actual attorney, you always get the hook. (I was a peremptory challenge in a federal case once — such a proud moment.) Lawyers don’t want journalists on their juries, for several good reasons and a few bad ones. This, however, is my first time as an unemployed journalist, so maybe things will break differently this time. But I doubt it.

First rule of jury duty, for everybody: Bring something to do. I recommend a book, although you may prefer knitting. Whatever, but make sure it’s something that will keep you happily occupied for at least two or three hours. The ability to pass a 120-minute block of time with minimal resources is a dying trait in this great land of ours, as evidenced by the giant televisions everywhere we go, tuned to Oprah or Maury or some other nightmare. In my first try at jury duty, in the federal case, I read a big chunk of T.C. Boyle’s “World’s End” and had a wonderful, peaceful morning. In my last, the pool was parked in front of a big, loud TV. Bummer. And still, jurors had difficulty sitting still for the hour or two it took the parties upstairs to settle the case and send us all home. ADHD seems to be a culture-wide affliction.

So, the bloggage: Last Sunday the New York Times business-section front was a long, thoughtful analysis on the future of the Ford Motor Co. by the excellent Micheline Maynard. This Sunday the Free Press used their business front to bring us the grumpy opinions of a bunch of GM retirees. It would be one thing if these guys had anything interesting or insightful to say. But what do you say about quotes like these?

Ed Kulba, an 80-year-old GM retiree and World War II veteran, doesn’t see the benefits (of a possible GM merger with Renault or Nissan). He started working in a Detroit auto factory when he was 17. He cringes at the thought of a French or Japanese company controlling GM.”This is what us World War II veterans went over to fight for, so we could keep it American,” Kulba said.

I missed that part of my World War II history. Of course, I was educated in Ohio.

Thanks to Amy Alkon for pointing me toward this ESPN.com story on the death of Pat Tillman. I was struck by the attitude of the officer in charge of the investigation, who suggests that the atheist Tillman family needs to “let go, let God,” essentially:

Kauzlarich, now a battalion commanding officer at Fort Riley in Kansas, further suggested the Tillman family’s unhappiness with the findings of past investigations might be because of the absence of a Christian faith in their lives. In an interview with ESPN.com, Kauzlarich said: “When you die, I mean, there is supposedly a better life, right? Well, if you are an atheist and you don’t believe in anything, if you die, what is there to go to? Nothing. You are worm dirt. So for their son to die for nothing, and now he is no more — that is pretty hard to get your head around that. So I don’t know how an atheist thinks. I can only imagine that that would be pretty tough.”

Demanding competency and accountability for the needless death of a fine young man = the desperate flailing of a godless family. Huh.

For years, advertisers and those who sell time and space to them have run panting after one market: Women. Broadcasters speak of “the demographic,” which is, basically, women age 29-50, roughly — women in their peak buying years. The thinking is: Men buy golf clubs and beer, and women buy everything else, so that’s who you go for. Virtually everything on TV that isn’t sports-related is aimed at them, including TV news, with its steady diet of fear-tainted boogeymen — sexual predators, germs and Things That Can Kill You AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW IT. So what happens, after years and years of this?

Men are leaving TV news. Gee, I wonder how that happened.

P.S. Of course, the pay in TV news is roughly the same as in acting: A few titans earn millions, and millions of peons earn nothing.

The Yarn Harlot — love that name — writes about writing. Truer words, etc. (Thanks, Mindy.)

On to Project Table!

It occurred to me not long ago that unless I croak before my time there’ll be a new laptop in my future. This is a thought simultaneously thrilling and terrifying — of course I want a new MacBook Pro, but what will I do with all my old stuff? My laptop, like no other computer I’ve owned, has insinuated itself into my life in all the ways we were told the machines would, back in 1984. It has my music, my pictures, my finances, my work. I take 95 percent of my notes on it. There are folders upon folders labeled “Knight Ridder rants” and “secret project,” and a brand-new one called “ringtones.” (I’m going into the business; I hear it’s growing.)

If it died tomorrow — knocking wood furiously — I’d be bereft. I’d be out of business. On the other hand, I could buy a new MacBook Pro with a clear conscience. So there’s that.

Sorry for the day off yesterday; we had houseguests. We actually had guests twice in the last few days — for dinner on Saturday and dinner/overnight Monday. I took the recycling to the curb yesterday and noted eight wine bottles. (The beer bottles are returnable, and go in a separate bin.) I guess we had a good time. Actually, I remember all of it, and we did, except for the sailing. On Saturday it was blistering hot and there was too little wind; we got killed by blackflies. On Monday it was blistering hot and there was too much wind, necessitating reefing and scrambling and waves crashing across the bow. But no blackflies! That was good. John and Sam were our guests Monday, and brought their GPS, aka “the crumber,” a device that drops breadcrumbs as you perambulate around the forest. When we got back he synced it to Google Earth and displayed our route, and revealed that he also has a utility that will sync with his digital camera, so that we could download all the pictures we took and show, precisely, at which latitude and longitude they were taken.

If I’m attached to my computer, John is really, really attached. He and Sam were returning from a month in the U.P. “It’s so nice to transition back into wireless broadband,” he said. I could absolutely identify.

I have no bloggage, except to note that the president said a boo-boo word, and once again, the nation’s editors are wringing their hands over what to report about it. I swear, it’s like watching Scarlett and Mammy argue over whether it’s proper to show one’s bosom before 3 o’clock — in 2006.

Off to Ann Arbor for sunstroke the art fair! Pictures and a report, perhaps, later.

Many years ago, some colleagues of mine wrote a story about a religious lockdown facility for wayward girls in rural Indiana, a place called Hephzibah House. As I recall, the place was secretive and uncooperative and didn’t relish the secular media sniffin’ around the yard.

Well, that was many years ago. Now they have a website.

Dorothy wondered, in the comments on the previous post, just who actually wears some of those goony modest-clothing outfits I’ve linked to in the past. Wonder no more. There’s a strain of religious fundamentalism in northeast Indiana that makes much of the so-called Bible Belt look like Hillary for President volunteers.

What a weekend. The perfect weather continues, although it’s now somewhat less than perfect, having crossed into “too dry.” But it’s not too hot, and so I was able to go to the Eastern Market Saturday without too much misery other than the usual — parking, mainly. I love the Eastern Market, having been deprived of the Rich Stew of Humanity for too long at my previous addresses, which offered fairly thin gruel at the stove of humanity. I didn’t actually buy any stew ingredients, unless you count tart cherries, which I will craft into a pie for next week’s dinner party. The season is so short that my best pie cookbook calls it “Once-a-Year Cherry Pie.” It better be good.

So, on to the bloggage:

In all my years in the newspaper business I’ve accumulated many regrets, but none so keen as this: I never had the opportunity to yell “fuck you” to my publisher. (Actually, I had the opportunity many times, but never took it, even though it would have been richly deserved.) Oh, to work in Santa Barbara these days, where resignation letters fill the air like confetti and a couple dozen journalists are accumulating stories they’ll tell for the rest of their careers.

And it’s all there: A petulant movie star, an insane owner, punishment for infractions of non-existent rules and, once again, my favorite part:

Executive Editor Jerry Roberts returned from a vacation in Crete and turned in his resignation about 9 am. He was then escorted out of the News-Press building by Human Resources chief Yolanda Apodaca. On the way out, tearful reporters and editors hugged Roberts and wished him well. As this happened, Travis Armstrong, Roberts’s nemesis at the News-Press, emerged from his office to make sure that Roberts left, reportedly saying something to the effect of, “Roberts you’ve got to go.” According to one report, Armstrong — who appointment as publisher of the News Press last Friday precipitated Roberts’ resignation — clasped his hand around Roberts’ arm to help escort him from the building. This was greeted by a chorus of “Fuck You, Travis!” from the News-Press employees bidding Roberts goodbye. The chorus reportedly continued for some time; one of the louder voices in that choir belonged to Metro Editor Jane Hulse, who likewise had submitted her resignation that day.

I forgot that “vacation in Crete” part. That’s the phrase that’ll kill in barroom retellings: “I recall the editor had just returned from vacation in Crete when…”

Meanwhile, breaking butter-cow news from Ohio, for all fans of butter sculpture. The shocking detail: The butter used in the annual state fair sculpture? Comes from Texas. There’s good detail — the only creamery in Ohio capable of providing the one-ton chunk needed for sculpting only makes salted butter, and the sculpture requires unsalted. The fair director offers this alternative: “In Ohio, we’re No. 1 in Swiss cheese production, but I don’t think it would look real good if we had a holey cow instead of butter,” Strickler said. “It wouldn’t be the same.”

No, it wouldn’t. But it would be interesting.

Make merry in the comments! I have work to do.

What sort of hot-times-in-Tijuana photos must Bob Greene have in his possession to hold the New York Times op-ed page editors in his sway? With all the fine, fine writers available in a country of 300 million souls, why is he the designated correspondent from the land between the coasts?

There must be a better way to start a Thursday, which holds little promise of being a very good one, than with Bob doing his faux-naif hayseed act in New Orleans.

After first noting that the city’s convention center is hosting its first back-to-business trade show this week — the American Library Association; hi, Connie! — he takes note of the obvious:

Last September, if you had dared to suggest that by June this city would be playing host to genteel trade shows inside this building, shows punctuated by the lilting sounds of laughter and music, you would not have been believed. The convention center, as much as the Superdome, was New Orleans’s symbol of wretched helplessness, of utter degradation.

Noted, Bob. Although I would have believed this second-person “you.” This country has a long history of swift repair of disaster areas, when we’re motivated to do so. It took about that long to cart the wreckage of two 110-story towers off a 16-acre site in lower Manhattan in 2002; what’s some new carpet and Sheetrock? But I digress. Let’s join Bob in slack-jawed wonder: …to walk through the newly reopened parts of the 3.1-million-square-foot complex next to the Mississippi River was to shake your head at what has been shaken off.

(I wonder if he’ll share some details, what we journalists call “color.” Looks like we’re in luck.)

“Never Have Dry Skin Again,” a sign at a booth offering moisturizing lotion invited. “Need Relief?” beckoned another booth, promising cures for “bunions, corns and calluses.” The business of the convention was books, but no potential want of the out-of-towners conducting that business went unaddressed. The Massage Break booth, “Targeting Convention Tension,” offered rubs of the neck, back and shoulders, for $35.

I feel like I’m there! More, please!

Actually, I’m in awe. Note that Bob manages to get in the name of the Massage Break booth, its marketing slogan, and the fact it offers rubs of “the neck, back and shoulders,” along with the price. As though, without these details, we might have trouble imagining such a thing, or could dangerously assume that the rubs were of other body parts.

Where there was hunger and thirst, now there is abundance: more cold bottles of designer water, soft drinks and juice, placed in coolers every few dozen feet, than the visiting conventioneers could possibly drink; so many restaurants and food stations that there were seldom long lines. Where the refugees waited days for someone to feed them, the Allegro Pasta booth now offered linguini with a choice of marinara or Alfredo sauce.

The contrast…my head is spinning! There’s water now? And food? Where only six months ago there was hunger and thirst? I can’t believe it. (And more padding, too: Not just water, but “soft drinks and juice;” not just linguini, but “a choice of marinara or Alfredo sauce.”)

Connoissseurs of Bob may suspect we’ve stumbled across what we journalists call his chosen padding device motif. This is how the pros work, children. Such exquisitely chosen nuggets of pure irony will drive his point home — that once this was a place of misery, and now it’s a convention center again.

The floors of the convention hall’s far concourses have been polished so ferociously that they gleam…

Where in September exhausted people prayed for rescue, a wheel-of-fortune game was now being played. …

There are moments of actual human contact; Bob gets quotes from a cashier and a security guard. The latter was trapped in the center after the storm: “We just kept thinking, ‘Maybe today is the day someone will come and get us,’ ” he said. “You can’t erase those memories.” Now, you take this the way you want — after all, Bob is a best-selling author and NYT op-ed contributor and I’m unemployed — but if you had an actual eyewitness to that experience in front of you, talking, wouldn’t you try for a better quote than the one we heard over and over and over again while the event was going on?

OK, a quibble.

I think it would have been fun to hear from a librarian, too. Librarians are smart people, though. One might make a rude comment about Bob’s career arc or the quality of his work. Probably safer to stick with security guards.

Enough Bob, then. I should just be grateful that he hasn’t come to Detroit yet, where Martha Reeves, once leader of the Vandellas, now sits on the city council:

Where once she sang “Dancing in the Streets,” now she presides over pothole maintenance on those same streets… She once crooned that she had “Nowhere to Run,” and today she cannot run from constituents… She said her love was like a heat wave, and now a heat wave is cause for concern in a city like Detroit…

Best not give him ideas.

Actually, if you’re in a pissy mood today, this is bracing. Via FWObserved, a new owner of one of the Knight Ridder orphans, rips Prince P. Anthony a new one:

On one of his first visits to the Star-Telegram during the spring of 1997 after buying the newspaper, Ridder sent the executive suite into a tailspin. Publisher Wes Turner had been on the job only a few months, and here he was in the midst of his first corporate dilemma. His new boss was irate.

And so they did, just (one can only hope) in time for Chairman Ridder to make his next tee time after giving one of his holier-than-thou speeches on the urgent importance of good journalism.

Hee. He came to Fort Wayne once. Hands were wrung and brows were mopped, certainly, but mostly: Asses were kissed.

Oh, stop it. How about some tasty bloggage:

A still-employed Chicago Tribune columnist, Eric Zorn, cuts to the heart of it in his reaction to Barack Obama’s dumb speech earlier this week: Strawman to Barack Obama: Uncle!

You all enjoy. I’m off to do a rewrite.

So, after my 3,000-word job last week, which came at the last minute and so counts as a financial windfall, I was feeling flush. Went to Lowe’s on Monday and bought a ceiling fan for my office. What’s $119? I earned it!

Came home and found the dishwasher had finally given up the ghost. There’s $400 right there. Then, yesterday, I spilled half a cup of coffee on the couch, which will necessitate a visit by Stanley Steemer. Might as well have them do the carpet while they’re here; it needs it — $200 more.

What is that deathless line of Ice Cube’s? Didn’t have to use my AK / I’d have to say, it was a good day. I need one of those days.

I guess yesterday was pretty good, coffee spill and all. There were many fine, fine one-liners about the Limpbaugh affair:

Who knew the EIB Network stood for Erection in a Bottle? — TBogg.

Men have needs, and if Viagra enables the little fella to jut proudly from the folds of the dragon kimono bequeathed to Rush by the late Allan Bloom, it is not for us to cast judgement. — James Wolcott

I spent much of yesterday, the final day of existence for Knight Ridder, jotting down notes for a possible essay on Life in the KR Minors, a sector of the company overlooked by …pretty much everyone. I say “possible” because I’m not sure I want to brand myself as unemployable forever and ever, but I figure if I make it zingy enough, someone might be dumb enough to hire me later. I dunno, it may just end up as notes for a comic novel, who knows? I sent an e-mail to a fellow exile, asking for anecdotes I didn’t remember. He sent this:

There was the time the newspaper did three polls during the mayor’s race between Win Moses Jr., the incumbent, and Paul Helmke. The polls were at the start, in the middle, and eve of election, and fairly well mirrored the final outcome, an upset by Helmke. These were done by a professional polling firm. The next race The News-Sentinel had one poll, done by in-house pollsters in the marketing department. The third elex for Fort Wayne, our polling consisted of a photog asking man on the street questions in front of the library/City-County Building about who they plan to vote for in November. The photographer had to ask the questions and take down the answers because a reporter wasn’t available that day to help out, being assigned something else.

Stop it, you’re killing me. Anyone else want to contribute? You know where to reach me.

I don’t understand. Why would Rush Limbaugh even need Viagra, especially for a vacation to the Dominican Republic?

I mean, it’s not like he’s married.

Yesterday was a 3K day. That is, I wrote 3,000 words, plus a few more. For purposes of perspective: For my newspaper friends, that’s about 100 inches of copy by most measures. Ambitious novelists strive for 1,000 words a day. Graham Greene used to write something like 487, no more and no less, and knock off for the day even if he had more in him. (Warning: I may be thinking of someone else, but I’m pretty sure it’s Graham Greene.)

And for James Lileks, 3,000 words allows him to barely scratch the surface of his latest strawman takedown.

For a freelancer, 3,000 words is a lot, but not so many when you consider you’re being paid by the word, which gives you the strength to get it done: “Faster! Faster! Our house has been reassessed and we have taxes to pay!” I do recommend light carbs for lunch, however.

While I was smearing my keyboard with my own blood, a kid came to the door. Selling magazines, for some outfit with a name that immediately makes sensible people suspicious — two capital letters separated by an ampersand, plus Enterprises. J&B Enterprises, something like that.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Are you in a crew, traveling around the country by van, sleeping on top of one another in motels? You’re not from around here, are you?”

He nodded. He was from Little Rock, Arkansas. Dressed reasonably well, but a little sour-smelling up close.

“I won’t buy any magazines, because I can’t support the people you’re working for,” I said. “But let me tell you this: If you want to go home, there are numbers you can call. The folks you’re working for are not good people, most likely. You’re not in a safe environment, but you’re an adult, and I guess you can decide for yourself. But just know that if you want out, people can help you.” (Of course, I don’t actually speak in permalinks.)

“How do you know this?” he asked.

“I’m a journalist,” he said. “There have been many stories about these outfits. A bunch of kids were killed in Wisconsin a few years ago, when their van overturned on the freeway.” His eyes widened.

“Are you sure you won’t buy any magazines?” he whined. “I can win a trip.”

“Don’t bet on it,” I said. “Remember, there’s help. Stop back if you want to, and I’ll find you the phone number. And wear your seat belt in that van.”

He didn’t come back. But it’s not often that I get to say, “I’m a journalist” the same way others say “I’m a doctor” or “I’m an FBI agent.” That was amusing.

Do I have bloggage? I have bloggage:

In the Department of the Obvious, Don’t use your cellphone outside in a thunderstorm. Experts agree!

A late-arriving commenter to the thread in which we discussed the sale of my old paper to Ogden Newspapers left a note that most will likely miss, so here it is, front and center:

Ogden owns both of the newspapers in Wheeling, so there’s no real competition. There used to be some competitiveness between the news departments, though. There was pride in writing well and putting out a quality product, especially by the afternoon paper. But when Ogden hired a new general manager – a former advertising guy with no editorial experience whatsoever – all that mattered was the bottom line. Formerly free obits now cost $$$. The two newsroom staffs were, for all practical purposes, merged. No longer was there a separate city editor for each newspaper. Then Ogden bought a few more local papers and was able to eliminate reporters by just taking stories filed for the Steubenville or Martins Ferry newspapers and using them in the Wheeling paper. I left because the pay was so bad and it became evident that management didn’t care one bit about putting out a quality newspaper. I didn’t want my name associated with it.

I repeat: They’ll feel right at home.

There’s a girl here in Grosse Pointe who’s a Presidential Scholar. That’s a pretty big honor; there are only 141 in the whole country. You get to meet the president and bestow an honor of your own, upon a teacher of your choosing. Of course this is a story in the local weekly. Here’s the headline:

Scholar remembers influencial teacher

Moral of the story, which I’m sure this girl will take to Harvard in the fall: Presidential scholars don’t choose journalism.

Picked up a Free Press yesterday, which is, I remind you, the winner of Detroit’s newspaper war. Within a decade, they’ll stand astraddle the pile of bloody corpses alone and bellow their terrible thanks to the heavens. (And won’t that be something to see, eh?) The paper seemed thin, and was. Ah, but it was a Tuesday, and my last dim memory of the business side is that Monday and Tuesday are not wide spots in the revenue stream.

Good thing. I started paying attention to the ads. In the A section — varicose vein treatment, the Michigan lottery, air duct cleaning and, oddly, two for different piano stores. (Is June when you buy a piano? I had no idea.) In Metro — more air ducts, cell phones, some odds and ends, the obits. Business? Cars and computers. Sports? Cell phones, a get-rich-quick seminar. Features actually had the most individual ads, mainly for more varicose vein surgery, dentures, calls for volunteers for medical research, something called “virtual colonoscopy.”

Ah, here’s a quarter-page ad for an all-natural colon-cleansing product. A woman is leaping into a man’s arms; both are open-mouthed with delight, and who wouldn’t be, given this headline: “No more constipation, hemorrhoids, or gas!”

Are any themes emerging? Yes. You have varicose veins and dentures and a colonoscopy in your future. You’re in the market for a nice upright piano, now that you have time on your hands to finally learn to play. Hello, grandpa.

Editorial images are shaped in conference rooms, but advertisers know. The little display ads in the classifieds are as clear an indication of a publication’s id as you’ll find. I once wrote a column about this, after noticing that in conservative political rags, you’ll find enticements to build your word power and learn how to stop moving your lips when you read. In liberal ones, many 1-by-2s offering to introduce you to girls who share your beliefs and values. If you want a flattering look in the demographic mirror, try Wired or Vanity Fair. (Although I often wonder, whenever I see ads for Gucci, all of which seem to feature models with limbs that stretch the length of a furlong, and all of whom seem really, really angry. People only smile in the ads for cosmetic dentistry, and even then, in the bigger national books, it’s a knowing, ironic smile. The models — they’ve seen too much to ever beam happily again.)

Ooooh-kay, then. Stop me before I buy a cell phone with Bluetooth ever again. Did you know you can upload MP3s from your laptop and make them ringtones? Why didn’t anyone tell me this? Is it safe to say I’ll be the only person in Metro Detroit — perhaps anywhere — using “Itchycoo Park” as a ringtone? That’s for all callers except those from my home number, which got “Pennies From Heaven,” mainly because it has a nice meandering tinkly piano intro, which is all you’ll hear, anyway. Billie Holiday’s version, if you’re taking notes.

Bloggage:

I’m going to be reading this book, if I can stand it. Josh Marshall has a succinct summation of why: I said he was important. You’re not going to let me lose face on this, are you? God help us all.

Ashley has another cri de coeur from New Orleans. I hope he never shuts up.

In Detroit, teenage girls from the suburbs hang out in drug houses. Sometimes they die there.

Jon Carroll was a boy in southern California when Disneyland was being built, which gives his take on it a certain authority: When Disneyland opened, the world was so naive that injectable substances suggested nothing more than a penicillin shot. Later on, a new generation of citizens began visiting Disneyland. The Disneyland brass did not like that development — as the brochures displayed at the museum made clear, Disneyland was a park designed by white people for white people, and employees were forbidden to wear beards, mustaches and a long list of other offensive things that might suggest deviation from the norm. Which was ironic, because people soon discovered that getting loaded and going to Disneyland meant a day of big fun. It was an endless playground for people who said “oh wow” a lot. You could, you know, shake hands with Goofy. (“Shaking hands with Goofy” would be a pretty good code phrase for any number of proscribed experiences.)

And now, a glance at the weather map shows giant red blobs headed our way. Best get this uploaded before the power goes out.

A warm round of applause and hearty congratulations to my friend and colleague Ron French, who kicks Ruth Reichl’s restaurant-reviewing fanny off the nightstand this week with his book, “Driven Abroad: The Outsourcing of America.” An expansion of a 2004 Detroit News series, his book examines the exodus of one automotive widget maker — wire harnesses, specifically, once made in the Thumb, then outsourced to Mexico, Honduras and China, with unexpected results in each venue.

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry…you’ll be grateful you went to college. Although just today, one of Kate’s friend’s moms was telling me about Indian radiologists reading American X-rays and CAT scans.

Ron used to work with me at the News-Sentinel, and later at the Journal Gazette. Oddly, neither paper is mentioned in his author’s bio.