I found this via Tumblr, so the usual cautions about authenticity apply, but what the hell, it’s worth sharing. This is a purported listings page from an unnamed New York newspaper in November 1963. The hell with JFK — talk about mourning a lost world:

This, pals, is why I regret never living in New York City. Imagine an entertainment buffet spread with everything from Bill Monroe to Miles Davis to Sam Cooke to Bob Dylan. I looked it over twice before I noticed Stiller and Meara hiding in the cracks.

Was everyone’s Thanksgiving wonderful? Ours was just fine, if a little repetitive of last year’s. I was looking up a green bean recipe I like at this time of year, and a menu fell out of the book — exactly the same one I’ve been making for a while now. Oh, well. With a table set for only four, two of them picky eaters, what’s the point of adventure? That’s what dinner parties with friends are for.

The rest of the weekend was devoted to lazing on the couch watching Netflix, errands and the usual. Kate and I went to the DIA for a few hours on Friday, to tell “The Wedding Dance” we would always love it, even if it’s sold to Rupert Murdoch. Watched a couple of movies I would likely not have seen without streaming — “What Maisie Knew” and “The Panic in Needle Park,” which I was astounded to learn was written by Joan Didion and her husband. I cannot tell a lie: I love many, many things about the 1970s, and its strong tradition of antiheroic cinema is one of them.

So, then, some bloggage:

Today’s NYT ran a smoochfest on Jim Delany, whom I didn’t know about. Evidently he’s the guy responsible for the Big Ten conference being little more than a “brand.” Rutgers? Maryland? Now in the Big Ten? Fuck that noise. I prefer the Grantland take on this development:

In ways that matter to college administrators, Delany is a genius: The Big Ten Network is a money-making machine, and the conference actually made more money last year than even the SEC. Last fall, when I spent a day with the Indiana football program, they informed me that they’d been able to upgrade their facilities almost entirely with money procured from their Big Ten Network share. But that’s what makes this so frustrating for those of us who actually give a damn about the product: Speaking to Rittenberg, Delany appeared to characterize the conference’s football woes as a short-term concern, as something that could be attributed to an influx of new coaches and the consequences of immoral behavior at Penn State and Ohio State. He made no real acknowledgement of the long-term statistics, of the Big Ten’s 34-52 bowl record since 2000, of the fact that the Big Ten has won 37 percent of its nonconference games against nationally ranked teams since Ohio State won the national championship in 2002. The top of the conference is largely shaky, and the bottom has never been worse: I imagine Purdue and Minnesota and Illinois would struggle to finish .500 in the MAC.

Anything else? Yes, these rather astonishing-not-astonishing charts, about who uses marijuana and who gets busted for it, via Ezra Klein.

Finally, a fine piece by John Carlisle, former Detroitblogger, now roving columnist for the Freep. It’s about a community of legal scrappers in one of the most cursed neighborhoods in Detroit, who eke out a living digging holes in a now-vacant scrapyard, seeking out the long-buried bits of metal there. If you’re thinking, “why, that sounds like something you’d find in the Third World,” join the club. I was struck by the comments, which swung between that sentiment and a certain witless, attaboy-to-the-bootstrappers attitude, which ignores the fact the bootstrapping isn’t leading anywhere. Unless it’s to another generation of metal men:

Domenic Anderson used to follow his dad down here and watch him dig.

“Everybody would sit there, dig, get along,” he said. “All the grown-ups would be doing their own things, running their own crews out of here, making their own money.”

Now he works here, too. He stood on a dirt mound next to his twin brother, David Anderson. The 19-year-old brothers live just down the street and work in the lot six days a week. They’re rough edged and dirt streaked, and they share a distinct southwest Detroit accent and a kind of small-town genuineness.

For them, it’s not just work; it’s also their social life. Most of the neighbors moved away long ago, so there weren’t many kids to play with when they were younger, and there aren’t many to hang out with now that they’re older.

People around here like to say that we’re America’s future, so hey — look forward to it.

And so the long slog toward the holidays commences! Can you feel my excitement?

From the look of the comments Tuesday, the holiday weekend is starting early, so I’m wondering if anyone is even reading. So what the hey, let’s call it a weekend. I hope you all have a great one, wherever you are. I notice it’s snowing in Ohio, storming in the south, and pretty much more of the same here — cold and overcast.

However it is wherever you are, I hope your bird is juicy, your stuffing tasty, and your gravy free of lumps.

To discuss: A drive-by shooting in Amish country. Of a horse.

Well, it was a pretty quiet birthday. Leaden skies, unreturned phone calls, email. At the end of it, I played the ultimate working-mother card: The rotisserie chicken. What on earth is happening with rotisserie chickens these days? They’re the size of pigeons. You’re lucky to feed three people with one of them, and the third person is a teenager who picks.

I tried to get a fryer at the market a few weeks ago. The poor things were so thin you could see the pinkish flesh through the skin.

“Find me one that didn’t die of starvation,” I asked. It’s my standard quip. It never works. They all died of starvation. And yet, the lure of “Amish chicken” is powerful in an urban environment. I once heard one young man tell another that the Amish just do chicken better. This while standing over the case featuring the scrawny ones.

“The Amish do chicken exactly the same as everybody else,” I told him. He wasn’t having it, but I know whereof I speak. Not organic, not hormone-free, not running around a barnyard snagging bugs and grubs before being humanely beheaded on a tree-stump chopping block. Just a smaller sort of poultry operation, but hey — it ain’t Tyson.

But the rotisserie chicken was tasty, if not large enough. Mashed potatoes plus oven-roasted carrots with black sesame seeds. Leftover birthday cake. Good enough for a Monday.

And now “Boardwalk Empire” and the realization, once again, that all the allegedly high-quality Sunday-night TV is getting on my nerves. “Homeland” is a joke. “Masters of Sex,” which started strong, has stagnated into the same half-dozen or so themes over and over — Sex is science, sex is emotion, sex follows a script, sex never follows a script, blah blah blah. Will Dr. Masters overcome his emotional repression? Will Virginia Johnson get the respect she craves? We interrupt this repetition to display Lizzy Caplan’s naked breasts again. We interrupt those breasts to show you the saucy blonde secretary’s breasts again. And so on.

Also, I’m tired of these allegedly period shows dumping 21st-century language and attitudes hither and yon when it suits the writers. The previews for next week show one character raging, “I’m just an organ donor to you people,” a neat trick for 1959 or thereabouts, when organ transplantation was in its very earliest days and the phrase “organ donor” was hardly in common usage.

So, some bloggage before we start the runup to the holiday? Sure:

The Hollywood Reporter blows the lid off “No animals were harmed in the making of this motion picture,” with mixed results. I don’t think anyone can help but feel for a tiger that nearly drowns making “Life of Pi,” but it’s hard not to chuckle over a paragraph like this:

… a chipmunk was fatally squashed in Paramount’s 2006 Matthew McConaughey-Sarah Jessica Parker romantic comedy Failure to Launch.

Not the chipmunk! Fatally squashed! The problem is, it brings out the way we really do put animals on a hierarchy. Mammals over fish, some mammals over other mammals.

Remember the Columbus Dispatch bike blogger hit by a car earlier this month? He’s awake and blogging again. But a long way from OK. Shudder.

So, happy Tuesday? Happy Tuesday.

Hey, whaddaya know. Now it’s my turn:

Today’s the day, but we celebrated last night in the usual fashion. My present this year was a pair of L.L. Bean moccasins, lined with shearling just to be extra-fancy. Dog-walking boots for every kind of weather.

Oh, and a waffle iron. But that’s more a house present.

Otherwise, a nice weekend. Kate and Alan worked for hours on a project for her physics class. The task was to construct a catapult that would fling a marshmallow 5 meters and land in a bucket. If you know Alan, you know this required multiple trips to the hardware store, math, power tools, drilling, testing, tape measures, more testing and, of course, marshmallows:

My job was to purchase the marshmallows. Wendy handled fielding the ones that missed the bucket. Given the rules — exactly five meters, one marshmallow, landing in the bucket — I feel bad for the kids who don’t have a handy dad. You can make one with a shoebox, rubber bands and a tongue depressor, but it won’t go five meters.

I think there are lots of non-handy dads in Grosse Pointe. One thing I’ve noticed, when I look at estate sales — the more expensive the house, the fewer the tools. And more sporting goods. Many, many more of those, skis and boxing gloves and hockey sticks and high-end bicycles and boat stuff and horse stuff. But rarely so much as a hammer. You hire that shit done.

Otherwise? I watched “Olympus Has Fallen,” and marveled once again at a few things:

1) Great actors can go a long way toward rescuing a dumb script.
2) American movies are just ridiculously violent. Torture and gunplay is really baked into our bones.
3) There’s a reason Melissa Leo is nearly unrecognizable. She probably insisted on that dark wig to conceal her identity.

So, bloggage? Here’s something I wrote, a little different sort of thing for Bridge, for a slow holiday week. Hit it and keep me employed.

We did this — mulch nearly all our leaves — this year, to cover the bare topsoil in the still-unfinished back yard, and hopefully spare us a winter of muddy dog footprints throughout the house. Interesting that policy is nudging homeowners in that direction now:

In the past few years, lawn signs have sprouted in this Hudson River village and across Westchester County, proclaiming the benefits of mulching the leaves in place, rather than raking them up and taking them away. The technique involves mowing the leaves with special mulching blades, which shred them into tiny bits. That allows them to quickly decompose and naturally feed lawns and shrubs.

Officials are encouraging the practice for its cost savings: Westchester spends $3.5 million a year on private contractors who haul away leaves in tractor-trailers and bring them to commercial composting sites in places like Orange County, N.Y., and Connecticut. At the same time, environmental groups and horticulturalists are praising the practice’s sustainability, devising slogans like “Leave Leaves Alone” and “Love ’Em and Leave ’Em.”

The new film “Philomena” tells the story of Philomena Lee and her search for the child she gave birth to in one of those notorious Irish slave-convents, a story I’d been unaware of until reading the pre-release publicity. Here’s a Guardian story about the book the film is based on. It is breathtaking to think this happened in my lifetime. Just awful.

Now, I’m off to have a happy birthday. For you, just another Monday.

So this is how life slows down in the fall: One day you’re riding 10 or 15 miles a day, grilling out, drinking beer, and the next? Icing your knee and watching “Vanilla Ice Goes Amish” on HGTV. Although frankly, after my drive home from Ann Arbor early this evening, I feel like watching Vanilla Ice for the rest of the winter. As long as there’s wine.

I’m simply not a safe driver after dark anymore, at least until this cataract is fixed. I figured I’d be fine, as 90 percent of the trip is familiar freeway and reasonably well-lit. But then it rained, and the world became one of shiny surfaces and reflected headlights and murk. Murk murk murk. What’s the worst thing you can see in white-knuckle murk? How about Mr. Low-Impact Man, riding a bike down this exurban road, in the rain, with one weak-ass light on the back and no reflective clothing. Y’all know I’m a cyclist, but sometimes my people piss me off.

It took about 90 minutes to drive 45 miles. Never again. At least not until Dec. 19, the day after my cataract surgery.

Cataracts. Knees. Hello, grandma.

I actually feel pretty good. You should hear my medical history. One long chorus of “no” on every chronic condition, topped off with “none.” (For “what prescription medications do you take?”) NONE.

So. Guess what Kate asked for (and received) for her birthday?

Everything old is new again. Although I think what she likes best is that most of the other kids are not into vinyl. And in case you think you’re keeping up because you’re into vinyl, too, know this: When we were in Fort Wayne, Kate’s friend gave her a recording by one of her favorite local bands. On cassette. Somebody is always hipper than you.

Not much bloggage today; I’ve been writing for two days, and feel a little empty. But there’s this:

Dexter gets his wish; Prince Fielder is out at home.

I just channel-surfed past the last two minutes of “Glee.” How long has it been this bad?

The weekend can’t get here soon enough. Enjoy yours.

For those of you who a) care; and b) don’t read the comments, here’s the late-edition Knee News headline:

56-year-old knees fail before expiration; ‘disaster,’ claims primary-care doc

And that’s pretty much it. My left knee, the one I injured two weeks ago, has a ruptured anterior cruciate ligament, a tibial plateau fracture and various other trauma. That’s the bad news. The good news is, it really doesn’t hurt much anymore. It’s tender, I can’t flex it much beyond 90 degrees, but just plain old walking and moving? It’s comfortable. But it was a strange visit, as it started out with an examination of an X-ray, with my doctor getting right to the point: “I’ve done replacements on people with less arthritis than this,” he said. He said this while pointing to my right knee — the good one.

I have arthritis? Why yes. Pretty bad, too. I’m a candidate for a new knee, maybe two of them, sooner rather than later. And that sucks. “But we treat patients, not X-rays,” he said, which means that if it isn’t keeping me from enjoying my life and getting around, well, no need to rush.

If I were an 18-year-old soccer player, I’d be having ACL reconstruction, but it’s foolish to fix a ligament on a knee on its way out. I will have to give up my lifelong dream of being a downhill ski racer, but swimming, biking, anything without lateral stresses — all these are fine, as long as there’s little or no pain.

I guess the mature response to all this is to be grateful I live in a world with replacement knees. The immature one would be to say fuck this shit. Guess which one I’ve been thinking about today. But it will pass.

Next on the agenda: Lose 20 pounds. Can’t hurt.

So, with that scintillating medical report completed, how was your day? I wrote a few hundred words, rotated my tires, reflected on the frailties of the human body, did a load of delicates. Started making a Thanksgiving shopping list. Basically, got on with it.

So, bloggage.

The fascinating world of genetics: A 24,000-year-old corpse reveals details of human migration through Asia. I love this stuff.

I was concerned about the next Hunger Games movie, but maybe it’ll be worth a mother/daughter movie outing this season.

The painting of the Danish royal family is simply fantastic.

Limping off to bed.

Every newspaper needs a pervert or two in a high enough position that they can stop disasters from happening — the headline that reads “you can put cucumbers up yourself,” the smartass in the bowling-team photo who gives his name as Dick Splinter, and, of course, this:

Eat out Catherine Cleary? With that smirk on her face?

And with that, we drag ourselves over the hump. Another week goes on the wane, we slide toward the weekend and, inevitably, that much closer to the grave.

Can you tell it’s November? I sure can.

How did we teach our children about the dangers of drinking before YouTube? This was a real teachable moment here this week:

As I told Kate, when someone says, “Hey e’rrbody, watch this,” it’s time to leave. As you may have heard, God takes care of babies and drunks, and the faller was only mildly injured. The guy he landed on? Head injury. However, I believe both will be fine, and I’m sure the lawyers will keep us all up-to-date.

Rob Ford doesn’t need YouTube; this is a man born to be a GIF.

OK, I have to roll. I’ve been in a medical office every day this week, and this is the last one — orthopedist. I’ll keep you posted.

Sorry for the no-show yesterday. Worked late. Had nothin’. Phoned it in.

I have little more today, but I do have a question about dog psychology, for you dog psychologists. I mentioned a while back that Wendy had become a lap dog with the onset of cool weather. Now I’m not so sure it’s got anything to do with the weather. She wants to be in physical contact with me for amazingly long periods. If I’m sitting on a chaise, she wants to lie on, not next to, my legs. Couch, ditto. The other day I pushed her off — I’ve got a lame leg, after all — and she smushed up next to me and laid a paw where she had been lying.

I’ve never had a dog who seemed to need so much physical contact. Spriggy didn’t put up with much more than normal petting and belly-scratching. I don’t know if it’s a remnant of her shelter life, or what. It’s sort of nice, but sometimes it’s like having a clingy toddler.

Terriers are supposed to be independent. I’m a little concerned, as in a few weeks or months Bridge will be opening a Detroit office and I’ll be working there more often. I don’t want to come home to a vibrating, freaked-out dog.

Which is one reason ads for the Thundershirt keep turning up in my web perambulations.

And aren’t you sorry you dropped by?

I’ve come to think the prefix “ultra” never indicates something good. Today, “ultra-traditionalist Catholics” from the Society of Saint Pius X disrupted an interfaith ceremony observing Kristallnacht, at a cathedral in Buenos Aires. Which I’m mentioning just because. Even though you know how much I love Catholic rad trads.

With my achy knee and otherwise aging joints, I can only look upon this video of the Detroit Jit and think, sadly, oh, but this ship has sailed. Probably just as well.

Modern Farmer brings you the pie chart of pies. No more apple for you. And they are so, so wrong about cherry.

Again, a short effort, and I am off to bed. Cut way back on the ibuprofen this week and my gut feels better, but I also have Martin Cruz Smith to keep me warm, so back to “Tatiana.”

It had to happen sometime, and it finally did: Alan and I went to the movies Saturday night. Saw “All is Lost.” As the line moved forward, we heard a lot of people ask for two tickets, and be told, “That’ll be $20.”

We got to the head of the line. “That’ll be $15,” the ticket-seller said.

As we walked away, Alan wondered aloud why this movie was apparently priced lower than all the others. I told him to check the tickets. Sure enough, we’d been given the senior discount. Without even asking! We wondered if, perhaps, every single person who cared to watch 77-year-old Robert Redford battle with increasing despair for one hour and 40 minutes that night was a senior, so we just got it by default. I think that might be the answer. It was definitely an old crowd.

But a good movie. I read somewhere that the script was only 31 pages long. The sum total of words spoken wouldn’t fill half a page, single-spaced. The story of how one man, sailing along somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean, finds himself in a long, slow battle with the unforgiving ocean would seem to require more of them, but no. Redford is impressive in how he manages to convey the look of desperation, thought and calculation without having to prattle aloud to himself, a la Tom Hanks in “Cast Away.” I was surprised at how affecting it was, and how skillfully done.

The rest of the weekend was the usual — a drink or three Friday night, errands galore Saturday, the aforementioned movie, and then the first concert of the year for Kate’s jazz group. Hers is the creative jazz ensemble, where the rule is that if you show up with an instrument, they’ll figure out a way to fit you in. Sometimes these configurations are downright strange: This cycle, they have three violinists, two guitars, bass, drums and percussion. It helps that the most experienced violinist plays like Jean-Luc Ponty. A very enjoyable ensemble.

I hope all the rest of you had the same.

Bloggage? Sure:

We had to leave Wendy alone today for what turned out to be almost six hours. She was very anxious when we returned, which led me to google the Thundershirt, which means that every site I visit now shows me an ad for the Thundershirt. Neil Steinberg considers the implication of this sort of benign Big Data:

Could facial recognition and GPS and drones all unite into some grand web of repression? Sure, but it would be hard-pressed to top the old Soviet-style informant and jackboot repression. Teens are already bored with Facebook, and it’s easy to see why. There’s only so much Farmville you can play. We like technology, but we insist on it being our choice, or seeming to. You can trace an arc of increasing personal liberty for the past 300 years. A new chip isn’t going to change that. We build anarchy into our systems — the speed limit may be 55, but auto speedometers still go up to 160.

Gun madness continues. No comment. America has made its bloody bed — lie in it.

Finally, an illustrated mini-guide to why the world finds hipsters so irritating. After we dropped off Kate at Orchestra Hall, we had about an hour to kill, and went down the block for a drink. I used the bathroom. They were arrayed in the usual way, but hey, not separate by gender:

No, you have a choice. This:

Or this:

Both were occupied, and a man came out of better lighting first. He was wearing sunglasses.

Have a good week, all.

The Motor Trend Car of the Year spent the night at our house last night. I had to move it to allow our backyard crew to get their truck in. It kept tickling my butt, until I figured out it was trying to tell me I hadn’t fastened my seat belt. That is all. No, wait: Alan sure likes that Underground Garage show on the satellite radio. And that is all.

The backyard crew are the guys who were installing the fence, and they finished today. Woot. We now have a fenced yard, a patio and a shit-ton of bare topsoil, which I’m anticipating will be a winter-long headache until we can get something planted in the spring. The timing wasn’t perfect, but now the heavy lifting is done, we’ve reclaimed a chunk of the yard from concrete, ripped out the rotten deck, aka the Grosse Pointe Home for Dying Possums and Nasty-ass Raccoons, and set the stage for a nice entertaining space next year. Here’s something Alan found while ripping out the deck:

Click to enlarge, if you like. After puzzling over it for a while, we figured it was probably a cat. Large eye sockets, the fangs, suburbia — it’s unlikely to be anything more exotic. Although it was just a skull, which makes me wonder where the rest of kitty might have gone. Nature is red in tooth and claw, even when we’re drinking cocktails six inches over its head.

So, some quick bloggage:

What if Hallmark made a horror movie? The trailer would look like the one for Mitch Albom’s new book — er, new novel.

You’ve heard of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald? Here’s an account of a century-old gale of November on the Great Lakes that gives you an idea of how fearsome a “white hurricane” can be.

And now we have arrived at the weekend. Let’s make something good of it.