This little speaker, no bigger than a salt shaker, was a party favor at a holiday gathering, and looked so cheap I considered consigning it directly to the garage-sale stash, but decided today to charge it up and listen first.

Man. It rocks the llama’s ass. Not a whole hell of a lot of bottom end, but an amazingly rich sound — enough that I didn’t miss much during an extended session with the Miles Davis Pandora station today. It runs off Bluetooth, too, but I kept it hard-wired today, as I’m already running one Bluetooth accessory with the phone. Every so often I stop to consider this age of miracles we live in, and I can only shake my head.

Oh, and speaking of garage sales, ask me when we last had one. Yeah, a long damn time. Long enough that in the next one, you can pick up two end-table-size Kenwood speakers, at least 30 years old. It’s like selling a TV with a tube in it.

Oh, I have such good linkage for you kittens today. The story everyone’s talking about today, and for good reason: A dispatch from a deep embed on the set of “The Canyons.” And what is that? Why, that’s the new film starting Lindsay Lohan and a porn star, directed by a man who should know better (Paul Schrader), costing practically nothing ($225,000). And even though you think you don’t care about shitty movies (which this certainly will be) or Hollywood in general, you should read this story. Because it’s fabulous and hilarious and appalling and you will learn something.

And in Chicago, the Sun-Times is using the 35th anniversary of its great, great series on the Mirage Tavern to revisit the whole thing on its blog. As usual, scroll to the bottom and come back up. For those of you who don’t know this chapter in journalism history, it was made out of pure Awesome: To show how corrupt the city’s regulatory agencies were, the paper bought and opened a bar. Called the Mirage. Equipped with hidden cameras. And city inspectors, state liquor agents and more came to call with their hands out. It was really audacious. Relive the fun.

Finally, the story of a single striking news photo, and what came after.

What comes after this? The weekend. Have a good one.

Man, I hope I don’t get this flu that’s going around. We all got flu shots, but late in the season, Kate just about 10 days ago. Now she’s lying on the couch under a blanket pile with what sounds like a migraine. Which isn’t the flu, I know, but it could be an early rumble.

I’m so glad headaches aren’t in the frequent-miseries file in my DNA. That’s the inheritance from dad’s side. I just buy the Tylenol.

Apparently a beautiful day conducted itself outside my window all damn day, while I sat inside, listened to the wind blow through the bare branches and made a million phone calls. Forty-seven degrees? When did I move to North Carolina? You’ve heard, of course, that 2012 is now in the record books as the hottest ever. Oh, how I hope this passes. A January thaw is one thing, but another year like this one? Don’t know if I can do that.

And now it’s evening, and I’m watching “The Abolitionists.” Not enjoying it much, I’m sorry to say; I hate these cheesy dramatizations. Especially low-budget ones.

So let’s go to the bloggage:

First, a hilarious story about a blogger who made an offhand remark about Richard Marx — the top-40 pop-singin’ guy — and provoked an unusual response. Marx read it, and responded. Angrily:

No explanation for why you write that I’m “shameless?” You act pretty tough sitting alone in your little room behind your laptop.

If you’d written you hated my music, that’s cool. Like I could give a shit. But saying I’m “shameless” calls into question my character and integrity.

This is my hometown…where my kids live…where my mother lives…and this will not stand with me.

Would you say that to my face? Let’s find out. I’ll meet you anywhere in the city, any time. I don’t travel again until the end of the week. Let’s hash this out like men.

Never heard of you in my life before, but between various columnist/radio friends and an array of people at NBC, I now know plenty about you. You don’t know anything about me. But you’re about to.

This isn’t going away.

Richard Marx

I include this one because I know Basset follows city-planning news, and this week the mother of all city-planning efforts was revealed — the new Detroit, a place of neighborhoods as urban villages, surrounded by green space, forests, farms, ponds. Well, that’s the drawing-board version, anyway. But the Kresge Foundation said they’re giving one! hundred! fifty! million! dollars! to make it work, so who knows.

Finally, one of my own, the reason I was in Dearborn last month — three charter schools serving almost entirely Arab-American populations, and poor ones at that, landed on Bridge’s list of the best schools in the state. An impressive bunch of people, almost all women, run the shows. And they gave me hummus, which practically counts as a bribe. So. (Link will go live after 8 a.m.)

Oh, this week feels so very, very long. Damn you, holidays — why must you end?

Sometimes I hate Facebook. One of my friends is at the Adult Entertainment Expo in Los Angeles. Another one just got back from skiing in Park City. One is eating spinach lasagna. Another is finishing a bathroom reno.

We ordered a pizza tonight. My life is pretty boring.

[Stares at screen for five minutes.]

Yup.

So in light of that, how about some good bloggage, again?

Soul Cycle, our own Charlotte’s baby cousin’s business, mentioned yesterday in The Hottest Comment Section on the Internets ™, gets a big piece in New York magazine. Although I will say, without a gift certificate, I won’t be joining in — $32 per class? Lordy, the skinny really are different from you and me.

The Atlantic photo blog, In Focus, looks at National Geographic’s best photos of 2012. A good balance of the beauty of nature (there MUST be a God!) with the degradation of humanity (there CAN’T be a God!).

If there’s anything that could make the Lance Armstrong story worse, it’s this: Oprah. Awk.

Wednesday, it is? Coulda fooled me. Have a good one, all.

The watchword for fitness this year is variety. I’m putting my gym on 30-day notice. If I can’t find enough different things to do there in a month, I’m giving up my membership and going back to messing around outdoors, dropping into yoga studios here and there and maybe taking a weekly weights class. But I have to give them a full month of chances, which is how I ended up in a 5:45 a.m. spinning class, my second in three days. Saturday’s was so grueling — ghastly music, a sadistic instructor — that I couldn’t let the taste linger. I like spinning; the hour goes by fast. So I came back yesterday morning for a palate-cleanser with a different instructor.

The music was, if anything, worse than Saturday’s speed-metal. The pace wasn’t quite as brutal, but I get really irritated with what spin teachers claim is sprinting on a stationary bike. I try to ride like an actual cyclist, and folks, we don’t go so fast our legs blur; if you’re trying to go fast, you go up a gear or three. But adding resistance on a stationery bike is just like adding a 30 mph headwind. It just sucks.

And if you’re going to make me sit through “Beat It” during one of these ordeals, at least make it the original Michael Jackson version, not some soundalike.

In my spinning class at that hour, I’d play Beyoncé and the Pretenders. But no one asked me.

And have I bored you to death yet? Sorry.

The punchline of this whole story was that I slipped on black ice in the parking lot on the way back to my car, falling directly on my knee. I’m starting to feel like Joe Namath.

Fortunately, though, I have good bloggage for you today, and you can read it without having to listen to “Blame it on the Boom Boom.” You’re welcome.

From Roy’s Tumblr, a letter from Alec Guinness to a friend, discussing a part he’d been offered, “fairy-tale rubbish but could be interesting, perhaps.” Three months later, he’s on about the “rubbish dialogue.” Bet you can’t guess what crapfest he was working in.

I love a story like this, which illustrates something most of us never think about, in this case, the ghetto economy. It’s about the valuable street substance that is craved, stolen and traded — Tide laundry detergent.

I can’t bear myself to read the Elizabeth Wurtzel essay this essay is about, but I’ll read this essay. Huh?

It’s true: Jack and Rose could have both survived the Titanic sinking, but noooo.

Finally, the best column I’ve read about Lance Armstrong in a good long time:

He cannot say he’s sorry for using performance-enhancing drugs. If he wants to confess, as reported on Friday by The New York Times, he has to leave it at that. The trained-seal routine for celebrities caught in a scandal won’t work here.

He doesn’t want forgiveness for his pharmaceutical adventures.

He wants his old life back. He wants to compete in sanctioned triathlons. He wants to return to the leadership of his cancer foundation. He wants to matter again.

Tuesday. And so the week is underway.

From the comment chatter, I gather everyone had a nice Christmas. I did, certainly — one of the advantages of a smaller family is that holidays are more relaxed. We spent Christmas Eve sitting at the kitchen table with my sister-in-law, drinking champagne and playing Scrabble. If there’s a better time to be had on a snowy night in Michigan, I don’t know what it is.

(And a voice from the Upper Peninsula calls out: Cribbage! Noted.)

The loot was all very nice and appreciated, too. I asked for, and received, a set of pull-on ice cleats. Don’t laugh. I’m convinced the trouble with my knee is at least partly the result of many, many winter falls, along with a few high-heel mishaps. I took them out for a three-mile shakedown Saturday, and they did the trick, as well as being very clickety-clickety-click on the paved sections.

But the big present was from us to ourselves: We finally broke down and got a big-ass high-def TV. Holy shit. I mean: HOLY SHIT. I’ve seen them before, of course, but there’s something about having one in your TV room. I’m watching the Rose Bowl now, wondering why anyone bothers to actually attend a football game in a stadium anymore. I can see panty lines on these players. Alan ran out the next day and added an Apple TV and is currently happier than the proverbial pig in excrement, able to listen to all of his favorite internet radio stations on the good speakers. His current No. 1 is KEXP out of Seattle, which he says plays more interesting Detroit music than the local stations. (I’m happy with KCRW and WWOZ.) I have a feeling we’ll be having a long talk with Comcast very soon.

And now, it’s time to get back in the saddle. I’ve been consciously trying to avoid a lot of the news these last couple of weeks, with the exception of this and that. If someone says “fiscal cliff” in my presence before I’m fully reintegrated into working life, I might explode.

So I don’t have a lot of bloggage today, although there’s this oldish thing: Blues Cruise, an account of the post-election National Review cruise through the Caribbean for a little wound-licking.

Back to the mangle. You, too?

Poaching some eggs on the last day of 2012, thinking about 2013. Laura Lippman was the one who came up with the idea of the one-word New Year’s resolution. It’s a good idea. No long lists, just one sustained effort distilled down to one word. Last year mine was: Focus. Results? Mixed.

I took a new job almost exactly one year ago, and it required more sustained focus — some of it pleasant, some not — than I’ve had to do in quite some time. Work is hard, challenging work especially so. I think it was Mr. Laura Lippman who once said, “If it was fun, they’d call it show fun. But they call it show business.” The year, and the job, has been all I thought it would be and a lot more, and I’m grateful for it. But focus is an ongoing battle with me. My brain over-revs, I find it difficult to be centered and quiet, and so, for 2013, I continue with that one: Focus.

I have two more. Sorry, Laura. I’m just not perfect yet.

The second one is Finish. I have a lot of ideas about things I want to do, a big fiction project that either has to move forward or be buried in the back yard, a rewrite of something else, you know the drill. If I can finish them, then next year’s resolution will likely be Persevere. But for now, they just need to be done. Done or gone.

The third is Floss. Because, duh. If I can make flossing a daily victory, who knows what miracles may await beyond it? Exercise? Weight loss? A BETTER ME IN 2013? The sky’s the limit.

So, that’s it for me in 2013: Focus, finish, floss. How about you?

Happy new year to all, thanks for stopping by this year and all the ones that came before it. Blogversary is coming up later this month, but looking at the January schedule at work, it’ll likely fly by in a blur, so let me say it now: Every click is an honor, and I treasure you all.

It’s been a top-rack sort of fortnight around here, which has nothing to do with booze. (Well, a little.) Rather, it’s what happens when everyone is on the go, few meals are being served, and the dishwasher’s top rack — where the glasses and coffee cups go — fills up quickly, and the bottom rack — where the plates and silverware goes — sits empty.

Also, the kitchen table is strewn with newspapers and favors from the auto-company holiday parties Alan’s been attending all week. Right now: The New York Times, the Detroit News, some sugared almonds and a CD of the guy who won one of “The Voice” competitions, who was also the entertainment at the party. Can’t remember his name. You’re not going to make me get up and check, are you?

[Pause.]

Chris Mann. I have no idea who he is.

And that’s one of the ways I keep track of things around here. There are days when I feel as though I could give you a snapshot description of every countertop, tabletop, closet and drawer in the house. I know the sound every appliance makes. I know how much laundry needs to be done and how soon we’ll need milk and orange juice. I’m not terribly organized, and I’m not the most efficient housekeeper out there, but I know my own house, the wages of years of working at home, spending long moments staring at a computer screen, trying to concentrate enough to come up with a new way to say the same old stuff.

And today I’m off. Burning up some v-days before the end of the year. I thought of making a quick run south to the Columbus Dispatch holiday party, but then Kate had her road test scheduled today, so that’s what I’ll do instead. Blogging in the morning for a change, seeing if it makes me any chattier, being all fresh and newly caffeinated ‘n’ stuff.

There’s about 10,000 words I could write about trying to teach a teenager a) stick-shift driving; and b) how to drive in combat conditions, which is what Detroit urban transportation is, but I’ll spare you. Tuesday, on my way home from Lansing, I was on the second-to-last freeway of the four numbered routes I take. I-696, the worst of the lot, four lanes of bumper-to-bumper, high-speed lunacy, the closest a civilian will get to driving the Brickyard 400. A Malibu drifted into my lane ahead of me, pretty far — both tires crossed the line. Then it overcorrected back and weaved into the lane on the other side. Classic drunk move. It was around 6:30 p.m., a little early for that, but what the hell, it’s holiday-party season. I saw my chance to pick up speed and pass before the driver came back into my side. Glanced over: A girl about Kate’s age, holding her phone directly in front of her face, with a passenger of the same age, doing the same thing. It’s days like this I want to grab my child, open the panel in her back, and dial back her age settings to 9 or 10 — before the teenage sullenness, before driver’s licenses.

Instead, I will bring you some bloggage:

What a week in the legislature. Assuming the gubernatorial John Hancock or non-veto, soon you’ll be able to take your gun to church. Quoth a supporter:

State Rep. Joel Johnson, R-Clare, called the bill a “pro-public safety bill” because it allowed gun owners to be an asset to public safety in volatile situations.

Yeah, baby! MMJeff, you’d best make that sermon sing, or we’ll be pulling out the shootin’ irons!

Also, the abortion restrictions passed, but not without compromise: You no longer have to give your aborted fetus a proper burial. And — compromise lives! — the bill that would allow your Catholic pharmacist to remain in prayer while you take your birth-control prescription elsewhere died on the vine.

They’re going for the citizenship thing on the voting form again, however.

A moment of silence, then a beep: The inventor of the bar code is dead.

And with that, I have filed 671 words that took me 30 minutes to write. I should do this morning thing more often. Happy Friday, happy weekend.

I’m not sure what percentage of annual jewelry sales happen in December, but I’d be willing to bet it’s a lot. Between engagement rings and year-end bonus spending, the final quarter has to be critically important for any jeweler’s balance sheet. Hence the ads:

(B.C. Clark doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m going to talk about today. I just threw it in for Hank, who loves it so.)

No, I’m thinking about the female image in jewelry advertising, and the problem it poses for creative directors. Because here’s the thing: Generally speaking, you can’t afford fine jewelry until you’re a little older, but putting Mikimoto pearls on wrinkly necks isn’t going to sell too many of them. But if the model is too young, it just looks weird. Princesses can wear zillion-dollar necklaces when they’re 19. Everyone else should be at least 30. Which brings me to this girl:

She’s been in the holiday ads for a local jeweler — and nowhere else I’ve seen — for a few years now. When she started, she looked like the prettiest member of the Michigan State junior-varsity volleyball team, bedazzled for some rich creep, like the girls in some “Taken” fantasy. She still does, to my eyes. Do you think a girl like her would wear a snake around her neck? Someone that wholesome should be in pearls, or maybe a diamond pendant.

Sometimes you can get away with a young model — it all depends on the context.

I swear, I could search “jewelry ads” in Google images all day. Some strange ideas out there.

Of course, women aren’t jewels, they’re people. Here’s my jewel, Sunday night:

I remember her first bass lesson, the teacher said, “You’ll look at a lot of butts.” He wasn’t much of a teacher, but he was right about that.

That’s at Cliff Bell’s, a local jazz club. The DSO program she’s in has a jam session every month there. Show up, bring your fake book, and dive in. it’s intimidating, but it works.

And now the week begins. On Tuesday, the state legislature will pass right-to-work legislation, capping one of the most extraordinary lame-duck sessions anyone can remember. Push aside the vitriol, and this column captures the sentiment of the moment. It’s going to be a bear; I hope I can see enough of it to get a few pictures.

In the meantime, a little bloggage:

A look at a bottom-ender, trying to make her way out. Another great Anne Hull piece from the washPost.

Have a great week, all.

I was working on a post yesterday, before:

1) House guests;
2) Work;
3) More work;
4) Chinese food and two bottles of wine;
5) RIGHT TO WORK BILLS OMFG LANSING WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP;
6) And probably some other stuff I’m forgetting.

So one more open thread, and we’ll get back to normal business.

In the last two days: Two round trips to Lansing, multiple long drives around the Metro, a couple fingers of scotch, a Christmas party at the gov’s mansion, a lot of work, and coming tomorrow? House guests. You can see why I’ve been a slacker around here the past couple of days.

Also, this was the scene yesterday at the Capitol. Wisconsin II: The Madisoning could be opening here any day now.

And I don’t have my shopping done. Not even close.

But I do have some weak-ass bloggage.

Dave Brubeck at the Kennedy Center Honors, having what looks to be the peak experience of his life:

This is a terribly sad story about a woman with a terribly sad — and misunderstood — condition, with an even more terrible and sad denouement — suicide.

The final days of a Detroit institution. One of my FB friends, an old music-scene hand, recalled when the Pogues were about to go on next door, and the lead singer couldn’t be found, until he was, having a couple with Steve.

It’s 11:30. I think I may die soon. So g’night.