I’m not normally in town on Mondays, but I was this week, which happened to intersect with THE DARKEST SHAME OF MY LIFE, the every-other-week visit from my cleaning woman. Neither one of us wants me here while she’s working, and somehow I ended up at the newly opened McDonald’s in my neighborhood. They promised, when it was on the drawing board, that they wanted it to become a Starbucky gathering place, with free wifi, so I figured I’d take them up on it.

How many here have ever put on the paper hat of McDonald’s? I know, it’s a visor now, but it was a paper hat when most of us here were likely to work there. Working at Mickey D’s is the classic American first job, and I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve known who earned their first paychecks dishing up fries. I’m now mellow enough that I don’t mind little mistakes in my orders, figuring they’re payback on the millions of mistakes I’ve made in my own work.

This McDonald’s is in Detroit, and of course Detroit is an African-American city, so most of the kids working there are, as well. Also, Grosse Pointe kids get their first jobs clerking for Supreme Court justices or caddying for General Motors board members. Today, this crew is being overseen by a middle-aged woman, black, a clone of every other manager or assistant manager in every other McDonald’s in this part of the world.

When my friend Deb’s son was getting his training at his local McD’s, one of these women came into the room where they were learning the closing procedure and food-handling procedure and all the rest of it. It’s a lot for a 16-year-old to take in. She was carrying a tray filled with french fries. “MAC-Donald’s kicking y’all’s butts yet? How about something to eat.”

The woman Monday afternoon was shepherding her young workers with that mix of absolute authority and indulgent maternal instinct so necessary in this particular environment. One blocked an aisle I was trying to walk through, and she barked, “Make ROOM for this lady — she’s a customer!” before turning back to the kid she was sitting down with.

“Do you know your schedule?” she asked him.

“Um, yeah,” the kid said. Pause. “I think.”

“Tell it to me,” she ordered.

“Saturday, 3-9,” he tried.

“And Sunday?”

“The same?”

“That’s right, honey. You’re doing good.”

It cannot be easy to run one of these places. You’re always hiring, always training, always ready to step in when one of your teenage workers decides not to show up on Saturday, having not yet learned the courtesy of two weeks’ notice. The owner of Zingerman’s once described dishwashing positions as something that change on almost an hourly basis, and any restaurant owner too good to handle that duty isn’t long for the business. You don’t have that problem at McDonald’s, but you better not be too proud to make coffee and shake salt over the fries.

I passed the time writing a letter of recommendation for one of my former students, now trying to get into Berkeley’s documentary program. The advantage of dealing with digital files is, the selection committee won’t be able to see grease smears on the paper.

The kid who took my order was obviously a greenhorn, but like I said: No biggie. The time to worry is when people who are plainly overqualified for the work start turning up behind the counter. During the absolute worst of the recession, I had my bags at Trader Joe’s packed by a guy who took enormous care to use every inch of space wisely. I walked out with two perfectly balanced bags and thought God, I hope this man didn’t go to engineering school.

So. How was your Monday? I see the Petraeus story is getting weirder (and more understandable) by the day, now that we know it features that fixture of Washington scandal — a man sending around shirtless photos of himself:

A federal agent who launched the investigation that ultimately led to the resignation of Central Intelligence Agency chief David Petraeus was barred from taking part in the case over the summer due to superiors’ concerns that he had become personally involved in the case, according to officials familiar with the probe.

New details about how the Federal Bureau of Investigation handled the case suggest that even as the bureau delved into Mr. Petraeus’s personal life, the agency had to address questionable conduct by one of its own—including allegedly sending shirtless photos of himself to a woman involved in the case.

May I just offer this word of advice to the men of the world — from Detroit judges to U.S. Congressmen — who feel compelled to send seminude photos of yourself to women you want to bag? Don’t. It doesn’t work. Women appreciate a nice-looking man, sure, but our brains don’t really work like that. Yours do, but not ours. Send a funny note instead, or an iTunes mix, or whatever. She’ll thank you, and you’ll be less likely to end up famous for the wrong reason.

On a more serious note, a Q&A with an expert on education policy worldwide. We’re doing it wrong:

When we think about market mechanisms in education, we think about managing consumer demand. It’s all about school choice.

And then you look at Shanghai, which also believes in market mechanisms, but has a totally different strategy. They operate on the supply side. What Shanghai has done is create incentives to attract the most talented teachers into the most challenging classrooms. And to get the best principals into the toughest schools. It’s the same kind of philosophy, based on market mechanisms. But they turned the problem on its head and achieved a remarkable improvement in educational outcomes.

Having dispensed with Monday — during which Sunday’s 70-degree temperatures fell 35 degrees — Tuesday is looking far better. Let’s hope so.

I don’t hang out in Grand Haven on a Sunday afternoon in November just for grins. Kate is preparing for an adventure — three weeks in Europe next summer with the international program at her summer camp. Not a bad deal, touring the Continent, playing jazz, staying with the locals. For us, it means a number of weekends between then and now being her Sherpas for the required rehearsals. After we dump the amp and the instrument — and the musician — we are at liberty. And on a lovely, warm day.

So we went to the water:

And then we went to the woods:

This was all within the same state park. Pure Michigan. About a minute after I took that last picture, two sizable does bounded across the path in front of us, having a little frolic before gun season opens Thursday.

And then we had lunch at a nice little diner in Grand Haven, which had that empty look tourist towns get in the off-season. We went into one store and the owner nearly tackled us, introducing us personally to every item of inventory. We escaped with one jar of blueberry jam. Eight bucks. So who won that one? I’d say the guy who got $8.

The walk in the woods was calming. I’m trying to stop slicing off piece after piece of schadenfreude pie, but man, is it good, and every time I see Karl Rove’s face, I must read whatever type surrounds it. But I think I’m done now. (Please, I’m so full. No more pie.) But please, don’t offer my any more. I’m not safe around that stuff.

Instead, how about a good old people-suck story about hazing? It’ll strip your good feelings about your fellow man, I guarantee.

What news I did read this weekend was about Cloak and Shag-Her, to use the NYPost’s outstanding headline on day one of the Petraeus story. When Alan told me this woman was push-up girl, much became clear. Someone tell me: At what age do men stop chasing poontang over a cliff?

Have a good week, all.

I have the bestest readers in the world. One of you guys — someone I’ve known since junior high school, who sometimes comments here as MarcG — read yesterday’s blog and got into his photo albums. Turns out Marc was one of the revelers up north a time or two. That balcony at the yacht club? He sent a picture:

And just so’s you can why all the girls thought Marc was just the cutest thing, even when he was a little overserved, here’s Himself:

Now he lives in Latvia. Take note, eastern European girls. And thanks for scanning your photos, Marc, so I didn’t have to.

Today was, shall we say, not a top-tenner. Out the driveway bright and early, arrived in Lansing at 8 a.m., only to discover the internet was out. You don’t know how much you use the internet until it’s not around anymore. Derek went off to work at home, and Ron and I sat around reading “limp iPads,” as they call those paper things with news printed on them, until it became clear the ‘net wasn’t coming back anytime soon. So we both went home, only I had to drive 100 miles back in the other direction. I was back in my kitchen by noon, and celebrated having evaded the I-96 sniper twice in one day by having a cup of leftover chili and putting my feet up to read the news. Ninety minutes later, I woke up. That hardly ever happens, but when it does, it’s unnerving. My last conscious thought was how good a nice hot cup of chili feels in your tummy on a chilly day. I think the sniper was the least dangerous thing on my commute today.

After that, I sent 400 emails, give or take. If you got one, rest assured I gave it my full attention.

So, today? It’s the big day. Let’s make this a what-happened-at-your-polling-place thread. (Of course, pipe up if Llewd’s scrotum turns up.) I hit my absolute limit yesterday, and after one cycle through the NPR headlines, opted for “Birth of the Cool” on the drive. Played it twice. Great album.

This seemed to be the alternative.

November seems to have made its entrance — gray skies and 40s for the foreseeable future. And, of course, daylight saving time bid us farewell, which means black skies outside at dinner time and sigh oh well.

I spent part of the weekend cleaning the basement. Didn’t get it all done, but enough that I felt progress happened. One of the boxes I pushed into the maybe-get-rid-of pile was one of Alan’s 45s. Before any of you squawk, rest assured he already did, and they’re going back on the shelf to never be listened to for another decade. I know I could dig up an adapter and play them on our turntable, but I’d have to change them every 2:30 minutes, and that gets old.

We also have quite a few 78s, and those have never been played in my presence. They were Alan’s dad’s, a collection he started before going off to fight for his country. During his absence, he always said, his brother Dick took the best ones and “traded them for some hillbilly records.” I pulled a random folder off the shelf; it says “record album” on its front, and that’s why we call them that — they once were stored in sleeves in these books, just like photos.

Opened the cover: “St. James Infirmary” by Cab Calloway & His Orchestra. There were a few of Harry James, playing with that special young singer, Frank Sinatra. I wondered where we’d find a modern turntable that would spin that fast, and remembered my all-time favorite 78 rpm memory.

[Zoom in on spinning record label, soften focus; harp glissandos.]

A bunch of us are in the Upper Peninsula, at my friends Paul and Mark’s cottage. Technically, we’re down the path at the Les Cheneaux Yacht Club, which is a big boathouse with a second floor. We’re the only ones there. There’s a balcony that overlooks a big bay, and out to Middle Entrance, where the big lake starts and there’s nothing to see but water and horizon forever.

We’re here, in fact, and if you look in the satellite view, I put the pin at the end of the dock, but we’re in that building. Zoom out and see the vast lake, imagine half a dozen young people in that club, late at night, probably a little buzzed because that’s what we did at night up there. We’re sitting on the balcony in the inky night, the weak radio station has dissolved into static, and someone mentions there’s a Victrola in the room behind us. An original, probably been there since that was the only way to hear recorded music. Paul cranks it up, and puts on the first record he grabs — “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” warbled by some cowgirl singer, maybe even Dale Evans herself.

The song starts to unfold, with all the pops and low-fidelity fiddles and guitars, the girl’s voice over all of it. We’re happy, clapping along where you’re supposed to: The stars at night are big and bright clap clap clap clap deep in the heart of Texas. They can’t possibly be as bright as they are here, miles and miles from anything brighter than a few weak streetlights. And in spite of being with my friends and 23 years old, and half-drunk and healthy and all the rest of it, I get a little chill. The old-timey sound of the music seems so lonely all of a sudden, reminds me how big the world is, how far away Texas is, how isolated we are in this U.P. summer colony, not even close enough to the nearest neighbors to disturb them with our singing and clapping.

It’s the music that’s doing it. I’d like to hear it again, but it wouldn’t be the same. There’s probably an audio filter I could run a contemporary copy of “St. James Infirmary” through, like an aural Instagram, that would instantly make it sound like it was sung into an enormous microphone and recorded on a wax cylinder.

That night in northern Michigan was about 30 years ago. And I just wrote about it on the Internet, linking to a Google map of that very place. Strange.

[Harp glissandos; sharpen focus on middle-aged woman holding a duster in a basement]

I put the records back. One of these days, maybe. A mix tape: The Best of Alan’s Record Box.

How was your weekend? Two more days, and we can start talking after the election.

After a few weeks of emailing crossword completion times back and forth with Eric Zorn, I stopped doing the Chicago Tribune/LA Times online puzzle on a daily basis. We were both shooting for a sub-five minute time, and once we made it, the fun went out of the game.

But I’m back into it, and lately my interest is in seeing how my aging brain works. Today’s asked for the first name of the former Soviet premier named Kosygin. I knew I knew it, but my Russophile brain refused to cough it up. As it turned out, I got it via the clues in the other direction, but didn’t go back to check the answer. At mid afternoon, it popped into my brain: Alexei. Of course, Alexei. Alexei Kosygin. I knew it at 3 p.m. but couldn’t dislodge it with dynamite at 8 a.m.

Maybe Dave Barry is right — as we get older, our brains fill up with song lyrics and there’s no room for anything else. At 2:30 p.m., driving home from the boatyard, I heard Burton Cummings on a Canadian talk show called Q. He sang “Laughing” live in the studio, I sang along in the car and didn’t miss a word.

Mental exercise. It’s the easiest kind, except when it isn’t.

My time today was over 7 minutes. Crappy, for a Tuesday.

Yeesh, I’ll be glad when election season is over. I know the animosity will remain, but it might drop a few notches. Perhaps Janice Daniels, mayor of Troy, will be recalled. A Tea Party darling, her first significant act of office was rejecting a transit center the local chamber of commerce had been working to put on the ground for years. Oh, and she also mentioned on her Facebook page how she was going to give up her I (heart) NY tote bag because “queers” could get married there now. For a taste of how she rolls, here she is in action just this past Monday, maing a mess of the simplest and easiest duty of her office — presenting a proclamation to a worthy local resident. Deadline Detroit sums it up, if you don’t have video capability:

For some reason (maybe voices in her head told her it would be a good idea) The Janice interrupted reading the proclamation to say Kerwin’s “Distinguished Citizen” honor was awarded by the “Troy Democrat Club.”

For starters, there are two kinds of people on the planet. The first kind of people understands the Democratic Party’s name is the Democratic Party. The second kind are the clinical morons who say Democrat Party.

Ah yes, the Democrat party.

So, a little non-political bloggage?

Hank Stuever gave his lecture at the University of Montana Monday. Read all about “Liner Notes for the End of the World: My Adventures in Covering American Pop Culture” in the Kaiman, the campus paper.

With all that my colleague Ron has been writing about the importance of early childhood education, I was amused to read this, in the Journal Gazette, although frankly, I’m not surprised to learn that a contributor to the Indiana Policy Review finds the idea “thorny.”

Back to work tomorrow, after a Tuesday off to take the boat out. It’s out, with hopes for more water next year, or else we’re screwed.

I’ve been getting a lot of wrong numbers lately. Not “Is Bob there” wrong numbers, but ones that go like this:

“Hi, is Nancy there? Yes? This is Nancy? OK, I’m wondering if it’s too late to get my 9-year-old registered for the indoor soccer league.”

When I told this person I had no idea what she was talking about, she asked again if she had Nancy, read me back my number, and then threw the ball into my court — you’re Nancy, this is your number, now what about the soccer league? It took a minute to convince her she really had the wrong person.

Two days later, someone else called, asked for me by name and asked where she was supposed to drop off the boxes for the book sale.

I suspect much of this comes from my other website, GrossePointeToday.com, which I am all but severed from — other than killing spam out of the comments and doing what I can here and there for Sheila, my partner, who is using it in her editing class at Wayne State. We link to various community pages, run an events calendar, and people get confused which one sent them there. At least, this is my theory.

Today someone called, asked for Nancy, and started into a description of a vintage jukebox. When I realized he wasn’t asking for a story to be written about this jukebox, but rather wanted a professional appraisal, I cut him off and told him I didn’t do that.

Again, “But this is Nancy, right? And this is (my phone number)? You don’t do antique appraisals?”

No, sorry. But I gave him a name and number of someone nearby who did. He seemed grateful.

Yesterday was the best of all, though:

“Yeah, this is Jerry.” African-American man’s voice, someone who’s either seen a few dozen summers or works regularly as a blues singer. Hi, Jerry. Who are you calling?

“Well, I’m wondering if you’re open. The dispensary, that is.”

I did some reporting recently on medical marijuana, and that word — dispensary — is one you don’t hear much outside of the green-cross world.

“The dispensary? What?”

“Yeah, for, you know, marijuana.”

“Sorry, but you have the wrong number. This is a private residence, and I don’t have any pot.”

Again! He’s incredulous, and reads back my number. “I was told this is the dispensary.”

“It’s my house, Jerry. And I don’t sell marijuana. You’ve been misled.”

Something strange is going on. We’re talking about severing our land line soon, and I was hoping to get it done before robocall season really ramps up. So far, we haven’t gotten any robocalls, but if we keep getting asked whether we have weed for sale, I might keep it around a little longer. Jerry sounded like he really needed something to take the edge off.

So. It’s Wednesday night, the Tigers are rain-delayed (even though it’s not raining, and hasn’t rained all evening) and will probably be rained out (because the rain is coming, and it looks pretty wet).

Let’s pop over to the bloggage, then, eh?

A tale of two rudenesses. Which is worse — tying up a table in a busy restaurant for 2.5 hours, or bitching about it to the diners’ faces? The confrontation and the thrown LIVESTRONG bracelet — which followed the playing of the cancer card — are the whipped-cream topping on this particular schadenfreude pie.

And speaking of yellow rubber bracelets, how Lance Armstrong is like Lehman Brothers:

In both cases, a culture of excess and risk led to record-breaking performances, and then to catastrophe. In both cases, the behavior in question was driven by a distinct set of social forces, including a win-at-all-costs culture, lack of regulation, and the credulousness of journalists and the public.

In many ways, the structure of professional cycling resembles a trading floor: small, tightly knit teams competing daily, with great intensity and effort, for marginal rewards. … (And) just as Wall Street firms hired Ivy League PhDs to invent new financial instruments, so did cycling teams hire doctors to perfect new pharmacological instruments.

Sounds about right.

Rain, rain, rain, ring, ring, ring. I’ll let you know if anyone interesting calls tomorrow.

Alan took a spontaneous three-quarter day off today, after his scientific study of lake levels determined that if he didn’t get his boat out of our marina today, he wasn’t going to get it out at all. Day after day, blue-sky high pressure. We had a little rain the last couple of days, but not enough. If we don’t have a shitload of snow and spring rain and maybe a little dredging, we’re going to have to find a new place for Lush Life next year.

Yes, I know. First world problem. But it is ours.

So, now: The debate. I’m starting to loathe these affairs. Who the hell is still undecided on October 16? If these are actually helpful to voters, I’ll eat my damn hat. So if Jeremy Epstein is worried about getting a job, all I have to say is, hey, did Mitt get a haircut? And did he just say “Mr. Gas?” Sounds like the villain in a Beano commercial.

Mr. Gas, Mr. Coal. I did not have those in the drinking game.

God, I hate this. Candy Crowley, stick your head in an oven. Put a sock in that guy’s mouth first.

What? No taxes on capital gains or dividends? Good news, Paris Hilton! (And all the Romneys!) I must have misheard that.

I can’t stand that smirk. He really does remind me of the boss who laid you off. Yeah, that guy.

I hate these 72 percent questions. Too, too reductive. But is Mitt endorsing affirmative action? OMG.

Champening. It’s what small businesses need.

I will say this: It’s good to see the prez with a head of steam again. The pension answer was great. “It’s not as big as yours.” NURSE, BRING SOME ICE FOR THIS BURN.

Tigers up by two in the sixth. Ohhh-kay.

Annnnd here comes the 47 percent zinger annnnd scene.

This one wasn’t even close. What’s your call?

A long, long, long day yesterday. I didn’t have a moment free until I got home, at the hour when Jon Stewart was on the TV box. (And not for his 6 p.m. rerun.) Another one will follow, after which things should calm down.

In the meantime, here’s a nice column about Elmore Leonard, polishing his acceptance speech for a lifetime achievement award, as he passes his 87th birthday. May we all be so productive in our golden years.

Apologies, but we’ll meet again tomorrow.

Last night was college night in Grosse Pointe. More schools than you can shake your wallet at, and you’d better, because JESUS CHRIST I CAN’T BELIEVE THESE TUITION PRICES. Although they all tout their financial aid programs. The average Johns Hopkins student gets a $34,052 need-based scholarship. Against a tuition of about $59,000 per. How comforting.

I hope Kate enjoys Eastern Michigan. I hear Ypsilanti is lovely in January.

While I was touring the tables, I took note of a few lonelies, schools that just didn’t have the buzz to develop much of a crowd. Taylor University?* (*A little Christian school based in Upland, Ind.) I haz a sad for you. 🙁 I remember when your branch campus in Fort Wayne was a worthy part of my old neighborhood, and provided jobs and stability.

And then you pulled out. Eh. Screw you.

I shouldn’t say that. One of my neighbors was a Taylor instructor of some sort. On Halloween, a huge, huge event on my street, they handed out religious tracts. Have a blessed trick-or-treat, kids.

Afterward I took myself out for Wednesday night me-time. I got a beer that sucked (some sort of local craft thing that tasted like someone had put out a few cigarettes in it), mushroom soup that tasted like tin and a grilled cheese, insufficiently melted. I’m sure they serve far better food in the Johns Hopkins cafeterias.

Well, I guess many of you have heard about the latest Lance Armstrong news. The USADA report is a:

…202-page account of the agency’s case against Armstrong included sworn testimony from 26 people, including nearly a dozen former teammates on Armstrong’s United States Postal Service and Discovery Channel squads who said they were aware Armstrong doped to help him win every one of his record seven Tour de France titles.

But I’m sure all those 26 people were jealous and now have a book to peddle. You can’t convince the Lance-alots of anything, but I wonder if there’s anyone left who’s still buying his story.

I don’t have much bloggage today — another tough one — but I do have this, what sounds like an interesting documentary on the Reuther brothers, Walter, Victor and Roy. I was struck by this passage:

At some early screenings, Sasha Reuther said, he was struck by how little many young people know about the history of the labor movement. “The immediate reaction is, ‘Why haven’t I heard of any of this before?’ ” he said.

He added that he was especially moved by the way an African-American student responded at a Washington high school. The teenager was surprised to see whites attacked, Mr. Reuther said. “He said, ‘I thought things like that only happened when African-Americans were beaten up in the civil rights movement.’ ”

This isn’t ancient history, folks. And in some parts of this country, what kids would be taught about the labor movement probably wouldn’t resemble what we know.

I spent eight hours — no, nine — straight, staring into my computer today. What’s another? Let’s get it on!

Seriously, there’s nothing I’d like to do better than watch “The Choice” on “Frontline” and I think that’s what I’m going to do. Actually, I’m watching it now, and my takeaway: Mormonism is one strange faith.

Fortunately, I have some bloggage:

Crain’s took note of our work at the park last week.

A great blog post about one sports moment that’s a pleasure for everyone, even non-fans, to read. Not very long. If you’ve ever wondered what I’d like to see running in Mitch Albom’s place — in most sports columnists’ place — well, this is it.

For you Buckeyes, a fascinating story about OSU President Gordon Gee’s ex-wife, her new book and their time at Vanderbilt, when she — gasp! — smoked pot in the president’s mansion. (Medicinally.)

Boy, “The Choice” is great. Wish you were here. And sorry I’m so lame, but man, it was a long day.