This might be the ultimate in navel-gazing, but if nothing else, it’s pretty cool.

Turns out you can open DICOM files — a medical standard, according to J.C. the Genius — with a free program called iRad.

UPDATE: John suggests this post needs a soundtrack. I agree. Press play, but be warned, song is NSFW, but pretty funny. (And the title shown isn’t the name of the song, probably obscured for bot-foiling purposes.)

Jon Carroll wrote a column about mulch earlier this week. It so happens that I came across not one but two mulch crews on my bike ride yesterday. Mulch is absolutely essential for suburbia to exist, right up there with gasoline and espresso. Ninety percent of it is useless and/or decorative; there’s no reason for a well-established tree to have a collar of mulch rising halfway up the trunk, although it does make mowing around it easier. So finding, say, a teenage maple with mulch piled at least eight inches high at its base is as easy as looking out the nearest window. Over winter mulch will compact, degrade, etc., and in the spring a crew comes around and adds three more inches. Since it only lost one or maybe two inches over the winter, this is a net gain for the mulch pile, and you see some really stupid-looking mulch setups. I’m not a gardener, but my guess is, this can’t be good for the tree. If your feet needed to be wet you might wear wet socks, but adding wet pants is certainly unnecessary, and would be like laying out a welcome mat for pests that like moist, dark places to burrow. But no one asks me. I’m just the dumb lady rolling past on the bicycle.

Anyway, one of the mulch crews I saw yesterday was typical, a bunch of dark-skinned men speaking Spanish. I wondered the same thing I wonder when I pick up, oh, say a small rendering of a stained-glass window featuring praying hands and the “Footprints” verse, all executed in lovely plastic with “made in China” stamped on its base. I think of the sweatshop factory, the miasma of hot plastic coming from the non-OSHA-approved machinery, a life measured out by coffee spoons while this crap goes by on the conveyor belt. I wonder what the person who made it thought of the distant Americans who will display this in their homes. And so I wondered about how mulch is used in the Spanish-speaking world, if the village in Chihuahua or Guatemala or wherever these men came from contains mulch, what they thought when they learned that Americans in one of the wettest places on the planet grind up old trees and heap them up around the trunks of other trees for reasons no one can precisely fathom.

I told myself I was going to think of story ideas on this bike ride, by the way, showing I’m capable of procrastination even in my recreation.

Bloggage: From my ace advertising source JohnC, I know the term for detailed photographic advertising placed on high-rise buildings is a “wrap.” (GM frequently wraps the RenCen; this was for the All-Star Game in 2005.) So. Warner Bros. building in Burbank gets a wrap promoting Madonna’s new album. Worker therein notes that his office seems to be in Madonna’s vagina, more or less. Post gets linked on Metafilter. Hilarity ensues: I used to work there until I got my pink slip. And so on, and on, and on.

GOP operative gives the gender version of the “well, there’s black people, and then there’s n*ggers” defense, here.

One of my favorite newspaper blogs is the Detroit News’ Tax Watchdog, written by reporter Robert Snell and dedicated to the proposition that if you throw a rock in southeast Michigan, you’ll hit a tax deadbeat, and many of them are famous. At the top of the blog today, Anita Baker, on the hook for $481K and change. Bonus: A picture of her Grosse Pointe house.

I also liked this audio slideshow about Red’s Jazz Shoe Shine Parlor, a Detroit institution.

The News is rich this week: I also learned that Sam Wagstaff, the man who discovered, promoted and loved Robert Mapplethorpe, did a three-year stint at the Detroit Institute of Arts as a curator, where he promoted avant-garde pieces such as “Dragged Mass Geometric”: Conceptual art at its highest and most abstruse, “Dragged Mass Geometric” involved two bulldozers lugging a 35-ton slab of granite across the verdant sweep of the museum’s north lawn, with the goal of embedding it in the earth.

Snicker.

And now, off to the gym for Rob’s Torture Class, which I skipped Tuesday for my meeting, which means it’ll be even more torture-ific. Send moral support.

If my energy level in the morning matches my intentions the night before, I’m taking a weight-training class as you read this. On the table for discussion until I get back:

I saw a kid in my local Kroger yesterday wearing an Obama T-shirt. It looked like he’d had it for a while. Obama rally in Oregon draws 75,000. I lived through the Reagan revolution, but can’t recall anyone wearing RR T-shirts outside of a political convention. Cult of personality, thirst for change, or neither? Early warning that Obama will rock the house in November, or just a blue-America hiccup? Discuss.

And if you prefer the silly, here’s this: Princess Beatrice was attacked by the same milliner that brought down poor Sarah Jessica Parker last week. When will Scotland Yard get on the case? How long will these butterflies and their thirst for hair product be allowed to humiliate such lovely women? (And when someone wears a hat like this, what are you supposed to say? “Nice hat?”

Back in a bit.

Our situation so far: Today our heroine is a) sleep-deprived and b) on deadline. Tomorrow I’m tied up on parental business, starting in early morning — yet another all-day field trip to pad out the last weeks of the school year. I didn’t drive for the last one (to Lansing), so I volunteered for this one, fool that I am. It’s to Greenfield Village, which we visited with the Girl Scouts just last month. Which means I’m at risk for boredom. But. Because driving also involves chaperone duties, I won’t be able to duck out at lunch and find some Arab food. (If Greenfield Village is Dearborn’s No. 1 tourist attraction, Arab food has to be No. 2.) And because driving means packing your car with other people’s children, I won’t be able to stop at an Arab bakery (No. 3) on the way home, either. Even though it would be good and good for you, educational and tasty.

So today it’s one big post that will have to carry you through tomorrow. I know you, my little chiclets, are fully capable of bouncing the ball around for that long, and today/tomorrow you’re going to have help. Our regular reader/commenter Jolene told me to tuck this away for a rainy day (and whaddaya know, it is raining):

What’s your go-to kitchen favorite?

Inspired by this WashPost blog post, which has links to several great recipes within, we’re looking for dishes you can make in your sleep, those things you whip up when you want something simple and good, when takeout won’t satisfy. Nothing too complicated, please; let’s work under the assumption none of us has a lot of time, but still want to eat something good.

I’ll go first:

If Alan and I divorce, it will be over this dish, which we both once loved but Alan has recently declared himself sick to death of. Well, that just moves it onto the lunch menu, which I eat by myself most days. And it is?

Black beans and rice

One medium onion
One colored pepper of the stoplight family (green, red, yellow)
One 14-ounce can black beans
One or two cups of rice, uncooked

Start the rice. Dice the onion and pepper and saute in oil (I prefer olive, but just-plain will do) until tender, then add beans (drained or undrained, depending on whether you like it soupy). Lower the heat and wait for the rice to finish. When it’s done and the beans are warmed through, make a bed of rice and ladle the beans on top. That’s it.

What I like about this dish is its tabula rasa-ness — you can add so much to it or just leave it alone. Tomatoes, hot peppers/sauce, leftover chicken, other vegetables, whatever you like that traditionally marries well with beans — it’s all good. It’s both a protein and a high-fiber gut-scrubber, which means it builds both muscles and farts. While you’re eating it, take note that beans and rice is a staple dish across the globe and has been for as long as both plants have been in cultivation. Four billion souls can’t be wrong.

What’s yours? Anyone who contributes Arab-food recipes gets extra points for making that stupid opening paragraph have a hidden point.

* Inside joke for Fort Wayners: Pat Parsley was the byline on the recipe-exchange column in my old newspaper. The woman who wrote it, most weeks, was named Susan. More MSM lies!

Seventeen years ago — the same week in August 1991 that there was a coup in the Soviet Union and rioting in Crown Heights — Alan and I went backpacking on Isle Royale for something like 10 days. We learned of these events upon our emergence from the backcountry, and considered turning around and going back in.

But that was only two-thirds of the bad news. Our friends J.C. and Sammy’s house was destroyed by a tree that fell from the front yard onto their house in Atlanta. All wasn’t lost. They were unharmed, and the enormous insurance check allowed them to rebuild the house and convert an attic into a second floor.

Which was a very nice second floor, until yesterday:

In case you’re wondering, I was only the 35th person to say, “What are the odds?” upon hearing this. Deb was the 36th. Courage, friends.

I am, at least on a night when I can see Was (Not Was):

Don Was introduces the band, The Majestic, Detroit.

And guess who came out for the encore? Mitch Ryder. He sang “Devil With a Blue Dress.” I would have preferred “Rock and Roll,” but no one asked me. A great band, a great night.

Added: Full transcript of Don Was’ Freep interview from Friday. Bonus quote from Keith Richards: “When you think, you stink.” Proving Richards is a Zen master, or maybe just channeling Yogi Berra.

Another Kentucky Derby, another breakdown. Churchill Downs officials did what frequently happens when a horse is injured this badly in front of a worldwide television audience — drew trucks in a tight circle around her and euthanized her out of sight. Not that NBC seemed inclined to show it in the first place, as Sally Jenkins notes.

I love horses, I love (most) horsemen, but people? When the most famous horse race in the world features two hideous life-ending accidents in three years, the world is telling you something, and it’s not, “You’re having a run of bad luck.”

Some years ago the Atlantic ran a fascinating story about the American Kennel Club, and how it’s ruining dogs. You may disagree with its basic premise, but it raised some fascinating questions about what, exactly, constitutes a breed. The example they used was Dalmatians, which have a chronic, genetic stomach defect. It’s on a recessive gene, and breeders have found that if you breed a Dalmatian out to an English spaniel (maybe a setter; memory’s not what it used to be), which looks like a long-haired version of a Dalmatian, the defect disappears. Breed those pups back to Dalmatians, and within two or three generations you have puppies that look and behave exactly like any other Dalmatian, but are free of the genetic defect. Alas, the AKC considers these dogs mongrels. Why? Because they’re not purebred.

Thoroughbreds (which is an actual breed, not a designation like “purebred”) are among the most inbred horses in the world. Every single one goes back to three foundation sires, and nearly all the ones racing today can call Native Dancer some form of great-great grandpappy. Students of racing have noted the bloodline seems to be at a plateau — records haven’t moved much since Secretariat’s day 35 years ago, and that was before a lot of technical and pharmaceutical advances Secretariat’s team couldn’t take advantage of. Big Brown, the winner yesterday, has a history of hoof bruising, and runs in glue-on shoes over silicone pads. Think what you’d rather run a bruising mile-and-a-quarter in — wingtips or Nikes. That’s the comparison.

No one has written better about racing in recent years than Jane Smiley, novelist and horsewoman, who has campaigned several racehorses and rides herself. Her post on the NYT blog yesterday was instructive; she thinks the problem is in footing, not breeding, and notes the sharp drop in catastrophic accidents in California, once that state gave up dirt for a synthetic surface called polytrack. Europe has far few injuries than the U.S. does as well, and runs on grass. Jenkins puts the blame on inbreeding and overtraining. They’re both probably at least partly right; it’s a complicated problem without easy answers. Just for the hell of it, though, I’d like to see some discussion of breeding a little more sturdiness into the line. The breed’s been around for 300 years or so — can we add one more ingredient to the stew? Maybe a dash of Dutch Warmblood, something with a bit more iron in the leg. Partisans will tell you a horse so bred wouldn’t be a thoroughbred, and if you’re going to split hairs, I guess it wouldn’t be. But then, maybe the next discussion might be to open up racing to non-thoroughbreds. Why not? If thoroughbreds are superior, they’ll win all the races, and maybe the ones bred for a little extra bone heft will retain their speed and lose the glass ankles. This is a speed competition, not a dog show.

Otherwise, if this happens again in another year or two or three, well — it’s going to be a major mellow-harsher. Whenever it does, there’s a lot of mournful talk about how much these horses “love” their job, and how they wouldn’t be happy if they couldn’t race, etc. It’s anthropomorphic, of course; horses, all horses, do their jobs because it’s in their nature to cooperate, and do what’s asked of them. I never watched a 900-pound horse carry a 90-pound kid around a course of fences without marveling that he — the horse — allows it at all. They’re pleasers by nature, and we project our dreams of glory onto them, not the other way around. People watch the Kentucky Derby for the beauty of the animals, the loveliness of the spectacle, “My Old Kentucky Home.” They want the taste of bourbon in their mouths. Not blood.

OK, then.

Newcomer to the blogroll: Sweet Juniper, Detroiter, responsible for the infamous Detroit Public Schools book depository photos seen everywhere on the ‘nets these past few months. An urban life/parenting blogger with a gifted pen and an equally gifted eye. The graffiti pictures at Dequindre Cut are especially recommended. If you have a little time, read his explainer on how the books got that way.

A funny read from the WashPost, which asks the question, right there in the subhed: How much about your teenage transgressions should you tell your kids? The lede:

SOME MONTHS BACK, I was invited to a party with 20 or so other mothers. It was a wine-and-cheese affair, ladies only: The hostess had evacuated her husband and kids to the mall. Gathered around her dining room

table, we talked about our children, and then a few of the women began reminiscing about their own youths, comparing the transgressions they’d committed in their teens and 20s and debating whose were the most egregious.

“I win, I win!” one mother exclaimed. “I was a stripper!”

Can’t beat that, girls.

If you haven’t seen them yet, scroll down for Brian Stouder’s pix of Barack Obama’s visit to the Fort yesterday. Of course I missed it. It’s my curse.

However, a lovely day is in progress right outside. Time to go exploring with the Flip.

Guess where Brian spent his Sunday? Eating lunch with Barack Obama in Headwaters Park, that’s where:

The Obama campaign actually put on a picnic, with grilled brats and barbecued chicken and bottled water and chips and canned pop - and they had so much stuff that everyone who stood in the food line got served (and hundreds and hundreds of people lined up). Whatever they spent on the spread, they got their money’s worth; it was quite impressive!

Thanks for the pix, Brian.

Did somebody break the Internet last night? Half my favorite sites are down or refuse to load past the background/flag/one obnoxious ad stage. Gonna have to wing it today. Probably just as well, because today is the last day of my Giant Wad of Text project, and I still have quite a lot to chew. So let’s just do an utterly stupid post today.

The other day I was glowering at myself in the mirror — every day, I give you another chance to wake up transformed into utter beauty, and every day you disappoint me — when I noticed my glower line is pretty much permanent now:

In some ways, it’s not so bad. I finally figured out why I like “The Departed” so much. It’s like looking
into a mirror:

Hard to imagine critics once thought Leo DiCaprio was too pretty to play real grown-up parts. (Leo, artist-to-artist: They said the same thing about me.) The transforming effect of the glower!

Some call the mark of the glower a “frown line.” Nah. It’s concentration, although lately, it’s the look I wear pretty much permanently when reading the news. For instance:

A prostitution ringleader kills herself rather than face eight years in prison. Her clients remain, among other places, in the U.S. Senate.

Here’s another: On the five-year anniversary of the Mission Accomplished farce, the president’s spokesman suggests an edit for the infamous banner: “President Bush is well aware that the banner should have been much more specific and said ‘mission accomplished’ for these sailors who are on this ship on their mission.”

Glower, glower.

Gas prices soar beyond the clouds, customers start buying small, more-fuel efficient cars, and Detroit? Is caught mostly unprepared.

Glower.

Giant wad of text, still unwritten?

Glower.

Bloggage:

Looks like “did you really call your wife a cunt” has replaced “when did you stop beating her” as the neutron bomb of candidate questions. Defense strategy’s the same: Get huffy, refuse to answer.

See ya.

(Please, hit “play” before you start reading. It’s important for the overall effect.)

Ssh. The mayor’s chief of staff is sending him love notes. Let’s listen in:

“I still want to be in your arms, kiss you, hug you, love you. Wishing you were my husband.”

…”I have wanted to hold you so badly all day, but I was trying to stay focused on work. …I’m in my office. Do you want me to come to yours or you coming to mine?”

…”This is one of those little things I just had to tell you. Last night when I was laying on your shoulder in the car and you held my face and sang whatever song it was, that felt so good. It was just one of those little moments when you just made me fall some more!”

… “Just FYI now that I’m tipsy and will say anything: one thing that is sticking with me from Saturday was when I asked you why it felt so good, and you told me because I was your lady, that for whatever reason, was something that stayed with me real strong! Crazy, huh?”

…”In case you haven’t noticed, I’m madly in love with you too! More and more everyday! I can’t believe how much more it grows. Is there a limit?”

As Laura Berman points out, the mayor’s responses were somewhat, er, less ardent:

“Damn! Thank you!”

or

“Ditto”

She says she wishes he’d be “her husband.” He replies that she’ll always be “my girl.” Hmm.

Yes, the city was abuzz yesterday, and it wasn’t from everyone’s phone being set to vibrate. The text-message scandal, which was first about sex and then about bid-rigging and then about perjury, swung back to sex in a big way. Both papers posted the once-was-lost, now-is-recovered secret document, the one that, when presented to Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick’s lawyers last fall near the conclusion of a whistle-blower lawsuit, caused them to shit their pants and open the city’s wallet. For a while, you kept getting Server Busy/Try Again messages on the website, but sooner or later, anyone could get the gist — this was the oldest story in the world, played out on the latest technology. Cross my heart — the Fox anchor read the phrase “good head” on the 10 p.m. news, although they bleeped “head.” (She said she wanted to give him some, but didn’t know how to ask permission. He replied that — duh — she didn’t need it.)

A little titillation’s a dangerous thing. If this scandal starts being about sex again, Kwame wins. Because everyone has a sexual skeleton in their closet, and everyone thinks there-but-for-the-grace-of-God, etc. When, at its heart, this story is about malfeasance in public office, not to mention criminal stupidity. Once again: Didn’t anyone in this administration have a lick of discretion? Hasn’t anyone seen a Mafia movie? Doesn’t anyone understand that some things you just don’t commit to paper or e-paper?

And finally, who can write this much with their thumbs? (These were two-way text pagers, with QWERTY keyboards, but tiny ones, for thumb-typers only.) I mean, why write “good head” when “bj” has only two letters?

Pfft. OK, you can turn Billy Paul off now. (Unless you, like me, are sort of enjoying the groove. Love a good cheatin’ song.)

No bloggage today, folks. I’m under three deadline guns at the moment. Oh, wait — there’s this, thanks to Moe in the comments previous. Now that the Texas funda-crazy story is reaching the wait-did-we-perhaps-act-too-rashly phase, it’s useful to read and remember: These people don’t deserve to have dogs, much less children.