OK, I think normalcy is returning. Still weak and dizzy from time to time, but I’m chalking that up to Girl Scout cookies.

I’m speaking, of course, of normalcy only in my own body. Outside, abnormalcy — I just invented that word, pay me the royalty — continues to reign. Do we even need to go over the events of the weekend? In the year since we dumped cable, I’ve missed it only a couple times, and this weekend wasn’t one of them – you get on Twitter, and you can experience pretty much any big national event in more or less real time. And truth be told, I have better things to do on a Saturday evening than watch the president start his 2020 campaign three years early, because he’s so insecure he needs to. So some guy came onstage to say he prays to a cardboard Trump cutout every night? Am I getting that right? If so: Wonderful. In the interest of looking on the bright side, let me just say that if we all survive this era, several things will not, one of them being the lectures we can depend on from our religious friends. They no longer have any moral high ground; in fact, they now occupy the religious low ground, if they’re OK with a guy actually praying to a cardboard idol.

Actual quote from a Freep story today about a far-right Catholic group in Detroit: “The personal proclivities, the personal sins or life of a particular leader is a separate discussion from how that man’s view of the world might influence his policies. And if that policy is favorable to the church, well then, very good.”

Like I said, that’ll be outta here soon enough.

How was everyone’s weekend? We had spectacular, early-May temperatures, and everyone was out riding bikes, running, what-have-you. I stayed indoors and mostly cleaned, experiencing the glory in short bits. There will be more beautiful days. But the house was ready for a hazmat team, and I now feel better in my dust-free home than I would if I’d run around all weekend. And the forecast says the week ahead won’t be terrible at all.

Oh, bloggage? OK, here’s a really stupid NYT piece about how liberals are “helping” Trump:

Mrs. O’Connell feels hopeless. She has deleted all her news feeds on Facebook and she tries to watch less TV. But politics keeps seeping in.

“I love Meryl Streep, but you know, she robbed me of that wonderful feeling when I go to the movies to be entertained,” she said. “I told my husband, I said, ‘Ed, we have to be a little more flexible, or we’re going to run out of movies!’ ”

Mrs. O’Connell, who claims to be a Democrat but voted for Trump, now finds Democrats “scarier than Islamic terrorists,” to which I’d say: Congratulations, Mrs. O’Connell, you’re actually a Republican now. Enjoy!

If you want a brighter view, try Neil Steinberg’s Saturday piece. Of the Mrs. O’Connells of the world:

They were tired of the old ways, the business-as-usual politics. It wasn’t that they didn’t have a valid complaint, they did. It’s just that their solution will make the problem, make all of our problems, so much worse. America is like a man who burns his house down to get rid of the mice. Like a person who has a genuine ailment—say cancer—and then hires a shaman to spray fragrant oils on the soles of his feet. You’re sorry they’re sick. You understand the fear in that. But they’re embracing a quack and don’t know it. I’d add “yet,” but that would be wistful. If we know one thing about error is that it tends to compound. The majority of people would much rather dwell in wrongness than admit being mistaken.

Finally: Borden! RIP, Junie Morrison. Damn. The world is a little less funky today.

Well, I think there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Woke up feeling much improved, enough so that I made my Bed of Suffering, i.e., the guest room/office, emptied the wastebasket full of sodden tissue and might even go for a walk later.

I got out to meet a new colleague last night. That helped, although it was touch and go just getting vertical yesterday.

That said, here’s a new thread for comments on…everything, I guess. One little head cold, and I feel like I’m already miles behind. Kind of like Congress.

Carry on.

Remember that cold I thought I had vanquished? Yeah, turns out that was an alternate-facts deal. Woke up Monday with a head full of snot and the usual miseries. Nothing all that bad, but enough I was happy to work from home yesterday. And today.

I threw a bunch of links into an empty post yesterday, so let’s get to them, as the rest of my update would consist only of “used enough tissue to reverse-engineer a tree” and “discovered why you shouldn’t take Sudafed at bedtime.”

The Washington Post does a travel piece on the ol’ hometown:

I have a terrible confession: I never saw Ohio’s capitol. A weekend in Columbus and not even a glimpse of the rotunda. But I have a very good excuse. I was lost in a 32-room bookstore. Well, that’s not entirely true. I was also preoccupied with selecting a writing utensil from a lifestyle store founded by a guy with a beard and an office-supply obsession. And drinking hand-poured coffee from a cafe named after a Belle and Sebastian song. And sizing up turquoise bulldog bookends from a shop in an emerging neighborhood. And watching a diner stuff a skyscraper-tall burger into his mouth. And drinking more coffee, this time made of Fair Trade-certified beans from Guatemala. And I’m not even a coffee person; I drink tea, except when I am in Columbus.

That doesn’t exactly make it sound like Paris, but it’s fair. The thing about Columbus, the thing that never bugged me until I left, is its utter lack of natural features. Its two rivers are muddy brown trenches, there are few if any hills, no lakes to speak of (besides Buckeye, which is manmade and so shallow that if your boat breaks down in the middle you can push it home, like in “The African Queen”). So I guess it’s all about that burger, then, described and pictured later in the piece — “two 12-ounce burger patties — among other delights,” which appear to include both bacon and ham. As Jim Harrison once said, only in the Midwest is overeating seen as something heroic.

We read a lot about Betsy DeVos and school choice recently, but here is how it’s lived out in Detroit, where charter schools open and close like doors in a French farce. Parents whose children are in failing schools slated for possible closure are sent helpful letters detailing which districts will let the kids transfer in – some of them an hour’s drive away. Market efficiency!

This story has already been partially overtaken by events with the firing of Michael Flynn, but I’m posting this passage about Reince Priebus because it may be one case where an exclamation point is actually called for in a new story:

Trump has already consulted friends about his next chief of staff. I’m told that to avoid admitting error, Trump plans a smooth transition from Priebus, perhaps by making him a Cabinet secretary!

#thebestpeople

Nothing this administration does should surprise me anymore, but this at least made me chuckle, coming as it did on the heels of the giant typo in the official inauguration poster.

I’ve got a few more, but I think I’ll save them for tomorrow, just in case I feel even worse then. Enjoy Tuesday.

I woke up one day last weekend with the beginnings of a cold sore, and the whole week felt like a struggle – slow in the pool, messing up appointment times because I didn’t read the email closely enough, that sort of thing. No disaster, just the sort of thing that happens when your immune system appears to be working overtime to hold something at bay. I thought it had finally arrived on Friday, and spent half of Saturday lolling in bed, but here it is Sunday, and I’m sorta feeling myself again.

The cold sore has left the building, too.

What goes on in our bodies during weeks like these? What does “feeling run-down” really mean, at the cellular level? It is to puzzle.

So that’s why no update on Friday, sorry. Just wasn’t feeling it, or anything like it.

One of the things I saw while I was being lazy Saturday was this remarkable clip from CNN, in which a local GOP county official tries to revive the death-panels thing, and the crowd lights him up like a Christmas tree. It almost felt like 2009 again when the WashPost looked into his social-media accounts and found the stuff we’ve been seeing from these folks for years. But this time, it feels like an antique. That crowd just wasn’t having it.

Not that we should count them out entirely, of course. But just today I read a column in the local paper about how mean “the left” is being to Ivanka Trump, whom they should be supporting, because she’s such an ally, you know. There was some random bloviage about liberal attacks, etc.:

Boycotts are the favorite weapon of the resistance movement. Anyone who suggests affinity for Donald Trump or cooperates with his administration or fails to speak out against him on command (see Tom Brady) faces being ostracized or having their livelihoods threatened and their names smeared.

The left’s demand for conformity in loathing Trump is creating a blacklist to rival that of Joe McCarthy’s Red Scare.

Which I found amusing, as I had just read this piece, about what happens with the Breitbart constituency identifies you as an enemy:

New America, the think tank where I am a fellow, got a similar influx of nasty calls and messages. “You’re a fucking cunt! Piece of shit whore!” read a typical missive.

I’ve spent time on Ivanka Trump’s website, and see a “line” of basic sheath dresses, sweater dresses and other ho-hum designs. I’m no fashion plate myself, and in fact I generally appreciate a decent sheath dress, but I can find the same thing on 6pm.com and other discount sites for about a third the price. Be advised.

A bit more bloggage:

Dr. Mona, as one hero of the Flint water crisis is known around here, points to her own status as a first-generation Iraqi immigrant to ask the obvious question about the travel and immigration ban. I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but around here it’s almost impossible to get through a hospital visit without being seen by a doctor of Middle Eastern lineage. I hate to think what we’d do without them, particularly in non-garden spot cities like Flint.

Everybody’s talking about “Saturday Night Live” again, and posting the best bits on social media afterward. You can have the Sean Spicer cold open and the People’s Court satire from this week, but I’m going for Kate McKinnon as Alex Forrest/Kellyanne Conway in this genius piece.

We went to a party Saturday night, a fundraiser, and I bought some tickets for the raffle. And whaddaya know, I won a weekend at a lodge in northern Michigan. I’m taking it as evidence my luck has changed. Onward to Monday.

Are we feeling sad these days? I know I am. Not stick-my-head-in-the-oven sad, but more like gray-bowl-of-Michigan-winter sad, mixed with I-need-to-read-more-novels-and-less-Twitter sad and orange-elephant-in-the-room sad. If I were wealthier, I’d book a flight to Havana and do the major change of scenery thing. Can’t do that either? Then maybe this will help, a two-parter from New York magazine on the jokes that shaped modern comedy.

It’s not actually a two-parter, just a piece that was published last year, and the new one, dropped in the last couple of days. I like both, because you can really get lost in them, and then you find yourself laughing, and soon it’s as though you aren’t living in the first months of 2017, but in some bubbly comedy land.

Until you hit 1988:

The most influential magazine of its era left a mark on every other: complicated tiny typography, kitschy clip art, little floating heads as illustrations, charts and graphs analyzing everything it covered, and big memorable stories told with an ironic sensibility and unironic rigor. But clearly its single device with the longest legs was the compound hyphenated pejorative epithet, an update of the old Time house style. “Churlish dwarf billionaire Laurence Tisch,” “sex-kittenish Vanity Fair model Diane Sawyer,” “musky, supersuave love man Billy Dee Williams”: Spy’s editors had a knack for summing up an entire person in three or four words. Including one “short-fingered vulgarian Donald Trump,” whose rage at this characterization continues to this day, and who now has his tiny, tiny finger on the button. (Sad!) Their glib irreverence would continue well beyond the magazine’s final issue in 1998; it’s almost impossible to find a funny blog that doesn’t at least somewhat depend on Spy’s voice and tone.

Oh, well. Nothing lasts forever. It’s still funny.

I remember that era at Spy. Tisch had his lawyer send a letter that explained Tisch was not “medically, technically a dwarf,” and cease calling him one. So they started ID’ing him as “Churlish billionaire Laurence Tisch, who is not medically, technically a dwarf.” Good times.

We need more use of the word “churl” and all of its variations.

So, what else happened today? The president got into a pissing match with a department store, that’s what. Something I didn’t know:

Last week, T.J. Maxx and Marshalls stores sent a note to employees — a copy of which was obtained by The New York Times — telling them to throw away signs for Ivanka Trump products.

“Effective immediately, please remove all Ivanka Trump merchandise from features and mix into” the racks where most products hang, the note read. “All Ivanka Trump signs should be discarded.”

The instruction was to eliminate special displays for the merchandise, “not to remove it from the sales floor,” said Doreen Thompson, a spokeswoman for the TJX Companies, the retailers’ parent corporation.

And no one even called the first daughter an escort to wreck her brand. Maybe something else is at work here. Hmm, what could it be?

Finally, no less a writer than Hank Stuever decreed this story the best feature story about life in 2017, an account of Milo Yiannopoulos’ visit to the University of Washington, and the events that flowed from it. I’d say it’s right up there, and totally worth your time, Sherri and others.

Who’s ready for a measles outbreak? Because it’s coming.

Question for the room: Does Donald Trump have his Pete Souza yet? That is to say, has he chosen a White House photographer? The only pix from the White House I’m seeing are the ones of him signing executive orders with his flunkies arrayed in a half-circle behind him. Pence always stands on his right, and applauds like the toady he is.

The pictures are unremarkable, wire-service stuff. The White House’s Flickr photo stream is empty, so I have to assume that this is one of those still-unfilled positions, like most of the East Wing staff.

And if you’re one of those people who doesn’t know who Pete Souza is, here’s part of his 2016 White House portfolio. I don’t recommend it if you’re feeling …emotional.

Especially this week, when yet another of the 10,000 veils dropped between the American public and the Trump administration. Yes, I’m talking about Natasha, makin’ money. I just can’t believe this stuff; I’m almost literally open-mouthed when I read it. What is wrong with these people? How is it even possible to be this crass?

Change of subject: Wendy was lying next to me the other day when she did something she’s never done before: Farted, audibly. There was a funny little toot, like the horn on a Fisher Price clown car, and then? Mustard gas. Do any of you have those dogs that bark at their own farts? Because that would be hilarious.

This little dickens:

She who smelt it absolutely didn’t deal it.

I am watching the Super Bowl right now. The ads so far have been unremarkable. The game so far hasn’t — the Falcons are winning, and anything that ruins Tom Brady’s perfect little world can’t be all bad, can it?

Man, defensive linemen look like big fat guys, even in the championship game. I know everyone on a team has their own job to do, but I’d hate to have one of those behemoths fall on me.

I should watch football more often if I want to have opinions about it, so I’ll shut up now.

Another Atlanta touchdown! This could be pretty good. But I’m basically here for Lady Gaga.

Did you know Detroit has a gay sports bar? It does. I’ve never been there, but I should. Winter bucket-list item, maybe.

This was a weekend for winter bucket lists. Got to Belle Isle for a Wendy walk and to look at the ice, because it looks like the chances of a polar vortex long enough for serious ice are fading, so no ice walk this year. Instead, we watched it float by:

A February day spent exploring all the ways Great Lakes life is just like the Caribbean, only different. #ice #detroit #belleisle

A video posted by nderringer (@nderringer) on Feb 4, 2017 at 12:04pm PST

This may sound a little disjointed today, and it is. I have a million things to do early in the week, and I can’t think of much else. So, have a link? Post it. I’ll be back later.

How many people are upset about the violence in Berkeley last night? For the record, I disapprove. Violence is only the answer when it’s Richard Spencer taking a … nope, not even then. That was a sucker punch, and sucker punches are cowardly. Call him out, tell him to put his hands up, and then punch him. Not upsetting.

Wednesday night, though — that was a trap. Why is this so hard to see? This is exactly what the Young Americans for Wearing Rep Ties, or whatever their name is, did in Grosse Pointe, when they invited sparking intellectual Rick Santorum to come speak at one of the high schools, and insisted it be during school hours. The administration waffled, and then it became whassamatter, don’t you believe in free speech? and Game Over for the grownups.

Milo what’s-his-name doesn’t have anything to say. He’s a troll. He styles himself as a “dangerous faggot,” goes onstage and calls Trump “daddy,” all that lame shit, and that’s his act. If you’re willing to go onstage and say women, boy they stink at math and I bet their pussies stink, too, then you’re going to get attention. But sensible people shouldn’t allow themselves to be baited so easily. When I woke up this morning, all the liberals were tweeting about the presidential insults to Mexico and Australia — I’m still stunned to write that — and the conservatives were acting like the Berkeley demonstration was the sack of Rome, and not a few scuffles and vandalism in a city most of them wouldn’t visit at gunpoint.

So yeah, I agree with this: Don’t give him what he wants.

God, this shit is exhausting. It’s all Tom & Lorenzo for the rest of the evening. Have a great weekend, all, and let’s hope the world doesn’t end before Monday.

Every time I try to settle my mind, to think about something other than That Thing, to write about something other than That Thing, then – you know how this sentence ends. That Thing happens.

Jerry Falwell Jr. leading a higher-ed task force — that thing was this morning’s thing.

Len Stevens, the university’s chief spokesman, told NBC News that Falwell would bring a focus on “overregulation and micromanagement of higher education” to the task force.

I expect this means Trump University will rise again. Among other “colleges.”

This was this afternoon’s thing. The Black History Month remarks:

Last month, we celebrated the life of Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., whose incredible example is unique in American history. You read all about Dr. Martin Luther King a week ago when somebody said I took the statue out of my office. It turned out that that was fake news. Fake news. The statue is cherished, it’s one of the favorite things in the—and we have some good ones. We have Lincoln, and we have Jefferson, and we have Dr. Martin Luther King. But they said the statue, the bust of Martin Luther King, was taken out of the office. And it was never even touched. So I think it was a disgrace, but that’s the way the press is. Very unfortunate.

I am very proud now that we have a museum on the National Mall where people can learn about Reverend King, so many other things. Frederick Douglass is an example of somebody who’s done an amazing job and is being recognized more and more, I noticed. Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, and millions more black Americans who made America what it is today. Big impact.

And then there was this evening’s thing. Which may be the worst thing of all:

It should have been one of the most congenial calls for the new commander in chief — a conversation with the leader of Australia, one of America’s staunchest allies, at the end of a triumphant week.

Instead, President Trump blasted Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull over a refu­gee agreement and boasted about the magnitude of his electoral college win, according to senior U.S. officials briefed on the Saturday exchange. Then, 25 minutes into what was expected to be an hour-long call, Trump abruptly ended it.

Every night I wake up and wonder what the new day’s things will be. I’m not sleeping well.

So you can maybe see why the one bright spot of the day was realizing my new phone software update finally contains a shaka emoji. And then I learn it happened more than a month ago.

I think I need therapy. The whole world needs therapy.

Oh, Canada. What a country you’ve got there. We spend the weekend walking around without ever once thinking about being robbed or ‘jacked or whatever, and what happens as we’re almost literally boarding the train home? A mass shooting.

By one of these guys, because of course.

But I can’t argue with our weekend, not at all. We stayed in West Queen West, the same neighborhood we were in the last time, where dogs in fancy coats and sweaters outnumber actual children by about five-to-one. It’s January, so you don’t expect it to exactly be balmy. I thought I’d packed well, but when we came across a team handing out free — free! — long underwear from Uniqlo, I was happy to snatch it up. Of course long underwear is now known as “base layers,” for good reason — they’re not the waffle-knit separates you’re used to, but close-to-skin and undeniably-warm …base layers, I guess. They go on under the skinniest jeans and are just what the weatherman ordered.

A memory was just jostled loose: A winter weekend in the Upper Peninsula, when I learned of the one-piece base layer known as the union suit — flannel on the inside, wool on the outside, in heather gray or bright red. I bought one in bright red from L.L. Bean and wore it through some fearsome winters, with a pair of Levi’s 501s and maybe a sweater. A strange ensemble for a young woman to choose in the late ’70s, yes, undeniably, but I was very warm. Eventually it collapsed under the strain of my bustline and I retired it forever, the union-suit-bursting-its-buttons look being better-suited for bawdy postcards about deer camp or maybe cocktail napkins. It sure was warm, though.

What did we do? Walked around. Shopped. Caught part of the Chinese New Year observance. Drank cocktails and coffee, discovering that sub-niche of the cosmopolitan economy, the gay coffeehouse. (There used to be one in NYC called the Big Cup.) The waiter was very nice, but the best part was sneaking looks at a trans individual who had some really striking stick-and-poke dotted facial tattoos, with a little cloud on each temple and a line running up the bridge of the nose.

I love big cities. They’re where magic happens.

On Saturday, chilled and a little burned out on walking, we debated taxiing down to the TIFF Lightbox for a midday movie. Alan, looking at the listings, said, “‘The Silence’ is playing near here.”

“You mean ‘Silence,’ the new Martin Scorsese movie. I’d see that,” I said.

“It’s like, a block away. Starts in 12 minutes,” he said. We paid our bill, bundled up and walked the block to the theater, which was tucked in the back of an art gallery specializing in photography.

Strange place for a first-run movie to be playing, but whatever. Stranger still was the admission price of $0. But when the lights went down, the screen darkened and “The Criterion Collection” appeared on the screen, I knew we’d made a critical mistake, because we weren’t watching “Silence,” Oscar contender of 2016, but “The Silence,” an Ingmar Bergman film from 1963, all that black-and-white Sven Nykvist cinematography. You watch a 54-year-old film and marvel at how ahead of its time it was, with its frank depictions of sexuality — actual semi-shadowed fucking and a scene of female masturbation, not to mention a woman bathing with her 9-year-old son — and what Annie Hall called “that Scandinavian bleakness.”

(“I thought that shot where you see her boob while she’s washing her armpit was pretty hot,” countered Alan.)

So that was Saturday afternoon.

Here’s Sunday morning: First daughter dressed as a baked potato. (HT: TBogg)

You know what was in every furniture store window? This lamp, although I imagine most were knockoffs. Wouldn’t want to bring that through customs in this dark era.

Speaking of dark eras, more paranoia about Russia appears to be called for. And a related billboard defacing in Kalamazoo.

With that, it’s time for 55 minutes of innocuous telly. See you tomorrow, all.