Lie, memory.

Many years ago, during one of the anniversaries of Neil Armstrong’s trip to the moon, the newspaper I worked for invited readers to share their own memories of the historic occasion. We printed them all, even though they could not have been even remotely accurate.

That’s because many of the readers recalled incidents like this: “I was in kindergarten, and we were all taken to another classroom, where a TV was set up, and we watched it together. I still get chills, thinking about Armstrong taking that first historic step.” Couldn’t have happened, because the moon walk happened in July, when kindergarteners are almost entirely not attending school, and at close to 11 p.m. Indiana time (might have been 10 p.m., not sure what the time-zone situation was then), when they definitely wouldn’t have been. I was 11 going on 12, and I missed the first steps because I couldn’t stay awake. (I call my tale “The Lark’s Lament.”)

It was an early lesson in the fallibility of memory. So even though I consider Ben Carson not even remotely presidential timber, OK, I’ll give him a pass on somehow believing that Gen. William Westmoreland or someone close to his rank offered him a full ride to the U.S. Military Academy, as recounted in one of his books:

“That position allowed me the chance to meet four-star general William Westmoreland, who had commanded all American forces in Vietnam before being promoted to Army Chief of Staff at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C.,” he wrote. “I also represented the Junior ROTC at a dinner for Congressional Medal of Honor winners, marched at the front of Detroit’s Memorial Day parade as head of an ROTC contingent, and was offered a full scholarship to West Point.”

As has been pointed out since Politico broke this story on Friday, there are some couldn’t-have-happened problems with this story. Westmoreland’s schedule says he was playing golf in suburban D.C. that day, although he did come to Detroit a few months earlier, and Carson could have been at that event. But the events of 1969 can seem distant indeed. He may well have heard “you’re a promising young man, Ben. Why, you’d probably be a shoo-in at the Point, and you know, everyone who attends gets a scholarship.” And heard it as, “We’re giving you a scholarship to West Point because you’re so special,” which is how it’s presented in the book. I don’t care what anyone says, in our culture “you’re/I’m getting a scholarship” is seen as a reward for achievement or potential, and saying so is drawing attention to it. Just getting into West Point is an accomplishment on a par with cracking an Ivy or other top school, and saying you’ve been admitted, or to any service academy, is enough; no one gets “a scholarship,” in this sense because everyone gets a scholarship.

Maybe you didn’t know that; that’s OK. Maybe he felt the need to say so because some people might not understand this. Hmm, OK, but say so — it only takes a phrase: “Like all West Pointers, I’d be attending on a full scholarship.” It’s even somewhat possible that Carson himself doesn’t understand how West Point works, but if that’s the case, what the hell is he doing running for president? That’s a basic-knowledge fact that someone who aspires to be commander in chief ought to know.

There’s this phrase you might have heard about, IOKIYAR — it’s OK if you’re a Republican. Imagine if a Democrat had said something like this, and imagine whether the defense would be as staunch. My God, John Kerry was mocked by some of these people for merely claiming service in Vietnam. Carson is being treated as a hero for not setting foot in the place.

So. How was your weekend? Mine was fine. Fall has settled into that late-season period where 95 percent of the leaves are down and nearly all the outside chores are done, and all there is to do now is untangle the Christmas lights and maybe squeeze a book or two in before the holiday whirl starts. We had our gutters cleaned by the guys who come around this time of year offering to do so. I didn’t know Alan had hired them until I was standing naked in the bathroom and saw one climb on a ladder past my window. Hey, guys! I have no idea whether he saw me or not.

So, bloggage:

Move on, nothing to see here, says Ben Carson. You understand, right?

So let’s get this week going, then.

Posted at 12:30 am in Current events | 61 Comments

The toilet problem.

When I was a lucky lass of roughly 25 or so, I had a friend from junior high who lived in Paris, and I went to see him for a couple weeks. We got along like we’d been besties since only yesterday, and had a marvelous visit. But bathrooms were a problem.

I don’t think I had an entirely comfortable elimination the whole time I was there. The bathroom in his apartment was tiny, the shower and toilet in the same enclosure — the toilet paper lived under a watertight plastic hood. But that was luxury compared to the repulsive facilities in the little cafes and so forth that we frequented. Some were literal holes in the floor over which you squatted. A crude seat was considered quite fancy.

When I returned home, everything looked gray and ugly and like a tire store, but at least the bathrooms were clean and roomy. So when you talk bathrooms, I always think of that time in Paris. Also, about how most of us use bathrooms.

Bathrooms were the undoing of the Houston equal rights ordinance, we’re told:

(What) was clear was that a monthslong effort by social conservatives to repeal the ordinance and reframe the issue had paid off, through tactics likely to be used again in similar battles around the country.

Through speeches, yard signs, T-shirts, banners and ads on TV, the radio and the Internet, they zeroed in on the measure’s gender-identity protections and focused the debate on a narrow issue whose very relevance was disputed by political rivals: bathrooms, and access to them.

This reframing cast the issue as a matter of public safety, with claims that the measure would allow men who were dressed as women or who identified as women to enter women’s bathrooms and attack or threaten girls and women inside. The measure’s critics called it the Bathroom Ordinance and simplified their message to five words: “No Men in Women’s Bathrooms.”

Women’s bathrooms aren’t like men’s — there are no urinals. We walk in, choose a stall, close the door and do our business. I suppose it’s possible to be assaulted in one, but a very unlikely place to inflame the lust of anyone, much less a man who’s living as a woman. Locker rooms? I’ll give you that one, but again, my experience with them was that hardly anyone used the showers, except maybe after swimming classes, and then we wore our suits. There’s a taboo against nudity in locker rooms among teenagers, and unless it’s changed, it’s quite strong. I’ve been naked in adult locker rooms about a million times, but in high school I was an expert at changing behind a tiny towel. I bet you were, too.

Why don’t any voters think of these things when they consider stuff like this? Transgender people have a way to go before they’re fully accepted, but when they walk into bathrooms, they’re the ones at risk, not the rest of us.

By all means, though, keep clutching your pearls, guys.

This week has seemed about a million days long, but it’s just about over. I hope you all have a great weekend.

Posted at 12:03 am in Current events | 86 Comments

Empty nurseries.

I don’t want to keep coming back to Canada, but I get away so infrequently, and I notice things. Here’s something else I noticed on our trip: Strollers everywhere. (With babies in ’em! Sometimes when you see them around here, they contain small dogs.) Canadian birth rates are looking about the same as they are for other western democracies, but by contrast with Michigan, the anecdotal street-noticing difference is profound.

If you keep your ear to the ground of conservative media, you hear a frequent drumbeat of concern about declining birth rates. (Certainly it’s behind the concerns over the Muslim influx in Europe — and eventually here.) All over the world, the rule is the same: The wealthier a country gets, the more birth rates drop, until childbearing levels out at just below replacement levels. A lot of this is common sense; while some people like a house full of kids, how soon we forget that for most women, for most of human history, children were a stopgap against genetic extinction, and then they were just something that arrived every year or so, and frequently didn’t survive. I read something recently about attitudes toward abortion, which posited that the full-throated “pro-life” movement didn’t come along until children weren’t at least partly an affliction upon their parents, especially their mothers.

Birth rates, and marriage rates, fell during the great recession. Again, it’s common sense, unless your head is clouded by ideology: When times are tough, babies are less affordable. (Ideologues think a new baby always means a fatter welfare check, so poor people say bring ’em on.)

So what do we need to do to boost birth rates among the middle class? Economic security. Also helpful: Parental leave, decent child care options, especially excellent preschool. Preschool puts kids on a fast track to a good early-childhood school experience, so it’s win-win. And what do we have now? Ideologues who say preschool is anti-family, and that the only person who can successfully raise a child is that child’s mother. Never mind that throughout human history, babies have been handed off to non-parental, even non-family adults, and human history has not crashed and burned as a result. Never mind that no one is advocating Romanian orphanage-style child care. If you even whisper that the government, any government, might have a role, not the only role, just a role to play in making life easier for parents, then you are advocating “warehousing” of children in “government facilities.”

My point being, the next time a conservative complains that women aren’t having enough babies, fish out your pocket mirror and hold it in their faces.

Do I have any linkage for you today? Don’t think so — so post your own.

Posted at 12:36 am in Current events | 44 Comments

Mrs. Somebody.

So, in the last few weeks I’ve been to a Patti Smith reading/signing; seen “Heart of a Dog,” the new Laurie Anderson movie; and heard Monday’s “Fresh Air” episode, with Illeana Douglas, the actress — she has a new memoir.

All are, or were, partnered with a man of equal or greater fame – Smith with Fred Smith, Detroit rock legend (OK, he probably took a back seat to his wife, fame-wise, but they were a power couple); Anderson with Lou Reed, and Douglas with film director Martin Scorsese, who was also her mentor.

I’ve been reading in the new Smith book, and I’m struck by how…ordinary it is. The story about the boat with a broken axle? Amusing, but ultimately, your life is just as interesting. I promise you. But people in the audience that night were rapt, absorbing the details of this pair’s domestic life, as though there was a secret about to be revealed — of coolness, or magic, or powerful creativity. There seems to be an inordinate interest in the personal lives of doubly famous couples, and maybe it’s a fact of being older, but the more I learn about people, the more I believe we have a lot more in common than not, and that the lives of the famous/brilliant and anonymous/ordinary contain a roughly equal number of farts, whining, dumb conversation and other things that make us wonder what life would be like if we’d only married someone famous and brilliant. (Note the children of these pairs, how often they are deeply unimpressed by mom and dad. Take your cue from them.) They probably go to better parties and have nicer clothes and travel schedules, but that’s about it.

Not that I’m not insanely jealous of Illeana Douglas, mind you; the other ladies can keep Sonic Smith and Lou Reed, but I’d pay money to share coffee with Scorsese in the morning.

The Anderson movie is very fine, but it’s about…well, it’s about a lot of things, but death is the biggie, as the whole thing is purportedly inspired by the death of Anderson’s rat terrier, Lolabelle. But someone else died in the last year in Anderson’s family, and Himself goes unmentioned, appearing in one brief shot and the very last one of the movie. There’s a certain oooh, it’s him frisson when his famous face flashes by.

No such enigmatic take for Douglas, who complained sharply about the interviewers who assume genius and influence only flows in one direction, always asking her how Scorsese affected her work, but never asked her paramour how she might have influenced his own. (If you think the casting of Don Rickles in “Casino” was genius, credit Douglas.)

Bottom line: Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman, giving all your love to just one man.

Sorry no posting last night. I wrote much of the above in my last hour of consciousness, and this morning the punctuation was definitely showing it. But that allows me to absorb the election results, which weren’t particularly surprising. I guess the Houston equal-rights ordinance being overturned is the biggest news, but I’ve felt for a while now that transgender rights are not going to be as easy a sell as the LGB variety, so again, probably not surprising. As soon as you can convince the rubes that little girls won’t be safe in their own bathrooms, it’ll be game over for the other side. I don’t want to keep returning to Toronto, but I will say I noticed a trend in the restaurants we visited — the rise of the unisex toilet.

In this country we call them “family” facilities, and they’re useful for fathers out with little girls, and vice versa, and using them, you see men and women and toddlers, most often. But in Canada many places had three one-holers — M, W, U. I have no idea if this is a transgender accommodation or not, but I noticed.

Finally, I listen to less public radio in the evenings than in the mornings, and missed the “Marketplace” interview this piece in Fortune, about Ben Carson’s ignorance of economics, is based on. Simultaneously amazing and depressing.

So, let’s tackle Wednesday. Coffee’s calling.

Posted at 7:53 am in Current events, Popculch | 30 Comments

Oh, Canada.

Every time I go north of the border — or, as Detroiters inevitably point out, south, at least if you’re headed to Windsor — I’m impressed by something new. Like your plastic money:


“Why can’t we have plastic money?” I mused at one point. We decided the tea party wouldn’t allow it, because Obama. They’ve also done away with pennies. If you buy something that rings up at $1.82, you pay $1.80. Is this a great country, or what?

It was Halloween weekend, and we did Halloweeny things. Besides the “Frankenstein” play, we spent a few hours on Oct. 31 at a screening of “Nosferatu,” the 1921 version, with Radiohead’s “Kid A” as the soundtrack. You could watch it here if you like, but the guy who screened it in Toronto said it was his idea and he did it first. He was a real original. He shows movies in his living room. Six people were at this screening, and we were two of them.

But it’s a cool idea, and the music fit the action very well.

In between was a lot of walking and talking and shopping and eating and just looking around. Alan and I have our own way of doing cities. It works for us.

And now we have houseguests, unexpected ones — J.C and Sammy are passing through en route to Atlanta from the U.P. Of course, we took some pictures of the supermodel in the house:


That rug really pulls the room together.

There’s more to the weekend, but I’m so whipped now, and full of tapas and wine and impending sleep. Did you read this Mark Fisher piece on Trump over the weekend? You should:

For some supporters, especially those in the second half of life, Trump’s slogan is a tribute to a simpler time. “He could have said, ‘Make America what it was before’ and I would have voted for him,” said Jane Cimbal, 69, who lives in Winchester and signed up to collect signatures to get Trump on the Virginia ballot. “The last time we had good jobs and respect for the military and law enforcement was, oh, probably during Eisenhower.”

Cimbal doesn’t view Trump as an optimist of the Reagan stripe, but she’s okay with voting for a harsh critic. “He speaks his mind,” she said. “So many of the others are wishy-washy. Mr. Trump isn’t a provocateur to annoy people but to get them thinking.”

These people.

OK, toddling off to bed. Thinking about Canada, writing more later.

Posted at 12:30 am in Current events, Same ol' same ol' | 30 Comments

No wifi, a problem.

Friends, I’d hoped to update the blog on the way back from Toronto, but the wifi on Via Rail was on the fritz. I ask you! Where is my free flying carpet of information, Canadian rail system? How is a civilized human being supposed to endure in this sort of primitive state?

We didn’t get home until after 11, so I was pretty zonked to do it then. In the meantime, accept this photograph:


Because this is what I have to do now: Get to work. See you tomorrow.

Posted at 8:14 am in Same ol' same ol' | 23 Comments

Road notes.

Day one report, or Travel is Very Broadening, Even Little Trips, or Two Things I Learned Yesterday:

Thing one: A staged reading of “Frankenstein” taught me that if you think this story is abput laBORatories and EEgore and torches and pitchforks, you don’t know “Frankenstein.” It’s really a story about gods and creations and fathers and sons and, of course, heartbroken women. (I also saw a side idea about schizophrenia and psychotic breaks, but the monster was real, after all.) More on this later, when I have a real keyboard.

Thing two: If you get a chance to eat in an Iranian restaurant, take it.

OK, one more thing: It’s hard tomtype on an iPad.

Later, folks!

A photo posted by nderringer (@nderringer) on

Posted at 8:14 am in Same ol' same ol', Uncategorized | 54 Comments

A whirl, not a dervish.

Sorry for no post yesterday, but man, I’ve been so productive recently I’ve done the work of 1.5 Nances. Wrote two stories — you can find them at Bridge anytime after 6 a.m. Eastern, but this one will likely be the one non-residents will be most interested in. Mandrake!


One reason I’ve been busting my butt is, we’re bugging out for a couple days. Alan’s on vacation this week, we got the boat out of the water, and it seems a good time to grab a long weekend in Toronto, aka New York Lite (and cheaper — exchange rate is 32 percent now). Photo posts for a couple days. If that. I’ll try.

But as we prepare to pack, we’re watching the GOP debate. Alan in particular is digging the tweet crawl:

Me, I’ve been cleaning the kitchen and listening from the family room. If I were tweeting, I would say this:

Why is Ted Cruz wearing his dad’s suit?

Off to pack. If you feel like talking about this thing, feel free. If not, see you Monday-ish.

Posted at 12:19 am in Current events | 56 Comments

Lucky me.

Man, what a productive day. My luck’s really running hot right now, capped off by this near-miraculous occurrence last Friday:

I was driving a friend to some hipster rooftop party in Midtown when we swung through a bank’s ATM lane so he could get some cash. Because I was driving, I handled the keyboard work. The window at this one is never at the right height, and I had to open the car door to reach everything. From there, we drove around a block or two, found a good parking place, pulled in and as I reached for my purse…

Gone. Gone, and I knew just what had happened: It had fallen out the car door when I opened it to use the ATM. It’s small, so it didn’t make much of a sound. But it had my wallet, phone and keys in it. Losing even one of these items would have screwed the weekend but good. Losing all three would have ruined the week. I told my friend to buckle his seat belt and peeled out back to the bank. My heart was pounding, so much that I did something you should never, ever do in Detroit: Honked at a motorist too slow to turn right on red. (Well, it was some harmless-looking Toyota, and it was Midtown. Almost certainly a suburbanite coming down for an exotic meal at Hopcat.)

Maybe five minutes had elapsed since we left the window, but it was Woodward Avenue in the infamous D, across the street from a rock club and public hospital, next door to a restaurant and coffee shop, well-traveled by bums and other colorful urban denizens. My purse could have been in some guy’s backpack half a block away.

But! There it was, lying where it had fallen under the ATM! We both exhaled in relief. And circled around back to Cass, where the same parking spot we’d left was still open. Beyond belief.

I don’t mind telling you I bought a lottery ticket the next day. Didn’t win, but it felt like something I had to do.

So, then, a wee bit of bloggage:

Let’s kick this off with a nod to our handful of readers in the 50th state, and watch some video that demonstrates why I believe ocean swimming is nuts and everyone should stick to lakes, Great and otherwise. (A popular T-shirt around here reads, “Lake Michigan: Unsalted and shark-free”)

I wrote about this urban-farming project more than three years ago, and it finally appears to be coming to pass. Things move slowly here.

Oh look, Ben Carson said something crazy again. Enjoy your book tour, doc, because something like one-third of American women have had abortions, and my guess is that most of them don’t consider themselves the moral equivalent of slave holders.

Finally, a great OID story, with a headline I defy you not to click: Rare harp seized in case involving shrink, sex and pimp. Boo-yah!

Posted at 12:07 am in Current events, Detroit life | 85 Comments

American what the-?

On the film “American Sniper,” I have no opinion. Had no opinion. Tell me lefty film buffs found it offensive, and I yawn. Tell me Michael Moore said snipers are cowardly sneaks, and I guffaw. Tell me it’s a crappy movie, and I shrug. Tell me it’s a great one, and ditto.

By which I mean, every piece of creative work isn’t for every single person. If liberals get movies that flatter their biases, why shouldn’t conservatives? So Clint Eastwood votes Republican; who cares? Judge his movies on their own merits. And since I really had no interest in seeing the Chris Kyle story dramatized on the big screen, I stayed away, content to savor Bradley Cooper’s Texas accent via the trailer and commercials. I read a few reviews about it. I know the outline of the story, and I figured I’d catch it when it came around on cable. Which it has.

The other day I surfed past “American Sniper” in progress on one of the premium channels and was caught up in the climactic scene, a firefight where Kyle takes a minute to pull out his sat phone under heavy fire and call his wife to tell her he’s ready to come home. Figured there were but 20 minutes or so left, and decided to watch. It unfolded pretty predictably: Chris the civilian is on edge, Chris needs some time to adjust. Chris attacks a family dog roughhousing with his children. Chris sits in a bar. And then, whaddaya know, here comes Chris walking into his kitchen with a revolver in his hand, through the living room where the kids are playing and into the kitchen. Jeez, is he going to shoot his wife? I don’t remember reading about this part. He points it at her and she doesn’t scream. In fact, she smiles. “Drop them drawers,” he says.

It’s a playful love scene! She throws up her hands, and they banter as he spins her around the kitchen, the gun still in one hand. I’m practically gasping at this example of responsible gun ownership in action. What are the pro-gun people always telling us? Relax, we have training. We secure our weapons. They are never anywhere a child could get to them. And so on. Apparently, having a weapon pulled is enough of a thing in the Kyle romantic-move catalog that the Missus doesn’t even blink. I was reminded of Janice Soprano confiding to Carmela that she isn’t worried about her fiancé, Richie Aprile, having a side piece because she’s the only one who would let him hold a gun to her head during sex. Carmela gasps, Janice shrugs and says, “Usually he takes the clip out.”

I went a-Googling to see if anyone else noticed this scene. Gail Collins did, bless her heart:

This is, by virtually any standard, insane behavior. Mike Huckabee, a big “American Sniper” fan, recently published a book called “God, Guns, Grits and Gravy,” which is so wildly opposed to any weapon regulation that Huckabee opens his chapter on modern education by complaining that public schools are anti-gun. Yet he also presents a list of universally accepted gun safety rules, many of which boil down to don’t point it at anybody as a joke.

…“American Sniper” could actually be seen, at least in the final scene, as a good-gun, bad-gun message. The real Chris Kyle did enjoy walking around the house, twirling a pistol. His wife said that as the clouds lifted after his Iraq service, he would playfully point a gun at the television and pretend to shoot down the bad guys.

No wonder we’re separating into two Americas. It’s not red and blue. It’s sane and insane.

So, now that we’ve gone there, another thing that was published a while back that I only saw a couple days ago: A very entertaining exegesis of the men who hate Hillary Clinton, and the, uh, interesting ways they express it:

Let’s begin with Emmett Tyrrell, Jr., author of “Madame Hillary: The Dark Road to the White House,” since if Hillary’s biographer-foes sound like embittered ex-husbands, in Tyrrell, founder and editor-in-chief of the far-right American Spectator, we’re fortunate to have a biographer who’s occasionally mused in print about his actual ex-wife. So who gets it worse—Hillary or the ex? Actually it’s a toss-up. Who would have predicted: coincidentally it turns out that Madame Tyrrell and Madame Hillary share an uncanny number of similar traits. Hillary’s a self-righteous, self-regarding narcissist, “a case study in what psychiatrists call ‘the controlling personality,” and assumes the world will share her conviction that she’s always blameless. Compare with Tyrrell on the soon-to-be-ex, from his political memoir The Conservative Crack-Up: “She resorted to tennis, then religion, and then psychotherapy. Finally she tried divorce—all common American coping mechanisms for navigating middle age.” When Tyrrell worries that suburban women will secretly identify with Hillary’s independence and break from their husbands’ politics in the privacy of the voting booth, clearly suburban women’s late-breaking independence is territory he has cause to know and fear.

Hillary’s disposition is dark, sour, and conspiratorial; she has a paranoid mind, a combative style, is thin-skinned, and “prone to angry outbursts.” Whereas the ex-Mrs. T., we learn, was afflicted with “random wrath”; and as divorce negotiations were in their final stages, threatened to make the proceedings as public and lurid as possible. Hillary has “a prehensile nature,” which makes it sound like she hangs from branches by her feet. (Tyrrell has always fancied himself a latter day Mencken, flashing his big vocabulary around like a thick roll of banknotes.) And while he nowhere actually says that his ex-wife hung from branches by her feet, the reference to protracted divorce negotiations probably indicates that “grasping”—the definition of prehensile (I had to look it up)—is a characterization he wouldn’t argue with. When Tyrrell writes of Bill and Hillary that there was an emotional side to the arrangement, with each fulfilling the other’s idiosyncratic needs, as we see, he’s been there himself.

It gets better:

On the sexual creepiness meter, Klein gets some stiff competition from Carl Limbacher, who writes for the far-right news outlet NewsMax and is the author of “Hillary’s Scheme: Inside the Next Clinton’s Ruthless Agenda to Take the White House.” Here’s another biographer a little too keen to nose out the truth about Hillary’s sexuality: Bill Clinton is a predator, Hillary digs it, and this is the key that unlocks her character. If Hillary didn’t literally hold down the victims while Bill did the deed, she was complicit nonetheless—“a victimizer who actually enabled her husbands predations,” since “a woman with half the intellect of Hillary Clinton would understand that she’s married to a ravenous sexual predator at best—a brutal serial rapist at worst.” At least he compliments her intellect. I’m dying to know what Limbacher imagines Hillary’s wearing when he fantasizes about her in the henchwoman-to-rape role—her Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS outfit or the navy blue pantsuit.

I recall it was said of Bill Clinton that he was fortunate in his enemies. That goes doubly so for Barack Obama, and probably triply so for Hillary. I cringe to imagine what the discourse over President Hillary will be. Just cringe.

OK, then, let’s get to the miscellanea:

Thanks to Jeff for bringing me up to date on the many lavish purchases of Leslie Wexner, Columbus tycoon and probably the richest person I ever interviewed. (He was very polite and sent me a lovely handwritten thank-you note later.) He appears to have bought a Downton Abbey-like house in the Cotswolds, solely to have a nice shooting estate for his wife, who is a trap and skeet enthusiast. They use it two weeks out of the year. I wonder if they use beaters, and whether they carry their own guns.

Chris Christie was kicked out of the quiet car, or, as the NYPost calls it, Amtrak’s “notorious” quiet car. I’ve heard anecdotal quiet-car stories that lead me to… not take a side on this one. No, not even the governor of New Jersey can yell into a cell phone in the quiet car; that’s why the quiet car exists. On the other hand, it seems quiet-car denizens can get upset by the quiet rattle of a keyboard, so there’s that. As someone who lives in a place where commuter rail is essentially non-existent, I’ll be Switzerland here.

And that’s it for the weekend, then. Shall we bite the new week in the ankle? Let’s.

Posted at 12:30 am in Current events, Movies | 52 Comments