This week, this endless week.

It took some hard pushin’, but I birthed ‘nother project for Bridge. Public-employee pensions, woo, but it’s over. I spent a chunk of today reporting a much lighter piece, and once the end-of-the-term grading is done, I’ll have a much lighter step to match.

Parts one, two, three, four.

And in the meantime, all I have to do is kill dozens of comments out of my email, not from Bridge readers but from Mlive, the newspaper/digital platform where we share our content. Apparently there are people in the world who have nothing better to do than snipe back and forth on newspaper comment boards.

Life is too short for that, but maybe not when your main point consists of honk and the person you’re arguing with says honk-honk.

Good lord, but there’s some bloggage to get to today, so let’s.

This was destined to go viral the minute the judge said, “Hot dog!” So enjoy. (You can’t see his hot dog.)

A naked man runs through my neighborhood. And I MISSED IT. Streaking isn’t back; he’s just a meth casualty released from the psych ward too soon.

Frank Rich on something that isn’t exactly news, but a decent primer on the sugar daddies swinging their moneybags in the current election.

And speaking of public-employee pensions, David Von Drehle tells a story better than I ever could — Rhode Island’s.

Off to edit some copy.

Getting (way) down.

I’m beginning to think medical marijuana is a ship that’s leaving without me. I have absolutely no problem with people using it however they like as medicine, and I know there are many sick people with real illnesses who are legitimately helped by it. I also know that legalizing it for medical use is de facto legalizing it for recreational use, and why pretend otherwise. If the state’s voters approve of weed as a treatment for cancer and back pain and free-floating anxiety, then let’s stop fooling ourselves.

That won’t happen. Our attorney general is making this a jihad of sorts, and I could make a speech about this, but I won’t. Instead, I’ll direct you to a rather ingenious idea related to the issue — repurposing of an Upper Peninsula copper mine as an underground pot farm. Kind of a trippy idea, when you think about it — you could stage a killer Harold & Kumar movie down there.

It would help to be stoned to property grok this pearl-clutcher from the News today, about fear of crime in Birmingham, another wealthy suburb on the west side. Actual quote: “I don’t know what the world is coming to.” Everybody in my Facebook network is howling over it, and I can’t say I blame ‘em.

In honor of J.C.’s enhancement of Deborah’s photo yesterday, let’s run this one again. The Enhance Supercut!

And because supercuts are funny, No Signal:

From Bill, the official obit for Jay Z.

And goodnight.

Headwinds.

Just because it was Sunday, I threw my bike in the car and took my lard ass off to Belle Isle. Yes, yes, I could have ridden there, but it’s early in the year, the weather wasn’t quite right and I just didn’t want to face that feeling of being very far from home and not willing to pedal another 50 feet.

Good thing, too. The wind was wicked, a stiff 25 miles or so out of the northeast, which meant the windward side of the island was pretty fierce. Even more than cold, I hate riding in a strong wind, and I think I know why — it’s the closest actual cycling comes to spinning class, that sense of pedaling with an anchor. Bleh. But I made my two loops, and then noodled off here and there to see the parts of the island I see less often. The consent agreement between the city and state will call for Belle Isle to be run by the state for a while, and I can hardly see a downside to that, starting with the phase-in of an entry fee. It won’t be steep, and if it discourages the sort of people who’ve treated the island as an after-dark partying stop, so be it. It’s too nice a place to squander.

So around I went, twice, seeing what there is to see. Waterfowl, mostly. Everyone must still be nesting, because there were only two goslings in evidence, but lots of jumpy geese and — ack — swans. You want to see a bird that can make you wish you were dead? Say hi to a swan protecting a nest. I went out on a deserted fishing pier, checked out the boats that were already in the water at the Detroit Yacht Club and watched a men’s eight launch from the Boat Club. Rowing is a sport that’s always attracted me, but never enough to do more than dabble. Watching those guys blow away from the dock, inches above the waterline, made me think there are other ways to get your exercise. Like pedaling against a tough headwind.

Otherwise? Eh, a nice weekend. Eastern Market, laundry, a Saturday-night show in a second-floor performance space, which convened as the ball game was letting out. The Tigers won; you could tell by the facial expressions, but it might have been the elation over getting back to the nice warm car. That wind couldn’t have been fun to sit in.

Bloggage? A little:

The blessing of the purses. Because, that’s why.

A fireball and explosion seen across much of Nevada? Be not alarmed! Probably just a meteor.

And was that a freaky “Mad Men,” or what?

Happy Monday.

My very own crow.

I sent Coozledad an Electric Six T-shirt and all I got was this beautiful watercolor of his pet crow, which Alan just brought back from the framer today:

A terrible photo, I know. Alan wanted to wait until daylight, but I insisted. Here’s a decent detail shot, from Cooz’s own blog. It’s just spectacular, and I’m amazed he’s this generous. I think I’ll send him an old ratty hoodie next, in the hope he’ll reply with some diamond earrings or something. We’ll walk it around the house for a week or two, until the crow tells us where he wants to hang (as long as it’s out of direct sunlight, or close to a bathroom).

This almost counters the news that we lost yet ANOTHER commenter, albeit one of the less-chatty ones — JayZ(the original), who, we learned from Bill, “passed away suddenly in France on Easter Sunday.” May I just say? That’s a line I’d like to see in my obituary someday, if that’s even possible.

I really don’t know what to say about that, other than I’m sorry.

And now it’s week’s end, “30 Rock” night, and I’m having a brownie and a second glass of wine, because why not? Tomorrow I’m going to hit the gym and it will surely hit me back, but I don’t care.

Bloggage?

Professionalism ain’t what it used to be.

The flight path of the pilot whose plane augured in to the Gulf of Mexico today. Lost pressure, blacked out, adios — it’s the same thing that happened to Payne Stewart’s plane a few years back. Arresting to see the final tracings.

Keep talkin’, liberal man. I’m sure it’ll do a lot of good.

Me, I’m going to bed. Have a great weekend, all.

End of an era.

I’m not going to go on about Dick Clark. Y’know? R’spect, but let’s not go overboard. I was a fan of many of the shows that were all bigfooted out of existence by “American Bandstand,” and what were they? “Hullabaloo,” “Where the Action Is,” and, of course, Jerry Rasor’s “Dance Party.” You never saw that one? That’s because it was a local:

Years and years and years later, I hung out at a club with our own Jeff Borden, and every so often they’d project clips from “Dance Party” over the dance floor, just for the ironic frisson of it all, because the music in the club was more likely to be the Ramones or Human Sexual Response. Good times.

Anyway, I sort of lost it after Clark insisted on coming back to “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve” after his stroke. I didn’t know whether I should be a) happy that a stroke victim wasn’t having any of that societal disapproval of slurred speech; or b) horrified. You can’t speak clearly anymore, Dick! It’s a tragedy, but you had a good run! Let someone else take the helm! You’re 100 years old!

Knowing when to leave — that’s a tough one. I guess he figured it out for himself. Andy Rooney was about a decade overdue. Something to remember for all of us contemplating retirement.

I’m done with my horse-eating project at work and did so just in time to enjoy my two (2) craft beers, along with a falafel wrap at my new favorite local. I read a couple of chapters in “American Gods,” which I can’t decide if I like or not. It’s certainly a page-turner, but I’m sort of allergic to this genre. Can it rise above? Time will tell. It’s a great premise — a sort of underground trip to find gods of yore and beyond-yore. We shall see. In the meantime, it was good falafel accompaniment.

Bloggage?

Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb? Hell if they know.

The University of Michigan joined Coursera. Have any of you guys ever done one of these things? Some of those courses look sort of interesting.

Just a few more days to get through, and then it’s May, and may I just say? That will be awesome. Have a great downslope of the week.

Almost…there…

What a week it’s been so far. Moe dies Saturday. On Monday, my car started missing; the verdict was bad ignition coils. Three hunnert dollars, ma’am. Bright side: This might be a recall issue, in which case I can expect reimbursement in four to six weeks.

Today I sat on my glasses. Bright side: I was just telling Kate I’m ready for new ones. I’ve had these for years, and they fit great and look great, but five years is enough for one pair of glasses, if you aren’t Elvis Costello. Still, is this a little too perfect? The last time this happened, I said, “I might be ready for one of those iPhones,” and that very day my pink Razr disappeared, never to be found again.

Meanwhile, I’m finishing a big project at work, and it is another horse-eating deal. Annd it’s the end of the term, and at the moment I feel like one of those marathoners who enters the stadium doing the hurricane walk. If I can get to the end of the week, all will be OK.

And if I can get through tomorrow, I’m planning to have two (2) craft beers after work. Maybe Oberon, if they’ve tapped it at one of my Wednesday places.

In the meantime, I beg your tolerance for a few more days. In return, I bring these tasty links:

A nice piece by Laura Berman in the DetNews about what many claim doesn’t exist: True hunger in the U.S. of A.

Hump day. Let’s get over it, eh?

Gusty. Calm expected eventually.

It blew all day here, 25 mph steady and gusts a lot higher. Limbs down all over, power out to more than 50,000 customers. Knock wood and cast the evil eye aside, we weren’t one of them. Which didn’t stop me from having a fairly lousy day anyway, starting with an unexpected $300 car repair, continuing with blah-blah and salvaged only by dinner — grilled-asparagus omelets with gruyere cheese and a little slivered prosciutto. Both the cheese and the ham were odd-end leftovers. Black bean and roasted corn salad on the side, and a nice glass of wine.

And you know what? Nora Ephron is right: The best omelets are two whole eggs with a third yolk. Richer, but not too.

Remember when I said I’d be crushed for a few more days? I wasn’t kidding. Thanks anyway to my fellow Fellow Rob, who wrote yesterday to say, “your blog is still the shit.” He’s so nice. Take “the” out of that comment and it’s more accurate, but this too shall pass. I’d go dark for a few days, but I like to give y’all new threads to play in.

Any links? This:

Mrs. Romney goes shopping. In Palm Beach.

Mittens out-drawing Barry in Michigan, so far. Interesting map.

Happy Tuesday to all.

I find correct usage optional.

Driving to Lansing Friday morning, I found myself in an audio crisis. I can usually make NPR fill at least half the trip, but it’s pledge week. As a sustaining member, I opt out of the miseries of pledge week. Reached for my iPod, but ack! I’d left the earbuds at home, a hazard of dressing for work in the dark. Commercial radio it is, then. I stumbled across a wacky morning team, just as they announced they had a listener who believed she’d found the Word of the Day — some promotion, I expect. She was asked the word of the day, and answered “habitual.” Huzzah, she’s a winner, but wait, there’s one more hoop.

“Can you use it in a sentence?”

“I find chocolate habitual.”

“Very good! You win!”

Fortunately, I’m no longer driving this route at a full gallop, or else the twitching in my hands would have sent me off the road.

A pretty good story in today’s Freep, which qualifies as a unique take on the old problem of school safety. It considers a truly horrifying aspect of Detroit school life — the walk to school. I was telling my students the other day to try to keep fresh eyes, especially around Detroit, because it’s easy to start taking blight for granted, after you’ve seen it for a while. The photo gallery is an eye-popper.

On a lighter note, this amusing New York magazine piece on the artisanal artisanal-ness of Brooklyn. I recall exchanging an email or two with Roy after I stumbled across a Kickstarter for some outfit there, raising money to make artisanal soft drinks. Roy lived there at the time, and to my what-the-what question, he replied, “Not my part of Brooklyn.” Good to know.

Finally, I suppose most of you know by now that Moe, our comment-community member of four years, known in her analog life as Regina Cullen of Seattle, Wash., died over the weekend. In what has become a grim tradition here, J.C. has taken all her comments and collected them on a single page, which you can find here. (Link on the sidebar under Getting There from Here, along with those of Ashley Morris and Whitebeard.) It starts with her first appearance, Leap Day 2008, which we long-timers remember as Tim Goeglein Day. It ends, 2,204 comments later, on March 26 of this year. She was active and engaged, never self-pitying, throughout what must have been a long and very painful illness. She was posting on her Facebook page March 31 — a funny video of British animal voiceovers. The day before that, an excoriation of Mitt Romney’s contributions to the National Organization for Marriage. I think that was probably a pretty good distillation of Moe as we knew her — engaged with the nitty-gritty, but still up for a laugh. Our community will be poorer for her loss.

Peace and comfort, Moe.

I don’t think it’s possible to express how little I’m interested in fighting the Mommy Wars again. Seriously. Do not want. To fight this. As wastes of breath go, only discussing which candidate you’d like to have a beer with ranks lower.

Been there, done that. Absolutely an argument without a point that brings out the worst in everyone. Won’t do it, can’t do it. Whatever works in your family is the right way to do it. Shut up about my choice, and I’ll shut up about yours.

And with that — a few thoughts about women and politics — it seems appropriate to segue into the news of the day, which is that our own Moe appears to be leaving us. See details on her blog. I’m frankly astonished. She’s been such a vivid, opinionated part of our community, and among her Facebook circle, and has been posting — not about her illness, but about the world outside of it — with regularity until just the last couple of days.

It seems the best thing to do now is simply wish her well as she starts the next part of her journey.

But also, some links:

Rep. Benishek’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad town-hall meeting:

At one point, the discussion turned to health care reform. Benishek, who served as a medical doctor before he was elected to Congress in 2010, was thrust onto the national stage after his predecessor Bart Stupak cast the deciding vote in favor of the Affordable Care Act in 2010. He told the audience that the United States has the best health care system in the world, before he was literally laughed at by several attendees.

“We have the highest life spans in the world,” argued Benishek. Several women in the audience quickly pointed out that in fact, many countries with universal health care place higher than the United States in terms of life expectancy, including Canada, Sweden, Norway and the Netherlands. The United States ranks 50th, just behind South Korea and Bosnia and Herzegovina.

“I don’t believe that’s true,” said Benishek. “How can you not know that, you’re a medical doctor?” one woman replied.

John Edwards’ terrible, horrible, no good, very bad life:

No one close to Edwards disputes the obvious: The unrelenting quiet is an indication of just how far he has fallen. Especially around Chapel Hill and the Edwardses’ former home in nearby Raleigh, several longtime friends privately say that they want nothing to do with him; that they felt personally betrayed by his persistent lies during the period when he desperately sought to cover up his affair.

The antipathy toward him around these parts shows no signs of abating. He spends considerably less time in popular Chapel Hill haunts that once — in his days as a stunningly successful trial lawyer and overnight political star — accorded him golden-boy status. At Spanky’s restaurant, near the University of North Carolina Law School (where he and Elizabeth met in a class), his portrait has been removed from the wall, replaced by one of Elizabeth. Three years ago, with the scandal at its height, he ate lunch with an elderly couple at crowded Foster’s Market, a popular cafe in town where he looked at ease in Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt. As he left, patrons hissed at him. “It was more than audible; it was loud,” a witness recalls. “He kept walking toward the door as if he didn’t hear or see anything.”

The end of the stick shift as we know it? Or maybe not. From my hubs’ section.

And with that, let’s all hold a good thought for Moe, eh?

Sunk.

Somehow it became known that our little Kate had never seen “Titanic,” and I told her it was time, and so we paid our money, unpacked our 3D glasses, and settled in for “Titanic 3D: The Sinkening.” Like Edelstein, I liked it better this time, and I can’t say why.

No, I can: I liked it better because I’m 15 years older and no longer think it’s worth wasting energy disliking it. And having endured the Ballad of Jack and Rose part once, I’m free to waste my mind’s back channels wondering what I would do in a similar situation. Don’t we all hope we’d be heroes? That we’d make sure the right people got into the boats, and we wouldn’t be horrible, and we might even go down with the ship (and a brandy in hand, like Benjamin Guggenheim)? With one’s mind so engaged, I was less bothered by Billy Zane’s character calling Rose’s Monet canvases “finger paintings.”

The film does have one indelible image, for me — the debris field of corpses, floating in their life preservers, their cries gradually going out, like candles.

Friends, I am crushed on my other fronts, and will be for another week. After that? Smooooth sailing. (I hope.) Can you forgive a few more days of lameness? Because I don’t have much more. There’ll be dibs and dabs, but for now, for me, it’ll be work and iPad solitaire until I fall into a heap.

May Day, we’ll have a parade.