Have Bill and Sandee Lost Their Touch?

The French's have done well in the Ypsilanti restaurant scene, no doubt. But they're talking about turning Cady's Grill into a BBQ place. Ypsi doesn't have its own style of BBQ, so what are they going to sell? Charred meat slathered in Open Pit? Or will they mimic the famous BBQ of Texas, Kansas City, Memphis or North Carolina?

Maybe the proposed name will clue us in: Wild Willy's.

Or maybe not.

I don't care what sauce you use, or what region you're from, you don't go to eat meat at any place with "Willy" in the name.

And, frankly, calling Willy "Wild" only makes it worse.


Cady's Grill & Bar in Ypsilanti closes; new BBQ restaurant planned - Ann Arbor Business – MLive.com

Haute Couture for Ohio State Fans.

No word yet on whether it will come in maize and blue.

It Was a Good Sign.

A Short Four Years Ago.

Read Tony Hendra's We See That Now. I suppose I should warn you that it's not for the faint of heart or for conservatives who are feeling neglected today, the day before Obama's inauguration.

Hendra's piece recalls the rage that so many of us felt at the time of Bush's second inauguration. If he could be re-elected after all he did, was there any realistic alternative but to give up and become Republican? Garrison Keillor would open his show with "We're All Republicans Now." It's like being alone and bound by duct tape: just stop that pointless struggling and get used to it.

Meanwhile, you grow numb to all the scandals and scoundrels and numb even to all the pointless deaths. It took Hurricane Katrina to break through the mental fog.

Let us remember. Let us vow "never again."

Not Smoking One Day at a Time.

I smoked my last cigarette at 1:00 a.m. on 1 /1. No ceremony, no drama. Just a Camel Wide on my front porch after ringing in the new year at Cam and Meredith's, then off to bed. All done.

I've tried a few of the stop-smoking aids -- patches, inhalers, nasal spray, gum -- to no avail. The idea, of course, is to make an easier, softer way for addicts to go straight. Just gradually reduce your nicotine intake until you can't hear its siren song. It sure sounds easy.

Ask addicts whether they were successful weaning themselves from their drug of choice. Maybe suggest this gradual plan for alcoholics: start out drinking a case of beer. Switch to a 12-pack, and then a sixer, then a 40, then a tall boy and then just stop drinking altogether. That's a mere five steps -- a savings of seven steps.

Yeah, right.

For me, there's no safe level of nicotine; no easier, softer way to quit smoking. A little bit of nicotine makes me want more until I'm back at the gas station, getting my fix from the Marlboro man.

I started smoking 30 years ago last month when I wanted to freak out my Carolina roommate. Our relationship was simple: he smoked a lot and I complained a lot. Until one night, during a daiquiri party in our dorm room, I lit up a Salem 100 just for the shock value. Not that there's a smart reason to start smoking, I still say this one ranks among the dumbest.

I quit smoking for a couple of years, but I was dipping Copenhagen and Skoal instead. Smokeless tobacco cans tell you that, duh, it's not a safe alternative to smoking. They don't tell you that one pinch in your lower lip will give you a cigarette pack's worth of nicotine in about 20 minutes. When I quit dipping I was so nicotine-dependent that I started smoking two days later. I said that I was stressed out about buying our first house. I guess I picked a bad week to quit sniffing glue, too.

Dad quit smoking and then tried to convince me to quit. "Eric," he'd say, with dramatic intensity, "when my doctor said quit or die, it was the easiest decision I ever made." At that point he had already smoked for over 40 years, had two heart surgeries, and was well aware that smoking had killed his father at the age of 60. I laughed almost as hard as when he tried to give me marital advice a scant two days after his fourth divorce. But that was just Dad -- completely irony-impaired.

Then Mom died of COPD this year. For several years it had been an ordeal to walk from her bedroom to the kitchen where she would lean on her forearms over the sink, smoking and coughing, for hours. If you made her laugh you could send her on a two-minute coughing jag. After being released from the hospital she extended her life from May to October by not smoking. But she couldn't overcome 50 years of lung damage. Her alveoli couldn't expel enough carbon dioxide: it accumulated to toxic levels which caused lethargy, then confusion, extreme sleepiness, and death. Last Monday would have been her 72nd birthday. Her mother, who never smoked, lived without assistance until her late eighties when dementia took her. I'm reminded of a line by comedian John Mendoza: "They tell me that every cigarette takes seven minutes off my life. What am I gonna miss out on? Drooling?" I used to think that was funny.

I sometimes crave a cigarette. Not when I smell it, though, and only rarely after a meal. My strongest cravings come after I've completed a task, when my addict's mind tells me I deserve a reward. The power of that entitlement is what has made quitting so hard.

This morning, for example, I cleared away a lot of snow on Wallace, N. Congress and S. Congress. After two hours of shoveling and plowing I stood in my garage, admiring my snow-free driveway and sidewalks while my addict's brain screamed THAT'S SO EFFING AWESOME AND YOU'RE SO EFFING AWESOME, DUDE, YOU NEED TO LIGHT UP A BIG FAT CAMEL WIDE! NO, MAKE THAT TWO CAMEL WIDES! YOU HAVE REALLY EARNED THEM THIS TIME! NO, SERIOUSLY, YOU DESERVE A CIGARETTE! LET'S HOP IN THE CAR AND GO TO SEVEN ELEVEN! NOW! YOU CAN SMOKE ON THE WAY HOME, MAN! NO NEED TO WAIT! LET'S GOGOGO!

My hands reflexively patted my pocket and located my car keys.

So, I thought, what did I really do? Did I rescue a child from the jaws of a saltwater crocodile? Did I quench the flames of a blazing apartment building? No, I moved snow from the concrete to the grass. Because I choose to live in Michigan. Duh. And I don't even live in the Upper Peninsula, where clearing snow might actually affect whether people live or die. In fact, where I live there's an ordinance requiring me to clear my sidewalks within 48 hours of a snowfall, snowfalls which are small and infrequent by Great Lakes lake-effect snow standards. No, I decide, I'm not as effing awesome as this disease wants me to believe. I don't deserve anything. But I could use a drink of water.

And so the reptilian/addict brain and the evolved brain go at it like this for minutes at a time, many times a day, although I see fewer battles every day. The difference for me is that I know the addict brain is lying. It will say anything to get what it needs. I also know that I am separate from my thoughts, my feelings and my desires. I can watch them as though I'm sitting on the edge of the Huron and they're mere flotsam headed for the dam. I don't have to follow them -- especially when I know where they will lead. Lastly, I don't underestimate the power of addiction. I've seen what it can do.

My New Commitment

It's been several years since I signed up with Facebook. Back then, you needed an email address ending in "edu." My job at Michigan qualified me even though I didn't have anyone to talk to. But Facebook opened up to the world at large, which was a spectacularly popular idea.

Now, after several years of trying to keep up with friends through blogs and MySpace and LiveJournal and classmates.com and email, I have a critical mass of friends to connect with on Facebook. I suppose it helps that I'm using my real name (so people can find me) and my main email address (so people can contact me.) My desire for web anonymity crippled my MySpace experience; I see that now. But I also prefer the neat and clean appearance of Facebook. MySpace has democratized crappy web design -- ugly webpages for everybody! No disrespect to my MySpace friends, but there are a lot of pages out there that deserve a Surgeon General warning.

So far, so good. I'm hoping that by directing my online socializing to Facebook that I'll redouble my writing efforts on the blog. But you've seen me hope/promise/pledge/swear to write more before.

If you're comfortable using "friend" as a verb, look me up. And if you haven't joined Facebook, please consider doing so.

John Oliver of TDS on Undecided Voters.

This is one of the best reports by The Daily Show this year -- and it's been a banner year. (Their coverage of the second night of the Republican National Convention -- from the Larry Craig Bathroom at Minneapolis International Airport -- is still my favorite.)

I don't think you'll get a better taxonomy of Stupid.

John McCain Accidentally Left On Campaign Bus Overnight

HT to my sister, Karen, for this breaking news update. :^)

Sybil R. Touchberry, 1937 - 2008

Whenever I called, Mom greeted me with "Hi, Sugar." I don't know that I could ever adequately describe the comfort and the love that those two words conveyed over many years and over many more miles. But "Hi, Sugar" meant home, regardless of latitude and longitude, and unconditional love, regardless of tempests in our family teapot. It was hot chocolate after a hard day of sledding and a cool washcloth gently applied to a fevered forehead, all packed into three little syllables. And every call ended with, "Bye, Sugar. I love you."

But in between the terms of endearment we spoke of all manner of things: news of her grandchildren and my siblings; of Cubs and Bulls, Wolverines and Pistons, and Lions and Tigers and Bears (oh, my); of Kirk and Picard; of movies and music and Elvis impersonators; of hopes and fears and dreams. Mom mostly avoided talking to me about her problems, telling me that she didn't want to appear to whine. Later I learned that she talked more about her problems to my sisters than to me. I'm glad she talked to someone.

Mom was taught not to complain. She was born in Pennsylvania coal country during the Great Depression to Ellen and Lloyd Hamilton: serious times and very serious people. My grandmother rarely laughed. She did criticize, however. Even before she slipped into dementia, with Mom as her sole caregiver, she would say hurtful things. Mom seemed not to notice because she knew their roles had been reversed. But I often wondered what it was like to grow up with so much criticism. I have wished that I could travel back to 1946 or so to say to the young Sybil, "Don't listen to her. Your mother doesn't know how to show affection. You're a warm and caring and special person." Yet my words would be like pebbles against the constant stream of you're-not-good-enough.

I have two favorite memories of Mom. The first is watching her dance at my wedding reception. She spent most of the night on the dance floor, shoes cast aside, spinning and twisting and gyrating to whatever the deejay played. There were a handful of my family and two hundred strangers, and Mom was as carefree and vivacious and joyful -- as girlish! -- as I had ever seen her. And I am positive that no more beautiful a woman has graced the F.O.E. Hall of Davison, Michigan since.

My other favorite memory is of the week I spent with her after my father's funeral. It was late January. The air was thick with the sounds of wintering birds. Her house in Sebastian, Florida was brand-new, the retirement dream come to life. We talked for hours by her glittering pool. At some point I realized that she was a daughter who had lost her own father some years before, an ex-wife who never really stopped loving my father, and a mother to a grieving son. She understood much more than I did about living with such holes in one's heart. So she let me rant and she let me be. She gave me solace with her presence. And she let me clean her pool. She laughed when I told her that being her pool boy was therapeutic.



The truth is that she gave of herself to everyone who knew her. She was a loyal friend. She was a great nurse. She took care of the generation before her and two generations after her. In fact, it was easier for Mom to take care of others than to take care of herself. Which is why I am so grateful to the Visiting Nurse Association of the Treasure Coast and to Hospice House for giving Mom the loving care that she wouldn't allow for herself.

Mom, I just want to tell you that I miss you terribly. The universe seems to be off its axis by about a degree and a half right now. The sun still rises and sets but something is off-kilter. I know you would be able to say something to make it right. But I'll have to wait to hear it.

Until then... bye, Sugar.

I love you.

Un. Fricken. Believable.

Tonight's CBS Evening News with Katie Couric will broadcast an interview with Gov. Sarah "Heartbeat Away" Palin. Here's a teaser where Katie gives her the opportunity to sell us all on her foreign policy credentials, but there's no there there:


Watch CBS Videos Online

Truthfully, I don't fault Gov. Palin for being who she is. I fault Sen. McCain for elevating her to the national scene. He chose his vice president recklessly.

But doesn't she conjure some fun images? Like Putin as the Big Giant Head rising on the western horizon, big enough to show up on Alaskan radar? It sure is a good thing that she's up there defending our border.

Obama's Economic Plan

I think it goes without saying that our disastrous economy is the result of laissez-faire (a.k.a. Republican) economic policy. The party of "government isn't the solution, it's the problem" has proven yet again that markets need regulation. Frankly, I think we need a new New Deal to replace our current hypercapitalism with a system of fiscal responsibility, and we need it soon.

But the idea that any card-carrying member of the GOP could or would impose meaningful regulation on the markets is just too laughable. Regulation, Sen. McCain? Seriously? The only people who would believe that are the ones who haven't paid attention for the last quarter-century or so. And, if any of you fit that description, I'd like to share with you a two-minute video from Sen. Barack Obama.



This year, please vote for your economic interests. Don't be distracted by lies or "values" or culture wars or non-Anglo-Saxon names or race or gender or anything else that divides us.

Hiroshima Day, 1983: Auckland, NZ

There were handbills and posters seemingly everywhere inviting people to come to the rally against the Texas on Hiroshima Day. We were told to stay as far away from it as possible, but one of the guys in my engineroom saw the gathering from down the block. Breathlessly he estimated there were 100,000 -- no, 200,000! -- people out there, all hating America and showing how ignorant they were about nuclear power. I wasn't about to trust the crowd estimate of a guy who never left the Oklahoma panhandle until he joined the navy; the cattle in his hometown outnumbered people by 2 to 1. But I only replied that people in the States were pretty ignorant about nuclear power, too.

The NZ Herald had the story on the next day's front page. What I liked was the big discrepancy in the crowd estimate: 30,000 (organizers) or 15,000 (police.)

On my way into a pub the next night, I was accosted by three punkish guys about my age who told me, among other things, to get off their effing island and take my radiation with me. They were just getting up a good rant when a middle-aged couple emerged from the pub and interceded for me, telling the punks to mind their manners and treat the guest -- me -- with some respect and had they forgotten the bloody Battle of the Coral Sea? Why, they would be speaking bloody Japanese if it weren't for American sailors, the couple said. When the punks moved on, the husband apologized and offered to buy me a beer to make up for the "bloody poor hospitality." I declined and thanked them and then they thanked me for winning the Battle of the Coral Sea.

Loved or hated, we were minor celebrities for two weeks. Mostly, we were treated with kindness and generosity. And, coming from Norfolk, where they had only recently outlawed signs that said "No sailors or dogs allowed" but weren't in a hurry to change the corresponding attitude, life was more than good. I even asked about New Zealand's requirements for immigration.

August 2, 1983: Auckland, NZ

The USS Texas (CGN-39) was escorting the USS Carl Vinson (CVN-70) from Virginia to California the long way around when we were pulled from the carrier group to wave the flag on a tour of the south Pacific. Tough job, that -- four ports in Australia, one in Tonga, and two in New Zealand. Meanwhile, the Vinson was frolicking in the Indian Ocean. But, hey, someone had to drink all that beer and dance all night to David Bowie, the Clash, and the Eurythmics.

But our visit to NZ, at least, seemed poorly timed, as the country was embroiled in a passionate debate about becoming a nuclear-free zone. Or, maybe the timing was deliberate by someone in the Reagan Administration who thought that having the Texas drop into Auckland and Wellington with two nuclear reactors and a bunch of we-can-neither-confirm-nor-deny nuclear weapons would convince the Kiwis that they should just relax because, you know, everybody likes a little nukie. If that was the plan, it failed miserably: we were the last nuclear ship, and possibly the last American warship, to visit New Zealand. And, by giving the anti-nuclear faction something tangible to rally against, I'll always wonder whether we unintentionally helped NZ to become nuclear-free.

We entered Auckland's harbor on August 2, with most off-duty sailors manning the rails, and were greeted by some two hundred small boats of all kinds protesting our visit. The largest boat, a launch, carried a man with a bullhorn who shouted, "We love you but not your ship! You are welcome, but your ship is not!" over and over. (The NZ Herald said that a member of Parliament was aboard the launch, but I don't know if he was the man with the bullhorn.) Police boats dashed frenetically around us, keeping most of the boats away.

As I stood on the starboard side of the fo'c'sle at parade rest, wondering if we were going to run over some impassioned protester in a rowboat, I saw a brown sphere maybe 8" in diameter pop up against the gunwale and then disappear. It popped up again, moved aft, and dropped out of sight. As it bobbed down the gunwale aftward toward me, I recognized it as the top of a sailing mast. The boat was just too close to our hull for me to see it. The newspaper called it "the dory Mahatma Gandhi"; days later a policeman, laughing, told me that the boat had lost sail and its owner was frantically pushing off our hull, trying to get out of the way.

The NZ Herald from August 3, 1983 ran the story and pictures of the "Conflict on the Harbour." (It's a large pdf.)

And then came Hiroshima Day....

In My iPod.

The first full-length album by Fleet Foxes is full of gorgeous five-part harmonies. The intricate acoustic arrangements remind me of later Beach Boys as well as some 70's prog rock bands. Don't try to listen to this one in the car, as we did en route to the Indiana Dunes last weekend -- you'll miss way too much. Definitely headphones, definitely. Fleet Foxes have joined Cat Stevens and Nick Drake in my Sunday morning music collection.

I like Stay Positive by The Hold Steady as much or more than Boys and Girls in America. But I occasionally get tired of vocalist Craig Finn's talksinging or singtalking. Still, they rock.

Maybe I'm just a sucker for Southern Rock. After spending some formative years in NC listening to the Allman Brothers, Atlanta Rhythm Section and, yes, Molly Hatchet, I suppose that's to be expected. My Morning Jacket's Evil Urges has me reminiscing, but it also offers a variety of musical styles. Jim James does an excellent Prince vocal, among other treats. It's well-executed, comfortable and nostalgic, not breathtaking and earthshaking.

Other albums in regular rotation:

• Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
• In Rainbows, Radiohead
• Accelerate, R.E.M.
• Emoh, Lou Barlow
• Boxer, The National
• Narrow Stairs, Death Cab for Cutie
• Way to Blue, Nick Drake

What's in your iPod?

Remember to vote today.

You can preview the ballot at publius.org. Remember, Ward 2 precincts 1 & 3 vote at West Middle School. Our normal polling place, Estabrook School, is being renovated.

Don't forget your picture ID!