Yes, that is my Little Machine of Style and Practicality.  And that is me, hard at work … trying to remember when to use the command key instead of ctrl or alt.

Eighteen months ago, I started working at the University of Michigan as a professor of nuclear physics.

Okay, okay. I was not a professor of nuclear physics; my job was nowhere near as mundane and pedestrian as that. No, I was one of the thousands of people who allow those professors to be mundane and pedestrian. Without me, those professors would just be highly-educated unemployed people.

Anyway, for the last eighteen months, I’ve seen this sight every workday morning:

And my co-workers have seen this sight every workday:

Except there would normally be a lot more paper on my desk, and as the self-proclaimed Minister of Menial Tasks and Other Minutiae, I would normally look like I was hard at work. I mean, I would normally be hard at work. Yeah. That’s what I meant.

For those eighteen months, I was a temp, and as such, unlike many elected officials, I was subject to term limits. So, at 3:30 PM on Tuesday, 06 March 2007, I joined the ranks of the highly-educated unemployed. (But without the highly-educated part.) And now my former co-workers see this sight:

(Only without the sweatshirt, since I have that with me right now.)

Who knew a chair could look so lonely?

Today, my computer screen displayed a revolutionary sight:

Yes, it’s true. I have ordered a Mac. In fact, I have ordered this MacBook:

Upon hearing the news, a friend of mine (yes, I have friends!) — a previous Mac convert for school-based reasons — texted me her happiness: “Thanks for crossing over to the other side. It feels better over here. Welcome.”

My primary reason for the change is my photography. Little by little, I am beginning to move into a more serious pursuit of the business of photography, and let’s be honest: Macs are teh r0x0rs for the creative side of life. So I took that excuse, paired it with my credit card (wait, I have to pay that bill? I thought it was just a suggestion) and bought the Little Machine of Style and Practicality. It’ll be here in a week or two.

There is a bit of adventure in this purchase: my experience with Macs is limited to a total of roughly five minutes, split between a display model in Best Buy and my friend’s Mac in my own home. But sometimes I think I communicate better with computers than I do with people, so I’m looking forward to finding my way around the OS.

When it arrives, I will post my thoughts here. And, of course, those thoughts will be written on a Mac.

Last fall, my church held a Biker Sunday. As I am wont to do, I pointed my camera at nearly everything in sight. (Sometimes I even clicked the shutter.)

After Biker Sunday, my pastor wrote an article about the event for a nationally-published magazine called Leadership Journal. To accompany the article, the magazine asked for my pictures. I submitted a few, and eventually forgot about it.

Last night, I googled my name (as I do on occasion, just to make sure nothing odd appears) and guess what I found:

The article, featuring my picture.

Do you know what that means?  The four (maybe five) people who check photo credits now know my name.  But more importantly, all the other readers have seen one of my pictures.  Yet again, I have achieved fame while expertly eluding fortune.

I’m good like that.

The other day, I tuned my TV to the inestimable channel 9. In this area, for those of us not yet ensnared by Comcast, that happens to be the Canadian channel — the CBC.

Contrary to the beliefs of some Americans, the CBC isn’t just hockey, curling and Ian Hanomansing (who, apparently, plays neither hockey nor curling). There’s so much more, and all of it is steeped in glorious Canadian accents.

When I visited the official network of Don Cherry, I found a comedy special. But these weren’t typical comedians: they were funny. And not only that, but they were all what I like to call non-standard people. (You might know them as “disabled,” but that is a patently erroneous term.) I happened to find the program while a blind comedian was on stage (“When my wife is mad at me, she doesn’t yell; she moves the furniture”), but he wasn’t the one who really caught my attention.

The next comedian was a man named Chris Fonseca, and his non-standard feature was quite evident: he had cerebral palsy. But his was considerably more severe not just than mine, but also than that of my doppelganger, comedian Josh Blue. Fonseca was in a wheelchair, he had limited use of his hands, and his voice was heavily affected. But do you know what was most important?

He made me laugh.

For a sample of his humor, you can watch his appearance on Letterman.

Here’s some visual context for the Detroit parking scam story.  The lot in which we parked is in the center of this shot.  Its proximity to Cobo Hall can be seen in this shot; the lot is in the top left, and Cobo is the large building in the bottom right.

On Saturday, I went with my brother-in-law, my nephew and my parents to the North American International Auto Show in Detroit.  The show itself was fun, but the most notable event occurred outside the show; in fact, though we visit the auto show every year, this experience was a first for us.

When we got to the city, we headed for the Cobo roof lot to see if they’d let us park there. But, as is exasperatingly typical, the roof lot was open only to monthly permit holders, so we began to look for alternatives. As we drove down a street near Cobo, we spotted a man with an orange flag. We paid our $10, found a spot and walked to the show.

After the show, we arrived at the parking lot only to find that the attendant was gone, and so was our minivan. The lot belonged to a church, and it turned out that the ersatz parking attendant was, in fact, an ordained scamster. We had been snookered by the common parking scam.

Oops.

The church building had helpful signs providing the phone number of the towing company charged with clearing the lot of unwanted guests; after calling the company to confirm their possession of our vehicle, we headed back to Cobo so my father could catch a cab.

The towing company lot was well outside downtown, actually past the old Tigers Stadium; those familiar with Detroit will know the general condition of the neighborhoods surrounding the old stadium. For those who don’t: it’s not good. Most would avoid the area. But my father didn’t have a choice, so while we waited at Cobo, off he went to Boulevard & Trumbull Towing (2411 Vinewood, Detroit, in case you ever mistake an orange flag for credibility).

When he arrived, the process did not begin well. As one might expect, they have to match the person to the vehicle; they do this by looking at the vehicle’s registration and proof of insurance. Why was this a problem? Well, as a Chrysler retiree, my father’s van is not a typical lease; thus, the registration and proof of insurance do not mention my father anywhere, instead listing DaimlerChrysler as the owner. Since my father’s name is not DaimlerChrysler, B&T was skeptical.

To connect my father to the van, B&T wanted him to obtain from Chrysler a signed, notarized document proclaimed my father to be the parent or legal guardian of that vehicle. With no idea of what number to call, and with the likelihood that no helpful person would be working at any relevant Chrysler offices on a Saturday, the situation did not look good.

After some verbal wrestling with B&T, my father realized there were potentially useful items in the van: a stack of service records from the local dealership, complete with his name and the van’s VIN. They retrieved the records from the van, and, very reluctantly, they agreed to accept them as proper identification.

But wait — there’s more!

In order to repay them for their noble act of rescuing his van from its rampant illegality, B&T wanted $192; naturally, he called upon the power of Visa to assuage the nobility of B&T. The clerk, most likely wondering what had given my father the idea that any piece of the process would be so easy, told him they would accept only cash.

Since my father is not the (crazy) type to carry $192 on a regular basis, he asked for the nearest ATM. There was good news and bad news: the good news was that there was an ATM only two and a half blocks away; the bad news was that they would not provide an armed escort for the walk there and back. In a decision we uninanimously applauded, he elected not to make the trip to that ATM. Instead, he called us.

As it happened, we were sitting just a few feet from one of the many ATMs in Cobo; we told my father we would extract the van’s bail money from that ATM and catch a cab to B&T. I genuflected at the altar of the ATM — twice, since the single transaction limit was $100 — and before long, we were on our way.

Once we arrived, we were able to empty our pockets and reclaim the van. We also saw another frustrated man trying to reclaim his car; in fact, he was in an even tighter spot. He had traveled from mid-Ohio, he was driving his father’s car — so his name wasn’t on the registration — and his father was on vacation in Florida. We held little hope for his reclaiming his father’s car that day.

Before long, our paperwork was finished. As we walked to the van, we spoke with one of the B&T drivers. He gave us two pieces of information:

• Many such parking scams are perpetrated by Detroit’s homeless; they steal flags from legitimate parking lots, wave a few cars into a private lot, pocket the money and walk to another lot. Rinse, repeat.
• During last year’s auto show, that B&T lot alone towed 165 vehicles.

In retrospect, we probably should have spotted the scam and moved to a legitimate public parking lot: he gave us nothing to put in our windshield to indicate that we had paid, and he displayed no city permit. Hindsight is a bit unfair; it’s too easy to look back and see what you should have noticed at the time. But we did miss the clues. Oh well. We will be wiser next time.

Finally, this experience prompted three questions:

• The police presence around Cobo was fairly heavy during the auto show. How much extra effort would it really take to crack down on this sort of scam? Could a few of those officers make an occasional pass through the area to check the legitimacy of orange flags on private lots? With just B&T towing 165 vehicles, it seems like a scam worth addressing. After all, Detroit is trying to polish its image — but do you think that frustrated man from Ohio is going to want to make a return visit?
• The church has a contract with B&T to tow unwanted cars from their lot; given their proximity to Cobo Hall and Joe Louis Arena, they must be familiar with having cars towed from their lot during major events. Could the church make some effort to prevent scammers from using their lot during such events? Even something as simple as to accompany the B&T signs with “NO EVENT PARKING” signs might be worthwhile.
• Can somebody please compel towing companies to accept credit cards in these situations?

Last week, Tuesday Morning Quarterback dealt with Nick Saban’s departure from the Miami Dolphins; he noted that Saban called his coaches and emailed his players with the news. I emailed him with Lloyd Carr’s story of Bo Schembechler’s refusing a lucrative offer from Texas A&M because he didn’t want to have to tell the players he was leaving; TMQ used it in this week’s reader feedback column.

Speaking of Little Nicky, Burrill Strong of Chelsea, Mich. writes, “Concerning Saban’s using e-mail to inform his players that he was leaving, I thought of a story Lloyd Carr told at the memorial service for Bo Schembechler. Carr was talking about the time Bo received a lucrative offer from Texas A&M, and asked his assistants what they thought. His staff’s response was divided; some believed he should take the money. With a tear in his eye and with his voice cracking, Bo said, ‘Yes, but you don’t have to tell those players that you’re leaving.’ That, I think, is an example of great character in a coach.” Little Nicky solved the problem by refusing to look his players in the eye and tell them. Miami Dolphins: You just unloaded a coach who lacks character, and eventually this will be seen as a huge break for the Dolphins franchise. Replace the weasel with the genuine article — a Shula.

And, so there will be a free reference after the ESPN.com link requires payment, I’ve captured a screenshot.

Leftover thoughts related to the previous post:

• At the time of the collision, I was wearing my sunglasses on my head, as usual. When I got a few items out of my car before I left, I found my sunglasses. Half of one lens was gone, and the frame was bent where the lens was broken. But it wasn’t until I was in the shower at the end of the day that I realized they had not fallen off my head until after they’d broken: in the violence of the collision, my head had hit the doorframe, and the sunglasses had taken the brunt of that impact. I had sustained only a small bruise that I didn’t find until the end of the day.
• Remarkably, I did not receive a ticket. I was certain I would be ticketed for my role in the mess (I was, after all, the one who started the mess), but to my great surprise, I left without a ticket. It still went on my record as an incident caused by my negligence (which got me some unwanted attention from the Secretary of State), but I received no ticket, and thus had no more points added to my driving record.
• When I started walking with the police officer, I realized my limp might make her wonder if I was injured from the collision. My knee and chest were sore, but I thought emergency crews might have more serious issues on their hands, so I told the officer (and, as the morning progressed, others who saw me walk) my limp existed long before that morning. Despite my continuing (and escalating, a bit, probably as my adrenaline subsided) soreness, I never did seek medical attention.
• After I returned home, I began to wonder if I should have sought attention; I was confident my knee was only badly bruised, but I began to suspect that I had suffered a cracked sternum. I had to restrict my use of my arms (for example, I could not push myself up off the couch) because the wrong actions resulted in sharp pains in my sternum. But eventually, everything healed.
• I am now loath to drive in potentially hazardous situations, but in all but the worst cases I still do — just slowly and carefully.
• My willingness to drive in unpleasant weather was tested yesterday, of all days. I drove to South Bend to attend a Notre Dame hockey game; when I was ready to leave, a wet snow was falling and temperatures were hovering just above freezing. I was not excited about driving home in such conditions exactly one year after I wrecked my car on an icy road, but I did. To my relief, the roads were only wet — not icy. Still, I voluntarily drove ten miles per hour below the speed limit on a nearly empty highway. (I thought it would be at least another fifty years before that happened.)
• Every once in a while, my mind replays the sights and sounds (but mostly the sounds) of the truck hitting my car. It’s very vivid. Fortunately, it doesn’t happen too often anymore.
• Perhaps for that reason, the latest round of Volkswagen commercials are hard for me to watch. If you haven’t seen them, the commercials feature a relatively mundane scene of someone driving a car (one features two friends bantering; another features a mom with a young child in the back seat). After the commercials relax you with what seems to be a normal everyday scene, another vehicle collides with the car. The collisions are not just minor fender-benders; they are unexpected, fast and hard — and a bit too realistic for me. The first time I saw one of those commercials, I reacted physically to the collision. They’re easier to watch now that I know what’s coming, but I still don’t like them.
• A few days before Christmas, I was driving through the parking lot of a Kroger in Ann Arbor, and I saw an Ann Arbor firefighter ringing a bell and standing next to a red kettle. I wasn’t shopping at Kroger that day, but I stopped anyway; after I put some money in the kettle, I spoke to the firefighter for a few minutes. I told him what had compelled me to stop, and I thanked him for his work as a firefighter. It was a brief conversation, but when I returned to my car, I was surprised at the emotion I felt, even nearly a year after the fact.
• Schnearle-Pennywitt’s former workplace, Fire Station #3, has been named in her honor.

We travelers, walking to the sun, can’t see
Ahead, but looking back the very light
That blinded us shows us the way we came,
Along which blessings now appear, risen
As if from sightlessness to sight, and we,
By blessing brightly lit, keep going toward
That blessed light that yet to us is dark.

-Wendell Berry
from Given: new poems