Because I am a TOTAL IDIOT

. . . I forgot to include the URLs for the Premium sites in all the emails I spent Sunday night sending you. It’s the little details that trip you up. Well, you’ll find them at the end of this post. I thought I had this year’s roll-out down cold, perfect. Really. Gah. I need STAFF! I need PEOPLE!

Is this a small woman or a big puppy?

And how many people find themselves lint-free, but wishing they were also fabulous?

It’s an ad in the Sunday glossy ad insert, also known as “The Thing That Keeps Newspapers Alive.” I love that section, even though I don’t clip many coupons. It’s a glimpse into modern food advertising, and if you don’t read the domestic mags aimed at Moms and such, you have no idea what trends are wafting through the modern world of easily-prepared foodstuffs. This week’s edition was mostly Superbowl-themed, with constant references to “The Game.” Lots of ideas for treats and snacks to be consumed during “The Game.” Who makes them? Most guys don’t read the glossy coupon section; football isn’t a big deal for the section’s target demo, so you can only conclude there are women who want to try something new to put out when the boys come over for The Game. I’ve been to a few communal Game-observation ceremonies; I remember nothing but Doritos and various dips. That’s all you need. You could just put out Dip and guys would eat it. No spoons? They’ll use the broad end of their keys.

Still cold. Two above. That’s to be expected; it’s January. I’m still not wearing a hat or gloves, because I’m stupid, I suppose. But really, the walk from car to Target isn’t exactly a trek from the point where my ship was crushed by ice to the pole where I will plant a flag and bury my log so future explorers can read of my journey, realize I was here first, then agree amongst themselves to burn it so they get all the credit for being the first to reach the pole. It’s not like that at all. Saturday errands were conducted with unusual speed, though; the faster I got home, the better. Because there were computer things to do!

About which: all the new premium sites are up and running. This was my task this weekend, in addition to ramping up some new sites and adding stuff to old ones. As the week goes by you’ll see what’s new – two new free sites that should run for a while, and some updates to old favorites. Well, they’re my favorites.

I believe I’ve sent out all the emails with the passwords, and if I made a few mistakes or dropped some it’s because A) it’s a grindingly monotonous job, and B) I was watching “Get Smart” at the time. The very first episode. I like the ones where Maxwell Smart is actually halfway competent. It was one of the first shows I remember watching, and I know where and when: the TV was in the kitchen by the dining room table, and we would watch it on Saturday, eating Pinky’s Pizza. This was a Fargo-fave frozen pizza, and the little pepperonis turned up into cups that held a thumbleful of grease. Yum. That was the only pizza we had, because Shakey’s hadn’t come to town -

You did read my Friday column in the paper on Shakey’s? No? Tsk. One thing I didn’t know until I did research, i.e. read the wikipedia bio: the chain was named for the owner’s physical infirmity. He contracted malaria during WW2, and it left him with a tremor, so those wacky shipmates started calling him “Shakey.” Really. Before Shakey’s we had only Pinky’s and Broadway Pizza, unless you wanted to make your own with a Kraft kit. Then came Shakey’s, with the dark tables and dark room and ghostly player piano, the plaques on the wall boasting of certain Shakey virtues you could not quite understand. But they had a secret ingredient – salt! also oregeno, about which we only heard rumors from traders who passed through on their way back from Cathay – and it was hot and crispy, and yeah, it changed our lives. Then Pizza Hut came, and we truly joined the modern world.

This is the Fargo Shakey’s today.

Anyway: I remember sitting at the dinner table, eating pizza, watching Get Smart. Was about ten or so, maybe nine. These things depress a parent unutterably, because you think of the rich parade of daily life, and wonder if that’s what your child takes away.

Friday night, oh, around 2 AM, I was finished with the TV I’d attempted to watch (for some reason I started “Descent 2,” because I’d seen “Descent,” and then I realized there are no civil or moral obligations to watch a sequel to a movie you didn’t like in the first place) and I was plocking about for something else. I say “plocking” because that’s the sound the AppleTV makes when you go from one item to the other on Netflix. And now I will never say it again, because .0002% of the audience has an AppleTV. Recommended for You! Who, li’l ole me? Shucks. Since daughter had watched some kids’ shows, Netflix wondered if I might want to watch Veggie Tales.

Actually . . . no. Then again: sure. Just to hear the theme again. Just to remember what it was like when she was, oh, three. When the playlist on the CD player had to have “Song of the Cebu” and the “Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything.” Watched a little. Remembered reading the long, long story by the creator, detailing the studio’s implosion. Remembered watching previews for “3 2 1 Penguins,” wondering “hmm. Hope they have a toy tie-in.” Then it passed; the tapes went to the thrift store, although the songs never left the iTunes playlist, in case I want to torment Gnat with the tastes of her youth. Turned off the TV, then sat in the dark for a few minutes. It was about 2:15. There’s nothing to be done at 2:15. You could sit there and stare at the fire for a while, but no good comes of that. So you get up and turn off all the lights and that’s it for the day, just as that was “it” for the year when you could expect to feed a Veggie Tales tape to the machine after supper.

But. I still feel the wind at my back, not in my face. Worst days, it’s blowing sideways, which can help you tack in new directions.

This year, I’ve decided, is the Fiction Year. I thought last year was the Fiction Year, but I stalled, partly because I hit a point in the novel where it seemed inauthentic and contrived and oh-who-cares. It’s not fatal; I’m still working on that, but the Valli Novel, the waiter novel, oh, it sings. One of the reasons I didn’t watch a movie this weekend – aside from the movies I watched to generate site content – was because I’d head downstairs, eye the laptop, think: just a little, then write for an hour.

Anyway. Whether it’s an ebook or a real book, I don’t know, but it has that “restaurant” theme that seems to be popular these days. No title, though. Maybe “Irony Chef” would work? No?

Today: Matchbook Museum. Check your mailbox for codes, and give me a few days to get them all out. Thanks! Believe me, thanks. You’ve made the 2011 subscription drive a success, but of course there’s still time.

For subscribers:

Something about this in BleatPlus:

A collection of 1933 Hollywood Starlet Recipes with a surprisingly gratifying conclusion. Remember, if you think we’re getting all high-hat here with premium content, BleatPlus is available for any contribution. As little or as much as you like.

The return of Joe Ohio. Fifty-two chapters, accessible week by week, at the $25 dollar level. Or you can wait until next year.

In Ultra-Bleat, a brief video about a singing toilet that is not intended to be representative of the videos to come. Really.

So, here’s the URLS:

BASIC: http://www.lileks.com/bleatpls11

MEDIUM: Basic, plus, http://lileks.com/joeohio57

ULTRA: all of the above, plus http://lileks.com/ultrableat

If I had staff this would be so much easier. Everything’s easier when you have staff.