Jonathan's reportedly now back in the States for a bit*, but we did get more of his first-person before he left the island. Above, via Vivi, Katz shows the wrecked AP house. Elsewhere, he talked to On the Media.

Related, Katz's dad spoke to DailyFinance, and fellow Daily alum Sam Eifling, who visited Katz last year, wrote about the Haiti reporting in the CJR: "For once, it seems that journalists are bristling on behalf of Haiti, a place usually painted by wariness and fear and resigned pity. Haitians themselves may be getting something like good press, no small development for the most maligned people in the hemisphere."

*If you're not aware of the way things work or you're inclined to hate news media, no, the AP hasn't stopped on Haiti. It's standard to rotate reporters through super-intense, 24/7 news situations, as you would teams of rescue workers, for their care and ability to go long-term.

Update: Was about to publish when I learned friend Sameer had been in Haiti after the quake. Here are two good photos copied from Fb, and the Muslim Media Network has a post about his team's work there.

The Islamic Medical Association of North America (IMANA) said today that it has helped convert the “Bojeux Parc” amusement park in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, to a health care facility. The facility is being operated through a partnership between IMANA, Comprehensive Disaster Response Services (CDRS) and AIMER Haiti volunteers.

…

“On day one, an air hockey table doubled as a procedure table. Now, with our partners, we are providing services from pediatricians, obstetricians, emergency doctors, and surgeons to at least 100 patients a day. We are hoping to arrange equipment that would allow our surgeons to go from performing simple procedures to running a full mobile operating room,” said Dr. Sameer Gafoor, a volunteer physician in Port-au-Prince. Gafoor is a cardiologist at the Washington Hospital Center in Washington, D.C.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blizzard…

Rocket Love, from Stevie Wonder's 1980 Hotter than July album. Sweat! "You took me riding in your rocket, gave me a star, but at a half a mile from heaven, you dropped me back down to this cold, cold world…"

The Harder They Come, Jimmy Cliff, for warmth and justice. "So as sure as the sun will shine, I'm gonna get my share now of what's mine…"

Lovers in the Cold, Springsteen Born to Run outtake. "Tonight we're lovers on that road, oh-oh-oh, running past the graveyards in the snow, oh-oh-oh, walking in the street with nowhere to go, oh-oh-oh…"

Mid-week snowfall. So much snow on the trees! So little on the roads!

The morning after the storm, we could each travel where we wished!

We could even think of stopping at the Key Bridge's new crepe cart!

The sky was gray but was not falling, and the world was open to us. 

The world was peaceful before the snowstorm at the end of the world.

It's been a wild month for the G-spot. Or haven't you been keeping up with your science news? I know what you're saying, "Isn't every month wild for the G-spot?" But this month was different — and scientific. The British disproved the spot. Then the French proved it again. Traditional media had the duty to cover the news. Now, your top three coverages:

3. From the Guardian (the story was big for the British, under the hed, "French hit back after British attack on G-spot touches nerve"):

There are a handful of subjects — among them cricket, the weather and the art of downing pints through a funnel — on which the French deign to allow the English a degree of authority. Sex, however, is not one of them.

2. From the Independent (under the hed, "Yes, Yes, Yes, No, Yes!"):

Some British women find it dispiriting to be told about the non-existence of the G-spot; but still more are disappointed to hear all these French women bragging about having them while we, instead, have fluoridisation and proper tea. "Weeth zees long 'olidays we 'ave plenty of time for ze looking," they seem to be saying. "We 'ave it, ze G-spot. It ees 'ere!" Yet others are murmuring that it seems a peculiar preoccupation of (mostly male) research scientists to want to find something that many rational people are certain isn't there. South Americans have El Dorado. The French have their G-spot. We have the Loch Ness monster. Each to his (or her) own.

1. From The Washington Post (thank you, Style section, under the hed, "New research snub of G spot leaves many hot and bothered"):

Thirty years and about 200 Amazon.com how-to guides later, the G spot remains an elusive Snuffleupagus of sex studies: utterly real to some women, a baffling, shame-inducing fantasy to others. Every few years, another study comes out saying that it's been found or it hasn't, and either way some portion of the female population is left feeling, somehow, wrong. (Question: Why is every news article about these studies accompanied by a photo of Meg Ryan's fauxgasm scene in "When Harry Met Sally"? Centuries from now, archaeologists will infer that we copulated only fully clothed in delis.)

The Telegraph is guilty.

This picture of Audrey Hepburn, via West Whim, origin unknown.

This essay, "Thin mints and fungo bats" from Chris Erskine in the LAT.

Speaking of which, this is the year we move the bed. I'm tired of the bed facing east and want to swing it around facing north — toward Anchorage, the city of my destiny. I'm pretty sure I devoured too much Jack London as a kid, and the little guy is now following in my eye steps, falling asleep on my shoulder as I read him "White Fang" each night.

Anchorage is in our future, I just have a feeling. I think we'd like it up there. Posh would go bananas, but that seems inevitable in a life with me. To soften the transition, I'd buy her a snazzy snowmobile and a gold-mining pan. I'd name a typeface after her: Posh Courier Condensed. I'd write her dirty limericks that don't quite rhyme. I'd run her for governor.

And this winery calendar that includes a croquet contest.

I know what you're thinking. A huge pizza chain completely redoing its pizza is pretty ballsy, if not certifiably insane. Do you believe the hype?

Desair and I had been weighing the call in the back of an auditorium presentation a few weeks ago, and we both decided it was worth the risk. I didn't think too well of the pizza chain. I grew up in a Dominos house, but that was during a difficult pizza time in my life. Coming out of that period, all I remembered of the taste was the cardboard. The taste was likely better than cardboard, but that's all I remembered.

College brought Giordano's majesty down the street — the half-price Mondays — and a pretty girl and late-nite newsroom staff that loved Papa John's. Later in Virginia, I fell for my area/mini-chains: the decent-disappointing Flaming Radish, the decent Listrani's until it opened the abusive comedy club and the pricey-but-kept-my-orders-on-file Piola.

This fall, I went back to the bigger chains. Ledo's had square pies and no delivery but was stumbling distance in the snow. Papa John's was exactly as I remembered it, and a coupon code somehow got the best deal and triggered a nonprofit donation. To say nothing of Web orders.

So, when Dominos came out with the new recipe, I was ready. Friend Jen and I ordered it last week — I introduced her to Fletch, Oscars be damned, the greatest investigative journalism movie of all time — and the new Dominos pizza… drumroll… was a winner. It was multiple times better than the previous recipe. How to describe the new taste?

I hate to describe one chain in another's terms, as that's unjust, but new Dominos simply can't be described by the old Dominos. The new Dominos is Papa John's pizza meets Papa John's garlic breadsticks.

The garlic friendliness and the cheese upgrade are the most prominent parts of the new taste, and the pizza is more substantial, messy and satisfying as a result. I knocked off most of a medium without effort. By the end, my paper-towel napkin was drenched with garlic butter. With one pie, Dominos redeemed itself and rejoined the possible-order list. Was it better than Papa John's? Ah, further comparison was needed.

I blame my new glasses. They look fine. The Lenscrafters lady liked my choice. And as I left the mall, a woman smiled at me. Was she smiling at the dressed-up, spectacled man dipping his Auntie Anne's pretzel in nacho cheese as he walked through Nordstorm's? Probably. But still.

I blame the new glasses for everything going wrong in recent weeks.

Let me be clear: Work things have remained on track. We've hit every mess of obstacle that can be thrown at us, and we've not only had a cowcatcher on the front of our freight train, but we've then balanced on that cowcatcher as the train rolled through meadows at a mighty rumble and personally scooped up obstacles in our arms and thrown them out of the way, just for the pure, decent satisfaction of doing so.

No, life stuff. Life has been off by two inches. See, the frames changed, but the prescription changed too. The glasses had always worked for distance. I wore them in college in giant lecture halls and wore them since when driving in the dark. Most people describe this kind of driving as night driving, but people who have worked overnight shifts or who spent years working pre-dawn shifts would like to educate you.

Anyway, the eye doctor added another part. For close-up vision, he tweaked something. I don't know what. He said the name at the time, but I'm no eye doctor. Not a licensed one at least, not since the trial.

Whatever he tweaked, I sat in his offices last spring with the wacky eye-doctor lenses on and looked at the floor. It was a fun-house floor. Wood panels were fatter and closer than they used to be. But also more clear. Far more clear. It was a weird, weird improvement.

When you think you've got your eyes figured out — bad at distances and darkness — and you find the close-up view was skewed without your knowing, it throws you. I wore the new glasses everywhere a couple weeks ago after finally getting them. Who knew the people at the other end of the conference room had been so blurry? Who knew the room's screen three yards away had been so hard to read? Too close still existed — the lenses came on too strong sitting close to the laptop screen. But even reading was somehow better. Who knew?

But there was a price. I felt more removed. Drastically more removed.

Eyes have always been so important to me, for connection and trust, and glasses left me a step removed. Glasses with the world were fine, with driving were fine, but with another person, there was something now in between me and that person. The glasses changed how I approached people, how I spoke to them, how I read reactions. The overall was bad. Seeing more, I found myself taking too much away. It's weird to say this, I know, but there was more hope in the blurry.

The other thing was I was off by two inches. One inch sometimes but usually two inches. At the new, adjusted close range, I reached for door handles and missed. I swung badges at parking lot entries and got unexpectedly close. I had to be careful driving into garages, and I watched my feet going up and down stairs. They were dangerous.

So, for tonight, I'm going with that as metaphor. For the professional opportunity that barely slips away, for the pretty girl who leaves me tongue-tied, for the plan that could work if one thing changed, for the dream that could live if one hope came true, we're just two inches off.

I played the stereo loud in the car tonight. I played it lung-rattling-ly loud. It turned out that New Radicals song took on elevated meaning at elevated volume. How many times had I heard that damn song? But better at massive volume, "Don't let go, you've got the music in you, one dance left, this world is gonna pull through, don't give up, you've got a reason to live, you've got the music in you." You're reading the lyrics now and not appreciating them, but I promise you, download music and find the YouTube and turn them up louder than you would.

Two inches one way is the issue. The good thing is it's only two inches back the other way. You grab onto the next opportunity before it slips. You find the right words for that girl. Or you just come up with the right word for her eyes, and you fall asleep. You tweak the plan so it works. You believe in the dream until it has no choice but to live. Then it thrills.

Because we were so bad at it? Discovered in a 1998 e-mail thread:

Pardon me while I vent. I know I keep saying I love American Lit and especially my discussion, but today I couldn't stand it! It was like everything bad in that class summed up in fifty minutes. We did a close reading of a passage from Frederick Douglass. First of all, a close reading has to be the dumbest form of literary analysis ever to be invented by mankind. Gee, let's go through and analyize every sentence and every possibly meaning it could have. While we're imposing all of our views on the text, why don't we just put our names next to F. Douglass? And, hey, a nice-sounding answer must be a right answer. Come on, folks, can't we all not get along every once in a while?

The class is so touchy-feely; it's sick. And the TA and professor go right along with it. If Holden Caufield was in the class, he'd be smackin these people upside their heads with one of those frozen ducks….

And Lindsay's reply. How we ever ended up blogging, close-reading the Internet, I have no idea. At least, while dumb, we were amused.

To beat someone upside the head with a frozen duck would, in my opinion, be among the most unconventional ways I've ever heard of to make a point.  But I like it.

I know what you mean about close readings.  I asked about them once in sixth grade and was told to be quiet.  Later, as my teachers got smarter as the grades went higher, i was told that it doesn't matter what the author intended, the work is independent.  Whatever.

I say go for the frozen duck!

Glad to hear from people through different channels how much they liked the story + existence of the red hat. Following up, thought you'd enjoy seeing it, at right. My dad took my post as a challenge and apparently found the hat in the family house within two minutes. Like father, like son.

And my mom e-mailed detail on the hat's origin. She bought the hat for a sorority rush party where you dressed as your favorite lit character. Continuing her streak of confronting the status quo with Catcher, after previously earning a high school nun's ire for listing the book one fall among her summer reading, she was the only one dressed as Holden.

A few other Salinger-related things I liked running across last week:

-Jody Rosen's favorite Salinger passage, about marbles at dusk.

One late afternoon, at that faintly soupy quarter of an hour in New York when the street lights have just been turned on and the parking lights of cars are just getting turned on—some on, some still off—I was playing curb marbles with a boy named Ira Yankauer, on the farther side of the side street just opposite the canvas canopy of our apartment house. I was eight. I was using Seymour's technique, or trying to—his side flick, his way of widely curving his marble at the other guy's—and I was losing steadily. Steadily but painlessly. For it was the time of day when New York City boys are much like Tiffin, Ohio, boys who hear a distant train whistle just as the last cow is being driven into the barn. At that magic quarter hour, if you lose marbles, you lose just marbles.

-The Onion's pitch-perfect "Bunch Of Phonies Mourn J.D. Salinger."

-The Rutland Herald, Salinger's local paper, writing about how everyone liked misdirecting people hunting him. Touching stories, too, from all over town. (This story is better than the NYT's follow-up version.)

-The Impossible Cool, just quoting: "An artist’s only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s."

-Joyce Maynard's "An 18-Year-Old Looks Back On Life," especially after Lindsay reminded me Maynard was her friend Joyce from Guateamala. Wildly precocious power, for her generation but also those to come.

-Among the great number of Salinger status updates and tweets last week, I don't know if I can name a favorite. But it's hard to remember deaths in recent years beyond Salinger's and Michael Jackson's that inspired such broad art-based response. Gawker compiles some.

-And Henry Allen's lede, earning him rights to punch a few more folks.

At the end, with J.D. Salinger dead at 91, we have no memories of him.

That is to say, we have no cranky anecdotes about thrown drinks, no second cousins who once stood next to him at a roulette table, no paparazzi pictures of him with his long face and solemn eyes staring with predatory kindness at some starlet in Malibu (careful not to look at her breasts, of course).

He was a sort of saint to his upscale readers, a foe of the cruel and the vulgar, a practitioner of Zen Buddhism, it was said, a man who in his writing found his masculinity in sensitivity and self-deprecation.