The City's Father

Detroit voters on Nov. 8 will re-elect elect a too-young-for-the-job mayor after one term who treated his first term the way Al Pacino’s character treated that big pile of blow at the end of “Scarface”or they will vote into office an equally unimaginative, bootless dope. Whether you (and that’s “you,” not “you’re” for a reason yo) down for Kwam or Freman Hendrix — and all due respect to Mugs’ Uncle Jerry— here’s a little nod to perhaps the most memorable mayor of Detroit, Coleman A. Young.

And here are some nuggets I pinched from one of my favorite books “The Quotations of Mayor Coleman A. Young.”

ON BEING GREETED BY A CABINET SECRETARY’S UNDERLING WHEN ON A VISIT TO WASHINGTON:
“I didn’t come to see the house nigger, get me the man.”

ON HOW HE FELT AFTER THE FBI HAD BUGGED HIS TOWNHOUSE IN 1981:
“I don’t even go over there, That was a nice place but when those motherfuckers tapped that damn place, it’s almost as if I had been violated. I can’t describe to you how mad that made me, so I know what it is when a sonofabitch violates your privacy.”

ON ANCHORMAN BILL BONDS, AFTER CHANNEL 7 BROADCAST A 60-MINUTE REBUTTAL FOLLOWING THE “PRIME TIME LIVE’ SHOW ON ABC THAT RIPPED DETROIT;
“Being rescued by Billy Bonds is an experience quite new to me. I never know whether he’s the light at the end of the tunnel or the headlight of the locomotive.”

ON CUSSING:
“Swearing is an art form. You can express yourself much more directly, much more exactly, much more succinctly, with properly used curse words.”

ON WHETHER GOV. JAMES BLANCHARD WOULD GROW IN OFFICE AS FORMER GOV. MILLIKEN DID:
“You don’t grow balls. You either got ‘em or you don’t”

Market value

Last Sunday started out innocent enough. We woke up a little cloudy from dinner with friends and walked down to the Oaks for some breakfast before heading to the flea market. I like the market, they always have some interesting shit there. Like these items:

As we walked, Kerry ran into a vendor she knew from Eastern Market, a fella named Roger who had sold to her an array of antiques and vintage furniture when she had her apt. in Grosse Pointe Park. They talked and I couldn’t help but come to admire this antique partners desk. He offered me an incredible price, almost obscenely low, that I could not refuse. It almost didn’t fit down the basement into my office, but I took the top off and Corbett helped me get it down. I give to you, dear beloved readers of the Chicken, the fucking ultimate score:

I’m told this was picked up in some Detroit office building that these types of desks were built mainly in the 1940s. It’s in pretty good shape, save for a few nicks here and there, but it’s pretty solid. I’ve never really owned any type of furniture I would consider to be “significant,” but this is definitely a first.

The Boys

I really do dig this picture of Max checking out the fire truck. Wonderment has quite a look to it.

I also got to spend some quality time with Max’s new baby brother, Sam.

He smells great, he really does.

A great Mitch (RIP) quote

I forgot about this one:
"I got an oscillating fan at my house. The fan goes back and forth. It looks like the fan is saying "NO." So I like to ask it questions that a fan would say "NO" to! Do you keep my hair in place? Do you keep my documents in order? Do you have 3 settings? LIAR! My fan fuckin' lied to me. Now I will pull the pin up. Now you ain't saying shit..."

You want me to do what?

I just saw, literally, the news flash that Rosa Parks died tonight.

The 92-year-old, I’m-staying-right-here-in-my-seat civil rights pioneer (as they call her) passed away in Detroit.

She made Detroit home for I don’t know how many years, like thousands of other southern transplants. I actually sat on that same bus in its exhibit at the Henry Ford Museum (yeah, I think the museum’s new name— The Henry Ford — is really fucking stupid and I’ll never call it that) about three years ago. In a city once one of the crown jewels of the country, it was oddly important to have someone like Parks claim Detroit. In the eyes of the rest of the nation, Detroit lacks in the reputation of many (well, pretty much all) trendy, popular, tourist-friendly major metropolitan American cities. And, unlike Atlanta, Houston, St. Louis, New York or Philadelphia, we not only have a Rosa Parks Boulevard, but we had the gutsy broad herself.

Dinner With Friends II

The second installment of dinner with friends was held this weekend, and amid full bellies and some livers working overtime, I deem the night yet another success. Planning it is half the fun, as we get to think of which groups of our friends will hit it off nicely, or, even better, which groups who would never normally be in the same room together in the first place, would create the most interesting dynamic. All of our friends rock anyway, so you can pretty much plug in seven or eight people together and a good time is all but guaranteed.

And so it was last Saturday when we had the Hauns, the Pardos and Brother Rian over for din-din. We started with some appetizers in the form of Rian’s quesadillas, some brie and crackers, and a rosemary-infused, oven-roasted mixed nuts ensemble.

The main course was especially dandy. The Hauns brought this over

Those bad fuckers are gruyere au gratin potatoes. Yeah, they were as good as they look. We all could have had a plate of that and called it a night. The main entrée was braciole (from “The Sopranos” cookbook), sort of a flat sirloin wrapped meat roll, akin to a form of rouladen.
You pound the flat meat and sprinkle rosemary, chopped garlic and parmesan, roll them up like snausages and tie with kitchen string;

brown them on all sides for about two minutes in a pan with olive oil and chopped garlic, and then put into a pot with about four cans of tomato puree mixed with fresh basil leaves. Those stew for about two hours. Serve with ziti.

We sat down with the braciole, the potatoes, roasted vegetables, some wine and, of course, the sort of keen organic chemistry that comes with a fine meal among great friends.

And what meal would be complete without some dessert?

The Pardos brought the dates, but Steve stole the show with his bet-you-I-can-eat-this-whole-brownie-off-the-plate-with-no-hands-in-one-shot routine.

Which, of course, prompts him to ask “Do I have something stuck in my teeth?”

Again, another successful dinner party with some of the people we care about the most. Kerry and I are lucky in that we could have six or seven people over in this fashion, once a month, and it would take us two years to get through the folks we really admire and respect. It can be a fun challenge coming up with the guest lineup and the menu (big ups to Kerry for taking care of that, and trusting me with the main dish).

They call them "Great" Lakes for a reason

Now, that’s what I call a weekend at the lake. Pete and Heather, whom I’ve come to jointly refer to as Heate, totally set it up, securing Pete’s aunt’s place along Lake Huron in Port Sanilac this weekend. I spent a better part of my childhood and adolescence in a cabin in the woods along a lake (although not a Great lake) and this weekend generated quite a bit of blissful nostalgia for me. Couple that with some excellent company, no real agenda other to eat, drink, loaf and not worry … about … a … fucking … thing and, well, you have the trappings of all that is right in the world. So to start, I give to you, my new favorite cocktail — Heate on the rocks.

We got up there Friday in the evening and set out to chill, taking in this wonderful cedar cabin. It had the craziest shit in it. Clearly overdecorous with all sorts of little trinkets, baubles and bric-a-brac, it was equal parts sincere kitsch and odd comfort. When you enter a cottage in the Midwest and see this

you know, you’ve found an unmistakable uniqueness. That, and the gnome riding the pig (note the ear grab) should serve ample notice.

The coffee looked hella old, too.

Here is some more bomb shit from the place, including this kickass bathroom nightlight

I woke up Saturday morning to this, Kerry on the couch with coffee chilling with Humphrey. You can see the steam rising from the java.

And Humphrey wasn’t the only canine representation. Megan brought Lilly, one of my favorites.

In a scene played out in my childhood about a thousand times, someone was making breakfast in the cottage on a Saturday morning. Granted, it wasn’t my dad’s crepes, but Pete banged out a fucking killer breakfast Saturday and especially Sunday (banana and apple pancakes). Here he is, plying a serious skill

I stepped out into the back yard in the morning to see this

I knew from that point on that the weekend was going to be nice. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones setting up shop here

We screwed around in Lexington for a second when we met Megan and Lilly. Had lunch at this little place and headed back to the lake, where it looked like this

Everyone was starting to relax and couch it, but I had different plans. I figured I was an hour away from Gagetown, where my parents briefly had a house and some property when I was wrapping up high school. Long story, but it stayed in the family long enough for the house to be renovated. I remembered some very scenic roads near the property so I thought I would go check them out. Pete came with, while the ladies stayed back and hung out. I found the road no problem and while it wasn’t exactly as I had recalled, it was still quite a view.

and this was kind of around the corner, so to speak.

And then things got really gross and fucked up. Pete saw these on the side of the road, set back about 30 feet.

Do you know what that is? No, it’s not a rock. It’s a MUSHROOM!! Man, it was so big and nasty it freaked me out completely. Here. Take another look and him and his goddamn friends.

Pete suggested that for comparative purposes, he stand next to one.

I dared him to touch one, but he wouldn’t.

We remembered a little fruit stand on the way there, so we stopped for some apples.

This one operated on the honor system. Take what you want, leave the money in a box.

They had these bad boys, too.

We got back to start on dinner and work on some beers. Pete got the bbq going with some serious skewer action. It ended up looking like this

before we sat down at a fine table to eat

We listened to the Michigan game on the radio (where they won on the final play of the game) before we started boozing it up again and playing Scrabble (Megan won) and then a dominoes-based game of Chicken Foot (Megan won that, too). Everything was nearly perfect for the weekend. We laughed our heads off, and Kerry caught Mugs in mid-chortle here

. We had good, clear skies and perfect fall temps all day and into the night. Speaking of which, the night sky over the lake is beautiful.

I hope to get up there again. If we have half as much fun, it will be a blast.

A day at the Big House

Last Saturday was seemingly the first semblance of fall weather. It was about 59 and partly sunny, with a nice breeze and a little bite in the air, but nothing ridiculous. Kerry hooked me up with four tickets to the Michigan-Minnesota game, which I attended with Case, BCL and D-Wall. It was a perfect day, save for the 23-20 loss. Michigan played like absolute dog shit and deserved to lose. We still, despite them, had a great time.

We pulled in and parked in the back yard of some house on S. Pauline, where we had several beers and a couple of shots of Crown, all before noon. The yard had this scary-looking shed

We wondered what happens behind the red door (this, as opposed to what happens behind the green door; we all know what goes on behind that one). We posited that it was a vortex to a world of evil and left it at that. We got to the stadium, which was packed, as usual.

Made it in time to hang out and watch the team run on to the field.

Despite playing like complete shit, Michigan managed to score on this Mike Hart run.

And that was about it. Field goals, a defensive score and a 95-yard runback by Steve Breaston was the rest of the scoring. But who needs scoring when you have the wonderful people sitting around us? This guy felt the need, whenever Michigan got a first down, to get up and demonstrate using the same gesture the field officials use.

I found him to be unimaginative and dumb. But nobody, and I mean nobody beat this guy

fucking super duper fan. This man was so obnoxious and so hyped up about this game, it was unbearable. We are 68 rows up off the field and he’s yelling his astute coaching observations to Lloyd Carr, despite most of them being a.) inaccurate, and b.) not applicable. Case, about as mild-mannered as they come, got stuck next to this guy for about three-quarters of the game. He would end up describing this man as an “insufferable asshole,” which I think sums it up perfectly. Here’s super duper fan at the end of the game.

Good. I hope it hurts. It’s only a college football game, man. Get over it. Now, I’m not here to solely pick on people, although it can be fun if you’re like me, and you laugh at yourself first, others secondly. I was in line to use the restroom, I look to my left and I see this monstrosity.

Now, I’m no fashion plate. I dress for comfort exclusively. And I couldn’t farm a head of hair like this if I had to, but this guy looks like a fucking idiot if you ask me. He actually dressed himself before he left the house. And what’s worse, what’s really disturbing is that at one point, he was in a store somewhere and that coat caught his eye. And he tried it on. And it felt good. And he very well may have thought “Man, this duster looks great! I’m like a fucking cowboy or some shit!”

It was still a fun afternoon on a beautiful fall day with some real friends whose company I always enjoy. BCL gets the sums-it-up-perfectly award for the day.