Mitch (and that not bitch-made chump Albom, either)

This is an excerpt from the blog of writer Peter Hyman. He has an article in the January Spin that discusses a bit of Mitch Hedberg. This is from his personal Web site. It ends with a classic Mitch quote.


The Death of Mitch Hedberg: An Attempt At Some Insights

In the issue of Spin magazine that came out this week, I have a piece entitled "alt comedy goes rock and roll." It's a trend story on the convergence of comedy and rock and roll, and it looks at a number of comics who embody this spirit. One comedian who did was the late, great Mitch Hedberg, who died on March 29, 2005, in a hotel room in Livingston, New Jersey (nearly all of the original obits had this wrong, reporting his death as being on March 30th, due to an initial discrepency over the time of death; some continue to misreport the facts; others have the story right).

The article I had originally intended to write was a profile on Hedberg, and an examination of his life and perplexing death. For a variety of reasons, that piece grew into the article that ran instead. But as a result of my initial reporting, I uncovered the autopsy and toxicology reports, which were completed in early May by the State of New Jersey. Under the state's Open Public Records Act (OPRA), I filed a request for information with appropriate governmental agencies. Several weeks later I received the reports.

Sadly, they confirm what many suspected all along: That Hedberg died of "accidental" causes (as opposed to natural causes, as was originally reported). The cause of death was listed as "multiple drug toxicity," including cocaine and heroin. The autopsy is simply a statement of facts. It does not detail how or when or in what precise manner the items found in his bloodstream killed Hedberg. Nor do they account for how or in what capacity his heart condition (called peripheral pulmonary stenosis) may have impacted him, if at all. At least one doctor that I spoke to said the condition likely had nothing to do with it. Again, I am not making a claim either way. Nor do I know precisely what Hedberg was doing that night.
In fact, I was so resistent of making a judgment that at no point in the article is the word "overdose" used. That term has come via the Associated Press (and various others who picked up the AP story) coverage that picked up on my reporting.

As many of his friends and loved ones have said, how he died is less important than the fact that he was taken early, and that the loss is tragic. As a fan and an appreciator of his particular brand of genius, I agree with this. However, as a journalist reporting on a public figure, I do feel that the information reported in the article is both justified and relevant. I am sorry that the truth turned out to be what it did, especially for his family. I interviewed his parents for the original article, and they are kind, warm people. Sadly, Hedberg was planning to get help after the tour he was then on, according to what his mother told me. But taking a break proved difficult for him. As his fans well know, he toured non-stop, mainly because he wanted to constantly deliver for them. Like a spinning top, his existence seemed rooted in perpetual motion. Come to rest too long, and the laughter might stop.

Nearly everybody I spoke to about Hedberg suggested that he lived his life to the fullest, and was aware of the consequences of his actions. Despite what was clearly a dark habit, he seemed full of lightness and altruism, and tales of his generosity to fans and other comics are legion. Far from having any sort of death wish, he seemed instead to have a 'life wish.'

As many seemed to believe, he simply pushed life too far.

I do hope that the news does not serve as an "I told you so" for many who wanted to reduce Hedberg and his act to stoner babble (or whatever other stereotype people applied). That would be an unfortunate legacy for man who was so gifted, so unique and who, by all accounts of those I interviewed, was a truly kindhearted person (rare in everyday life; rarer still in the world of entertainment).

As for reasons why, perhaps Hedberg himself said it best: "I'm tired of chasing my dreams. I'm just gonna find out where they're going and hook up with them later."

I have a great appreciation for Mr. Hyman's words here. For a lot of people who didn't know or dig Mitch's work, say, some bored 50-year-old housewife in Indiana, it might look like "oh well, just another junkie dead." Which I guess is true to a point. But I'd like to think that that guy at least gave something in return. He made people laugh and, more importantly, THINK about what they were laughing at. Clearly, he liked to shoot heroin. And coke. At least he wasn't some shithead punker kid, or some fucking derelict crackhead, or worse, some Jager-guzzling, supersuburban sports bar caveman who never let go of the "the frat," some dildo with NO REDEEMING SOCIAL VALUE WHATSOEVER. Yeah, he looked and spoke like he was stoned all of the time, and he wore jean jackets and had kind of scraggly hair and he looked like the kind of guy who would glady front you an ounce. But he was 10 times funnier than fucking Jerry Seinfeld. Recognize.

It IS the most wonderful time of the year

We made it through the holidays pretty much unscathed. I love Christmas and New Year. I mean, I really get into the holidays, probably more than people who really know me would even believe. Most of that has to do with my parents. We always had great Christmases growing up. Frank and I would get up on the 25th and haul ass downstairs and it seemed like that tree was a twig in the background compared to this sea of wrapped gifts. And we always got good and cool shit, too — great toys, bikes, all sorts of fun stuff. But the vibe was always festive and positive in our house around the holidays. Now, as an adult, I fully understand the overtime my dad had to put in or the budget watching my mom had to do, and the shopping and the wrapping and man, the fucking money — that, amid bills, two mortgages, two car payments, groceries for two boys (myself especially) who could eat a grocery store’s aisle worth of food for lunch alone. My folks did it top-shelf at the holidays, on the salaries of a plumber and a nurse. Unreal. When/if I have kids, if I crush half as hard as my parents, I’d be a superstar. So yeah, the holidays rule. I love them. And the rest of that is because I get to see good friends and family, and those I can’t see and those not with us, I keep close to my soul, and their love warms a little stronger this time of the year.

I got a fantastic fucking package from Dirty Jase. Again, he outdid himself. A stack of CDs (including Parliament), a huge pile of stickers, a couple of kickass magazines, this little battery operated Buddha Box thing that plays these weird meditative frequency tones, and a bunch of other rad shit. I was definitely thinking of him xmas eve, along with Tom and Jerry, and Trace, and especially Bear (who, by the way, recently earned his PGA pro status; nice work; talk about seeing a dream through from the time you were, like, 7). And Jeff Weller. All people around the country that I get to see once yearly if I’m lucky (except for Bear, haven’t seen him in many moons). But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about them with great respect and admiration, probably more than they would know. And the people I never get to see, like Benny T. and Rich Rezler (although that’s my fault; I know, I know). And fine folks like my e-mail pal Amy Davis, who knows me by now almost as well as people I see frequently. She has a great story and is someone for whom I have a lot of respect. She took herself out of an unsightly situation with a warped husband, got her shit together and moved the fuck on. She lives up north in a better life with a stronger, smarter husband and a teenage son (and the crazy shit that comes with THAT; yeesh, I can’t even imagine).

We kicked off the holidays right, meeting up with Nicki and BCL

at this bar at the end of our street, which is actually a great little place

cash only, two booths, two beers on tap, fried bologna sandwiches from the grill. Got up Saturday and picked up one last-minute gift and went to Kerry’s parents’ in Livonia, hung out there for a few hours, fucking CHOWED hard, opened gifts (thanks to Kerry’s mom for the lovely watch, a timepiece affixed to my wrist as I write) and watched some sports. We left there at 4 to head to my dad’s up north (two-hour drive) where we ate a little and opened more gifts. Got to spend some quality time with my nephews Sam, Nick and Al (love those boys, I swear) and my niece Nicole, arguably the cutest little girl ever. We headed back home by around 11 p.m. on the 24th, lit up the fireplace and took it easy. The 25th was a snap. Up for breakfast and then headed to Mexicantown. It was a dreary-looking, rainy day and I think these shots reflect that. Otherwise, Mexicantown is a great, vibrant, colorful part of the city and I hope to do it justice at City Chicken one day soon.

We were there to go to Christmas Mass at St. Anne’s Church. I’m not exactly a churchy kind of guy. Actually, Kerry and I both think organized religion is for the fucking birds. And technically, I’m considerably more passionate about it than that, but I’ll leave well enough alone right now. But I do love beautifully historic and ornate churches. And I love religious artifacts and depictions. I just think the Bible is full of shit. And anyone who bases their life on it, I think, is also full of shit. Having said that, I do believe in God, but I also believe it’s my right to keep it deeply personal, We get to St. Anne’s, which is positively stunning, I mean it’s something to see in there.

Sadly, my batteries died in my camera and I was limited to only a few shots.

We tried to go to National Coney Island downtown (a Burke family tradition; St. Anne’s and then National), but it was closed. American Coney was open, but fuck that place. National rules. I allow myself one coney a year and I was looking forward to it, but no luck. We went to her parents’ again for a quick visit and then home for Chinese takeout and a nap. Hells yes, Merry Christmas.

Baby steps

Since most people see Detroit as the armpit of the Midwest (but it’s OUR armpit fuckers!) , I found it somewhat refreshing to see some folks in the know saying good things about the city’s revitalization efforts, specifically
downtown’s Campus Martius.

... in the middle of our street ...

We closed on the house Friday. It was quite an event. Kerry really made all of the moves on this place and while it’s technically her buy, in her name, we’ve agreed that it’s definitely “our house.” Joint ownership of a home, especially before we get married, just did not seem like a smart idea. She found this place (with Chris Walny’s help) and jumped on it. It’s a nice house and we look forward to filling it full of love and good times, not just from us, but from our beloved friends and family who help make that happen. You know who you are.

The closing was Friday afternoon, so we celebrated with a dinner at the Redcoat Tavern and a small night on the town, then to the new house to get blasted on champagne and Molson, while going from room to room thinking out loud about future projects and what we want to do with the place. Speaking of which, this is the street we’re on. It’s a nice street.

One of the main reasons she bought this house was for the street and the $850,000 mansions they’re building at the end of it. Interestingly enough, it’s one block away from my first apartment of my first move from home back in 1990. This is the front of the place, dig that front porch. I see me and Corbett out there in the summer with the Tiger game on the radio, for sure.

Head in the front door and you see this right away

and if you turn around and look up, you see this interesting-looking space about 12 feet up

It looks like they knocked out the floor up above to create this insanely high-ceilinged living room. So, when you go upstairs to the finished attic, which is kind of like a small loft space (which we expect to use for her office/spare bedroom)

you see this. If you keep walking toward that railing and look over, you see this

which is the fireplace, the living room and the front door. It’s a pretty unique layout, to say the least. The dining room is sharp

and leads to a kitchen with new appliances and a great feel. You can’t see it here, but the ceiling is this exposed lathe wood and creates this sort of cottage/cabin-y feel to the place.

The bathroom is incredibly spotless, with all new updates, which is good. Nobody likes a nasty bathroom.

It was listed as a three-bedroom (it was also listed as a tear-down, which makes no sense), but the third bedroom is really that loft space upstairs. This is the second bedroom which will be my office and sort of a runoff room for any other shit we need to put in there. Those stairs lead upstairs to the work space/extra bedroom

This is the view leading up from the basement, which is kind of a bummer.

That is the door to the back yard right there on the left. I’m a funny guy who likes to mess around and say silly things, but I’m as serious as a stroke when I say this: See that door? That door is symbolic. It represents the end of the motherfuckin’ line for anyone who tries to come through it unwelcomed or with ill intentions. I will fucking end anyone who tries to break that plane with evil in mind. Goes for the front door and the windows too, in case you were curious.

The basement is huge, it runs the length of the house, but the ceilings are so low you have to bend your head down a little, so no more man cave. It’s no big though, I mourned that a while ago. I still have my office and that’s where I do my best work.

Outside of that office space on the main floor is the hallway connecting to the master bedroom. Outside of that room are these cool built-ins

Long-term plans for these include removal, sanding and refinishing. It’s going to be a bitch, but they will look 10 times better.

We move in a couple of days and it will be a while before the cable and Internet gets turned on. At this point, moving five days before xmas, we just want to get in. But we can’t contain our excitement at what Kerry accomplished with making this happen, as well as for what the future holds.

Temple

This is part of an article I did last month on the tours of the Masonic Temple, along with some photos of the place.

While some of the magnificent skyscrapers that dot the Detroit skyline get all of the credit, one of the city's most captivating, beautifully designed structures sits a few blocks north at the corner of Second and Temple. And it's a little-known secret that its hallowed halls are open to the public for tours that will leave visitors agape and awestruck.

The Masonic Temple, while pretty high at 14 stories and eye-catching with its Gothic Revival architecture, is, on the inside, a leviathan of ornate design and regal decorative schemes. The tours, set up by appointment for groups both big and small, illustrate an almost magical beauty to this enormous and sometimes mysterious building.

The Masonic's size alone paints a pretty vivid picture of the scope of this Detroit giant. The building is about 600,000 square feet of usable floor space in — get this — its 1,037 rooms. It houses theaters, cathedrals, elegant and enormous ballrooms, public halls (some of them with a capacity for 5,000 people), dinner rooms, recreation rooms and myriad of units, hallways and rooms.

Masonic Temple docent John Snider conducts the tours and he does so with a passion and knowledge befitting such an intense and commanding structure. He said the building's rooms are so great in number it's hard to keep track of them.

"I haven't even seen them all," Snider said. "Every week I find something new. Last week, I found a dumbwaiter shaft I never knew existed. There are no existing plans for the building. It's like an onion. You keep peeling back layers and it's just these ornate forms of architecture and design."

The Masonic tours provide visitors an opportunity to explore one of the most magnificent and architecturally stimulating bodies of work in the world. Brass floors, beautiful parlors with high oak paneling, rooms replicated from ancient Italian castles, rich period furniture, one-of-a-kind fixtures and classical artwork dominate the landscape inside this majestic building.

And on top of all of that, are the little mysteries and secrets that are truly unique to this structure. There are secret passageways built into the design of the building for all sorts of reasons. Secret chambers and stairwells have gone undetected for decades. An unfinished, Olympic-sized pool sits on the sixth floor, built some 80 years ago. And those are just a few of the elements of interest inside the Masonic.
"The rather impressive banquet rooms and ballrooms are the sort of thing that is really something to see," Snider said.

It's a stunning assault of visual beauty, but also adds a quirky kind of unusual flavor as well. Some interesting tidbits from the Masonic Temple include:
The building is designed in the shape of a gavel.

The cornerstone was laid in Sept. 18, 1922 using the same trowel George Washington used when he laid the cornerstone at the nation's capitol in Washington D.C.
At 12 million cubic feet, it is the largest and most complete building of its kind in the world.

Talk about sturdy. The concrete foundations go nearly three stories below ground level and vary from 6 to 34 feet by 6 feet in depth.

The sixth floor is home to a painting of George Washington, originally done in 1856 by the same artist who did the famous painting of Washington crossing the Delaware.

The Masons — a centuries-old fraternal brotherhood that is basically the oldest and largest fraternity in the world — have long been known for their secretiveness and privacy, their commitment to the brotherhood and, as evidenced in the Masonic Temple, a passion for architecture and symbolism.

"There is a historic part of the tour that we dig out," Snider said. "There are lodges in there that have been meeting since 1764. One lodge started in 1821. We had two young men join recently and sign their names to the book. They were then asked to turn to the front page and there were the names of people like Lewis Cass and Augustus Woodward. It becomes more than just a name."

Snider added that each tour is somewhat different, depending on the group.
"We will go into a particular lodge room and give everyone an opportunity to ask questions or respond to other questions," he said. "It's a lot of fun."

Tours — confined to the Ritual Tower (which is plenty) — can take up to three or more hours, so be prepared to spend some time and make sure you bring comfortable footwear and clothing. Photography is allowed and encouraged.

For more information on the tours or the building itself, call 1-313-832-7100 or visit http://www.themasonic.com.

Good times

I took last Friday off from work, which was kind of a treat. I say “kind of” because I had to spend part of the morning driving to Ann Arbor in a shitty, snowy mess en route to a brainstorming session/meeting with the fine folks at Beyond Interactive. These people are contracted through the Michigan Economic Development Corporation to publish MiLife MiTimes, a smart-looking and keen Web site promoting the goings-on around the state, in a specific capacity. I write for them, too.
In an unprecedented move, at least for me, they invite the writers to meet with the higher-ups to brainstorm for upcoming issues heading into the next year. Normally, I get an assignment, complete it, wait to get paid and that’s the end of that, unless it’s an ongoing thing. These folks are quite an anomaly. They get you involved and seem to really care about your input. It’s refreshing and strange at the same time.

I was out of there by just after 11 a.m., and with the rest of the day to myself in Ann Arbor, I did what I always do, head to my two favorite places on Earth — Pinball Pete’s and
Zingerman’s Deli

Naturally, Pete’s was empty,

so I got up on some pinball and a couple of games of Tron before finding the Frogger machine

and then playing some serious Joust action

I love Pete’s, but it has not been the same since they took out my favorite game, Tempest. And while I’m used to going by myself, it’s always fun with another, that way you can blow out some serious air and/or bubble hockey. We had stayed up late the previous night, so I knew a nap was in order but not before I loaded up at my favorite house of food. I love this place. < p>

I settled in for a no. 29, small, with a side of au gratins and a Boylans orange. Goddamn it was good. Looked just like this actually.

You can rest comfortably knowing that I destroyed every morsel on that table.

Kerry and I would later go to Greenfield Village for their Holiday Nights event. It was so-so. I was covering it for another client and had to take some pictures. The glass in the window was kind of pretty.

We headed to Eastern Market after that to see Slaw’s art opening at the
Joseph something or other gallery. It was fun, but kind of dead. The place was interesting, though. I have a thing for wide open spaces, especially warehouses. I’ve always wanted to live in one. I like a lot of room. They had some rather nice work in there, including free Motor City Brewers beer — gotta love the Ghettoblaster.

< p>

This is how they were heating the joint, with a couple of these hooked up to tanks

Saturday was even better. Despite both of us having to work a little bit, we headed to Casey and Mary’s house for dinner and a surprise. Mary drew Kerry for Christmas and told us months ago to keep Dec. 10 open. They suggested they make dinner and we bring an overnight bag. We get out there for drinks and some dinner with those two, and Brent and Laura, who, by the way, are two very fine, fun and friendly folks. This was only our second time seeing each other (the first was a gazillion-course meal Casey and Mary made last year for a bunch of us; the evening that spawned Suites Brisas. Thank God.), but those two are definitely solid, fucking totally real people. Casey and Mary were just finishing up dinner. Here they are crushing yet again.

The paella was unbelievably good. The surprise gift for Kerry was two tickets to the sold-out Ira Glass show at the Michigan Theater. It was actually a lot of fun. I don’t listen to a lot of public radio, very little actually, but this was a very engaging and entertaining evening. We headed to Babs after that for some drinks before going back home to crash a lot later than we normally do. We woke up the next day to breakfast from the Dexter Bakery.

After sleeping in the spare room, Kerry pointed out to me this very cute and kind of wonderful little ornament on the bookshelf, a paper clip holder Casey made when he was a kid. Their dad kept it on his desk all of the years he worked, until he retired many moons later. Thanks to Casey and Mary for a great evening and some mind-blowing food.

Popov and green beans

In late May 1992, I was a 22 year-old-college student at Wayne State University in Detroit. I lived in this big rental house with three other people and a couple of kitty cats. For some side cash, I had a part-time job delivering stacks of Orbit Magazine around Royal Oak and some surrounding cities, once a month, out of the back seat of my car. They went mainly to record stores and some specialty shops, galleries, etc. One of my stops was this hair salon where this very cute woman worked and, to my amazement, flirted with me. One time, I dropped off a stack and it was pouring rain outside, so she sat me down and towel dried my hair, making small talk. We ended up going out on a date, which was really kind of innocuous (we went to the record store and walked around, pointing out the music we liked and/or couldn’t stand; a first-date option I would recommend to anyone).

I liked this woman quite a bit. She was hairdresser and I thought that was kind of cool, for some reason I do not know. But she was funny and cute and kind of older and, more importantly, she held that timeless quality I found fleeting in so many women: she actually had an interest in me. I was studying for final exams in my bedroom one night around 9 p.m. when the phone rang. It was her and she sounded all breathy and kind of sexy. She said she was painting something and I suggested I come over to check it out, but she sounded almost obscene about the whole thing. I thought to myself, tonight I get laid. Sweet. I walked to her place all happy and joyous, stopping at the drug store to get some condoms because, you know, City Chicken’s getting some.

I get to her basement apartment, she lets me in and to my near bewilderment, I discover she is positively smashed. Potted. Boiled. Wasted. Blown out. Call it whatever, but the near empty bottle of cheap vodka was evidence. Normally, I wouldn’t think much of this but on our first date, she told me she didn’t drink, that she at one time had a problem with that and it was best she didn’t. I realized that sex probably wasn’t going to happen, that I had conjured up this scenario amid wishful thinking. Her apartment reeked. She was warming a huge saucepan full of canned green beans and it smelled like the inside of a shoe. Actually, if a dirty, worn gym shoe had a rectum, it would smell like the inside of that. She danced clumsily around her tiny kitchen, hitting shit and knocking stuff over. At one point, she fell over on the floor and missed the sharp corner of her countertop by a fraction of an inch. Get her drunk ass to bed so she can pass out and get the fuck out of Dodge was all I kept saying to myself. She eventually tuckered herself out from slurring and stumbling. There was a knock at the door and she grabbed my arm, pulling me into the shower stall, holding me very close and saying repeatedly “It’s him. It’s him. Shhh. Shhh.” Great, I thought. My luck is that “him” is some burly biker brother home from “the road.” Well, whoever he was, he left. We exited the bathroom, she tried to shovel down some green beans, before deciding it was best to start passing out. It was 10 p.m. I’d been there about 45 minutes. We went to her room and she dropped down on, of all things, a fucking waterbed. I pulled her pants off, threw a T-shirt on her and assessed the situation to make sure she wouldn’t trip over anything if she got up, leaving a couple of lights on so she can see her way around later. I was standing over her bed, kind of shaking my head, thinking what a waste of time this was and how I really need to get back home, so me and my sexless self can get back to studying. She looked up at me with an expression that says “In about 25 seconds, I’m going to start vomiting violently.” I remember looking down at her and she said “I’m … not … going to fuck YOU.” And for shame, because she looked so polished and inviting at that moment.

I say all of this because I just read that in one of our newspapers, that exact woman will be featured in a story about going on that TV show “Wife Swap.” She’s married now with a couple of kids, but I saw her picture today and froze. And then I thought about that story and had a good chuckle again. Crazy, drunk broad.

A downtown sort of weekend

After meeting up with Brian Friday after work and checking out The Rooster’s new Ferndale house (congrats on the new crib and the joy of homeownership). It’s a nice house, with plenty of room for that boy to squawk around. I went home after that, had some more whiskey, before Kerry came home and suggested we head downtown for some drinks. Lovely idea! We ended up at our favorite downtown bar, the Northern Lights, where we were greeted by Kyle and Greg behind the bar and some atomically strong drinks. No sight, however, of owner/friend Mr. Solaka. Maybe next time. I ended up pretty loaded. She drove.

Saturday we both worked what seemed like all day before going back downtown in the evening for Noel Night, a sort of downtown Detroit holiday celebration event/gallery crawl/shopping dilly-yo. They have more than 70 music and dance performances

in two dozen locations. A shuttle takes people around from place to place, but we elected to walk. We stopped first at the Detroit Artists Market. They had some neat stuff in there. I especially liked this copper tree thingy.

Next stop was this new store at the corner of Woodward and Forest called Bob’s Classic Kicks.

There we met owner Jason, a 24-year-old Detroit entrepreneur who has flipped his sneaker fetish into a business. He was a nice guy and his space was really quite interesting. It had this old, kickass safe built into the wall.

He said he’s trying to find a company to come open the damn thing for him. He had nice store, but his stock was, like minimal. I’ve long been a sneaker hound myself, at least I’ve always respected the better kind of kicks, not shit like Jordans or the newest $120-a-pair things to come down the pike, but classic kind of cool shoes, shit from your childhood, or better, your formative teen years. When I was growing up, we kind of defined each other by the shoes we wore. Dirty Jase will forever be known for his classic Adidas Ewings, while I used to rock Nike Air Forces and yes, even back then, Stan Smiths. Old-school Vans, Pumas, some fucking badass Ponys (now I always liked those), those were the shit. But I played tennis when I was a teen, so I always dug, literally, the tennis shoe. Stan Smith was my hero, before I discovered Arthur Ashe (he, of course, didn’t have a shoe; he was black. They didn’t start giving niggas shoes — especially brothers playing tennis — until the likes of Gervin came around. Stan Smith had a shoe. Rod Laver had a shoe. Shit, I think even Ilie Nastase had a shoe. Arthur wins Wimbledon and he didn’t get shit. That ain’t right, right?)
But yes, the tennis shoe per se, I always kind of admired. Ellesees, K-Swiss, Tretorns, even the racket manufacturer Prince had a shoe, which was actually kind of sharp.

Anyway, Jason’s store is pretty cool.

Has kind of a little lounge-y, sort of kick-back feel to it. Plus, there was no one in there when we visited, so we kind of had the place to ourselves.

He had a pair of Joe Dumars Adidas from his playing days,

as well as (and this made me a laugh) a pair of William Bedfords. He did have a pair of John Salleys, though. It’s a nice setup and I hope he does well. It’s Bob’s Classic Kicks and it’s located on the northwest corner of Woodward and Forest. It’s open from 11:30 a.m .to 7 p.m. (they’ll be open until 9 p.m. starting Dec. 12) Monday through Saturday, and from 11:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Sundays. Call (313) 832-7513. I look forward to going back down there and giving to him some of my hard-earned loot. Seemed like a good guy, looking to do good things in the city. We visited some other galleries, stopping by ARC Detroit, a sort of advocacy agency for the mentally retarded. They had a very small display of some handmade gifts out, but nothing that looked like a must-have. We bought some handmade buttons instead. They had a whole table of them, that they had made themselves, so I thought we should buy something, anything. They were a buck apiece so we bought five. One said “Guns Kill,” the other said “I love teaching,” and the others I forget. We happened by the Detroit Institute of Arts, where I was amazed by the simple, yet definitive design of their new outdoor exhibit titled “Rudimentary Resting elements of the 20th Century.”

Stunning, really. Clear, concise lines, tight arrangement and a cunning, sort of unspoken monologue that is not only a testimony of community cross-sectionism but, really, one man’s diary. See? I’m more full of shit than I ever imagined. We headed up to CCS and then to the Scarab Club and then home. We were both kind of beat.

The downtown theme continued into Sunday when went to the Detroit Symphony Orchestra’s performance of Handel’s “Messiah.” We got these amazing box seats courtesy of someone she knows and we sat up along the left side of the theater. They were pretty plush, choice seats. I felt very fancy. We split at halftime and went to Carl’s Chop House for dinner. It was OK, but not exactly spectacular. We decided that it would be unlikely that we would ever go back there, but as Detroiters, it’s one of those things you have to do at least once in your life. Get a steak at Carl’s. Got to.

I’m still glad we live where we do. Cap on the suburbs all you want, bitches. Our city services rule, I can walk the streets at night, and it doesn’t smell like piss. Yes, it looks a lot more majestic downtown, but I’ve proven for years that you can have just as much fun down there and live wherever the hell you like.