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.