Good things

Not just big, but colossal-sized ups to Casey and Mary for a yet another killer dinner party this past Saturday. In the time I’ve known them, it always makes me smile when I hear them say “Hey, we’re thinking of having people over for dinner.” I could gush at the greatest lengths about how much I dig Kerry’s family and friends. Something seems to click pretty well with everyone, especially her brothers and sister-in-law, and, of course, Cousin Matt. We were on maybe a month of seeing each other when Kerry set up a movie night at the Detroit Film Theater for all of us to meet up and see this.
I was kind of nervous because I knew she had two brothers, but she had only really let on that the three of them got along well. I, however, had no idea what to expect. It sucks being the new person in the group because your vulnerability seems to rage within. It’s probably nothing to the other people, but my whole life I wondered exactly where I fit in. And if you look at the people who say I’m their friend, that’s a quite a bit of places to fit in. So, I was nervous as fuck because I thought if I said something stupid or out of context or just came off like a boob, I’d, I don’t know, have a hard time earning their respect after that. But the movie was a fascinating story and the five of us went out after it to the Majestic for pitchers of beer and a general sense of mirth that seemed kind of organic. We laughed and goofed on matters ranging from Toughskin jeans to old-timey Kmart brand Traxx tennis shoes. And we’ve become a pretty cohesive group since. We’ve done holidays together, parties, random get-togethers and I’ve never once walked away or drove home thinking “Man, that kind of pissed me off what Rian said.” Just doesn’t work that way.
So, when the order is to get together for some chow and drinks, it would have to be a lobotomy to be any more of a no-brainer. We hooked up some Casanova-style margaritas while throwing down some of these chorizo and black bean empanadas. They ruled.

Next up was some tortilla soup, just spicy enough to be noticeable but not enough to fuck you up.

A salad followed before the main course, which could not have been labor-intensive or anything.

Cornish game hens, black bean cakes, sweet potatoes and guac. Throw in a bunch of beer, wine and tequila, and this key lime mousse for dessert with a stick of white chocolate in it

and it was definitely a night of pure, uncut decadence. Plus, Casey and Mary just have a lot of really cool stuff around their house.

They take the best vacations and their travels are reflected in the way their home is laid out and decorated. The flowers were beautiful.

We look forward to not only returning the favor, but getting back to our Dinner With Friends program we started last fall. The move and the winter has been taxing, but we’re going to get back to it, probably with a Sunday brunch featuring the Hauns, the Taylors and the Corbetts.

The Chicken has been quite lax as of late, just have been kind of lazy with seeking out interesting images to preserve or q uality words to write. Kerry and I leave for Toronto tomorrow for 3 nights and 2 days of getting-the-hell-out-of-townness. Look for us to splurge on choice dinners, massages, requisite shopping, random loafing and probably more booze than we are used to. We had a really good time the last time we went to Toronto and we hope to outdo ourselves. Fuck yes.

Insert Sammy Hagar song here

I think what these folks did was pretty cool.

Soon people, soon

Yes, it is officially spring. And yes, it's about 28 degrees out.

Then/Now

Over the weekend, I encountered a serious bout of the then-and-nows. It started by going through some old albums and stacks of photos for Dirty Jase, looking for a something about which he had inquired. So, I came across some other items I thought had a little current relevance, in a coupe of odd coincidences.
First is this old black-and-white I found.

It looks like some old camping trip or something. That’s my dad in the middle, shirtless. I always liked this photo for a couple of reasons, namely, the cool, old-timey pickup truck in the back and the kid down in the front right corner. I don’t know who he is, maybe a cousin, but I dig that shirt he’s wearing. I have the exact same old Tigers logo keychain. Interesting then, that two weeks ago, and without prompt from this picture, which I didn’t find until two days ago, I bought this this shirt:

The second bit of nostalgia came courtesy of one of my nephews. I have a lot of friends with kids, and many of them I affectionately refer to as my nephews, because I’m tight with their parents, kind of like siblings or something. But, I do have real, blood-relative nephews (and two nieces), four of them to be exact. The second-oldest is Sam and he’s about to graduate high school this year. I love that young man, he’s a good kid. He’s bright, savvy and has a stunning vocabulary. I asked him about college and he said he’s looking at a few schools. His criteria/benchmark for deciding on a degree-granting institution of higher learning? What their library carries in the way of work by J.D. Salinger. If it’s sparse, they’re potentially off the list. But, like I said, he’s an intelligent, industrious guy who had to make a go of growing up with an absent mother and a dad who is more like his best friend than a parent. Sam has a distinct talent and this sort of qualified edge about him, even at his age. I’d like to think he lends a bit of hope to his generation. It’s a great story, actually. He’s a total film head and plans to pursue a degree in some type of related field. We’ve been to a couple of theater productions at his school, a sort of “Fame”-like facility for kids with an interest in the arts and sciences. He’s, as they say, solid. Kerry and I got an invite to his graduation party in the mail last week. After rifling through some of the aforementioned imagery, I found this, his kindergarten photo.

I find it an interesting contrast to his senior portrait.

So yes, a remarkable then-and-now phenomenon this weekend. Now, if I could just wake up tomorrow (now) with the same 180-pound frame and full head of hair I had 20 years ago (then), we’d be all set.

Pages of wisdom

I found this magazine at an antique store a few years ago, digging fully on the cover, in all of its visceral — yet culinary — brutality. Something about the meat hook, I don’t know.

This publication seemed pretty comprehensive. It had all you needed to know about maintaining your “farm home.” It contained nourishing recipes for dishes like meat pies and biscuit-topped beef stew.

Or, perhaps some chili mostaccioli.

It offered ideas on how to utilize organizing space in your kitchen …

… how to trick out your home office …

… and even how to rock those slacks, ladies …

I bought this magazine while I was actually out on a first date. We had lunch and we’re walking downtown a little when she asked if I wanted to check out this antique store as we passed it, an activity I enjoy, hopefully-romantic interlude or otherwise. I found this stack of magazines and started pawing through them, nearly giddy at the kitsch. I would purchase three or four different publications of this genre that day, not before holding them up to her and somewhat excitedly showing her, “Hey! Check this shit out!” She never called back. Imagine that.

Lions on my mind

Free agency in the NFL continues to rage and the Lions, big shock, appear to be doing nothing. With a four-year NFL veteran quarterback who has proven nothing, three first-round-draft-pick receivers who are too young and inexperienced to be consistent and a defense rattled by inconsistency and injury, it’s no wonder the playoffs continue to be elusive for this team that, on paper and when healthy, looks like it could win its division. And then the room starts laughing. I know, I know.

But it’s true. Harrington’s pedigree is as good as anyone else, potential-wise. And one thing he does have going for him is this. In his first three seasons, while he has steadily improved stats-wise, he’s still so far away from where a first-round draft pick should be, he needs a GPS device the size of Greektown to get him there. There are other quarterbacks, who, in their first three years, put up WORSE numbers than Harrington. Brett Favre is one of them. Troy Aikman is the other. Does that mean we, as fans, have to sit back and watch this screwhead continue, on third and 7, to make three-yard completions? What’s the sliding scale on running his ass out of town? It’s probably this year. There is a new coach in Rod Marinelli and a new offensive coordinator in the very proven Mike Martz. If Joey ends this season with another 70-or-so QB rating, then his time is probably up.

These receivers are weird — Charles Rogers, Mike Williams and Roy Williams. You have guy who is consistent; another guy who can’t stay healthy and pusses out every time something twinges in his body; and another guy who can’t keep his lips off the bong. The one thing they do have in common, aside from their colossal disappointment among fans, is that they are young and talented, but the team has no element in place for them to learn, especially in the critical fashion coming from a seasoned vet or even a retired great. Pay Jerry Rice 750 large to come in as a “consultant” and work with these guys in the off-season and on drills. Bring in someone, anyone, who can sit them and down and explain to them what they’re doing wrong. A receivers coach, even one with NFL experience, might not work so well. I’m in a line of work where my boss has never before done my job. Therefore, I have no respect for him and see him as a dope when he tries to guide me in what he thinks is right. How can these receivers learn when, from the get, they were left running wild in the streets?

But the ultimate gap — and the iron right now, and in a few weeks will be, is at its hottest — and the most obvious solution lies in the linebacker corps. Boss Bailey has been good, but he’s also been hurt. Teddy Lehman was been a wash and probably could be, from a career standpoint. Maybe. He’s young, he can still provide some depth, but since his arrival, I haven’t seen it. Guys like Wali Rainier are solid and all, but that’s a wave of defense that can’t be compromised. If I’m GM, I do this: I do what it takes to sign free agent Willie McGinest. Yeah, he has 12 seasons worth of wear and tear on his body, but he probably has a couple more left in him. And a Willie McGinest at 75 percent is assuredly better than most guys’ 100 percent. Plus, he provides the sage-like, effective leadership that is lacking in the receivers. He could bring that to the LBs. After that, watch the draft and get ready to trade up a spot or two to nab A.J. Hawk from Ohio State. This dude is as Spielmanesque as they come. This guy is so quick, so lethal, so fucking strong and punishing that adding him to your roster is like making a big vat of Insta-Defense. A healthy Boss, a young Hawk and a seasoned Willie. I know, it sounds like gay porn, but I think it would work. Teams will think thrice before going across the middle on your ass.

Ballers and shot-callers

Hit my first Pistons game of the season last Sunday, a 94-78 whipping of the Charlotte Bobcats. Glom kind of brokered the whole deal and then himself failed to show up, which I thought was odd and disappointing. But Kerry and I picked up our tickets anyway and managed to have a really good time, despite being completely exhausted from the day’s previous trip to downtown Detroit for the St. Patrick’s Day parade.
The game was typical Pistons ball. Come out early, keep it a little close, establish a lead before halftime, blow the game open in the third. Charlotte shot pretty well in the first half, keeping the game tied for most of it. Rip Hamilton led all scorers with 25. Here he is getting some.

But, as is the standard, Detroit’s defense stepped up in the second half, forcing turnovers, getting boards off the miss and generally dominating. The Pistons play defense the way Ali fought — tenacious, calculated and at times furious. Charlotte’s offense, to that, played the way old people fuck — slow and sloppy.
Detroit got off like it should, smothering Charlotte and establishing its defense at will, kind of like this.

Come down the floor, establish, set up for the miss, get the board, take it down and drill. Note Ben Wallace is the only one the paint. He’s the only one who needs to be there. That guy is unfuckingbelievable, I swear. As a sports fan in Michigan, I’ve been pretty lucky to see some world-class jocks do their thing — Barry Sanders’ shake and bake, Steve Yzerman’s class and determination, Charles Woodson in the open field, The Bad Boys, The Fab Five (although that team was bought and paid for, it was still exciting to watch as it was happening), the Russians (and now, the Swedes), Cecil hitting 50, Tommy Hearns knockin’ niggas out, the emergence and dominance of Hockeytown (and the weeklong span of signings by Kenny Holland that brought Chris Chelios, Brett Hull and Dominik Hasek to Detroit), MSU’s NCAA championship run, and so much more. And to be able to watch Ben Wallace and then call him our own, I think, is somehow monumental.
And speaking of monumental, especially in The Palace, take a look at the row of retired jerseys.

A lot of those guys came into prominence when we watched a lot of basketball, especially in the seasons leading up to the back-to-back seasons of ’89 and ’90. Those are some legends up there. Interestingly enough, Sunday’s game was Chuck Daly night, where they paid tribute at halftime to Daddy Rich. They hung his jersey from the rafters before the game. That guy completed an incredible resume during his time with the Pistons, including the two championships, three Eastern and Central Division titles, five 50-plus win seasons and nine straight winning seasons. All told, he compiled a 519-342 record, with a record of 74-48 in the playoffs. He is the only coach in the Hall of Fame to have won both an Olympic gold medal and an NBA championship.

Lines

Ice

A Bear of a good time

I grew up in Bay City, a small mid-Michigan city. From the time I was old enough to have an original thought, I always hated that goddamn place. And I really can’t blame or find fault with where I was raised. My parents were from there, I was an infant, they had the keys to the car and all of the cash, so I was pretty much at their mercy. But as soon I as able, I bolted and satiated my love for urban environs and pride and mystique I attached to their existence. And I encourage anyone else to do the same. Dirty Jase has coined the term “Mid-Michigan Kills” and I really believe that. Growing up in a stunted, industry-driven, culturally arid and insular community, I was lucky that our TV picked up the Channel 50 feed from Detroit. Aside from the Tigers games for which Frank and I would camp out seemingly nightly, we got the 10 o’clock news and that, I’m convinced fueled this weird, detached glow I had for my state’s largest city. I would watch the news nightly, viewing highlights of city mayhem and, on slow news nights, other Detroit-related minutiae. I’m sure my family was not exactly pleased when I would usher a sweeping hand wave — the type of gesticulation that says “shut the fuck up!” — and shush them, remarking loudly “There’s a fire on the east side.” But it wasn’t our east side, it was a town two hours away.

I return to Bay City maybe once every three months. My best friend Tom still lives there, as does my family (what’s left of the fractured mess) and Tom’s brothers, whom I love dearly. But, I grapple mightily with a conflicted sense of nostalgia and resentment when I hit town. But I put a lot of that aside this Saturday when I drove north to see some friends, chief among them, a staple of my childhood and adolescence, Harold, or, as everyone else knows him, Bear. We grew up together, hanging pretty tight from the fourth-grade through about 20 years old when I moved to Detroit and, a few years later, he would move to Arizona. We’ve seen each other maybe three or four times since 1990. We don’t talk on the phone, we don’t write and we don’t e-mail each other. I’ve missed him the last several times he's returned to Michigan and now work has brought him to the Mitten State for a return engagement, albeit temporarily. So I return to the roost Saturday, to see some friends and yuck it up, which is what we did.

The only folks missing from this picture are Jeff Wells, Martian and Nigger Pete (Hey! He fucking TOLD me to call him that, alright?!). And while I try to engage in some self-preservation here — I don’t like to post a lot of pictures of myself — I would bet that this is the last time the subjects in this photo will be at the same table any time soon, unless its after a funeral. And even then, that’s probably a stretch.

So yes, the elusive and wily Bear. Single-handedly, he has managed to infiltrate pretty much every glowing memory I have of my childhood and teen years. Our older brothers were (and still are to this day) very close friends. Our moms were super tight, they used to play cards and drink Manhattans with Mrs. Green, Mrs. Vayre and rest of these wacky, rambunctious broads. I had a good, strong childhood, despite the dumb and boring city in which I had to do it. There is an undeniable sense of connectedness to that, and the type of person I am today — industrious, humble, genuine. And I believe one fed off the other and none of it would’ve busted wide in the open field like it has if not for friends like him. He’s a PGA pro now and, like I said, we rarely see each other and probably will continue the infrequency of that, but in the meantime I consider our friendship sacrosanct, at the very least.

Jay-Dub and Bearold, relaxing over a few.

No underdogs here

At the hardware store near my house is a bulletin board. There, folks advertise assorted goods and services, ranging from appliances and vehicles to someone willing to clean your gutters. Tonight, I saw this

That's a pretty flimsy-looking piece of play equipment. And those seats? They don't look very comfortable.