City Chicken

On the road again

2006-08-10T10:39:00.000-07:00

I'm taking my little minstrel show elsewhere. I've been invited to join Vox, a Beta-based sort of network brought to you by the folks who did LiveJournal, but is actually a lot cooler than LJ, at least I think.

It's easier to post here, a lot more user-friendly and frankly, I like the change of pace. When I was in my 20s, I moved a lot. I think this is an extension of that.

Come along and enjoy the improved, leaner, lower in fat and carbohydrates, City Chicken.

Lake, big lake

2006-08-01T05:12:00.000-07:00

After two years of missing the annual migration weekend to Torch Lake, I finally made it this year when Matt set some accommodating dates. Kerry and I took Friday off to get up there Thursday, so we’d have two full days of nothing to do but lounge, loaf and screw around. And that’s exactly what everybody did up there. We did miss quite a few of our regular peeps (it’s not easy to get everybody up north for a weekend) and that was the only regret.
The house on Torch Lake is beautiful and comfortable. The lake itself is ridiculously big, the largest inland lake in the state. You could definitely stay in this house there year-round, it’s that big and practically designed. Kerry’s aunt and cousins put an immense effort into this place, from the gardening to the boats and toys, and everything in between, you don’t have a place this phenomenal by sitting around on your ass eating cheese doodles all weekend. Pull up and you’re greeted with Aunt Liz’s green thumbery, as well as a nod to something else green.

The rest of the place was nothing but ooooh’s, aaaaah’s and wow’s.

This was our bedroom for the weekend.

You know, it’s not often you get to enjoy some deluxe accommodations (free of charge) in a weekend with absolutely nothing to do. If you’re lucky, you get one of those in a summer. The rest is tent camping with the bugs and the people on the site next to you very nearly on top of you, unpredictable weather and sometimes compromised sleeping. That, and you don’t always have these kickass, old-school fans by your bed either.

The grounds surrounding the cabin were choice.

The pontoon frequently offered lovely tours of this massive lake, with Marty expertly at the controls.

The water was absolutely perfect. And in the 90-degree heat, it was also very inviting, something of which we often took full advantage.

The lake itself is pretty huge, with a perimeter of housing that is positively stunning. There are a lot of million-dollar properties on Torch Lake, with many of them alleged to be owned by the likes of Bob Seger, Michael Moore and Eminem, not that that is important, but perhaps mildly noteworthy. While these are not their properties, they are still some impressive lakefront houses nonetheless.

We managed a trip Saturday to nearby Charlevoix to see Bear, about a 20-minute drive from where we were staying. Always so good to see him, great actually. I have a huge spot in my heart for that guy, so catching up with him for a few hours is pure gold. Looking forward to catching him again with Glom in a couple of weeks. Kerry and I stayed in Charlevoix for a short while until we met up with him at the harbor/bandshell on Main Street there

before having lunch with HB (thanks again) and walking with him out by the pier/walk thing

We scored some fudge from Burdick’s to bring back to the crew.

If we weren’t out on the boat, or vegging around the fire, it seemed like everyone was just sort of kicking it on the back patio area, mainly eating and drinking, but mostly drinking.

There was a lot of it, all day and half the night. When we weren’t throwing down some homemade guac with some Stoli and San Pellegrino

we were tearing up some pretty damn fine food over the weekend, including Loafy’s mac and cheese

or some rack of lamb courtesy of Matt

Not to mention the fajita fixings Rusty brought all the way from the El Mercado in Detroit’s Mexicantown, dropping those bad boys at about 1:30 in the morning. No photos of that, though. Reaction time kind of worn by that point.
This is what people do when you go up north. That, and work on your place so it’s a comfy little oasis. Other than that, it’s a lot quality time.

And what’s a weekend getaway without a little fun with the pooches?

We actually brought Rian’s dog, Scout, back home with us for a week. She’s very cute, as you can see here with her spending some quality time with her favorite toy.

The bar as the first night commenced. This was definitely the high traffic area.

More than anything, aside from housing the ‘fridge and all of the booze, it was also home to the industrial-capacity ice machine Matt bought for the place. He said they were getting sick of going to the nearest store for 10 bags of ice at a time. Here, Rusty demonstrates its usefulness.

And please, let me just take a minute to pause here on the Chicken and tell everyone that that dude, Forrest (aka Rusty) was one very cool and genuine fella. Never before met the guy, spent the better part of a weekend with him and didn’t regret a second of it. Straight-up, right-on kind of guy. This kept consistent with the weekend’s company for sure. It was a total mix of people, some of them related by blood, the rest through friendships in one capacity or another, and everyone really easy to get along with and there for the same reason — to chill, decompress and unwind. And what a mix it was. You had three salesman (owners of their own business), an entrepreneur/independent consultant type, a secretary, a guy who manages about two or three different companies, a couple of fundraisers (one of them a Texas Republican; the other a liberal freak), a journalist, two teachers, a pilot, a tavern owner and a spinal surgeon. Fourteen people. Not one fucking ego.

Please update your contact info

2006-07-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

Cookie Monster isn't really a monster. He's a player. Thusly and heretofore, he shall be known as Cookie Player.

Thanks,
John

The devil's in my car

2006-07-25T08:04:00.000-07:00

I hate bees. I hate them because I am scared of them. I don’t know why, but this has always been the case, as long as I can remember. I killed a wasp in my car the other day. The wasp is the like the Marines of bees. They are the fucking badasses. I found it odd that a bee got in my car, I usually keep the windows up, or, when they are down, I am typically in motion, making it tough for bees or any small winged insect to get into my ride. With my car parked in the driveway yesterday, I discovered how that bee got in my car. Lookee here, at the lower righthand corner of my passenger-side mirror.

Asshole bees made a small hive in MY CAR!! Bastards! I really hate bees, but I hate it more when people say “But we NEED bees for the honey.” You know what? Fuck honey. And fuck bee sympathizers.

Sorry, I'm just feeling it

2006-07-25T07:50:00.000-07:00

You would think that in a summer like this, as devout a Tigers fan as people who know me know, that I would’ve prattled on since Opening Day about the professional baseball team playing their home games in Detroit and what a wonderful season it is having. I find it personally remarkable that it took this long, but then again it seems like I have a delayed reaction to hubbub these days. Make no mistake, I would probably put up a good fight for naming a baby “Olde English D” I’m so into my Detroit baseball [hey, fuck off, they can call him D for short alright?], so think less than once about where this baseball team occupies my heart.

I waited until this year’s All-Star Break, where just last year the physical bells and whistles went off in Detroit with the midseason classic and its hype ran rampant in a city poised to host a Super Bowl seven months later. For the first half of the 2006 season, I waited for the slide to begin, for the 9-game losing streak, for the team to go a good 3-16 against the Twins, Red Sox, Yankees, Indians, A’s, White Sox and Mariners. But it didn’t happen, so I exhaled a little. Don’t get me wrong, it is with pure joy that since the second week of the season I can open my sports section (which I’ve done pretty much every day since I was 13), look at the American League standings and see my beloved Tigers in first place. That could have lasted a week, maybe three, and I would have gladly smiled, enjoyed the view and then let the rest of the season play out, as tepid base running, flaccid hitting and a general aversion to completing routine plays and showcasing rudimentary defensive basics took over, and the Tigers drooped to 24 games out of the first place.

But the break came and went, and Detroit is still in first place. And it looks like they have this “we’re taking on all comers” kind of approach in a whiskey soaked, dirt-ass roadhouse parking lot fistfight mentality. And even as of today, July 25, 2006, they continue to beat the others down. They are 67-32, which in itself is an unexpected situation. The fact that Detroit is playing important games as we head into August is the perfect salve for this city of stricken fans who haven’t seen meaningful baseball since 1987. Detroit has the best road record at 34-15. They took a critical series against the White Sox, the defending World Series chumps with which they’ve jockeyed near the top of the division all season. They have 10 more games with Chicago. The last three were sellouts. Speaking of which, Detroit has sold out Comerica Park eight of the last 10 home games. That’s never happened since the park was built in 2000. And yes, they lead the majors with their ERA, they are in the middle of the pack for hitting, they are playing incredibly brilliant smart ball, they bunt, sacrifice and muscle their way around the basepaths, they break up double plays with a ferocious fluidity that’s as precision as it comes, and they remain a humble, focused group of players, saying and doing all of the right things. But when winning is contagious, strange little things start to happen. Like last night when Detroit scored five runs in the first inning en route to a 9-7 win against Cleveland, of course, in Cleveland. That burst was third straight game in which they scored 5 in the first, the first team to do so since 1891. That kind of shit.

Fans and pundits are now looking to the July 31 trade deadline. Who will the Tigers sign? Owner Mike Illitch said in the off-season that if this team was anywhere near contention by midseason, then he would “spend” to give his manager whatever he needed. Well, Mike, your team is in first place, 7 1/2 games ahead of Chicago. I would say that qualifies as contending. But the names being bandied about are all wrong. As wrong as a thong. Alex Rodriguez? That guy isn’t going anywhere and I’d shit if I saw him wearing a Detroit uni. Bobby Abreu? Philly management would be idiots to let that guy go. Yeah, I know, he jacked 40-something home runs out of Comerica last year during the HR derby, but people forget it was a hot night and those balls were being lobbed into him. Alfonso Soriano’s name seems to be the most prominently mentioned as Detroit’s big savior signee. Oh, he wants out of Washington alright, which was evidenced in his little bitch pout fest at the beginning of the season, when the man who makes millions every year to run around in the sun was upset about being put in the outfield. He actually threatened to sit out games until Frank Robinson sat his ass the fuck down and said “son, this pissing match is a losing one on your end. Get your ass in that outfield, nowski.” Is that the kind of character you would want in your clubhouse or in your dugout? I say hells no. They needed a left-handed batter for the better part of the season. Well, he’s back. Dmitri Young, fresh out of rehab (but still facing misdemeanor domestic assault charges for an incident in Birmingham) and a minor league assignment, with the scabs healing on the back of his right hand where he has a HUGE Alcoholics Anonymous logo tattooed, is now back with the club and if he hits anywhere near his potential, we could have a bonus the rest of the season.

And what a season it has been, but it would not be this way if not for our stealth pitching. In the off-season the club signed veteran lefty Kenny Rogers and former Tiger Todd Jones for relief purposes. Everybody winced and bitched. I did, too. And while I still think Rogers is sort of a redneck hothead, he is 11-3 with and ERA under 4. And Jones, while he’s blown some critical games, is still fourth-best in the American League saves category with 26. But like the rest of the roster and the season played out so far, little nuances add to the luster of this phenomenal season. Joel Zumaya? He threw a 103-mph fastball the other day at Oakland’s Nick Swisher, who, when asked about it after the game, said “When he’s throwing like that, you’re basically going on sound at that point.” At 100 mph, it takes 3/10 of a second to get to home plate, which means you have about 7/16 of a second to decide when you’re going to swing. Good luck with that. Rookie Justin Verlander is 12-4 with a 2.77 ERA and could be Detroit’s first Rookie of The Year since Sweet Lou Whittaker in 1978 and Mark “The Bird” Fidrych in 1976. Verlander becomes an instant legend in this town. Jeremy Bonderman, who stepped aside in the ace role to make room for Old Man Rogers, is steady (despite his formula for giving up three or four runs within the first four innings and then fanning nine, leaving in the 7th for the win) at 11-4. Three of Detroit’s five starters could end the 2006 season with anywhere from 16 to 18 wins. Middle relief pitcher Jamie Walker, long a disappointment in my eyes, is crushing this year, with a 1.20 ERA in 30 innings. Mike Maroth’s elbow fried earlier this season and the club called up Zach Minor. He’s 6-2.

The bats are crazy. Pudge is hitting .315, Ordonez .304, and Guillen .302. With runners in scoring position Placido Polanco is batting .400. Marcus Thames (filling in nicely for Young) and Brandon Inge (whose career was called “over” by Jim Rome the day Detroit signed Pudge) is not only co-leading the team with 19 home runs, but he’s playing the sickest defense at third base this city has seen since Tommy Brookens. But, on a critical note, I could do without all of the strikeouts. Granderson (109), Shelton (95), Inge (84) could stand to focus at the plate and stop swinging at fucking garbage pitches. Those kind of K’s make you trade bait, boys.

It’s exciting, dare I say, refreshing to see the parking lots around the stadium filled to capacity and charging double their normal rate. The concession lines are packed and the crowd is really getting into it, even if most of them are fair-weathered fans. I’m getting ticket requests now from friends like I’m a fucking Ticketmaster kiosk or something. Funny how nobody was asking me for shit when Detroit was losing 119 games just two seasons ago. And you know what? I was at more games that season than I’ve been to this season. Because, you know, I care and all. I make the effort, even when it’s not popular, cool or remotely sexy to do so. I don’t know, I just think that’s what REAL people do. Yes, the babe factor has shot through the roof at Comerica, which is a good thing, trust me. But the gals with the good skin and nice tits, and the boys in their chi-chi shirts covering up their tanned and toned torsos will be back at the cosmetic surgery centers, ultralounges and golf courses the fucking nanosecond Detroit baseball is not trendy or popular, which is also fine. Winning is contagious and it spreads to the fans, but when you have a sellout stadium on a Saturday night in July, in a city starved for anything remotely positive on the baseball landscape, the feeling is what your laughably marginal newspaper sports columnist would call “palpable.” That’s right Rob Parker, you fucking hack, I’m taking a shot at you. It is a feeling without a fitting description, the vibe being thrown around Comerica Park on game nights.

And it’s not just there, either. It’s in the homes with a kid watching a winning Tigers team for the first time in his life. Ever. It’s on the beat-up clock radios in a Hazel Park home’s garage with some dude wrenching on his rig with a couple of buddies and some cold ones. It’s in the hearts of the old-timers, who remember 1934, the dads and grandfathers who were my age with 1968 went down. It’s very clearly in the fella in the car next to me, banging his fist on the steering wheel because Craig Monroe just hit a two-out, run-scoring double. It will be in the city, loud and motherfucking clear when Detroit hosts its first playoff game since the ’87 season, the year I graduated high school, seemingly and also fittingly, a lifetime ago. And it will be in me and Corbett, sitting in our season ticket seats for the first pitch. It could all go away tomorrow. The slide could start, it could be the biggest choke job since the Yankees two seasons ago, it could be as predictable as Steve Howe, all methed up to the sky, driving his truck into a pole. It could all dry up by the last game of the season and I’d still be content because I had a chance to say it all right here.

Market value

2006-07-18T07:48:00.000-07:00

After our monumental night Saturday, we headed out Sunday to the Ann Arbor-Saline antique market. This place was fantastic. The junk factor was nil, as this was more antique market than flea market. Many vendors had incredible furniture, books and other items. Of course, you can always find some bomb shit to look at when you visit a place like this, including some cool games from your childhood (even if they are obscenely overpriced)

Religious icons

Some replacement dice

A dictionary from 1912

And, of course, a box of knobs

Happy together

2006-07-18T07:40:00.000-07:00

Talk about your landmark weekends. Not only did we get to spend what we kept referring to as a “poor man’s weekend getaway” at Kerry’s brother’s and sister-in-law’s house out by Ann Arbor, I also seized it as a prime opportunity to pop the question. That’s right, we got engaged. I’m going to be a married man. It’s both wonderful and surreal at the same time. The storage capacity of this blog couldn’t contain enough words to properly convey my excitement and bliss in the days after this moment. Trust us when I say that we are not only very happy, but very cognizant that we’ve earned this happiness, that we have no problem owning this joy.

Friday night we got out of town and chilled a little, it was like driving up north to stay at someone’s cabin for a few days. We stopped at the market, bought a weekend’s worth of light grub, some beverages, and checked in to our temporary housing. We got up Saturday and I had a whole day before this thing was going down. Firstly, she had no idea it was coming. She was expecting a proposal closer to the end of this year, around New Year’s, as per several earlier discussions. If I wanted to inject any semblance of spontaneity into this thing, I thought I should propose in July. I found the ring, a 1920s antique, sort of art deco emerald filigree engagement ring. It took me months of scouring antique stores to find it, but I did, randomly, on a visit to Ann Arbor to help empty Larry’s studio. Now that day was fucked up, there was a lot of crazy emotion there and I thought I was detached enough from the situation to duck out of the way of some serious impact, but I still caught some shrapnel from that. But I found this ring out of the blue, in a shop on Main Street in Ann Arbor. I’d like to think that maybe Larry had a little something to do with that.

I paid off the jewels on Friday and could pick it up the next day, so when we woke up Saturday, I enacted a few plans to shake free from Kerry so I could go pick it up, a task easier spoken than actually accomplished. I told her I had to take some pictures for some freelance stuff and I’d be back in an hour. “I’ll come with you,” she said. Fuck. So, I shifted gears and said I could do it later and that we should go ahead with our plan to go to Ann Arbor, putz about in some shops, get some lunch, and kind of freestyle the afternoon. I had no idea how I was going to get that ring, but I thought if I got close the store, I could show a disinterest in whatever other store we were in and say, “hey, I’ll meet you back here in 10” sort of thing. Even that didn’t work. We got two doors away from the ring when we found a bookstore of sort of New Age-y type shit, religious studies, etc. A sign on the door advertised the services of a clairvoyant that day offering drop-in readings, a 15-minute minimum. Fucking bingo! She points to it and asks if I’d be interesting in trying it, you know, for shits. Sure! Sign us up. You go first! Which is what she did and I high-tailed it out of the store, down two doors, scored the ring and came back. Interesting though, when I got to the antique store, the door was locked. The woman let me in very cautiously because she knew who I was and I had spoken with her the day prior. They were doing their inventory and had all of their diamond rings out of the cases — rows of them — and on top of the counters, probably $1 million worth of rocks there. I thought, for a second, now would be a great time to have a gun.

With ring in pocket, I returned to the bookstore with about 10 minutes to kill. After perusing titles about holistic parenting, raw food detoxification and how to maintain your temper, it was my turn with Madame X. Kerry couldn’t believe I was being open-minded about this. I guess I was as much of a fraud as she was. I listened to this broad’s hooey for 15 minutes, paid up and got the fuck out. Kerry said the woman said she cleaned her crown shakra. Sounds to me like she’d been drinking some crown shakra.

That ring box burned a hole in my shorts pocket all day long. When Kerry wasn’t looking I would shift it to a different pocket so when I sat next to her she couldn’t touch my leg and blow the big secret. The day passed and we hit Pepperz, which, despite its intentional illiterate name, was actually quite tasty and cool in there.

I had the walleye, Kerry the pasta primavera. Both were quite good.

It was warm in there, probably because it was about 93 outside, so we headed to Babs’ Underground Lounge, where we knew they’d be blasting the a/c, as well as some icy martinis. As is typical with Ann Arbor I had to endure some serious assault on my better judgment. There was some “stick” music festival there, these kind of funky-looking gee-tars. I think this guy says it all, really.

I just wanted to keep yelling from the crowd, “I like your pants!” He’s also finger-popping the neck of his axe there.
We then pass this lovely alley

And some fucking LAME art student/stencil Star Wars bullshit. Here is someone’s “tag.” Gross.

We got to Babs and enjoyed the lovely confines. We were there once last summer and the bartender, Rob, remembered us and where we were from, which I thought was very cool. Really nice guy, great bar.

We left Babs and headed to Dominick’s, one of our favorite Ann Arbor mainstays.

We enjoyed some sangria by the fountain

before heading across the street to the law quad. That was where I was going to propose. We love the law quad. In the very embryonic stages of our relationship, we shared a significantly romantic moment there. Plus, her dad stayed there in the ‘60s when he studied for the bar, so it does have some familiar aspect to it. It’s shrouded by these century-old buildings and lush grass. It’s lovely.

We walked and found a bench

where I would later take a knee after much out-of-character hemming, hawing and general awkwardness. She said yes. I am a happy, happy man these days. Afterward, we got on our phones to call family and friends. I went back to the bench to snap a picture. It was dark and my flash was going off when I hear this crazy woman across the lawn fucking screaming at me about how I’ve been following her around my whole life, taking her picture, ruining her. She was obviously very disturbed and kept yelling “That’s right you sonofabitch! Keep taking my picture! You’ve ruined me! You and the CIA!” And then she paused “And I have autism!!” she fucking screamed. Great.

We called some peeps and then returned to Babs for some champagne before heading home. Probably the most significant day of my life, I would have to say. We’re now planning a series of headaches and stress and bullshit for the next year. Oh, and there’s a wedding too. Sometime in October 2007. City Chicken readers get the VIP Room.

Nothing but flowers

2006-07-17T11:42:00.000-07:00

We struggle to keep anything but impatiens alive in our yard that gets hardly any sun, but we love our day lilies.

Mountaineers

2006-07-10T20:42:00.001-07:00

Casey and Mary made it to the top of Kilimanjaro. This is the latest in a series of guest blogging by them from Africa, where they're visiting for six weeks.

Latest news:

People who try to climb Mt. Everest are absolutely insane...

July 1, we climb into a HUGE Land Cruiser to drive to the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro to do this thing we thought would be fun and cool: climb to the highest point in Africa. We meet our crew: a lead guide, an assistant guide, a cook, a waiter, and 6 porters who will carry all needed stuff. All we carry is a small day-pack and our hiking poles. The team set off ahead of us, as we and our guides begin our leisurely, 4 day uphill walk.
First sight

The path up Mt. Kilimanjaro begins in a rainforest climate. Streams, flowers, huge trees with moss, and monkeys, one of which crossed our path in search of food. .

Wow, this is cool! The first day is basically a three hour uphill walk, not too strenuous. We get to our first camp, which consists of a bunch of small A-frame huts that sleep four, along with a bigger dining hut. It is cloudy, and a light mist is settling upon everything. All in all we feel good, and we are excited about what is to come.

Day two has us set for a six-hour uphill hike, with around 3,300 feet of elevation gain. We begin in the rainforest, with the clouds and fog giving a mysterious sense to everything. We pass these trees that have moss (called "old man's beard") .

hanging off the branches. Shrouded in the fog they have an ethereal pall to them. Slowly as we climb the fog thins, the sky becomes bluer, and the sun becomes more intense. Next thing we know, we are in full daylight, and as we look behind us we are walking above the clouds.

Looking ahead, we get our first view of the peak of Kilimanjaro. Along the path we are passed by our porters Ronald and Bruno. A word about the people who work this mountain: they are friendly, dedicated, and strong as bulls. Each porter carries around 40 lbs. of weight, be it our gear (we certainly couldn't carry it), food, water, propane, whatever. They either carry it across their shoulders, or balanced on their heads, and they smile and laugh while they are doing it, while we suck air just trying to walk on. It is truly amazing. And by the way, they earn around $5 a day for the privilege of humping all of our gear up the mountain, and they laugh and smile the whole time. Their demeanor left a lasting impression on us.

We stop along the way for lunch. It is amazing what they manage to serve to us, considering the circumstances and the fact that everything must be carried by someone. Always a plate of fresh fruit, hot tea or coffee, and on this day a pasta salad with cheese. After lunch we continue upward, until we come to our base for the next two nights, Horombo hut, at around 12,500 ft. Now the air is noticably thin. We will spend two days here in order to acclimate to the thin air. Horombo is like an international way-station. There are people here who are both going up and coming down. Listening, I heard Dutch, German, Spanish, and of course Swahili, along with many intonations of English: Irish, Aussie, Canadian, British, and Tennesseeish. People talk of the thrill of making it to the top, or the disappointment of not being able to, or the excitement of trying. Its a very interesting place.

Our third day of hiking takes us toward the base of the summit. We leave Horombo, which is in what they call a moorland climate, destination Kibo hut. Another six hour uphill climb, with another 1000 meters of elevation gain (taking us to around 16,500 ft) The trail is steeper than you realize, and it becomes a struggle to merely go forward. Now our guides begin to preach "pole! pole!" - slowly, slowly. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. As we climb we cross from the moorland climate to what is called alpine desert. It is barren, bleak, foreboding. The air is cool but the sun is intense. If the sun goes behind a cloud the temperature seems to drop 20 degrees instantly. You have to make sure to cover your whole body with sunscreen, don't forget the backs of your ears or the tops of your hands. It seems as if we are walking across the moon. The final two hours toward Kibo are tough - we can see the hut, and it seems so close, but it's slow going, and if you try to go faster you are soon out of breath. Finally we make it, around 3:00 pm. We eat quickly, and are in bed by 5:30 - at 11:00 pm they will wake us to begin our trek toward the summit.

When we awake, it is totally dark, and around 30 degrees outside, which only promises to get colder. We prepare: layers of clothing, socks, gloves, hats, waterproof/windproof jacket and pants. As we set out, the sky is filled with more stars than I have ever seen before, and though cold, not uncomfortable. We begin walking and it isn't actually too bad - body heat is generated keeping us warm, and the pace is comfortable. Soon however, the path steepens, a lot. We will gain around 3600 ft in elevation, but that will be over a very small horizontal distance - in fact, the trail is close to 45 degrees in slope. Up we go, pole! pole! Air gets harder to find, the air gets colder. Hands and feet are frozen now. The pace is around one step every two seconds. If you keep in cadence its not bad, but if anything throws you off, like you slip on a rock, you are instantly out of breath and light headed. The path is loose gravel and stone. We keep going, and it becomes a test of will and endurance. At least three or four times I asked myself "what the hell am I doing up here?" and considered turning around. Its difficult to create the mental state people feel, other than to say that it is grueling and demoralizing, and extremely difficult.

As we continue to climb, the air gets colder and thinner. I have no idea how long we have been going, but I keep scanning the horizon to see any hint of the sunrise. I look down at the trail of headlamps winding up the hill below us, and immediately have to brace myself on my poles to fight off vertigo, which again puts me out of breath. Onward and upward, as mental and physical fatigue begin to taunt me. How much longer? I look to the horizon again. Is that a glimmer of sunlight? The path changes to weaving between and climbing up much larger rocks. The large steps up really take the wind out of you, and you have to rest after each step. Yes, that is sunlight, we must be getting close. Our guide expertly leads us around and over these rocks, when all of a sudden he lets out a howl, in swahili. I have no idea what he has said, some incantation to the mountain god, some song of thanks and praise. I barely manage to say, "does this mean we are done going up?" We step over the final, large rocks and down on to the ridge of the crater. We have summitted. I am overjoyed to the point that I want to cry.

We rest for a bit and then carry on, mostly flat, to the actual high point. We see the sun rise, and as it lights the mountain we are surrounded by glaciers. The sunrise is amazing.

and I catch a photo of our guide Charles resting next to one of the glaciers

We get to Uhuru Peak, the high point, take our photos and rejoice.

When we get back to the point where we stepped up onto the crater rim, we look down at what we traversed in the night, and though daylight now, we can barely see where we started from - the hut is a mere speck, way way down the steep slope that we must now descend. I mutter, "get me off this god-damned mountain" and revel in the thought that the only direction left is DOWN.

And to think, Mt. Everest is 10,000 ft. higher than where we went. Yes, those people are insane

Casey checks in from Tanzania

2006-06-30T05:47:00.000-07:00

We've been here a week now. Sometimes I look around and feel like it's not much different from being in Mexico somewhere - palm trees, ramshackle shacks where the locals live, hot. There are some quirky things about this country, but again, I think they are the sort of thing that you would find in just about any underdeveloped or third world country. Mexico is more developed than Tanzania though.

First of all is the lack of infrastructure. I have already spoken about the roads. There are some paved roads. The main roads into and out of town are paved, but they are also two lane roads, and the traffic gets quite heavy at times. Other roads are dirt, and they are so bumpy that going 15 mph is going "fast." There are no basic water services. The other day we were sitting around when this big tank truck pulls up. It was dropping off Anne's shipment of water. She has a big underground tank, I imagine it's similar to a septic, but for fresh water. She gets a delivery periodically, and that water supplies her house. Also, the city experiences power blackouts just about every day. Anne has a generator, and every once in a while the lights will flicker off, and then you will hear the generator start up. Of course, she is one of the privileged to have a generator - most of the locals know nothing of this luxury. If you go out driving, you will come upon the few intersections where they actually have traffic lights, but they will be out. And of course there aren't any police directing traffic, so it’s pretty much a free for all. But it works out all right. Much better than the cluster-fuck we saw in China, where people play bumper tag getting across intersections, and traffic lights are merely optional.

We went to the beach a few days back. Beautiful, white sand with water that demonstrates every shade of blue. It was surprising to see a beach this uninhabited, again in the major city of the country. If this beach were in the U.S., it would be lined with condos or hotels, but there were almost no buildings - although development is slowly encroaching. Lots of locals were fishing, either dragging 20 ft. hand-held nets through the shallows, or going out on their "dhukas," small wooden boats with a single sail. There are many dhukas criss-crossing the horizon as you look out across the water. We spent about 3 hours out there, the weather was great, clear sky, nice breeze, and we were virtually alone. Once we had had our fill, we packed up and clambered into "the beast." Suddenly, we noticed this "security guard" standing right next to the truck and staring into the passenger window. This guy had sidled up without any indication - it was kind of creepy. Anne laughed, remarking that as soon as we were leaving he shows up. He wanted a "tip." This is another noticeable fact of life in Tanzania. Everyone expects tips. This guy wanted a tip for guarding our truck, even though we never saw him the entire time we were at the beach. If the cops pull you over, they expect a "tip." (wink wink, nudge nudge) Anne offered the guy a handful of change, and he retorted "no, two thousand" (Tanzanian shillings, about $1.75) Anne said, "no, you can have this." He balked, and Anne rolled up her window and drove off. He was unhappy, but Anne is experienced in dealing with this "shakedown" of sorts, and knows what is reasonable. She doesn't cave into pressure, and isn't afraid to say "fuck you" when she needs to. This is probably the best part of being able to visit someone who knows the lay of the land - you don't get screwed as much.

Last night we went to the Marine house on the embassy compound for "happy hour." The marines live on compound and have a fairly nice set-up. They invite basically anyone to come to the house for drinks, and they show a movie and have some food catered. It was quite nice. Being an unabashed peacenik, I am kind of uncomfortable around military types, but I have to tell you it was a great experience, because these guys are great guys (and ladies) who are very dedicated, and very nice. My problems are not with the military personnel, but with the people who decide to send them into harms way for dubious reasons, and its good to be reminded that these people really are putting their lives on the line for our safety. If you find yourself in a foreign country near an embassy, go in and ask if the marines do a happy hour or anything like that. I understand that this is a common practice, at least in non-western outposts (Asia, Africa, S. America) and they want to have any/all Americans "in the neighborhood" to stop by.

Today we fly off to Kilimanjaro, hopefully to make it to the top. It'll take five days, and if we make it all the way we top off just shy of 20,000 ft, walking around 50 miles total. If we make it, we'll post a picture from the top.

Dropping science

2006-06-29T18:32:00.000-07:00

You never know what’s going to happen when you sit down with The Rooster and get through some beers. It can range from the bizarre to the sublime. We were watching the Pistons seemingly forever ago (although it was really, what, last month), when he excused himself from the bar, walking out to Woodward Avenue and returning 10 minutes later, off the street, with this, handed to me in here-ya-go form:

Life during wartime

2006-06-29T18:30:00.000-07:00

McSweeney’s, coming through as usual:

Larry Rehak, rest your soul

2006-06-27T06:34:00.000-07:00

We’ve lost someone we knew and cared about Thursday, June 22 when H’s Uncle Larry deemed it necessary to take his life. This was a guy I’d spent some time with in the very important 17 years I’ve known her and her family. I’ll remember Larry fondly, as a guy with this quietly acerbic wit, razor sharp actually. He had this great affectation, and carried himself with a specific dignity. I base my opinion of folks on how they treat me, firstly. And that guy was always right-on with me, always treated me with respect (despite, in the early days, I did nothing to earn it) and made it easy to be around him. He was fucking funny as hell, in the few times per year I was in his company.

H and I would infrequently go to Ann Arbor to visit, meeting him at his studio downtown and then later for lunch. He was a clothing designer and had quite a reputation in that community. I remember going into his studio for the first time and being kind of wowed by the designs and tools of his craft all about. It was interestingly weird, being in a fashion designer’s studio, especially when you dress like a slob like I do. But Larry never vibed me about any of that and I took an immediate liking to him. Plus, he was one of my best friend’s uncles and the brother to Fred, a man I’ve admired and respected for all of these years, sort of quasi-detached, surrogate parent to me with his wife, Diane. H is very much like a sister to me. Shit, she is a sister to me. We broke that plane years ago and now her/our family is blasted with this shitty news of his death.

People tend to say glowing things about those who’ve passed, and Larry kind of epitomized that. Granted, I didn’t know him really well. And in these 17 years, I’ve probably been in the same room with him maybe 20 or 30 times. But it still burns a few layers into your psyche to see the people you care about reeling from such a shocking turn of events. Larry was troubled, there is no doubt about that. And the depression he duked it out with for years apparently started landing some crushing blows. What’s worrisome, I think, is speculation on how bad it must’ve been in the last two years, how dark and brutal it was in that hell his mind created, that constant din of pain of misery, the fucking hopelessness you just can’t shake, despite all of the help and medication, friends with support, and kind words. I can’t understand it and I won’t even try. Today, H and her family are emptying out his apartment and on Saturday I’m helping Fred and Larry’s brother Pat empty out his studio. This is an activity that is never easy but is a critical moment in the process that commences healing, believe me, I speak from experience. At the very core of my sadness is the view I’m getting of those really close to him and watching their ache. I hope everyone blows by this with the quickness.

The undead, Little League and creme brule

2006-06-26T08:05:00.000-07:00

We made it to the Friday premiere of the full-length motion picture on which my nephew Sam was the lighting director.

Have I mentioned that he got a full-ride, four-year scholarship to Northwestern and was valedictorian of his high school class? Did I mention that already? That, and he and large group of like-minded independent film heads made this zombie flick.
Despite getting back at 1 a.m., we knew we had to get up early Saturday morning to catch Brendan’s Little League game, where his team was vying for the championship title. They won convincingly. He did pretty well, actually. For the four innings we were there, he drew a walk, got on first, advanced to second and then scored from second on a base hit. Here he is patrolling right field.

And here he is at the plate. This is where the beauty of photography’s permanent record showcases itself. Look at that ball coming in. The ump called that junk a third strike. Now, I thought it was high to begin with, but when I saw this photo, I knew I was right.

It’s at the kid’s fucking shoulders, which I understand is at very the top of the strike zone, no so much IN the strike zone. Little League is funny, umps who can’t officiate, coaches who think they’re playing for some of sort grail and fathers out there reliving their own athletic shortcomings through passive-aggressive displays. Good times. But it was good to see Rian and meet Corey and Joe, and even the elusive Farkas. The Bean looked like he was having fun, and that’s what counts. Plus, they won. Bonus.
We hauled ass back home Saturday to clean, clean, clean and get ready for Installment II of Dinner With Friends. The lineup? Our next door neighbors, Jen and Wynn; Gary and Jason; and Kerry’s friend Jodie, in town from L.A. Jodie, however, could not attend, so it was just the six of us, 2 gallons of sangria and a huge pan of paella. Since we lost Friday night to highway travel and zombie chicanery, we had to bust ass all day Saturday to catch up on cleaning, yard work, food prep, you name it. It was tough, frustrating actually, but worth every hour of it, I think.
Kerry blew out the food, as usual. I don’t think I got anywhere near the kitchen. She started making the paella (yes, two dinner parties in a row with the same menu; we know, we know)

a few hours before everyone arrived. We munched on this killer bruschetta Gary and Jason brought (baquette with tomato, fresh mozzarella and a basil leaf, brushed with balsamic vinegar and olive oil), as well as a salad of cucumbers and strawberries with mint vinaigrette. Kerry also made black bean and banana empanadas, and let me tell you those bad boys are the bomb.

The paella would later turn out wonderfully.

Rice, chorizo, chicken, corn, artichoke hearts, garlic and a few other items I’m sure I’m forgetting. True Spanish tradition calls for eating it right out of the pan, which is what I did. We enjoyed a lovely meal with great company

and, later, some very decadent dessert.

Gary and Jason brought forth this very tasty lemon syrup loaf with raspberry syllabub “flopped on top.” Kerry hooked up the crème brule

It was a lot of work with little time to prepare, but damn well worth it.

Africa, first in a series of many

2006-06-25T15:02:00.000-07:00

Kerry's brother Casey and his wife Mary are in Tanzania for the next six weeks. They both work in the education-related fields and typically take some burly global vacation every summer (last year it was bicycling around Belgium). I asked Casey if he was interested in sending to me some images and text while in Africa, and he graciously agreed. This is a first for me, opening up my little corner of cyberspace with someone else, but Casey's a fucking master photographer and all around super-solid guy who gets a lot of my love and respect. So when he agreed to do this, I was flattered and honored. For once, City Chicken isn't all about me and what I have to say. He'll hopefully be sending to me posts at will and I will get them on here ASAP. Below is his inaugural post on the Chicken.

DAR ES SALAAM, TANZANIA — Part I - Werewolves of row 22. Arriving at the airport, it finally sets in that we are heading to Africa. Wow! Only 18 hours of flying time, 21 hours total, until we get there. We board, and the plane pushes back from the gate - we're on our way. Just as we begin to move, the two year old sitting across from us (we later find out his name is Ian), starts to fuss. The more his mom tries to calm him, the more whining he makes. We're airborne, and mom unbuckles him and takes him into her lap, thinking this will soothe him. He's full-on crying now, and starting to squirm. He's clearly upset. I try to maintain my sympathy, knowing it can't be easy for a two year old to sit still when ordered. Mom's efforts only seem to be making things worse. She begins to tighten her grip, and he begins to wail even louder. She's whispering in his ear, but he's not having it. He begins to fight and kick. Mom clamps down. Ian is squirming like a maggot caught in a sparrow's beak, and he lets out a howl that would make Lon Chaney envious. 20 minutes in and I'm already irrittated. Ian is not calming down. Thank god I brought the Ipod. Earphones in place, I no longer care about Ian's problem.

Arriving in Amsterdam, midnight our time, with a two hour layover. We search out our gate, and sit down to await boarding. There are a huge number of American missionaries heading to Tanzania. They mingle in small and large groups, no doubt cheered by the thought of saving souls on the "dark continent." One large group all wears matching t-shirts, professing their dedication to Jesus and their preparedness to "shine their light." I am just weary and uncomfortable sitting on the floor. I let my eyes wander, falling on the missionaries, rich old tourists, school groups, and a few native Tanzanians that will be on our flight. Then I see him - Lon Chaney Jr. junior, Ian. He's going to Tanzania! Dear God, if you have any energy left over after the missionaries have taken theirs, please don't let me be sitting by Ian.

We're Africa bound now, on a flight that is two hours longer than the first leg. Ian's nowhere in sight. Sleep in almost impossible. Thankfully I have my own monitor in the seat back in front of me to keep me entertained. Before I know it, we're decending. I look out the window as we approach. It's odd - there are NO lights. I thought that as we approached the Capitol city of this country, it would be more "urban," but its pitch black, with the exception of one or two flickering lights out in the middle of nowhere. We touch down. It's 10:15 pm local time, and Mary's sister Anne is there to meet us. Ian is in the luggage claim area, but he's at peace now. Cute kid actually. No hard feelings kid.

We walk out the doors into Africa. Its warm and humid, but not "Africa hot," in fact more pleasant than Michigan. Its dark with not much to see, but it smells of burning charcoal - the cooking fuel of choice in these parts. We clamber into Anne's old-school Toyota LandCruiser, big, deisel, with fold down seats on each side of the back compartment, the truck Anne calls "The Beast." She throws it into gear and off we go. Through "downtown" Dar Es Salaam, which doesn't resemble any downtown I have ever seen before, but its hard to see. Every once in a while we pass a row of battered, shabby shacks - "dhukas" they are called - with people hanging about, trying to sell any sort of thing, or having a beer and watching the World Cup. Soon we are off the pavement, and negotiating the dirt roads to Anne's house. Now I understand why she drives a Land Cruiser. The road seems as if it's been shelled. Anne lives in one of the "nicest" areas of Dar - and her house is in fact beautiful
- but they don't know what pavement is. We weave back and forth across the road, avoiding the largest potholes, but we might as well be driving across an open field the road is so bumpy. We're going about 15 miles an hour tops, and it seems like we're going too fast. Eventually we make it to Anne's house. I'm beyond tired, but a few beers entice sleep. Tomorrow we'll hit the "yacht club," watch the sun set beyond the pacific, and have some cheap red wine.

Colors

2006-06-19T11:36:00.000-07:00

We finally finished painting the dining room (save for some minor cosmetic touch-ups, trim work, etc.). It looked like this before:

And now, I give to you our new dining room. I call the color “Miami Dolphin blue-green.” You either love it or you hate it. We, by the way, love it.

happy campers

2006-06-19T11:34:00.000-07:00

Nothing like giving yourself a weekend of doing nothing but loafing, eating, drinking and otherwise goofing off with one of your best friends. So it was this weekend when me and T-Bone met up at Sleeper State Park in Caseville for some quasi-camping and full-on chilling. I cut out of work Friday a few hours early and took M-53 straight up to the tip of Michigan’s Thumb. I loaded up the cooler with ice and booze, the car with gas and my pockets with loot before I hit camp just after 5. We chilled, got a fire started and had dinner of turkey brats on the tripod over the fire.

Yeah, they were that good. The campground was so-so. Our site was small and they were kind of shoehorned in close to other campers, but it wasn't too bad. I’ve definitely had better. The big draw to Sleeper is the beach across the street. It’s huge and sandy, and sits on a Great Lake so it’s hard to bitch. What wasn’t hard to bitch about was the heat. It was, as Matt D. says, hotter than two rats fucking in a sweatsock. It did cool down a little Friday night. We walked over the beach and wolfed down a tasty bottle of wine that Tom made.

We headed back to camp for a night of drinking, bullshitting and wood-burning. Got up Saturday and headed to town for some breakfast, spending the rest of day driving around and playing putt-putt. We would later jump in Lake Huron for probably the most exilhirating hour of 2006. That water was cold but it hit the spot. This guy was camping across the path from us.

Tooling around the Thumb, we saw some marginally interesting things

… chief among them, this son of a gun. Now, THIS is a car. I keep warning Kerry that I’m going to one day come home with something like this. And I’m not kidding.

I love Lincolns. Those, and the 98s are probably my two favorite “long rides.” They’re like living rooms on wheels, but I’ve also dug their logos and symbols.

Sometimes it is especially delightful to sit around your campsite, thinking of nothing/everything, waiting only for day to turn to night, and to look up and see something like this

Perspective, baby. Eat that shit up like Skittles.

After swimming, we tried in vain to find the Tigers-Cubs game playing on a TV in any one of the many area bars. After the fourth bar, we determined nobody was carrying it up there so we watched some of the U.S. Open, played pool and drank some beer. We headed back to camp for a dinner of buffalo steaks and baked potatoes, assorted “snacks,” and some A.M. baseball on the Freeplay. Tom fucking killed me in Yahtzee. I went to bed shortly thereafter, shamed in my defeat. It was a good weekend.

Even if life does NOT give to you lemons

2006-06-13T12:08:00.000-07:00

Take one of these, or something like it …

… grab some of this stuff …

… do this with it …

… add some of this stuff …

… do this to it …

… and you have this …

… probably one of the best things ever about summer, next to baseball and the sometimes beautifully disproportionate amount of thread to skin on the gender of your choice.

Changes

2006-06-10T06:09:00.000-07:00

I think we are both exceptionally pleased with the way the kitchen turned out. I mean, it’s not like we ripped out counters or redid the floors (the latter we don’t need to mess with, because the entire crib has hardwood, all of it in great shape), rather, we painted it a different color and replaced some light fixtures. On the day of the closing, the kitchen looked like this. You can not, however, see the big dumb lights, composed mainly of a centered cheap-ass saucer-like fixture surrounded by black track lighting.

We replaced the central light, about five months after Kerry bought this much-improved light source.

So, for a certain amount of time, it looked like this, with the new fixture in the middle and the existing rack lighting,

I tore that black shit down and was damn glad it came out clean. I wanted to preserve the slats on that ceiling, as it lends sort of a cottage-y feel to the room.

With removing the track lights, I was left with two small portals in the ceilings with boxes and wires, one at 8 o’clock and the other at 2 o’clock. We found some individual lights, small enough in size to work and throw some light. This job was pain in the ass. I bought from Home Depot some single track lighting plates, about the size of a single piece of bread, especially a small, thin one at the end, probably the last one, it was about that size. Those lights ended up working perfectly. The original lamp yielded only an amber light, so I got a halogen, plug-in job to go under the oven over-hang. The kitchen needed more light, but I wanted capitalize on the wires already sticking out from the ceiling. So, I installed two of these bad fuckers.

They took forever to put in, had to slice out portions of those slats, measure shit, cut the power, be patient, all of it shit I’m not good at. But it worked. Kerry helped and I believe that she is oftentimes the intangible that makes shit happen with efforts of this nature. During my week off, I painted the kitchen. It ended up looking like this

I think we spent more time prepping, taping and cleaning than we did painting, but we very much like the way it turned out. Here, look at it again fucker.

See? Burly/ugly track lights, white walls and black trim around the kitchen window. To, again, this

Yeah, I thought so. The dining room is next, as is some grass seed planting in the back yard, and some much-needed basement liquidating and organization. That’s going on through June to July1. After that, I’m chilling the fuck out for a month and focusing exclusively on watering the lawn, watching baseball and making out. Four weeks. Nothing but.

Speaking of before-and-after, this might be interesting to look at, or not. The day we closed on this house, I took this picture.

Snow-covered and bleak, we were still so very stoked to be in this house. And in the first eight or 13 weeks, we would wake up and remark to each other like we hit the fucking jackpot. “Do you BELIEVE this shit?” And here we are, the smallest house on the block. I shot this today to show a bit of contrast, but a huge ray of sunlight blasted down, creating an interesting blur.

What a difference a season makes.

Tell it

2006-06-09T17:45:00.000-07:00

People who know me well, yes, that's right, all nine of you, know that I have this "thing" for hip-hop. To be honest and more accurately, I've long enjoyed a certain amount of rap music and, yes, I know there is a difference between the two. I don't even think I'm qualified to try to convey any of it here, tonight, but hanging out on a Friday night, readying to turn on the Tigers game and having already met BCL for a coupla pints, I've done some work here tonight with the ever-important background music playing. I've gone from sitting in front of the stereo or rocking steady with the headphones on taking in every note, to finding the right beat, groove, noise whatever, to play the back burner while I'm working, writing, fucking off, grilliing, again, collecting my non-thoughts. So, tonight, I'm getting a ton done, blowing out some divine shit both in-house and out, but never in the outhouse, when the small stereo unit behind my left shoulder catches my attention. It's GURU, he of the Gang Starr and Jazzmatazz series fame, and amid the backdrop thumps and hooks, I hear him talking about, what else, how goddamn dope he is, like, what the fuck else is he going to talk about? He busts two different lines on the same track, among many, the two of them separate but, to me, equally worthy of headshakedom, like "no shit, I can't believe this dude just said that." First, he emphasizes his street worthiness and settles any questions as it relates to his rap intensity when he tells listeners "I put in work like a factory."

I've seen factories. They do a LOT of work there, so this guy, you know, is fucking serious.

But really and somewhat less sarcastically, GURU draws a bead of paralellism that goes right to me, a message that speaks to me, which is what rap, punk rock, metal, speed metal, some jazz, big band music, torch songs, Cubano ryhthms, Klezmer music, fuck it, you name it, at the time time, it hits the best spot. So, I'm at my desk thinking this, that and, naturally, the other, when I hear the rapper emote the following. I actualy had to stop and rewind twice just to get it down because, well, I wanted to hear it twice more and get the word down correctly. I've been blessed with a lot of friends, as I've proudly but humbly noted here prior, AND I have a knack for doing shit the hard way, and for every friend I have, there are two other people who think I'm a fucking jerk. So when I hear homeboy blast: "and all the haters want to throw me off/
bitches wanna blow me off/got diehard fans like I'm Holy Cross," I slap my palms down atop the edge of my desk. The NCAA tourney play-in game reference was priceless.

My nephew rules

2006-06-08T10:31:00.000-07:00

Boy, what a crazy/busy couple of weeks, from working around the house and running around, it seems like the last 15-18 days have been both busy and tedious. I lost a bunch of photos from our reclamation of Dinner With Friends. Chris and Marty, and Jeremy and Amy visited last Saturday for empanadas, paella, house-made margaritas and a generally classic sense of get-together-good-timeness. Sadly, I have no photographic evidence of ANY of it. Trust me, the paella Kerry made was tasty.

What I do have for everyone is, quite possibly, one of the best stories I can tell. As previously mentioned here, nephew Sam P. graduated high school. He was valedictorian of his class. Here he is on stage before his speech. I found the lighting interesting, if not entirely appropriate.

The (young) man earned, through years of hard work and sacrifice hardly any of us will ever know — and I’ll leave it at that, out of the respect he so richly deserves, a full-ride scholarship to Northwestern, one of the premier degree-granting higher learning institutions on the planet. What follows shortly is his high school profile from a publication highlighting the school’s graduates. It includes a list of scholarships, awards, school activities, etc. I remember sitting at my high school commencements, reading the program and the very same litany of accomplishments from the top of the class kids, this chick going to West Point, a guy headed to MIT, etc. and I sat there thinking, wow, these guys worked their asses off. I was always impressed with those cats. And now, a member, the first actually, of our family to blow out some serious grades and scholarships is on his way to Northwestern. I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud of any one person in my life.

Award and Distinctions Earned:
Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy: Valedictorian and Prom King; Saginaw News Member of 2006 Academic Dream Team; Michigan Scholar Recognition, Optimist Club of Saginaw; Youth Appreciation Day Honoree; National Society of High School Scholars; Presidential Educational Awards Program Honoree for Academic Excellence; WNEM-TV5 honoree for “The Best of The Class of 2006; Who’s Who Among American High School Students; U.S. Acheivement Academy All American Scholar.
Membership in School Clubs and Community Organizations: Student Council President 2004-2006), National Honor Society, Model United Nations, Destination Imagination, Ultimate Frisbee, Computer Gaming Club, F.I.R.S.T Robitcs, Fall/Spring theatrical productions.
Volunteer and Work Experience: Michigan Community Blood Centers (blood drive coordinator), Pit and Balcony Theatre Company (light operator and co-designer), Bay City Players (volunteer youth director), State Theatre (light/sound operator), Temple Theatre (light/sound operator), United Way “Make A Difference/Spring Into Service” Day and United Way “Adopt-A-Family.”

Scholarships:
Northwestern University, $126,360 for academic achievement, outstanding community service and financial need; DePauw University, annual fund scholarship, $53,200; Bonner Scholarship, $8,400; Trustee’s Award, $44,000; Ruth Clark and Philip Holton Memorial Scholarship, $4,000; Central Michigan University outstanding student award, $12,000; Superior Scholar Award, $5,000; Anderson-Bastow Academic Achievement Scholarship, $30,000; Scholarships from other organizations include: Catherine Jean MacDonald Fine Arts Scholarship, $1,100 for academic achievement and outstanding community service as a MI resident with family ties to the MEA; Michigan Elks Foundation “Most Valuable Student” state scholarship, $1,000 for academic achievement and community service; Best Buy Children’s Foundation Scholarship, $2,000; Michigan Merit Scholarship, $2,500.

Here is a young man, the son of a single father, with no mom presence, really, to speak of. Growing up, he had no idea what a life of privilege was like. He had himself, his friends and his dad

a guy who probably scratched his head one too many times trying to figure out how in the fuck he’s going to pay for this kid’s college education. So, he did what a lot of parents do, he preached good grades and study habits. And it worked. The kid plowed through courses, stayed clean and employed a focus seen mainly in rebel snipers. Now, I have this nephew, who in about two and a half months will leave the insular, boring and somewhat culturally arid region of mid-Michigan, where the foul stench of belching factories and equally acrid aroma of despair-based ain’t-nothing-changing-around-here-but-the-seasons mentality rules with a feces-caked fist, for Chicago, where he’ll study, grow and hopefully mature under the watch of the denizens of a world-class city. I worry about him, about what he’ll learn and how he’ll grow. He’ll lose his mind a couple of times in his 20s, only to build it back up, a la Steve Austin, faster, stronger, and steel trap-like. I look at this nephew of mine and I regenerate in me a customized, sort of hybrid ersatz sense of hope, power-washing off the grime and sludge that sometimes accumulates by your mid-to-getting-kinda-late 30s. I love what he’s accomplished. I love telling a summarized version of his story. I love the look on the face of people who understand the magnitude, when I tell them my nephew got a full ride to Northfuckingwestern. I’ve never been happier for anyone in my life than that kid. But, really, who am I fooling? He’s 18 and headed to Chicago. He’s not exactly a kid anymore.

I'll remember this one

2006-05-31T08:41:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day weekend hit the spot. We went camping at North Higgins lake with Brian and Kirsten, as well as Chris B. and his pooch Floyd (and no, that’s not some stoner-induced “Dark Side Of The Moon” nonsense). The weather was ideal, even when it stormed like mad starting in the middle of the night Sunday and going strong as we broke camp Sunday morning at about 9 a.m. Thankfully, this bad boy kept us dry as a bone. I’ll buy only Coleman products because they fucking rule.

I didn’t get many shots of the campers, as we spent most of our time eating, drinking and bullshitting, which, I believe, is the entire reason behind camping in the first place. You do all of this driving, take an hour to set up camp and another hour to break it down, endure bugs, other campers and the lack of your creature comforts of home to just simply chill, and to not think about shit, and to do whatever you want with your spare time. I did, however, manage a shot of this pretty girl.

After a night of excessive everything Friday night, Kerry and I drove to her aunt and cousins place on Torch Lake where we spent the day Saturday. There, we enjoyed a lovely tour of the grounds and a wholesome and nourishing lunch, courtesy of Cousin Matt, of homemade guacamole, turkey sandwiches (guac, cucumbers, turkey and provolone on sourdough), as well as taste of the local delicacy, crackers and smoked whitefish pate. We relaxed lakeside for a part of the afternoon before they let us use their showers (I love camping. I hate not being able to shower or jump in a lake) and we headed back to camp for more of the same. This was across the path from our campsites.

And these two were busying themselves quite a bit in it

We took a few small walks down by the lake. On the way, this guy was just lying there.

He had some bomb root structure.

One cool thing about camping is camping equipment. There is an array of gizmos and neat shit people prefer and often utilize, from hand-held hatchets to backpacks, matchstick holders, sandwich makers, you name it. Chris had this cool food prep setup, but I didn’t want to bug him while he was using it. It was this small pot and a propane tank about the size of an empty paper towel holder. He had this small plate thing and made gado gado, which turned out to be so goddamn good, it hard to believe he made it while sitting down on the ground. But I was especially impressed with Kirsten’s tacklebox. Instead of Rapalas, bobbers and lines, however, she has assorted goods one may need around the campsite, from matches to spices.

Kerry and I left our fellow campers Sunday to drive home, avoid the traffic and get some things done around the house. I put together this bomb outdoor fire pit Heate gave to us as house-warming. We brought a little bit of our camping spirit back to Royal Oak, where we had a fire in the backyard and drank beer from our cooler on the back deck.

Drawer

2006-05-24T22:41:00.000-07:00

Desk drawer, recently opened (just after 9 p.m. tonight), good condition, accepting all reasonable prices or trades.

Blades of (not so) steel

2006-05-24T22:17:00.001-07:00

This ceiling fan came with the house, in the master bedroom. It not only hums in a volume that is neither bothersome nor subtle, but had this fucked up wicker-honeycomb pattern on the fan blades. Because it was so loud and ugly, I just wanted to get rid of it and replace it. We found replacement blades at the store and thought maybe cleaning it up, spraying some WD-40 into the moving parts might help. I replaced the fan blades, which was a tedious task to say the least. It looked like this before:

And now it at least looks a little better. I'm assuming we'll get used to the sound.

Fence this

2006-05-24T22:09:00.000-07:00

One of the first remarks I made about this house was that it needed some sort of fencing in the back yard — and by that I don’t mean the intense competition of the popular Olympic floor sport, itself at the very core a physical debate, a cunning exercise in attack and defense. No, we needed something to shroud the fishbowl that was our back yard.

Kerry and I explored every option — installed privacy fence, installed chain-link, doing part of it ourselves, etc. None fell anywhere near what we thought. That’s something else we have to get used to. But the fence was a necessity, not only for our privacy and whatever peace of mind you can establish with four houses all around you.

This what it looked like before, when they first started. It looked like absolute dog shit.

See that white shed and play area to the right? That’s my neighbor’s, and those houses to the back? It gets no better to the right, where a 3-unit apartment building is our neighbor. They’re cool, though. Well, they seem quiet, and young. And even if they do get loud or hard to sleep to, it will be short-lived. Trust me. But that is what they call an “aside.”

So yes, the back yard was wide open but the fence seems to be working out well. Kerry’s colleague added a true opinion on the fence. He said it’s like adding another room to your house. I agree.

Yes, I'm enjoying the sort of sequestered confines of our back yard of my suburban Detroit community. However, I'm the most gassed when I think about my fence not being there, when my boundaries are defined by the edge of some serious acreage, or that I don't need to worry about seeing or hearing my neighbor because he's on the other side of the lake. I love where I am and with who I am.

moses

2006-05-24T21:50:00.000-07:00

mower, originally uploaded by norll.

I had to buy this fucker the other day. I took my mower to the shop by my house because the blade was bent. The report back was that it would cost more to fix it than what it was worth. So, with the grass growing high, I decided on this guy, self-propelled, Briggs & Stratton engine, side discharge/mulcher/bag option. We named him Moses. From the day I moved from home, I've always had shitty lawnmowers, or, more realistically, shitty equipment to use to maintain the grounds of places I rented. Because, you know, my landlords never cared and try as I might, I could only justify doing so much. I didn't give a fuck. Well, now, I give a fuck.

Taking it while I can get it … and nothing more.

2006-05-21T07:43:00.000-07:00

The Tigers are playing their most inspired baseball in about 15 years. And last night was very nearly a pure definition. The Detroit Free Press is calling last night’s game the most important in Comerica Park’s seven-year history, and they’re probably right.

Trying to hold on to, get this, first place, in the American League Central and maintain, again, get this, the best record in baseball, Detroit faced a very smoking Reds team. Granted, they beat the hell out of Detroit Friday night, but Saturday the team did what winners do, and bounced back, shaking off the Friday night loss and winning Saturday in extra innings. Detroit not only came out with big bats, but managed some excellent defensive field platys, being smart in the outfield and keeping Reds runners honest. Detroit makes plays now, doubling runners back to first for an out, whereas before, the man would advance, possibly even to third.

Granted, the young Joel Zumaya did give up a grand slam in the seventh to tie the game. These things will happen to even good pitchers, especially guys like Z who is, what, 14 years old? And the grand salami was given up to Ken Griffey Jr., who made it 540 for his career.

Yes, it is unbelievably refreshing that Detroit, after 42 games, is 28-14. A healthy Magglio Ordonez hit his 11th home run last night. Veteran lefty Kenny Rogers is 7-2 and the club has the best ERA in the majors right now. Everyone is on pace to crush this year. But I know, and most others fan should accept, that the 12-game losing streak lurks in the distance. That the numbers will drop eventually, as will the Tigers standings. Maybe. But in these days and nights, I will look no farther than the next game in what I expect from this club.

Recognition on ESPN? Great. But the real satisfying marker came last night, when it took us 20 minutes to park, when the concession lines, ALL of them, where a dozen deep at each register, when a vendor told me guys were coming up from Cinci to sell beer at the game, when the 45,000-plus crowd on a Saturday night in May was the fourth-largest in Comerica history. It’s unheard of in these parts.

I’m glad Corbett got us on he season-ticket plan years ago because when this team does make the playoffs, and it will, I’ll be there in the upper deck, bitches.There are a lot of people who have suffered through some horrible baseball in this town for a long time, me, chief among them. And nights like last night, as well as the promise of possibly more to come over the course of a long baseball season, regenerates a long-lost optimism. For people like me, who, for years, stood and rooted and hoped for better things, to actually see and enjoy a winning team, even if it is only for this week, I'm having an idea of what others mean when they say "these are days." Because I remember a lot of other days. I remember days going down to the stadium, paying $5 to park and $5 to get in when I had only $15 to my name on a rainy Tuesday night and payday was Friday. And I'll remember nights like last night, sitting in my hard-earned season ticket seats with the love of my life, with money in the bank, and a nice house on a quiet street, and a good job, and a strong freelance career and a big, cold fucking Labatt in my hand, not having to worry about, shit, should I really have spent this money. Add a 10-inning win, and a first place team and a city full of baseball hope and I shall agree that, indeed, these are days.

Soul food, jazz and basketball

2006-05-08T13:48:00.000-07:00

Saturday we took Casey and Mary

to Baker’s Keyboard Lounge at Eight Mile and Livernois, as part of her brother’s belated birthday acknowledgement. We like that place. And the music Saturday night was really something, it was this cat. He was phenomenal, as was the rest of his group. We had a rather memorable dinner of soul food and cocktails. It was quite a night.

Sunday we got up and tried to bang out some errands, but it was hard because a.) we were beat, and b.) we were meeting Megan and Duke at The Palace for the Pistons Game 1 against Cleveland. This helps to take one’s mind off the fucking choke-artist hockey team in the city. Duke came through with the tickets, as well as passes to the Cingular Room, which is this quasi-swanky, everything’s-complementary dining room and bar inside the venue. Very nice.

Before the game, we caught these folks.

The introductions are always quite a display there.

It didn’t take long for Detroit to pull away and make a rout of it

They shut down LeBron’s ass, holding him pointless in the entire second half. Nobody can beat this Detroit team in seven games. Nobody.

Garage rock

2006-05-02T12:07:00.000-07:00

The following is a sort of recap of the weekend. I would’ve posted something sooner, but I’ve had the worst, most fucking relentless virus kicking my ass all over my house since late Sunday night. This thing was brutal, replete with complete and full body aches, organ soreness, a nearly lifeless sense of fatigue, intense stomach cramps, vomiting and the steady burn of a nonstop path to the bathroom, at one point, every hour, to shoot what felt like a rapid stream of cold tea from my ass. It is mid-day Tuesday and I’m just barely starting to feel normal again.

Disclaimer aside, Kerry and I saw something bizarre Saturday en route to the Tiger game. We passed the Woodlawn Cemetery on Woodward Avenue in Detroit and saw this

It looked like the gravediggers had taken some sort of break. There was nobody around at all. No car, no people, nothing. It was kind of strange. We got to the park and the Tigers were just killing the Twins . Detroit would sweep the series with a Sunday win, outscoring Minnesota, 33-1, in the span of three games. Seeing Justin Verlander pitch Saturday was a certain type of excitement.

He is one of a few good young, strong pitchers for Detroit this year. His shit was consistently in the mid-90s all day.

I broke up north later that day, to see Glom and hang out for a night. The purpose of the trip was to visit my brother Frank’s house to score my lawnmower he’d been holding in his massive, insanely stocked garage.

Frank and I are the veritable country mouse and city mouse story. He lives in a rural-type farming community. I’m 10 minutes from Detroit. And I’ve written here before of his prowess with the tools. The guy is amazing. I mean, he’s always been a great older sibling, especially a brother, because he’s embodied characteristics I admire. He has this skill/talent to fix or build just about anything. Aside from being a licensed master plumber, the guy is a total hot rod head, fucking master mechanic, electrician, hunter, gunsmith, carpenter, you name it, he probably knows how to do it and assuredly has the tool to complete the task. That, and the guy’s a quiet badass. He’s a career tradesman about to turn 40. Believe me when I say this: He’s strong.

And not just physically but, as I’d mentioned, very nearly Herculean in character. I’m a lucky guy. I have a lot of friends. And it’s always been easy for me to make friends, I don’t know why. It’s just worked out that way. I’m a writer, both professionally and recreationally. And when you write, as some have noted, you’re really putting yourself out there for any type of interpretation or critique or whatever. I’ve never worried about those elements because, I don’t know, I’ve always been able to divorce myself from those feelings that care about what others say in that regard. Give to me a compliment, I’ll love you forever. Criticize me, and I really won’t give a fuck, trust me. I’ve been able to make friends because people can count on me, because I learned at a young age that you never let your friends down, even — make that especially — at your own expense. I’ve always had my own style. Granted, I’m not the most fashionable fella in town, but I don’t follow too many trends either. My apartments have always looked pretty fly and distinct, and I’ve acquired a lot of some interesting shit. I’ve said all of this here because that stuff didn’t happen by accident. I believe the type of person you are as an adult is formed by, and has everything to do with, the type of person you germinate into as a young adult. As you gain age, wisdom and experience, you’re merely polishing your chrome. And when I was a young adult, I spent all of my time trying to be half as cool as my brother Frank. Dude had the fucking coolest friends, listened to the best music, always had the best weed, the most kicking stereo, man, ALL of the shit that was important in 1985, trust me. So yeah, I’ve put a lot of work into becoming a respectable, reliable, trustworthy person with his own indelible stamp on the world, but I’d be a boring lout without that kind of influence.

So it was especially interesting on Sunday when I stopped over and we began gossiping and bullshitting that my other, oldest brother Joe showed up. Frank said he might stop by to borrow some tools for a job he’s doing for a friend, and lo, he did. We stayed in Frank’s garage for nearly three hours simply talking and goofing off, trading stories, more family gossip and getting some things off of our chests. This is not a normal occurance for us. Our family is fractured and consists of little pools of siblings, sometimes doing their own individual thing, sometimes, rarely, coming together. For me, Frank and Joe to hang out on a Sunday afternoon is an aberration of all things normal. It was both weird and fantastic, me and my two brothers, in the same room at the same time, for something other than a holiday, yukking it up and screwing around.

Frank actually hooked me up with some items he’s had from my late mother’s china cabinet, which may or may not fit the taste of décor Kerry and I have in our house, but it’s still good to have those mementos, finally. It’s been a long time. When my mom died in 1990, everyone but me (and Frank) started clamoring for shit — jewelry, antiques, you name it — like a bunch of fucking jackals. I simply stepped back and went back to Detroit to lose my mind a few times, away from everybody in a city where I had about three friends. I never asked for anything, but always kind of kept one eye open that I knew Frank had a bunch of stuff in storage, holding tight despite my sisters’ entreaties to give to them this lamp or this mirror or whatever. So when I showed up Sunday and he had cooler full of stuff wrapped up in newspaper, heavy glass candleholders, a punch bowl set, some other glassware, and he said “you want some or all of this stuff,” I just sort of coyly and without much emotion said “Sure.” But when I was driving home, I was slapping the steering wheel, happier than hell to have a small piece of my past back with me. I knew it was in good hands all of these years and I never wanted to bother him for it.

So, we hung out for part of the afternoon and I thought to take some shots of the inside of his domain, Frank’s garage. It’s a trove of all things utilitarian, understand that. And not that anybody would get such a dumb idea, but the man has an arsenal of weapons in his home and would have no problem shooting someone trying to abscond with his hard-earned goodies. He has a car lift in the damn thing, so you can get underneath and work on the bottom of your buggy. I’ve never seen so many tools in my life. He has this bad bitch, but the photo doesn’t show the other one next to it, half it’s size, and equally stocked.

Got a screw loose?

Of course, any plumber’s garage is complete with one of these. No going outside in the winter.

I don’t believe that he thinks that much of it. I mean, he’s proud of his stuff and he takes care of his shit, but for a mechanical interloper like me to come in and look around, it’s a barrage of imagery, some sort of marvel. He looked at me almost oddly and kind of smiled when I asked him if I could take some pictures, like his face was saying “I guess, but I don’t know why you would.” If he ever gets a chance to check this out, maybe he’ll see for himself.

Headline change: Self-serving asshole gets new gig

2006-04-28T10:05:00.000-07:00

Rosie O'Donnell to join 'The View'

By JOHN SMYNTEK

FREE PRESS STAFF WRITER

The TV show "Extra" and People magazine were reporting Friday that comic/actress Rosie O’Donnell will be named as the newest co-host of ABC's "The View," (11 a.m. weekdays WXYZ-TV, Channel 7) replacing the exiting Meredith Vieira.
ABC is expected to make the official announcement on Friday's show.
O'Donnell reportedly beat out Connie Chung, Patricia Heaton and Soledad O’Brien for the job.
A lesbian in a committed relationship and known for being outspoken, O'Donnell's addition will provide a challenge to the show's ego mix. Vieira, who was a mediating influence, is leaving to replace Katie Couric on NBC's "Today" show.
O'Donnell's outspoken presence now joins the equally outspoken Star Jones, Joy Behar and Barbara Walters, who works the show part-time. Elizabeth Hasselbeck, a former "Survivor" contestant, is the other regular.

As if there weren't countless other reasons to avoid this TV show like it was a glistening pile of hospital waste. Who, in their right mind, watches this shit? And who forms their opinions of subjects based on this show's banter? You would have to be a back alley-lobotomized dope. And you know the whole thing is rooted in marketing. "Look! We have a big, fat dyke on the show now! See? See how DIVERSE we are?"

Classless jerk motherfucker

2006-04-26T10:30:00.000-07:00

Marc Crawford, assholehead that he is, was fired by the Vancouver Canucks yesterday. This could not have happened to a more appropriate jerk.

Here is a picture of that little shithead in action against the Red Wings, jawing at Scotty Bowman. Crawford, the quintessential classless prick, made a spectacle of himself in 1997, during Game Four of the Western Conference Finals. We shut out the hated Avalanche, 6-0, that game, en route to the Stanley Cup. We won. They did not. That guy can fuck off now and forever.

Good

2006-04-26T10:07:00.000-07:00

From today’s Free Press online edition

Foreign nationals in state prisons could be deported to save money

April 26, 2006

By DAWSON BELL

FREE PRESS STAFF WRITER

More than 700 foreign nationals are confined in Michigan prisons, including 138 who could be deported in short order at substantial savings to state taxpayers, according to a report released Wednesday by a prison watchdog group.

The Citizens Alliance on Prisons and Public Spending report, using Department of Corrections data, found 731 foreign nationals in Michigan prisons as of Feb. 3.

Of those, 138 have served their minimum terms and most of them could be turned over to immigration authorities and deported if granted parole.

Some who are not parole eligible also could be deported to countries that have treaty agreements with the U.S., the report said. At an average annual cost of about $30,000 for Michigan prisoners, the savings to taxpayers could be substantial, said Barbara Levine, CAPPS executive director.

“We need to ask ourselves whether Michigan taxpayers have anything to gain by continuing to imprison non-citizens who might just as easily, and far more cheaply, be returned to their countries of origin,” Levine said.

Department of Corrections spokesman Russ Marlan said state officials regularly review prison rosters for deportable foreign nationals.

But deportation is not an option for many because Michigan’s sentencing rules are often at odds with those of a convict’s home country, he said.

Marlan said some prisoners, deported to their home countries to complete a sentence, have been released and found their way back to Michigan.

Let there be light

2006-04-24T07:07:00.002-07:00

We took a part of the weekend to do a little work around the house.

While a lot of this stuff is, for me and my skill level, some monumental shit, it’s nothing compared to the greater, more salient jobs I hope to complete on this house. I can change all of the fucking light fixtures I want, but those are small beans jobs. Try hanging a door, or knocking out a floor. I know people who have done massive, massive fucking jobs on their cribs. Frank for one, but Vince also immediately comes to mind by not only building a big-ass garage with some extra hands, but the complete remodel of his kitchen. He did everything — knocked out part of the kitchen wall, put in all new countertops, drawers, cupboards, rewired the whole deal, added outlets and probably a bunch of other shit I’m forgetting. But he does all of that himself, and that is something I truly admire because a.) I can’t do it, and b.) I’m trying to aspire to do it.

So, when we moved in, the kitchen light setup here was kind of weird. There was black track lighting laid out around a center, ceiling-mounted light that had a bunch of exposed elements to it. It looked like shit. I don’t have a very good “before” picture, but this is what it looked like when Kerry and I replaced the fixture.

We decided a while ago that the track lighting was kind of ugly,

but it was useful because we there was no light above the stove. While Kerry was gone, I ripped that shit out, went to Home Depot and bought a self-contained Halogen lamp thing that installs under the cabinet and above the stove. The whole thing ended up looking like this, which is much better.

Back when Kerry first bought the house, one of the first purchases was a new porch light. That was about four months ago. With this newly inspired acumen in entry-level electrical work, I decided to replace that also. I popped off the old one

And then installed the housing for the new lamp. I actually had to drill some holes into the siding to get this mounting bracket up.

Again, I know this is really remedial shit to some people, but I was fucking giddy with myself. The end product looks like this.

While considerably small in scope, I was kind of happy with the work we accomplished. We have a lot more to go, but that’s more of a cosmetic nature, and not so much a need-based situation. We need to paint inside, I’d like to replace the screen door (it’s white aluminum and looks kind of lame, we have some furniture and spacing issues to settle, one wall in our living room needs a major art space renovation. I’ll keep you posted.

Candy coated

2006-04-17T08:45:00.000-07:00

Hope everyone had a good Easter weekend, I know I did. We started Friday night with dinner at a new place for us, the Oak City Grille on Sixth Avenue in downtown Royal Oak. Excellent food, I recommend it highly. We were then invited to visit Heate later in the evening for a backyard fire at their house, which, as usual, was divine.

Part of the plan Friday night was to start and finish a mass Easter basket production on which we’d embarked. The plan was to make 50 Easter baskets for the ladies at the St. Mary’s Residence in Detroit, a home for mentally disabled adult women. It’s an interesting and very humbling place, actually. These six nuns, none of them seemingly under the age of 70, run the entire facility, which provides the day-to-day care for approximately 39 adult women with ailments ranging from retardation to schizophrenia to a general state of “slowness.” These nuns do all of this on a volunteer basis, with no state funding, relying entirely on the charity of others for everything from preparing daily meals to maintenance around the building and everything in between. Many of the residents have no family, or at least no family members with any time or interest to come visit them. One of the nuns told us that a good amount of them are simply written-off or disowned by family members because of their illness. Kerry took me there a few months ago. We dropped off a TV set and DVD player for a couple of their little TV-viewing rooms. The place looks like a four-story dormitory building. They have laundry, a small cafeteria, an industrial-type kitchen and, of course, a church service room in there. Most of the women receive Social Security, which pays for their room and board and their medications. Some residents take as many as 9 pills a day, so after their SS loot pays for the necessities, they have, like, $8 left for themselves for the month. Now granted, most of the women stay inside and it’s not like they need a lot of spending cash, but money is money and irrespective of your mental state, it’s still good to have. The sisters invited Kerry and I for lunch for dropping off the TV equipment and in the middle of my Hungarian goulash, I had the idea to do something for them for Easter.

Hence, the basket project was born. I went to Michael’s and bought small, plastic baskets, roughly 50 of them. I didn’t want to do anything too garish, plus I thought expenses could add up quickly here. So I got the baskets, Kerry bought some candy, we scored some hollow plastic eggs that we filled with jelly beans, bought some more candy (if I’m not mistaken, each basket had one of the following: a mini pack of Starburst, an egg filled with jelly beans, a couple of Dove mini-chocolate eggs and some mini-Cadburys. I think that’s everything). This is what the production line looked like in the end.

There were actually more baskets in the living room. We packaged them up and dropped them off at St. Mary’s on Saturday morning. We then hit Eastern Market. We went mainly for flowers.

I would later go into Rocky Peanut Co. for some bulk chocolate treats. We like their sugar-free selections, but they do have quite an amazing array of goodies there.

Kerry’s folks and Ri-Ri came over for Easter dinner Sunday, one that Kerry absolutely blew out in the kitchen. It was an amazing meal and a really long day, but totally worth it.

Take a look at this bad bitch

2006-04-11T11:27:00.000-07:00

Kerry and I bought this bad boy last week.

Got it hella cheap, too. She bought patio furniture this weekend and we're picking it up tonight.Going to set up the fire pit soon, get some chairs out there and that back deck is going to The Place To Be. Come on by anytime.

Welcome back, Tigers

2006-04-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

Despite losing, 5-3, to the 2005 World Champion Chicago White Sox, Monday’s home opener was just short of epic. Last year was pretty much the best ever, with game time temps of about 68 degrees and Dmitri Young hitting three homers, but this year was a certain amount of fun. Drawbacks to Opening Day? Too many drunken idiots, fucking unbearably long lines at both the concession stands and the rest rooms, and the drunken idiots. The upshot? A general sense of mirth and enthusiasm and the optimism that comes with a fresh start to the season, a new general manager and eager, young players. I picked up Corbett just after 9 and he gave to me my half of the mini-season ticket package, which is always exciting. We drove to Greektown, parked and hit a restaurant called The Ham Place for breakfast. Corbett definitely digs this place and I’d never before been. I got hooked up with some scrambled eggs, turkey sausage, hash browns and wheat toast, while he threw down a huge bowl of split pea soup. The food was solid and the place itself, well, was aptly named.

While we sat and chowed, the cook started making what, at first glimpse, began to look like the trappings of an impressive-looking sandwich. Of course, my chest started to hurt just watching the contents of this thing, but it was quite a process. It started out looking like this

before they added the egg …

and then, of course, the stack of bacon.

It looked both nasty and delicious, if that’s even possible.

We met up with some of Brian’s friends at the Old Shillelagh. There we had some Stella Artois before heading to the Cock and Bull for more beer. We stopped by this new place called Steel before heading toward the park. En route, I saw a car with this front plate.

I surmise the driver to be either a full-figured gal, or a lady who prefers male lovers with generous endowments, or quite possibly both.

One nice tradition about Opening Day is the masses as you get closer to the park.

I saw something kind of interesting from on high. Heading to our seats — which Brian upgraded us about 20 rows in the upper deck, with two seats right on the aisle — we could hear the haunting and charming sound of bagpipers. Here is the concourse before they came through

And here it is after. I like how you can see the space people made for these fellas

We settled in for the game, the announcement of the lineup,

… the ceremonial first pitch from Detroit’s favorite son, Jerome Bettis

It was a lovely day within a very festive environment. The Tigers home opener is very nearly a holiday in Detroit, with a lot of reverie and a ton of boozing it up. Corbett and I made sure we contributed to tradition. Some people, however, tend to overindulge. This woman, for example.

She started nodding off like a junkie right after the first pitch. I should’ve known when she wobbled the 10 feet from the entranceway to her seat, in our row, in a blinding 10 minutes. And this poor girl also felt it necessary to sleep off the morning’s Jagermeister.

That, or the gangbang ran late the night before.

We left our seats in the second inning to check out the merchandise store, grab a pretzel and some more beer. We later made our way to the lower level of the park while he smoked and I watched him smoke. Speaking of smoking, Corbett gets the Gear of The Year Award with this smokin’ sweatshirt.

It’s an original from 1984 and once belonged to his now late father. For Brian and his siblings, I’m sure they wish he was still around. And I do too, because I’ll bet the guy was pretty fucking cool. I know his son is. He’s a good man, a solid journalist and a great friend, and I’m humbled to be able to say that about him. Some dude offered to take our picture.

I have no idea why I’m doing the “Number 1” thing. Well, the club is in first place for now, so I guess it applies, but man, I think that looks really stupid. Number 1. Number 1 of what? Speaking of looking silly and numbers. I felt like taking a fiery Number 2 when I got a load of this guy. There are some things best left at home when you come to the park. If you’re a grown man, those items include your baseball glove (unless, you know, you really think the manager might summon you to the playing surface to help out in right field), anything work-related and, of course, your fucking shee-shee club shirt. Hi. I’m pretty.

The game was pretty uneventful, as the Tigers played rather uninspired baseball. Craig Monroe had a serious two-run jack to go with a stunning catch in the outfield. But in the end, starter Jeremy Bonderman gave up some dumb pitches. Tiger-killer Jim Thome took Zumaya deep. I look forward to racking up many more. Yesterday marked my seventh home opener, and the second with Corbett. I look forward to many more and hopefully with more friends involved, too.

Telltale sign

2006-04-10T06:08:00.000-07:00

It's 9:03 p.m. right now and I'm at my desk in the office ... AT HOME. I'm doing right now one of the truly blissful things I do every year that seems to make things really, really right. I'm getting ready to head downtown for the Tigers home opening. This marks my 7th Opening Day in Detroit, and my third with Corbett. I took the day off and in about four hours, I'll be watching some live baseball. Today's forecast? Sunny and a high of 64.

Toronto '06

2006-04-04T11:14:00.000-07:00

I can’t speak for Kerry, but I know that I’m still riding very high from the last weekend’s (and a long one at that) visit to Toronto. It was both relaxing and fun, with a lot of self-pampering and equal parts indulgence. We got into town around 6 p.m. on Thursday, after making hella good time. We checked in, chilled for a spell and admired the view from the room before taking off.

We stayed at the Sheraton Centre, where the room was nice and the indoor/outdoor pool was a welcomed luxury. After check-in and chill-out, we paid a visit to Queen Street, kind of tooling up and down looking for a place to grab a drink and some dinner. We stopped at the Horseshoe for a beer. We left after the beer because the bartender was clearly uninterested in serving us drinks. We hauled ass out of there and back to this Indian place Kerry suggested, this fantastic little joint called Trimurti. We started with samosas and a couple of beers. They brought us these things. I have no idea what they’re called, but to our delight, they tasted exactly like Munchos, but they were about four times the size.

Kerry ordered the lamb marsala and I the murgh zaphrani, a boneless chicken kebob marinated in yogurt, spices and saffron, and covered in tandoori.

The dinner was near perfect, save for this young Asian couple at the table next to us who could not stop playing with their camera, constantly taking pictures of one another from across the table. Seriously, the dude must’ve shot about 35 pictures of this woman. They kept goofing and clowning with it and it really was getting obnoxious. They set the timer on the camera and started taking pictures of themselves. That’s when Kerry took it upon herself to lean into the frame of one of their shots and make a face. When they checked the screen on the back of the camera to admire their handiwork, and saw her goofing in the background, I think they got the point. Aside from that, dinner was sublime.

We headed down the street to The Rivoli, which was actually kind of nice. It’s a live music venue and apparently a popular one, but it was Thursday and not a lot of people were out, so we headed upstairs for drinks.

It was an enjoyable visit until about 30 minutes into it and the “music guys” up at the bar (read: the dork with the $150 Stanton headphones and the laptop programming the night’s playlist of bullshit electronic music) started with some sounds that were just gross. It was this weepy, wannabe-obscure, pussy techno that seems to be so popular with the “lounge set.” Judging by our mutual “let’s get the fuck out of here” expressions, Kerry and I had enough and bolted back toward the hotel. I had a couple of nightcaps at the hotel bar and we crashed hard and soundly in our big, comfy bed.

We got up Friday, sleeping in until 9 and had to head downstairs to talk some hotel personnel because the valet guys fucked up Kerry’s car. Just a couple of scratches, but still not very cool at all. I mean, come on, it’s a Ford Focus my little Portuguese friend. Small body, tight wheelbase, very easy to turn and negotiate. We took care of that, before heading here for massages, courtesy of Kerry. I was a massage virgin before this and now I think I might be corrupted. Wow. That was 60 minutes of bliss. We came out of there recharged, loosey goosey and ready to go. We figured that 1 in the afternoon on a Friday would be the best time to go to Ikea, as opposed to say, 2 on a Saturday afternoon. So to the Scandinavian retailer we went. We didn’t do much damage though, roughly 50 bucks on some shelves, a pasta canister, some picture frames. We split Islington and went to the Hockey Hall of Fame for T-shirts and hats for me. Kerry scored huge for her brothers, but I don’t know if they’ll read this before they get the goods, so I won’t spoil here. After that it was back to the hotel for a swim in the pool and a little relaxing before heading to what would be one of the best dining experiences she and I have had in quite some time.
We kind of freestyled it Friday night for dinner. We didn’t know what we wanted or where to go, so we started looking at options in a couple of dining guides. We settled on this place, a quaint Italian dining room just north of Little Italy, near the University district.

Kerry ordered one of the daily specials, the spag and meatballs. I took somewhat of a chance and ordered the broiled grouper. I call it a chance because I’ve never before had that type of fish and I was rather hungry, so I wasn’t in the mood to experiment. I’m glad I did. It turned to be some of the best fish I’ve ever had. It was little “meaty,” but it was seasoned perfectly. Our meal looked like this and I killed everything on my plate.

Plus, the place was just kind of sharp and charming.

We walked to Little Italy, passing this place. Sometimes getting to the point of your signage eliminates any questions about your goods and services.

We had some more pints of Stella at Marlowe’s before walking around College Avenue a bit. Kerry ducked into a store for some gum.

Further examination of the window revealed some really cool, old-timey, wind-up tin toys. These things were really bomb.

We stopped at Beba Lounge, which was a total waste. Fifteen bucks for two bottles of beer. And it’s kind of hard because I order a beer and Kerry orders a beer and they serve them to us and then announce the price. I swear, I would’ve gleaned great pleasure from shoving both of them, fat-end first, clear up someone’s ass in that place. Fuckheads. We crossed the street to window shop when I caught a glimpse of this comic book place.

Ever watch “The Simpsons”? I swear, in Toronto, I found the living, breathing equivalent of the pretentious comic book guy from the popular animated TV program. Tell me there isn’t a resemblance, striking or otherwise.

We took a cab to some place way, way east on Queen that was recommended to Kerry by a friend, some place called The Drake. There was a line, so we walked down the street to The Social, where we had more Stella. We took a cab out there and luckily had a pretty smart, older cabbie. I just wanted to get away from the pretty boys, the low-fi/retro, hipster posturing, and the cancer-causing agents of that whole “scene.” I basically tried to convey to the hack, despite my inebriation, that we just wanted a place to get a shot and a beer and be around some “real” people. He took us here
And, believe it or not, it wasn’t that bad. It was nice and clean in there.

The crowd was normal and kind of friendly and by the end of the night, I got to see some absurd shit. This woman fell from her bar stool and flat on the floor. She then got up and five minutes later, was playing the spoons. Strange. At that point, we should’ve gone home. You know, we’re drinking more Stella and now shots of Bushmills. It’s about 1 in the morning. These things spell disaster. We left that place and headed around the corner to this bar called The Irish Embassy, which was also very nice.

We had a long, drunken conversation over some late-night fish before taking a cab back to the room, where Kerry would later hiccup herself to sleep and I would stay up, short of catatonic, watching “Family Guy” reruns until 3 a.m. I could not, for the life of me, recall what those episodes were about.
Enter Saturday and a couple of vicious hangovers. Kerry was a little more wrecked than I, but I was in bad shape. We got room service breakfast and that cost us only $487. We went back to bed, woke up, back to bed, peeled ourselves from the sheets, took showers and finally made it out of the hotel at a bright and chipper 1 p.m. We had more lunch and kind of tooled around before heading to a part of town called The Annex, thanks to the suggestion from SCREETUS

I liked it there and had we not been so incredibly beat-up from the night before, it probably would be been even more enjoyable. We checked out some shops around there, even trying a little hair o’ the dog at a little pub, but that didn’t do much for either one of us. We took the subway back to the hotel, took a nap and then made plans for our last night in TO.
It was more like a date night than anything else. We had dinner at the Green Mango (excellent Thai food) and then went to a 9:20 showing this Canadian indie film, “Six Figures.” It was OK. With indie films sometimes comes “indie acting,” and this movie certainly showcased a lot of it. Still though, it was a good, slow night. We got out of the movie house at around 11:30 and hightailed it back to the hotel. We were done drinking for the weekend and the rest of the day was catching up to us. We crashed, got up, had some crepes on Queen Street and drove back to Royal Oak.

We have a thing for Toronto. It’s a clean, friendly, seemingly very efficiently run city. It has exciting nightlife, a throbbing arts and culture community, effective public transportation, a rich history, proud sports franchises, and a general sense of tolerance unseen in these United States. People aren’t going around Canada blowing each other’s fucking brains out with the frequency we see here. I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong, but it’s, I don’t know, refreshing to exist somewhere, even temporarily, where you’re not surrounded by people who have this global sense of entitlement. And you know what? Canadians know more about our current events and the history of our country then we do of theirs, so you really can’t knock a damn thing. That, and the people are just so nice. These were the two toughest customers we encountered all weekend.

And we also ran into another member of their clique, but Kerry wasn’t backing down.

It’s a bicycle-friendly city. They seem to be everywhere, especially a great amount of places to park and lock them.

Toronto has some kickass graffiti, too. These is just a micron of the work I noticed around town.

Thanks TO, looking forward to seeing you soon.

(Not so) Mad Skills

2006-04-03T12:51:00.000-07:00

I’m one of the least handy men alive. It sucks. I’m trying, though. I’m trying to learn/teach myself to do new things, to make some improvements around the home and try to tap into this lineage of handyman-ness that seems to have bypassed my part of gene pool completely. My dad and my two older brothers are all in the trades — plumbers and pipefitters to be exact. But they’re all very skilled auto mechanics, electricians, drywallers, masons, you name it. They can build a house from the ground up with a roll of tape, three blades of grass and some tar. Growing up I’ve seen my dad (and even my mom) restore a cabin and an entire farm house. I’ve seen my old man build not only a deck on his cabin, but decks on the cabins and houses of friends of his. I’ve seen my brother build a three-car garage that’s arguably bigger than most people’s houses and was, by far, bigger than any apartment in which I've ever lived. My brother Frank wired an apartment basement for me with two electrical outlets that were not previously there. My brothers know cars inside and out. They’re all quite good at that stuff. I am not. I’m a journalist. I’m good at taking notes and later being witty. Look at me, look at witty I can be. Want to see funny? Watch me try to pound a fucking nail straight. Now that’s some funny shit. Watch as I lose my mind over stripped nuts, quit in the middle of installing wiper blades or call in reinforcements when I can’t figure out how picture hanger anchors work. Well, since Kerry bought this house, I’ve been slowly — and this really is the operative here — overcoming my dense stupidity when it comes to matter of improving things around the home. She and I installed a cabinet above the terlet in the washroom. And I, all by myself, installed a new medicine cabinet in the bathroom. And just last week, I did this

Installing a pot rack holder from the kitchen, despite the ceiling joists not lining up in accordance with the width of the unit. “What fucking idiot would do THAT?!” I screamed to myself. Well, I got it up and looks like this

Now, we just need better-looking pans and cookware, seeing as how they’re no longer sheltered. Next up? Replacing the light fixture in the kitchen, the one on the ceiling. If I don’t fry myself like a piece of cod, I’ll be doing the same to the front porch light.

Good things

2006-03-29T11:50:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-21T06:15:00.001-08:00

I think what these folks did was pretty cool.

Soon people, soon

2006-03-21T06:10:00.000-08:00

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

Then/Now

2006-03-20T08:56:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-20T08:52:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-14T07:58:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-14T07:38:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-05T18:15:00.000-08:00

Ice

2006-03-05T18:14:00.000-08:00

A Bear of a good time

2006-03-05T18:06:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-03T22:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Gone in sixty seconds

2006-02-27T18:30:00.000-08:00

Take yourself one (1) tall glass and fill it with ice cream. Fill the rest with Vernors ginger ale. Wolf.

OK, so it wasnt' exactly gone in 60 seconds, but it went a lot faster than I thought it would.

Long and strong

2006-02-27T18:28:00.000-08:00

I’ve always had a thing for big, strong American cars. I’m not much of a car guy in that I’m not so mechanically inclined, although once, in high school, Dave Smokoska showed me how to get a car that won’t start, to actually start, by using a pen to push the carburetor flap open a couple of times. “Works for more than just writing,” he said. He was a good guy and a good friend when we were young men and I hope his life is going well. So yes, I like big cars and I cannot lie, with a specific preference in mid-60s to mid-70s hoop rides, namely any Cadillac or Oldsmobile, especially the 98 (booming with the trunk of funk/all you jealous punks can’t stop the dunk; thanks Mr. Ridenour), and the Buicks Electra, Bonneville and LeSabre. I found this Caddy going through some old photos. I took it at a car show on the western side of Michigan in the summer 2004. It was a fun day. The weather was warm and sunny, not at all like this 20-degree BULLSHIT. So yes, here’s a cranberry red Fleetwood for y’all.

Dog sitting, literally

2006-02-16T13:32:00.000-08:00

We have this lovely girl staying with us for a few days.

Hi. I'm dumb.

2006-02-16T13:31:00.000-08:00

Got stuck behind this gross monster on the way home from work yesterday. And I’m not one of these anti-SUV cats, either. It’s a free market, buy whatever you want, gas cylinder-wise. Having said that, I think it’s dumb and silly when you have the money to spend and you buy something like THIS.

GROSS! Even the steering wheel was yellow. Yeah, yeah, you’re an Army Ranger, you can sever my spine using only a piece of your toenail. I get it. But you still look like a flame driving this thing, of your own volition, down the street.

Me and the boys (and their folks, and some other friends)

2006-02-14T05:20:00.000-08:00

Got to spend some quality time with my nephews this past weekend, as we met up with their parents, and Steve and Leslie for some brunch action at Lili’s. Always good to see the lads. I don’t get to see them as often as I would like, and it’s really a goddamn crying shame because I live about five minutes away from them. Still good to see them. Max and his dad checked out the fish tank.

Max also had a particular interest in a flower on the table.

which he eventually got a hold of to show to his momma

And this big rig, this is his (not so) little brother Sam. Check him out. He is, I think, nearly 5 months old.

Love that guy.

I just shake my head

2006-02-13T13:55:00.000-08:00

I see Vice President Dick Cheney accidentally shot a 78-year-old man while on a quail hunting weekend. This administration never ceases to astound me. I’ll bet he stopped the bleeding by stuffing the wound with cash.

Nice shooting there, Dickie Boy. Fucking idiot.

I prefer XXL, actually

2006-02-07T07:13:00.000-08:00

It was an interesting and fun weekend amid the Super Bowl XL hoopla around town. The Motown Winter Blast was a total success, or so it seemed. Kerry and I went on Friday night, got killer, free parking and ended up having quite a time. It was very festival-like down there. I had heard more than one person compare it to a Mardi Gras-like environment. It was almost surreal, to be walking along Woodward, south of Grand Circus Park, on a Friday night, and see masses of people whooping it up, coming in and out of bars, lines of people ambling down the usually empty or not running People Mover stations, and a sense of mirth nearly leviathan in scope.

Overheard more than once were folks saying things like “It should be like this every weekend.” Yes, it should people, but sadly, it won’t, at least not for now. Check back in August, during the jazz festival, where they close off Woodward from Hart Plaza to Campus Martius, and line the street with food booths and musicians. I bet turnout for that will be impressive, seeing as how so many locals were downtown over the weekend, having themselves a good time in the middle of winter. Put out some good music and 70-degree temps and I bet the place will be packed. Still though, we had a lot of fun. The crowds were great, dominated mainly by Steelers fans. The game didn’t mean as much to me as what national and local media were saying about the city, and it seems that most of it was glowing and positive. And locally, most people appeared to behave themselves. However, the Chicken can go no further without extended condolences to the family of the 24-year-old woman shot to death early Sunday morning outside of Mavericks. Reportedly, police said in the Freep that the shooting was a result of a “bumping incident.” Somebody bumped into the wrong dude and got shot for it. No, that’s not fucked up or anything. That, and I think I read somewhere that a homeless guy was stabbed to death over the weekend. I really thought that something twisted would happen in the days leading up to the Super Bowl, like some out-of-towners were gunned down coming out of a hotel, but security all around downtown was tight, or so it seemed. But again, it was weird and exciting to see downtown lit up like that.

We were having so much fun, my pants started to glow.

And I’m sorry, but this was too good to pass up.

Oh, and I snapped this for my boy Thurston. This kid was in front of us and I actually asked him to hold still so I could get a picture of his jacket. “I have a friend of mine named Thurston,” I told him. And I do.

I didn’t take up many freebies, save for The Rooster getting us into the Sports Illustrated Super Swimsuit Party Saturday night at The Emerald Theater. Sadly, it was a HUGE disappointment. We got corralled into a red carpet media area where he waited for nearly an hour and a half before being let into the party, which is all we wanted to do in the first place. For 90 minutes on that red carpet, it was nothing but local losers and no names. A Detroit Lion came through, as did convicted rapist and former Macomb County Sheriff William Hackel. Some swimsuit models showed up eventually, which was ultimately good for the eyeballs.

Whatevs. The big hype of the night was that asshole wigger/whapper/neo-country bullshit opportunist Bob Ritchie, oh wait, sorry, Kid Rock. He was slated to play at midnight and he eventually showed up, as did that hanger-on/minion buddy of his, Uncle Kracker. We could’ve stayed for that concert, but we got in, had a couple of quick pops and got the fuck out. Forget that guy and his shitty music. That, and it was a total cock festival in there. Nothing but guys. Ball Soup. Pecker Party. It was billed as one of the biggest parties in town, but when you’re throwing down your gig in a snowstorm, 30 minutes away from downtown and on the same night as Maxim and Penthouse are having their parties, you’re probably shit out of luck. And we were. It was packed in this place and they had the stage open for dancing, including this aspiring prostitute. Oop, wait, sorry about that, she’s probably majoring in marketing or some shit.

Turnout, from a celebrity standpoint, was kind of sparse. There were the abovementioned “musicians,” as well as former NFL QB Mark Rypien, Darryl McDaniels of RUN-DMC, Eli Manning and Hall of Famer Lynn Swann, who is running for the Republican governor seat of Pennsylvania. So, I guess, he can fuck off. And that pretty much was it, which is disappointing considering that the list of invited guests included the following: Cedric the Entertainer, Terrell Owens, Reggie Bush (Heisman Trophy winner), Matt Leinart (another Heisman winner), Vince Young, Clinton Portis, Warrick Dunn, Carnell Williams (NFL Rookie of The Year), Edgerrin James, Curtis Marttin, Jerry Rice, Evander Holyfield, Lennox Lewis, Brandi Chastain and about a dozen other jocks.

I’m not complaining by any means. I wasn’t there to see any of those people or talk to them or interview them or get my picture taken with them. I managed some fun out of it, enjoying some quality time with my friend, The Rooster.

Now, the game is over and everyone is leaving, we’ll see how clean the sides of the freeways and downtown stays. They’ll usher in all of the homeless people they swept off the streets for the weekend and I’m sure downtown will go back to the dull roar it was before Super Bowl madness ensued. But make little mistake, a Friday or Saturday night in downtown Detroit is a lot livelier than it was, say, five years ago. There is more to do, more people actually living down there and a general sense of interest/pride in the city, which can only be encouraging, no matter where you live in metro Detroit.

We like you too, Dan

2006-02-03T13:18:00.001-08:00

I like this guy a lot more today than I did yesterday. Finally, someone with a respectable thing to say about Detroit (although he does make some lame points). I’ll take it any day over people who point to Detroit and go “Ha Ha!! Your city is ugly and your economy is weak!”

Getting revved up about the Motor City

By Dan Shaughnessy, Boston Globe Columnist | January 31, 2006

DETROIT -- I come to you in praise of Detroit. That's right. I like Detroit. In fact, I love Detroit. I could live here. Really.

It's fashionable for out-of-town sports columnists to invade a Super Bowl host city and trash the place. If memory serves correct, I may have been guilty of this once or twice in the past (Houston, we had a problem. Yo, Jacksonville -- have you Big Gulp yahoos built a three-story hotel yet?). But not this time. Who needs Miami, Tempe, or Southern California? We have Super Bowl XL right here in the heart of the Motor City.

Motown has had its problems in the last 40 years, no question. Crime and unemployment hit hard. Just last week Ford announced more devastating layoffs. There has been flight from downtown, and a lot of the great old institutions (Hudson's Department Store) shut down or packed up and left. There are boarded-up buildings, and the glass in front of the cashier at White Castle by the downtown bus station is thicker than the lens of the Hubble Telescope.

But the place is coming back, I tell you. It's a real city with a real downtown. It has real taxi cabs, four big league teams, and hard-working people who aren't afraid to eat red meat, drink brown liquor, or say, ''Merry Christmas." You can still light up a smoke in your favorite downtown bar without getting arrested.

Detroit gave us Ernie Harwell and Al Kaline. Detroit is where Mark Fidrych became a god. Detroit had the Lindell AC and Hoot Robinson's, a couple of baseball taverns where you never asked to see the wine list. Detroit has the Red Wings, one of the Original Six, who sell out every game, downtown, and feature the most talented roster in the NHL. Meanwhile, the Detroit Pistons are the best team in the NBA, a unit of actual adult basketball players, winning nightly in a suburban building called the Palace of Auburn Hills.

Detroit gave us Diana, Flo, and Mary. It gave us Berry Gordy and Smokey Robinson and the late David Ruffin and the Temptations. It gave us Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band and the James Montgomery Blues Band. Detroit gave us the late Joe Falls, plus Mitch Albom, Mitch Ryder, Barry Sanders, and Bo Schembechler.

Detroit gave us Rosa Parks, Henry Ford, Stroh's Beer, Lionel Trains, and Walter Reuther. It is home of the world's largest tire, an eight-story Uniroyal that served as a Ferris wheel at the New York World's Fair in 1964. Detroit is where the Lions play at home on national television every Thanksgiving. Detroit gave us Ty Cobb, Gordie Howe, and Bill Laimbeer (OK, never mind that last one)

Detroit gave us ''8 Mile," Eminem, Kid Rock, Uncle Cracker, Jackie Wilson, Madonna, Martha Reeves, Joe Louis, Ted Nugent, and Dick Vitale. (Vitale was coach of the Pistons when Detroit traded the No. 1 overall pick to the Celtics, who turned around and swapped it to Golden State, in effect getting Robert Parish and Kevin McHale for Joe Barry Carroll.) And it was the Detroit Tigers who lost to the California Angels in the last game of the 1967 season to give the Impossible Dream Red Sox the pennant.

Detroit gave us Marvin Gaye and Aretha, who sang, ''When my soul was in the lost and found, you came along to claim it."

The city's soul has been lost for a while, but Detroiters are determined to reclaim it. Mayor Kwame M. Kilpatrick says this is Detroit's chance to reintroduce itself to the world. He says this is his city's ''coming-out party."

No less than 10,000 volunteers are working with the Super Bowl Committee, and they are killing us with kindness this week. They're eager to answer all of our questions and quick to apologize for anything that's less than perfect. Several people told me they're sorry about the rainy weather. There was hail nearby yesterday.

No problem, Detroit. We did not come here for the weather. In fact, local climate is perhaps the most overrated Super Bowl ingredient. Last year's weeklong abomination in Jacksonville was not saved by any great Florida weather. Most of that week felt like Chelsea in March. It was damp and drizzly just about every day. Houston was no better the year before.

Certainly San Diego and Arizona (and Miami next year) can promise a few sun-splashed days, but most Super Bowl activities (eating, drinking, client-schmoozing, and gambling) take place indoors. In Detroit, we expect the weather to be terrible, so there is no chance for disappointment. Nobody brought their golf clubs to Super Bowl XL.

Folks from Detroit have been the butt of jokes for so long, they're trying almost too hard to be nice this week. It's not necessary. Really. This is a place with real people with real problems. No one sweats the small stuff, and you can be pretty sure the local librarians would let the FBI look at a computer if it had been used to e-mail a bomb scare to one of the local universities.

NFL big shots contend that a Super Bowl pumps $300 million into the local economy of a host city. Detroit can use the boost. Last week's crushing news from Ford is not something the locals can sugarcoat, not even during the annual festival of gluttony that is the Super Bowl.

Given up for dead a few years ago, Detroit has survived and appears to be coming back the way Cleveland and Baltimore and Pittsburgh came back. The golden days -- when GM custodians had summer homes and their wives got new eyeglasses every year because their health plan said they could -- are never coming back. But the Super Bowl has come back to Detroit, and some of us are glad to be here.

Dan Shaughnessy is a Globe columnist. His e-mail address is dshaughnessy@globe.com.

Mover, not so much a shaker

2006-02-01T05:35:00.000-08:00

I got this idea from Dirty Jase. I’ve compiled a feature here on everywhere I’ve ever lived. I was raised in this house,

from the age of 5 until 20, in what I considered to be a normal, rational, well-adjusted upbringing. My dad was a plumber, my mom a nurse. I had a lot of great friends in the neighborhood, did well in school, hit it hard when I got to the teen years. My two oldest sisters and oldest brother were long moved from that home by the time I hit my formative years.

Moved here at 20

in late-August 1990 and this was my first time away from home, 90 minutes south down I-75 to Detroit, well, the suburbs of Detroit, but school was in the city. I made this ultimate leap with my friend HR. She would later prove to be one of my best friends. We’re like siblings now, 15 years of growing up together will do that. I moved in there in August and four months later, my mother passed away. I was 21 and even 15 years later it’s still kind of tough to digest, although it’s a lot easier now than it was then. It was still a good place to live, though. Nice apartment. Those two upstairs windows in the front? That was my room. A lot of Slayer and Public Enemy going on in there. I went home for the summer,

I did an internship at the local newspaper, stayed at the old house, which my brother bought off my parents before my mother passed. Went back to school in the fall.

I mustered up some goddamn balls and moved into the city.

I thought I was so cool filling out address labels with the word “Detroit” on them. The apartment was bizarre, this huge room with a separate bathroom and kitchen, with a window that looked down into this beat-up courtyard.

It was quite a lesson, in so many ways. It was a great-looking apartment, neighborhood and building. I looked at it three times. And the night I moved in, the first night I was in there, and the sun went down, it was like everyone around my block was holding a skeet shooting contest, I never heard so much gunfire in my fucking life. It got so bad I would later move out, after walking past the body of a dead man on E. Grand Boulevard, resting comfortably atop a short wall about 50 feet from Liquor Plus.
It was crazy there. I was a student, so I scheduled all of my classes during the morning and afternoon. I came and went as I pleased in an apartment building with about 70 tenants, all of them black. My unit was at the end of a hall, which I liked. My neighbor was an effeminate male who fucking loved gospel music. This, I disliked.
I learned two very valuable lessons in that apartment. First, unless your body is riddled with bullets, don’t try calling the Detroit Police Department. My first Saturday night in the crib, I’m digging the whole deal, it’s a nice night, I have the window open, looking out to the back 40. Some post-season baseball is on the TV, the beer is cold, the nuts are salty (not THOSE nuts, asshole). I hear a commotion. I look out from my third-floor view into the back alley and see that this poor guy is getting his ass kicked by two other dudes. Did the pair attack him? Do they have weapons? Did the guy on the ground getting stomped like a bee, did he somehow have this coming? Do I go help this man? Ah, I know, I’ll call the cops, tell them what’s going on. I call the cops and get this demanding broad yelling at me, and at the same asking me, what’s the nature of my call. I tell her this guy is getting beat up in the alley behind my building. “I can see them,” I tell her. “They’re kicking and hitting him.”
“We’ll have a car there in about 45 minutes.”
“Forty-five minutes?” I yelped, almost indignant, forgetting, clearly, where I was living. “This guy is getting his ass kicked right now. You can’t get here quicker than that?”
“Shuggah,” she said, “it’s Saturday night, somebody getting they (sic) ass kicked somewhere.” This is a shot of the alley where the guy was getting his beat-down.

On a side note here, as I was taking this photo, I could hear a dog barking behind me. I thought to myself “boy, I sure hope he’s not a stray.” I turn around to see this scary pit bull behind a makeshift sort of fence and I raise the camera to get a shot of him, before three of his buddies come shooting out from behind him, barking and running straight at me. This is me hauling ass.

Once I realized they were contained, I took a picture of them, from the safety of my car.

Lesson No. 2: Use spray-paint only in well-ventilated areas. The ideal venue for that would anywhere outdoors. I used it to paint part of my kitchen. I had a small kitchen window that barely opened and kitchen cabinets that were this industrial quality aluminum-steel. I thought they needed a splash of fresh paint, so I bought three cans of Krylon and started to add the first coat and then a second, in the kitchen on a November day. Twenty minutes later I stumbled out of that room, like a rummy from a saloon, overcome by the fumes. I aired the place out and split for a few hours, but man, that was a really dumb idea.

I looked at that apartment twice, both times during the day. It was a beautiful, tree-lined street. The other buildings on the block were brick and charming and it had a weird, big-city feel that I usually saw on TV or in movies. But after I moved in, and the sun went down, it as if every single resident on that block, went outside, drew a gun and started firing. It was insane, and it freaked me out. I lived like that for about three months before I called my brother Frank one night and told him what was going on. He suggested I move, which I did, from Seward Street, to Sixth Street in downtown Royal Oak, at corner of South Washington and Sixth Street, inside Aldor Manor

above what was then Repeat The Beat record store

I wish I had pictures of the apartment, it was really sharp. It had a cool tile bathroom and one of those big-ass ceramic old-school sinks with the ribbed surface to the left of the sink for the water to drain down. I wrapped up my final year of school in that apartment and they were some truly great times. About a year later, I moved to 803 S. Center with HR, John Waack and Lee Malone. I earlier lamented aboutthis place. at my old blog.
In a span of 11 years, I would move in and out of this house four times between this move and where I now reside so, heretofore, I’ll refer to that place simply as 803.
I stayed there for years before I split in 1995 to move in with Benny at 18650 W. Warren in Detroit on what I would, and still do, refer to as the “west side-west side.”

The apartment was phenomenal, roomy and spacious with this insanely long hallway from which rooms shot out on both sides. We threw a football back and forth down that hallway it was so long. It was located above a used appliance repair store and had this great bar, Chick’s Bar, a block away. Plus, we paid, like, a nickel a month to live there. I stayed there for just over a year, all the while working at the Ann Arbor News, from 4 p.m. to midnight, on their sports desk. It was great. My roommate worked banker’s hours, so when I got home at 1 in the morning, he was asleep. And when I got up at 11 or noon, he was gone. We saw each rarely, maybe one day a week. There was a stretch where we didn’t see each other for three weeks straight. When we finally did run into each other in the living room on a Saturday afternoon, we were like “Hey!! What’s up?? Shit, let’s go to the bar, haven’t seen you in a while.”

Things got crazy in that apartment, as the weather warmed and the fucking hoods came out in force. Two things happened at that address that were oddly monumental in my life. Once, my roommate woke me up at 9 a.m. on a Sunday (this, after I got off work at 1 a.m., got home at 2, lounging and getting high until about 5 or 6) morning. He wakes me up and ushers me out into the dining room where, on a table, sits a line of cocaine about as long as my arm. “Do it up,” he says, rubbing the palm of his hand upward across the front of his nose, from the fingertips down to the heel of his hand, rather quickly “That’s for you,” he said, pointing to it. I just looked at him in disbelief. Dude, I was sleeping. And I don’t even want this shit right now. You go ahead. I turn around to hear him not only wolfing down this line but to see two of the neighborhood’s nastiest, wasted junkie hookers you could imagine (think: rail-thin; bruised upper thighs), sitting on the couch. I look at them, I look back at him, I look at them again. This can’t be happening. I start back to my bedroom, stunned, when he comes up and puts his arm on my shoulder. “I got one of them for you.” I went back to bed. The place was big enough where I didn’t hear much.

The other fucked-up scenario happened when I was at work. Some fellas with guns came and shot up the entire side of our building, about five feet below our living room windows, and leaving a rat-a-tat line of bullet holes along the building, below my bedroom window and my roommate’s bedroom window. There was an incident in the apartment behind ours with this wigger asshole named Keith who had a party, someone got beat up, left the party and would return later in the company of some REAL gangsta niggas, who took it out on our building. I come home from work, again at about 1 in the morning, to find four Detroit cop cars in front of my doorway

I moved out two weeks later, and in about 3 more weeks, I would be here, in San Francisco, living with Dirty Jase.

That was a fun time, carefree and delightful in one of the world’s most beautiful cities. It was also a tough time. My stay in The City was brief, but well worth it and I still owe a hearty thanks to my friend for his hospitality. I returned to Michigan in November 1997, riding an Amtrak from San Francisco to Detroit, stopping in Colorado for a week. When I got back, I moved in the house on Maplehurst in Ferndale I rented with my friend Ethan.

We had a blast in this house, and those were some good times with him, but I was a miserable fucker in those days. I was out of control, drinking way too much, working this impossibly shitty job at a mortgage company, not writing and not publishing. I was always broke, always drunk and beating myself up over a situation that didn’t go so well with a girl I liked. I cleaned myself up, somewhat, and moved back to 803. That lasted about a year and I moved into this place down the street.

I was there for just over a year. It was there I started working at the newspaper company that employs me now. That apartment had zilch for aesthetics. It was gross and small and had low ceilings. But, for the first time since college, I was living on my own so that was kind of fun. I would later move back into 803 to ride things out. It was down me and Heidi in 803 and she would move in with the man she would ultimately marry. That was in 1999 and I stayed in that big-ass, four-bedroom house all by myself for two years. I watched the 9/11 coverage in that house all night long. I would move from there to this smaller rental house in Ferndale in 2002.

That house kind of sucked. Those were tough years. I had to put my dog to sleep while I lived in that house. Ten days later, at the age of 32, I had a heart attack. That fucked me up for a while, emotionally and whatnot. A piece of something (probably undigested bacon) broke off in my main artery and jammed it nearly shut. I had a stent put in, quit smoking cigarettes and kept a very close eye on my cholesterol, fat and sodium intake, as well as initiating an exercise regimen that was previously unseen in my life. I’m better these days. I’m due for a checkup, for things have been well in that department the last couple of years. I had a brush with death while I lived in that house and it taught me a lot about the value of life, not just mine but those of others. For three days I sat in a hospital bed alone, thinking of the shitty things I’ve done and said in my life, all of the mean, aggressive shit I put off on people who didn’t deserve it. I cooled out the temper, and the excessively constant binge drinking and a lot of the negative bullshit in my life. Like I said, I quit smoking, and that is one thing of which I’m extremely proud. I haven’t smoked one since, not even a puff, not even one little cheater ciggie in more than three years. Nothing. While that was a mess of a situation, it turned out for the best. It changed me as a person, sort of redirecting the puck of life a little closer to the net. Yeah, I still booze it up now and then, and I like to puff the kind, but not at all with the insane frequency I used to. The only other worthwhile thing to happen in that house was I met Kerry while I was living there. I would actually classify that as monumental.

I moved from Almont because the rent was a challenge to manage, paying nearly a grand a month in rent and utilities. I found a great apartment in Hamtramck, on Caniff, at the corner of Brombach.

I knocked my rent almost in half and was again taking part in some urban living. It felt good to get back in that environment, for a short while, but I got sick of it quickly. Admittedly, the apartment was a fantastic place to live. The landlord was super handy and the place was completely re-done before I moved in. I stayed there for a year before I moved in with Kerry on Oct 1. of last year. Two months later we would move into the house she bought on a fantastic street in Royal Oak.

All of those addresses served to build part of the foundation that is me. They all represent something, a certain time in my life, a specific reflective element of my being. Since I was a kid, I’ve always bored easily, which I believe is the root cause of my active imagination. I get bored in conversations with people, so while they’re going on, and I hear what they’re saying, I imagine them, I don’t know, morphing into a Muppet or something. As it was, I would often tire quickly of my environment. I have moved a lot, if you can’t tell. But it seems like the last two have been moves where I’m going nowhere but up, emotionally, financially, spiritually, whatever. I'm genuinely happy, stronger and I fucking love myself. I have both arms wrapped tightly around all of my friends and the people who care about me. I’ll never digress from here. That ascension will continue.

Tooling

2006-01-30T08:04:00.000-08:00

With Super Bowl XL a week away, it's a mad dash in downtown Detroit to get shit done and cleaned up. A lot of streets have already been closed and there appears to be scaffolding and trucks everywhere.

I screwed around downtown a little bit on Saturday, shooting some restaurants and doing a little bit of freelance housekeeping. Poked my head into The Woodward, this new, style-y kind of restaurant slated to open today inside of the Campus Martius Building. No menus available, but the inside looked sharp, a lot of slate rock, wood appointments, very sleek, but not too stuffy. I spent some time on foot, which is always good, not to mention good for you.

I putzed around in New Center for a little bit, shooting the new Frank Taylor restaurant, Grand City Grille, before taking the Lodge service drive back north. It turns into Hamilton, which is a street I’ve never before been on. Interesting, to say the very least. Lots of fucked up-looking buildings and people everywhere.

It was a nice day and an unusual amount of people were out, but they were mainly punks and derelicts, none of them friendly by even a modicum of means. I get really tired of ghetto territorialism. This is MY neighborhood. YOU are not welcomed here. I’ve been getting that trip since the day I moved to Detroit. As a young journalist I once covered this protest outside of a Detroit supermarket. Some community group was giving the owner a hard time for selling old, outdated food, but the neighbors were having nothing of it. A group of them nearly pummeled the protestors, as well as the press covering the event, namely me. I thought it was curtains for the Chicken with this big dude up in my shit with both feet, talking about “We don’t even want you motherfuckers here!” I would’ve left on the spot, but I had a job to do and I stayed to do it. It was quite the exercise/lesson in ghetto mentality. Fine with me. Keep your rotted fruit, green meat and 40-dogs on credit. Knock yourself the fuck out. So when I was coming up Hamilton Saturday, I got my fair share of shitty looks, especially when I’d park, get out and take some shots, paying extra special attention to the dude by the bus stop and estimating that it’s about, oh, 100 feet between me and the weirdo over by the corner. Hawing about whether I wanted to shoot one building in particular, I kept circling back before finally doing it, much to the chagrin of a guy having a sidewalk sale consisting of old doors, broken shoelaces and his pancreas. By the third time passing, he kept mad-dogging me, finally standing up from his seat and yelling at me. Don’t worry fella, I’ll leave you and your pocket full of piss alone soon enough. With that kind of attitude, you deserve to have shit like this on your block. Bitch.

I'm sure that THIS is going to last

2006-01-19T12:49:00.000-08:00

From mlive.com today

New kiosks to offer directions in downtown Detroit

DETROIT (AP) — It's going to get a little easier for people to find their way around the city.

Detroit said Thursday that workers have started installing 35 permanent kiosks to help visitors and residents get around downtown. Officials hope all will be ready in time for the Feb. 5 Super Bowl at Ford Field.

The 9-foot tall, green kiosks are adorned with an ornamental cap of the Detroit skyline. They display arrows pointing to locations including sports stadiums, Campus Martius, Cobo Center and Hart Plaza.

A map of downtown is located inside a window on each kiosk.

I guar-awn-tee these things will be destroyed by this summer. Some hipster shitheads will pry the ornamental caps off and do something dumb with them like hang them around their neck, or the junkies will abscond with them and sell them for scrap. Expect the windows to be busted soon, if they’re not carved upon first with words like “fagit” or “fuck you bitch.” Urine will be the new coat. Good luck.

Because they got more rhymes than J.D.'s got Salinger ...

2006-01-19T12:08:00.000-08:00

One of the many reasons why the Beastie Boys continue to inspire me, nearly 20 years after I picked up “License To Ill” and 17 years after “Paul’s Boutique” changed the way I listen to music.

From NYTimes.com

This Is Not Spinal Tap: A Concert Film by Fans

By LORNE MANLY
Published: January 19, 2006

In the decades since Woodstock, many a concert film has gotten mired in its own clichés. Cameras on booms swoop high over the crowd. Handheld cameras off to the side lovingly capture guitarists teasing out notes or windmilling riffs. Obligatory shots of ululating fans follow - all, increasingly, on pristine high-definition video.

But as the Beastie Boys set out to commemorate a concert at Madison Square Garden, the hip-hop group had a different idea. Why not smash the model?

They decided to lend hand-held video cameras to 50 fans, told them to shoot at will, and then presented the end result in movie theaters in all its primitive, kaleidoscopic glory.

The result of this brainstorm is "Awesome ... ," which will be shown Saturday night at the Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah, before being released by ThinkFilm in late March. The movie is more than a new twist on an old form. "Awesome" - its full title praising the fans' involvement in the final film cannot be printed in this newspaper - plugs into some of the currents surging through the media and entertainment worlds.

Technology has unmoored some the constructs that have girded those businesses for decades, giving the consumers of pop culture a growing ability to watch or listen to their entertainment on their own terms and on their own time, and re-evaluating the role of traditional distribution companies. "Awesome" pushes that tension further, giving the ultimate user a chance to actually create the content. "It's the democratization of filmmaking," said Jon Doran, a producer of the movie.

As with most films, of course, there is a benevolent despot - read, a director - involved. And that would be Adam Yauch, who is known as MCA in the band, but who prefers the archly pretentious nom de plume Nathanial Hörnblowér for his directorial and photographic endeavors.

New York punk rockers turned rappers turned caring hip-hop artists and family men, members of the Beastie Boys have more than most musicians used technology to involve fans in the creative process. They have been posting a capella songs on www.beastieboys.com, for instance, and inviting fans to use those building blocks for remixes of their own.

While perusing the message boards on the site one day in mid-2004, Mr. Yauch came across a concert photo snapped by a fan with his cellphone and found himself taken with the shakiness and rawness of the image. "The energy of it looked cool, and I thought it would look interesting to document a whole concert," Mr. Yauch said.

Three days before the October 2004 concert at Madison Square Garden, the Beastie Boys decided to go ahead. The band posted a notice on its Web site seeking volunteers. The instructions were simple: " 'Start it when the Beastie Boys hit the stage and don't stop till it's over,' " recalled one cameraman, Fred Zilliox, a 35-year-old cook from Keansburg, N.J. "Other than that, it was up to us to do whatever we wanted."

The camera-toting fans took those instructions to heart. They shot the band, they shot the fans, they shot their fellow camera operators. Four even took their cameras along on their bathroom breaks.

"I wasn't very jumpy," said Sharon Gruber, a 26-year-old fan from Bayside, Queens, who was sitting in the top-most row of the Garden. "I basically shot a lot of close-ups of the stage."

Then Mr. Yauch, Mr. Doran, assorted editors and others took over. The postproduction phase stretched more than a year as they waded through nearly 60 angles and about 100 hours of material. (The band supplemented the 50 camera-wielding fans with five friends who had digital video cameras and several high-quality cameras fixed on stage.)

Though one of Mr. Yauch's favorite concert films is "Pink Floyd: Live at Pompeii," "it's basically the antithesis of this movie," Mr. Yauch said with a laugh.

"Live at Pompeii," filmed in 1971 in a 2,000-year-old amphitheater devoid of fans, is filled with languid shots without a cut, some shots lasting five minutes. The longest cut in "Awesome" barely breaks a minute. Many shots clock in at less than a second. All told, the hour-and-a-half "Awesome" contains 6,732 edits.

ThinkFilm, the independent distributor behind films like "Murderball," picked up the movie last fall for a fee in the low seven figures. (The film will cost the Beastie Boys about $1.2 million when the sampling fees are added in; the band returned all the Hi-8 Sony cameras (a step above a typical camcorder) to the stores where they were bought, in some cases for a full refund.

"I loved the notion that this was a film for the fans, by the fans," said Mark Urman, head of ThinkFilm's theatrical division.

The film will open on March 31 in 10 to 15 markets, including New York and Los Angeles; a DVD will be released about three months later. But to attract people who may not be hard-core Beastie Boys fans - the band's latest album, "Solid Gold Hits," has sold fewer than 140,000 copies since its release in November - ThinkFilm and the band are lining up other promotions.

At Sundance the Beastie Boys will be the headliners at a party next week being given by MySpace, the social-networking Web site, to celebrate the debut of its filmmaker-community site. And MySpace will hold a contest urging its members to create a video of one of two Beastie Boys songs, "Sabotage" and "Shake Your Rump."

MySpace, in its two years of existence, has allowed more than 660,000 aspiring bands and solo artists to upload their music to the site, where it can then be discovered by the site's nearly 50 million members and perhaps even by music labels. "We're trying the same thing for filmmakers - a platform for our users to express themselves creatively," said Chris DeWolfe, the company's chief executive.

Independent filmmakers will be able to put their films on the site, allowing users to stream and watch selected work at no charge and making it possible to network with other filmmakers. But while music label representatives regularly troll MySpace, it remains to be seen whether studio executives will follow suit and deviate from the typical way talent is discovered.

Still, movie executives understand the business is changing, and they may end up combing through what promises to be a virtual slush pile of submissions. "I don't rule it out," Mr. Urman of ThinkFilm said.

Progress?

2006-01-18T07:07:00.000-08:00

The Free Press reported today briefly about the Motown Headquarters building downtown and its pending doom. They also reference detroitfunk.com’s
page of the building. They say that thing is going down any day now. I owe a certain amount of thanks and gratitude to The Rooster, who in his creeping, crawling and climbing about our fine city, presented me with these goodies from his travels as a birthday present, some paper relics from the building. Once they level that thing and put a fucking Starbucks and a parking lot in there, I’ll still have a piece, albeit small, of the city’s rich musical history. Thanks, money.

Detroit continues its spit-shine for Super Bowl XL. Streets are being cleaned, unsightly building facades have been renovated, new bars, restaurants and other retail operations have opened up shop downtown where nothing, and I mean, nothing, previously existed, and viable housing has been created where once rats and weirdos only roamed. Great start. Listen, as I initiate the golf clap here.

My mother had a term for this type of insta-clean, she called it “perfuming the pig.” My allegiances are torn on the new development like this in the city. I’m all for it, especially bars and restaurants, as I have a vested interest in those entities, for every new one that opens, I write about it and, ergo, make a little freelance cash. So open up all the shi-shi martini bars and “ultra-lounges” you want. But again, and my motives are purely selfish, much of the new developments will see nary a dime of my loot nor a slice of my interest. A $12 plate of waffles from restaurateur Frank Taylor and former Detroit Lion Robert Porcher? Don’t think so. Killer loft space at $3 a square foot? Looks great, but it’s out of my price range and I have no interest in being a part of Wayne County services. A new, bumpin’ nightclub with fancy blue lights, $10 drinks, a $20 cover, too much security everywhere and insecure people overdoing it on overpriced clothes and blind machinations? Fuck that and fuck you for even building it. I’ll take a Heineken and a shot of Crown at the bar at the end of my street, thank you.

Misguided duality aside, the mayor — and his cozy developer pals in their orgiastic no-bid love fest —
can tidy up the city all they want, especially for the big game. International media, corporate hoo-hoos, movers, shakers, celebs, the eye of the nation on the city, all of the hype will mean nothing in the face of two very important elements — if everyone behaves themselves and nobody acts like an idiot (especially with a gun), and the city maintains the momentum long after the game.

All it takes is one fool to sully the whole deal, one malcontent with a disregard for anything but himself (and maybe his “boys”) to undo whatever it is this city is trying to get done. Look no further than two specific instances in recent years. On June 23, 2004 while maybe, I don’t know, 1 million people were packed into downtown Detroit for the annual fireworks display, some knucklehead opens fire into a pack of revelers, shooting nine and killing one person, 48-year-old Donald Murphy. Last year, during the early days of the North American International Auto Show, a pack of homeboys got into it inside Cobo and then moved the fight outside. Couple that, with Pistons fans showering the Indiana Pacers with debris as they left the court following the now famous brawl at the Palace and you have a fraction of the litany of shit people around the country don’t like about us.

Which, ultimately leads me to this — why should anyone care? Does it really matter what the eyes of the world sees when it looks at Detroit, or if the editor of the London Times thinks the city is a raging shithole? Katie Couric? Tony Kornheiser? Busta Rhymes? Does it concern us with what they think? Should it? The throng of Super Bowl people coming to town? When Feb. 5 comes and goes, so will they, so it matters not how clean the gutters are, or that they have ample opportunity to get high-priced call girls sent to their hotel rooms, or that they are even ARE enough hotel rooms. Because when they leave, and the alleged spotlight dims and fades, we are still going to be left with our crumbling infrastructure, our tattered bus lines, our bulimic skyline, mismanaged mayor’s office, three-ring-circus of a city council, painfully unacceptable illiteracy rate, fear-inducing crime rate and so, so much more. Address those concerns and start sanitizing this city from the inside out. And in the meantime, Maxim Magazine is having its Super Bowl party at The Max, downtown, so fuck it. Pass the Chandon and watch me get my swerve on, bitches.

Hank

2006-01-13T06:32:00.001-08:00

This is an interview with Henry Rollins from the Washington Post. I dig this guy, fully and completely.

Rollins Live (Updated 1.12.06)

Henry Rollins
Actor, Musician, Spoken Word
Wednesday, January 11, 2006; 2:00 PM

Updated 1.12.06 a.m. | 1.12.06 p.m.

Actor, musician and spoken word performer Henry Rollins was online Wednesday, Jan. 11, at 2 p.m. ET to discuss his career, pop culture, the news and anything that's on your mind.

(Photo Courtesy 2.13.61)

Rollins has come a long way since growing up in D.C. He first made a name for himself as lead singer of '80s punk band Black Flag. Then, with his own Rollins Band and as an actor with appearances in movies ("Johnny Mnemonic", "Dogtown and Z-Boys") and TV. In the past decade, though, Rollins really hit his stride performing one-man spoken word shows -- addressing topics ranging from politics to the environment to sexuality to his own neuroses. He's also host of "Full Metal Challenge" on the Learning Channel and the upcoming (April 1) "Henry Rollins Show" on the Independent Film Channel. Since the beginning of the war in Iraq, Rollins has also toured with the USO to perform for troops in the Gulf.

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Washington, D.C.: You clearly know the difference between supporting a war, and supporting the people who have no choice but to fight in that war. What's your take on why so many Americans don't understand that you can support the troops without supporting the actual war ?

Henry Rollins: I think the president has done a very good job. Fox News has done a very good job and a lot of conservatives have done a very good job in blurring those lines. I think there was a concerted effort to make people who ask questions about the war seem unpatriotic. Which is completely offensive to me. Because you can't rationally attack someone who has a conflicting point of view any other way on this topic.

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Maryland: Hey Henry --

Two things: First, I wanted to thank you for something not mentioned in your introductory write-up, the fantastic stuff you've done with 2.13.61 publishing -- not only bringing us your words, but important works from writers ranging from Nick Cave to Joe Cole, from Iggy Pop to Hubert Selby.

Secondly, to get a little more irreverent, how did you wind up recording with the almighty Shatner, and what are your thoughts on the results?

Henry Rollins: The Shatner project was a request from Ben Folds, who is a great musician. He was producing an album for Shatner and asked if I would take part and I said life is too short -- and said sure.

What was interesting is that we had no song. We just went into the studio and recorded what happened. The result was great and I've spent a few evenings at the Shatner home since and it's been great. He's a very nice man.

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Washington, D.C.: Hi Henry,I'm curious about your thoughts on satellite radio and other avenues, such as blogging, that are now allowing us to exercise our right of free speech.

Henry Rollins: Satellite radio I think remains to be seen how well that's going to work. In theory I like it. I just don't know if people are going to dump traditional radio for it.

As far as blogging, I think it's great. Perhaps it'll teach Americans how to write, and form a sentence. And I think having an opinion is a very healthy thing and blogging gives people a chance to articulate without impacting much else on someone else's life.

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Arlington, Va.: I really enjoy your spoken word shows. I enjoyed the story of your train trip across Russia. My favorite was your story of going to see Kiss live.

I would give you a hug for all of your USO work.

The Question:Were you a vegetarian at one point? Did you give it up ? If so why?

Thanks

Henry Rollins: I am basically a vegetarian who will sometimes eat red meat when there's no other protein option. For example, in the middle of nowhere on a USO tour. Past that, I'm a vegetable and fish guy.

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Potomac Falls, Va.: How do you stay so healthy and train when your schedule calls for so much travel -- is it just finding a way to pump some weight, do cardio, stretch and eat well?

Henry Rollins: Eating well is becoming easier on the road as more places are health conscious. Gyms are easy to find anywhere there's electricity and traffic. Time is the hard part, but I do my best and I learned a long time ago that without recuperative sleep, good nutrition and constant exercise, this high stress lifestyle of traveling, etc., quickly takes a toll.

And how do I do it? I just see it as a very important thing and make sure I get it done.

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Washington, D.C.: Mr. Rollins,

How has the experience of growing up in the DC area affected your music/acting (i.e. are you more politically aware than if you grown up in Kansas)?

Where in Arlington did you live?

Thanks.

Henry Rollins: Growing up in D.C. affected me musically by nature of being in the D.C. music scene and having people like Ian Mackeye be such a heavy influence on me. My mother spent her whole career working in the government, basically trying to help Johnny to learn to read, so politics was always around me.

As far as my acting, I'm just trying to get through that day, so where I came from will not help or hinder. Fear of failure gets me over that wall.

In Arlington, I lived right behind right behind the Marriott on Pierce Street. The apartment building has apparently been leveled.

We all left home and migrated across the Key Bridge. I became an Arlingtonian. It was finances. I worked for $3.50 an hour in 1979.

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Arlington, Va.: Will a version of the Rollins Band tour again? When?

Henry Rollins: I hope so. And I am working towards that.

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Anonymous: Can you lift more than Joe Piscapo?

Henry Rollins: I doubt it and who cares.

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Sacramento, Calif.: How do you adapt your spoken word shows to international audiences? Do they get the stuff about Walmart or do you talk about the things that have more mass appeal (like your trip in Siberia)?

Henry Rollins: Good question. I do a lot of shows internationally. I am very aware of losing impact if I tell a story with too many "inside" references. So when in Germany, I leave out the Fox News names because I'm going to leave them behind if I talk about O'Reilly or Hannity. That is not to say that I dumb down the message, because the audience isn't stupid. But there's a way to have impact with an audience and concentrate on broader themes and that's where the travel stories come in marvelously.

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Silver Spring, Md.: Can you share with us one of your fondest memories from your childhood/teenagerhood with Ian MacKaye?

Henry Rollins: I think my fondest memory would just be having Ian as my friend for over 30 years and there's been so many good times, it'd be hard to pick out one. It is one of the good fortunes of my life to have him as my friend. He's truly inspirational to me. I often ask 'What would Ian do?' and he's been a great help to me.

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Washington, D.C.: Dear Henry,Why should we listen to you? What is your aim in adding your voice to the public discourse. Money, fame, responsibility or something else. I'm not saying that you're not intelligent and articulate but I'm thinking in more general terms. With the constant spin and occasional bald lying that are thrown around in today's public discourse why should we believe that you are not infected by the same insane bias and underlying agenda.

Henry Rollins: There's a great possibility I am somewhat infected. And I would never assume to be so important than anyone should stop what they're doing and listen to me. I do think I tell a pretty good story. Past that, your point is absolutely valid as far as could I be as corrupt as anyone I say I am against. Absolutely. But money or fame or an agenda are really not part of my agenda.

Freedom of speech and expression is what I'm after.

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Silver Spring, Md.: I just started reading "Devil's Knot : The True Story of the West Memphis Three" by Mara Leveritt. Are you still involved with the defendants? Has any progress been made in freeing the boys or obtaining retrials?

Henry Rollins: Yes, I'm still involved. There was today an alarming news byte where state governor Huckabee (of Arkansas) says in his opinion there has been no new info brought to light that would make the case in any way compelling to be retried. In light of the fact that DNA evidence from the crime scene was processed and from what I know the results are waiting to be analyzed, I don't know how he can say that. Those who find themselves interested in this case can go to the WM3.org Web site. Or read Mara Leveritt's very fine book.

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McLean, Va.: Henry,

I have seen several of your spoken word shows and really enjoy hearing about your travel adventures (I cannot enter an airport without thinking of your "standing in line" rant). What are your top three favorite places to visit and why?

Henry Rollins: Afghanistan, because while dangerous it is unbelievably fascinating to me -- historically and geographically. I have been there twice with the military via a USO tour, but given the opportunity, would love to stay for an extended period to learn more.

Parts of Africa I have visited have made me very curious and inspired and made me want to explore more.

The other very interesting place: Russia, where I visited five times and find the people, culture and history fascinating.

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Los Angeles, Calif.: While in Iraq did you perform classic Black Flag songs such as "Revenge," "No Values," and "Damaged"? And do you think you might become the next Bob Hope?

Henry Rollins: On USO tours I go on my own in what is called a handshake tour. Much like what Brad Pitt and George Clooney do -- you hang out, tell stories, crack them up, etc. No music has been performed as of yet.

As far as being the next Hope, we'll leave that to Wayne Newton's very capable dyed black coif.

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Silver Spring, Md.: Because you have been doing your spoken word tours for so long,you've covered numerous topics. Is there anything you regret saying or any major ideas or beliefs that you have completely changed on?

Henry Rollins: No. Not as far as spoken word. As far as life experience, the more laps you take around the track, hopefully your mind changes as you go. As a young man, I had a fairly narrow scope -- which is one of the great things of youth. As a middle aged man, I see a slightly bigger picture.

And those changes have always been aired on stage.

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New York, N.Y.: Henry,

In light of his recent passing, I was wondering if you could comment on Richard Pryor's standup and how it has perhaps influenced what you've tried to do with your spoken word shows.

Henry Rollins: There can't be enough accolades laid on Pryor as far as his bravery and what he did for the genre of comedy. As a young person, I remember those early records and he perhaps helped white America understand black America through comedy better than a lot of other attempts to bring Americans together.

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Henry Rollins: His bravery is not lost upon me.

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USO Shows: Are you allowed to say what you want on your USO shows, or do they ask that you keep your political (e.g. anti-war) views quiet? I hope the troops out there understand how many people are like us: supporting the troops and hating the politicians who put them in harm's way.

Henry Rollins: Great question. Believe it or not, never once have I been told to cool it or to not say exactly what I want. And I have. I also go out of my way to let these brave men and women know that no matter who Americans voted for, about 99.999 percent of America supports the troops. That no matter what an American's take on the war is, support for their safe arrival back home is absolute.

What is distressing is how many soldiers did not understand that and think they are hated at home.

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Silver Spring, Md.: Hi Henry,

What kind of music have you been listening to lately? How do you usually come across new music?

Henry Rollins: The first half of the question is way too broad. I like what I like and that seems to take in every genre of music I can think of -- even country western and techno -- where I'm not all that conversant.

How do I get music? Curiosity makes me buy CDs by the pound. Recommendations from people and things people very graciously send me. Basically, I am open to anything where the musicians have given their all to the piece.

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Sterling, Va.: Hi Henry,

Just got through reading Fanatic! and am psyched to hear that Harmony in my Head is back on the air. For those of us poor working stiffs on the East Coast who can't listen to the show live, are there any plans to archive the new shows so we can listen to them later? (The last one I can find online is Nov. 2004)

Really enjoyed the Birchmere show last fall, and look forward to seeing you again when you're next in town.

Henry Rollins: Yes. At http://www.rollins-archive.com/, started by a fan, she archives every show -- including last night's and you sleepy people can download the music.

Also, those who are curious, please go check out harmonyinmyhead.com for annotated notes of the songs and streaming information. I get letters from people all over the world who listen to the show.

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Washington, D.C.: I have been a big fan of yours for years -- I saw you with Black Flag, saw you again with the Henry Rollins Band (it was heaven seeing you and the Butthole Surfers back-to-back on the original Lollapalooza tour!), and have managed to catch a few of your spoken-word shows as well. I would like to know what inspired your move into the realm of spoken-word performance -- was it something that was always there inside you or did you have any sudden inspiration or "aha!" moment?

Henry Rollins: As a young person, there was always a premium put on being able to tell a great story. Amongst my friends being able to imitate everyone else and crack everyone up put you high up on the teen food chain. Of course, this is not unique, but I never lost my love of storytelling, imitating others, etc.

As a scrawny, Ritalin-addled youth in HS, which was all boys, I learned to stave off the beating, by making the gorilla laugh before geometry class. Hence, the opportunity to go on stage without a band, tell stories and express attitude, was extremely attractive to me when first offered in 1983.

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Aldie, Va.: Henry, in all your shows, books, music, you act like an angry guy and don't hesitate to say you are one. But you seem like such a nice guy, and would be willing to help anyone if you could. How do you reconcile the two personalities?

Henry Rollins: I don't think being helpful or nice doesn't allow you to be really pissed off. My anger is mostly a civically oriented one. I am tired of the little guy getting bullied by the rich, the mean and the opportunistic. This sentiment, of course, is not unique, so... anger is good when directed in a positive way and so, yes, on occasion I am a pretty nice guy, but I hold my anger in high regard. If it ever goes away I will know I have lost the plot.

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Ectomel, IA: Hi Henry. We share a common favorite band; Black Sabbath circa 1974. (How incredibly cool was it to be a supporting player in the genesis of that reunion?!)

I know you have been on close terms with Sharon and Ozzy, so what I wanna know is this; I have always read between the lines of Ozzy's seeming addle-headedness and thought that he was actually pretty smart and damned funny, too. What's your take? Is the Ozzy that you see on TV what you get, or is he crazy like a fox?

Henry Rollins: First question about how cool was it? Are you kidding?! It was very cool to be with Black Sabbath for their reunion shows in Birmingham, England.

As far as Ozzy. He is easily one of the most what you see is what you get people I've met. He's not putting on an act. Ozzy is Ozzy 24 hours a day. He is extremely childlike in that he has not lost his enthusiasm for music and life and he is tremendously big-hearted, which adds to his appeal to me and lots of other people.

Hence, his seemingly endless appeal decade after decade.

So, no, I don't think he's putting on an act.

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York, Pa.: Do you feel let down by the apathy displayed by the younger generation in the face of war, America's ever declining worldwide reputation and heightening governmental invasion of privacy?

Henry Rollins: Those are three different topics.

Apathy. I think we are curing that problem. I think our newest crop of teenagers may be the most energized and politically aware young people we've had for quite some time. And that is why I am optimistic for the future of America.

America's reputation. President Bush has set America, in my opinion, on a very dangerous course. We are drawing lines in the sand and appearing as bullies in places where people will push back. Everyone knows this. The only thing that lifts my spirits in this depressing situation is our young people and their desire to turn things around and seek a better, peaceful and more rockin' situation.

Privacy. Good question. I don't know exactly where I sit on that, being someone with nothing to hide. If national security is at stake, I think extraordinary measures must be employed. What bugs me about Bush and his wiretaps is that he could have done it legally and chose not to.

Any of those wiretaps he sought, he could've gotten those warrants perhaps overnight, but his administration's arrogance and seeming attitude of "the rules do not apply" makes me pretty angry.

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Silver Spring, Md.: Henry-

You always thank Mitch Bury of Adams, Mass., on your liner notes. I used to live in Adams, Mass. Who is he? I always thought he was a voice coach to help you with your singing, but I know there has to be a better story. So what is it?

Henry Rollins: Mitch Bury was Black Flag's road manager and very close friend of the band and myself. His family still lives on Crandall Street and I've just had a long friendship with Mitch Bury and to this day still see him, keep in contact with him and keep up my tradition of thanking Mitch Bury from Adams, Mass., on everything I put out.

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Washington, D.C.: I'm in my early 30s and I'm pretty angry too. Do you think it has more to do with your personal make up or do you think it has to do with this issues of today? If it's the later, has your angry grown worse or stayed the same?

Henry Rollins: I think in my case at least it is a combination of both. I was an angry kid, an angry adolescent and am now an angry adult. Many factors have probably been a part of this. Washington, D.C., was an intense place to be young person in the '70s and '80s. As a child in the '60s, watching the riots, it had a profound effect on me. In my opinion, to be a conscientious American, you should be pretty damn angry.

Until things are perfect, we need to keep working. Anger and dissatisfaction are great fuel for change and betterment.

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Henry Rollins: Yes, and my anger grows daily.

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Anonymous: Since the White House staff is known to read these discussions, what would be your reaction should the Defense Department decide not to invite you back on another tour?

Henry Rollins: That would be sad and patently un-American.

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Kensington, Md.: I saw you doing a MTV video countdown years back and when you had to introduce a video from U2, you rolled your eyes in apparent sarcasm as you talked about the band. As a U2 fan, I always thought that was hilarious. Did you just never get them or their music?

Henry Rollins: While I applaud Bono's humanitarian efforts with great admiration, I think the music is for those who have lost their will to rock.

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Arlington, Tex.: Henry, enjoyed watching you speak when you came through Texas.

Do you think invention of online music stores is good for the artists?

I think you should look into using the Internet to get your masses more talking shows. It would remove any middle men that want to get in the way. The Pearl Jam guys have devised a great system to get bootleg music to their fans. Check it out.

Henry Rollins: I think the Internet has been great for musicians as far as bringing people to their music cheaply and efficiently. Hopefully, getting people who would would have never heard the music to hear it... which is what music is all about. Music wants to be heard. I do have a whole line of CDs that I sell from my Web site that never go to retail, which are extremely cheap and $1 from each sale goes to different charities.

So, dear writer, I do check it out and I thank you.

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Washington, D.C.: Henry-

Do you keep up at all with the DC music scene? Have you heard our radio lately? It's horrible....

What cities have the best radio for progressive/alternative rock that you've heard, and do any of those stations stream online??

Henry Rollins: Okay. Yes, I keep up with the local DC music scene as best I can. Being a semi-frequent visitor to my beloved hometown, I go to as many gigs as I can. I will confess I do not listen to much radio, preferring my own record collection to that of a radio station. All I know is the music's always good on my show and the station I'm on does stream -- Indie 103.1.

As to what any other station is doing, I'm unaware.

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Crete, Ill.: Henry, how did the idea come together for your film critiquing show on IFC?

Henry Rollins: The idea was that of Swift River Productions. Although they will not admit it, I know I was not their first choice. They came to me and pitched what basically became the show, since I love film, have an opinion on why I like and dislike them, and have done quite a bit of acting in film, they thought this might be interesting to me. It was, we made a pilot, IFC liked it, we made a season, they asked for another season, which we're already in pre-production on now.

And so far it has been really great. The name of the show has changed from "Henry's Film Corner" to the "Henry Rollins Show" and will now be weekly instead of monthly. There will be live music, some of the acts like Sleater-Keaney and John Doe, they're performances already in the can. Slayer and other acts are imminent.

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Henry Rollins: I can't thank you enough for all of your questions, your enthusiasm, your interest. It may sound cheesy, but I mean every word of that.

Also, being stranded out here in LA, it is very nice to see the names of the towns these letters are coming from (Arlington, etc.), cuz I really miss that part of the world every day I'm not there.

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UPDATED 1.12.06

Herndon, Va.: Your "Tom Waits Story" remains one of my most prized MP3's of all time. It's truly one of the funniest and best told stories I've ever heard. My Question is have you ever considered re-labelling what you do and using the More accessible term "stand up comedy" rather than the off-putting (to some anyway) "spoken word"?

Hnery Rollins: I have never liked that term either. I sure didn't come up with it! If I saw "An evening of spoken word with . . ." on a flyer I would run the other way in fear of being bored to death. That being said, I admire stand-up comedy and am a fan of the good ones but wouldn't want to have to make people laugh all the time. There's some stuff that's just not funny and I want to address that stuff without having to make light of it. Also, that circuit seems pretty intense in a way that's unappealing to me. Even a guy like George Carlin who's a pal and someone I greatly admire, must feel some pressure to keep the laughs going. I don't think I would fare well in that environment.

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Los Angeles, Calif.: Do you think soldiers might be mistaken about America's support for the troops as a result of broadcasters such as Rush Limbaugh, who equate any dissent with treason and loathing for our soldiers? Where else would they get that wrong impression?

Henry Rollins: I definitely think that sentiment is propagated by those who are for one reason or another, in favor of what's happening in Iraq. I don't know how much of America is swayed by radio and television pundits and their opinions. I think the Bush Administration has done a lot of work, with evident success, to weld 9/11 to Iraq, Osama to Saddam, the response to the September attacks to preemptively strike Baghdad. If you don't diligently follow the spin and look at the real information, you could think anyone critical of the efforts in Iraq to be a negative influence. I am not saying though, that the TV/Radio right don't have an effect. They do. Your Hannity's are very forceful and their narrowness of scope often works to their advantage in attacking large topics. If you can fit it on a bumper sticker, it's not a reason to go to war. Novak left CNN and went to Fox! What a surprise!

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Detroit, Mich.: I'm watching the Supreme Court nominations, while reading this online interview/blog -- and a question came to mind. Do you feel that the administration, as a whole, has done so much damage that it cannot be undone, or do you believe with a shift in power and a change in those who have it will lead to an eventual rebirth in American politics in which people, again, have a voice in their own government. And I commend you on your work with the USO. You're doing the individuals and the country a great service.

Henry Rollins: Only my opinion here but I think the Bush Administration has put us on an aggressive and dangerous course in South and Central America and the Middle East and parts of Asia most certainly. To me, they demonstrate the actions of men who have not been in many or any fights. They either don't understand or seem to care that there's always someone who will hit back or at least take their best shot at whom they consider to be the schoolyard bully. I'm not saying we should hug a terrorist today but we should definitely do something in an attempt to understand where all this anger comes from and go to that as one of our measures against further terrorist attacks. It's hard enough fighting an enemy that doesn't mind dying. I am however, hopeful. My hope comes from all the young people I meet. The level headed, energized people I meet who really want to address the hard questions and do something. I think we are headed for a dramatic and historic turning of the tide in our life time. That is to say, something's gonna give.

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Portland Ore.: Henry, I've been a fan of yours since about 1991 when your spoken word helped me get through boarding school and broke me of my angst. I no longer blamed other people for my problems and looked toward myself. I can tell that the problems in this world bug you. They bug me too. Every time you come to Portland, inevitably someone yells that you should run for president. My question is this: Why don't you run for an elected office? You're intelligent, you relate to people and you kick ass. Isn't it time that you step up and live to YOUR full potential? I think Washington could use a little more punk rock than just the 9:30 club.

Henry Rollins: Damn do I love your city. I had a great time there the other night. I appreciate your confidence. I am however in no way cut out for office. I am of highschool education and I don't think I could do anyone any favors in that arena. Also, I really think I get some good things done being on the street and on the move. I think there's a lot more latitude out here than in an elected office. As far as living up to my potential, well, I'm not sleeping on that front, I assure you. Thanks.

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McLean, Va.: I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your work with the USO and your efforts to bridge the gap of misunderstanding that has been created (and exploited) regarding the difference between supporting the troops and supporting the war. I have had numerous "discussions" with people who, because of my open opposition to the war and to the Bush administration, have accused me of not supporting the troops and even of being a traitor to my country. These discussions often end soon after I inform them that I served for four years with the U.S. Army Special Forces. While it is handy to have this trump card available, it saddens and angers me that it is even necessary to play it. I served and fought for freedom of expression, freedom of thought, freedom of association, and the freedom to dissent -- much of what you seem to be fighting for in your way. I think you are doing an excellent job and I wish more power to you.

Henry Rollins: Thank you and thank you for your service. Yeah, it's too bad you have to pull out your SF card. To me, being a traitor is having a party and cracking open the champagne whenever there's U.S. fatalities or blowing up something here at home. I don't know anyone who is remotely like that. Quite the opposite. When we lost that Black Hawk the other day, it's a year ruiner as far as I'm concerned. As far as being critical of an Administration, someone better be, even the ones who voted it into office. How else will we learn, be safe, not repeat mistakes, etc. Again, thank you.

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California: Would you describe Bukowski as a Slurred Word Artist? Also, if anger is properly channeled, such as in your case, is it still anger, or something else?

Henry Rollins: Those Bukowski books were fun to read when I was in my 20's. A great ride. Good question about the anger. It is perhaps something else, an awareness, a catalyst. All I know is, when everything seems to be going well, it feels like a scam!

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Washington, D.C.: Henry, I have long been a fan of yours, and you have certainly inspired me to be the independent person I am. Unfortunately life does not always allow this luxury. How do you cope with situations where individuality is not easily welcomed, i.e. politically or socially?

Henry Rollins: I guess it is a luxury come to think of it. When I encounter a confrontational situation, I usually run right at it. Where are you living? China, Arkansas?

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Rockville, Md.: Hi Henry -- why everytime I see you do you have a black shirt? How many of those you own?

Henry Rollins: I wear a black one onstage because it hides the sweat but most of the time I wear a gray t shirt. It matches my hair. It's my way of going with it.

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Santa Fe, N.M.: A case can be made that the Beatles played a major role in the fall of the Soviet bloc, do you think this a true and if so do you feel that any of today's music could cause change in the Middle East?

Henry Rollins: A case can be made that adult diapers played a major role in the fall of the Soviet bloc. I don't think it was the Beatles. I like that idea though. I think it was a lot of people wanting what their neighbors in the West have had for so long and all the stuff that comes with it. Mafia, corruption, MTV, all the good stuff. I have always maintained that if we dropped tons of Ramones CDs on Israel and Palastine perhaps we could get somewhere. I am more than willing to use music to cool out the Middle East. Let's send in George Clinton and the P-Funk Allstars as the first wave, wait for the smoke to clear and then we come over the hill with Sabbath. Or, you could assault them with Britney Spears and they might just freak out and lose it completely. Honestly, I don't think music can do much to change anything. If it could, then it would have happened with all those great Dylan and Marley songs.

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Detroit, Mich.: As many others, Black Flag made some of the most powerful music I ever listened to. Are you still at all in touch with Greg Ginn?

Henry Rollins: I saw Greg in 1989. I guess that's a long time ago. He wrote some of the best songs I have ever heard. I don't really know what he's up to now.

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Washington, D.C.: What was it like being interviwed by Stacy Peralta for the Dogtown documentary?

Henry Rollins: That was an all time great experience. I had not seen him in a long time and it was so cool to have him over at my office. He's a 100 percent great guy and someone I have admired since I was a teenager. I think I met him in the late 70's the first time and over the years would run into him here and there. It was great to be part of that documentary. Ian MacKaye and I got a credit on the film as contributors of some of the Jay Adams footage you see in Dogtown as we shot that stuff on my Super-8 camera many years ago.

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Washington, D.C.: I know that there are some books describing your role in the history of the D.C. Punk scene, but have you written your own memoirs of those days?

Henry Rollins: I have written about some of those times here and there in books I have done but not in one concentrated effort. I have taken a lot of notes, trying to remember everything I could as those were some of the best times I have ever had. I still remember those days with a great deal of fondness.

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Anonymous: Is there a release date for "Feast"?

Henry Rollins: Quite honestly, I have no idea. After I am done with a film, I never look back. I am only there for the work. What happens to it after I'm done is not really all that Important to me as there's nothing I can do about it and usually I am of such low level in a film, no one tells me anything. I don't get invited to the premier most of the time.

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Silver Spring, Md.: Henry, do you still skate?

Henry Rollins: No. I wish I had the knees left to but I don't.

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Washington, D.C.: Henry, Thanks for doing this chat. These are always a lot of fun and they get me through the work day. I read somewhere that you were in that terrible movie, St. Elmo's Fire, as a guy behind the counter at Haagen Daaz. Is this at all true? Were you simply behind the counter as they were filming? Is this a complete figment of my imagination?

Henry Rollins: Thanks. No. I was never in that film. You have a vivid imagination though. Had they asked me to be in it, I would have done it. I am always seeking gainful employment.

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Northern Virginia: During your lifetime technology and the Internet have changed radically in ways that impact all of the work you've done (music, writing, movies). Having heard Ian on a roundtable discussion last year, I'm curious to hear what your feelings are about music piracy and the like. Also, have you noticed these things have taken a bite out of your income stream? Also, do you have an iPod (or similar device)? If yes, what's on it?

Henry Rollins: I do not lose any sleep about anyone downloading anything I have done. I am told by young people that they download my talking records for free all the time. They sometimes apologize and ask if I am going to attack them. I always say to them what I will say to you: There have always been mechanisms in place to keep the artist from his or her pay. Be it the club owner, agent, manager or record company. Now, it's the fans too. Why should they be left out?! The bottom line is, I would rather be heard than paid and no, I willl not chase you down the street for my 35 cents. Unfortunately, some of the records that people download of mine have part of the money made going to charities so in a way, they're working negatively against some organizations they would probably really dig. And, I'm not the only one in the band so they are also taking from others, some of them with kids. As far as what money all that takes from me, I don't make much money from records and I don't really check to see what I make on them and I am certainly not going to go after someone for a few bucks. I would have loved to have heard what Ian had to say about all that. He always has an interesting take on things. I have three ipods for different places and they are full of all kinds of music. I have the 60 gig ones so I can take a lot of music out with me on the road. They are a great thing.

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Washington, D.C.: Henry, I love your writing and spoken word work. How much time on average do you spend every day writing?

Henry Rollins: Thanks. It depends on what I am doing. If I am doing a movie or TV thing, not much as the 12-14 hour day will be enough to drop me. The USO tours are hard to write on because of the exhaustion factor at the end of the day. On a good day, up to 8+ hours on and off. Most of the time, at least three. There are days at a time when I don't get anything done because of obligations and schedules. I have been writing a lot lately. More than usual.

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Sterling, Va.: Henry, I recently read Roomanitarian and loved it. Do you plan on appearing in more films this year?

Henry Rollins: You liked that book?! What are ya, a nut?! Thanks. I have no film plans for this year so far but something might come up in the summer as I will be in LA a lot working on stuff. It's not anything I persue all that hard. There are two films that I was in that are to come out at some point this year. Feast and Alibi.

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UPDATED 1.12.06 p.m.

Bethesda, Md.: Hi Henry, I was wonder if you have noticed any differences in either the troops you see or the condition of the Iraq people and country in your multiple visits. Do you think it's getting worse or better? Certainly it has to be tough on the many troops who are doing their second on even third tours of Iraq.

Henry Rollins: I have only been to Iraq once. I have been to Afghanistan and Kyrgyzstan twice so far. When I was in Iraq, I met people who were two months in country and 14 months in country. The year-plus ones were the ones Rumsfeld held back for an unspecified period. They were angry. A lot of them had children they had not met yet. The ones who were in a couple of months were very focused and wired. I know at this point, there are people going into their third rotation there. I don't know what their morale will be like. Probably good. These are highly trained, highly motivated people. I am continually amazed at how great the troops are. It's very inspiring to be around them. As far as Iraq, I was told, when I was there at least, that there's more electricity in a lot of regions than ever before. That was the only progress report I was told about. That being said. I have seen a lot of reports that say exactly the opposite of what I was told so I don't know the answer to that one. Some parts of Iraq I saw were beautiful. I hope the place comes back all the way.

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Bethesda, Md.: Henry I read somewhere that you attended Bullis HS and a teacher there was very instrumental in your decision to pursue an artistic career. Can you tell us about that? My kids attend Bullis and love it, but I wonder why I haven't heard your name mentioned there. Have they ever asked you back for anything?

Henry Rollins: I did go there. I had an English teacher who was very cool to me. I would write stories about blowing the school up and burning it to the ground and give them to him and he would help me with the sentences but told me to never show them to others. He said creative writing was good. I was very frustrated in that place. A good school but I didn't have a good time. I was asked many times to come on campus and speak over the years. I always politely declined and some years ago, they got the message. I have never been back since the day I graduated in 1834. It was a long time ago.

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Washington, D.C.: So now that you are a big time Hollywood guy, when are they going to make you a U.N. Goodwill Ambassador?

Henry Rollins: As soon as I get a show on Scare America the home of Aggressive Talk Radio.

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KC: Have you read any good books lately?

Henry Rollins: I really learned a lot from Ahmed Rashid's book "Taliban." I just finished reading Bulgakov's "Master and Margarita" again. Those were great.

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Chicago, Ill.: I was really excited when you started 2.13.61 because it looked like you were going to reissue some old records worth listening to. I got the 30 seconds over DC comp, Trouble Funk live joint, and recently picked up the Negative Trend EP, do you have any other old gems in the works? Also which spoken word CD is your favorite?

Henry Rollins: I have some old stuff lined up but I am still working out the deals on them so it will take a while to get it all together. Best thing to do is check in on the site now and then or get on our mailing list and we'll let you know about releases if you like. 21361.com is the address. A favorite talking record of mine? I don't know. I make them and then make the next one. I don't really think about them as far as favorites.

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Raleigh, N.C.: Hiya Henry! What's your take on the separation of Church and State? Rock on!

Henry Rollins: I hope they stay well away from each other for the sake of all sane people in America.

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Woodbridge, Va.: With the recent revelations of the JT Leroy and James Frey being frauds, do you feel the literary world is fast becoming like the art world of the 1980's? Do people prefer entertainment to the truth? Or are JT Leroy and Mr. Frey using the tools of the culture against its ambassadors (Oprah, noted journalists, magazines, celebrity friends, etc...)? Consumer culture will purchase their products regardless.

Henry Rollins: If James Frey, a former drug addict made up some things in his book, anyone who would be surprised should maybe get a reality check. As far as books like that, if you liked it, got something from it, who cares if it's true? If you have to watch Oprah Winfrey to get your reading list, you deserve any literary hardships that come your way. A lot of people prefer fantasy to the truth. Wait until the upcoming State of the Union Address!

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Washington, D.C.: Do you believe Nick Zedd's work has proved influential to your own? And if so, in what way? Do you plan any co-projects with Zedd. Additionally I was surprised to hear that you were on the Stern show. How was that and what precipitated your appearance?

Henry Rollins: Nick is great but quite honestly, the only thing I have ever gotten through was his book. I have never been able to hang all the way through the films. I tried but couldn't do it. So, I don't think there's been any influence and I certainly have no plans to do anything with him. I have been on Stern's show twice and always found him to be alright to me. They asked and I went. I'd go again. I don't mind Howard. His thing with women at first bugged me but now I see he's just infantile on that front and not misogynistic. I didn't get that at first. I think he'd be the first to admit that. I like the guy

Fun in the wind

2006-01-09T11:11:00.000-08:00

We spent the weekend in Chicago and it was worth every minute and every cent. Got to town at 5 p.m. Friday, checking into, of all places, The Drake (Kerry scored it for $99 from hotwire.com).

Up front, we decided that staying downtown in Chicago would probably no longer be an option for us. It was an ubelievable opportunity for us to lodge at an address as opulent as The Drake. It was a memorable experience in luxury accommodations. But downtown, the top of Michigan Avenue is mainly ubertourists and rich fucks, saturated with shops belonging to retailers with whom I have no business establishing a consumer-based relationship — not just socioeconomically, but principally. Saks, Tiffany, Nieman Marcus, Bulgari, Zegna, Ferragamo, Cartier, the whole deal, the Romper Room of the rich. Not my bag, not my income, surely not my size (“hey buddy, got this fancy man blouse in a double-X?”) and, most importantly, not my style (“what the fuck you mean I leave the cuffs opened?”). Sorry, I like my soup warm and my cuffs closed. But, we had a choice room at a legendary hotel and felt very much at home there. And Kerry, well-versed in the Chicago terrain, knew precisely how to make a weekend out of it. After hawing about where to eat dinner Friday night, I take the weekend’s only credit by suggesting Bandera, a pleasantly sultry bar/restaurant playing host to some of Michigan’s finest visitors from the Burke posse. Apparently, happy hours were legendary there back in the mid- to late-90s, or as Parker put it, “drinking on Doughtery’s sales nickel when none of the rest of us had nickels of our own.” Dinner was sublime Friday night, nearly perfect to be honest — a couple of quick martinis, followed by ribs for Kerry and whitefish for me. The kitchen made quick and perfect work of the whole deal, ushering a couple of plates of the best goddamn food either one of us have had in a long time.

Especially noteworthy was that the food came piping hot, which is a lost art in restaurating these days. Cooks — oh, sorry, chefs, the kitchen artists, or whatever it is they’re going by these days (I’ve always just internally identified them simply as the guys making my fucking food, and leave it at that) seem to take their time getting your hard-earned meal to you. This was hot, fresh and done perfectly. Another bonus was the style-y little jazz trio kind of kicking it behind us

Talented, but subtle, playing loud enough to hear them, while flexing their skills, without overdoing it.

We bolted from there, heading to the Billy Goat Tavern, an oasis of a bar that is part gimmick, part blue-collar-meets-white collar. It’s about three-fold in this place. First, and probably most noteworthy for the masses, is that this is the little restaurant that John Belushi made famous on Saturday Night Live with the “cheeborger, cheeborger” skit.

It’s been below Michigan Avenue forever and they still do that shtick to this day. Secondly, it is named after and is the source of that Chicago Cubs goat curse theory. The guy who owns this place is, I think, the kid of the guy who had the goat. And what is it anyway, with Chicago and its animal legends? Mrs. O’Leary’s cow starting the Great Chicago Fire, Bill Sianis’ goat Murphy cursing the Cubs? But third, and probably most importantly, Billy Goat’s is the official hangout of Chicago’s newspaper men and women. Mike Royko columns dot the walls ,

while reporters, photographers, managers, design people and even interns drink and unwind. It felt a lot like a version of Detroit’s Anchor Bar, before it moved to the other side of the block. I had a wordless feeling of familiarity and comfort in this place. It smelled like newspaper people. If City Chicken has a “kind,” that is it.

We cut out of there to Bar Louie, but it was packed, so we went to some lame bar down the street. The music there was horrible, so we figured since we were being so cheesey, we went to some meathead/shithead bars on Division, with names like Bootleggers. It actually worked out well. We wanted a place to sit and talk and have some drinks. All of the trendy places were packed with fuckers, so we headed to Dorktown We ended the night at Mrs. Parks for a late burger and a cocktail. I got this shot of the Hancock Tower. Man, that thing is high.

I like the city

Little is more precious than waking up on that first Saturday of a vacation or getaway, even if it is for only a couple of days. Simply removing yourself completely and briefly from the constant bullshit that composes our day-to-days. I woke up in the best mood. We had Tempo for breakfast and caught a bus up to the northern part of town, which is probably where we’ll be staying from now on. It’s a little more real in those parts, in terms of the way people look and behave. Visited a couple of stores, including The Alley, and Reckless Records, where we both hooked ourselves up with some new music. We have little in the way of indie record stores near where I live, where we once had two — Repeat the Beat and Off The Record. OTR spawned Wendell’s when it closed, but that shop is now out of business. Reckless Records is a good place. Unpretentious staff, comprehensive selection, the whole deal.

Great stores, especially The Alley, but I saw something there that nearly incited a gag reflex. It was this guy.

He actually looks like a woman I work with, but that’s not the problem. It’s those pants. Look at him! Why? Why would anybody make their pant legs look like that and the go out in public? Here, look again.

I mean, shit, I’m the last person to talk, I’m as misshapen as they come, but damn dude.

Kerry scored some bomb shit for the house at this antique store going out of business.

Down the street, she pointed out a bar, the L & L Tavern, a gin mill of dive proportions. It turned out to the best stop of the weekend. Empty at 2 p.m., we met the bartender Scott. We sat for our first round, where he crafted a hand-mixed Bloody Mary.
(complete with horseradish made and bottled by a regular), and in a few minutes in walks to the bar quite a sight. This older gent creeps in, bent far down over walker, but he swings the door over, stops the door on the back-swing with his apparatus, and then takes about 10 minutes to get in through the door, looking up and smiling every now and then. He sits down at the end of the bar, looking about 87,000 years old and taking nearly that long to make it through the door and to his seat.

In the next hour and a half, we make small talk, but not because he’s some pushy old drunk, but because we’re floored by how cool-looking this old man is — full head of silver hair, about 5 feet tall, fresh and clean slacks, big suspenders and a tucked-in flannel shirt. He looked charming and smart, and we shot this shit with this guy for a while. He moved to Chicago in 1953, from Madison, Wisconsin.

He earned his degree in English from Wisconsin and then off to Montana to get his master’s. “It was the biggest mistake of my life,” he said of going to that school. “I came back to Lacrosse, and vowed I’d never cross the Mississippi again,” he said. “I even got on my knees and kissed the ground.” He moved to Chicago for one reason, he told us, and that was because the city had the only music series devoted entirely to piano music. So he moved here in ’53 and hasn’t lived anywhere else. He lives in an apartment on LaSalle downtown, where the tenants are mainly Ukrainian. He’s a total theater head and made his living as, of all things, an editor. With that line of work, it’s not at all shocking that he’s ended up an old man at the end of the bar! Anyway, he was a very nice man. His name was Earl.

We got something quick to eat after visiting one of Kerry’s old addresses.

We went back to the room, napped for a second, had something quick to eat and then met a bunch of her friends for drinks and dinner. Her friends are a great bunch of people, and they’ve kind of adopted me in a surrogate form. The root of my respect for them is that they’ve all been very nice to me, a benchmark I pretty much apply to everyone. We met at this place called the Blue Line, before heading to Chicago’s Little Italy for dinner at Mia’s.

We got a little loopy and decided to visit the Bucktown Pub for more drinks (I swear, we did a LOT of drinking this weekend).

There was this amazing-looking church down the street, Resurrection Something Or Other.

Later in the night, around 12:30-ish, this guy walks in with a cooler and is selling fresh tamales. Jeff bought a big bag of them, which he proceeded to rub on the back of his wife’s neck. I thought it was hilarious, actually.

We headed back home where I slept hard in a soft bed. We woke up, lunched at the Mity Nice Grill, before I dropped Kerry off at Jason and Laura’s, where she would stay the night before work-related activity Monday and Tuesday. I drove home in four hours flat.

My apologies to the Crew-Nards and the Horowitz Boys, Tetris Lox, the 138s ...

2006-01-06T06:58:00.000-08:00

From today’s mlive.com

Detroit drug gang founder spared death sentence The Associated Press

DETROIT (AP) — The co-founder of the notorious drug gang Young Boys Inc. is expected to avoid the possibility of a federal death sentence under a plea deal, the U.S. Justice Department says.

Milton Jones, 50, known as "Butch," entered a guilty plea before U.S. District Judge John Corbett O'Meara, U.S. Attorney Stephen J. Murphy said in a news release Thursday.

In 2003, the U.S. attorney's office requested the death penalty for Jones and two others should they be convicted of murder.

Jones was among 14 people indicted in Detroit in 2001 on charges of selling heroin, cocaine and marijuana during the 1990s. Authorities say the Detroit gang engaged in robberies, kidnappings and murders of rival drug traffickers.

Jones was accused of ordering the killings of rivals Mark Grice and Antoine Carruthers.

As part of the deal with prosecutors, Jones pleaded guilty to federal drug charges in the case, Murphy said.

"Under the terms of the plea agreement, Jones has agreed to cooperate fully with federal authorities," and prosecutors will recommend he get a 30-year sentence, Murphy's office said. It said sentencing guidelines would have called for life imprisonment.

O'Meara is scheduled to sentence Jones on April 6. If the guilty plea is accepted then, Murphy said the death penalty request will be withdrawn.

Jones wrote an autobiography, titled "Y.B.I.," about his life of crime.

In 2001, Jones wrote to federal prosecutors that Youssef Hmimssa, a key witness in a Detroit terrorism conspiracy prosecution, lied to the FBI. Jones was with Hmimssa in the Wayne County Jail and the federal prison at Milan.

The terror case later was dismissed.

I’ve long had an interest in all gang-related matters and I could never really understand why. I mean, this stuff dates back to ninth-grade, when I got my hands on my first Hunter Thompson book, “Hell’s Angels.” We also became kind of obsessed with the Blood-Crips situation in L.A. in the late ‘80s, thanks to CNN blasting stories every nine minutes about the shit.
Motorcycle gangs, skinheads, homeboys, those fucking crazy, super violent dudes of Mara Salvatrucha (MS-13), I don’t know, I don’t condone it by any means, but it’s always held some weird, unexplained interest in the corridors of my brain. Detroit gangs, especially, because you don’t really hear so much about them. Locally, they were legend and serious as shit, and there were some who really terrorized the the city, with names like the Coney Oneys and the Errol Flynns, who would just start knifing packs of people at concerts or randomly fucking up and slicing neighborhoods at will. The violence element I don’t understand, nor do I find all that fascinating. But what does captivate for a moment is the weird camaraderie. That a bunch of somewhat like-minded guys, mainly in the same age group and from similar backgrounds, all of them believing that society has cast them away, come together as a group and establish a bond that many of them equate to a family. Which is interesting, because a lot of those cats have shredded and faded versions of what you and I would consider a family. So, they make their own. Except in this family, they do a lot of damage and commit some serious crimes. I think I’m going to put “Colors” at the top of the Netflix queue today.

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

2005-12-29T06:42:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-27T11:17:00.000-08:00
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

2005-12-19T12:16:00.000-08:00
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 ...

2005-12-19T09:31:00.000-08:00
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

2005-12-15T06:48:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-13T06:06:00.000-08:00
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

2005-12-08T11:20:00.000-08:00
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

2005-12-05T11:48:00.000-08:00
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.

I get it, but it still creeps me out

2005-12-01T13:38:00.000-08:00
Believe me, I understand that AIDS awareness advertising should be hard-hitting. A lot of knuckleheads out there still don’t get it. And as is true in advertising, City Chicken knows nobody who looks like this, at least the humans, that it. But this, I mean, these two pieces of imagery just give me the massive creeps. I don’t know. It’s fucked up.

The most important lessons here? Practice safe sex, abstinence or monogamy. And above all else, have sex with City Chickens only. No spiders.

West Side, West Side

2005-11-28T20:37:00.000-08:00
We did a great thing this weekend. After some delicate planning, Kerry and I, along with the Corbetts, drove to Grand Rapids to see the consummate Rob and Steph. Normally, the word “consummate” is followed by a noun of some sort, like “the consummate teammate,” or “the consummate friend.” Those two are just consummate. Put whatever noun after it and it will generally stick, so long as it’s not negative, mean bullshit. If it’s negative, mean bullshit, I’ll come slap you with a dirty, rusted oil pan. Really. Fucking. Hard.
Rob, Steph, Brian C. and I have this interestingly sacred connection via our journalism past. And I won’t get into it here, but it’s withstood the test of not only our 20s and 30s, but great lapses of communication, some of which exceeding five or more years, only to display a resilience of truly synthetic proportions. Translation? We were young journalists together at a time when friendships are forged with ink that might’ve well have been molten lead. And as the homeboys like to say, “ain’t shit gonna change.” Newspaper people are funny. And not in a ha-ha sort of way
We meet at the Corbetts, where Brian secured this car from work for our 2 1/2 hour drive across the state.

. En route we stopped near Grand Rapids to see the house where Brian lived until, like, the fourth-grade, before his family moved to southeast Michigan.

We hit town, checked in the hotel, relaxed a bit and then headed to Rob and Steph’s. Thy have a beautiful home And while it might have a lot to do with the 100-year-old structure (really, it was built in 1905), the stunning hardwood appointment, built-ins, high ceilings and kick-ass fireplace, but the place just drips with a loving sincerity I get only in specific addresses —like the Voisines or Fred and Diane’s house. You enter these places and you’re mildly overcome with what “real” feels like. Anyway, Rob and Steph have a nice crib.

Before dinner, we went to a bar Rob likes to frequent,

a nice, little neighborhood bar that’s big on live music and a rich selection of tunes to which to listen. It’s set up like the old Music Menu on Monroe in Detroit where you pick a list of songs from this huge catalog. They had good beer there, too. A couple of pints of Two-Hearted and a couple of Stella Artois and we were ready for dinner.

We went back downtown, which is a nice setup.

Shit, it’s the second-largest city in Michigan and we noticed a downtown area that had more life and vibrancy to it than downtown Detroit, that’s for goddamn sure.
However, and I must apologize to Grand Rapids, I had to piss really hard before we got back to the restaurant, so I ducked back here to relieve myself.

Sorry. You’re a fine city, nobody should treat you that way. Otherwise, the downtown is rich with huge, old buildings that appeared to have a lot of brick and a lot of character. Despite it being cold outside, it had a very warm feeling in this part of town.

We got to the restaurant, San Chez, for what turned out to be some phenomenal and surprisingly affordable tapas chow.

We ate like pros, some of our small plates included blue cheese fritters with red pepper alioli; grilled chicken breast and chorizo sausage
skewer with garlic, cumin alioli; crab and cod cakes served on a
bed of organic greens with a honey lemon ginger vinaigrette and chipotle alioli; marinated and grilled artichoke hearts with roasted red peppers and alioli; char grilledlamb rib, medium, marinated in raspberry guava chili sauce atop chorizo mashed potatoes; and stuffed poblano peppers with spicy black beans, provolone and colby cheeses on a bed of corn salsa. I think there were a couple of more plates, but I can’t remember what in the hell they were.

they also had some cool Day of The Dead stuff near where we sat

That green drink is called a mojito and it was some serious shit. Had a couple of those during dinner and I was done drinking for the night. Wow.

We slept like champs before getting up and heading back to Rob and Steph’s for brunch. What gracious hosts. Hands-down probably one of the best meals I’ve had in some time — waffles, bagels, nuts (cashews and pistachios), fresh pineapple, homemade carrot bread

Maybe it was just the company and the setup, I don’t know. I could do this every Sunday with these cats.

I feel a lot better since reconnecting with my friends on the western side of the state. We’ve pledged to make this a biannual event, and we look forward to their visit around spring 2006. If it’s anything like last weekend, the wait while be short of agonizing

And take that bitch-made, fucking gay-ass redheaded Mexican quarterback with you!

2005-11-25T10:27:00.000-08:00
Mariucci's future uncertain after bad loss to Falcons
ESPN.com news services

After Thursday's 27-7 home loss to Atlanta on national television, the Detroit Lions' playoff hopes are finished. Now it appears their coach may be done too.

The Lions are in discussions that could lead to the firing of head coach Steve Mariucci possibly as early as Friday, according to reports in the Detroit Free Press and on WJBK-TV in Detroit. After two and a half disappointing years with Mariucci at the helm, the loss to the Falcons on Thanksgiving may have been the final straw.

"I don't know what's going to happen or anything like that, but nobody's stupid in here," offensive lineman Damien Woody told the Free Press. "People know that, hey, things didn't go right. It was a pretty bad loss on national television. We'll see what happens."

The Lions are 15-28 since 2003 under Mariucci, including a 4-7 record this year, a year that began with high hopes in the organization. Thursday's loss dropped Detroit 3½ games behind NFC North-leading Chicago, and 1½ behind second-place Minnesota.

"I take the responsibility, because I'm the head coach, and I should," Mariucci told the Free Press. "And that's what makes it a little bit frustrating, because where do you start? You identify where we need to be better, and there's a multitude of things."

Who's righteous now?

2005-11-25T08:36:00.000-08:00
from Salon.com

The devil's music

Does it matter that David Ludwig -- the 18-year-old alleged killer of his 14-year-old girlfriend's parents -- was a huge fan of hardcore Christian rock?

By Daniel Radosh

Nov. 24, 2005 | On the night of Oct. 6, David Ludwig, 18, and his 14-year-old girlfriend, Kara Beth Borden, went to church. There was no sermon, though -- at least not a traditional one. David and Kara were at the Lancaster Bible Church in Manheim, Penn., for a Christian rock concert. As the punishingly loud guitars of Audio Adrenaline and Pillar strained the limits of the church sound system, the kids screamed and pumped their fists and banged their heads. "Pillar and Audio A rock my face off!" David wrote on his blog the next day. Kara spent almost all the money in her pocket on a Pillar sweatshirt. She was wearing it the morning of Nov. 13 when, police say, David shot and killed her parents and fled with her at his side.

If your only association with contemporary Christian music (CCM) is Amy Grant or Stryper, you might be surprised at how popular, varied and artistically mature the genre has become in the last 15 years. By some estimates, Christian music sales topped $720 million last year, making it a bigger niche than jazz and classical combined. For every genre of mainstream music there is a Christian parallel: rock, punk, reggae, folk, dance pop, gangsta rap. Pillar, named for the biblical description of God's household as "the pillar and foundation of truth," plays rap-core, a furiously propulsive mash-up of hard rock and rap. Musically, they are as creditable as many of their top-40 counterparts. Their lyrics testify to their faith in Jesus, a faith that David and Kara publicly share.

It should go without saying that Pillar isn't even remotely responsible for David Ludwig's actions, any more than Marilyn Manson was responsible for Columbine. As CCM reaches an ever larger audience, the likelihood that some people in that audience will be deeply troubled increases proportionally. The CCM industry is already painfully aware that its fans are often no more virtuous than any other teenagers. A 2004 survey by the Barna Group found that "teen buyers of Christian music were just as likely as other teens to engage in music piracy." Nearly 80 percent of young people who purchase Christian music also download it illegally. Christian music is not just for goody-goodies anymore.

But Christian rock doesn't just happen to find troubled kids in its audience, it reaches out to them. At a Christian music festival in Neodesha, Kan., two months ago, I watched as the singer of Seventh Day Slumber called on the people there to look into the darkest depths of their souls, that they may seek forgiveness. "If you've ever thought about suicide, put your hand in the air," he said, and they did, tears streaming down their faces. "If you've gone so far as to write a suicide note, put your hand in the air. If you've thought about killing yourself just this week, put your hand in the air." The dark undercurrents of secular thrash and emo music are not absent from the Christian versions, just channeled differently.

Pillar ended its Oct. 6 set with a song called "Fireproof." It must have struck a chord in David. He posted the lyrics on his blog:

I know where I stand and what'll happen if you try it
I am FIREPROOF
I know my heart and I just can't deny it
I am FIREPROOF
I tried to tell you but you wouldn't be quiet
I am FIREPROOF
I'll never bow down and you won't buy it
I am FIREPROOF

Like many edgier evangelical bands, Pillar specializes in battle anthems, composed on the premise that Christians are under constant spiritual attack. The emotional effects are remarkably similar to those of any secular odes to alienation and rebellion, and the vast majority of Christian teens who are drawn to such music, like the vast majority of their non-Christian peers, find comfort in the roiling cacophony that mirrors their inner lives; it helps them get through some difficult years in one piece. Any Christian artist can share legitimate and profound stories of young people who found genuine grace through their music. But there will always be a small fringe of disturbed people who are looking for an excuse to go over the edge, and who will find it in angry and tormented lyrics -- even if those lyrics are supposed to be about eternal salvation.

It is still possible to find fundamentalist Christians who hold that all rock 'n' roll is the devil's music, and that CCM is only a more deceptive variety. The mainstream Christian culture industry, however, is too sophisticated and too profitable to turn its back on any form of musical expression. But with the proliferation of Christian music -- and books, movies, stand-up comedy, and pro wrestling -- the line between faith and sin has become blurred, and pop proselytizers will have to ask themselves if they are really changing hearts or just winning fans. Evangelicals justify their embrace of 21st century pop culture forms by saying that the Bible calls them to be "in the world, but not of it." This week, sadly, they are both.

T-giving

2005-11-25T07:08:00.000-08:00

Hope everyone had a nourishing and reflective Thanksgiving. Big ups to Rian for taking care of the bird duties.

Definitely missed the presence of Casey and Mary. We chowed hard on the turkey, garlic mashed potatoes, green bean casserole and stuffing. Kerry made milkshakes for dessert with Stroh’s vanilla bean ice cream. Yum.

I get into this time of the year and try to see it for what it is. I’m a lucky man with a lot for which to be thankful. I’m alive, for one, and that’s always a good start, but I have it pretty good otherwise — I have an unbelievable legion of friends, or, as the kids on the street say, “My crew is thick.” Ah yes, crew thickness, wouldn’t trade it for the world. Other ghetto-based expressions to signify you’re in good company that might not fly so well in the hood?

My posse’s got viscosity

There is considerable girth to the presence of my acquaintances

God-dang my gang is the whole sh-bang

My boys resonate a kind of organic togetherness seen only in Samburu warrior tribes and some Division-II mens basketball programs

My clique is leviathan in scope

My peeps go deep(s)

I got a lot of friends and we fucking dig each other …

Stew and symphonies

2005-11-22T19:40:00.000-08:00
Sunday was a fun and interesting contrast. I fashioned a pot of homemade stew and then Kerry and I went to the symphony downtown. The stew was damn good, too. It started out like this

but ended up looking like this

Now that is some comfort food — stew, biscuits and lemonade. Fuck yes.

We headed downtown after dinner. Kerry bought tickets to the Detroit Symphony Orchestra’s Civic Ensemble, which is an orchestra composed mainly of exceptionally talented students working directly with members of the DSO. I’d never before been to Orchestra Hall. And while we were confined to the part that did not include the new, multimillion-dollar expansion called The Max, it was still quite a sight.

The show itself was pretty cool. I’m not a big symphonicophile (but I AM keen on making up words; like that one) by any means, but I’ve enjoyed such music when it’s playing. Under the guidance of conductor Charles Burke (no relation to Kerry), the first ensemble plowed through Dvorak’s “Carnival Overture,” before kicking down Mozart’s “Sinfonia Concetante in E-flat Major,” accompanied by two phenomenal musicians from the DSO, Hai-Xin Wu on the violin, and James VanValkenburg on the viola. And no, I don’t know the difference between the two instruments. It was a divine performance.

Not a bad way to spend a Sunday.

House Lake

2005-11-22T19:39:00.000-08:00
It’s been a bit of a while since I checked in here. Things have been busy and nutty. Kerry is buying a house and that’s about to wrap up, plus freelance has been picking up. I just joined the team at MiLife MiTimes and what a great bunch of people they are. Wow. I’ve never been treated so nice by another group of freelancers on the same project in my life. Very cool.
Two weekends ago, I went up north for probably the last camping-type excursion of the year. Tom and I met Jerry and Pete up in a small town called Meredith, Michigan, which is just outside of Gladwin. The campground was on House Lake and was actually really nice, as far as rustic campgrounds go. It rained a bit on Saturday, but the rest of the weekend was nice and dry, but really windy and weird. Plus, it’s kind of scary up there. A lot of bizarre-o redneck hunter types. Motherfuckers up there are clearly broke, as evidenced by the shacks on the side of the road on the way up, and the locals weren’t exactly the friendliest types in the world. We hung out Saturday night and got up Sunday to head out in the woods. I captured Tom and Jerry in the sunlight, sort of

and Tom returned the favor. Here is a shot of me, half-awake, dicking off in the woods.

The sky looked pretty cool, though.

Tom pointed out these stones at the base of a tree. Interesting how they are gathered like that. I wonder if some little kid did that this summer. Maybe she was bored as hell, camping with her family from Kalamazoo or something.

Weird crime shit

2005-11-16T13:11:00.000-08:00

I got this from one of my reporters. It is a stickup note from an actual bank robbery that occurred recently.

The whole thing is very Found Magazine-ish, but I still thought it was interesting. In other crime reporting news, Detroiter Terrence Moore, was convicted of killing a Ferndale studio owner over what he felt was excessive rate charging. The wannabe rapper, who had the number "13" tattoed on his head, was found guilty on first-degree murder charges. She told me that her cop contact told her the following: That when they arrested this fuckbag, before he confessed, he was apparently having such strong crack withdrawals, that he told the cop if he took him to a crack house and let him score, just one rock and load up, that not only would he confess, but he would show the cops where he ditched the murder weapon. He signed the confession anyway and the cop bought him a Big Mac meal.

(Nut)Sac Town

2005-11-10T08:07:00.000-08:00
From today’s Free Press and last night’s sports talk shows.

Kings say they're sorry for slamming Detroit's image

November 10, 2005

BY KRISTA LATHAM
FREE PRESS SPORTS WRITER

Although the Sacramento Kings apologized Wednesday for displaying negative images of Detroit during pregame introductions, the NBA began an investigation into the incident that could result in fines.
Before the Pistons beat the Kings, 102-88, Tuesday night at Arco Arena in Sacramento, fans were shown a montage of negative images of Detroit on the scoreboard above center court. They included abandoned buildings, boarded-up houses, burned cars and piles of construction rubble.
This story goes on to say how sorry the higher-ups in the Kings organization are. They even ran full-page ads in the Detroit dailies expressing their remorse. And even later in the article, it mentions how hard the team’s director of event presentation, Leland Patton is, “distraught today, like we all are, but he's in bad shape. He feels horrible emotionally."

Leland Patton can fuck himself with a fire hydrant. He knew what he was doing. Somewhere in a control room, on an editing machine at Arco Arena, someone was splicing that thing together going “Oh man, this is beautiful.” And he signed off on it. And if he didn’t sign off on it, he’s a dumb fuck for not keeping an eye on his minions.

Motherfuck the Sacramento Kings and anyone else who wants to talk shit. You’re not from here, don’t nobody know you or love you here, and you’re pulling a move perfect for a bitch-made little fuck, dogging our city from the comfort of some 2,000-plus miles away.
And above else, this was inspired by and displayed during a professional basketball contest. The Kings, last time I checked, were a group of classic underachievers. One thing they forgot to put up on that screen were Detroit’s 3 national championships. Fucking fags.

What the???

2005-11-10T07:51:00.000-08:00
So I walk into the men's room today at work and I nearly jump out of my Stan Smiths at the sight of this:

It freaked me out for a second because it looks, well, like some sort of really nasty implement. I immediately wondered what it was and why in the HELL it is on the bathroom counter. And where, exactly, is that pointy thing supposed to go? Years ago, we had a wheelchair-bound fella in the office (he was loaded and drove his Camaro into a tree, killing his best friend and fucking himself up for life; issue empathy at your discretion) and being in the bathroom with him at the same time was bizarre. You would hear him in the stall trying to take apart his colostomy bag, grunting and griping, shifting around, banging it off the side of the wall, it sounded like he was wrestling a grizzly bear in there. So I saw this and kind of froze until I realized it was only the refill bag and nozzle for the soap dispenser.

Detroit's finest

2005-11-09T13:32:00.000-08:00
I spent last Saturday morning downtown, taking some pictures for a write-up I did on this new café inside the Guardian Building. While I was there, I took a few extra shots of this art deco beauty, perhaps the crown jewel of Detroit’s skyscrapers. This building is amazing, especially on the inside. Absolutely breathtaking.

I busted wide down Griswold and tried to get all cool with the Penobscot Building.

Before I caught this guy catching up on his beauty sleep. Note the hands.

Before going back home, I headed through New Center, where it looked a lot like fall.

Sunday well spent

2005-11-09T13:31:00.000-08:00
We had the second annual Chili Cookoff last Sunday at Dino’s in Ferndale. Kerry did this last year with a group of friends and family, and it ended up being such a good time that she planned another one. This year was a little bigger, with more entrants and people showing up in general. It was a fine time — some excellent chili concoctions and great company all the way around. We had 10 pots going

as people made their own chili at home and brought it in crockpots for the competition. The rest of the day was sampling chili, voting for the favorites, watching the Lions get destroyed and having some beers among friends. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday.
Especially with the Burkes

and BCL

not to mention The Fam

Nicki ended up taking third place for her creation titled “Flaming Bung Hole,” while our neighbor Andy Jr. came in second with this “Four Pound, Five Alarm” special. His second place finish was actually the result of a runoff vote. He tied with Steve Pardo’s entry “Veronica,” which ultimately won out. Nicki took home a clay kind of salsa holder thing while second place was a plate and salsa server thing. Steve earned not only the chili cookoff trophy which, like the Stanley Cup, will have his name placed on it for generations to admire, but first place also included a $30 gift certificate to Holiday Market.

Love the Scarab Club

2005-11-09T13:30:00.000-08:00
One of the better influences Kerry has had on me is introducing me to the
Scarab Club. The building is really phenomenal and we’ve been fortunate to attend some great events there. A couple of the SLAW parties immediately come to mind but it was also a delightful coincidence that Sandra and Mike were married there in summer 2005. I’m killing myself for not bringing the camera. That was a beautiful ceremony, truly unforgettable. So it was pretty cool last Thursday when we went back there for the opening night party of the Detroit Docs Film Festival 2005. While I volunteered as a bartender and mingled briefly with my new freelance peeps from MiLife MiTimes — and what a great bunch they are already — grabbed a couple of shots. This is the courtyard where the wedding was held, albeit in the daylight.

As well as some interesting art

and other neat elements