How is your holiday going? If I was to pick one word to describe mine, it would be "wha?"
I am sitting down at my computer, uninterrupted, for the first time in over a week. My presence is not required anywhere, by anyone today. *Breath*
Oh. Shit. Scratch that. I JUST got a text from an old friend who's b-day party I missed because I had to be somewhere else, and so it looks like my presence IS required somewhere in a few hours. Ahh, fuck balls.
ANYway, as I was saying. This holiday season, which isn't over yet, has been nothing short of hectic and tiring. It has also occurred to me, that of all of the places I've been and of all of people I've seen over the last 10 days, I haven't really been in control of more than a few hours of that time. It's funny how that works, isn't it? D-Tales and I went to Santarchy, which I had planned on doing (and even then we were only able to go for a very short time), and that was it. Oh, no, wait, I did play in a soccer tournament and that was definitely of my doing (I have a purple shin to prove it). Otherwise, I have been chasing family and friends to and fro, hither and yonder, living at the whim of others and not really fully pleasing any of them. I've done nothing more than my best to keep up.
As I sit here, now, with my first opportunity to reflect, I cannot help but wonder, and have inevitably come to ask myself that painfully-annoying, over-asked question, "Is this what the holidays are all about?!"
The answer, though, as much as I'd hate to admit it, is a resounding and convincing, "Yes."
Running all around town and being forced to see your friends and family is EXACTLY what the holidays are all about. Were we not to do it now, then when? As much as we like to complain about the madness that is December each year, we are social creatures, and social creatures require interaction with the people they care about. Our ever day lives are so loaded with time-consuming shit, that it is absolutely necessary to force ourselves to make time for one another over the holidays.
So, my advice to you (and myself), is to quit your bitching, get your ass out there, and be thankful for the friends and family that you DO have. And don't even try to tell me that you haven't had a good time along the way!
(No, not that Homer, the other one, you illiterate boob.)
If you were to ask me, right now, what day it was, my reply would be, "I don't know, but I think it's either Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday."
And that pretty much sums up how I feel right now. Days like today make me want to punch a baby. Well, OK, that's a bit harsh. Only if it were an ugly baby.
I have traveled the following path:
- Madison Heights to Warren - from Warren to Fraser - from Fraser to Roseville - from Roseville to Warren - from Warren to Madison heights - from Madison Heights to Birmingham - from Birmingham to Royal Oak - from Royal Oak to Madison Heights - from Madison Heights to Dearborn - and finally, in someone's busted-ass Hyundai that almost broke down 9 times on the highway even though I was only doing 9mph to minimize the chances of breaking down... back to Madison Heights.
I know you all missed me. I know that things just weren't the same around here without me. I know that your life was difficult in my absence. I know you're being sincere when you tell me these things, and not being sarcastical at all (I need to make up words more often). I appreciate that. Really, I do.
More on New Orleans is coming, don't worry. But for now, I want to talk about something very close to my heart. This something is a trend, no, a plague on us all. It is spreading, and it cannot be stopped without a concerted, determined effort from you, and I. We must work together to abolish this abomination, before it's too late. This something is taking over, and robbing our society of its most cherished and important asset; our ability to communicate.
See, what the problem is, is that you need to have you timing belts replaced... The reason that our economy is as bad as it is, is because of those damn commies... The way that you do that is, is you need to double-click, not single click...
Please, in the name of GOD, QUIT, SAYING "IS, IS." Stop it. Don't do it. Ever. Never ever. Never no mo'. OMGOMGOMGOMG I can't STAND that lazy, back-woods, jumbled, redundant over speak that has become the norm. Who started that shit, anyway? You are all sheep. You can't speak clearly, and you just say all of the dumb shit that everyone else says. Yes, even YOU. Don't act like you haven't done it. I know you have.
I cannot describe for you, with any of the 200,000+ words that are available to me in the English language, how angry I become when I hear that garbage. How hard is it, really, to think before you speak? Unless your mother dropped you when you were a baby, you have NO excuse.
Seriously though, if your mother did drop you on your head, then I truly am sorry, and please enjoy yerself some Baby Ruth:
On Saturday night, Detroit's 36th annual Noel Night took place, and was graced with the presence of your very humble, non-opinionated, non-sarcastic, very patient blogging friends; 30sInProgress, and D-Tales. Ah, it was such a magical night. Children young and old descended upon our fair city from all corners of the metro area for an evening filled with holiday cheer and festivities. The holiday spirit was in the air, and once again, our great city was on display for all doubters to behold. Gosh, I wish every night was Noel night!!!
Wait, I almost forgot to mention something... Noel Night 2008 was the WORST planned event EVER. And when I say ever, I mean ever ever. I mean big, hairy, donkey balls ever. I mean, who was in charge of planning?! Oh, right, it was them, sorry.
What locations were involved and what did the festivities entail? Well... let me tell you: museums and science centers and libraries and art galleries and book stores and hair salons and cafes and cathedrals and colleges and universities and women's clubs and clothing boutiques and food markets and theaters and restaurants and of course, condominiums (no holiday event is complete with a free tour of a new condominium) were all open to the public for free. Each location offered its own flavorful series of events commemorating the holiday season, including... well a WHOLE bunch of crap that I'm not even going to TRY to list because it's all here. There are too many events and performances to count. And when I say "too many to count," I mean that literally. Go ahead, try. Once I got over 100, I stabbed myself in the neck with a tounge-sharpened candy cane and let out a series of holiday-charged, colorful explicatives.
I wasn't invited to the Noel Night planning committee's meeting, but I can imagine that it went something like this:
Committee member #1: Wow. Our Noel Night event is a great boost for the city, and has been very popular for many years. It brings so many people downtown, and gives others a chance to see so many things for free that they wouldn't normally have the opportunity to see. How can we f it all up this year?
Committee member #2: Hmm. Good question. Oh! I know! Let's condense everything into just 4.5hrs, to make it impossible for any human to actually to see all of the events that they want to see! This will also help to facilitate a rushed and anxious feeling amongst our visitors, which is great because rushing through crowds of confused people is what the holidays are all about!
Committee member #3: Great idea! Let's not stop there, though. Let's also shut down a large portion of Woodward, to create gridlock on the surrounding streets, making parking nearby a huge pain in the arse!
Committee member #4: Oh, and I've been exchanging emails with Old Man Winter, so maybe I can ask him to turn the temp down about 20 degrees. That should bring more people out... especially since we're only offering the event on one night!
Committee member #1 again: Excellent work team, now let's get out there and make this happen!
Yeah, thanks, planning committee. You RUINED my Christmas! Thanks a lot! Might I offer a few suggestions? First of all, figure out the damn logistics and extend the event until midnight, AT LEAST. Maybe even make it a multi-day event, so that everyone doesn't have to miss 85% of the shit that they want to see. After all... the whole point of this event is to bring people down to the city, and to expose people to all of the great educational, cultural, and artistic venues that the city has to offer. Why limit that exposure?!
Alright, I should also mention that when D-Tales and I were afforded a moment to enjoy the festivities, it was very, very nice. For a full rundown, be sure to read the latter portion of her blog entry over here.
The decorations, music, friendly people and volunteers really make this event a MUST for anyone within driving distance of the city. Just make sure that you plan ahead, because if you don't, you'll end up trampled in some back alley with reindeer hoof prints on your forehead, and no one wants that.
Ever since I was a red-headed little punk living in the New Haven, I've been a hockey fan. My dad and I used to watch Hockey Night in Canada together. Ahh, those were the days. Back when the Red Wings actually played against the Original Six more than once a damn season. Back when Bob Probert was getting DUIs, and before Don Cherry was a bigoted asshole. Er, no, wait, Don Cherry was always a biggoted asshole, sorry Don.
Since then, the NHL has struggled to compete with the the NFL, MLB, and even the NBA. Why, you ask? Well that's a topic for another day, but suffice to say that the commissioner, Gary Bettman, has less vision than the clowns who have been running the Big 3 into the ground. Hey, I got an idea, let's whore out the Red Wings and make them play all the new, shitty, expansion teams (which are in warm weather climates where no one gives a flying F about hockey). Oooh, great idea.
But I digress.
This is what I wanted to share with you all:
If you're not a follower of the sports world, then please allow me to fill in the blanks. First of all, Sean Avery is a complete jagass. Always has been, always will be. He is an agitator in every sense of the word. He also happens to be an excellent hockey player, but his antics have gotten him into trouble many times before. As a result, he's been traded about 6 times (including from the Wings). Secondly, the "sloppy seconds" that he's referring to is the latest of his model/celebrity girlfriends, Elisha Cuthbert, who is now dating an even better hockey player, Dion Phaneuf of the Calgary Flames.
So, who cares? Well, I care, because it's f'n hilarious. Dion Pheneuf is 5" and 20lbs bigger than Avery, and oh, by the way... fighting is still allowed in hockey. If you're near a television on February 3rd, you just might want to tune into Flames v Stars.
And yes, this is EXACTLY what the league needs to create a little buzz in the sport again.
Because of the god-like literary talents that I possess (and not because of anyone snarking anyone else), I have been invited to co-author one of the more popular blogs in all the land. I am speaking of course, about D-Tales. Click on over for some mind-melting fun. To see the blogs that I have posted, specifically, scroll down the page and click on the "that other guy" label.
I will continue to post here, of course. However, most of my Detroit-centric postings will now appear over there. (D-Tales' Google Analytics report is a little higher than mine *ahem*.)
This just means there will be more blogging goodness for all.
Ok, this has nothing to do with being "in progress", or with Detroit, or with... well, anything. But it is HILARIOUS. And so, I give you, the child-chasing, publicly-peeing, alcoholic, cow woman.
Last Thursday was Turkey Day. And yes, I said "Turkey Day" and not "Thanksgiving Day" because that's exactly what it is. The final Thursday of each November is a day that we all get together with friends and family to do one thing, and one thing only - eat Turkey. The only giving of thanks that we offer is that half-hearted, half-assed recital of grace that your uncle gives at the dinner table each year. You know the routine; everyone loads their plate full of enough food to feed an entire pack of rabid wolves, while simultaneously bitching about how it's going to make them fat and gripping their fork tighter than a drag racer grips the steering while waiting for the starting lights drop. Before the "Ay" in "Amen" is uttered, the forks are in motion, and a moment of quiet falls over the land as the mouth-shoveling begins. THAT'S Thanksgiving.
Another Turkey Day tradition around these parts is, of course, America's Thanksgiving Parade. Woodward is blocked off and quickly becomes overrun with clowns, and beads, and marching bands, and floats, and fire engines, and giant caterpillar-things, and giant helium-filled balloons shaped like outdated cartoon characters, and celebrities (who the f is "Nuttin But Stringz" and why the f was he invited?), and big, steamy piles of horse doo. From miles away, one could hear the low rumble of the crowds, and catch a twinge of the anticipation in the air. Ah, yes, the parade. Come one, come all, to see the parade. Our parade is one of the largest in the nation, has been taking place each year for 82 straight, enjoys national TV syndication, and provides a showcase opportunity for our bad-ass city. Yes, it is quite a spectacle to behold.
I was even lucky enough to get my skinny little fingers on an All Access pass, which allowed me free rein of the parade route (it was a photojournalism-student kinda thing). I ventured up and down that damn avenue; walking, sprinting, ducking and dodging with my wanna-be-pro camera, didn't get hit by a single golf cart (grazes do not count as hits) and only impeded the progress of the parade once. Not bad for my first time, I think. I was even able to get lucky and grab a few decent exposures. You can see a few below, or click here for the complete set.
The experience of being down there, right in the middle of it all, was definitely "O-face" inspiring. The city was electrified by huge crowds of people who came from all corners of the metro area, representing all ages, races, and economic statuses. Many of them affectionately referred to me as "hey you, with the camera." I didn't have the heart to tell them that I had no gd clue about what I was doing, or that their pictures would not be making the 10 o'clock news. Well, not this year, at least.
So, yeah, parades are great, especially OUR city's parade. Or, are they, really?!
I forgot to mention, amid all of this talk about how wonderful the parade is... that I HATE PARADES! I haven't been since I was a chubby, red-haired tater tot with Velcro tennis shoes. I've been invited many times, but have never gone back, until now. My problem, and I will admit that I DO have a problem (one of many), is that I just don't get it. I don't understand parades. Please, you must help me understand. I'm begging you.
I mean, what is the point? Where does the fun exist in attending a holiday parade? Is getting up but-cracker-ass early on Thanksgiving morning (after partying the night before), fun? Is wearing 9 layers of long-underwear, so that you don't freeze to death while standing motionless on the side of the road for 3 hours, fun? Is waiving mindlessly to oversized gingerbread houses and balloons, fun? Is it the 2 hours that it takes you find you car and get to the highway afterward, fun? It must be Santa Clause, right? We're all waiting to catch a glimpse of the fat man in the red suit? I don't know. Honestly.
So it got me thinking of ways to improve the America's Thanksgiving Parade day experience, and I've come up with a few for next year. Please feel free to add your own.
The 30s In Progress top 10 ways to make the parade more interactive and exciting:
10. Local rock bands are allowed to march in the parade, as long as they have a tuba player.
9. Audience participation in the dance team routines is allowed and encouraged. You know that crazy aunt of yours would be out there on Woodward shaking her tail feather in a hot second.
8. Assign the horse shiat-collecting duties to the executives of the Big 3 (and maybe throw in the UAW president while we're at it). They've been feeding us a bunch of b.s. for years, so it's only fair that they spend some time cleaning up after themselves. And they're not allowed to use shovels, or wear gloves.
7. Invite former mayor Kwayme K to join the clown corp, and encourage the crowd to play "Where's Kwayme?" as they try to spot him amongst the other clowns. Oh, wait, no. Bad idea. Everyone would spot the clown in the bright orange jump suit. My bad.
6. Tie one snotty-nosed, bratty kid to each of the giant balloons before inflating them. What's that, kid, you're sorry, really scared, and want to get down? Too damn bad, you're up there now, and we can't get you down until we reach Hart Plaza in an hour.
5. Real bums are given red noses and encouraged to join the hobo clowns. Don't get too close, kid, that clown looks hungry.
4. Balloon escorts (the people who hold the strings and keep them from flying into the stratosphere) are allowed to drink vodka before and during the parade. Now, THAT would be entertaining.
3. The owner of the Detroit Lions, Ford Senior, who's blind loyalty, stubbornness, and overall incompetence is most responsible for the origination's decades of galactic futility, will be dressed in a meat suit and placed on a float with REAL lions from the Detroit Zoo.
2. Instead of throwing candy canes, Santa will throw frozen turkeys into the crowd. Look alive grandma, there's an 11-pounder flying at your head.
1. And the number one way to make the parade more exciting.... Clowns will no longer be handing out free beads to the crowd. If you want some free beads, the clowns get to see some free boobies!
It's 12:46am on the Sunday morning after Turkey Day. I started this blog entry 4 days ago but never had the chance to finish it until now. I apologize for the delay. My life over the last week has blown over me like a cat-5 blows over a small fishing village in the South Pacific; fast and furious. In the last week, I've been to work, to class, to the clubs in Detroit, to the parade, to Lake Orion, West Lake and Troy with my lady for the holiday, to Chicago for a mini-HS-reunion, to Petosky for a little skiing and... where am I now?... oh, right, GAYlord, visiting the old man. I had 185 things to get done during that time, and I believe I have gotten through about 172 of those things ("thing" has got to be THE laziest word in the English language, but like I said, I've had a lot of things going lately, so I'm cutting myself some slack).
One THING that I have left to DO have to do, is finish this; a presumably non-suck-wad blog entry to hold you over while I finish the last few things on my list of 185. This one is going to be good, though, don't worry. We're going to talk about sports controversy, riots, big brother kicking little brother's asses, Detroit, and Chicago, and tie them all together with a big freakin bow for all to gaze upon. Oh, and I'll try to mix in some sex, too, because sex sells. Shit, and it's Thanksgiving, so I'll should mix in some turkey talk. Well, hell, we'd better get started, eh?
If you are a native to the state of Michigan, and know anything about sports, then you also know about the heated rivalry that has existed for decades between UofM, and MSU. In one corner, hailing from A2 is the maize and blue, with their city-integrated campus, over-priced tuition rates, rich, hippie-nerd student base and a national prestige that makes the heads of its alum grow to staggering ego-proportions. In the other corner, hailing from the disguised farmlands of East Lansing is the green and white, with their traditional campus, slightly relaxed admissions standards, and couch-burning, partying student base (I have an insider-information blog for another day on the couch-burning thing... don't let me forget).
Nowhere is this rivalry more intense than in football and basketball competition. For years, MSU has dominated the hardwood, and UofM has dominated on the gridiron. Last year, one of the UofM football players, Mike Hart, made a comment that added some heat to the rivalry. In a post-game press conference, he likened MSU to a little brother playing against his big brother on the playground, when the big brother lets the little brother feel like he's doing well, only to kick the little brother's ass in the end. It was a comment to which the new MSU football coach took exception, as you can imagine. Students and fans were pissed off, as was I.
But then I thought about it. The truth is, that arrogant little Wolverine ass was right. MSU was indeed UofM's little brother in football, and had been for many years. Despite having high expectations and tons of potential at the start of each season, MSU just never seemed to play as a team for the whole season, would make mistakes at the wrong times, lacked strong leadership, and didn't know how to win. They would always come close, but fall short in the end. That is changing now, and things are looking up, but for many years past, the big brother analogy was disturbingly accurate.
I understand that my non-UofM and MSU alum readers are drifting a bit... so please allow me to reel you back in while also attempting to get to my point... As I sat on the train last weekend, returning from Chicago, I came to a sudden and disheartening realization: Detroit is Chicago's little brother.
I am a proud "alum" of Detroit. When I'm not at work, in class, or sleeping, I'm downtown doing this, or this, or this. I love the people because they're real, and genuine (Hollister attire is not allowed south of 8 Mile except for those attending Tiger's games). Our sports, entertainment, cultural, art and dining establishments are top-notch. Our festivals eat other city's festivals whole. We have musical tradition that rivals that of any city in the nation, including jazz, rock, hip-hop, and not to mention being the birthplace of techno. We have played host to some huge events (Superbowl) and have always received rave reviews from the rest of the country who are always "surprised" by how much they enjoy their time here. Hell, we're even bringing in a touch of Hollywood now.
And how could we forget our stellar public transportation system, booming housing market, exemplary K-12 schools, diversified economy, and world-class shopping?
Oh... wait. Sorry. I got a little carried away there.
The truth is, Detroit is great, but when it comes to some very important areas, we are no Chicago. As I have eluded to, we Detroiters are nothing more than the little brother, playing on the play ground against our bigger brother, Chicago, thinking we are winning, only to be disappointed when Chicago flexes its big-brother muscles and whoops our ass at the end of the game.
Chicago has everything that we don't (except nice weather and good schools, but other that, everything). Chicago has a sprawling landscape of neighborhoods, each with their own flavor of shops, eateries, and local watering holes. Culture is not restricted to a few-mile radius of the downtown area as it is in the D. They also have a business district that is home to numerous players in the world market, a working public transportation system, a beautiful beach, more job opportunities (how often do kids graduate from college and move FROM Chicago TO Detroit?!) and most importantly... energy. Chicago has energy, and you can feel it as soon as you set foot in the city, no matter the time of day or night. The same, unfortunately, cannot be said for our city.
I'm no historian, but I think it's safe to say that Detroit has been suffering from the hangover that it got immediately after the the riots of '67. Hell, I have some family members (most of my family grew up in East Detroit), who STILL haven't forgiven the city for that, and probably never will. I could write another 92 pages on that topic alone, but suffice to say, Detroit still needs a little work.
And so, as I was sitting on that train, making my way back to Detroit, I got pissed off. I was pissed off at myself for not moving to Chicago when I should have, 10 years ago. I was pissed off at myself for staying in a town that didn't offer to me the opportunities that I deserved. I was pissed off because I had not surrounded myself with more people like me, and in an environment that inspired me to achieve more. I was pissed off because I felt like I was missing out, and I had no one to blame but myself.
*************
What an ass I am, eh? Talking shit about my city, and then bitching and moaning about my own inability to follow my dreams?! Jeezus, someone should just shoot me in the face and put me out of my misery.
Or...
The truth is. I love my almamotter, Detroit. And as for the decisions that I've made to stay, well, they may not have been the wisest decisions that I could have made, but I'm thankful for having been given the ability to make my own decisions. Besides, the little brother gets to have all the fun and then blame the big brother, right?
So to you, Mike Hart and UofM, and to you, Chicago and all of your temptations, I present the following:
Ah, shit, I forgot!! I promised to talk some sex, too, because sex sells. And, I didn't mention anything about Thanksgiving. OK, well, lets combine the two make this quick...
It's Tuesday, not last Thursday. After one week I've already f'd up my promise to you. I have an excuse, though. I was in Chicago. No, really, I was. I wouldn't lie to you. By trains, planes and automobiles, my old "crew" got back together for a pre-Thanksgiving dinner. Except, the promise of Thanksgiving dinner was just a ruse, and we ended up eating Thai, drinking, and singing karaoke in the basement of a VFW. Good times were had for all. (PS: Amtrak is never on time, and The L in Chi-town is never without an unexpected track closing or "suspicious package" delay... just so you know.)
As I write this, I have no idea what thought-provoking question I am going to ask you this week. I'm sick as a dog, brain-dead, and strategically avoiding the 10+ unread messages in my work email inbox. The show must go on, though. Hmm.
Ok. Screw it. In light of my current mouth-breathing state, lets keep it simple. A friend of mine recently turned me on to this website: http://www.retrojunk.com/. We, of course, spent the next 20mins exchanging overly enthusiastic do-you-remembers.
I remember that when I was a kid, I LIVED for a trip to Toys 'R Us. That store was more addictive than pixie sticks or gummy worms. I would do anything to get my mom to stop there and "just let me look around for a minute" anytime we were out shopping. I thought I was clever too, as if she didn't know that "let me look around" meant "I want to trick you into buying me shit." Kids are stupid, what can I say?
And so, as the holiday shopping craze rapidly descends upon us all, I pose the following, un-thought-provoking-yet-impossible-not-to-answer questions:
Which toy did you NEED to have when you were a kid? (There were always the toys that you wanted, but on an entirely different level were the toys that you needed.)
What toy did you need to have, finally get, but quickly come to realize sucked major ass?
What toy do you still have today?
What toy do you want, right now? (Don't even TRY to act like you're all mature and above toys, because you're not. If you think you are, then you're just in denial. Either way, just answer the gd question!)
As usual, I'll get us started. In the mean time, here's a little teaser:
This can't be real, can it? Apparently, it can, and it is. So many things come to mind when I watch this video. That giant-mustache-sporting guy continually looking back at Governor Palin, as if to say "is she seriously giving an interview in front of me while I'm draining the blood from these dead-ass turkeys?!" = HILARIOUS!
I'll spare you the rest of my "what the f's," my "oooooh no's," and my "I tol' you that bitch crazy's." Instead, I'll share with you some of the more entertaining comments left by members of the Digg and YouTube communities.
safehlkewqwsadkla: she's crazy - and we love her for it...
The5280Family: ...You will eat the turkey. You do not care how it got there... I'd love to see her gut a moose next while talking about national parks...
j72034: Note that she makes absolutely no sense when she is speaking, but you're so distracted by the Turkey carnage in the background you don't notice.
zizi333: Outtakes from Fargo is what immediately comes to mind... once the echo of her ramblings dies down... Watching the former VP candidate ramble on in front of Joe the turkey reaper... PRICELESS...
seltaeb4: Sarah Palin is truly a gift from God... for us Democrats. Note to Republicans: you're right, she's the greatest! She's the future of the Republican Party! Keep her front and center!!!
pepelu12: Jesus Christ, what the *****!
COINTELPROAgent: Newsflash for emo retards: this is what happens outside city limits.
thundacatblue: I'm sure heads will roll as a result of this...
lopla: TURKEYGATE
flickrdoodle: OKay, PETA... you win. I'm having tofu for Thanksgiving.
CarlosDJackal: What do people think, the Turkeys kill themselves for Thanksgiving?
MrsButtersworth: The dumb bitch in that video cracks me up.
I believe that one's intelligence is measured not by the amount of knowledge one has acquired, but instead it is measured by the eagerness and openness with which they seek out new understanding.
(What did he say? Oh, wait, he's just talking out of his arse again. Ok.)
Someone in the know took me to Bert's Warehouse (wow does their website suck) on Saturday night. How did I not know about this place before?! Oh, wait, I know why, because I'm a big fat looser who lives across the street from Sam's Club in the 'burbs. Oops. My bad, dog.
When you put all of the following items together in one huge-ass warehouse, and keep them together for 7hrs, you get a near-coma-inducing good time; laser lights, smoke machines, REALLY big speakers, hot techno, hipsters, stoners, preppies, gangstas, guys in suits, moms in turtle-necks, cheap party girls, jagass guys who like cheap party girls, Blacks, Whites, Asians, Arabs, the Lollipop Gang, your uncle Louie, alcohol, and drugs you've never heard of.
An experience like that can be nothing but enlightening. So, yeah, getting drunk and dancing to deafening techno in a giant, smokey warehouse at 4am is actually the path to true understanding and infinite intelligence.
It's Thursday. Actually, it's a rainy, gray, cold Thursday. Nothing of significance has happened yet today, and I do not expect that to change before the day ends. It's just... Thursday. The only thing that today has going for it, is that it's one day away from Friday. What does one "blog" about in such situations? I've browsed the news, and found nothing but the usual depressing crap, such as; suicide bombers, bailouts, going-extinct gorillas, and talk of Palin running in 2012 (please, god, NO). I even perused my scattered list of unfinished, unposted blogs, but could not find the energy to complete a one.
And then it occurred to me. I don't have to write anything. Instead, YOU can do it for me! A much better idea, yes indeed. Besides, who wants to hear what I have to say all the time, it is my ass that does most of the typing, anyway. So here's what we're going to do... each Thursday, every Thursday (at least, until I realize that no one cares, right after this Thursday), I'm going to present a question to you, and it will be up to you, to ponder and then of course share your answer in the comments section. I'll keep the questions loosely based on the theme on this blog: Always remaining in progress.
Are you in? Yes? Good. Be careful though, answering the types of questions that I'm going to be asking might actually cause you to think, reflect, and maybe even learn yourself sumthin about yourself. Please heed my warning and be very careful. Ok, here we go.
It's no secret that I was raised in the suburbs, and currently live and work within the sprawl that the local news stations affectionately refer to as Metro Detroit (which, really is just a nice way of saying Not Detroit). My suburbanism, which I will neither apologize for nor advertise, has been well documented on many occassions.
Recently, though, I have begun the process of trading in my green (pansy-ass, suburbanite) lightsaber for a red (fear inducing, city dwelling) lightsaber. In dire fear of misrepresenting myself as a gigantic Star Wars geek, I offer the following analogies:
The suburbs...
And, the city...
Shite. I wish I could do the force choke. I can think of so many practical applications for such a skill. But I digress, as usual.
I am a supporter of the city, and this wasn't always the case. So, what happened? I'll tell you. I left ignorance and apprehension at home, went out, and experienced the city. And no, I'm NOT talking about playing slots at the goddamn casinos, riding the merry-go-round at Comerica Park, or going to the freakin Auto Show. Any frat-boy wannabe from Novi, or baby-popping skank from Roseville can drive down I-94 or I-75 for one evening each year to do those things.
And now, I'm adding the The Jazz Cafe to the TOP of that list.
My very anti-suburban, often free-ticket-acquiring girlfriend and I went to the midnight performance on Saturday night at The Jazz Cafe. It. Kicked. Ass. I didn't know a THING about Jazz, but it didn't matter.
The Jazz Cafe is located under the Music Hall, and provides an atmosphere that, if you're not overly mindful of your surroundings, wreaks of big-brother-type cities like the NYC or Chicago. The shape of the room, style of the clientele, and overall vibe of the joint is just, well, smooth as hell. Oh, and they had BBQ chips. I LOVE BBQ chips.
When a guy gets on the mic and introduces a song like this, you know it's going to be a good show: "Yeah, so... I rented an apartment from a Korean guy in L.A., like years ago, man. It was a good apartment. The apartment came with a dog, though. He said I didn't have to take the dog, and that he would give it to a shelter or sumthin... But I told him, no man. I told him, I'll take the apartment, and I'll take the dog. So I took the dog, and he was a good dog... I'm tellin you, that dog, was a good dog. This song, is about that dog..." (I'm paraphrasing because I was just a bit toasty at the time, and can't remember the exactness of his introduction, but I think you get the premise. The guy was smooth, and the song followed suit.)
Soaking in the rhythm was a fascinating crowd that included couples, singles, and dudes just... you know, hangin out, man. It included pretentious jazz-aficionados marked by the token jazz hat and tucked-in scarf, and real jazz fans like the older black gentleman behind us, and the older white woman in front of us, both of whom were sitting alone and moving to the rhythm like they knew how and had been doing for years. And how can I forget the annoying, begging-to-be-punched-in-the-face kids sitting to our left? They had wanna-be-black-jazz-artists-but-instead-play-in-a-shitty-alt-band-in-mom's-basement written all over them. The crowd was as interesting as the performance itself.
I can still hear the music, and I can smell the air in that place. The Jazz Cafe is a must experience. The Jazz Cafe is good times in every sense of the phrase "good times." The Jazz Cafe is real. The Jazz Cafe is Detroit.
That was a good night. If you haven't been, you need to go. Now.
Update: For another, more well-written report on the Jazz Cafe, be sure to go here!
The elections are over. And thank Jeebus because inProgress was growing weary of the political banter to which there never seems to be a right (or wrong) answer that we all can agree on. It's a good thing, too, because now we have something much more important to turn our attention to. Holiday greed!
It began, LITERALLY, at 12:01am on November first. One, single day after Halloween. I saw it, and heard it, with my own eyes. Want proof? Just click here. Be SURE to click the "Listen Live" link, for the full effect.
Soon, our country will be transformed into one, giant, tinsel-covered Bronner's store. Santa Clause will win the presidency in a landslide. The House will be filled with elves, and the Senate with talking reindeer. The Abominable Snowman will seek to enrich uranium, and Yukon Cornelius will invade the wrong country in search of gold.
For the first time in the history of me voting, the people and proposals that I voted for actually won. Holy crap. Bring on the pot-smoking embryos, and lets see if the rock star can deliver on his promises of change. And so, today was a good day because:
I no longer have to hear McCain refer to the American people as "my friends." OMFG did he overdo that shit. Did his speech writers run out of ideas?!
The bleeding in my ears caused by Palin's voice will begin to subside.
Half-black, all black, Chinese, Vulcan, whatever Obama is, I don't care. What I do care about is this: for the first time, a U.S. president will NOT be an old, white-haired, white dude.
We will be given a short reprieve from the numerous and mostly FALSE attack ads that have plagued all facets of our main stream media for over a year now.
Should Obama actually do a "good job", baby-boomers will be confronted with another reason to overcome the closet-racism that their parents taught them so well.
The rest of the world (wait, you mean there are other countries on this planet?!), may hate us a little less now.
Savior and bringer of positive change or not, at least our president-to-be can form complete sentences... with real words.
I did my best to judge the character of two men who wanted to be the leaders of my country. I hope that you did the same, regardless of how you voted.
Yeah, that's right, I said it, and I'll say it again. DO NOT vote tomorrow. Stay home. Tear up your voter registration card. Don't even think about driving past your local voting station. Just treat tomorrow like any other day, and bypass your opportunity to be a part of the democratic process.
The truth is, if you're an average American, you're uninformed, impressionable, gullible, lazy, and scared to death of forming your own opinions about the political issues that affect your life and the country to which you owe your livelihood. You've likely never traveled outside of the Midwest (and NO, Canada does not count as travel, sorry), so you have no idea what the world is really like outside of your bubble. Your favorite pastime is watching reality television, you think camping in the Thumb is an "adventure," and you actually do refer to McDonald's as a "restaurant." Please, I'm begging you, stay out of the voting booth tomorrow!
For the 3 or 4 of your out there who actually do make an effort to gather information and then form an educated opinion, I present the following sources of information for your reading pleasure:
It is possible that sometimes I do stray from the original intentions of this blog. Blogging about aliens and knife-wielding grandmothers is amusing, though. At least to me it is. And it's all about me, as you know. And so, as a half-assed attempt at getting back on track... I'd like to offer a few ideas for those of you who are interested in progress, as I am.
Progress is:
using your stupid ex-girlfriend's toothbrush to clean your bathroom before your awesome new girlfriend comes over for the evening
finding a reason to continue living without regular doses of cable TV and video games (nervous twitches may develop as a result, but can be controlled with practice)
making the time to take classes to learn new things
eating more broccoli, because you're not 12 anymore
traveling more, even if (especially if) you're not sure if you can afford it
telling others to wait, while you take time to simply... breathe
admitting to yourself that you matter
This is a short list, just to get you started. Care to add anything?
To appease numerous "freedom of information" requests, Great Britain's National Archives just released to the public over 1000 pages of reports on UFO happenings near (and apparently, hovering above) the big island. See for yourself.
Hells. Yeah!
I love me some little green men. Ever since my mom bought me that sweet-ass, light-up E.T. finger in 1982, I have wanted to meet one. If I could marry a little green lady, I probably would. "So, where are you two lovebirds going on your honeymoon? The Betelgeuse galaxy?! Really?" Yes, really. HOT.
True story... I work at a local community college, which will remain unnamed for no particular reason, and a few years ago they opened this new cultural center for the community. To celebrates its opening, they scheduled events and brought in various speakers and exhibits on different historical topics. Right after the WWII event, they, of course, brought in the Roswell historians. It was a natural progression. How could I NOT have gone to hear that presentation?? I know! So I went.
Oh, dear lord (irony intended), was that evening a trip. I learned two things from the "experts'" presentation on the whole alien-Roswell-conspiracy-thing:
1 - The people who consider themselves historians of that incident, and who continue to do research today, are strange cats. A polite way to describe them would be to say they are "passionate" about what they do. An impolite way to describe them would be to say they are fuckin crazy, and may actually BE aliens themselves. 2 - Having said that, Something happened in New Mexico on July 7, 1947. And whatever it was that did happen, the US government REALLY did not want the public to know. I'll leave it at that, because the theories and conspiracies are best left to people with more time on their hands than I.
Speaking of God Vs. Aliens...
Who do you think would win in an epic battle for Earth and mankind? Yeah, I know, "He" is all powerful and all, but have you ever seen Marvin the Martian's eludium PU35 explosive space modulator ray gun? That ray gun is no joke and will f some shit up (provided Bugs Bunny hasn't sabotaged it).
What do you think? Who wins, aliens or God? (And yes, I am only letting you choose one.)
Anytime I say that, though, I always DO ask. So here's my question; what are women like in the lady's room?
WAIT. No. Poor choice of words.
I don't mean it like that, I mean, I'm not... you know... weird. In fact, I don't really want to know the full answer to that question. The reason that I was asking, however, is simple. Men are swine, as you know, and nowhere is it more evident than in a public restroom. And so, I am wondering if this is simply a guy thing, or do women also fall prey to (what I like to call) "the public bathroom condition?"
Guys turn into complete, full-on, dirt-ball ass-bags as soon as they set foot into a public restroom. It is as if our ability to behave with tact and manners is collected at the door, and only returned to us on our way out, after we have done something completely disgusting. Why do guys turn into poo-smearing (gross), racially-insensitive-joke-writing, non-flushing, wall-peeing, paper-towel-wasting children every time we use the men's room?
It is an honest question, and one for which I have a theory. The men's room is a safe haven. Since we don't look each other in the eye, and also since there are no women around, we feel as though we are completely anonymous and unnacountable. No one knows who we are, other than the scarred, wet walls of ceramic tile, and they don't talk much. It is there, and only there (oh wait, almost forgot about strip clubs), that we are are free to be the mindless animals that we truly are. I work at a community college, and I must say, other than homeless people, 18 year old kids are the WORST men's room abusers. Here are just a few suggestions that I have for my fellow men (swine):
Beyond the age of 10, you should not have to use the stall to take a leak. Man up and handle the urinal. Besides, it uses less water (yes, I'm always mindful of being wasteful, call me names if you must), and there's no seat to sprinkle on.
Do not ever, ever, EVER use the handicapper stall because you "like the extra room" for your fat, lazy ass. Imagine yourself in a wheelchair for 5 seconds, and then move over to the other stall.
Washing your hands requires something called SOAP. I kept track one day... because I was bored and also because I'm insane... and I guesstimated that at least 3 out of 5 of guys do not wash up. Seriously.
How much paper towel and toilet paper do you need, really? Is it a requirement to leave 5 feet of both on the floor when you're done? Don't be a freakin slob, that's what you have the bathroom in you mommy's basement for.
Don't talk on your cell phone while you're taking a leak, or otherwise. No, wait, I take that back. Dudes who talk on the phone while taking a leak are hilarious. Just don't ever let your mother answer your phone.
It is not necessary to moan, groan, whine, laugh, cry, or otherwise emote verbally while taking a leak or... you know. STOP it. Please. I'm begging you. Stop, stopstopstopstop.
So yeah, I hate this post. But I had to do it. My bad, dog. It just that... I'm mad as hell and I can't take it anymore! (Alright maybe I'm not doing that classic line justice by linking it to the poo and p, but what's done is done. Together, we can move on from this tragic excuse for a blog entry.)
Well, ladies, is it just as bad on the other side of the wall?
This one is for you, "creepy older guy" who cannot help but stare at younger, beautiful women. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to carry the burden of perversion on your shoulders. There is hope, though, and I am here to help you. I have recently stumbled upon an Internet gem, which, if used properly, provides the perfect excuse to stare (as you'll notice the inventor doing intently in the video).
I am now proud to present to you... the Hula Chair!
My first car was a blue, 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. It had bench seating and only one side mirror. My grandma "donated" it to me after her foot "slipped" from the brake to the gas, and she drove into the side wall of Little Caesars. Thank you, grandma, for not killing anyone at Little Caesars, and also for Old Blue. Old Blue was good to me.
I drive 11 miles to work. I'm relatively lucky, I know. This morning, I was nearly a part of two separate accidents. The first was caused by a kid swerving into the other lane while talking on his cell phone, bumping the van in front of me ever so gently. The other was caused by a blue hair doing what blue hairs do... their best to cause death and destruction on the roadways.
Normally, when I exit from I-696 onto Groesbeck, decelerating gradually from 70mph, I don't STOP AT THE TOP OF THE MF'N OFF-RAMP. The little old lady in the little old car, a few cars ahead of me, did just that. And she did so quite suddenly, I might add. You know how it goes, each successive car has to stop more suddenly. Yeah, so with my tires screeching and horn blaring, I swerved off to the left and narrowly avoided rear-ending the car in front of me. The lady in the car behind me, who was of course tail-gating me like it was her job, swerved the other way and narrowly missed rear-ending me.
When I finally got behind the little old lady at the red light up ahead, and could see her face in her rear-view mirror, I could see that she had the typical, confused, omg-what-just-happened, did-I-do-something-wrong?! look on her face.
I was very upset, so I got out of my car, walked up to her driver-side window, and politely informed her that she was no longer allowed to drive herself to Ram's Horn for breakfast. She was quite firey, though, and responded by chucking her Virgin Mary dashboard ornament at me. It hit me right between the eyes. I had no choice at that point. It was on like, you guessed it, Donkey Kong.
I reached through her window and punched her right in the jaw. Much to my dismay, she shook it off like a heavyweight prize fighter, and returned the favor by grabbing my jacket and pulling my face into her door jam. That really hurt. Our brawl spilled out onto the service drive, as we exchanged blows. A crowd quickly gathered and began cheering for both sides. At one point, the old bitch threw gravel into my eyes (a cheap move, if you ask me), but I got her back by kicking her bad hip. Just as I was about to finish her off with a construction pylon to the face, she pulled a knife from her babushka and just narrowly missed cutting my leg. The battle was epic.
It all ended suddenly, when the sound of sirens in the distance sent the crowd scampering back to their cars. Old Lady Mildred and I did the same, because neither one of us wanted to end up back in the slammer. Before getting back into our cars, though, we glanced back, and gave one another a subtle nod of respect.
I share this story with you, because I feel there are lessons to be learned. First of all, if you're old and your powers of perception have diminished, you need to donate your car to a grandchild. Don't wait until you run someone over, or cause an accident. Second, if you run into an a blue hair that is causing havoc on the roadways, think twice about how you approach them.... they may be armed and dangerous.
How did the soundtrack that was the Summer of '08 play for you?
My soundtrack was all over the musical map. At times, I was sitting in the corner singing the blues, yet at other times, I was getting completely wasted in a haze of the city's euphoria-inducing techno beats. I spent some time wandering the city to jazz, alt rock, reggae, hip-hop, and anything else that I could take in at each of the many festivals that littered the summer calendar. It was an eclectic mix, not suitable for anyone of conservative spirit.
As I compiled that soundtrack (actually the soundtrack compiled itself, I just showed up), I also captured a few images for the inside cover of the album. You can find the images by clicking here, or by clicking on the image below. Enjoy.
32 years ago today, the wailing, slimy, wiggly flesh log that would eventually become 30sinprogress, was introduced to this world. Yeah, it's my GD birthday. I realize that blogging about my birthday is rather.... lame, but you'll forgive me for it soon enough, so I'm not worried.
I've never fully understood the concept of celebrating one's birthday. Yay, everyone look at me, lets celebrate ME because I was... born? What an accomplishment, hoorah! So, then, if we're going to do it, let us do it up correctly. We'll all get together, and race to see who can shove the biggest piece of crappy white cake into their mouth, while simultaneously taking cheap shots at the birthday boy. "So, why aren't you married yet?!"... "How OLD are you now?! (which is always followed by "wow I didn't know you were THAT old!)"..."How is your career going?!"..."You should do this, and this, and this with your life, because I'm eating cake and therefore I know everything about you!" In a way, birthdays are an annual reminder of one's failure to succeed, and a countdown to one's eventual and inevitable demise. Ahh, birthdays, how I adore thee.
Can you guess what the most recognized song in the English language is? Yep. The friggin "happy birthday to you" song. Whether I'm (forced to be) singing that song, or the subject of it as others sing, I find its melody to be excruciatingly painful. Is it just me? Maybe. Probably. Why can't I pick the song that I want sung to me? After all, it is MY special day, isn't it? Next year, I'm going to make everyone sing Enter Sandman to me for my birthday. Now THAT would be a good birthday celebration... I can picture it now, my 92-year-old great Aunt Lil' singing, "...off to never never land, heh heh!"
Sarcasm aside for a moment (a very short moment, though, because I start to get cold sweats if I stray too far), I do selfishly enjoy the compliments, and the attention. I'll never ask for the attention... but that doesn't mean that I don't like it once in a while. I really didn't think that anyone would even notice that it was my birthday, but my Facebook page is full of happy b-day wishes, I've gotten calls (one from my mom's entire South Eastern swim team), timely text messages... and have been subjected to a day full of b-day embarrassments at work.
To all of you, thank you, very much.
I've decided to no longer fear my birthday. Bring that shit on, I'm ready. Here's to another year... now, who's bringing the vodka?
Did you watch the VP debate last night? Wow, right? I would have to say, that was the most glamorous display of two giant, steaming turd-piles that I've seen in a while. Really, in a country of 300 million people, these are the two most qualified running mates that McCain and Obama could find?! Here are a few post-debate observations (criticisms) for each of the turd-piles:
Senator Joe (Boom-Boom) Biden:
Dude. You should have whooped that inexperienced, needle-nosed, self-righteous, self-inflating woman's ass in the debate. But no, you didn't whoop her ass, because you're a freakin WUSS. She gave you countless opportunities to point out the fact that was doing nothing more than reciting a pre-made list that Grandpa McCain had give her to memorize.
I know that Bush's policies were bad for this country. Everyone knows that. Even George Bush knows that. It wasn't necessary to begin every one of your answers with a reminder of that. Yes, I know you were trying to connect McCain with Bush, and you did that. But after the 9th time, I started to become extremely annoyed and felt talked-down to. Thanks.
I didn't know about the tragic events that endured with your family... I'm truly sorry. But the way you brought that into the debates looked like a search for sympathy, not empathy. Big difference.
You started strong, and finished weak. Was it past your bedtime? Couldn't you have slipped a Red Bull behind that podium, or something? Common man, you were even slurring your words together at the end, and Palin was making you look OLD.
I will say this, though, you did your homework and brought facts to back up many of your arguments. I appreciated that. Unfortunaley, no one told you that you could have just gotten away with LOUD talking instead of bothering with the presentation of facts and research (Palin knew).
Yes, she's an attractive woman (until she opens her mouth, or course), but that didn't mean that you couldn't have smacked her around in the debate ring just a bit. Jeez man, she was begging for you to do it. Didn't you see how nervous she was when the debate started? Didn't you see her interview with Katie Couric last week? The America people don't want nice, and they don't require facts, they want "I knew Jack Kennedy, and you sir, are no Jack Kennedy!" THAT is what wins elections, my man. Sad, but true.
Having said all that, I did feel like you came off as a trustworthy man with experience, conviction, and progressive values.
Govenor (Peppermint Patty) Palin:
Was I the only person watching, who noticed that you never answered a single follow-up question?! You trick was to to ask yourself a question, and then answer your own question, instead of the moderator's question. Very clever (and childish). Did Grandpa McCain forget to mention that you might actually have to think on your feet during the debate, instead of just deflecting every other question so you could repeat the same shit that you said 2 minutes ago? That drove me CRAZY! For example, Biden answered the "Achilles heal" question with humility and honesty, siting a very specific example from his career. You, on the other hand, didn't even acknowledge the question and just started rambling off lines from your exaggerated resume, for the 22nd time. How did you get away with that crap? How did the moderator let you get away with that? More importantly, how did Biden let you get away with that?!
You are a child when it comes to environmental issues, and you have NO excuse, coming from ALASKA. I want to punch you in the face for being so ignorant. If you say "drill baby drill", one, more, time... I SWEAR TO GOD I will find you and punch you in the face. (Where are you campaigning today? Texas... I'm listening, I will fly down there...) If you went to the doctor with a severed limb, and he handed you a Spider-Man band-aid, would you consider that good hospital policy?! Suggesting drilling as a solution is nothing more than a demonstration of your short-sightedness and vomit-inducing ignorance.
You are scared shitless of gay people. You tried to cover it up, but... yeah, not so much. It's OK to admit it, no gay people are going to show up at your house and kidnap you, then burn down your church, even though you ask for it sometimes. And don't give me that line about "I have friends of many different backgrounds and orientations." Blah blah, shut your face. No you DO NOT have gay friends, because they hate people like you who use buzz words like "family values" to cover up their own intolerance.
Honestly, I really do wish you weren't a narrow-minded, delusional, ultra-conservative with twisted values and backwards-thinking policies, because I admire your fearless passion.
They are only $100,000. I'm a little short on cash, though, so I may need your help organizing the bake sale and maybe a few bowling alley fundraisers to raise the extras dollars. In return, I'll let you have your turn on the jetpack.
Unless a space ship drops off an alien flying suit for me, I see the jetpack as my best option for fulfilling my life long dream to take flight. "Who could it be? Believe it or not, it's just me."
Can you imagine rolling to the club on a Saturday night with a jetpack? "Hello pretty lady, how are you tonight? Can I buy you a drink? Did I mention that I flew here this evening with my JETPACK?" That line would have to work every time, right?
Don't call it a comeback, I been here for years, rocking my peers and puttin suckas in fear. Rain down like a... ummm... monsoon, listen as the bass goes boom... uhhh... I explode, and my nine is easy to load... momma said knock you out. Bitch.
Ah, crap, that's all I can remember. Anyway, I'm back, and my biceps are HUGE, just like LL's.
So much to talk about... where to begin? Let's start with the quick and decisive demise of Summer in the city. Fall is here. It's official, and I couldn't be more pleased. If there were a brawl of the seasons, Fall would undoubtedly beat all of the other season's asses. Fall would take them all on at once, and leave them bloodied, battered, and crying for their mommas (said knock you out). The reasons for Fall's utter domination over the other seasons are many. Here are but a few of those reasons:
Halloween and razor-blade-laced apples. This is the only holiday worth celebrating, as far as I'm concerned (other than boxing day, of course). What ever happened to this guy?
Haunted Houses. Although, they seemed a helluva lot better when I was younger and they were less... regulated? I have to go this year, I missed the last few years and I vowed to make up for that mistake this year.
The Red Wings begin their run for another Cup. Wait... I just remembered that I don't have TV. Crap.
The air just smells better in the Fall.
Oktoberfest.
Naps are better in the Fall.
Cider mills.
Pumpkin carving... and then blowing them up two weeks later.
My GD birthday. You have exactly 7 days to prepare. Just don't make me eat cake. I hate cake.
Then, you should go to this at the Zeitgeist Gallery.
How you can pass up FREE music, FREE culture, FREE art, FREE rants (I know the ranter, and he will be into it, trust me), a FREE play, and a FREE puppet show?! You can't. So be there. I will be there. Therefore it will be awesome. Yes.
It took me a while, but I have finally become a follower of political issues. I have formed my own opinions, and I can back them up with sound reasoning. What I have discovered along this journey, is that there are a lot of really ignorant people in this country (and especially in this region) who don't know why they believe what they believe. They just repeat what they hear, and sell it off as their own ideas. And so, I do my best to stand up for what I believe against this ignorance ("conservative" thinking), though I usually just get annoyed and end up kicking people in the face when they don't agree with me. It's easier than trying to debate with most people.
One of my favorite movie quotes is, "childhood is over the moment you know you're going to die." It's rather morbid, yes, but I believe it also says a lot about our society's view of aging. (If you can name the movie, I will provide you with a prize... and I really mean it this time.)
Throughout the months of September and October, I have a number of friends celebrating their birthdays. I don't know for sure how many, because I lost count at 5. Some of those friends are still in their twenties (like her, and her), but others like myself, are not... anymore.
The conversation is always the same. You know how it begins - "So, how OLD are you NOW?!" What a terribly vague question. It would be more direct if we just said what we really meant and asked one another, "so how much closer are you to fuckin DYING, you dirty OLD bastard?!"
The truth is, even if I could "go back" to being younger, knowing what I know now, I don't think I would. All of the experiences that I went through, some (really) good and some (really) bad, have made me the person that I am today, and I've decided to just go with it. I know who I am now, and I could not have said that a few years ago. I like who I am, and when I do find something about myself that I don't like, I work on it. It's not complicated. Besides, I got carded at Target last year while trying to buy a video game, so I can't look that old, right? (*cough* *cough*)
I do understand, though, that I am in the minority. Some of you may feel as though you're aging rapidly on a drinking, smoking, partying, don't-know-what-the-hell-you-want-to-do-with-your-life runaway freight train. Have no fear, Uncle 30sInProgress is here to calm your fears, and he presents to you the following (proven) pathways to immortality:
Find the fountain that Tuck everlasting has been hording for all these years. What a selfish bastard. I've read the book 9 times, and I still can't figure out which GD forest they're talking about.
Sleep with Bubbles and MJ in their hyperbolic chamber. Just remember to bring MJ a lollipop when you go visit.
Freeze yourself next to Walt Disney each winter. I think he's buried somewhere under the It's a Small World ride. Good luck with that shit. God, I hate that ride.
Live in outer space. Without gravity, your "junk" will not sag and/or drop as quickly.
Hang out at Mephisto's and City Club until you meet a vampire, then let them bite you.
If you embark down any of those pathways, please let me know how it goes. For now, I'm just going to be the bore that I have always been, fighting off mortality with more conventional methods such as vitamins and exercise.
I know that navigating the political landscape can be a very frightening and confusing task. Have no fear, though, because I'm here to help. Unfortunately, it's slim pickins this time 'round, friends. And since none of YOU are running for office (even though I would never vote for most of you), we are forced to pick from what's left. As a service to you and the surrounding community, I've spent the last few months collecting data and conducting research on the candidates. As a result of that tireless research, I have assembled the following list.
Here is all you need to know about the two major party's presidential candidates in 2008:
Republicans
McCain has others check his email for him, and isn't sure what to make of "The Google" that he keeps hearing about.
McCain is old. Really, really, old, but also kind of funny... maybe because he's old.
McCain thinks Roe V. Wade could/should be reversed.
McCain believes in privatized health care and tax rebate subsidies for it (since it worked so well when Bush did that to stimulate the economy).
Palin's voice is more... powerful... than Hillary Clinton's ever was. Palin's voice, when broadcast over a p/a system has been known to injure infants and even kill small woodland creatures.
Palin loves herself some g-o-d, and secretly believes she is Jesus' sister.
Palin doesn't believe that human actions have had any impact on global warming. Oh... wait, scratch that, one of her advisors just bitch-slapped her on the campaign bus, and now she's changed her tone to say that we "may" have an impact on our environment.
Both McCain and Palin are afraid of gay people, even though they are both slightly gay.
Democrats
Obama's religious associations are all encompassing, allowing him to freely relate with many spiritual groups. He is a hard-lined Muslim, a devout Christian, a dedicated Morman, a peaceful Budhist, and sometimes a spell-casting Wiccan. It all just depends on the day of the week.
Obama's heritage is very diverse, and fluctuates slightly depending on moon's waxing and waining cycles, and on who's asking him the question about it. Last count, he was 29% black, 14% white, 14% arabic, 18% latino, and 25% ancient chinese warrior.
Obama believes in a woman's right to choose.
Obama isn't thrilled about drilling for more oil, and prefers to explore alternative energy solutions... even though he's not exactly sure what "alternative energy" means.
Obama's choice for VP is... I have no idea who his VP choice is. Does he even have one? I thought I had heard that he was thinking of picking Bill Clinton? Can he even do that?! No, wait, I remember, it's Oprah.
I spent the majority of my last few hours at Dally in the Alley last Saturday soaking in beats from the festival's techno/electronic stage (addicts need their fix). As the last DJ's set stretched closer to the mandatory shut-down time of midnight, he was accompanied by a dude on a microphone who might have been a DJ himself, or a promoter, I have no idea. For the purposes of this article, however, I will affectionately refer to the dude with the mic as Dillhole-idiot-boy.
Dillhole-idiot-boy talked over the beats and told the crowd about the after parties, and thanked everyone for coming out to support the city. Oh, how cordial, thank you Dillhole-idiot-boy. It wasn't long, however, until he started taking cuts at everyone who was "going back the suburbs." He mentioned the suburbs in a mildly-humorous yet derogatory manner about 9 times (I lost count after 5).
Ha ha, OK, I get it, how original. The suburbs are boring, and the city is exciting. The suburbs are uptight, and the city is open-minded. The city has culture, arts, and music, and the suburbs have Wal-Mart. People in the city are real, and people in the suburbs are fake. I get it, I get it.
When I first started spending more of my free time in the city, I found this perpetual and underlying battle of words and attitudes to be quite amusing. My friends in the city would swear to never cross 8 mile. Can you imagine catching a city-dweller at the Starbucks in Royal Oak? Yeah, I can't either. As for my friends who lived in the suburbs... well, most of them don't even know how to get downtown without their dad driving them, and have no idea what happens in the city outside of Lions, Tigers and Red Wings games.
I'm finding this battle of words and attitudes between The Suburbs and The City to be less amusing now, the more I hear of it. I could list countless examples, but I'm not getting paid for writing this article and research is annoying... so for now, I've just decided to declare a truce and offer a bit of advice to each side of the battle line.
City dwellers, you weren't all immaculately conceived and born in the Heart Plaza fountain, you shop at IKEA, and your grandma lives in Rochester, so get over yourself. It's OK if you're seen in the suburbs on occassion. The culture and style that drew you into city is not exclusive to the city, it's just a bit harder to find in the 'burbs. Suburbanites, try something new for once and pick up a Metro Times, or a Real Detroit, or... gosh, I dunno, Google the word "detroit" and then make plans to do something interesting and outside of your comfort zone this weekend. Trust me, you won't regret it.
Ok, I lied... I did do some research. I couldn't resist. Let us get really serious for a moment. Great care has been fused into the following list of reasons why The City and The Suburbs need one another:
Why city dwellers need the suburbs:
Abercrombie and Fitch - If the suburbs didn't have malls, and those malls didn't have stores like Abercrombie and Fitch in them, picking out the weakest suburbanites would be slightly more difficult for the city dwellers as they prepared to administer beat downs. Sure, the city dwellers can smell fear, especially as the suburbanites stumble out of Chelli's Chili and Hockeytown Cafe, but AE and Hollister markings just make things a little easier.
White People - Let's face it, white people have their uses, and the suburbs are teaming with them. Who else would pay $20 to a guy with a cardboard sign, just to park their car in an abandoned parking lot near the Fox? White people bring money to the city.
Trader Joe's and Target - Even the city dwellers need cheap (yet healthy) food, and cheap (yet stylish) home furninshings. I know for a fact that all city dwellers have at least one picture frame on their wall from Target, and at least one frozen pizza in their freezer from Trader Joe's.
The Internet - Everyone knows that homes in the city do not yet have access to this new Internet-thing. Fortunately, though, most city dweller's mothers reside in the suburbs, where the Internet is plentiful and readily available.
Why the suburbs need the city:
Street cred - When suburbanites travel to other lands, it makes them look and feel tough to say they're "from Detroit," even if they're not, exactly.
The casinos - Suburbanites love themselves some slot machines, Texas Hold 'em, neon lights and endless lines of "free" buffets. If it weren't for the city and its law allowing the money-sucking enterprises to be built, they would be stuck sitting at home playing against a 9yr-old from Cleveland on SuperStars.net.
Black people - If suburbanites weren't able to secretly fear black people from the city, they would be forced to fear themselves and their own closed-mindedness, and that would be just too damn inconvenient for any true suburbanite.
Crack whores - We all enjoy the wonder and delight that a good crack whore can bring to a Friday night, and they are just too difficult to find on the mean streets of Old Woodward in B'ham. For $5 and a bag of Doritos, any self-respecting, married man from Roseville can take a short drive down Gratiot to get himself a top-of-the-line crack whore for an evening of fun and adventure.
And so, just remember, without one, there is no other. The city needs the suburbs, and the suburbs need the city. So why don't you all just meet in the middle of 8mile on Satuday night, hold hands, exchange phone numbers, make-out for a little while, and then make plans together for the following weekend?
In a word, that is what I found at the 31st annual Dally in the Alley festival last Saturday in Detroit. I found proof that Detroit is worth the effort. I found proof that Detroit is real, and it is alive and well. I found proof that if you are open-minded, Detroit will smack you square in the face with its culture, art, and music.
For nearly 6 hours, I wandered back and forth, up and down, and all around the streets and alleys of 2nd, 3rd, Hancock and Forest. Most of that time, I had no idea where my friends where, or if I still had any, but it didn't matter. I spent the entire night in search of one, just one, crap-ass musical performance, but was unable to do so. From the reggae band-lead skatting amazing words that I never knew existed, to the wailing violin of El Gato Legato, to my new wife playing base for 800beloved, to the infectious beats pouring from the techno stage all night... holy crap, that was some good shite.
Were you there? I think I saw everyone once. Next time, look for the guy with the camera wandering around aimlessly by himself and say "Hi." He moves quickly, though. I still suck at photography, but what I did capture is here. Or, just click on the picture to the left.
PS: Yeah, I know. The timeliness of this unofficial and semi-lame report is untimely, but I've been illin'. And I don't mean RUN D.M.C. style, either. Your fake and insincere concern warms my heart.
PPS: WTF is with that dance that guys do, when they stand over a group of girls with their arms waiving up in the air... as if they're directing a 747 into the terminal at DTW? Seriously, what is the story behind that idiocy? I must know. Actually, I don't blame the guys who do it. They're trying and can't help being mindless boobs. I'm really just angry at the girls who let the guys do it to them. That dance was in full-force at the techno stage on Saturday night.
PPPS: Did I mention that I spent ZERO dollars that night?!
