We were supposed to leave on Tuesday the 27th, but it looks like it will be Wednesday instead. So now begins my last week in Michigan. Usually at these turning points - leaving a job, saying goodbye to friends, moving - I get caught up in a lot of sentimental reflection, like one of those corny flashback montages at the end of a TV series. But this change is so BIG, encompassing all three of those aforementioned shifts (and so many more), that I don't have time for my usual sap. That's probably a good thing. But I do have a couple of quiet minutes at the top of the day, so I thought I would jot down a few observations about getting ready for the grand exodus.
Nothing has ever made me so popular as moving. Getting married came close. I remember that warm feeling at my wedding, when I got to see some of my closest friends and family meet each other and celebrate on my behalf... that was pretty fantastic. Amazingly, I've been feeling that same warmth almost every day for the last month. Particularly since the start of July, my free time has consisted of a nearly non-stop parade of friend visits and a series of fun local adventures. By the time we leave town, I think I will be able to say that I saw every person I needed to see. But more than that, I've had the pleasure of spending more time with those whose company I probably should have enjoyed more often - really cool coworkers and friends that I took for granted because they live nearby. Of course, this can lead to a sense of regret, which will probably hit me after I've been in Chattanooga a couple weeks. But really, I'm not big on regrets. I knew that I had a limited window to hang out with all of these wonderful people and I made the most of it. I'm even a little proud of myself.
I've been having good luck with timely reunions. In the past two weeks, I've been able to hang with my two oldest friends (meaning those I've known the longest - M and S, you know who you are), as well as their lovely spouses and Dan's best friend from high school, J. In a weird way, I feel like old friends are inherited through marriage, so if you add it all up I got to hang with five buddies from way back, none of whom live in Michigan. In addition to that, my mom is hosting a family reunion this weekend during which I will be able to see five of my six siblings. That's one of the many reasons I'm feeling lucky.
Packing is way better when you don't have anything else to do. My last day of work was on Friday, so my only job right now is to visit with friends and pack. What luxury! The last time I moved when I wasn't working was when I left home at age 20, and back then I had barely enough stuff to fill half a bedroom (also I was moving from Dearborn to Ann Arbor, a distance only 1/15 of my upcoming journey). I don't have that combined sense of panic, frustration and exhaustion. Not yet, anyway. I'm able to approach packing in an organized fashion, which appeals to the obsessive librarian in me. I hesitate to say... it's kind of fun. I'm excited for this morning's project - watching DVD reruns of Star Trek: The Next Generation while I clean out the closet!
I'm guessing the next time we move will be in Chattanooga, from our new apartment to a house, but who can say what the future holds? I can't imagine moving to the west coast - I would just want to throw everything away and start over, rather than pack and haul it all. As it is, I can't believe all the shit we've accumulated in this one bedroom apartment. I used to take pride in the art of the three carload move (I used to not need more than that) and look at me now! I'm starting to worry about fitting all this into a ten foot truck. I don't know how people do this with kids, but they do and we will, too, if need be. I guess the point I'm getting at is that I suspect I'm enjoying certain luxuries that won't be available next time around. And I can definitely say that I won't be sharing that last week with the same set of fascinating people. That's why I'm trying to enjoy it while it lasts. There's simply no time for the montage.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Gym Songs, Karaoke Songs
If not for Planet Fitness and karaoke at Powell's Pub, I would not know these songs. Sometimes that's a good thing and sometimes I regret that my healthy and happy habits have made me cross paths with these moments in popular music.
"Picture" by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow
I've averaged at least one night of karaoke a week over this past year and this is, without a doubt, the song I've heard most often (yup, even more than "Don't Stop Believing"). It offers a couple of advantages. One, it isn't difficult to sing. Two, redneck girls can actually convince their drunk boyfriends to get up and sing this one, because what local redneck guy doesn't want to be just like Kid Rock? It isn't a terrible song, but it's long and sort of boring and the chorus sounds just like a snail pace version of "We're an American Band". I can't help groaning every time I see the title pop up on the monitor. Still, the results are usually less painful than "Don't Stop Believing".
I wonder if this song isn't quite as popular in places that don't call Kid Rock their homeboy, yes?... Please?
"Our Song" by Taylor Swift
Of all the songs I've discovered by way of Planet Fitness, this is one of the most "not bad". It has definitely improved my opinion of Ms. Swift. I was aware of who she was before I heard any of her songs, because of that humiliating Kanye West incident at the VMAs, as well as some other award show appearances. Every single time I saw her, the first words out of her mouth were "I'm a country musician," usually followed by something along the lines of, "You like me. You really like me!"
"I'm a country musician."
"I'm a country musician."
"I'm a country musician."
Clearly some A&R dude convinced her that this talking point would give her a devoted country audience despite the fact that songs like this are just overproduced pop. I think that scheme has worked. Several months ago, I met a newly engaged woman who described to me her fiancee's proposal. "He skated me to the middle of the rink and popped the question in the middle of my favorite Taylor Swift song! Have you heard of her? She's a country musician." Oh, boy.
Anyway, I like this song. I wish it were more stripped down, with more banjo, more actual country sound. But the lyrics are sweet and I admit, it gives me a little boost on the elliptical. Also, I appreciate that she wrote it, when she was very young, no less. I was disappointed by this oh-so-precious video. I like the one in my head better. It looks like the low-budget videos they used to show on The Nashville Network, with cornfields and cut-off shorts and the like.
"Who Knew" by Pink
Yeah, this is my JAM! For the record, I do realize that this song (and all the other ones, for that matter) is years old. I've been out of touch with new music for most of the last 10 years. I never listen to Top 40 radio stations so I don't know anything until it becomes Planet Fitness or Powell's-worthy, which seems to take 3-4 years. Oh, well.
Anyway, I think this song rocks. It's catchy throughout with a great chorus and it's fun to sing. I rather like this video, too. It's pleasantly simple and forgettable, which is great if you just want to get into the song. Plus, her hair looks cool and all that carousel madness at the end reminds me of the awesome, violent finale from "Strangers on a Train". Aces, Pink! I am always happy to hear this while I'm working out, or see the title appear on the old karaoke monitor.
"The Sweet Escape" by Gwen Stefani
I HATE this song. I actually heard it quite a bit when it came out. The line "I know I've been a real bad girl," was enough to seal my sense of loathing, but hearing it almost every time I go to Planet Fitness makes me angry to the point of wanting to bludgeon Gwen Stefani with her hair. You know, I might not hate it at all if it were just 2 1/2 minutes long, but it's 4. I've timed it on the gym machines. I suppose I can credit it for some pretty hardcore workouts - "If I pedal faster will this song be over sooner?"
Fortunately, no one sings this at karaoke, which is curious because chicks with good voices love Gwen Stefani. "Don't Speak" is a show-off jam, and "I'm Just a Girl" and "Hollaback Girl" are also popular standards (though I like a good "Spiderwebs" best - the idea of "screening phone calls" is now so quaint!). But no one seems to want anything to do with this song. I'd like to believe this is a rare example of common good taste, like when they banned that OJ book a few years back.
"Fancy" by Reba McEntire
Though it's really old, I first heard this song when my friend L - a high falutin' academic super nerd - sang it at Powell's about a year ago. She's from Missouri. Thank Jeebus for Powell's and my pals who grew up with country music, or I would be completely unprepared for my imminent move to Tennessee. And what a video! Those sunglasses, that acting, and how about that twist ending! It's so effin' sad and I love it. I think I've actually heard this at the gym because I remember Dan and I getting really excited about it. I like it more each time I hear it and I notice that women who sing it tend to do it really well. It's almost sacred. No one has the nerve to fuck up "Fancy".
------
I used to rip on Planet Fitness's music selection but I'll be sad if our Chattanooga gym doesn't play music. I don't like wearing headphones while I'm sweating and beside that, it's my one chance to be forced into a meeting with pop music. I have so many opportunities to choose the songs I hear. I like surrendering control sometimes, as long as I don't have to listen to any commercials.
As for karaoke in Chattanooga, I just hope to avoid this auto tune business. It just isn't karaoke if everyone sounds good. How can we distinguish the rare triumphs from the more common mediocrity? If everyone can sing really well, will anyone bother with "Picture" or will they all turn to Journey? I fear for the lack of variety...
"Picture" by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow
I've averaged at least one night of karaoke a week over this past year and this is, without a doubt, the song I've heard most often (yup, even more than "Don't Stop Believing"). It offers a couple of advantages. One, it isn't difficult to sing. Two, redneck girls can actually convince their drunk boyfriends to get up and sing this one, because what local redneck guy doesn't want to be just like Kid Rock? It isn't a terrible song, but it's long and sort of boring and the chorus sounds just like a snail pace version of "We're an American Band". I can't help groaning every time I see the title pop up on the monitor. Still, the results are usually less painful than "Don't Stop Believing".
I wonder if this song isn't quite as popular in places that don't call Kid Rock their homeboy, yes?... Please?
"Our Song" by Taylor Swift
Of all the songs I've discovered by way of Planet Fitness, this is one of the most "not bad". It has definitely improved my opinion of Ms. Swift. I was aware of who she was before I heard any of her songs, because of that humiliating Kanye West incident at the VMAs, as well as some other award show appearances. Every single time I saw her, the first words out of her mouth were "I'm a country musician," usually followed by something along the lines of, "You like me. You really like me!"
"I'm a country musician."
"I'm a country musician."
"I'm a country musician."
Clearly some A&R dude convinced her that this talking point would give her a devoted country audience despite the fact that songs like this are just overproduced pop. I think that scheme has worked. Several months ago, I met a newly engaged woman who described to me her fiancee's proposal. "He skated me to the middle of the rink and popped the question in the middle of my favorite Taylor Swift song! Have you heard of her? She's a country musician." Oh, boy.
Anyway, I like this song. I wish it were more stripped down, with more banjo, more actual country sound. But the lyrics are sweet and I admit, it gives me a little boost on the elliptical. Also, I appreciate that she wrote it, when she was very young, no less. I was disappointed by this oh-so-precious video. I like the one in my head better. It looks like the low-budget videos they used to show on The Nashville Network, with cornfields and cut-off shorts and the like.
"Who Knew" by Pink
Yeah, this is my JAM! For the record, I do realize that this song (and all the other ones, for that matter) is years old. I've been out of touch with new music for most of the last 10 years. I never listen to Top 40 radio stations so I don't know anything until it becomes Planet Fitness or Powell's-worthy, which seems to take 3-4 years. Oh, well.
Anyway, I think this song rocks. It's catchy throughout with a great chorus and it's fun to sing. I rather like this video, too. It's pleasantly simple and forgettable, which is great if you just want to get into the song. Plus, her hair looks cool and all that carousel madness at the end reminds me of the awesome, violent finale from "Strangers on a Train". Aces, Pink! I am always happy to hear this while I'm working out, or see the title appear on the old karaoke monitor.
"The Sweet Escape" by Gwen Stefani
I HATE this song. I actually heard it quite a bit when it came out. The line "I know I've been a real bad girl," was enough to seal my sense of loathing, but hearing it almost every time I go to Planet Fitness makes me angry to the point of wanting to bludgeon Gwen Stefani with her hair. You know, I might not hate it at all if it were just 2 1/2 minutes long, but it's 4. I've timed it on the gym machines. I suppose I can credit it for some pretty hardcore workouts - "If I pedal faster will this song be over sooner?"
Fortunately, no one sings this at karaoke, which is curious because chicks with good voices love Gwen Stefani. "Don't Speak" is a show-off jam, and "I'm Just a Girl" and "Hollaback Girl" are also popular standards (though I like a good "Spiderwebs" best - the idea of "screening phone calls" is now so quaint!). But no one seems to want anything to do with this song. I'd like to believe this is a rare example of common good taste, like when they banned that OJ book a few years back.
"Fancy" by Reba McEntire
Though it's really old, I first heard this song when my friend L - a high falutin' academic super nerd - sang it at Powell's about a year ago. She's from Missouri. Thank Jeebus for Powell's and my pals who grew up with country music, or I would be completely unprepared for my imminent move to Tennessee. And what a video! Those sunglasses, that acting, and how about that twist ending! It's so effin' sad and I love it. I think I've actually heard this at the gym because I remember Dan and I getting really excited about it. I like it more each time I hear it and I notice that women who sing it tend to do it really well. It's almost sacred. No one has the nerve to fuck up "Fancy".
------
I used to rip on Planet Fitness's music selection but I'll be sad if our Chattanooga gym doesn't play music. I don't like wearing headphones while I'm sweating and beside that, it's my one chance to be forced into a meeting with pop music. I have so many opportunities to choose the songs I hear. I like surrendering control sometimes, as long as I don't have to listen to any commercials.
As for karaoke in Chattanooga, I just hope to avoid this auto tune business. It just isn't karaoke if everyone sounds good. How can we distinguish the rare triumphs from the more common mediocrity? If everyone can sing really well, will anyone bother with "Picture" or will they all turn to Journey? I fear for the lack of variety...
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
D'Light: "This is why people like us don't get valet"
A mob scene greeted us as we exited the front doors of the theater. In any other circumstance we would have quickly mapped and traveled the most efficient path away from the crowd, but the sad truth is that Dan and I belonged with them. We were all waiting for our valet parked cars.
A couple weeks ago, Dan and I scored free tickets to Enana, a Middle Eastern dance show at the Max M. Fisher Music Center. Our friend M, who is the community manager for Yelp (a website where Dan and I write snide, know-it-all reviews for local businesses) was the source of said tickets, and she suggested we meet at Atlas Global Bistro for a pre-theater drink. As we were finishing our wine and overpriced appetizers, M reached into an envelope and said, "I've got fancy tickets for you guys. Do you want valet, too?"
Dan and I looked at each other. We were parked across the street, just a four block walk from the Max, but how could we turn down this deluxe freebie? It would be like abstaining from an open bar at a rich person's wedding. "Uh... yeah, sure!". We happily snatched the voucher and made our way to the theater.
But as we stood in that increasingly testy crowd outside the Max, the idea of being able to walk to the car and leave at our leisure seemed way more appealing. In the midst of the throng, an irate customer whined at the others, "There's a line. There's a line. There's a line." There was no line. There wasn't even room for a line. It looked as if half the crowd (about 500 people, I would estimate) had opted for valet, and everyone was set on being first served. This was reminding me way too much of air travel. Fortunately, Dan and I had the same instincts. We made our way to the nearest bench and silently agreed to patiently wait out the mob.
We considered walking two blocks north to Union Street to get a drink, but that seemed silly. It wouldn't take that long, right? But even after ten minutes, the situation didn't appear to be getting better. It was all so absurd. The scariest thing about walking around midtown Detroit after dark is that there just aren't that many people around. If half of the valeted car owners had just parked in the hundreds of open spaces surrounding the theater, the departing crowds would have created the sort of "safety in numbers" critical mass needed to overcome the collective fear of walking at night in Detroit. Instead, there was this swarm of frustrated rich people standing still on one block of Woodward Avenue.
Eventually, we gave up and headed to Union Street where the service was typically poky but cordial. As we waited (comfortably) for our drinks, I glanced at the large-for-a-Tuesday crowd in the dining room. I like Union Street, because it isn't all white people or black people or young people. It was a diverse group, including families and older people and some very well-dressed Arab ladies who had probably just attended Enana, as well. But then some pleasant odors distracted me from my people-watching and I found myself fixating on the large oval trays of food floating past our table.
"Why does the food smell especially good tonight?" I wondered.
"It's probably the smoking ban. You can actually smell it now."
I pored over the giant menu and so did Dan, but then I hesitated. "We shouldn't order food. We need to get back to the theater soon."
"Whatever. It's going to take forever to get the car. We should just order what we want and take our time."
This is a perfect example of a situation where Dan and I don't see eye to eye. I get very nervous and worrisome about logistics and timing. He does not. Sometimes this leads to bickering, but I wasn't in the mood for that. At the same time, I was definitely in the mood for a snack. I very consciously chose to set aside my usual concerns ("What if we make the valet guys mad?") and just go with the flow. I even suggested that Dan pick the entree we would split.
I wasn't disappointed - a buffalo burger with a side of potato salad. Our total bill was a third of what we spent at Atlas and the portions were way bigger. Tasted just as good, too.
After we paid our bill and left a good tip for our not so great (but nice) waitress, we wandered out to Woodward in a happy daze. I was telling Dan something about work when he interrupted me. "Shit!"
My first instinct was to be annoyed because he wasn't listening. My second was to move into comfort mode, because I realized that he was actually upset about something. "Don't worry. It's going to be fine." Sometimes I say "Don't worry. It's going to be fine," before I fully assess the situation, which is not always wise.
"How can you say it's fine? They're gone." That's when I finally realized that the crowd and the valet guys had disappeared. Shit.
I was nevertheless cool. I didn't know how I'd come by this bout of mellowness, but I was determined to ride the wave. "It'll be fine, Dan. They probably gave your keys to the house manager. I'm sure there's still someone at the theater." When we tried each of the front doors and found every one locked, I could tell that I wasn't winning this one. I could feel Dan panicking.
We had no other choice but to begin searching for the car. We turned around and started heading back up Woodward when a young man in a silver car stopped in the middle of the road and yelled out his open window, "Hey, you looking for your car?" I could guess from his white uniform shirt that he was one of the valet guys.
Dan shouted, "Yes!"
"Go to the back and ask for BJ. He's got your keys." We thanked him before he drove away and I remember thinking how nice he was considering that he must have thought we were complete idiots. I had realized by this point it was about 11:45 and the dance show had ended over two hours ago.
We rounded the corner toward the small parking lot behind the building and delighted to see our little Sunfire parked in the corner. We turned down the alley toward the rear entrance and saw a stocky man walking away from us.
Dan called to him, "BJ! Hey, BJ!" The man glanced over his shoulder and quickened his pace. Not BJ, apparently. By this point I had instinctively reached into my purse and grabbed my keys. Even if BJ was gone, we could still get out of there.
Fortunately, the back entrance was open and there were two security guards sitting at the front desk. For lack of better descriptors, one dude was black and the other one was white.
The white guy had a dour expression. Dan said to him, "Are you BJ?"
"No. Are you the guy with the Pontiac Sunfire?" Dan nodded and the black guy started cracking up. The white guy was not amused. "Where were you?" Oh boy, this was turning into the exact type of situation I try to avoid by way of worry and logistics. There's nothing I hate more than someone thinking I'm stupid, especially when they have a good reason.
"It was taking so long, so we went to get a drink," Dan began. "I'm looking for BJ, the valet guy."
The white guy was even more pissy. "BJ is not the valet guy, but he does have your keys. We'll call him." The black guy laughed some more as he punched numbers into a phone. I was feeling like the white guy was about to lecture us, so I decided to make my escape.
"I'm gonna wait outside." Dan nodded and I pushed my way out the glass doors as quickly as I could. I took a deep breath of the warm, late evening air and felt relieved - for the sight of our little white car, and for BJ having Dan's keys, and for being away from the irritated white guy. And then it occurred to me that this well-lit alley (my haven of relief) would seem to be a very scary place for anyone who fears Detroit thoroughly. Granted, I fear Detroit, too, but I also have the sense to recognize degrees of danger. I wouldn't head out to Woodward and just start walking on my own (but if I had to, I would feel better being on that street than one of the side roads). I remember trying to explain this to my Swedish ex-boyfriend's parents. They were floored when I said, "There are some places in Detroit where I would walk around by myself in the day but never at night." They thought that was the most screwed up description of a city they had ever heard and they felt sorry for Americans because we are forced to analyze our dangerous cities this way. Oh, well. I'd rather have the analytical skills than never hang out in cities.
A moment later, Dan joined me, the coveted keys jingling in his hand. Once we were settled in the car, we cracked up.
"Dan, can you imagine what that guy was thinking when you were chasing him down the alley, yelling, 'Hey, BJ!'"
He laughed even harder. "Wow, that would have really sucked if we had lost our car. I seriously thought they would still be out there by the time we got back."
"Yeah. I don't know how this shit works. What a ridiculous situation. This is why people like us don't get valet."
We motored up Woodward to Ferndale and spent the next couple hours singing karaoke in a bar with four other people. It was a pretty great night.
A couple weeks ago, Dan and I scored free tickets to Enana, a Middle Eastern dance show at the Max M. Fisher Music Center. Our friend M, who is the community manager for Yelp (a website where Dan and I write snide, know-it-all reviews for local businesses) was the source of said tickets, and she suggested we meet at Atlas Global Bistro for a pre-theater drink. As we were finishing our wine and overpriced appetizers, M reached into an envelope and said, "I've got fancy tickets for you guys. Do you want valet, too?"
Dan and I looked at each other. We were parked across the street, just a four block walk from the Max, but how could we turn down this deluxe freebie? It would be like abstaining from an open bar at a rich person's wedding. "Uh... yeah, sure!". We happily snatched the voucher and made our way to the theater.
But as we stood in that increasingly testy crowd outside the Max, the idea of being able to walk to the car and leave at our leisure seemed way more appealing. In the midst of the throng, an irate customer whined at the others, "There's a line. There's a line. There's a line." There was no line. There wasn't even room for a line. It looked as if half the crowd (about 500 people, I would estimate) had opted for valet, and everyone was set on being first served. This was reminding me way too much of air travel. Fortunately, Dan and I had the same instincts. We made our way to the nearest bench and silently agreed to patiently wait out the mob.
We considered walking two blocks north to Union Street to get a drink, but that seemed silly. It wouldn't take that long, right? But even after ten minutes, the situation didn't appear to be getting better. It was all so absurd. The scariest thing about walking around midtown Detroit after dark is that there just aren't that many people around. If half of the valeted car owners had just parked in the hundreds of open spaces surrounding the theater, the departing crowds would have created the sort of "safety in numbers" critical mass needed to overcome the collective fear of walking at night in Detroit. Instead, there was this swarm of frustrated rich people standing still on one block of Woodward Avenue.
Eventually, we gave up and headed to Union Street where the service was typically poky but cordial. As we waited (comfortably) for our drinks, I glanced at the large-for-a-Tuesday crowd in the dining room. I like Union Street, because it isn't all white people or black people or young people. It was a diverse group, including families and older people and some very well-dressed Arab ladies who had probably just attended Enana, as well. But then some pleasant odors distracted me from my people-watching and I found myself fixating on the large oval trays of food floating past our table.
"Why does the food smell especially good tonight?" I wondered.
"It's probably the smoking ban. You can actually smell it now."
I pored over the giant menu and so did Dan, but then I hesitated. "We shouldn't order food. We need to get back to the theater soon."
"Whatever. It's going to take forever to get the car. We should just order what we want and take our time."
This is a perfect example of a situation where Dan and I don't see eye to eye. I get very nervous and worrisome about logistics and timing. He does not. Sometimes this leads to bickering, but I wasn't in the mood for that. At the same time, I was definitely in the mood for a snack. I very consciously chose to set aside my usual concerns ("What if we make the valet guys mad?") and just go with the flow. I even suggested that Dan pick the entree we would split.
I wasn't disappointed - a buffalo burger with a side of potato salad. Our total bill was a third of what we spent at Atlas and the portions were way bigger. Tasted just as good, too.
After we paid our bill and left a good tip for our not so great (but nice) waitress, we wandered out to Woodward in a happy daze. I was telling Dan something about work when he interrupted me. "Shit!"
My first instinct was to be annoyed because he wasn't listening. My second was to move into comfort mode, because I realized that he was actually upset about something. "Don't worry. It's going to be fine." Sometimes I say "Don't worry. It's going to be fine," before I fully assess the situation, which is not always wise.
"How can you say it's fine? They're gone." That's when I finally realized that the crowd and the valet guys had disappeared. Shit.
I was nevertheless cool. I didn't know how I'd come by this bout of mellowness, but I was determined to ride the wave. "It'll be fine, Dan. They probably gave your keys to the house manager. I'm sure there's still someone at the theater." When we tried each of the front doors and found every one locked, I could tell that I wasn't winning this one. I could feel Dan panicking.
We had no other choice but to begin searching for the car. We turned around and started heading back up Woodward when a young man in a silver car stopped in the middle of the road and yelled out his open window, "Hey, you looking for your car?" I could guess from his white uniform shirt that he was one of the valet guys.
Dan shouted, "Yes!"
"Go to the back and ask for BJ. He's got your keys." We thanked him before he drove away and I remember thinking how nice he was considering that he must have thought we were complete idiots. I had realized by this point it was about 11:45 and the dance show had ended over two hours ago.
We rounded the corner toward the small parking lot behind the building and delighted to see our little Sunfire parked in the corner. We turned down the alley toward the rear entrance and saw a stocky man walking away from us.
Dan called to him, "BJ! Hey, BJ!" The man glanced over his shoulder and quickened his pace. Not BJ, apparently. By this point I had instinctively reached into my purse and grabbed my keys. Even if BJ was gone, we could still get out of there.
Fortunately, the back entrance was open and there were two security guards sitting at the front desk. For lack of better descriptors, one dude was black and the other one was white.
The white guy had a dour expression. Dan said to him, "Are you BJ?"
"No. Are you the guy with the Pontiac Sunfire?" Dan nodded and the black guy started cracking up. The white guy was not amused. "Where were you?" Oh boy, this was turning into the exact type of situation I try to avoid by way of worry and logistics. There's nothing I hate more than someone thinking I'm stupid, especially when they have a good reason.
"It was taking so long, so we went to get a drink," Dan began. "I'm looking for BJ, the valet guy."
The white guy was even more pissy. "BJ is not the valet guy, but he does have your keys. We'll call him." The black guy laughed some more as he punched numbers into a phone. I was feeling like the white guy was about to lecture us, so I decided to make my escape.
"I'm gonna wait outside." Dan nodded and I pushed my way out the glass doors as quickly as I could. I took a deep breath of the warm, late evening air and felt relieved - for the sight of our little white car, and for BJ having Dan's keys, and for being away from the irritated white guy. And then it occurred to me that this well-lit alley (my haven of relief) would seem to be a very scary place for anyone who fears Detroit thoroughly. Granted, I fear Detroit, too, but I also have the sense to recognize degrees of danger. I wouldn't head out to Woodward and just start walking on my own (but if I had to, I would feel better being on that street than one of the side roads). I remember trying to explain this to my Swedish ex-boyfriend's parents. They were floored when I said, "There are some places in Detroit where I would walk around by myself in the day but never at night." They thought that was the most screwed up description of a city they had ever heard and they felt sorry for Americans because we are forced to analyze our dangerous cities this way. Oh, well. I'd rather have the analytical skills than never hang out in cities.
A moment later, Dan joined me, the coveted keys jingling in his hand. Once we were settled in the car, we cracked up.
"Dan, can you imagine what that guy was thinking when you were chasing him down the alley, yelling, 'Hey, BJ!'"
He laughed even harder. "Wow, that would have really sucked if we had lost our car. I seriously thought they would still be out there by the time we got back."
"Yeah. I don't know how this shit works. What a ridiculous situation. This is why people like us don't get valet."
We motored up Woodward to Ferndale and spent the next couple hours singing karaoke in a bar with four other people. It was a pretty great night.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Five Months Into Facebook
It's been just over five months since I re-entered the Facebook universe. My main reason for doing so was that I wanted to track the progress of my then-expectant friends, who are now the proud mama and papa of 12-week-old twins. And because I have a Facebook account, I get to see pictures like this -
Seriously, I've probably accumulated an hour's worth of moments just staring at this photo, grinning. When people at work get stressed out, I say, "Hey, check out these babies," and they generally disintegrate into goopy puddles of awe and affection. This photo is, officially, the cutest shit I have ever seen.
Therefore, I am comfortable saying that this Facebook journey is a definite success and I have no regrets about getting back into this potentially dangerous time-sucker. There are other good aspects and not-so-good aspects, which I will list in my own peculiar order (beginning with an obvious "good" one) -
You get to see how long-lost people are doing My favorite example is J, whom I babysat from the time he was about 8-10 years old. He was a great kid. He and his single mom had this very cool, mutually respectful relationship. They worked out problems together. Watching him was a cinch because he was such a nice, mature youngster. I even got him to clean his room a couple times. I didn't remember this until recently, but sometimes he would spaz out and run around the apartment with a toy saxophone, shouting, "I'm gonna be a jazz man when I grow up!" The reason I remember that now is that I found him on Facebook and he's a jazz saxophonist, living in Austin, doing really cool artistic projects in one of my favorite cities. Of course, his being an adult totally messes with my mind and reminds me that I'm much older than I want to feel, but I'm thrilled to see that he has turned out so well.
Having said that Facebook society and real world society have little overlap That's true for me, anyway. And it isn't a totally bad thing. I have many FB friends that I want to see only online. And then there are the faraway friends that I would rather see in person, though I will gladly take this social format as an alternative. I guess I'm disappointed because I naively thought that "friending" cool people on Facebook would lead to me seeing them more often in real life, but that hasn't happened much. I've made so many vague plans to "get together sometime" but the truth is that it takes coordination and effort for two people to meet and hang out, with or without Facebook. The medium doesn't do much to facilitate real-life reunions. Also, I've noticed that when I'm on Facebook I don't tend to interact much with the people I see frequently in real life. But when I do banter with those commonly seen peeps on FB, we don't talk about those interactions in face-to-face reality. Isn't that weird? It's like we're all keeping the same dirty secret. But it isn't dirty, so why is it secret? I have a theory...
Most of the things we discuss are inane I notice this when I try to tell Dan about something that "happened" on Facebook. Dan continues to resist FB, but sometimes he'll get curious when he hears me guffawing as I stare at the navy blue bannered screen. And before I know it, I can hear myself trying to explain why so-and-so's comment about my comment about the link to that one Youtube video is HILARIOUS, but I'm cringing at the sound of my own voice, for the joke is no longer hilarious when I say it out loud. Those funny FB moments always seem to fall into the "you had to be there" category, except there is no there there (literally). How can one have a spoken conversation about this stuff? You can't. And that's fine. I can only hope that my everyday conversations will continue to sound nothing at all like a Facebook thread. Smiley face.
However, I do enjoy that The medium makes it really easy to offer kind words I think I have a knack for writing thoughtful and encouraging messages to other people and I'm grateful that Facebook offers a forum for that warm, fuzzy stuff. At least once a day, I find myself wishing someone a happy birthday, or telling them how cute their kid is, or congratulating them for a work or school-related feat. I strive to choose my words creatively, but mostly I try to be honest about anything extraordinarily positive that runs through my mind because that's the stuff that's worth saying, in person or on Facebook. I know how good it feels, like last week, when my godparents' daughter (whom I haven't seen since 1983) randomly told me that she loves my profile photo of my wedding. That made me feel great.
Though sometimes, I admit I crave the attention too much This is the stickiest aspect of Facebooking and the one I am most wary of tackling. I feel weird revealing this part of myself, but I do it on the blog because I suspect that others feel the same. I don't think I'm the only one that gets that little rush of excitement when the globe icon to the left of the search field is lit up in red. Are people talking about the thing that I said or shared? HOORAY!! Or are they talking about that random thing that I "liked"? BO-RING. When's it going to be about me again? Or worse yet, why isn't the globe lit up in red? Doesn't anyone care about my link to that HILARIOUS Youtube video? (Though I did not produce that video, my taste in "linking" says so much about me.) Sad, but true, Facebooking has made me more narcissistic, and I don't want to foster that part of myself. So I'm engaging in a very stern internal dialog. I'm lately doing a better job of remembering that this medium is fine for trying to spread some good will (by way of kind words), but that I shouldn't expect much in return. That isn't to say that I don't receive kind words from others - I do, frequently - but the very expectation of it sets me up for disappointment. Because it never really is enough, is it? All this digital attention is like drugs. The more you consume, the more you want it.
Having said that I'm grateful to Facebook for bringing me more blog readers I started blogging on Myspace about four years ago. One of the things I didn't "get" about Facebook was that it wasn't set up for blogging. I held onto the Myspace blog until early last year when it became apparent that no one was there. So I moved to Blogger, gave the site a tad more focus and began writing to an audience of Dan and a few random friends. I didn't realize that I could link to my blog when I set up the FB account in January and had no intention of doing so even after I figured out how this stuff works. Thanks to my best friend S (father of the twins pictured above), who politely asked if he could share one of my posts, I got over my shyness and started actively promoting this on Facebook. I've received so much thoughtful and encouraging feedback as a result. That's some digital attention that really means something to me. Obviously, I put a great deal more thought into these posts than in a 1-3 sentence news feed bit, so the comments on this blog (as well as the ones on Facebook - admittedly, it's more user-friendly than this googly mess) mean so much to me. Thank you to everyone who has left me a comment, even the person who claimed that I was "dressing up" Michael Jackson's pedophilia. The enormous satisfaction I get from just writing this stuff is truly amplified by your feedback.
Oh, and thanks to anyone who says something - in person, to my face - about this blog. Or about my cute pets, or about my wedding photos. I salute you, Talkers of Kind Words. Someday, I want to be like you.
Seriously, I've probably accumulated an hour's worth of moments just staring at this photo, grinning. When people at work get stressed out, I say, "Hey, check out these babies," and they generally disintegrate into goopy puddles of awe and affection. This photo is, officially, the cutest shit I have ever seen.
Therefore, I am comfortable saying that this Facebook journey is a definite success and I have no regrets about getting back into this potentially dangerous time-sucker. There are other good aspects and not-so-good aspects, which I will list in my own peculiar order (beginning with an obvious "good" one) -
You get to see how long-lost people are doing My favorite example is J, whom I babysat from the time he was about 8-10 years old. He was a great kid. He and his single mom had this very cool, mutually respectful relationship. They worked out problems together. Watching him was a cinch because he was such a nice, mature youngster. I even got him to clean his room a couple times. I didn't remember this until recently, but sometimes he would spaz out and run around the apartment with a toy saxophone, shouting, "I'm gonna be a jazz man when I grow up!" The reason I remember that now is that I found him on Facebook and he's a jazz saxophonist, living in Austin, doing really cool artistic projects in one of my favorite cities. Of course, his being an adult totally messes with my mind and reminds me that I'm much older than I want to feel, but I'm thrilled to see that he has turned out so well.
Having said that Facebook society and real world society have little overlap That's true for me, anyway. And it isn't a totally bad thing. I have many FB friends that I want to see only online. And then there are the faraway friends that I would rather see in person, though I will gladly take this social format as an alternative. I guess I'm disappointed because I naively thought that "friending" cool people on Facebook would lead to me seeing them more often in real life, but that hasn't happened much. I've made so many vague plans to "get together sometime" but the truth is that it takes coordination and effort for two people to meet and hang out, with or without Facebook. The medium doesn't do much to facilitate real-life reunions. Also, I've noticed that when I'm on Facebook I don't tend to interact much with the people I see frequently in real life. But when I do banter with those commonly seen peeps on FB, we don't talk about those interactions in face-to-face reality. Isn't that weird? It's like we're all keeping the same dirty secret. But it isn't dirty, so why is it secret? I have a theory...
Most of the things we discuss are inane I notice this when I try to tell Dan about something that "happened" on Facebook. Dan continues to resist FB, but sometimes he'll get curious when he hears me guffawing as I stare at the navy blue bannered screen. And before I know it, I can hear myself trying to explain why so-and-so's comment about my comment about the link to that one Youtube video is HILARIOUS, but I'm cringing at the sound of my own voice, for the joke is no longer hilarious when I say it out loud. Those funny FB moments always seem to fall into the "you had to be there" category, except there is no there there (literally). How can one have a spoken conversation about this stuff? You can't. And that's fine. I can only hope that my everyday conversations will continue to sound nothing at all like a Facebook thread. Smiley face.
However, I do enjoy that The medium makes it really easy to offer kind words I think I have a knack for writing thoughtful and encouraging messages to other people and I'm grateful that Facebook offers a forum for that warm, fuzzy stuff. At least once a day, I find myself wishing someone a happy birthday, or telling them how cute their kid is, or congratulating them for a work or school-related feat. I strive to choose my words creatively, but mostly I try to be honest about anything extraordinarily positive that runs through my mind because that's the stuff that's worth saying, in person or on Facebook. I know how good it feels, like last week, when my godparents' daughter (whom I haven't seen since 1983) randomly told me that she loves my profile photo of my wedding. That made me feel great.
Though sometimes, I admit I crave the attention too much This is the stickiest aspect of Facebooking and the one I am most wary of tackling. I feel weird revealing this part of myself, but I do it on the blog because I suspect that others feel the same. I don't think I'm the only one that gets that little rush of excitement when the globe icon to the left of the search field is lit up in red. Are people talking about the thing that I said or shared? HOORAY!! Or are they talking about that random thing that I "liked"? BO-RING. When's it going to be about me again? Or worse yet, why isn't the globe lit up in red? Doesn't anyone care about my link to that HILARIOUS Youtube video? (Though I did not produce that video, my taste in "linking" says so much about me.) Sad, but true, Facebooking has made me more narcissistic, and I don't want to foster that part of myself. So I'm engaging in a very stern internal dialog. I'm lately doing a better job of remembering that this medium is fine for trying to spread some good will (by way of kind words), but that I shouldn't expect much in return. That isn't to say that I don't receive kind words from others - I do, frequently - but the very expectation of it sets me up for disappointment. Because it never really is enough, is it? All this digital attention is like drugs. The more you consume, the more you want it.
Having said that I'm grateful to Facebook for bringing me more blog readers I started blogging on Myspace about four years ago. One of the things I didn't "get" about Facebook was that it wasn't set up for blogging. I held onto the Myspace blog until early last year when it became apparent that no one was there. So I moved to Blogger, gave the site a tad more focus and began writing to an audience of Dan and a few random friends. I didn't realize that I could link to my blog when I set up the FB account in January and had no intention of doing so even after I figured out how this stuff works. Thanks to my best friend S (father of the twins pictured above), who politely asked if he could share one of my posts, I got over my shyness and started actively promoting this on Facebook. I've received so much thoughtful and encouraging feedback as a result. That's some digital attention that really means something to me. Obviously, I put a great deal more thought into these posts than in a 1-3 sentence news feed bit, so the comments on this blog (as well as the ones on Facebook - admittedly, it's more user-friendly than this googly mess) mean so much to me. Thank you to everyone who has left me a comment, even the person who claimed that I was "dressing up" Michael Jackson's pedophilia. The enormous satisfaction I get from just writing this stuff is truly amplified by your feedback.
Oh, and thanks to anyone who says something - in person, to my face - about this blog. Or about my cute pets, or about my wedding photos. I salute you, Talkers of Kind Words. Someday, I want to be like you.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Accepting Summer's Limitations
I always get a little bummed out this time of year. Seems ungrateful, right? I daydream about my unclothed limbs and sleeping with the windows open all winter long and now that summer is here, I have the nerve to complain. Alas, I guess I'm just a spring and fall kinda lady, though I did love the sound of the storm passing over my house this evening, and the lightning and firefly display before my living room window. Maybe I am better able to appreciate these things because I resolved this morning that I must accept summer's limitations if I want to be happy.
In a previous blog post, I talked about my friend S's resolution to accept winter's limitations and that, in adopting that philosophy, I was able to find some peace during those brutally cold months. The circumstances are different, even opposite, but the overall challenge is the same - how do I deal with extreme weather and its potentially negative impact on myself and others?
Springtime, with all its new life nectar, feels like constant, drunken exhilaration and summertime feels like the inevitable hangover. Literally, many people I know seem to be perpetually hungover during the summer. And when people are in that seesaw mode of nighttime stupor and daytime headache, they tend to have volatile tempers. This is the best explanation I've found for the phenomenon I call "Summer Crazies". Every year, I notice that there is a much higher propensity for drama in June, July and August - at work, amongst friends, in my brain, on the bus, etc. For instance, very bad things happen every summer at work (not only at my current job, but at pretty much every job I've had since I started working seventeen years ago). Last summer, these bad things ranged on the scale of lost jobs to lost lives. Of course, not all of these unfortunate events are alcohol-related. Some can only be chalked up to the tough-luck drama that life randomly hands us at times. But it doesn't help when the players are overdosing on mind-altering substances and sun. Too many of my acquaintance eagerly throw themselves into the cauldron because admittedly, the Summer Crazies can be very entertaining. But mostly I find it exhausting and I would rather just read a book. Honestly, I think that's the best I can do. I can't control the way other people react to unfortunate situations. I can't keep them from acting out or making it worse for themselves. But I can control my own alcohol and drama intake, and choose to amuse myself with fiction, instead.
In doing so, I just have to remind myself to read those words... very... slowly. Just as my brain starts to shut down when the temperature is below 10 degrees Fahrenheit, it has a similar reaction to temperatures around 90 or above. I get frustrated when my mind isn't as sharp or quick as I want it to be, but again, I must surrender to the elements and just accept that I may need to reread that paragraph a second time or that it might take longer to find the right words to say. I take some comfort in knowing that everyone has this problem. Oh, and conversation? Waste of time. No one seems to have the attention span for it. Several times in the last week, I've been talking to a friend and mid-sentence they'll randomly say something like, "Hey, look at that squirrel!" I was getting annoyed about it until I recalled the number of times I totally zoned out when someone was talking to me. Just like a meal on a blazing hot day, it's best to keep the chit chat light.
In my quest to keep the season from getting me down, my most surprising discovery is my new appreciation for afternoon naps. I'm like a little kid. I never want to go to sleep because I worry I'm going to miss some fun. But for a whitey like me, that period between 1:00 and 5:00 pm on a hot summer day is no fun at all. Unless I arm myself with a tank of water and a thorough layer of SPF 50, stepping outside equals instant sun stroke and blistering. On recent days off from work, I've found myself snoozing on the couch in the afternoon and it's absolutely glorious! I get to skip the harshest part of day and feel completely refreshed in the evening and nighttime, which is the best part of a summer day, anyway. I guess this is what the "siesta" is all about. It's freakin' brilliant. Obviously I can't do it all the time, but I'm going to take advantage of it as much as I can.
I'm curious to see how people behave in a place like Chattanooga, where the summers are much hotter, but the people are more used to it. Are we like the southerners we mock in the wintertime? You know, the ones who shut down their towns when they have an inch of snow because they don't know how to deal with it? Are we missing some basic summer coping skills that southerners know instinctively? Perhaps that's why I'm more inclined to embrace this season despite all the mischief it brings. Now that I've learned to live through and even like a Michigan winter, I'm ready to take on a Tennessee summer.
In a previous blog post, I talked about my friend S's resolution to accept winter's limitations and that, in adopting that philosophy, I was able to find some peace during those brutally cold months. The circumstances are different, even opposite, but the overall challenge is the same - how do I deal with extreme weather and its potentially negative impact on myself and others?
Springtime, with all its new life nectar, feels like constant, drunken exhilaration and summertime feels like the inevitable hangover. Literally, many people I know seem to be perpetually hungover during the summer. And when people are in that seesaw mode of nighttime stupor and daytime headache, they tend to have volatile tempers. This is the best explanation I've found for the phenomenon I call "Summer Crazies". Every year, I notice that there is a much higher propensity for drama in June, July and August - at work, amongst friends, in my brain, on the bus, etc. For instance, very bad things happen every summer at work (not only at my current job, but at pretty much every job I've had since I started working seventeen years ago). Last summer, these bad things ranged on the scale of lost jobs to lost lives. Of course, not all of these unfortunate events are alcohol-related. Some can only be chalked up to the tough-luck drama that life randomly hands us at times. But it doesn't help when the players are overdosing on mind-altering substances and sun. Too many of my acquaintance eagerly throw themselves into the cauldron because admittedly, the Summer Crazies can be very entertaining. But mostly I find it exhausting and I would rather just read a book. Honestly, I think that's the best I can do. I can't control the way other people react to unfortunate situations. I can't keep them from acting out or making it worse for themselves. But I can control my own alcohol and drama intake, and choose to amuse myself with fiction, instead.
In doing so, I just have to remind myself to read those words... very... slowly. Just as my brain starts to shut down when the temperature is below 10 degrees Fahrenheit, it has a similar reaction to temperatures around 90 or above. I get frustrated when my mind isn't as sharp or quick as I want it to be, but again, I must surrender to the elements and just accept that I may need to reread that paragraph a second time or that it might take longer to find the right words to say. I take some comfort in knowing that everyone has this problem. Oh, and conversation? Waste of time. No one seems to have the attention span for it. Several times in the last week, I've been talking to a friend and mid-sentence they'll randomly say something like, "Hey, look at that squirrel!" I was getting annoyed about it until I recalled the number of times I totally zoned out when someone was talking to me. Just like a meal on a blazing hot day, it's best to keep the chit chat light.
In my quest to keep the season from getting me down, my most surprising discovery is my new appreciation for afternoon naps. I'm like a little kid. I never want to go to sleep because I worry I'm going to miss some fun. But for a whitey like me, that period between 1:00 and 5:00 pm on a hot summer day is no fun at all. Unless I arm myself with a tank of water and a thorough layer of SPF 50, stepping outside equals instant sun stroke and blistering. On recent days off from work, I've found myself snoozing on the couch in the afternoon and it's absolutely glorious! I get to skip the harshest part of day and feel completely refreshed in the evening and nighttime, which is the best part of a summer day, anyway. I guess this is what the "siesta" is all about. It's freakin' brilliant. Obviously I can't do it all the time, but I'm going to take advantage of it as much as I can.
I'm curious to see how people behave in a place like Chattanooga, where the summers are much hotter, but the people are more used to it. Are we like the southerners we mock in the wintertime? You know, the ones who shut down their towns when they have an inch of snow because they don't know how to deal with it? Are we missing some basic summer coping skills that southerners know instinctively? Perhaps that's why I'm more inclined to embrace this season despite all the mischief it brings. Now that I've learned to live through and even like a Michigan winter, I'm ready to take on a Tennessee summer.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Detroit Deserves Better Than "1-8-7"
ABC will premier a new documentary-style drama this fall called "Detroit 1-8-7", which is supposed to follow a group of homicide detectives in the D. Ever since I watched "The Wire" I had hoped for a similar sort of series that would take a nuanced view of this troubled and beloved city. I have no such hopes for this series being half as good as "The Wire" or even "Homicide: Life on the Streets". That's why I'm not surprised by this underwhelming trailer.
Okay, to be fair, I will first focus on the positive, or at least the neutral aspects of this production -
1) Although the pilot was shot in Atlanta, the series itself will be filmed entirely in Detroit. In addition to this being a nod to authenticity, this decision will lead to more jobs and money in the region (assuming the show lasts). Also, I hope that the writers and producers of the show will be less inclined to paint a thoroughly awful picture of the city if they wind up spending time here.
2) Michael Imperioli. "Christopher!"
3) The voice over narration on the trailer is unfairly cheesy. It gives this the feel of a very low budget film from 25 years ago, when it is actually a TV show.
Okay, I think that's all I've got. Here are my misgivings -
1) I cannot ascertain that there is a single native Detroiter connected to this production. As far as I can tell, the creator, Jason Richman, was raised in southern California. I don't know who else is slated to write or direct episodes going forward (I'm not that familiar with television production - perhaps it is too early to say), but beyond including a few shots of the Ren Cen, "The Spirit of Detroit" and some burned out buildings, I don't expect this show to say anything unique or insightful about the city. And that's a shame, because Detroit is awfully interesting.
2) More nitpicking about authenticity - the names of the characters simply don't ring true. According to the cast list on imdb.com, there is an Ariana Sanchez (Latina - check), Aman Mahajan (South Asian - check) and there are obviously a lot of black characters in the trailer. In other words, I can tell there's some basic understanding of the region's ethnic mix. But the white people's names - Louis Fitch, John Stone, James Burke - are awfully WASPy. I don't know, maybe all of their homicide detectives commute from Oakland County, but I'm wondering where Ricci, Szymanski, and Serdenkovski fit in. When I was growing up in east Dearborn, all the white people I knew came from (or descended from those who came from) Poland, Italy, Ireland, Hungary, Romania, Albania, etc. I didn't know many WASPs. And everyone else I knew was Arab American. Oh yeah, where does Hammoud fit into this picture, while we're at it?
3) If it isn't authentic, then no one will care. "The Wire" was special for many reasons, but particularly because it made Baltimore fascinating to people like me who have never been there. And as gritty and upsetting as the show could be, I fell in love with it and the screwed up city it represented. "The Wire" dignified the people of Baltimore by showing us how interesting their lives are. This is why I have longed for a similar program about Detroit, because our politics, neighborhoods and people are just as complex and deserving of that lens. But if "1-8-7" is going to be just another action-oriented cop show with a "mystery of the week" storyline, no one is going to care. Well, Detroiters will care for a little while, until they get bored with the "Hey, look! That's us on TV!" thrill of it all, and then the show will be canceled. So much for those jobs and fresh dollars.
I hope I am wrong about this - I often am in my predictions about pop culture successes (like when I saw the trailer for "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective" and thought "The white dude from In Living Color? No one cares about him. What a waste of time!"). I hate to say it, but even if the show is as down and dreary and shallow as the trailer portends, I have to say (as I barf in my mouth), I suppose it will be good for the city. Like when a CVS opens, or the girl from Wayne State wins "America's Next Top Model", or Kid Rock has a hit song, or some other thing that would be embarrassing to most other towns...
Okay, to be fair, I will first focus on the positive, or at least the neutral aspects of this production -
1) Although the pilot was shot in Atlanta, the series itself will be filmed entirely in Detroit. In addition to this being a nod to authenticity, this decision will lead to more jobs and money in the region (assuming the show lasts). Also, I hope that the writers and producers of the show will be less inclined to paint a thoroughly awful picture of the city if they wind up spending time here.
2) Michael Imperioli. "Christopher!"
3) The voice over narration on the trailer is unfairly cheesy. It gives this the feel of a very low budget film from 25 years ago, when it is actually a TV show.
Okay, I think that's all I've got. Here are my misgivings -
1) I cannot ascertain that there is a single native Detroiter connected to this production. As far as I can tell, the creator, Jason Richman, was raised in southern California. I don't know who else is slated to write or direct episodes going forward (I'm not that familiar with television production - perhaps it is too early to say), but beyond including a few shots of the Ren Cen, "The Spirit of Detroit" and some burned out buildings, I don't expect this show to say anything unique or insightful about the city. And that's a shame, because Detroit is awfully interesting.
2) More nitpicking about authenticity - the names of the characters simply don't ring true. According to the cast list on imdb.com, there is an Ariana Sanchez (Latina - check), Aman Mahajan (South Asian - check) and there are obviously a lot of black characters in the trailer. In other words, I can tell there's some basic understanding of the region's ethnic mix. But the white people's names - Louis Fitch, John Stone, James Burke - are awfully WASPy. I don't know, maybe all of their homicide detectives commute from Oakland County, but I'm wondering where Ricci, Szymanski, and Serdenkovski fit in. When I was growing up in east Dearborn, all the white people I knew came from (or descended from those who came from) Poland, Italy, Ireland, Hungary, Romania, Albania, etc. I didn't know many WASPs. And everyone else I knew was Arab American. Oh yeah, where does Hammoud fit into this picture, while we're at it?
3) If it isn't authentic, then no one will care. "The Wire" was special for many reasons, but particularly because it made Baltimore fascinating to people like me who have never been there. And as gritty and upsetting as the show could be, I fell in love with it and the screwed up city it represented. "The Wire" dignified the people of Baltimore by showing us how interesting their lives are. This is why I have longed for a similar program about Detroit, because our politics, neighborhoods and people are just as complex and deserving of that lens. But if "1-8-7" is going to be just another action-oriented cop show with a "mystery of the week" storyline, no one is going to care. Well, Detroiters will care for a little while, until they get bored with the "Hey, look! That's us on TV!" thrill of it all, and then the show will be canceled. So much for those jobs and fresh dollars.
I hope I am wrong about this - I often am in my predictions about pop culture successes (like when I saw the trailer for "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective" and thought "The white dude from In Living Color? No one cares about him. What a waste of time!"). I hate to say it, but even if the show is as down and dreary and shallow as the trailer portends, I have to say (as I barf in my mouth), I suppose it will be good for the city. Like when a CVS opens, or the girl from Wayne State wins "America's Next Top Model", or Kid Rock has a hit song, or some other thing that would be embarrassing to most other towns...
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Maybe Beyonce is better off without the ring
At the end of April, when Dan and I were still waiting to hear about his job prospects, I was telling my coworkers that waiting for those phone calls reminded me of the nightmares of dating. Fellow saleslady J (soon to be wed to a very nice gentleman) groaned, as if to say, "I know exactly what you mean." But my boss P said, "I have no idea what that's like." He married his high school sweetheart. Lucky him. He never knew that spirit-sapping uncertainty.
I can still remember all those times I waited and wondered if some dude would call me back. Even worse were the times when I was dating someone for weeks or even months, and just wasn't sure if he liked me as much as I liked him. If I could go back to my younger self, I would say, "Just give up on that guy." Now I know that's the best advice anyone could have given me. Instead, I got the usual terrible dating advice, like, "Just wait and see what happens," or "You know when you'll find the right person? When you stop looking." Yeah, I get the idea that you shouldn't try too hard, but who actually stops looking?
I think this is better advice - you'll know it's right when it isn't weird. That's how I knew Dan was the man for me.
---
On our third "date" (kind of silly to call it that, as we had spent the better part of four days together, but whatever), Dan and I were rolling down I-94, on our way to see Mavis Staples at the Detroit Tastefest. He was flipping through his CD book, looking for some new tunes, and then popped in Bob Dylan's New Morning.
"You're a Dylan fan, Dan? I never really 'got' Dylan. I know that's bound to change. I used to not care about Neil Young, but I love him now." I was pleasantly surprised when I figured out the opening track was "If Not For You". "I love this song. George Harrison sang it on All Things Must Pass. It's my favorite song from that album."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah, that was my song from last winter. I didn't know it was a Dylan song, but I guess it makes sense. And they were buddies, right? I mean, they were both Wilburys."
Dan responded in his best Butthead voice, "Uhh... you mean The Traveling Dingleberries?"
I cracked up laughing. "Oh, god I completely forgot about that. 'Dingleberries.' Ha ha!" I kept giggling and Dan steered with his left hand as he held my fingers in his right hand.
I think I was staring out the window at the giant Uniroyal tire in Allen Park when he skipped ahead of several tracks to get to "The Man in Me".
"And of course, you know this one from The Big Lebowski."
"Oh, yeah! I forget this is his song. Love this one, too."
And that was the unforgettable moment. I was still giggling from the dingleberry joke, and loving those backup lady vocalists, when I realized that I felt perfectly content. I looked at the dashboard and then the hazy July sky and thought, "This is who I'm going to marry." In those initial days of love's rush - from the nervous, appetite-crushing hours before our initial date to the moment we first kissed at the park by my apartment and even after we had enjoyed several hearty meals, a Ray Davies concert and a 3D screening of "House of Wax" together - the thought simply hadn't occurred to me. I had been having too much fun to analyze the situation. I hadn't even thought much of the fact that I felt happier than I ever had before, because I was too busy being happy.
I squeezed his hand and then the thought went away. We met up with some friends and had even more fun that day and well into the night. At about three in the morning, we stepped out to the fire escape behind his Corktown apartment and smoked a cigarette. We were staring at the stark, towering elevator shifts of the still-under-construction Motor City Casino. Without any obvious prompting, Dan said, "I think I just want to get married."
"Me, too!"
"How do you feel about kids?"
"I want 'em. How do you feel about kids?"
He paused before responding, "One, or two. Not more than two."
"That sounds perfect."
I don't blame our friends for wondering if we had both gone a little insane. I moved in with Dan about two months later, but we didn't get married right away. We waited a couple years, like normal people do. But I sometimes wonder if the "normal" path of courtship makes any sense at all. The mystery of it, the "Is he going to propose?" or "When am I going to get that ring?" doesn't strike me as romantic. It sounds more like torture. Or when people ask themselves, "Is s/he 'the one'?" I can't help but feel that if you don't know, then the answer is "no".
Knowing when you are in love with someone who loves you isn't complicated. In my experience, "complicated" only indicates that it just isn't going to work. When you can honestly and fearlessly express your feelings to that other person (about them, or marriage, or kids, or Bob Dylan), then you're probably on the right track.
I can still remember all those times I waited and wondered if some dude would call me back. Even worse were the times when I was dating someone for weeks or even months, and just wasn't sure if he liked me as much as I liked him. If I could go back to my younger self, I would say, "Just give up on that guy." Now I know that's the best advice anyone could have given me. Instead, I got the usual terrible dating advice, like, "Just wait and see what happens," or "You know when you'll find the right person? When you stop looking." Yeah, I get the idea that you shouldn't try too hard, but who actually stops looking?
I think this is better advice - you'll know it's right when it isn't weird. That's how I knew Dan was the man for me.
---
On our third "date" (kind of silly to call it that, as we had spent the better part of four days together, but whatever), Dan and I were rolling down I-94, on our way to see Mavis Staples at the Detroit Tastefest. He was flipping through his CD book, looking for some new tunes, and then popped in Bob Dylan's New Morning.
"You're a Dylan fan, Dan? I never really 'got' Dylan. I know that's bound to change. I used to not care about Neil Young, but I love him now." I was pleasantly surprised when I figured out the opening track was "If Not For You". "I love this song. George Harrison sang it on All Things Must Pass. It's my favorite song from that album."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah, that was my song from last winter. I didn't know it was a Dylan song, but I guess it makes sense. And they were buddies, right? I mean, they were both Wilburys."
Dan responded in his best Butthead voice, "Uhh... you mean The Traveling Dingleberries?"
I cracked up laughing. "Oh, god I completely forgot about that. 'Dingleberries.' Ha ha!" I kept giggling and Dan steered with his left hand as he held my fingers in his right hand.
I think I was staring out the window at the giant Uniroyal tire in Allen Park when he skipped ahead of several tracks to get to "The Man in Me".
"And of course, you know this one from The Big Lebowski."
"Oh, yeah! I forget this is his song. Love this one, too."
And that was the unforgettable moment. I was still giggling from the dingleberry joke, and loving those backup lady vocalists, when I realized that I felt perfectly content. I looked at the dashboard and then the hazy July sky and thought, "This is who I'm going to marry." In those initial days of love's rush - from the nervous, appetite-crushing hours before our initial date to the moment we first kissed at the park by my apartment and even after we had enjoyed several hearty meals, a Ray Davies concert and a 3D screening of "House of Wax" together - the thought simply hadn't occurred to me. I had been having too much fun to analyze the situation. I hadn't even thought much of the fact that I felt happier than I ever had before, because I was too busy being happy.
I squeezed his hand and then the thought went away. We met up with some friends and had even more fun that day and well into the night. At about three in the morning, we stepped out to the fire escape behind his Corktown apartment and smoked a cigarette. We were staring at the stark, towering elevator shifts of the still-under-construction Motor City Casino. Without any obvious prompting, Dan said, "I think I just want to get married."
"Me, too!"
"How do you feel about kids?"
"I want 'em. How do you feel about kids?"
He paused before responding, "One, or two. Not more than two."
"That sounds perfect."
I don't blame our friends for wondering if we had both gone a little insane. I moved in with Dan about two months later, but we didn't get married right away. We waited a couple years, like normal people do. But I sometimes wonder if the "normal" path of courtship makes any sense at all. The mystery of it, the "Is he going to propose?" or "When am I going to get that ring?" doesn't strike me as romantic. It sounds more like torture. Or when people ask themselves, "Is s/he 'the one'?" I can't help but feel that if you don't know, then the answer is "no".
Knowing when you are in love with someone who loves you isn't complicated. In my experience, "complicated" only indicates that it just isn't going to work. When you can honestly and fearlessly express your feelings to that other person (about them, or marriage, or kids, or Bob Dylan), then you're probably on the right track.
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