My friend G, a Bradley Method instructor, asked me to share my birth story via Youtube so she could play it for her class. Coincidentally, this whole wacky adventure got started a year ago today. Revisiting this story has been a very satisfying perspective-checking experience. So, I thought I'd share the videos on here. Total running time is about 19 minutes. This is based on my Planning for Peanut blog posts from last November. Here are links to part 1 and part 2 of the written story.
Video, part 1
Video, part 2
And on a completely unrelated note, here is a tribute to our American League Champion Detroit Tigers - woohoo!!!
Showing posts with label detroit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label detroit. Show all posts
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Green Acres 2012
No time? Hire a vegetable grower
Here's my concept for a "Green Acres" redux - in this modern version of the classic 1965 sitcom, Oliver and Lisa are 30s-ish Brooklyn foodies. She's a native New Yorker and a restaurant critic. He hails from suburban Detroit and is an avid community gardener. Lisa is forever in love with her hometown, but Oliver has grown frustrated with the "rat race" and his lucrative but soul-crushing marketing career. At his insistence, the two relocate to a cheap expanse of prairie on Detroit's east side, where he realizes his urban farming dream. But, the farm livin' reality doesn't match up to Oliver's fancy. He must contend with crappy, unpredictable weather, a crumbling infrastructure (bringing back the telephone at the top of the pole), and constant miscommunication with his neighbors. Yet, while he struggles with his unexpected "fish out of water" status, a more worldly Lisa is better able to adapt to the environment and relate to other community members, including Sam Drucker (who owns the neighborhood corner store; he kindly agrees to sell Oliver's veggies, though no one seems interested in his $5/lb. heirloom tomatoes), Mr. Haney (another vendor at the neighborhood farmer's market; much to Oliver's chagrin, he's clearly dealing in shady, non-local goods, like grapefruit and foreign-made car parts), and the Ziffels (who speak to their pet goat*, Arnold, like he's people). The comic gold is in uptight Oliver's constant frustration with his unusual surroundings vs. Lisa's easy acceptance of their new lot, and the fact that neither of these two food-fetishizing farmers know how to cook their produce.
----
The inspiration for this concept came from a guy I don't actually know, a friend of a friend. My buddy told me how this dreamy suburban guy had started a farm in Detroit. Apparently, farmer dude found it necessary to brandish a rifle as a way of dealing with pesky neighborhood crackheads. My immediate, albeit silent reaction was, "Uh, weren't the crackheads there first?" Gentrification is a very complicated thing, and I should know because I'm on my fourth round of being a white beneficiary. I think that many gentrifiers view themselves firmly rooted in the moral high ground because they're "fixing things up". Combine this with foodie ideals and you find yourself in an ethical quagmire.
Speaking of which, the only way this remake could work is with a television writing dream team. In my fantasy, this would include David Simon, Louis C.K., and some really funny Detroiters, like the guys who write "The Ed and Moe Show". That combination of folks could handle the sociological realities with humor and some degree of accuracy. Because, let's be real, Oliver and Lisa would be white, and most of their neighbors would be African American. Without great writers, the show would either be stupid at best or racist at worst, and then my brainchild would end up on the pages of my current favorite website.
*I've heard of people keeping pigs in Detroit, but I've actually seen goats there.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
The Surprise Center of Everything I Miss
In just eight days, we'll pack two tons of baby gear and one baby girl into a rental car, drive ten hours north on I-75 and spend a week in our beloved, mitten-shaped homeland. During that time, we'll be lodged in exotic... stunning... Livonia, Michigan.
The first image on the City of Livonia's "Community Profile" page.
No kidding, I'm honestly geeked to be staying in this grid-shaped expanse of strip malls and post war subdivisions. Growing up in Dearborn, my primary association with Livonia was the old Ladbroke DRC where we'd go to watch horse races. That was the only reason I ever went there. But now I see it as a rather ideal locale, for several reasons:
Proximity to a slew of southeastern Michigan hotspots We've got must-see people and destinations in Ann Arbor, Ypsilanti, Canton, Dearborn, Dearborn Heights, Detroit and Huntington Woods, not to mention a pair of dentist appointments in Bingham Farms. That's three counties, y'all! Livonia may be the most central location, which never occurred to me until we booked our room. Apparently, it's also a haven for traveling businessmen, as our hotel's complimentary breakfast includes "traditional Japanese items" - ooh la la!
There's a Costco there You may be thinking, "Costco? Ha ha! Tara has officially turned into a boring mom." Fair enough. I just recently became a card-carrying member, but I feel as if Costco and me were always meant to be. What's not to love about prodigious free samples and cheap, organic, frozen burritos by the dozen? I can get Dubliner cheese for six bucks a pound! The little cafe in the front sells giant, hand-dipped ice cream bars for $1.50. It's like Ikea for people who enjoy food more than furniture (though they also have furniture, and clothing, and car tires). I hate shopping, but I love going to Costco. We'll have a kitchenette in our room so being this close to one is rather practical. After all, we can't live on traditional Japanese breakfast items alone.
There's a secret oasis of bucolic grandeur there Our friend J is a longtime Livonia resident. Hopefully, we'll get a chance to hang out with her and her faithful Labrador/Chow mix, who looks just like a little black bear when he stands on his hind legs. She introduced us to the lovely hiking trails at Rotary Park. Those woods are quite serene. Right about now it's probably strewn with wildflowers. It's a cool respite on a hot, sunny day and a natural shelter in light rain. Once, I saw someone on horseback there. If you enjoy nature walks and find yourself in the vicinity, I recommend checking out this place. I foresee at least a couple jaunts with our baby and our dog.
It's Metro Detroit, and that's good enough for me I know my audience, so I'm careful to include the word "metro". People from SE Michigan bristle when suburbanites say they're "from Detroit", because everyone is so aware of the difference between the mostly African-American city center and its much whiter suburbs. But consider this - while the city population has dipped below 800,000, the metro area is about 4.3 million. That's a significant number of people in a specific area that I think we may as well call Detroit. Whatevs. Chattanooga's metro population is 500,000 and it's the biggest city within a one hundred mile radius. I miss the advantages of living in a more densely populated region. More so, there are quintessential Metro Detroit things I crave. Like, for instance, choosing from dozens of possible routes between points A and B. "Should I take I-275 to I-94 or just head down Ford Road or Michigan Avenue?" - you don't get all those options when you're surrounded by mountains and ridges. I miss the long-established immigrant enclaves, and eating delicious Greek, Middle Eastern, Indian, Chinese and Mexican food. I can't even find good pizza around here. I miss AM 580, this funky Windsor oldies station that still plays pop tunes from the 1950s, as well as an inordinate number of Guess Who hits (to satisfy Canadian content minimums, no doubt). Now that I live far away, I realize that particular combination of things doesn't exist anywhere else. So it really doesn't matter where we hang in that vast cement grid where the mitten's thumb meets its palm. As long as we're with people we love and a short ride from a Coney Island, it's all home to me.
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.
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...
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
D'light
Ever since the day when locals were actually excited about Kwame Kilpatrick being America's first "hip hop mayor", the question on everyone's lips has been, "Is Detroit coming back?" Amazingly, even with all the political scandals, and the nearly 30% unemployment rate, and the poor performing sports teams, the haters cannot overcome those who envision a brighter future for the D. So the debate continues. But I say, to hell with the question. What would "coming back" constitute anyway? A return to the 1950's? The 1920's? The 1730's? What's the great ideal and when do we call it a win?
The thing is, I like Detroit right now. I'm not denying that it's a really hard place to live, or that I sometimes feel scared or uncomfortable being there. But it has very unique charms, including some of the friendliest people in the region. And since I don't often bother engaging in arguments about Detroit, and I've more or less given up trying to convince white people that they shouldn't completely avoid the place, I'm going to show my appreciation for the city by telling an occasional story about some of my favorite moments spent there.
Not a Normal City
In the summer of 2007, Dan and I lived in a Victorian house in North Corktown. It was a pretty great location for walking or biking to midtown, downtown or the southwest neighborhoods (which I did often, always during daylight hours and it was only kind of scary once). One blazing Sunday afternoon, Dan laid in bed with an unfortunate hot weather head cold. There was no food in the house so I decided to ride my bike down to the Honeybee Market in Mexican town to pick up some groceries. I was looking for some specific ingredient - basil, or something - that couldn't be found there. With Dan laid up and knowing I had nothing better to do, I decided to bike over to the other good grocery store, Harbortown Market on East Jefferson. Having ridden there in a car on several occasions, I was confident that it wasn't too far a journey.
In actuality it wasn't (just four miles), but the thing about that stretch of East Jefferson is that there aren't any shade-providing trees or tall buildings. I rode by a lot of asphalt parking lots. There was nothing to protect me from the circa solstice sun. I was holding my Honeybee groceries in a backpack and I could feel the sweat dripping down and forming a little pool in the small of my back. By the time I got to Harbortown, I was embarrassed to take off the backpack and reveal the giant sweat stain on the back of my shirt, so I guess I wasn't too disappointed that they didn't have what I was looking for.
But as I was biking home, I started feeling a little thirsty. Not enough so that I was going to seek out a liquor store or gas station, disembark the bike, find a place to lock it, and reveal the giant sweat stain. As I pedaled toward downtown, I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be cool if I lived in a normal city with street vendors and I could just roll up on this bike and buy a juice?" I tried to imagine any occasion when I had seen that in Detroit, outside of a concert or festival. That sort of thing just doesn't exist.
I rode to Campus Martius, anyway, in the vain hope that someone had just decided to set up a cart in the middle of a downtown park. That is where that would happen, right? No luck, of course. But I was only a few minutes from home, where my Brita water pitcher awaited me.
Then, as I was rolling down Michigan Avenue toward Washington Boulevard, I heard some music and smelled grilled things. I followed the sound and smell and found a street party in front of St. Aloysius Church.
St. Aloysius is a flat faced funny looking parish squished between two office buildings. It's easy to miss unless you're standing on the street staring at it. It also happens to be the church where my parents got married. That being a pretty important step toward the existence of me, I guess I find St. Al's endearing.
It was especially endearing on that sunny evening. I saw a couple dozen folks lined up for burgers, dogs and Better Made potato chips. Others were chilling on folding chairs or sitting on the grassy part of the boulevard. There was a crowd of people doing the hustle to Stevie Wonder's "My Eyes Don't Cry" in a tent. Almost everyone appeared to be homeless, and the people were having a good old time! I parked my bike and wandered toward the beverage table. A white woman with a shaggy blond mullet rolled her eyes at the disco dancers as she poured cups of orange Faygo. "Come on people, the seventies are over!" she said. I asked her what was going on. "It's St. Al's annual street fair. We like to do this for the neighborhood. Everything's free. Help yourself to food and drink."
In my happy daze I stared at the church and muttered, "My parents got married here."
She stared at me. "Do you want something to drink? Get some food, too."
I settled for a bottle of juice, which is all I had really wanted. As I rolled the rest of the way home, I felt very pleased with the outcome of my journey.
The thing is, I like Detroit right now. I'm not denying that it's a really hard place to live, or that I sometimes feel scared or uncomfortable being there. But it has very unique charms, including some of the friendliest people in the region. And since I don't often bother engaging in arguments about Detroit, and I've more or less given up trying to convince white people that they shouldn't completely avoid the place, I'm going to show my appreciation for the city by telling an occasional story about some of my favorite moments spent there.
Not a Normal City
In the summer of 2007, Dan and I lived in a Victorian house in North Corktown. It was a pretty great location for walking or biking to midtown, downtown or the southwest neighborhoods (which I did often, always during daylight hours and it was only kind of scary once). One blazing Sunday afternoon, Dan laid in bed with an unfortunate hot weather head cold. There was no food in the house so I decided to ride my bike down to the Honeybee Market in Mexican town to pick up some groceries. I was looking for some specific ingredient - basil, or something - that couldn't be found there. With Dan laid up and knowing I had nothing better to do, I decided to bike over to the other good grocery store, Harbortown Market on East Jefferson. Having ridden there in a car on several occasions, I was confident that it wasn't too far a journey.
In actuality it wasn't (just four miles), but the thing about that stretch of East Jefferson is that there aren't any shade-providing trees or tall buildings. I rode by a lot of asphalt parking lots. There was nothing to protect me from the circa solstice sun. I was holding my Honeybee groceries in a backpack and I could feel the sweat dripping down and forming a little pool in the small of my back. By the time I got to Harbortown, I was embarrassed to take off the backpack and reveal the giant sweat stain on the back of my shirt, so I guess I wasn't too disappointed that they didn't have what I was looking for.
But as I was biking home, I started feeling a little thirsty. Not enough so that I was going to seek out a liquor store or gas station, disembark the bike, find a place to lock it, and reveal the giant sweat stain. As I pedaled toward downtown, I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be cool if I lived in a normal city with street vendors and I could just roll up on this bike and buy a juice?" I tried to imagine any occasion when I had seen that in Detroit, outside of a concert or festival. That sort of thing just doesn't exist.
I rode to Campus Martius, anyway, in the vain hope that someone had just decided to set up a cart in the middle of a downtown park. That is where that would happen, right? No luck, of course. But I was only a few minutes from home, where my Brita water pitcher awaited me.
Then, as I was rolling down Michigan Avenue toward Washington Boulevard, I heard some music and smelled grilled things. I followed the sound and smell and found a street party in front of St. Aloysius Church.
St. Aloysius is a flat faced funny looking parish squished between two office buildings. It's easy to miss unless you're standing on the street staring at it. It also happens to be the church where my parents got married. That being a pretty important step toward the existence of me, I guess I find St. Al's endearing.
It was especially endearing on that sunny evening. I saw a couple dozen folks lined up for burgers, dogs and Better Made potato chips. Others were chilling on folding chairs or sitting on the grassy part of the boulevard. There was a crowd of people doing the hustle to Stevie Wonder's "My Eyes Don't Cry" in a tent. Almost everyone appeared to be homeless, and the people were having a good old time! I parked my bike and wandered toward the beverage table. A white woman with a shaggy blond mullet rolled her eyes at the disco dancers as she poured cups of orange Faygo. "Come on people, the seventies are over!" she said. I asked her what was going on. "It's St. Al's annual street fair. We like to do this for the neighborhood. Everything's free. Help yourself to food and drink."
In my happy daze I stared at the church and muttered, "My parents got married here."
She stared at me. "Do you want something to drink? Get some food, too."
I settled for a bottle of juice, which is all I had really wanted. As I rolled the rest of the way home, I felt very pleased with the outcome of my journey.
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