16 posts tagged “detroit”
After spending every weekend in August (and part of July) running around various parts of the state, for good reason, it was nice to take a break over the long Labor Day weekend. I live in a suburb of the city where, regrettably, people like to "come to party." By people, I mean sateen shirt-wearing douchesack men in white leather belts; oversized, bug-eyed sunglasses; and Eastern European accents. And by "party," I mean blasting Jager bombs, Captain and Coke, and other such swill, while trying to get their pussy mack happening. But, on holiday weekends, most of those dildos clear out. Not that it mattered because we didn't leave the house all that much, especially at night.
We've been on the go throughout northern Michigan, where every weekend was starting to look like this:
So, it was nice to actually be around the house for once. You can tell when you've been gone many weekends in a row -- garbage day yields one bag, and the backyard has huge spider webs growing all over the place. We managed to make it out late Sunday morning for brunch at Seldom Blues, a highly reputable, incredibly upscale soul food-style, jazz-inspired dining room in Detroit's Renaissance Center,
right on the Detroit River. Detroit has a plentitude of eyesores -- and even some of the buildings are tough to look at! Hi-yoooo!! -- but they've hit an inside-the-park home run with the river walk. Definitely one of the cleaner, more welcomed parts of the city's landscape.
Seldom Blues is not exactly what I would call affordable dining ($35 dinner entrees, etc.), and this crowd was definitely replete with some of the city's notables, including numerous reverands, some local publishers, and at least one well-known jazz radio personality. And this was before the place even filled out. The fare was outstanding, each station its own well-thought-out oasis of breakfast-inspired delight. Aside from standard desserts, fruit and muffins, the main courses were a blitz of savory goodness and rib-sticking decadence. The added beauty to all of this is that we snaked right in for free, which is pretty goddamn sweet, considering that this Gospel Brunch costs about $35 a person.
And what a brunch it was. I'm talking about warm stations of made-to-order waffles, omeletes, and pancakes, beef tenderloin, mac and cheese, turkey sausage and bacon, onion and fingerling potatoes, biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, jalapeno cheese grits, barbecued peach chicken, mmmm-MMM! Such a joyous array of food. Chef Jerry Nottage has it wrapped tight here, without question.
Here is that bbq peach chicken,
as well as this "retro" ham ala king, with big chunks of meat, most of them just a touch smaller in size than your average pair of fuzzy dice.
We tried to traverse the river walk, but had to cut it short. My ass was killing me. Per my doctor's recommendation, I got the area X-rayed Saturday morning. They had hinted that the tailbone was not broken, which was good news to me, but on the walk Sunday, it flared up pretty good. Today, two days later, the pain is less noticeable and I hope that is a trend that continues. I'd like to get back to getting in and out bed pain-free, walking the dog, you know, the usual shit I often take for granted.
Other than that, the Sunday brunch was short of phenomenal. It was nice to get out of the woods and back in the city. I love it up north -- don't get it twisted -- but there's a reason I'm the self-appointed City Chicken, and it's not because I like the dish.
Bored and unable to sleep in on a Saturday morning, I continued my a.m. driving series through Detroit's Southwest neighborhoods. When I hear that Journey song about the boy "born and raised in south Detroit," this is the part of town I imagine. See, there really is no "south Detroit." You have the East Side, the West Side and Southwest. The rest of the city has its own designations like Woodbridge, New Center, Corktown, Warrendale, Midtown, Brightmoor, Palmer Woods, Hubbard Farms, Delray, Indian Village, the Cultural Center, and so on. But really, the Big Three are East, West and Southwest.
I don't spend as much time in this part of the city as I would like, should, but I have a feeling that will be changing this summer. I've discovered more to this area then I previously thought existed. Color me lazy or sheltered, but I really ventured only as far as Mexicantown and parts of Vernor West, the former being a slew of restaurants with a strong suburban clientele. And while there is nothing wrong with that, but when I venture out into some of the fringe neighborhoods or go into some bizarre-o, out of the way bar in an area no one else I know would go (save for, of course, my homeboy who spearheads many of these ventures), the last thing I want to see is a room full of people who, well, look like me. Give me the obscure, the true local flavor, not some perfumed pig to comfort the young couple from Clawson. And I found a lot of that flavor while getting somewhat lost around southwest this morning, tooling aimlessly up and down Vernor far west than I ever knew existed, down Springwells, Mullane, Lawndale, Junction, etc. Fuck a bunch of farmers market or waiting in line at Toast. I want to see some real shit.
Looks like I missed the taco truck ...
And in a social climate where seemingly everywhere I turn with a camera people are constantly suspicious and nearly always aggressive with remarks and questions like "Why are you taking pictures?!!?" and "Who are you working for?!?!" (for which answers are, in this order: "fuck you and fuck you"), it made my day when I saw this guy.
Nice guy. Totally restores my faith in humanity for at least the next 12 hours, until some some dolt fucks it all up. We need more Carloses in the world -- even-tempered polite individuals just grilling up about 20 pounds of finely seasoned chicken at 10 a.m. on a Saturday.
Swung by the old Tiger Stadium, where recent news reports have been agog with the erection of a 10-foot high fence, the definite precursor to the structure's demolition. That bitch, finally, is coming down.
Just tear it down, please. It's an eyesore and a waste of space in a Corktown neighborhood that is choking on its own potential to be a dominant part of the city. We've all had our fun at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull. Great. Great fucking times. But those times expired, so rip the goddamn thing down already.
From the east side ...
Anyone up for some Scrap 21? Mayhaps a little h-o-r-s-e?
United Sound Systems, on Second Avenue in Detroit. The notables who have recorded in this building include Marvin, Aretha, Jackie Wilson, Parliament, the Rolling Stones, an early version of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Stevie Wonder.
The Dequindre Cut is a miles-long swath of abandoned railroad path running north-south from Detroit's suburbs to the city's riverfront. At some points it is prairie-like; others, a ghetto landfill that has become a last stop for everything from trashed TV sets to human life. Here is an informative article about the the rail line and plans to convert it to a pedestrian-bike path. In the meantime, it's rideable at most points and tough to negotiate at others because of washouts and heaps of trash. I've read and heard of the cut's graffiti as being at the very least, worth a look. Yes, there were some good looks down there, amid the general creepiness.
I want to say that these are bones. They looked a lot like bones.
Someone's stash area. That wheel was already like that, trust me.
The geographic enormity confined within Detroit's city limits is, for me, fascinating at pretty much every turn. For nearly 20 years, there was been no surefire way to cure boredom and generate interest than getting in the car and driving around the city. Some of my fondest memories date back several years during breezy summer nights, windows down, in a relaxed and enlightened state of mind, stereo on, eyes on seemingly everything all at once. People are telling it solidly when they talk about the sounds of a city, but I hear it too. I've always felt it. I get it. It is a fitting companion to the whole sights and sounds thing we relentlessly pursue.
And so it was Saturday, just driving around and feeding my eyes.
I enjoy the creative process that fuels photojournalism. Despite working for second- and third-rate publications the majority of my career, the writing part came well before the photo part. I have a low-end camera and rudimentary PhotoShop skills, which, I believe, are sometimes tempered by what I think is a decent eye for imagery. Since I began fancying myself an amateur photographer I have been exposed to one consistency that drives me nuts -- whip out a camera in a public place and people get fucking weird, quickly.
Understandably, I'm well aware that you can't just go shoot whatever you want when you want. If you walk into a bar and start taking photographs, there is a risk -- albeit a slim one -- that one of the patrons at the bar possibly, at the insistence of the court, is not supposed to be in a bar. He may not want an image containing him captured. You can't just walk into a restaurant and start snapping away. You become a subject of the discretion of management, who can insist you leave. Granted, you've done nothing illegal by any stretch, but it's still very, very bad form. Public property is fair game, and even some private property. I can stand in front of your house, in the street, and take a picture of your home. I am well within my right to do that. If I step on your lawn or in your driveway, then I'm open to all sorts of charges, including trespassing.
Months ago, I took Lamont to a dog daycare facility on Cass Avenue in Detroit. They have an indoor-outdoor play area for dogs, so I took him up there to run around. I paid my $6 and offered proof of his immunizations, which I'd obtained that day from my vet. We check in, I de-leash him, he starts running around and playing, I take out my camera, start getting a few shots and about six seconds later, this dude has sidled up next to me.
Him: "I see you're taking photographs."
Me: "Yes I am."
Him: "May I ask why? Are they for anything?"
Me: "Yeah, they're 'for' me."
And then I move away and keep taking photos. People get fucking strange, man. They either want to know who you're working for or why you are taking photos, or they immediately want to tell you that you aren't allowed to capture images, even though, again, you are well within your right to do so. This is one of the many elements that, in my opinion, make people certified douchebags.
Recently, I've experienced two attempts at this censorship, both very different in context. Last weekend, Kerry and I visited the Michigan Modernism Exposition in Southfield, which is basically an array of fancy antique dealers. Most of the wares adhere to an art deco theme. This show usually contains some really cool -- if not entirely overpriced -- items, including very colorful glass ...
... some spectacular lighting ...
... this kickass human brain model ...
... an old-school hairdryer ...
... and this bomb fireplace setup ...
... I also thought this glass floral arrangement was kind of cool looking ...
... until the half-second after I took the shot, the woman running the booth -- this tired, Jewish hag-looking bitch -- got right up in my shit. I mean, this broad was in my face and it totally, completely caught me off-guard. She began barking about how I needed to ask her permission first to take pictures of anything. "You ask first," she said in a voice that can only be described as a scold, which really started to piss me off. Without blinking I remarked "Really? In a public place? One constructed and maintained with taxpayer money? I'm not so sure about that ..."
And then she really got wound up, yammering on about how she spends a lot of money to get to these shows and buy this stuff and photographers aren't welcomed to shoot these things for fear of "them being copied." My initial instinct was to tell her to fuck off, which is what I usually do to people like that. But, Kerry was nearby and at the risk of starting a scene, I did not want to embarrass her. Had I been there alone, yeah, the expletives would've flown like an Ozzie Guillen post-game presser. Instead, I just laughed in her face, smiled, gave to her that re-assuring tone you use with children and the mentally retarded and said "Um-hmm," and then I walked away. Art deco my ass.
Here's some art deco for you, Detroit ghetto-style:
Now, that's some motherfucking art. If even says so RIGHT ON THE HOUSE.
Shortly after that photo, I had another encounter with some folks not at all supportive of my creative outlets, but I didn't jaw at these guys, no, I got busy and hightailed it quickly from the neighborhood, per their suggestion.
Detroit is a city awash in street-side memorials. Someone gets shot and within hours, there are a dozen stuffed animals, photos, candles and well-wishes on the porch or on the sidewalk where it happened. This is not funny. This is some serious shit. And I would never make light of something like that here. But, I did see a memorial that caught my eye so much I had to turn around to see it again.
A couple of stuffed animals and a great many empty booze bottles. I found their arrangement -- delicate and intentional -- to be intriguing. The tire, the big red bear, the empty Remy Martin, the whole deal is just, I don't know, it's weird and sad and oddly captivating all at the same time.
While I'm doing this, I hear a voice behind saying "Hey. Hey!" I turn around to see two young guys, maybe 26 or 28, in a new-ish Yukon stopped in the street lane opposite of my side of the street. They ask me exactly what I think I'm doing. They do not look happy.
"Just taking some pictures, fellas. That's it."
And then I attempt something really stupid (at least with these dipshits), and try to initiate conversation. "Is this memorial for someone who lived around here? Did you know him?"
"Get the fuck outta here, man," is what they said before they very slowly drove away. So, I took another picture.
I wish I had a Kevlar vest and a "tool," as the kids say. I would've loved nothing more than to point my camera right at those guys and start taking pictures. A little camera shy, boys? Instead, I was thankful they kept on driving and didn't get out of that car to whup my ass or fucking shoot me.
Ghetto territorialism is such bullshit. I've experienced it head-on for nearly 20 years, and yesterday was no exception. I've lived in all-black neighborhoods, where everyone fucking hated me. I worked in all-black communities, where nobody trusted me (not that I expect them to). As a journalist, I've covered all sorts of shit in weird neighborhoods and it's all the same: they don't like nobody who isn't from there, unless you have some sort of ghetto pass. I quote the iconic punk rock band Crime when I say "Love us or hate us, we don't give a fuck." And I don't, really. I don't want to be accepted in your neighborhood, believe me. And I understand that this memorial was crafted in remorse and out of respect for someone who has passed. I'm not making fun of it. I'm not denigrating it or the people who have suffered due to this loss of life. Just like that tattered, ironboxed bitch at the art show and that lanky, gay motherfucker at the dog place, I'm just taking photos people.
It doesn't have shit to do with you, OK? I know that's hard to fathom for some of you egomaniacs out there, but when I raise my camera for a shot, this is about me. It's not about work or my wife, or the dog or my friends, or the bills and the bank, or problems of any nature. It's about me and the lens. I'm doing nothing wrong, and I shouldn't have to quell suspicions. Yes, I know that if I go into a depressed area of the city and take a photo of graf on a wall, if someone who lives around there were to approach, I would have some explaining to do. I'm in YOUR neighborhood, I probably owe to you that courtesy. But it doesn't go both ways. If you, homeboy, innocently drive down my street, I'm not going to flag you down, stop you, and demand to know your intentions. No, I just call the cops. Kidding! I kid. But I could, and no less than three cars would have you pulled over in about 8 seconds.
They don't want me -- actually, they would rather intimidate/harm -- and I don't give a fuck about them. I'd like to see one of these dipshit candidates address THAT element of race. Let's see your solution for that.
First trip of the season to Eastern Market, even if it was an out-of-the-way sort of drive.
This wasn't a very pretty sight -- an abandoned dog cage on some dead-end street near St. Aubin and Scott. There was a bunch of puke-looking material in the cage. I sure hope that dog is OK.
And in the midst of that area, which is a lot of vacant lots and beat-to-shit houses, sits this new build in the oddest place.
Some graf near the market.