30 posts tagged “detroit”
This, for about a year and a half, was the door to my apartment on Detroit's far West Side.
It wasn't a bad place to live, until some shitheads came and shot up the side of the building, looking for the idiot in the apartment behind ours. I moved out 2 days later.
Loved the accordian gate, though. Very handy.
Cold and wet on a Monday.
I don't think the conductor was too pleased with me.
And just dump your shit wherever you feel like it.
Walking through Detroit's Central Business District in 2005, I took this picture of the David Broderick Tower, the second-tallest building in the city's skyline.
I would like to think I have a pretty vivid and wild imagination. Never in its deepest tarpits nor throughout its gleamiest light showers, could I have ever forecasted that one day I would be rooting around the inside of the building in the dark, and making my way to its roof, via 36 floors, to drink beers with friends and touch the sky.
It happened that way when a like-minded drinking buddy and ghetto purist served me up with one hell of a birthday present: Red-carpet access to this stunning hulk of architecture and city icon.
Like most things in Detroit, the David Broderick Tower was aglow in activity and commerce for decades. According to information gleaned from books and online sources, it housed an array of commerical ventures, including dentist offices, and a radio station, to name but a few. And like the rest of the city, when the retail and commercial space collapse of the early to mid-80s rendered some of the city's signature buildings half-empty or otherwise obsolete, the Broderick Tower sat, exposed and vulnerable. It was recently named one of the tallest abandoned structures in the world by some Web site not worth mentioning here. Gone from the inside of the Broderick is anything worth of value, any solid piece of glass in a window pane, and the life with which this dynamic structure once bristled. There is word of redevelopment that in 2010 is slated to include commercial, retail, and residential space. And if you visit the website of the building's owners, they make it look like you can sign up for a loft today. But, when I was in there the other night, it doesn't look like anybody other then pigeons and curious humans are the only ones occupying so much as floor one.
A couple of quick calls from homeboy and, with the help of a third party, we were in. Regrettably, time was not on our side, as we really needed to haul ass up to the roof to catch the sunset. We could have spent a good 6-8 hours on the floors leading up to the roof alone, enamoring ourselves with the debris-clad ghosts of this once-proud skyscraper and the people who were once its inhabitants. I was lead to believe that during such expeditions, unless informed otherwise, that use of your camera flash is a no-no, so getting quality shots with limited sunlight on a shitty camera was tricky, at least indoors. Still, I did my best. To walk around these floors is part starfucking, while the other part is that component of you that makes you say "holy shit."
We still had some daylight to work with on some peeks from various floors.
We would navigate about 8 or 9 levels and take a breather by walking around some of the floors to catch our breath.
We reached one of the top floors as it was getting dark, which was unfortunate because we found ourselves on the penthouse level. Imagination sprints while flapping its arms wildly at the thoughts of what life was like in this grand unit. Sadly, I have no photos but trust me when I say the suite encompassed the entire floor, had four slate balconies at each corner of the building, and it's own built-in bar. We traversed another floor, up a narrow wooden staircase that looked like something out of an Escher print and, bingo, the roof, and the city, at least for this night, was ours.
You come down to the ground a changed man after an adventure like this. While the farthest cry imaginable, I can now understand what prompted brother-in-law Casey and his wife Mary to climb Kilimanjaro. It now makes sense to me why people get into astronomy or become pilots. There is a different type of connectedness I experienced with my city, with my world, and within myself as I stood 36 stories above it all, lathered in a stratospheric haze that to which body and mind -- at least mine -- are unaccustomed. Main thoroughfares look like spokes on a wheel, like Woodward Avenue below us.
I have stood on that street and looked up at a streetlight that was 18 feet above my head. Now, I'm lording over that light, looking down from approximately 400 feet above it. I have sat through nearly 80 games at Comerica Park to watch my beloved Detroit Tigers win or lose. And I have marveled at the city's skyline from my seat. I enjoyed a decidedly different view on this night. Our building guide brought along a radio, so we could listen to the game and watch from on high while we sipped tall cans of cold beer we had stashed in our backpacks.
Detroit lost, 11-1, to the hapless Royals, but it could have been 41-1, I simply didn't care.
Every turn on the roof was a new path, those rough-hewn two-tracks that plow through your brain, leading to thoughts and conclusions on such critical variables as work, home, love, life ... fatherhood. I experienced a renewal up there, something the church can't replicate or supercede, something significant, something, well, honorable.
We remained unbothered the entire evening. No hipsters crashing our party, no pesky security to bogue our highs. It was sublime and magnificent. Our access was unparalled -- our guide just let us right in. There is something to be said about hauling ass up 36 flights of stairs, in a building in which you're not supposed to be, in an empty skyscraper that once pulsed mightily, with bags of beer on your back, beating daylight by stopping at this floor and that floor to quickly -- snap -- take a couple of pictures and move on like some ghetto sherpa. I can't thank the boys enough for letting me piggyback on their time. It meant more to me than these words or images could ever convey.
Enjoyed a sublime Saturday recently when Brother Chicken and his family came for a visit. In the 20 years I have lived in and around Detroit, my immediate family members have had an intense aversion to taking the time to come to visit, despite my two decades' worth of reciprocation. It is a long, complicated story but I am the youngest of five and I sense some familial resentment with my decision to relocate and commit to creating a wonderful life for myself, away from the fishbowl that is my small and insular hometown.
My brother Frank, however, has always been a joyous anomaly to the parent and siblings who have elected to not have a role in my adult life. And really, who are we kidding here, my childhood life as well. Frank has always come through. A month after moving away from the coop for the first time, in a big city where I knew only 2 people, he sent to me a very thoughtful letter that also contained cash and controlled substances. He knew how to get to my heart. Years later, he would visit for my birthday, taking me out for drinks and the David Byrne show at a nearby local music venue. In roughly 2003, he let me piggyback on a visit to a Tigers game where he had access to a luxury suite. And years after that, he spent an afternoon rigging electrical work in the basement of mine and Mrs. Chicken's first apartment, so I could have an office in the basement to write. He is selfless and generous, and has always been a mentor and role model for me. And continues to fulfill those roles to this day.
So, it was with great glee when he and the family came to visit. My sister-in-law and niece kicked it with Lamont for a moment,
before taking our relatives, who live in a quiet farming community in mid-Michigan, to Detroit's Eastern Market, where the jug bands are plentiful and the sights and sounds are infectious.
We would hightail it to Rocky Peanut Company and then to the Detroit Science Center. This is a scale model of the the Mackinac Bridge, constructed from an Erector Set.
The main draw is the traveling Star Trek Exhibit.
It contains artifacts and replicas from the show (and its movies) and its history, complete with costumes, timelimes, props, the whole deal. I am far from a trekkie, but it was an exciting experience. We would later barbecue on our back deck before they would leave to drive back up north. I love my brother and his family, and I hope they come back soon.
We would have a Detroit Science Center Experience 2.0 the next week, by attending a black tie gala through some sponsorship of Mrs. Chicken's employer. It was swanky.
And also had some concept cars, including this Camaro.
Our table had a lovely view of the Charles H. Wright Museum of African American History,
and I had an absolutely stunning view of my gorgeous and talented wife, who, by the way, is 4 months pregnant with our child. That's right, Baby Chicken is incubating as we speak.
Speaking of Star Trek, remember when Leonard Nimoy had that TV show called "In Search Of"? Well, we went in search of some serious dessert after this event. Many establishments were closed until we found the very tony restaurant Roast, inside the fabulously restored Book-Cadillac Building. Kerry ordered this Guinness mousse/ice cream creation with chocolate-covered pretzels all about it.
I had a different type of craving. In a clear departure from my consistent self-preservation on this site, I give to you, your author.
"I'll have a Crown on the rocks and keep them coming. I have a long drive."
Drove right up on this abandoned house fire on Detroit's southwest side Sunday. We sat there for a good 5 minutes before getting out and snapping shots on the camera phones (which explains the shitty reproduction). The firefighters arrived about 5 minutes after that. During that time, we just stood and watched, along with residents of this neighborhood, while this house burned and nobody said a word.
At this point, had either of us had our regular cameras, I could have had the shot of a lifetime -- me, sitting on the front porch of that house as the upstairs burned. Sitting there, like I'm waiting for the fucking mail to arrive. Granted, it would've had to have been done in about 9 seconds, but I'm confident it could have been pulled off. Oh well, if I want one bad enough, I'll go set one myself.
If you look closely, you can see the cascade of fire coming from the roof. My buddy's guess was that this was the tar from the roof materials.
These guys had this fire under control in about 45 seconds, or so it seemed.
This charred structure will now sit on that lot for the next 20 years. But lo, it was a perfect Sunday in the city and this random ghetto bonfire was an excellent punctuation on an already phenonenal day in Detroit.
There is speculation that the driver of the red minivan pulled a vigilante-style commando move on the stolen truck. Either way, the footage is spectacular. The driver of the stolen car is dead. Fuck car thieves.
Social club on Detroit's southwest side.
Any idea who owns this place?
If boxing is the Sweet Science, then this must have been the lab where it was created.
Mention the words "Kronk Gym" to anyone in Detroitland or to those with an interest in boxing, and you've just uttered respect and credibility in code. Located on the city's southwest side, Detroit's oldest, city-run recreation center closed its doors 2 years ago, due to lack of funding. A couple of 11th-hour fundraisers with some heavy hitters -- pun firmly intended -- couldn't stop the closure and lo, the building is shuttered.
It sits empty at the corner of 33rd and McGraw, in the shadow of West Warren Avenue.
Before its death, the Kronk Gym -- headed for decades by mastermind boxing trainer Emmanuel Steward -- not only served the community and region as a place for at-risk kids to learn some structure and discipline, but became a factory that churned out arguably some of the most dominant fighters to ever lace them up. A quick resume:
Since 1969, Steward and his crew trained and honed 2 dozen world boxing champions, including:
- Thomas "The Hitman" Hearns -- the first
manbadass to win four different titles in four different weight classes - Leon Spinks -- Gold Medal Olympian and heavyweight champion
- Mustafa Muhammad -- Light Heavyweight champion, and
- Aaron Pryor -- arguably one of the greatest Light Welterweight champions ever
The Kronk Gym, like any such rec center in America's struggling cities, provided a respite for not only kids in that neighborhood but citywide as well. It helped that it would later double as a boxing champion-producing incubator, whose name would become synonymous with elite fighters. As what usually happens in Detroit, funding for the facility started to dry up (but city officials could still use their municipality-issued credit cards to fund travel and shopping, and city monetary funds could be used as personal bank accounts to buy cars and fund wages for derelict relatives and/or sexy interns). And when the fundaisers couldn't provide the salve the Kronk needed -- $500,000 per year to maintain operations -- it closed up shop. Within days, copper thieves raided the building of water pipes and anything else salvageable, thusly rendering the hunk of building not only fully useless but generating a new level of impossibility toward efforts to rehab or resurrect one of the city's most significant sporting addresses.
Not only did Emmanuel Steward train 2 dozen world boxing champions, he also helped produce 6 Gold Medal winners of the 1984 U.S. Olympic Team. Among those boxers were local legends Steve McCrory (flyweight) and Frank Tate (light middleweight). Recent stablemates have included heavyweight champions Wladimir Klitschko (he of 5 consecutive consonants in his last name) and Lennox Lewis. Presently, unbeaten cruiserweight Johnathon Banks and 24-year-old Irish middleweight Andy Lee fight under the Kronk name. The Kronk has spread to the UK, with gyms now in London, England and Belfast, Northern Ireland.
The building is now empty and rife with overgrown grass. Across the street, a guy takes a piss against the back of a West Warren business at 10:30 in the morning. I sit in my car in front of the building, my inaugural visit to this boxing Valhalla, and it is quiet, sad, and lonely. The entire block feels like a crime scene about to happen.
The basketball courts behind the gym -- quite possibly where trash talk was invented -- probably aren't seeing much in the way of 3-on-3s these days.
And on the other side of the block, life still goes on for one of the many ghetto pheasants in Detroit.
Detroit's Kronk Gym: Countless wins, very few losses, loser by FKO (financial knockout).
This morning, I spent an hour culling pages of photos from my Flickr account, about 40 pages of photostream all told. The offending parties were duplicates, the out of focus, and other imagery that, for whatever reason, never made it here or in previous iterations of this blog.
They could very well be excellent lawyers. I have no idea. But, based on curb appeal and initial appearances I don't think I'd be going here to entrust these cats in matters litigious.
