It fastens to the side of an old industrial building on one end and rests on column supports on the other. Will enclose a walk-out deck of an industrial loft in the Cass Corridor, Detroit. The deck is a large, open span for all the units right now that will eventually get partitions between the units for privacy. All the horizontal members are made from recycled oak pulled from the Garfield St building. The cylindrical part of the columns are gonna be old Victorian posts set within squared-off lumber. It's a work-in-progress. Will post pics of the construction
Definitely on the feminine side- but a great, full acoustic sound with gentle percussion backing. Read into them a bit, and sounds like an interesting proj, but hard to say what the consistency of their work is. Some really nice arranging on this one, though.
So, if it seems like Brodsky Beat hasn't written much in a while, that's because he hasn't. It's been June lately (a fact he often forgets) and the weather has been superb. That means I've taken the moped all over town- out to Eastern Market, to Belle Isle, to the cafe, around downtown, to the gym, through neighborhoods. Everywhere. It's the greatest way to get around. Except at night. See whenever you drive the late-60's model green Peugeot you immediately get offers from people who want to buy it. Ranging from 300 bucks to 6 grand (i quote, "You could sell that thing for 6 grand, easily") when I paid 350 for it- the offers are constant. The only downside to that (besides me wondering just how strong that kryptonite lock really is when you really want something bad) is that at night, when the streets can be dark as hell coming from one side of town to the other, you get scary dudes rolling up next to you asking about the moped. The other night I came back from dinner at my friend's place at about 11. These dudes rolled by with some heavy hip hop shaking the plastic panels on their minivan and when I got to the light, the driver hollered over and asked how much I paid for it. I said 300 bucks - why I dropped just 50 off the price I'm not sure- but I sure as hell didn't want El Greeno to appear very expensive. There were like four dudes in the van and they could have easily beaten the crap out of me and thrown the bike in the van and rolled off. Luckily they didn't. And now I know what the night-time price of the moped will be. Nothing, because I CAN'T HEAR YOU WITH THESE EARPLUGS IN.
But besides the moped riding, I've been getting psyched about Softball Sundays. It's with the old-school Detroit softball crew (mostly musicians- Jack White used to play, but evidently he SUCKED, and not as a player, b/c that doesn't matter in this league, but as a guy bringing a good time to a Sunday afternoon- which is all that really matters in this league). They've been playing off and on for 14 years. And this latest incarnation of players is the first one to strike things back up in the past couple years. Last week it was widely agreed that we had the best Sunday Softball ever. I've only known two Sunday Softballs myself, but I had a sense that we were getting up to some pretty high leves of good-time-having.
So what else besides riding around town on El Greeno and playing softball have I been up to? Well, actually a bit of work here and there. Things are looking promising for this unemployed architect - even have some paid projects on the plate! - but don't be fooled, I'm on par to still enjoy this summer to the fullest.My summers have been escalating in recent years, reaching levels I never thought possible after childhood. Mostly last year's was due to weekly boatrides on Lake St Claire. Wine, full-sun, beers, babes, diving contests, beer, wine, babes. Full-sun. A few years prior, before I started grad school at U of M, there was the summer on the Houseboat in Portland. Diving off the front porch, fishing out the bathroom window, waking up and reeling in a fish hooked overnight, canoeing to the grocery store for more beer. That's kid's stuff for grownups. You can't beat it. So this summer, I'm not dropping the ball on the Q.O.L. Index. It's moped and softball and boating to the fullest.
Hello and good evening and all that. As you can see, the song of the day has already run straight off it's track. That didn't take long. Probably the shortest daily effort ever. Well, I guess I got a reason for that (besides pure laziness)- and that is that I think 3 songs a week would be better than one everyday. Going off the model set up by the turntable lab's thrice-a-week newsletters. They're the best part of my inbox.
So yes, 3x/week. And yes, Laziness. But there's a bonus involved in this new program- a 3-part genre system. Mondays I'll post whatever helps get through a Monday (R&B if I need a boost, something international if I remained somewhat sober over the weekend and have an open mind, etc.), Wednesdays will be Indie Wendy's, and Fridays will be Old School Fridays (I know, not original at all- but if it ain't broke don't fix it. Just get it together for the weekend).
So here's the first Indie Wendy track.
Cannibal Resource by the Dirty Projectors. Released yesterday on Domino Records.
The latest addition to Brodsky Beat. I will try and make it a newer song, but since a lot of what I listen to is not new, I'm probably gonna break down after three days and focus on only old songs for the next seven years. But we'll see.
Also, I will try and make it somehow relevant (to the day's events or to Detroit, to the season or to the day of the week), but if you know me at all, you know this is not a promise that's gonna last. In fact, you'll probably think I've set out to find one completely irrelevant song each day. But hopefully at least I'll give you something to hum.
And one more thing: they say there are people who listen to the words and there are people who listen to the music. I'm from the second group.Hardcore.
There's a new hangout up in the Cass Corridor. I go there about two times a day as long as it's sunny. Best air in town. It's called the North Cass Community Garden. It's the source of my bronze tan and blistering hands, and will soon feed me heirloom tomatoes, sweet potatoes, lemon basil, cilantro and multicolored sweet peppers (assuming everything grows). The corner where it sprung up on Willis and 2nd was overgrown with dead trees and shrubbery (watched this flick again last year when I sat on the sidelines for two weeks with my friend oxycotin, nursing a new ACL I smuggled in from a dead body) (wow, that was a tangent. Anyway- go back and start again and jump over this bit) before the goodhearted, active, mostly unemployed bunch of neighbors and green thumbs set to work turning it over to make a haven within Detroit.
I'd like to put a hammock up in the dirt area where the grass is gonna go, beneath the shady tree and call it my "office". Fall asleep at my desk all the time. But that's probly not gonna happen. For now I'll have to settle with driving up to it every day on the Motorized Peugeot and whiffing in the sweetness.
Best part about this community garden is its location. Perfect, on-axis views of the Fisher Building down Second, views of the old victorians south of Tom Boy, the perfectly-manicured Charles and the understated tan brick lofts holding down two of the other corners, views of the nearby downtown skyline, and Goodwell'sbadass pocket sandwiches just steps away. No suburban-scale buildings, no chain businesses, no homogenous housing developments in sight. No Motor City Casino. No parking garages. Just the bones of the old Cass Corridor, a few dozen mobsters at Mario's, and a lot of healthy growth.
The stuff that goes on around the new spot you couldn't make up.
[You sprinkle ground up fishbones and fish blood and bits of unusable fish on your crops to feed them and make them grow. Luckily, it all comes in clean pellets like fish food. It's kind of gross to think of all that stuff, but it makes sense that you have to bring it full circle to move forward. Feed 'em the scraps and they'll grow something new. And though it may not be the most appetizing diet, it certainly is an interesting one.]
Well if crops in the planter boxes aren't the only things growing here in the community garden and you'll humor me by letting me say that the community is growing itself in the process, then you'll be glad to know that the community has an interesting diet to live on as well. I heard news today from this engineer who has a plot at the garden that a certain BMW was seen Ghostriding the Whip (check out these if you aren't familiar w/ the term: 1 ...better 2 ...best 3) right past the new spot. They started at the Tom Boy ghettomarket and rolled up to Willis. The engineer was unenlightened about Ghostriding the Whip. He explained it to me as, "It was weird, I saw this Beamer drive up to the Tom Boy yesterday and get out of his car with the thing still idling and music blaring and walk down the street next to it." I had to fill him in on the sweet fad. I'm hoping we get to see more. Bad as the habit is, I still wanna see it happen. Just as long as they don't crash into our new iron fence.
So the cliff notes version of this post is: the North Cass Community Garden is here to stay. It's summertime (right? is this a weekday?) and what we all needed was this garden for the sunny days in 2009. It's already been blessed by the gods of Ghostriding Whips and it gets frequented constantly by connoisseurs of fresh city air (very different from fresh air in stale cities AND stale air in fresh cities). For now, this is the new spot in Midtown. And hopefully a good early chapter in the history of the new Motown.
So when you don’t have a job it is important to dream up big, useful ideas. Quickly. Like one idea one day and a very different idea the next. It’s important that each idea is different, independent. Like if they are in different fields, that’s better. And if one might require a few hundred bucks to get rolling, the next should need several million. Always put aside what you were just thinking for a bigger, more useful idea as soon as it comes up. I’m talking about one week throwing around the idea of getting an ice cream truck to turn into a mobile café (think MUD Truck in NYC), and the next week looking into vacant property for sale to start up an urban farm. And then spotting an old house with strong bones and good character and immediately dumping all of the above to get working on how to rehab it and move in this summer. Dinner parties and clinking glasses with leaves falling.
These are some of the things I’ve been looking into in the past week. I say some because there are many others. Like the compost ball. Which is now called the “Compost Planet”. The prototype I built is pretty sweet. It looks like a small planet, or a school chemistry project. I’ll post pics of it shortly. Right now I’m working out how to get a patent on the idea so that nobody steals it. That’s the plan today, so that tomorrow I will be ready to work on a city-wide vacant-home relocation proposal and a development package for an agricultural corridor in an old factory district.
Coming soon- the compost ball! Roll it over to pick up a pile of leaves. Roll it over and scoop out healthy dirt. Roll it behind the garage when the neighbors come by. Roll your kid around in it. Comes w/ a flap to shovel dirt inside and get some out. Look for it at the Eastern Market this summer.
Its strange to imagine a city being torn down around you. We usually think of buildings as so fixed, cities so permanent. But when you spend an extended amount of time in Detroit, you're bound to see at least one large element of the urban landscape recede. The first demolished building I witnessed was a parking structure on Elizabeth St (my pic above). Certainly not a signature building, this concrete frame structure was essentially a big white block, with rectilinear openings that had been filled-in with glass panels in a steel frame. A vintage painted metal sign that simply read PARKING in vertical lettering hung off the NW corner, carefully removed one day and carried off on a flatbed truck. My friend Tadd noticed that this was the well-known Detroit case of tearing down a parking structure for surface parking. Hmmm. Makes sense.
Here's a pic of the boxy building at night: pic And some during the day: pic
In any case, I designed a coffee table dedicated to this structure for DisturbedSleep, a furniture design collective featuring handmade pieces designed by young Southeast Michigan designers. It will be fabricated this summer by Doormouse here in Detroit and then exhibited at ReView gallery on Willis in Midtown, Detroit this August. Some quick images are below.
Dimensions: 42" x 20" x 20". Materials: powder-coated sheetmetal and branded leather. Felt optional instead of leather. Aqui esta.
This is where I walked in to work on Wednesday. Up on the third floor of this old apartment building on Garfield St, just off Woodward, right across from MOCAD. The only flooring left on the top floor was along the original corridor linking the old apartments. Everything around it had been cut away. You could see down over the old rooms on the second floor below like you were looking at a floor plan: the demising walls, framed-out doorways, closets, bathrooms. It was like you had just walked into a cut-away model of a hundred-year-old building. This is how architects work and imagine constantly, thinking of buildings in the abstract- views from above, drawings and models with sectional cut-aways to reveal relationships that won't exist in the final building. But here it was. Seeing down on a floor of residences like abstractions of themselves. And abandoned buildings already give an abstracted view of reality: every object you find when you visit one seems to be frozen in time- more significant, more of an object than it ever was when people occupied the place. A note on a scrap of paper is no longer just about the brief message it originally intended - its now been layered with all kinds of other significance- the years that have passed since that kind of paper was used, the careful technique of old handwriting, the old font types, the places/objects/commodities it mentions that have faded from existence. All these things and more surround the elements you find in an abandoned building and make the whole experience of walking through one like going to a museum. In this case, a crew of workers had carved out volumes of space so that you could see the work of the architect frozen in time as well. Some job site.
The building was being built and un-built at the same time- the crew I was with was pulling out the old floorboards to plane down, re-mill, and re-install in another space, while carpenters were setting and sheathing new floor joists for the new apartments. These will be some of the residences available in the $35 million 'Sugar Hill' project. Read about that here:http://www.modeldmedia.com/developmentnews/sugarhill18209
So in the midst of all that farming work I wrote about last week, I played in a squash tournament at the Downtown Y. Derrick organized it. He is the big shot organizer down at the Y. Tournaments. Open play. Website. Prizes. Stats. Fun. Friends. Happiness. That night I played 6 Matches. 22 games. After shoveling dirt all day. I was wiped before I even stepped onto the court. Unlike the other guys, I wasn't sitting at a desk all day. In fact, unlike the other guys, I don't have a job. Or a desk. And unlike the other guys, I came in last place. But Derrick got it on video and so here it is. Me losing at squash. Derrick is the Great Narrator of this video. Check his technique on the production. Whoa. Enjoi.
Five days spent working on Brother Nature's Farm. Highlights so far- A hippie in search of a Rainbow Gathering, Twelve gunshots, A city council candidate posing for photo ops on the farm, A desperate woman and her daughter trying to pawn off a vicious dog, Kids playing endlessly in a fenced-in lot surrounded by vast open land, Thick rainclouds rolling through in time to water freshly-sewn seeds, A neighborhood standby in a truck making his rounds and inquiring about work for his eleven-year old granddaughter, The neighboring house demolished in a day, and 16 perfectly flat graffitied cinder blocks coming in handy as steps to walk across the new thick planting beds.
The hippie first. He was amazing. This morning a small grey sedan pulled up and I mentioned that I thought it was this girl I knew. But once the driver got out I saw it was a guy and had a good laugh. But this guy was a trip. Fresh, clean tye-die on, a leather string necklace with a swirly-psychadelic painted bead hanging from it, a swirly long black earring and deep outerspace eyes. He came up to me and asked if I had ever noticed people gathering over there and pointed in the direction of the community garden Brother Nature had started a few years ago, two blocks away. I said, 'you mean at the community garden?' and he said 'no, right there - right across the street.' There's nothing right across the street. An alley bisecting an empty block. Totally empty. I said 'no, why?' Then he told me about the Rainbow Gathering he was organizing for this weekend. Folks were supposed to come out Friday and spend the night, having drum circles and trying to get back to the animal roots of humanity. Woah. He went on, explaining how society is like a zoo for humans and that rainbow gatherings help us get back to our roots as hunter-gatherers. He impressed me the most when he said- 'you can't say that humans are giraffes. That's not true. It's a bad argument. We're mamals.' It was refreshing to see he had drawn a line somewhere in his life.
Basically, this guy is a therapist who was helping a female friend/patient(/potential suitor?) who he said might be bi-polar to organize a Rainbow Gathering. He was excited about staging one in an urban environment. I tried to caution him against camping around here, but he didn't register that advice. Don't know how you host a Rainbow Gathering without a host, or at least a sign, but I guess he thought there would just be a Rainbow Gathering there today. He said there were 20 people pumped up about his online post. But I guess none of them wanted to be the first tent pitched either.
#2- Twelve gunshots. It was yesterday, about evening time and I was pulling the dead trees from the empty lot next door toward the bonfire pit at the back of the farm. I'm a freak about fallen down trees and branches. I love the satisfaction you get when you clear away branches, so I was setting off to make a dent in the pile right next door and then heard six quick gunshots and their echoes from a few blocks away. The guys I work with told me they sell guns across the street and fire off quick shots about four nights a week, testing them out before they get sold. But this was daytime. It sounded like a ways off, though, not like it came from this close-by neighbor. About a half hour later the same thing.
3- The city council candidate came last saturday to photograph herself farming in Detroit. I wrote about that here.
4- The desperate woman drove a gray mini-van with her daughter and the vicious blue-eyed pit/boxer mix riding shotgun. She used to live in the neighborhood but her house burned a few years back and she rents rooms now. She had gotten this dog a few months back but didn't know how to train it and didn't have enough time to spend with it. I hope the best for this dog. And especially this family.
Next: Across the street kids play in the yard of the house where guns are sold. The house has a chain-link fence around it's tight property line, and the kids ride a big wheel around it all day while an old lady watches from the porch on a rocking chair. Five or six open lots surround this small playpen. But the kids play all day long. Once they took a field trip with the old lady who carried a filled black garbage bag toward the liquor store. I'm guessing deposit returns.
6- You really notice the weather when you're out on the farm all day. You're in the city - and you see that every time a bus rolls up Rosa Parks or down 14th a few blocks away- but 90% of the time you're out on the farm you feel like the city couldn't be farther away. You feel the wind change directions, see the billowing dark clouds roll in, hoping they'll help you out with the watering. You notice the lone cloud on a hot, sunny day. The weather is a very active character on the Brother Nature farm. Moreso than most places in Detroit.
7- George rolled in driving his full size pickup and let the engine run for a half a minute or so before getting out. He strolled out and asked Greg if he was a glutton for punishment. They've known each other for years and he was impressed by this year's farm. He's got an eleven-year-old daughter who suffers from mental illness and after taking a walk around the farm and teasing Greg a bit, he asked if she might find work here. She'll be working at the Eastern Market this summer. George wasn't wearing his Pork Pie Hat today, but apparently he usually does.
8- Yesterday the city demolished one of five houses on Greg's block that you can see from his yard. It was burned-out and needed to come down, but still strange to see it gone in one day. Now you can see the public school's playground from the farm.
And finally... Cinder blocks look great as steps for planting beds. Especially when they've been broken into square pieces. Even better is when they have graffiti on them. Gives it that Urban Farm Touch.
The only impressive thing about this shoddy photograph is that it captures a view of Brother Nature's farm in North Corktown without seeing the Motor City Casino. You gotta try hard for that. I had to hide it behind Brother Nature's house. The hideous building rises 15 storeys without anything close to it breaking three. On the far right of the pic you can see the Michigan Central train station, the 1910s building designed by Warren & Wetmore, the architects who gained the commission for Grand Central Station in New York based on this beauty. This is the very same building city council and Mayor Ken Cockrel is trying to demolish ASAP with stimulus funding. They call it blight. Everyone I've ever met sees it as a masterpiece, a real treasure.
I will be designing agricultural/gardening objects for Brother Nature to sell at Eastern Market this summer. I'm also helping with the grunt work of the expanding farm. Grunt work means make rows of dirt from the big piles the dump truck left. My back hurts tonight. But the day was amazing. First of all, it feels like you've wandered back a few hundred years when you take the turn off Trumbull into North Corktown. For reference, Trumbull and Michigan Ave is where Old Tiger Stadium is. Leaving there along Trumbull, you cross I-75, drive up 2 or 3 blocks and then turn left into the Nineteenth century. It's like a miniaturized version of historic American farming communities, where the streets of the urban grid take the place of field fences. But many of the houses in this neighborhood are original Victorians, built when old farming communities still flourished, so in a strange way it somehow makes perfect sense.
North Corktown is a recently-added name for the area the farm is located. It used to be a part of a larger Corktown district, before the freeway was put in and bisected the area. Couple that with all the typical reasons Detroit's population has been declining and you find the area vastly empty, with zero or one homes occupying several blocks and even the busiest ones less than half full. It's interesting what sticks out when this happens to a neighborhood: phone lines, fire hydrants, alleys and streets. The things that you would expect to find when you think of a neighborhood in the 11th largest city. Especially when you look at North Corktown on a map. But switch to 'satellite view' and you see the reality of the place- yes an urban grid of streets, moreso it's acres of open grass.
People walk through this neighborhood all day long. When they do, you see them. Right away. There's nothing else going on, for one, and for two and your vision extends for blocks and blocks. You also notice pheasants darting around like little roadrunners. I couldn't believe it when I heard that wild pheasants were making a comeback in Detroit, not the suburbs but only in the city. But I'm glad they are. They're amazing- with deep red and green feathers. You hear them doing their mating call thing this time of year. But don't try and get their picture, they're sly little devils. I will get one though.
The Detroit High Life is post has to start at the top.
D’Mongo’s is the best place to drink a High Life in Detroit. Owned by red-hatted Chef Larry and his lovely maitre ’d wife, this place is a complete gem. Open Friday night only, expect to hear a piano set of smooth R&B tracks and an acoustic set of everything under the sun. The piano player pauses between songs, the guitarist does not. Both musicians sound like they’re being piped in through a tunnel. But when you go outside the speakers sound perfectly clear. If that doesn't make much sense, that’s because you’ve never been to D’Mongo’s. They do everything their own way there. You would too if you owned a speakeasy with two apostrophes in the name. There’s a million things to look at in D’Mongo’s. Best description of it I’ve heard is the ghetto Bennigan’s. Records, photographs, books, antique vignettes as far as the eye cares to see.
The bathrooms are of special merit. Both are built up off the ground so the plumbing pipes don’t cut into the floor slab. You walk up two rickety steps into the inside-outhouse and close the door behind you to do your thang. Only it doesn’t really close. Its about two inches too short for it’s frame. So make it quick. The toilet sits on the opposite wall, way in the corner of the tiny space. Actually, it’s technically beyond the corner. You can’t really fit toilet and sink in there, so the wall paneling has been cut away in the profile of the toilet to make more room. You can hear the kitchen people talking the whole time to your left. There is absolutely no soundproofing. I’ve thought many times about saying something to the kitchen staff while I’m in there- you know, Good Ribs tonight Boys and such, but I always hold back. And writing this now, sober, I’m glad I always manage to hold back. I just do my business and get back to the speakeasy.
As for the High Life's- there’s a waitress there who I call Phyllis who usually serves them. She looks like an old-school tennis player. Like a Phyllis. Phyllis dresses a cold High Life in a warm white paper blanket. You always think you’ll stick with this cheap means to a buzz, but before long you break down and get a Glass Chalice Cocktail. They’re huge. Two-handers. Instant party. Long islands are the standard issue, but you can get anything you like in those glass prizes. The same can’t be said for the food menu selections. Instead of giving you the full range of choices there, they limit you to two main course options. But you get to play survivor when you order. Vote off one entrée and one side dish and get everything else. Genius.
The Larry Johnson, AKA LJ’s, is your next bet for a quality High Life in Detroit. Geek out on the Kings of Africa Budweiser mirrors that surround the joint while you’re there. I know beer mirrors well- I’ve grown up around the beer business my whole life- and I can spot unique ones from a mile away. In fact, one of my first words as a child was O’tyle meaning Old Style, cause I saw the logo everywhere. But that’s another story. This is one about High Life’s and LJ’s outstanding Budweiser mirrors. These are the best. Robed African kings stand proud before their country’s quintessential landscape with an excerpt about the history of their reign in the lower left-hand corner. There’s about 12 of them. The only problem with the LJ’s High Life is that it’s not never-ending. I’ve been there when they’ve run out, more than once. Then you gotta break down and get a PBR like every other hipster and you fee cheap and used. Damaged is more fitting. But luckily that’s only once in a while. Mostly LJ’s is a High Life kingdom, amid great African kingdoms.
Of note- you gotta pay cash for your High Lifes. No credit cards. And it seems that you always forget this fact until it comes time to pay. Chase bank is not too far, but it’s dark as hell over there. No drive-thru, junior, so remember your cash.
Where next?
Green Dot Stables. Get a High Life in a leather bucket seat. Watch horse racing and get a cheap steak. Or come Friday night for karaoke. It’s the full-on smash. Especially if you’ve just blown in from D’Mongo’s. Then the mic awaits you. Christina will learn your face and drink preference quickly, so once you come in a couple times you get a High Life delivered to you with a kiss in the middle of the crowded bar. And don’t worry, you can carry your High Life with you like a p.f.d to the mic and sing away. This is new. It used to be a crazy lady there with her husband who ran O.C.D. karaoke. No drinks at the mic. No walking beyond the monitors with the mic. Wait till she sings her sappy songs before you get to sing. Get scowled at constantly before, during and after you sing just for being there. But now it’s a dude with LaserDiscs and the hairstyle to match and an understanding of how to draw the best performances out of local singers. He wouldn’t quit at 2. It wouldn’t make sense.
Go back and get a High Life during the day there with cops and secretaries or get into a game of gin with the five or six regulars who play during the week. I haven’t tried yet, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.
The Bronx bar is a great place for a High Life, but it’s a better place for a Blatz. Who’s got Blatz?!
The Rathskeller, aka the Dakota Inn, is also a great place for a High Life, but they’ve got Blatz ON TAP! That’s a no-brainer. Go drink glasses of Blatz and belt it out in the German sing-along. You’ll forget where you are entirely.
The American Legion off Michigan Ave has a terrific selection of High Life. You can sit in the small bar with the lousy video poker games and really focus in on the beauty of your beer: the perfectly clear glass bottle*, the light amber juice, the fresh-looking white bubbles, the smooth compound curve of it’s neck and that pretty southern belle perched up on the crescent moon, toasting her High Life to you. Is she winking-? Then someone might call you away from your fancy and take you down the hallway to show you the tiny theater. A huge American flag behind the stage and a painting of a lake and some dramatic mountains on the wall. I think some animals too. Small stage and maybe eight fold-up tables ready for the big show. You can start off on your next dream of which act you would put on for your hit talent show. Karate?Break dance? Hand stands? I was told that if you rent it out, you can bring in your own team of High Life's to party with. Cheap deal! Just don’t tell the owner.
Whiskey In A Jar could also be easily called High Life In A Bottle. I think I saw the Dude from Big Lebowski there last time. Long blonde hair, wearing the equivalent of an old bathrobe. Whiskey’s High Life's are just plain, ordinary High Life's. They come in a brown box of 24.
Abick’s High Life's are special because there is a cat that roams around and watches you drink them. She hides under the pool table or climbs up onto the beautiful woodwork and gazes at you, pure envy at your clear bottle of golden potion. Abick’s has a wonderful Small High Life that always comes in handy. It’s 7 oz of High Life and when you order it they shoot you a look of confusion. It’s for old folks, they say. I say young folks are the new old folks. And if you don’t believe it, then I say 7 ouncers are the new roadies. And you can’t argue that.
Nancy Whiskey sells you a High Life in the old Corktown neighborhood setting. In North Corktown where there’s so much empty land that you’re pretty much guaranteed to see or hear a colorful wild pheasant during the day, a neighborhood bar seems impossible- but this one just makes it. Great live blues acts and a great, diverse crowd- the only thing standing out will be you with your golden child. Cause mostly, it’s a brown bottle bar.
For reference, the Detroit High Life typically costs $2-$3.
More of the Detroit High Life to come…
*Suckers always claim that High Life is a lesser beer because it comes in a clear bottle. The liquid gets damaged by light more easily in clear glass, they say. But keep in mind, they're suckers. Miller keeps light from damaging The High Life by using tetra-hops, which are immune to the ill-effects of light rays. They do what a force-field does for a super hero. Look it up if you still doubt, sucker. Long live the Detroit High Life.
Detroit's collection of business names blows any other city I've been to out of the water. Proud, overstated, unique, direct. Many of these places still operate with open doors, but lots of them have been gone for a while. Their signs hang on empty buildings, frozen in time but still amusing. Here's the ten best I've seen, in no particular order except the order they came to me-
Hy-Grade Deli- This is a gem. Not even "hi-" as in "high" as in the opposite of "low" grade. Nope. Hy-. Like who knows what. But its definitely not Lo-Grade. Unless you're talking about their food, like the deli part. Cause that needs lotsa work. Unless you're looking for an instant blowout. Then it's perfect.
Sabb's- I really like Sabb's. You gotta lean back when you say it. "Saaaabb's". Goin' to Saaaaabb's. It was a bar, but the roof's caved in and there's always a bunch of zombies pissing on it. Too bad. I'm sure it would be a great spot for a mid-day two-minute drill.
D'Elegance Lounge- I can't figure out how to say it. "Delegance lounge"? "Dah-elegance lounge"? Either way, nobody's gonna steal that one. But its their loss. I'd be there in a heartbeat if it was open.
Mike's Famous Ham Place- Not to be confused with Jim's Famous Ham Place. Or Dave's. You gotta check the 1964 yellow pages for those ones. This one is all Mike himself. And Mike tells you his Ham Place is FAMOUS, so believe it! Tall - Eez- It's a women's over-sized shoe store. Tall-Eez. It sounds so good. Why make it hard for big folks to get shoes? When you could make it easy. Like Ee-z. Like Tall-Eezy. Like Sunday morning.
Happy Bar- It's a no-brainer.
Motz's- Next time you play hangman, use this. You'll win.
Customized Dental Laboratory- Nothing to write home about, but they advertise "Denture Work of the Future." Wow! Is that like teeth made out of computer chips?! I'm down.
Donut Villa- Again, not the greatest name, but "Home of the Nicklenut" is crafty. Especially because it is true. Donut holes: five cents.
Gospel Hands Car Wash- It counts as going to mass. And you get two birds with one stone. You just have to sing. And wear a robe. Or it doesn't count.
They weren't tilling the city's vacant landscape. Nor were they starting the ripples of the city's GREEN wave. The four right-handed shovellers were simply laying out rows of dirt for the season's plantings. In an empty plot of land connected to hundreds of others in this once-bustling Victorian neighborhood of the Motor City, four young people, two black and two white were preparing a new section of the expanding farm. But still it drew the public eye.
First it was a young couple drifting by riding bikes- she on a standard issue and he on a home-made double-decker, with the panting lab at their heels. Then it was folks from the neighborhood, a crying woman who'd lived in her house for 50 years, through thick and thin as they say- but then again they probly don't know thin like she knows thin. She broke down as she explained how she was about to lose her house. She can't afford the taxes. She remembered when this farmer first moved here five years ago- a newborn among residents who'd mostly lived there for twenty-plus years- and the positive direction she saw the neighborhood going since. After some consoling and encouraging she walked back to her home.
Later in the afternoon a woman running for city council came by with her daughter. Both of them pretty and well spoken, they introduced themselves to all the shovellers and toured around the farm. Delicately, they wondered if they could pose for pictures with the shovellers and use them for the politican's website. The woman praised the benefits of urban farming and the opportunity it holds for Detroit. Politely asking which tool she could hold without disturbing the progress, she stepped into the soft dirt rows while her daughter snapped away.
As the light changed that day and the next, the dirt rows were laid out across the changing lot. The woman said she might be returning with a real photographer to get some better shots. Compared to past years where groups of plantings huddled in small patches in the yard and its greenhouses, the clean long lines marked a stride towards a full-on farm.
Everybody knew the Mayor had a big head. But the replica made it a joke. His twelve-inch mug had been cast fourteen feet tall in colored paper and chickenwire. Hanging high above the crowd that day the piñata was like something from a bad clown dream – maybe funny when you first see it, but completely creepy after you took a step back. One guy blurted out “now that’s a big head.” His neighbor said, “well you KNOW how big the Mayor’s head is.” Considering that, the first nodded “well, yeah.” Made sense that a big head would look even bigger when you scale it up.
People talked in small ways about the piñata, but inside they all felt wretched. Except when the waves of anticipation came. They stood there in yesterday’s puddles – not warmed a bit by the April sun quietly arcing by.
A young teacher stood watching. She had felt angry when she first read of the Mayor’s plan to knock down the old station. Critics agreed it was the most beautiful abandoned structure in the world. And now, like the city’s other grandfatherly buildings whose intricate details won’t be replaced, this gem was coming down. And for what- a trashy casino? A vacant lot? She was pissed.
Finishing the story, her instinct was to walk into the mayor’s office and throw chairs and heavy books at him. Tear it down cause it’s an eyesore? A safety concern? She’d give the bastard a safety concern. She imagined giving him Seriously Loud Smacks. Not the kind where you stop when it hurts, but the kind where you keep winding up until the guy cries “alright, fine- I won’t knock that building down. Ever.” Minutes later she wanted to write him a letter. She started writing it and used the word “idiot” twice and “childish” (or “child”) three times. She tore it up halfway and started another. This one had the words “potential” and “opportunity” along with “safety-concern” and “complicated.” "Selfish" was used, but it was nicely couched in reasonable terms. She felt pretty good about this one as she neared the end, like she was going to level with him eye to eye. But after re-reading it the story seemed flat, like it had lost all emotion.
So she did some things to take her mind off it for a while and later considered other ways to save this treasure. Monkey-wrench the demolition vehicles. Tie herself to the station. Have her students make cards and drawings about how much they love this old building and mail them to the mayor. And then go downtown and kick him in the balls.
The cards might work, she thought. Nothing stops grownups like kids who’ve been manipulated by other grownups. So she felt a bit better. But as a few days passed she lost the fervor of her first impulses, and the building grew smaller in her mind. Then one night she caught wind of the citizens’ plans for the eve of the demolition. Which is where we are today, with the piñata head and the mud and the clear sky above.
The paper head dropped from the crane towards its elliptical shadow. Watching it felt like seeing a giant mechanical hand play yo-yo. Slowly. People were giddy. Number two-hundred-eleven was pulled first. Two-eleven was a wiry old man whose first whack barely budged the paper head. But the crowd roared anyway. Thirty-nine hits finally started a depression, and people were electric. A depression. Yes. Sixty-four swings scored a view of the head’s insides: a dark mass wrapped in wire and tattered paper. At eighty-three, a spout of grey-black poured out from the opening like dead locusts dropping fast. Only a few twists of wire held the large load back.
The next strike exploded through the gash, releasing a flood of seeds. People shouted. Mud was everywhere. Seedpiles grew instantly: dunescapes spreading into the crowd. The people were all energy, grabbing fistfuls of seeds and hurling them into the air. Across the crowd, heads moved in erratic cycles: up to see the show of earthen fireworks, to the side for a high-five, down-low for a too-slow and at their wet shoes pulled from seeds and rustbrown mud.
Chants sprung up over the next couple of hours and almost every person stayed on. Surrounding the empty medeusan shell, the crowd photographed itself, its friends, its neighbors with the station behind. Even the first cold air of night did not deter them, their collective energy warm.
The next morning, the teacher awoke with heavy eyes. She rubbed them, slowly recalling the crowd and the piñata and her sopping clothes. She weighed the memories like a dream pressing full against the morning light.
Minutes later she drove off toward the station, worried that she had missed something.
1 Sneakers - G. Keith Alexander 2 Baby Let Me Take You - Detroit Emeralds 3 Do You Love Me (Like You Say You Do) - Lee Fields & The Expressions 4 Save Our Souls - Bohannon 5 Baby Your Hair Looks Bad - Mr Bo and His Blues Band 6 Uprock - RJD2 7 Hey,I'm A Love Bandit - Gino Washington and the G.W. Band 8 Whatcha Gonna Wear Tomorrow - Detroit Emeralds
This is the first issue of Detroit Soundtracks. It is a project I'm starting up to chronicle the city of Detroit through music- mostly 45s from Peoples Records on Woodward Avenue and mostly old Detroit acts. The aim is to capture the essence of the city today as you would for the background music of a film.
MACK Tracklist:
1 I Don't Know - Violinaires 2 Is It Me You Really Love - Black Velvet 3 Soulful Dress - Sugar Pie Desanto 4 I'll Keep Coming Back - Detroit Emeralds 5 What Our Love Needs - King Floyd 6 Eyes - Yvonne Baker 7 There's A Leak In This Old Building - The Pennington Specials 8 There Is Not A Friend Like A Lonely Jesus - The Mighty Kings of Harmony 9 Honey Dove - Lee Fields & The Expressions 10 She's So Good - Steve Mancha
Volume 1 chronicles a wandering drive I took on the first warm spring day in Detroit. Leaving Woodward and heading East on Mack - the trip quickly flows from bustling (Detroit-Style) Woodward Ave through an industrial S-Curve to a stretch of empty, destroyed, or lightly occupied industrial buildings peppered with prostitutes out front. Along the residential stretches of Mack signs for Block Clubs stand on empty corners and gospel churches recur with regularity. At St Jean, I steered back, looping through vastly vacant neighborhoods along Charlevoix and Goeth, the pace slow and habitation coming in small groupings of activity.
Highlights include: Gospel Hands Car Wash The Block Clubs along the N side of Mack Dream Twist (advertising "Pork Chop Sand" + "Ice Cream Sandwich", etc.) A vacant candy store with Mickey and Minnie painted on the side holding hands & smiling A burning house (firefighters on the scene) - no joke
Subject: Re: Demolition of MichiganCentral Station
Hey XXXXXX,
I want to begin by thanking you for your e-mail.
You raise valid points that I want to address.
Here's the problem. Manny Moroun, the owner of the MichiganCentral Depot, has already shown that he has no intention of taking "care of his OWN building with his OWN money" as many have suggested..
Nor can Detroit continue to wait for him to grow a conscience. His building has been an eyesore for the better part of 30 years. It is also a major safety hazard.
Do not forget that a dead body was found in an attached warehouse about two months ago - something that made the front page of the Detroit News.
Our plan, if accepted is to use stimulus dollars to target this and other large structures that are arguably beyond repair. If the Obama White House accepts this Detroit would use the stimulus dollars as upfront cash to demolish these structures. Following that, we would pursue legal action against the owners to recoup the demolition costs.
So in essence, though tax dollars would be used to take down these buildings up front - the owners would still end up paying at the back end because they would be forced to reimburse these costs to the City.
This is actually identical to what the city does now with owners who fail to maintain single- family homes that are beyond repair. We knock them down and bill the owner.
So why don't we do the same with the Train Station you may ask? The answer is that the costs of demolishing a structure of that size up-front is so massive it would exceed the city's entire demolition budget for a single-fiscal year
I have seen estimates for demolition of the Train Station that run as high as $14 million.
If approved, the use of stimulus dollars to demolish such structures would give us the ability to go after massive eyesores.
Personally, I would like to see structures like the Train Station rehabilitated and placed back into productive use of some sort. This is the other value of reciept of stimulus dollars for this purpose.
If the owners of large structures who have been scoffing at our laws know that we have the financial means to demolish their buildings that can be used as leverage to force them to get off their duffs and develop viable plans for putting these structures back into productive use AT THEIR OWN COST where possible.
Under this scenario everyone wins. The building is salvaged and put into use and the city can direct its funds elsewhere.
$70 hotel rooms shot up to $200 per night this weekend. That's fine with me. I realize that this city will see more people the next three days than it has since the Super Bowl rolled through. And being from Chicago - a racket's a racket's a racket. You grab every prize you can when the circus comes to town.
But the temporary storefronts and the pop-up businesses amaze me. I really don't see how folks won't notice that behind the plywood cutouts, there's just a bunch of scaffolding. Folding tables selling souvenirs on the dirt floor of an empty commercial space; a temporary bar ("Detroit Sports Bar") that will be packed up next week; and a dozen or so commissioned installations in windows of vacant storefronts that have been quickly thrown up to give folks more to look at, more to buy, and more the feeling of a city in the hopes they will leave here with a positive image of the place. Don't get me wrong, I like these moves for the most part. Its cool to see what young talent comes up with when they're given free reign to design their own storefront. It was cool to be a part of two storefront installations myself. And as a side benefit it meant spending time down in the heart of it all- right along Woodward Ave by Campus Martius where the hub of the city's navigational spokes radiate from. It meant seeing friends pass by and striking up conversations in DOWNTOWN DETROIT. I've never known this to exist in the year that I've lived here. Granted, I'm not hard working enough to grind it out everyday at a downtown firm. If I did, I might see more of this. But I highly doubt that's the case. I worked at a corporate architecture firm in Chicago for a year right along Michigan Ave and I think ONE time I ran into a friend I knew. We talked for about 00:00:30 and then I had to split to get back to work. Most of the time I was just running around, too busy to look up, too stressed out to enjoy a single moment in the city with the friends I know that worked down there as well.
Now that there's a bit of a tangent, but I'll come back from it now and say that the experience of working on the fake storefronts showed me that the Downtown Detroit move has potential. Someone told me today that this city was meant to be a city of leisure. He's told me several different times on walks around Detroit to stop and pay attention to the general peace that sits in the Detroit air. I told him that 'cause there's nobody here, kinda joking. But maybe he's a bit right.
There's a lot of porch sitting in Detroit. There's a lot of sitting and having a time. There's a lot of conversations between strangers, a lot of positivity rolling around. I'm gonna do a post about my experiences jogging in Detroit soon - it's one of the most positive things I've seen.
I originally came to Detroit for a project and chose to stay here for the potential I've seen in this place. Its a city unlike any other I've seen in this country or anywhere. One part city of open spaces, one part city of unemployed leisure, one part corrupt city government, one part former industrial powerhouse, an equal part terribly wreched past. More than any other American city, Detroit can truly become anything it wants to be. A city of a million people living in a place that used to house two million. Its like Jared from Subway standing in his old pants.
Detroit is a city where proud individuals walk between abandoned buildings dressed in solid red, solid yellow or solid mint - head to toe. Hat, feather, suit, tie, shoes. The Monochrome has been coined the Detroiter. And it is always a hit - Always the proudest, Always the most dapper.
I like to think that one day the building owners of Downtown Detroit will get a break from the city to get a real shop owner in their space instead of a fake one. Pull a few good deals to get businesses in paying cheap rent and we have a city with amenities. People like cities with amenities. They don't like places where you have to go to the suburbs to grocery shop, to rent movies. We've got stimulus money being thrown around in discussions of demolition. "Removing blight" they say. Last I checked the single biggest blight in Detroit is the Motor City Casino. The second is a tie between the back of the Compuware building and all the horizontally-banded downtown parking structures it looks just like. Blight is not the Michigan Central Station. That's a historic landmark. Its like calling the Roman Coliseum blight.
I'm pulling for Villanova this Final Four. The finest underdog. Scottie Reynolds is the man and Jay Wright is a genius. I'm looking forward to seeing what this city is like with the rush of Final Four visitors to the sleepy downtown. And I hope, for this broken autistic city- this great city of alluring failure, that folks will leave here wide-eyed with possibility, storing happy memories in their vaults from the local favorite winning, or getting some good eats down at Slows. I realize the the first hope is unrealistic for most people. I've come to see that the potential my friends and I see in these buildings is not something that comes easy to most people. But the second hope is certainly more reasonable. There's a long way to go, a lot of ground to cover to get the intense images of the '67 riots and the depressing headlines of this past year crowded with memories of smiles and laughter. I'll take as a start the momentary feeling of safety and security or the glimpse of an interesting storefront display, even if it will come down next week. We gotta start somewhere.
Motz- The leader of the pack. Smallish soft white buns toasted on a greasy flat-top. Freshly-packed quality meat patties. Milkshakes and malts. I’ve been warned against the Wineburger, though it calls out to me every trip. Friends mutter something about boxed wine, but I’m usually not paying attention at that point. I’m lost in my own mind... the top dog. Motz King. The first real man to order the Wineburger, passing the last bite through a proud smile. On a recent trip we tried talking to the burgerladies about recent developments in the area. Slows’ success. The MCB opening and closing. They said they keep meaning to head down that way, but they haven’t made the trip yet. I think the drive takes six minutes. It is on the way to downtown (about eight minutes from their spot). Something tells me they don’t do the downtown Detroit thing either, so we dropped that topic as well. Now its just burgers and hello and great burgers and yes, I'll take a shake. The Motz burger can be eaten in less than four bites but its impression will last for days. Hurry up and eat some.
Campau Tower- You can smoke in there and if you catch it right you can hear the local (ex-) labor force calling the play-by-play along Joseph Campau. Things like trucks and delivery trucks and tow trucks. And the commentators make impressive comments like “safe driver, yeah right” and “No way. Can’t pull that.” I’m serious. You name it, they doubt it. Every day. No truck is an honest truck along Joseph Campau. Campau Tower is a place you can really learn something. But back to the burgers, since I guess that’s really the point of this- think small like Motz. And then settle in and wait for a good 30 or 40 minutes. Everything in there is brown, so you will really love the wait. There is only one lady and she has to light a cigarette and flip a patty and talk trash to the local gentlemen. She will complete the entire transaction with another customer before even taking your order. Hey, its one way to make sure you don’t mix up orders. Only I think she needs to find yet another way- she always seems to forget an order of fries or something. And all the while some "artist" sits in the corner repeating all things the tallest of the ex-workers says. And finally, after a while, you get your burger(s). Small. Pretty good. But always bits of gristle. The deal there is the late night burger. Hamtramck. Home of hundreds of bars in just over hundreds of buildings (well, almost). So plenty of ways to gather up a hunger for a late-night burger. Best part is, I think they remove all the gristle by hand for the late night burgers- you won’t be pulling out any fatty pieces whatsoever. Just straight goodness and delight. Promise.
Check out Ukranian Disneyland after. Its in a nearby alley.
Bronx Bar-
Its dark in there. Whenever you go in there it is dark. Lunch: dark. Dinner: dark. The later you stay into the night, the darker they make it. By stages, every 20-25 minutes. I have never seen a staff change the dimness of its lights more frequently than the Bronx Bar folks. But the 2 juke boxes are stocked, you can get your haircut on Thursdays, and you can get the cherished Bronx Burger. The bun cannot be touched. It’s a masterpiece. This is a much bigger patty than the Motz or Campau Tower burgers. Definitely not a slider. It is big and juicy but its not gonna put you into a food coma. You need to add some Blatz’s for that. It has L/T/M on it and pickle slices on the side. The bun is very streamlined and thins out at two ends. It makes the burger very approachable. Note this: a good burger is one that you can fit into your mouth. I don’t care how much some loudmouth hollers about how much he loves a huge burger, if you can’t get your mouth around the thing it cannot please you. So picture this: the first few bites are as close to a perfect ratio of bun:meat:bun as you can imagine. In the middle, things thicken up just a bit, but taper back toward the golden ratio at the end. If you can manage to eat a Bronx Burger and have less than 3 Blatz’s, I guarantee you will walk out into brightness filled with complete satisfaction.
Redcoat Tavern- I think the menu has 146 different burger choices. I have only gotten the signature one. It is classic. It has some kind of pink sauce (hmmm... thousand island? always tasty) on a patty about the size of a Bronx burger. Fountain cokes. Again, dark (I have found my first trend: big burgers, no windows; small burgers, windows). Red booths and people and tv’s around the bar. You will not find the same level of authenticity at the Redcoat as you will find at the other places, but you will find a V.T.B.(Very Tasty Burger).
Miller’s- Burger on wax paper. No dish. No paper plate. No wax baggie. One sheet (una hoja) between soft bun and weathered bartop. That's a statemtent. We notice, and we thank you. Slider burger (Motz, Campau Tower). A jar of sliced pickles for each and every one of us (!). No windows. But it is light in there (yellow and stuff) – so I guess they can take their pick of burger size. My one criticism: fries are distinctly tasteless. Maybe they are the frozen kind, or maybe just bland. All I remember is they seemed to get in the way of the “slider on wax” show. I think Miller's has deer heads and a bunch of mirrors behind the bar. I’m pretty sure there were Christmas lights hanging everywhere. And I’m pretty sure there was a lot of yellow. All or none of those things could be true and I’m sure if you looked these elements up in your psychology textbooks you’d find they say more about me and my subconscious than about what Miller’s is really like. But if you go there and try the fries, you’ll know that I haven’t lost it altogether.
Joey’s- Aka Joey’s Meatcutter Inn. Aka Cutters. If its not painted black in Joey’s, it’s because it’s a mirror and black paint won’t stick. There’s no “windows” proper in Cutter’s but there are three video screens showing you live footage of your car on the other side of the brick wall from you. There’s also a bunch of racing memorabilia and a bunch of beer mirrors. And the trophies. All for poker. My friend asked if he could take one home and the waitress said the owner would kill him if he did. Said he wouldn’t care if someone came in and robbed the registers, but if they took a trophy they would get killed. The staff is great at Cuttter’s- they give nobody an easy time and they can remember anything you care to order without writing a thing down. Now the burger selection at Joey’s is the most impressive in Detroit. I have a theory that it gets the “Inn” part of its name from offering rooms to rent for the people who successfully ate 2 lb burgers in the past but I haven’t confirmed that yet. That said, you can get a half # burger, a one # burger and a two # burger at Joey’s. But I don’t know why you would. The half pounder with a High Life is all you need. If you catch it right, Joey’s will be playing the best mix of R&B with Johnny Cash you’ve ever heard. I’m serious about that- the R&B tracks I heard in there last time were solid gold. And somehow staggering them with Johnny Cash worked.
This post is a.k.a. cheeseburger in paradise, burgerworld, and patty party.
