Let's Make Up

If you're anything like me, you've never wanted to be yourself.

When I was a kid, I'd make believe I was a astronaut, or a ninja, or a game-winning QB. No kid goes outside to play the role of kid. We want to be someone else, and oppose someone else. Cowboys need Indians. Cops need Robbers. Game-winning QBs need Greg Robinson an opposing defense loaded with poor tacklers and safeties that will always bite on play-action. Or Greg Robinson.

The problem for most kids and especially only children like me was that there wasn't anyone there to oppose. I couldn't be a hero without a villain. So I made some up. Imaginary bad-asses who's sole purpose was doing some dastardly shit that I had no choice but to stop them from doing. Thus I learned the importance of completely made up things. They exist for no other reason than because we say they do, but we create them because we need them to exist even though they actually don't. There are a lot of people that don't understand that, but then again there are a lot of people that don't celebrate Sweetest Day either.

It's a great holiday. Who doesn't look forward to a chance to spend a moment, an evening or even an entire weekend showing the special somone (or someones... I see you, player!) in your life how much they mean to you? Why wouldn't you look forward to the third Saturday of October every year just like I do?

Because you're a jaded asshole, that's why. The number one reason people tell me they hate Sweetest Day is because it's a made up holiday. A Hallmark Holiday, as they like to call it. This is partially and completely false. Hallmark didn't create this Holiday at all. In fact, Sweetest Day actually originates from the modern cradle of national celebration at the time: Cleveland.

Back in 1921 a group of Candy Barrons in Cleveland needed a reason to sell more candy. They didn't have one. The Great War was still fresh in everyone's mind, banks were beginning to fail and Prohibition was in full swing, turning America's streets into the battlefields of a Not-So-Great War being fought on the doorsteps of people who had previously only seen that kind of violence in the headlines. The seeds of the Great Drepression were being sown. People were not happy. And unhappy people do not buy candy. They don't have a reason to.

So the Candy Barrons did what any enterprising American would have done: they completely made one up. Like most things that originate in Cleveland, it did not go as planned. Most cities failed to buy in to Sweetest Day, as chocolate is a poor substitute for the bootleg booze and Canadian whiskey most Americans wanted to get their hands on at the time. However through the efforts of Sanders Candy, one other city did catch Chocolate Fever: Detroit, which is where I learned how to celebrate Sweetest Day the proper way.

In my last post I talked about the growing sense of optimism here in Michigan and how in some ways that sense is directly tied to the success of the local sports teams. This week has only added to that success. The Lions, exiled for a decade for their last embarrassing perfromance on such a stage, put on a show for Monday Night Football during an electrifying win over Chicago. The Tigers, a banged up MASH unit of a team, is grinding their way through a tough series with a the defending American League Champion Texas Rangers with the sort of grit and resolve we all like to think the city embodies. The Michigan Wolverines are not only winning games, they have actually tackled people in the course of doing so.

Each of these teams have something to atone for in their own way. The Lions for being so pathetic for so long. The Tigers for having a history of not being able to finish the season as strongly as they started it. Michigan for not being The Program That Lived after the hiring of He Who Must Not Be Named. Those failures stung and left stains that we couldn't be sure would ever wash away. But the stains of those failures are being washed away, in wave after refreshing wave of progress. With every win the bitterness of the tortured fanbase here dissipates a little more, replaced by an enthusiasm tied to the realization that not only do we no longer suck, we're actually pretty good. How good? We don't know yet, but it's possible we are not only good, but the best of the best. Time will tell, but regardless of how things shake out this weekend is going to cap an epic yet exhausting 10-day run of sports the likes of which I've never seen.

This weekend also kicks off the beginning of the 60-day Occupy Detroit movement/demonstration happening downtown. I have no idea why these people feel as though Detroit needs to be occupied, but I'm all for anyone spending time in the city even if it's in tents. I hear that this whole Occupy Wherever movement is the left's answer to the Tea Party. I have no idea if this is true. I'm kinda numb to politics right now, mostly because I have a life I'd like to enjoy living until the next election in 2012. These Occu-Teas are clearly not anything like me.

If they were they'd be celebrating Sweetest Day instead of blaming one another for whatever it is they're blaming each other for, and they'd be a lot happier for it. A cursory look of Washington's approval ratings shows a lot of dissatisfaction with our leadership, and it's easy to see why. Bickering and childish antics make for wonderful ratings and terrible progress. And progress is the only way to improve what ails us as a nation. And if the Occu-Teas are both serious about what they want for our future, they're going to have to find a reason to start working together instead of against each other.

And if they can't, what better day than today to completely make one up. I think that'd be pretty sweet.

The 2 Minute Warning

I'm a Detroiter.

Wasn't born here. Didn't go to school here. Ten years ago I still called pop soda, had never heard of a coney dog and was an hardcore Washington Redskins fan that had enjoyed multiple Super Bowl and playoff victories. I thought the party store must have sold balloons or something. I had no clue how to pronounce Ypsilanti, Meijer or Gratiot (which turns out is our answer to Norfolk, VA). I didn't put an "s" on the the end of Ford. My feelings on the state of Ohio were completely neutral. I had driven foreign cars my entire life. I was a Virginian.

But not just any Virginian. I was from Newport News. Grew up there. Went to school there. My life revolved around crab season, hurricane season and tourist season. We didn't have party stores on every corner, we had churches (the houses of worship, not the chicken place). It was a great place to raise a family and a terrible place to grow up.

That's not to say that Detroit was completely foreign to me when I got here. Back in Newport News, we built things for a living. Ships to be exact. Not pleasure crafts, but aircraft carriers. Submarines. The things that kept America strong. It was our only industry really. The Cold War kept demand for warships high so you didn't need a degree to earn an honest wage. Just a strong back and a lack of options. Generations had moved to the end Virginia's lower peninsula seeking that opportunity, and as a kid I had no doubt it would be that way for generations to come.

Then the Cold War came to an abrupt end. Watching the Berlin Wall fall in 1990 I had now idea how profound of an impact it would have on my hometown. It seemed like it was a good thing. The threat of Mutually Assured Destruction was ending. Talks of an enduring World Peace didn't seem so far-fetched. The future was so bright I wanted a pair of Blu Blockers. Then the base closures started. Soon the Navy funding dried up. Without warning came the announcements that America didn't need us to build ships anymore. The future became a very scary place. That was 15 years ago.

Fifteen years later, I've watched that same pattern play out here in Michigan, my new home and one of the few remaining places in this country that still makes things for a living. The story of Detroit's decline was eerily similar to the one back in Newport News. At the time, America wanted SUVs so we gave them SUVs. Then Climate Change happened. And suddenly our SUVs weren't needed. Plants were closing. Banks weren't lending. The Big Three, already suffering the indignity of being called The Detroit Three due to declining market share were on the ropes and on the brink of a once unthinkable collapse. The future was a scary place. That was three years ago.

But that wasn't the only thing that happened here three years ago. Not only did we elect some black guy President of the United States, you may have heard the urban legend that Detroit had an NFL football team at the time. I'm here to tell you it's not just a rumor, it's a fact. Another fact? The same year that the automotive industry imploded into massive bankruptcy and job losses just so happened to coincide with the single worst season in the 48 year of the National Football League. Watching football was something that became an escape to many other struggling American communities at that time. Watching the Detroit Lions clusterfuck their way to an 0-16 record just made everything even worse here. To call our collective mood somber would be a massive understatement. Suicidal would be an understatement. I quit blogging and logged off Facebook because it seemed mostly pointless. There was no future.

Until eight months ago. Ironically for Detroit, things began to turn around during the Super Bowl of all things; a game that the Lions had never even come close to playing in. Throughout the game I waited to see The Big Three run ads for various new models that they desperately needed to public to buy. The Ford spot was forgettable. The GM spot for the Chevy Volt was a little uninspired. Then came the Chrysler ad.

In the days and hours leading up to kickoff, it's become routine to see advertisers leak their spots on You Tube and morning shows with an eye towards creating some buzz. Chrysler raised eyebrows by taking the opposite tact: they kept their commercial completely under wraps. The rumors were that it was two minutes long, making it the longest spot in Super Bowl history if true. The word was that is had cost anywhere from $2M-$9M, making it the most expensive spot in Super Bowl history for a company fresh off of a taxpayer funded bailout. It seemed ill-conceived and doomed to failure. I was expecting the worst. What I got two minutes later was anything but.

I praised it instantly. It was genius. It was breathtaking. It was more than I could have ever imagined a commercial could be in terms of its impact and ability to definitively capture the soul of a city. Not everyone agreed. Some people who know better than me told me it didn't make sense. That it wouldn't sell cars. That it wasn't even an ad for a car, it was more like of an ad for what was certainly the worst city on on the planet. That Detroit was a hopeless shithole incapable of making a relevant automobile and would always be a hopeless shithole incapable of making a relevant automobile because people that know better than me said so.

One of these people was from Newport News just like me. He had gotten as far away from the impending doom of the collapsing local hometown economy as he could as soon as he could, just like me. He was glad that he did, just like me. But unlike me, when he left he went someplace that wasn't anything like where we were from. Someplace where the people don't make things for a living. Someplace that made it easy to forget where we were from. Someplace far from home.

The Chrysler ad hit close to home. I stayed up until 4AM after the game was over watching it, breaking it down, trying to figure out what about it moved me. I wasn't the only Detroiter doing so, and I eventually did find a blog post that summed it up well through an apt comparison to the works Ezra Pound: image, music and meaning. Three elements that fit us perfectly. What city is more synonymous with all three than Motown? What other city in America has a modern story to tell like we do? What more unlikely place to tell the story of where we're from than during a game we've never been to? What better time to tell the world where we're going than from place we couldn't possibly dream of going at that time, at that moment? It was more than an ad, it was a two-minute warning of the coming renaissance. It was inspired. And boy did it inspire.

In the days following the ad, I spent more time talking about Chrysler and Detroit with everyone I knew than I ever had. Every time anyone asked me about, I said the same thing: That two minutes gave us our swagger back. That had to sound stupid to my out-of-town buddies who were only seeing more of the same from afar. But truthfully, things had started to change months before that commercial ever aired. The University of Michigan broke a two year bowl drought and posted a winning season. Small thing. Kwame Kilpatrick, our disgraced Mayor, was released from jail and quietly left town mercifully ending a long drawn out scandal. Small thing. The Michigan State Spartans won their first Big Ten title since 1990. Small thing. But most importantly, the Detroit Lions won their last four games of the season, including back-to-back road wins and a victory over the eventual World Champion Green Bay Packers. No small thing.

In the months following the airing of the ad, things have gone more than reasonably well here. Housing prices are up. The Big Three are adding jobs and shifts and reopening plants. The Tigers are in the playoffs. The Lions are undefeated. I'm blogging again. The UAW is negotiating new contracts without a hint of acromony. Well, maybe a hint but nothing like what we're used to. Small things. The mood is cautiously optimistic, which is better than it is in most places. Everywhere else in America seems to be slumping. Things here in Detroit seems to be clicking. We're not perfect, and yes we have work to do. A shitload of work. More work than I will ever be able to see through in my lifetime. But it's work we're willing to do. It's work we want to do. It's work we are going to do and do better than anyone suspects we can do. Not because we have a chip on our shoulder or because we've got something to prove. It's nothing like that. It's because going to hell and back is only the halfway point on this journey. Because tall tasks are no match for a tough town. Because it's what we do, what we've always done. It's because we were born to do this, and we've been reborn to do it better than it's ever been done anywhere.

We're Detroiters. And if you're anything like us, you're back.

The Real Man's Guide to Romance, Part 2: Burnin' Love

If you're anything like me, you care for your woman just as much as you care about the environment. Since you're still trying to figure out if that's a compliment or an insult, let me clear things up for you: yes, it is.

One thing that is not ambiguous is my love of pussy or my disdain for holidays that make me pay a price for my aforementioned love. But much like when Biggie went home with that broad that got dick from a player off the New York Knicks, I know how to make the best of a bad situation. I take lemons and make babies. Just not directly. So when the Holidays strike, I strike back like any Real Man would.

Such is the case with Styrofoam. It can't be easily recycled. It doesn't biodegrade. But it does make a very lovely fire. The same type of lovely fire that one might use to get some St. Valentine's Day ass. The type of fire that burns with passion, that burns white-hot, that burns with the aid of excellerants. That's right, Real Men. Nothing says "Bitch, take your clothes off NOW!!!" like a little homemade Napalm.

Now you may ask yourself "Why in the fuck would I want to make Napalm, especially for Valentine's Day?" If you have to ask, then this is not for you and you shouldn't read any further, Girlie Man. For the rest of you, it goes without saying that nothing sucks more than having to tend to a fire and a woman at the same time. Thus the genius in using a hot-burning long lasting firestarter like Napalm to kill one bird with an incendiary bomb is not only in it's Real Man Appeal, but it's practicality. You can save time and the planet all while getting laid. It's a can't miss proposition.

Unless you blow yourself up. Now, would a Real Man hesitate to post instructions on how to make Napalm out of styrofoam on his blog? No way. But a Real Man also would know how to make Napalm out of Styrofoam already, meaning if you don't know by now you're not a Real Man. If you're interesting in becoming a Real Man however, I am willing to do you a solid and point you in the right direction. Click here to take your first step in finding out how to make fire like a Real Man.

And that's will do it for Part II. If you're still alive for Part III, We'll take a look at how a Real Man pulls off a Romantic Dinner for two.

Bonfire Appetit!

The Real Man's Guide to Romance, Part 1: The Nameless Drink

***WARNING!!!***

The following is for Real Men only. If you are less than a Real Man, read no further.

Liar.

But since you're clearly determined to read on, know that I will not be held accountable for what happens when your eyes set upon the Truth contained in this passage.

Don't Say You Weren't Warned.

*** END WARNING!!!***

If you're anything like me, you ain't no punk bitch. No my friend, you're a man's man. In the tradition of Eastwood (Unforgiven, not Bridges of Madison County), Swayze (Roadhouse, not Dirty Dancing and for damn sure not Ghost) and Batman (the one without a Robin, not the one who kicked it with teen boys in spandex), you kick ass and leave the name-taking for those far more pussy than you're even capable of pretending to be. Your man-stank makes women ovulate. The sound of your voice gets broads so hot you violate the Kyoto Protocol every time you bother to speak to these hos. Women want to be with you and men want to be women so they can be with you, too. You're a Gangsta of Love'em and Leave'em.

But all that doesn't mean your ass won't be sleeping on the sofa if you don't make with the romance when your woman expects it. If you think the way Russia cut off gas to the Ukraine was fucked up, try skipping out on doing right by your lady friend on Valentine's Day. The pussy will freeze up faster than the credit market.

But just because you're more Rick Ross than Ross and Rachel doesn't mean you can't moisturize her situation and maintain your manly. You just have to know how to go about pulling that shit off.

That's where I come in. As the guy your girl most often thinks about while she's with you, I'm here you give you the upper hand you need to get her mind back to where it belongs: bouncing uncomfortably off of your headboard. Or your belly button. Or, if you're anything like me, her younger sister. So grab your composition books and sharpen your Sharpie, because if you follow my advice I promise you your relationship will be the same again. Ever.

The first step in improving your love life in getting her drunk. This is an Absolut must and can never under any circumstances be considered optional. To this end I am breaking my silence and offering you, noble reader a recipe that has been kept secret for thousands of days. But no longer. You make thank me properly when no one is looking.

The Nameless Drink

one part Vodka
one part Peach Schnapps
one part Blue Raspberry Martini Mix
one part Wildberry Pucker
Cranberry Juice

Shake first four ingredients over ice, pour into chilled glass and fill with cranberry juice.

Now let be clear about two things:

1. The quality of the vodka in question will have a direct bearing on the panty peeling effects of this soft drink. If you're serving this to get served, don't pinch pennies.
2. I've never actually tasted this concoction before, so I have now idea what it taste like. From what I've been (frequently) told, it taste like Kool-Aid. Take that for what it's worth.

So there you have it, Part I of the Real Man's Guide to Romance. What's Part II? I don't want to give anything away, but Here's a Hint: it involves Napalm. Seriously.

Spinal Crap

If you're anything like me, you were really looking forward to me being able to Twitter a running diary during the birth of my third and final daughter. I was ready. I had my iPod blasting the Launch theme from Armageddeon, my UMA BlackBerry was connected to the Hospital Wi-Fi, and I was still not completely sober from the wine pairings I enjoyed with my seven course meal the night before. It was on.

Unfortunately for all of us I was denied that opportunity when Pregatron proved to be impervious to painkillers. No amount of spinal blocks, anesthetic or Bullfrogs (which is a Raspberry Stoli and Lemonade for the uninitiated) could numb her up. So she had to be put under, which meant I couldn't watch the blessed event in the OR. The whole thing really upset Pregatron, which was made worse by the fact that I couldn't talk to her to calm her down. Stupid Modern Medicine.

But in it's own way it was cool. It was kinda old school. I was left to pace back and forth and wonder what was going on. It would have been nice if I could have had a pack of cigarettes and some scotch, too. And then just like in the movies I hear a baby cry and out the nurse comes with my little bundle of outrageous tuition and expensive ass wedding. It was cool. I might head across the river into Canada and bring back some Cubans for complete the deal.

I wonder if Pregatron's Doctor smokes?

Here We Go Again

Some of you may have wondered I haven't been posting anything to the blog lately, and for those curious few I have an answer: I've been busy. You see, today is Pregatron's big day. The Daughters of Destruction will be adding a third and final member to their ranks today, in about two hours or so. So for the past two weeks I've been preoccupied with putting the finishing touches on everything around the house in order to make room for one more reason I'll never be able to get out of debt.

Nonetheless, I'm here in the D getting ready for Episode III and I'll be making up for lost time and blog post all weekend.

Don't say you haven't been warned.

Broke Like Me

If you're anything like me, you've got your money spread out between several financial institutions. Among my current banks are Piggy, Almost-A-, and Bank of America. It should go without saying which one of these banks I'm least happy with, but I'll say it anyway. But not without some prologue.

If you've spent any time in Virginia in the past year, I'm sure you've heard about the legislative push to ban what must be Hampton Roads largest financial institution, the check cashing place. This is not hyperbole. Were the check cashing place an actual bank, Jefferson Ave would be Wall Street. And like Wall Street, Jefferson Ave is facing backlash and tough new oversight after years of little oversight and deregulation.

The idea behind the new laws are simple: people who need money in a pinch shouldn't have to pay insane amounts of interest to get it. And like most simple ideas, it was conceived by simple minds. Being a Virginia Legislator is a part-time job. When you're not writing laws, you're back to your regular job. So given the pay of the average Delegate and Senator, these people may have some familiarity with needing a little extra scratch between direct deposits. Legislating check-to-check is no doubt embarrassing enough without having to deal with paying up to 400% in annualized interest on top of everything else.

I have a problem with the logic being used to argue the merits of this law. The triple digit interest is a arithmetic reality manipulated into a fuzzy math fantasy. For every $100 you borrow from on of these establishments, you pay $15, with a maximum borrowable amount of $500. So the most you can pay for a loan is $75. The loan and interest is due the next time you get paid. So the actual interest for the duration of the loan is 15%. That's not inconsequential, but it's certainly not 400% .In fact, it's in line with credit card interest rates and actually less than getting a cash advance on your credit card. But more importantly than that, no real bank is going to lend you money until payday. Just try calling up your current bank and asking for a loan for $500. *Spoiler Alert* You're not getting one.

Especially if you're with Bank of America, which is for all intents and purposes is bankrupt and is only still able to open it's doors due to a huge backstop of taxpayer money. Most people will make a big deal out of the TARP funds that will ultimately dilute shareholders if the bank recovers and be a complete waste of money if the bank fails regard of either outcome. But I'm more concerned about the $118 in loan guarantees our heroes in Congress bravely made possible by Creating this TARP mess in the first place. Keeping in mind that the enitre company could be bought outright for less than $40B and that the Treasury has given BoA $45B in straight cash over the past four months and they still managed to post a 4Q loss, a reasonable person might think it's time to pull the plug of this nonsense. But then again, reasonable people don't make it to Washington, now do they? On top of the $45 billion that has already been given to BoA, the taxpayer is on the hook another $10 billion in writedowns and then 90% of their mortgage loan losses after that.

So from here on at 0K+3$ Bank of America will be known as Bank Owes America. Big Time.