Turning eyes toward Detroit

If you're interested in some national perspective on Kwame Kilpatrick winning last Tuesday's Detroit mayoral election, Paul Clemens wrote an Op-Ed piece on the subject in Sunday's New York Times. (And I got to read it without paying for TimesSelect!)

This is something that the NY Times' Op-Ed page does well: Find someone who knows something on a particular subject, and let him or her write a column about it. Clemens wrote a book titled Made in Detroit: A South of 8 Mile Memoir, an account of how much Detroit (and he) changed while he grew up in the city during the 70's and 80's. (Here's a review of the book from the Detroit Free Press' Marta Salij.)

For those who live in this area, Clemens's column provides some possible answers to those who are wondering "How the #@$% did that happen?" For those living elsewhere, it's a glimpse at the people of Detroit, the perception they deal with, and the politics of their city.

After losing in the August primary, Kilpatrick knew he had to change his image. Rosa Parks's funeral gave him a moment in the spotlight, through which he displayed his charisma and political potential. Detroit historically re-elects incumbent mayors. A majority of people deeply distrust the media that criticized Kilpatrick, and his campaign capitalized on that opinion.

The question is, is Kilpatrick all style, or does he have some substance? Can someone who finds himself in the unenviable position of having to redefine Detroit, to dissuade people from continuing to leave the city for the suburbs, do something with the second chance he's been given?

▪ ▪ And in other Detroit news, the NBA's Sacramento Kings were fined $30,000 by the league for a rather tasteless video montage shown before last week's game against the Detroit Pistons. During the pre-game introductions, the Arco Arena scoreboard displayed images of abandoned buildings, cars on fire, boarded-up houses, and piles of rubble. The Kings' owners, Joe and Gavin Maloof, took out full-page ads in both Detroit newspapers last week for an apology. Don't mess with Detroit, fellas.

As Susannah said at Pub of Knowledge, it's probably not worth getting worked up about. It's such an old, tired joke. They're probably just bitter about Chris Webber and taking it out on his hometown.

Mr. Self-Preservation

I realize I'm toeing the line of tastelessness by making light of someone's death in any way (and maybe it's more tasteless, considering recent events in my life), but in this case, I guess I'll just risk the trip to hell. Mis Hooz promises she'll keep a seat open for me (though I'm sure I'll precede her in the afterlife).

Yesterday, Steve Courson, a former NFL offensive lineman, was killed when a tree he was cutting down fell on him. But that's not what intrigued me about the story. That's a terrible way to die (is there a good one?), and this sort of thing probably happens more often than we know. It's the reason that Courson was in position to be killed by a tree that caught my attention.

He was trying to get his dog out of the way.

In the past, I've been accused by an ignorant relative or two of not being a dog lover. That's simply not true; I just hated their dog. I'm sure there will be a dog in my future; I'd like my mother to have one. She could use another companion right now.

But let me say this with utter certainty: If I'm doing yard work, and I face a situation where it comes down to me versus the dog, I'm sacrificing the dog.

Go ahead, call me an asshole. I can take it. At least I'll know where I stand with you. But you'll want me around. You think that dog can help pick up the tree after it's fallen?

Pardon me, I think I was channeling a conversation with the future Mrs. Casselberry.

One or two reservations

We're big fans of Anthony Bourdain, here at Fried Rice Thoughts. Kitchen Confidential is one of my favorites. (The sitcom "inspired" by the book? Eh, not so much.) And I'm (slowly) making my way through A Cook's Tour right now. (Check out Pub of Knowledge's review.) So my mother was excited when I told her that Bourdain's TV show - No Reservations - was filming an episode in her native land, Malaysia. Mama Cass hasn't been back home in six years. And I haven't been there since I was the cutest one-year-old you've ever seen. We were both eager to get a little taste of Malaysia, even if it was through television.

Unfortunately, I botched recording the show the first time it was broadcast (yes, some of us still use VCRs to record TV shows). But the Travel Channel gave me a second chance a few weeks ago, and this time I got the timer right.

The episode began in the jungle, which seemed to confirm the many jokes I've made about my mother's homeland during my lifetime. Bourdain and his companions ate food wrapped in bamboo leaves, cooked over fire, and I asked my mother if she ever had a meal with a fork or spoon. I'll let you imagine her response.

But later in the episode, however, when Bourdain hit Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia was looking like a place where I could hang. He toured the market district and interviewed one guy who seemed really, really, well... What's the Malaysian word for "gay," Mom? It's what this flamboyant gentleman was selling that made Mama Cass take notice: Lotus seed paste buns, her favorite dim sum dish. Since we have dim sum every other Saturday or so, Mom smacked me for my previous ignorant comments and said, "See? You'll love the food there!"

Mama Cass was right; Kuala Lumpur looked fun. I contemplated whether or not we could make a trip to Malaysia next fall. Bourdain continued his tour of the market, looking for a popular dish that was also daring enough to make his TV show worthwhile. He found what he was looking in a bowl of Torpedo Soup. A big bowl full of rich curry broth? Ooooooh. "See? You'd like that!"

And yes, it looked good. But Bourdain's been eating crazy shit on this show, like porcupine and bone marrow on toast. This didn't look so bad. Then he revealed the secret ingredient of Torpedo Soup: boiled bull penis.

I screamed and covered my mouth. Mama Cass laughed. A thick, long coil of giant bull dick lurked underneath that previously tasty-looking red broth. Apparently, Malaysians believe this dish enhances a male's virility. And I'm sure it's cheaper than a prescription of Viagra. How's that for date food?

Genital soup aside, Bourdain seemed very taken with Malaysia. The serenity of the surroundings, the simplicity of the lifestyle, and the kindness of the people compelled him to reconsider the life he would return to in New York. Mama Cass smiled contentedly as Bourdain expressed his love for her homeland. I'm not sure if she was watching the show or reminiscing over her life before she came to America. Me, I was thinking about spending my afternoons stretched out on a hammock in warm temperatures.

So we're talking about it: a vacation in Malaysia next year, probably in the fall. (I'd prefer Christmas, actually. Oh, that's a whole other blog entry...) I'm on board for the trip. The soup, however, I think I might pass on. I wonder how much beef jerky and granola I can take with me?

▪ ▪ The Malaysia episode of No Reservations is being replayed Monday, November 21 at 10 pm.

(Photo by Diane Schutz/ DCI)

You must be joking - Late Edition

Previously on Fried Rice Thoughts:

"Could Detroit actually re-elect Kwame Kilpatrick as Mayor? Really?"

Today's Detroit Free Press:

Kilpatrick Comes Back

Today's Detroit News:

What a Comeback

Tomorrow's Ann Arbor News?

Local Man Dies From Near-Total Fucking Shock

(Image by David Coates / The Detroit News)

Tuesday's thoughts

♦ Something I learned over the weekend (besides how to handle myself politely with a woman's face in my crotch): It is impossible for a man - especially a dashing, virile figure such as myself - to look manly while helping to shop for yarn. You can't do it. It doesn't matter how hard you try. You're holding two rolls of, in this case, pink-ish material that will be used to knit a blanket or sweater. You can feebly try to maintain some scrap of manliness by saying, "It's for my mother," but ultimately, you're holding the yarn. And it's pink. Pink-ish.

♦ Going a bit local here: Could Detroit actually re-elect Kwame Kilpatrick as Mayor? Really? I'm not a Detroit resident, but I don't see how this guy can come back. Detroit's on the verge of going broke. One of his solutions for revenue? Tax fast food. He's used city funds to bankroll expensive meals, hotel rooms, limousines, and airline tickets. He takes credit for bringing events like the Super Bowl and baseball's All-Star Game to Detroit, when it was his predecessor who did the work. His challenger, Freman Hendrix, led in the polls going into today's election, but Kilpatrick was closing the gap due to support from young voters. But will those people show up to vote? If not, dead voters might be able to help.

♦ Staying local: If you're in metro Detroit, do you hate the commercials for Detroit's "new" 93.1 "Doug" FM as much as I do? For those of you fortunate enough not to be subjected to them, these ads show a big, ugly dude stick his index finger in the air, after which a song plays. But a different song plays each time his finger goes up. U2! The Beatles! Sheryl Crow! Bob Marley! Eric Clapton! Run DMC!

Every time he sticks up his finger, it's different! Because you never know what "Doug" FM's going to play! But I have no idea what the finger is supposed to represent. He can't be switching to the next song with that finger because he's supposed to be staying on the same station. Maybe he has some special "Doug" antenna in his finger. Guess where I'd like to see him stick that finger next?

(Image from "Get Fuzzy" ©2005 Darby Conley/ Dist. by UFS, Inc.)

An innocent man

I was just hanging out with my buddy at a bar, keeping to myself. There I was, enjoying my beer, catching up with my friend Mike, watching the Miami-Virginia Tech football game (Yeeck!) over his shoulder. As the night wore on and the bar got more crowded, our little table was getting smothered by people, making my personal space nerve twitch. One guy kept practically sitting on my shoulder, only taking a step forward when he got an elbow in the ass.

There was a thud on the floor, and the circle of people stepped outward. Again, the dude was sitting on my shoulder. What happened? Did someone drop their beer? No, it was a digital camera. "Shit! Shit! No, it's okay. Wait! Wait! The battery popped out! Shit! Help me find the battery! C'mon! Help me! HEY! I lost the battery!"

Mike went back to his story about his little daughter biting the nurse who tried to give her a flu shot earlier in the day. "Oh my God, it was so embarrassing. But funny as hell."

And you know I love stories about children. Remember, they're our future. Mike's kids are phenomenally well-behaved, however, so I don't often get tales of misbehavior.

Our conversation was interrupted by a couple of "Ooo-OOO-oooohs" from the circle of people. I turned to see what the deal was and saw them all looking at me. What the hell... ? I looked down and a woman's face was in my crotch. Okay, not "in," but close. Close enough that I should've bought her a drink and taken her to brunch the next day.

She looked up at me, smiled, and said "Hey." How adorable. Just a girl having fun! I wanted to go back to talking with Mike, but well, I had to know what was going on.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

"I lost my camera battery!" She was using her cell phone display to illuminate the floor under our table, like the guys on C.S.I. using ultraviolet lamps to check for blood or semen stains. I have no idea if she found those. But she didn't find her battery either.

I stood up and tried to help her, mostly because it was impossible to chat while a woman was crouching underneath our table, waving her cell phone at the floor. Did we find a crumpled up napkin? Yes. A coaster? Yes. Plastic wrap, probably from a box of cigarettes? Yes. A digital camera battery? No.

Then the woman shoved me aside and screamed at her friends. "I don't even know this guy, and he's helping me! Help me find the battery! Hey! HEY! Get the fuck over here! Quit being such an asshole!"

I stood on my tip-toes and craned my neck, looking for another table somewhere - anywhere - else in the bar. But the place was packed. We were probably trapped. And we weren't ready to leave yet. Finally, someone about 20 feet away calls over to the woman and holds up the battery.

"She found my battery!" she screamed at me, as I sat back down. I held up my glass in celebration, and she clinked hers against mine - a little too hard, if you ask me. I thought the thing was going to shatter in my hands. And I'd just gotten another pint. "Thank you! Can I take a picture of you guys?"

Waiting on a plumber, part 2

What else am I going to do while waiting for two dudes to install my new water heater?

♦ I have a theory! And I'd like to run it by you. I think there's a direct correlation between the nastiness of a bathroom at a Chinese restaurant and the quality of the food there. But it's not what you're thinking. In Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain said you can take one look at a restaurant's bathroom and tell how that place runs its kitchen. Gross bathroom = gross kitchen. But my theory says it's the opposite with Chinese restaurants. The nastier the bathroom, the better the food is. I need to increase the sample size in my research, but of the last three or four places I've been to and enjoyed, my theory's held true. The nicest, cleanest bathroom was at a Chinese buffet.

♦ While flipping through The Believer yesterday (which Friend of Fried Rice Raging Red also enjoyed), I was intrigued by a comment Bob Mould (of Husker Du, Sugar, pro wrestling, and now, electronic music, fame) made in an interview. (Unfortunately, the free excerpt cuts off before the comment, so you'll have to take my word for it.) What he said was that people just aren't as passionate about music as they used to be. And that's strange, since it's arguably more available, through more forums, in greater variety, than it's ever been. We're not as ravenous for music; we don't go to as many concerts, we don't fall hard for a particular band or musician.

And I agree with that. It's certainly true about me. I only talk about music occasionally. I hardly ever go to live shows anymore. I barely buy music, unless it's from an old favorite (and don't download much, either). And that means I'm not looking insatiably for the next band that'll scratch my music itch. But I chalked all of that up to getting old. Is that what it is? Or is Mould right? (I suppose you could argue that his fanbase is aging too, though I imagine he's picked up a lot of new listeners through his ventures into electronica.)

It was disturbing and disgusting, and I loved it

A patient who wants his leg amputated? Semen-infused face cream? (Endorsed by Joan Rivers?) Plastic surgery for the Witness Protection Program?

I don't know what they drink or ingest in the writers' room at Nip/Tuck, but I want some of it. It's all just crazy as hell, yet it somehow works, and I love trying to explain an episode to someone the next day, preferably over a meal.

The regular fan in me wishes they would pick up some of the dangling storylines (Detective McGraw being attacked by The Carver, Matt's continuing evolution into a total asshole), but I suppose there's time to get to all that. And it's not like I'll stop watching if they don't.

It's been a few weeks since I've written about Nip/Tuck here. (Too damn long, if you ask Mis Hooz.) If you saw last night's show, let's discuss it because I don't know what else to say about it. All I can do is cover my mouth, shake my head, and watch it all over again.

Happy Halloween, part 2

I have to refer you to Wabi-Sabi today, because Jim has done what might be the coolest thing I've ever seen a father do for his son. I'd love to know how he made it look all comic-booky, too. Way to go, Inspector Gadget.

(Also, Jim and I face each other in Fantasy Football this week. Is it devious of him to get me to admire him just days before I try to fantastically stomp him? It could be. I'm watching you, Jim.)

Happy birthday... sort of

Well, would you look at that? This past Saturday marked the one-year anniversary of this little exercise in narcissism called Fried Rice Thoughts.

It's been one year since I decided, "Hey, I don't spend enough time on the internet - let me start a blog!" One year since I felt like this could give me an outlet that I wasn't getting as a writer. And one year since I looked at what people were doing, writing about what they had for lunch, or bought at the mall, and thought to myself, "Shit, I can do that."

(Image © 2005 United Feature Syndicate, Inc.)

Okay, that's a bit mean. I also found plenty to inspire me. People writing about the things I love - movies, books, TV, music, comics, sports, etc., etc. Astute observations. Hilarious stories. And touching ones, too. Outrage and indignation. Thoughtfulness and insight. Views I agree and disagree with. And so much to learn from.

I wanted in. And thanks to you guys, I'm here. I'd like to think I'd write here almost every day, no matter what. But the truth is, it's a hell of a lot more fun when you know other people are reading and honestly caring about what you have to say. If you're reading this, you have my gratitude.

It's really been quite a year. I've been fortunate enough to write about some great times in my life. And it's been great to have this forum during some interesting times in this world and culture. But I've also dealt with some things I wish would never have happened. And in those instances, this wasn't just about ego - it was much-needed therapy. I'm just grateful to have the opportunity to express all of those thoughts, and share them with you.

Really, the only thing I hoped for by this point, and haven't received, is groupies. Let's make that happen in Year Two.

Please indulge me for a paragraph while I go all Oscar-speech on you. I'd like to thank those who have found this blog, told others about it, and added to the overall shared experience. John at peregrine.blog, Evan at Orotundity, and Susannah at Pub of Knowledge. My arch-nemesis, Raging Red. Yoni Cohen, who told a naive fledgling blogger what the hell a blogroll was. Sam at Blue Cats and Red Sox, Greg Eno at Out of Bounds, Brian at Beyond Boxscores. And to the others who generously link to this blog, I appreciate anyone and everyone you've brought my way, and will always try my best to return the favor. If I forgot anyone here, I apologize. Please e-mail me, point it out, and I'll click on that little "edit" button to fix the slight.

And I'm sure as hell going to thank those who have inspired and encouraged me over the past year. Chris. Mrs. Kraiza. Clint, who's breaking hearts up and down the west coast. Matt, who's kept me in line, reminding me that I said I'd never write an entry about what I had for lunch. And, of course, Fried Rice Thoughts' New York bureau chief, Mis Hooz, whose feedback, encouragement, and friendship is more valuable than I'll ever be able to express here.

Ready for another year of this? I hope you come along for the ride.

Happy Halloween!

So let's celebrate. One year! Today is a celebration! I'll ride the coattails of Halloween - I don't care. Drugs, drink, dancing! (Yes, dancing!) Scarlett Johansson just called and said she's flying in to commemorate the occasion, which is so sweet of her because she probably has some other movie to film. And she gets a little jealous when I do body shots with strippers, which is soooo cute. The Access Hollywood people wanted to come in and tape a segment, but I told Billy Bush I wasn't interested unless he helped rake the leaves in my backyard. Hey, work before play, man.

Unfortunately, all this means I'll be too busy to pass out candy to the kids tonight. And that disappoints me because, as you know, I love the children. They're our future. (And they can be really good at raking leaves, if you get their little arms working at it.)

If I do happen to be home when you're trick-or-treating, however: Kids, no lights on means NO FUCKING CANDY, okay? Here's my blog entry - one of my first, y'all! - from last Halloween, when I actually tried to be friendly to the children. This is what happens when you try to be nice.

You have to wear a costume!

And courtesy of Mis Hooz, here's a Halloween story from Delaware that will warm your heart. Here's another tip for you kids tonight: If there's a body hanging from one of the houses you're trick-or-treating at, you might want to let your parents know. It looks real for a reason, kids.

Waiting on a plumber

While waiting for the plumber to finish his work around the house (Two faucets are leaking, we need a new water heater - oy! And sweet Jesus, it sounds like he's taking apart the entire bathroom up there!), I have some thoughts.

♦ As someone who never has - and more than frankly, never will - run a marathon, I highly recommend reading Susannah's mile-by-mile account of her run in last Sunday's Detroit Free Press/ Flagstar marathon at Pub of Knowledge.

What does running 26 miles feel like? What pumped her up? What discouraged her? What kept her going? Was that Chris Chelios of the Detroit Red Wings running beside her? What was it like to run onto the Ford Field playing surface? How important is Guns N' Roses to a successful marathon run? And how many Kenyans passed her along the way?

♦ Maybe this is a topic more appropriate for the sports closet, Sweaty Men Endeavors, but since you don't get sweaty playing darts, unless you're stinking drunk or the air conditioning's broken at the bar, I think I'm on solid ground here. I was horrified - horrified - to read in last Sunday's New York Times that darts could follow poker's lead and be the next game to find its way to TV. Apparently, darts on TV is already a big hit in England, and ESPN has signed a deal to broadcast a World Series of Darts from an east coast city some time next year.

No #$@%ing way, man. I hate poker on TV - hate it. I hate how ESPN has completely turned its Tuesday night schedule over to poker. I'd rather watch John Kerry read from War and Peace on C-Span. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I don't play poker. Hey, I play darts (very occasionally). The only way I'm interested in watching it on TV is if Bullseye from Daredevil is one of the contestants, and you have just as good a chance of him firing a dart into someone's throat.

♦ Does the new Johnny Cash movie have the coolest movie poster ever or what? I don't hang movie posters on my walls anymore, but this could make me reconsider. That. Is. Sweet. And it looks like a pretty damn good movie too.

♦ Courtesy of Mis Hooz (via brooklynvegan), this could be my new favorite band. What a name. What an album cover.

♦ Dear VH1, please give me my evenings back. Sincerely, Ian. Hell yeah, I've been watching I Love the 80s 3-D all week. I should know better; it's all the same formula now. Yet I still watch every second of it. Actually, I missed 1980 and '81. Surely, I'll be able to see them this weekend. Were the 1980s that culturally dense a decade? Or was there just that much shit to make fun of?

Bring Your Playbook, Joey

If you're interested (and I certainly hope you are), Mike Valenti and Terry Foster of WXYT's "Sports Inferno" generously posted an essay of mine at their website, sportsinferno.com.

Mike and Terry have asked listeners to submit columns or essays to bring more content to the site and create a unique relationship between the show and its audience. I'm certainly grateful, and I hope it's not the last time something of mine is posted over there.

I know I've been trying to keep sports stuff on my stepblog, but I'm hoping you enjoy the words my fingers typey-type enough to go over and check it out. And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention "Sports Inferno" broadcasts from 10 am to 2 pm on 1270 AM in Detroit (and also streams live over the internet.)

Thanks, guys.

Five hundred, fifty-one thousand years... ?

Look, people - I really, really appreciate your readership. My ego loves it. But I don't want you getting in trouble at work. And according to this article from Advertising Age, many of you are on the verge of doing just that. (Well... only if you get caught, right? HA!)

You need to register to read the article, so unless you'd like to stop by BugMeNot to get a login, I'll just give you an excerpt:

About 35 million workers -- one in four people in the labor force -- visit blogs and on average spend 3.5 hours, or 9%, of the work week engaged with them, according to Advertising Age’s analysis. Time spent in the office on non-work blogs this year will take up the equivalent of 2.3 million jobs. Forget lunch breaks -- blog readers essentially take a daily 40-minute blog break.

40 minutes? Wow. I know my blogs have been getting more long-winded, but c'mon now.

Those 40 minutes a day add up to 551,000 years spent reading blogs in the workplace. 551,000 years? Isn't there a song from Rent about that? Five hundred, fifty-one thousand years? How do you measure, measure all those years?

Ahem. Anyway, it looks like I can do my part to help you guys and make sure you don't get in trouble. For instance, link to more news articles. That way, you're reading The New York Times or Washington Post when your boss or a co-worker walks by. (Here, go read Howard Kurtz's piece on the buzz in Washington over the CIA leak story. You're welcome.)

Or I can blog about your work. Bosses can't get mad if you're reading a work-related blog, right? So leave a comment or e-mail me with suggestions, and I can help cover your ass. For instance, let's say my friend Mis Hooz works for an architect. So tomorrow, I might wonder why so many new buildings (here in the Midwest, anyway) seem to have some sort of s-shaped ornament to them. (Apparently, it's Art Nouveau architecture. Okay Hooz, go back to reading Gawker, and give me some juicy gossip.) Help me help you. Know what I'm sayin'?

Okay, this whole thing took, what, five minutes of your 40-minute blog break? Carry on. But please come back. Remember, my ego loves you.