AWESOME

On February 14th, 2014, I spoke with my brother on the phone.  It went something like this:

Zac: I can't wait for my birthday.  I want to see what you write about me on your blog.

Me: (externally) What makes you think you're getting a blog post?

Me: (internally)  ARHHGAHHHH!!!!  ZAC WANTS ME TO WRITE HIM A BLOG POST!!!  HE LIKES MY BLOG!!!!  HE LIKES ME!!!!

So here I am, on his birthday, pondering what I'm going to write about him, the 30 years he's been alive, and the 26ish years he's been my brother.

Zac is a little bit of an enigma, and most of the people in my life don't know he exists.  Apparently I give off an only child kind of vibe.  He is a man of mystery shrouded in a cloud of secrets.  No one really knows what he's doing or where he is, and that suits him just fine.

I am not here to talk about that Zachary, though.  I'm going to talk about the brother I have hero-worshipped and hated, cared about and competed with for my entire life.

Zac and I are like Shrek and Donkey.  That is my go-to simile, and I am sticking to it.  (I know that it doesn't shed my parents in a good light, saying they raised an ogre and an ass, but stay with me here.)  Most of my early years consisted of me following him around, singing, while he found me profoundly annoying, but still loved me.  I hope.  He's also large and scary looking, but that's beside the point.

Let it be known, Zac is awesome, and that's the post I'm going to write.  Zac, I know you're going to read this, so now I'm just going to address it to you.

YOU ARE AWESOME.  But you already know that.  Between the two of us, there is an obscene amount of self-confidence, and I like to think that I partly got that from you.  You wore whatever you wanted (the flame shirt), you rocked way cooler glasses than me (I'm catching up), and you have always owned your nerd-dom (thank you for my Star Wars education).  Whether you know it or not, whether you like it or not, you at least partially paved the way for my eccentricities and the ability to feel good about my weirdness.

Ugh.  I have so many thoughts, and I have no idea how I want to format this.  I'm completely over thinking how I want to present you.

Hokay.  Remember that time we were at Camp and (apparently) one of the campers said something that besmirched my honor, so you took all of his belongings from his bunk, piled them on the deck of his cabin, encased them in plastic wrap, tin foil, and duct tape, and then wrote on what looked like a giant left-over in ketchup?  Yeah.  That was awesome and probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

I love it when you get all big-brothery on me, even though it's rare.  Like when you came to Portland and declared that you were either going to buy me pepper spray or a two-by-four with a nail in the end.  I feel the pepper spray was a good choice.

Also, I'm pretty sure the best thing that has ever happened to us was me finally turning 21.  When it comes to drinking, you somehow manage to simultaneously be Yoda and Spartacus.  It's really impressive.  You have taught me the joys of a well crafted cocktail, and shown me that a person can drink at the Michigan Beer fest all day, take a power nap, and then party it up most of the night at Cliff Bells.

You know what it was like to grow up in 1825 Dorothea, and be raised by Jim and Debbie.  You know the tragedy of sharing that bathroom between four people.  You understand.

And when we both realized we liked Eddie Izzard?  Completely independently of each other?  That was a great sibling moment.

I think it's awesome that you can pick up and go somewhere new.  You're awesome for being one of the smartest people I know and not becoming a doctor or an engineer just because you could.  You're awesome for always chasing your happiness.  You work harder (and play harder) than anyone I know.

You're hilarious.

I want to hang out with you all the time in New Orleans.

Yes, we didn't/don't always get along.  Yes, you will always wonder why I don't eat more meat and I will wonder why you don't eat more veggies.  Yes, I resented you at times for being older, for being the boy.  But I've also felt honored to learn from your mistakes, to have the luck of having you to look up to.

Happy Birthday.

Today is Brought to You by the Letter "D"

I enjoy many things that begin with the letter "D".  Debbie Fritsch (that's my mom… hi, Mom!), Disney, dairy, Dchristmas… you get the idea.

But today is November 12th, which means I am going to talk about one "D" word in particular.  My dad.  Because November 12 is the birthday of James Patrick Fritsch!  Huzzah and glad tidings.

Now, my dad and I have a very special relationship.  And I mean special.  I'm pretty sure that if anyone monitored our Face Time conversations, they would be forced to institutionalize us.  At least we think we're funny.

Together, though, Dad and I are grand adventurers.  We have taken on London and Paris.  Our road trips across America are the things of legend.  Wanderlust is kind of what we do.  Looking back, though, there is probably one city where most of my fondest memories are set, especially those involving Dad.  And that city also begins with the letter "D".

And that's Duluth, Minnesota.

NO!  It's Detroit.  Duh.

Since moving away from Michigan, I have spent the last ten months telling people that I'm from Detroit and getting the response, "Well, that's a good place to move from."  And this statement would awake in me a truly unholy ball of rage and indignation that would convince most passersby that I am actually a redhead.  At first, my responses were a well-crafted succession of stuttering syllables, which sounded mostly like: N-no!  Detroit is.. well, yeah, we have some issues, b-but, you know it's actually really…  I mean… HOCKEY!!

Eloquent.  I know.

Since then, I have started to refine my tactics.  I now look the naysayer straight in the eye and ask them if they've ever BEEN to Detroit.  Most say no, and then I, with a stab at calmness and civility, explain to them the myriad museums, restaurants, clubs, venues, festivals, and markets that can be found in Detroit.  Some listen, and some are confused as to how it is legal to serve food in a burned out building.   Apparently some believe that there is NOTHING LEFT in Detroit.

After I started being articulate again, I began to wonder why I was so passionate about Detroit, and even it was legit for me to say I'm "from" Detroit.  I have never lived in Detroit, but I have definitely lived in Detroit.  There have been plenty of holidays, birthdays, and just because days spent in the Motor City.  I believe I have put in my time, and most of those hours were logged with Dad.

I think I get upset when people dump on Detroit because it feels like they are pissing all over some of my favorite memories and experiences.  Hey.  DON'T piss on my memories.  I like them.  It's as though they don't believe anything good can happen in Detroit, so it follows that most of my good times were not actually that great.  Skewed logic, you say?  Well, that's the way my mind works.  Wah wah.  And my memories are awesome.  Like me.  And my Dad.

So… do you know what it's like to wander around the Detroit Institute of Arts as a kid?  This was probably my Dad and my number one hang out.  The mummies, the suits of armor, the van Goghs, the Rivera murals, and rainbow hallway that lead to the food court.  There is this one spiral staircase that is still my favorite part of the entire museum, and Dad knew that no trip was ever complete until I went either up or down that staircase.  Well, he probably didn't know, but I reminded him.

Next up, Tiger Stadium.  Guys, I knew Tiger Stadium.  We were tight.  I had journeyed both into the men's bathroom (there was a trough) and onto the roof.  I had it perfectly timed out that I only had to pee when a major play was about to take place.  Dad loved it.  My talents are truly limitless.  To me, a trip to Tiger Stadium was all about trying to catch a fly ball, attempting to get a autograph from Cecil Fielder, and running up and down the GIANT ramp.  Not winning.  This was the 90's.  The Tigers were not winning.

When someone starts in with me about Detroit I wish I could open my skull and telepathically relay my experiences.  Like how I felt as an eight year old, when my dad took me to see my first professional show.  It was the first national tour of Beauty and the Beast, I wore a dress with roses all over it, and it played at the Masonic Temple.  It was beautiful.  Or know the excitement of watching your dad crossing the finish line at the end of the Detroit marathon.  Or spending your 16th birthday at a Red Wing's game.  Or getting dressed up to watch the Joffrey Ballet at the Opera House.  (Dad's response to ballet:  I like it.  Nobody talks.)

I could keep going.  I could talk about spending the day at work with Dad downtown.  I could talk about the Detroit Historical Museum, or the Verlander no-hitter at Comerica Park.  And I know Detroit is messed up.  And yes, I have stories of coming back to the car after a baseball game to find out the car has been broken into.  But honestly, the girl who does my hair just got her car stolen from outside her house.  She lives in a cute little suburb in Washington state.

So on this November 12th, I want everyone to know that I'm missing Dad and missing Detroit, and woe betide the next human who tries to tell me that Detroit is just not worth… well, anything.  Because I associate Detroit with Dad, and you don't want to get in that fight with me.