Good Morning

Some days you wake up and see your car is no longer in its parking spot.  

I mean.  

Some days you wake up, decide you can still sleep a little longer, wake up again, think about if you really need to take a shower, lie in bed for a while, thank the work scheduling gods that you don't have to go in 'till noon, contemplate what you're doing with your life and if it's time to play the allergy gambling game and get a cat, realize that's an idiotic idea and take your allergy medicine, congratulate yourself for keeping your allergy medicine next to your bed, squint at the clock, reposition yourself so the sun stops lancing you in the eye, wonder at what point you changed your pajamas in the middle of the night, roll over, check your Facebook on your phone, curse yourself for becoming someone who checks their Facebook on their phone before getting out of bed, calculate exactly how late you can abandon your bed and still get to work on time, count down the minutes until the time when you absolutely HAVE to get out of bed, slink out of bed, stumble to the bathroom, pee, shed all of your clothes, turn on the shower, realize you don't have your towel, rejoice that your roommate/cousin leaves for work hours before you, saunter to your room and back knowing no one will see you, get into the shower, lament that your $23.00 shampoo always seems to run out the same time as your money, do a little happy dance/Muppet arm routine because you don't have to shave anything until Thursday, wash with your Halloween themed soap that smells like childhood, remember to wash your face, be disgusted by the state of the shower curtain, but not enough to do anything about it in that moment, get out of the shower, dry off, wander downstairs to find clean underwear, put on said underwear, unearth your work clothes, objectively look at yourself in your borrowed pair of blue jeans and decide whether or not you should buy yourself a pair (you shouldn't), dry your bangs, wallow over how you no longer have time to make yourself an egg, tell yourself you're not really that hungry anyway, bully yourself into eating something because you know you won't get any tips if you pass out during your shift, make yourself a PB&J on a tortilla, guzzle down a glass of milk, go upstairs to get your phone, come back down, go upstairs to get your purse, come back down, go upstairs to get your glasses, almost go back down, grab your watch and your hair tie, go back down, ask yourself at least three times if you took your allergy medicine, puzzle over the fact that your mouth still tastes like slushy apple cider from the day before, hurry out the door, grabbing your keys, lock the door, telling yourself that no matter what, Tuesday is going to be better than Monday, turn and see your car is no longer in its parking spot. 

You find your car parked on the street, no ticket, no note.

Your cousin says he didn't move it.

You spend the rest of the day worrying you've started sleep driving.    

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.

The Great Debate

Recently, the subject has been broached about whether or not glow stars are "adult appropriate".

Glow stars.  You know the ones.  They're plastic.  They glow.  THEY.  ARE.  AWESOME.

So, you may understand my confusion when two of my loved ones, on separate occasions, related to me their love of glow stars, but their hesitancy to adorn their personal spaces with them because they "Didn't want anyone to see them" or "They didn't go with the 'clean, modern look' they were striving for."

I'm going to approach these two statements separately.

Why would you put up glow stars if you didn't want people to see them?  Why wouldn't you want people to see your glow stars?  Why would you let anyone into your dark bedroom if they are the kind of human who would judge a person for having glow stars?  If nothing else, your glow stars could serve as a litmus test for the people you have in your life.  Say someone comes into your room and declares your glow stars to be juvenile, they have officially revealed him or herself as lame/uninteresting/completely lacking in the joie de vivre department.  You can then proceed to kick them out and be better for it.  On the flip side, if said person enters your living quarters and exclaims with verve how much they love your glow stars… well, wouldn't you rather spend time with that person?  Yeah.  Me, too.

On to the second opposition to glow stars.  "They don't go with the decor, or the 'feel', I'm going for."  Let me clear something up.  The point of glow stars is that they glow.  Which means you notice/enjoy them when the lights are OFF.  Do you know how much "decor" you can see when the lights are off?  Not much.  Sure, if you stick the stars on a wall that's painted any color besides white, you'll see the stars in the daylight, but if that's an issue, just go with the traditional ceiling placement.  If you have a ceiling that is painted a non-traditional color, that's awesome and your awesome room probably needs some glow stars.  And again, how many people are really going to be in your bedroom?  (Don't answer that.)

I think what I'm trying to get at here is that your bedroom is your space.  (Unless you're married/living with your significant other, but maybe they secretly want glow stars, too, and are afraid to tell you!)  Why would you let the opinions of other dissuade you from adorning your walls or ceiling with exactly what you want?  Come on, this is your sanctuary.  This is where you go to relax, recoup, reenergize, or just get away from it all.  Do glow stars make you happy?  Do they fill you with a sense of peace and wonder as you drift off to sleep?  

Maybe there is a little voice in your head that is telling you, "Don't do it.  You liked glow stars when you were a kid.  Obviously, you're an adult now.  Adults aren't supposed to like glow stars.  Grow up, already.  Come to Grown-Uptopia, land of sophistication and happily ever afters."

LIES.

Do me a favor, kill that tiny, heinous, fibbing voice.  That voice is the source of great misery.  What makes you think that just because you liked something when you were six, or nine, or 18 (you know you had glow stars in your dorm room) that you are forbidden to like it anymore.  Do you trust the judgment of bitty you so little?  I had great taste as a child.  I liked The Wizard of Oz, going to the DIA, and eating Mom's homemade cookies.  Guess what I still like.  That's right.  The Wizard of Oz, going to the DIA, and eating Mom's homemade cookies.  Sure, my taste has evolved and broadened.  For example, I now order food other than chicken fingers and mashed potatoes when I go out to eat.  But that doesn't mean I throw out things from my childhood.  Or try to make myself/my surroundings more "adult" because I am firmly ensconced in my mid-twenties.  Where's the fun in that?

Honestly, I think people should stop trying to be adult, and focus more on being effective human beings.  Do glow stars keep you from being an adult?  Probably.  But they don't keep you from holding down a job, being fiscally responsible, paying your taxes and your insurance, dealing with that crappy co-worker/client in a professional manner, calling your family, or being there for your friends when they need you.  In fact, glow stars make all those things a little easier.            

If I Only Had a Heart

There are a couple of different issues I want to address this St. Valentine's Day, all of which have to do with love.  Now, I'm not talking about romantic "in love" love.  That's a whole other beast that turns sane people into crazy ones and, if left unrequited, can tear a person apart.  On the flip side, it can be wonderful.  So I hear.  As I said, though, that's not the love I'm talking about here.  I'm talking about a more universal kind of love.

Today, on a day devoted to romance and being with the "one", I would like to make my case for love.

We need to take love off its pedestal.  A very thoughtful human once told me that.  It was a couple of years ago, and I don't know if he remembers saying it, but that concept has stuck with me.  We think that love is some limited commodity that is so exceptional that we must only dip into it for the very few.  That if we love too much or too many it somehow cheapens our love, makes it common in the worst way.  Which is idiotic.  Who came up with that idea?  Love doesn't "run out".  Love should be common.  That doesn't make it any less spectacular.

Also, by lifting love to such an elevated level, you have all of a sudden made love scary and/or creepy. Um… last time I checked, that's not what love is about.  If we make loving such a big deal, it's going to freak people out.  Again, not talking about romantic love.  That should scare you a little.  But the kind of love that links you to your family or friends should not be uncomfortable.  Loving the person sitting across from you on the bus solely because they are your fellow human being should not be weird.  We need to bring love down to our level.  Love should live among, not above, the masses.  

I think part of it has to do with people's view of themselves, and part of it has to do with the perceived pressures of attention.  Self-esteem is a tricky thing, and I don't have time to deal with the intricacies of the human psyche and how society has told us we are all unworthy.  It's time to get over it.  You are worthy of love, and you are loved.

You know what bothers me the most?  People who get picky about the type of love with which they are bestowed.  The ones who get mopey on Valentine's Day because they haven't found an individual who puts them first, and who they can put first in their lives.  What kind of signal does that give to all the people who do love you?  That the love of your friends and family isn't good enough?  Rude.  So you want to get married some day, or heck, go on a date.  Maybe if you embrace the love you already have it will make you a more attractive, lovable person for when someone "special" shows up.  And in the mean time, you'll be happier.  Just saying.

On to the unnecessary pressure people associate with love, whether it be physical, emotional, or otherwise.  Yes, most of the people I interact with are in the point in their lives where they are trying to find someone to "be" with.  Whatever that means.  Can we all just ease up on the pressure?  Please?  I'm talking to you.  All of you.  Parents, friends, random guy at the bar.  Chill out.  Stop making love such a serious business.  Love makes you happy, it shouldn't give you an eye twitch.  Moving on.

Next mini-rant.  Can we all agree that "friend" is a legitimate, healthy, loving relationship option?  Nothing makes my skin crawl more than having to explain that I am "just" friends with someone.  Talk about cheapening something.  It truly pisses me off.  Mom, Dad, I know you want me to be happy, which for some reason translates to "married", but having to qualify every interaction I have with a male as "just friends" or "gay" is quite irksome.  This goes for all of my (female/gay) friends, as well.  Just because most of you don't believe in a girl and a guy being honestly "just friends" doesn't mean I'm hiding my feelings from you/myself.  I enjoy spending time with straight males.  In a non-sexual, non-romantic way.  And I love them.  Because they are my friends.  So… stop.  I promise I'll tell you if I'm dating someone.  Just don't hold your breath.

I do, though.  I love my friends.  I think about them, I'm happy for their happiness, and I worry about them when something is amiss.  Isn't that love?  I love random people on the street.  I love popsicles and The Wizard of Oz.  I love snow and my family and hockey.  I love lots of things.  I think it's too bad that people are stingy with their love, or think "love" only applies to relationships that could eventually lead to an "I do".  Or that people don't express their love in fear that it will freak out the person on the receiving end.

So maybe this Valentine's Day we can take love off its pedestal and start reveling in the love around us.  Instead of focusing on the love you don't have this February 14th, you can embrace the love you do have.  Make today about your friends and family, or even someone you just bumped into.  Tell a friend you were thinking about them today, tell a friend you love them.

And then listen to the Muppets station on Pandora.  Muppets = Love.      

 

The Breakup

Portland and I broke up.

We're going to need a little space, a little time, but I think it's safe to say that we are still going to be friends.  I know that most of you have known about the end of this relationship for a while, but I'm now ready to make a more public statement about what happened.

It was a whirlwind relationship, I must admit.  We didn't really know each other before I dived into the commitment, but I wanted to take a risk.  Embrace a challenge.  It seemed like a good fit.  There was plenty of internet stalking involved, and many of my friends vouched for what an awesome pair we would be.  (Side note:  I'm going to have some strong words with anyone who ever told me I'm "SO Portland".)

And we should have been awesome.  On paper, everything seemed right.  Great theatre community, low cost of living, high minimum wage, stellar mass transit system, and blue state status.  You have nature and a giant book store.  A bar that is filled with old arcade games and pinball machines.  And the beer.  UGH.  The beer.  It seemed like a match made in heaven.  Portland loves to recycle?!  I love to recycle!!!  That was basically the thought process.  So I moved.  Blind.  I visited once to make sure the apartment I was moving into wasn't a hell hole.  It wasn't.  It was the most magical green apartment of all time.

Of course I knew things were going to be rocky at the beginning.  Transitioning is no easy feat.  But eventually I hit my stride and the honeymoon phase.  I had jobs, I was being cast in shows, I was capable of both paying my rent and feeding myself!  I even convinced a loved one to also move to Portland.  Life was good.

But then I realized that I didn't want life to be good.  I wanted life to be great.  And Portland and I, sadly, were never going to be a great match.  I'm not saying that my life needs to be perfect, and I'm not saying that I was unhappy in Portland.  It's pretty safe to say that I can will myself to be happy almost anywhere.  Therein lies the problem, though.  I was willing myself to be happy.  Sure, life isn't going to be sunshine and rainbows 24/7.  That's unnatural.  But so was the amount of energy I was putting into being happy.  It took a Disney Cruise to remind me my full capacity for happiness and how little of the right things it takes to bring me obscene amounts of joy.  Choosing to be happy in Portland had turned into a full time job.

At this point you may be wondering what exactly made being happy in Portland so dang difficult.  We've all read the blogs.  It's common knowledge that Portland is supposed to be the most desirable place in the country to live, especially for my age bracket.  More people moved to Oregon last year than to any other state.  According to my Facebook, Buzzfeed is telling 8 out of 10 people that the city they should be living in is Portland.  One man posted in his travel blog that if you're going to visit Portland, bring all of your possessions, because you're not going to want to leave.  Guess what.  I left.  I moved back to Detroit.  Take that, bloggers!

For a while, I was too bitter with the separation to pinpoint or explain logical reasons for my departure.  "Portland is secretly lame" does not shed me in a particularly flattering light.  So I've given it some time and some thought, and I'm here to share some things that you may not read on the "Top 10 Cities to Live In" lists.  Yes, most of these items have more to do with me and my personality, but I hope you find them interesting none the less.

Guys… Portland is really white.  Yes, I am well aware that I am also very white.  And I didn't think that this lack of diversity was going to bother me.  Well, it did.  It may not be the whitest place in America, but for a city, the demographics seem really off.  You may not notice it at first, but give it some time, and it just feels wrong.

This leads to my next point.  The general population is incredibly fixated on being politically correct.  So when they do encounter diversity, things get awkward quite quickly.  It's as though people want to prove that they are the apex of all things liberal and openminded, so they end up walking on eggshells.  I swear people would break out into a sweat if they were around a black person because they were afraid they would say or do something that could be perceived (by their white, liberal friends) as racist.  And this ended up extending beyond race.  Everyone is incredibly polite in Portland.  Because that is the "correct" thing to do.  Of course we should all be polite, but when it's coming from a place of, "Ha.  I'm nice to everyone and never discriminate.  I'm proving what an emotionally and intellectually superior human I am," it's not cool.  It actually comes off as kind of cold.  What happened to, "Hey, I'm going to be nice!  Because it's nice!"?

Next, I found Portland to be incredibly narrow minded.  This may cause outrage, considering that the city is all about being weird and doing your own thing, but I found that if your "own thing" did not fit into their construct of what was "right" you were shunned.  So, a man walking down the street in a lobster costume for no reason?  No big deal.  Saying you enjoy baseball and hockey?  JUDGEMENT!  How is that a better way to live than if the tables were turned?  Just because you only accept liberal, weird things does not make you an accepting person.

Moving on.

There wasn't enough joy.  People seemed to have a hard time letting themselves be happy.  I know bad things are happening in the world, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy your locally sourced meal.  

"UGH!  It's 80º out with 2% humidity in AUGUST!  I'm going to MELT!"  Let me take you to Michigan.  "AGH!  It's 35º in JANUARY!  I thought I saw a snowflake!  I can't be expected to be productive in these conditions!"  No.  Really.  Let me take you to Michigan.  Actual conversations.

Now that I'm going, I feel like this post could stretch on forever.  I should probably stop while I still can.  The last things I'm going to add are:

Yes, there is a completely different vibe on the West Coast, and that vibe is not for everyone… or me.

They say Portland has big city amenities with a small town feeling.  It's true.  And if I'm going to live in a big city, I want it to feel like a big city.  Portland doesn't feel like a big city because it isn't.

Hipsters are getting their own post.

Portlandia is no longer funny when you are forced to live it.  EVERY.  SINGLE.  DAY.              

Today I Wept for Humanity

I'm not trying to be poetic or use some sort of metaphor.   I walked down the street and CRIED.

Because apparently it is not enough that there is war and murder and oppression and starvation and the flagrant misuse of the word "ironic".  No.  Those are the things that always seem to be there.  The things of which we all conscious on some level, but have become more of an ache than a sharp pain.  Tragedies that have not lost their horror or scope, yet no longer surprise us, as horrible as that sounds.  And sometimes we are able to forget.  We have to forget.  We have to put aside the overwhelming catastrophes that humans inflict on each other so that we don't go mad.  So that we can still enjoy our small pieces of paradise.  So that we can watch a little girl in her funny winter hat skateboard down the sidewalk and still smile.  I am not dismissing all the things that people all over the world are suffering this very second at the hands of their fellow species.  Those actions can never, and should never, be brushed aside.  I'm fighting for the idea that we must all cling on to the good.  Fight for the smiles as hard as we fight against the hate.

And what has unhinged me so?  What set forth this tirade?  It was the silliest, simplest, saddest little thing.  A Salvation Army collector has materialized outside the entrance of my grocery.  With his red bucket and ever-ringing bell.  Now, I do not always give to people collecting money.  I believe very few people have the means to ALWAYS give, but I told myself that if I had change left over when I came out, that I would drop it in.  Shopping commenced, jelled cranberries were bought, and all was merry and bright.  As I made my exit, I slowed and reached into my pocket for the change I had dedicated to that red bucket and bell.  I was not the only one exiting, though.  There was also an older gentleman (I use the term "gentleman" quite loosely here) with a truly inordinate amount of toilet paper also making his departure.  As he rushed by, I heard him snark, "Ugh!  Out here already?!  It's not even Thanksgiving!"

I had a short exchange with the man collecting money about this Grinch, dropped in my changed, wished him a happy Thanksgiving, and went along my way to ponder humanity as I walked my groceries home.  I don't know why, but the man's comment really cut at me.  Sure, people kvetch about Christmas music, decorations, and hype bombarding them the second Halloween is done.  This humbuginess doesn't really bother me.  These people are entitled to their harmless, be it misguided opinions.  (Really people.  Christmas is wonderful, why wouldn't you want to prolong it?)  But complaining that an organization has started to collect money to help people "too early"?  How can it be "too early" to help?  I know some people have some very strong opinions about how helpful Salvation Army really is (and that IS a very valid opinion), but that's not my point right now.  My point is that there was a human being giving his time and energy in an attempt to make the world a better place, and he was met with angry words from another human being because something associated with Christmas was put into his path three days before Thanksgiving.

Now, I've never done a study on collecting for charity.  I don't know if extending exposure during the holiday season ends up in the collection of more money, or if people get angry and fed up, and therefore donate less.  The statistics part of me really wants to know, but the rest of me wants to believe the best in people.  That having collectors out there starting earlier brings in more money, and helps more people.  Again, not the point.  The point is that this man could not just walk by, saying nothing.

It was too much.

As though there is a time limit, a finite window of opportunity when people are allowed to be charitable, and it only comes after we have all stuffed our faces with turkey.  And jelled cranberries.  As though that man ringing his bell is as annoying as the Hippopotamus Song on November 1st or seeing Christmas lights displayed next to Halloween candy.

Here's the thing.  I love Christmas.  And of course I adore the music and the decorations (and cookies!), but it's more about the feeling of it.  The giving.  The joy.  The smiles.  The love.  So when people attack or grumble about the artificial trappings of Christmas, I don't get too fussed about it.  Because I still get to listen to my tunes and eat my cookies.  It's when someone is frustrated by the deeper meaning of the season that I get worried.  Not necessarily the Christian significance of the holiday, more how this time of year should remind humanity of its better nature.  Remind humanity to care and to smile.  And this man was having none of it.

So I wept.

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.