So, I was talking with my co-worker about Katrina and New Orleans and the revitalization that has taken place since that fateful storm a few years ago, and she took the unpopular position that really, it did a lot of good for the city to wipe away a lot of the problems the city was having. Abandoned buildings, no federal funding, etc etc... and I think Detroit needs a big ass hurricane to wipe the slate clean. It's not mean. Sometimes mother nature needs to clean house. Take things out with some volcanoes, tornadoes, wildfires, floods and the like.... Detroit needs a natural disaster.
The auto industry is a wreck, the city is a shithole. It is. Housing market is a joke. Jobs are scarce and becoming scarcer.
Just out of curiosity, I searched realtor.com for houses for sale that cost less than $10,000.
In New Orleans? = one
In Detroit? = 1,664 listings.
How about $5,000 or less, for a three bedroom house? There are 567 listings.
http://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-search/Detroit_MI/beds-3/price-na-5000/type-single-family-home
I can't believe it myself. There are 108 listings for homes in Detroit for $1,000 or less.
A four bedroom 3,500 square foot house? $1,000.
http://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/2236-Hendrie-St_Detroit_MI_48211_1088510157
Homes with descriptions like, "HOME IS TOTALLY BURNT. USE CAUTION WHEN ENTERING."
Holy shit, three bedroom houses for $100, $50, $1.
ONE DOLLAR. YOU CAN BUY A HOUSE FOR ONE FUCKING DOLLAR.
http://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/3015-Monterey-St_Detroit_MI_48206_1105609311
I know there must be some BS in the fine print, but wow.
The median price of a house in Detroit is $7,500. Really.
Some more interesting stuff.........
About the 1967 Riots
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/12th_Street_Riot
Wikipedia
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Detroit
Decline in Detroit, Time Magazine - Oct 1961
http://www.time.com/time/photogallery/0,29307,1882089_1850973,00.html
More photos
http://onlyndetroit.com/
http://www.corvus-group.com/detroit.html
More about the auto industry
http://wsjclassroom.com/cre/articles/09jan_auto_whathappened.htm
And some dude even wrote a book about it.
http://www.amazon.com/Origins-Urban-Crisis-Inequality-Princeton/dp/0691058881
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
saint patrick is not my lucky day
Several years ago, I somehow got the flu on St. Patty's day. I lay on the couch in my misery, not sure what to do - as I hadn't had the flu since I was a child. My temp was 99. I decided to sleep a while and I don't remember why, but husband came to check on me an hour later, and my temp had shot to 104. That's borderline brain-baking, so he got me up and said we're going to the hospital. I'm too unaware to protest. We arrive and I stand at the entrance, dazed while husband explains the temperature spike to triage. We don't wait in the lobby, we go inside and a nice lady takes my blood pressure while standing up. I don't remember much, but I saw the numbers go up and up and up, somewhere around 186 and she looked nervous and told me to sit down before I pass out.
They walk me straight to a bed and prod me with a needle to start putting some fluid back in. I've been here less than 10 minutes and I'm already laying down. When I go to the emergency room I do it right, eh?
Couple of pints and some ibuprofen to bring down the temp and I'm given clearance to go home. Now I understand how people die from the flu. It's just that easy.
Fast forward to 2009. I'm hanging with some friends at Sticks in Depot Town for St. Pattys day. I'm under pregnancy suspicion because I'm the only one without a beer. Blow me, I've got a volleyball game at 9:20pm, and if I have a beer it just makes me sleepy. Not good. I leave the group and head to my game. I really love volleyball, and our A league consistently comes in first or second place each season. We were also playing a team that would be a challenge, but a good game.
It was some point in the middle of the first match, and normally when I injure myself I remember the details well, but for some reason this time I don't. I remember that I landed on my right foot wrong, I landed on the side and rolled it, hard. I heard a quick succession of 5 or 6 small cracks from my foot, like cracking your knuckles. Without thinking, I grabbed the net and pulled myself back up, pain quickly radiating from my foot. I don't remember if it was during play, if we got the point, or if the ref called me for being in the net. All those game details are gone. My team surrounds me and I tell them what I did and that it really hurts and I need to just sit for a minute. I hobble to the sidelines, someone puts an ice pack down my sock. And it hurts. Holy hell it really motherfucking hurts.
I once dislocated my knee and in the ambulance I told the man on a scale of 1 to 10, my pain was a 9. I thought somehow, just before you died, that's where you reach a 10. I've been told patellar dislocation is more painful than childbirth.
I'd rate this immediate ankle thing at about a 6 or 7. It fucking just hurts.
I'm pretty good with pain. I broke my finger last year playing volleyball and kept playing. Sprained my knee last november, too. Maybe all these injuries would make me stop playing? Nah. Just pisses me off.
Why can't I just play without getting hurt?
I watch my team play without me and we start losing. I'm sad because I so badly wanted to be on the court. Ankle is not letting up. Pain just keeps on. I know I'm not getting back on the court. I peek at my ankle and it looks like someone stuffed an egg in there. Already a knot of swelling, that isn't a good sign.
I borrow crutches of a girl on the opposite team, who blew her knee out a few weeks ago. My teammate helps me out and I now have to drive to Depot Town to pick up husband and friend. My car is too small to drive left footed, so I brake with the left and gas with the right. It really fucking hurts. I get the boys and make one of them drive home. I just can't.
The next morning husband and I visit my doctor, and they poke and prod at my very swollen ankle. She thinks it's a sprain, maybe be okay in a 3-4 weeks. We have to get xrays just in case. The xray positions my foot in several uncomfortable ways, once grabbing my ankle and causing me to shriek, "OW OW OW OW OW." I mean, what are you, fucking retarted? That part of my ankle is swollen, and I'm GETTING X RAYS. You don't think manhandling me will hurt? Be gentle you fucktard.
This is the second time an x ray tech has done shit like this to me.
Anyway, back to the doc. She comes in and says I actually broke it. We are all surprised. I'm to be fitted with a walking boot and have to return in 6 weeks. The boot. 6 weeks. None of this really sinks in. I'm going through the motions.
I am supposed to fly to Providenciales the next day. I'm given permission to go.
In Provo, we hunt down a second boot at the "government clinic" which looks like something you'd see on CNN if they were talking about poor countries and medical care. I get my boot here for $40. At least I can go swimming.
Walking is a pain. Walking on the beach is way fucking harder than I think it should be. I'm annoyed that my ankle is broken. After the first couple days it pretty much stops hurting. The swelling continues until I have no ankle bones, just flat on each side. I've got... a cankle. As the days go by the swelling goes down and the colors start. Dark purple and blue on one side, purple on the other side, from heel to toe, green on top. Many rainbows of damage in this foot.
I enjoy my vacation despite my handicap and the fact that EVERYONE wants to comment on it. I talked to probably 100 different people. I started making up stories. I told someone I beat up a hobo. Two guessed right off the bat that it was volleyball. That was pretty awesome.
I get home and I finally crack. I spend the entire day being absolutely foul and pissed off. It wasn't at anyone (poor husband) I just needed my day to crack. Maybe crying a couple times, but mostly just fuming the entire day. I'm over that hurdle, I hope.
Five more fucking weeks to go. (Husband needs to stop saying 6 to 8 weeks. In five, I'm having a bonfire and the star will be this goddamn boot.) It's an obstacle to walk, sleep, shower, anything. I should just enjoy this and play video games, watch tv, but I like being active. I don't want to get all squishy and weak. I want to be in shape, but after this I know I'll need physical therapy to put it back to normal again. And a friggin diet to lose the weight I'll put on sitting on my ass all the time. Oh, and I still can't drive! This sucks.
Next year, on St. Patty's day... tell me to STAY HOME!
They walk me straight to a bed and prod me with a needle to start putting some fluid back in. I've been here less than 10 minutes and I'm already laying down. When I go to the emergency room I do it right, eh?
Couple of pints and some ibuprofen to bring down the temp and I'm given clearance to go home. Now I understand how people die from the flu. It's just that easy.
Fast forward to 2009. I'm hanging with some friends at Sticks in Depot Town for St. Pattys day. I'm under pregnancy suspicion because I'm the only one without a beer. Blow me, I've got a volleyball game at 9:20pm, and if I have a beer it just makes me sleepy. Not good. I leave the group and head to my game. I really love volleyball, and our A league consistently comes in first or second place each season. We were also playing a team that would be a challenge, but a good game.
It was some point in the middle of the first match, and normally when I injure myself I remember the details well, but for some reason this time I don't. I remember that I landed on my right foot wrong, I landed on the side and rolled it, hard. I heard a quick succession of 5 or 6 small cracks from my foot, like cracking your knuckles. Without thinking, I grabbed the net and pulled myself back up, pain quickly radiating from my foot. I don't remember if it was during play, if we got the point, or if the ref called me for being in the net. All those game details are gone. My team surrounds me and I tell them what I did and that it really hurts and I need to just sit for a minute. I hobble to the sidelines, someone puts an ice pack down my sock. And it hurts. Holy hell it really motherfucking hurts.
I once dislocated my knee and in the ambulance I told the man on a scale of 1 to 10, my pain was a 9. I thought somehow, just before you died, that's where you reach a 10. I've been told patellar dislocation is more painful than childbirth.
I'd rate this immediate ankle thing at about a 6 or 7. It fucking just hurts.
I'm pretty good with pain. I broke my finger last year playing volleyball and kept playing. Sprained my knee last november, too. Maybe all these injuries would make me stop playing? Nah. Just pisses me off.
Why can't I just play without getting hurt?
I watch my team play without me and we start losing. I'm sad because I so badly wanted to be on the court. Ankle is not letting up. Pain just keeps on. I know I'm not getting back on the court. I peek at my ankle and it looks like someone stuffed an egg in there. Already a knot of swelling, that isn't a good sign.
I borrow crutches of a girl on the opposite team, who blew her knee out a few weeks ago. My teammate helps me out and I now have to drive to Depot Town to pick up husband and friend. My car is too small to drive left footed, so I brake with the left and gas with the right. It really fucking hurts. I get the boys and make one of them drive home. I just can't.
The next morning husband and I visit my doctor, and they poke and prod at my very swollen ankle. She thinks it's a sprain, maybe be okay in a 3-4 weeks. We have to get xrays just in case. The xray positions my foot in several uncomfortable ways, once grabbing my ankle and causing me to shriek, "OW OW OW OW OW." I mean, what are you, fucking retarted? That part of my ankle is swollen, and I'm GETTING X RAYS. You don't think manhandling me will hurt? Be gentle you fucktard.
This is the second time an x ray tech has done shit like this to me.
Anyway, back to the doc. She comes in and says I actually broke it. We are all surprised. I'm to be fitted with a walking boot and have to return in 6 weeks. The boot. 6 weeks. None of this really sinks in. I'm going through the motions.
I am supposed to fly to Providenciales the next day. I'm given permission to go.
In Provo, we hunt down a second boot at the "government clinic" which looks like something you'd see on CNN if they were talking about poor countries and medical care. I get my boot here for $40. At least I can go swimming.
Walking is a pain. Walking on the beach is way fucking harder than I think it should be. I'm annoyed that my ankle is broken. After the first couple days it pretty much stops hurting. The swelling continues until I have no ankle bones, just flat on each side. I've got... a cankle. As the days go by the swelling goes down and the colors start. Dark purple and blue on one side, purple on the other side, from heel to toe, green on top. Many rainbows of damage in this foot.
I enjoy my vacation despite my handicap and the fact that EVERYONE wants to comment on it. I talked to probably 100 different people. I started making up stories. I told someone I beat up a hobo. Two guessed right off the bat that it was volleyball. That was pretty awesome.
I get home and I finally crack. I spend the entire day being absolutely foul and pissed off. It wasn't at anyone (poor husband) I just needed my day to crack. Maybe crying a couple times, but mostly just fuming the entire day. I'm over that hurdle, I hope.
Five more fucking weeks to go. (Husband needs to stop saying 6 to 8 weeks. In five, I'm having a bonfire and the star will be this goddamn boot.) It's an obstacle to walk, sleep, shower, anything. I should just enjoy this and play video games, watch tv, but I like being active. I don't want to get all squishy and weak. I want to be in shape, but after this I know I'll need physical therapy to put it back to normal again. And a friggin diet to lose the weight I'll put on sitting on my ass all the time. Oh, and I still can't drive! This sucks.
Next year, on St. Patty's day... tell me to STAY HOME!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
maybe this is boring? ymmv
I’d been dreading it for weeks.
The upcoming Red-Eye Flight. Number seventeen in my lifespan of just thirty years. I love to travel but something about red-eye flights to Europe make me want to slit my wrists. From the moment you depart for the airport, until about 48 hours later – it’s all pretty much pure torture.
I depart my home for Detroit airport, knowing that a blizzard is wreaking havoc on the Eastern Seaboard, and upon arrival find my connecting flight to Newark has been cancelled. I sweet-talk the nice lady behind the counter, explaining that I’m the group leader for a tour and without me my traveling companions will be hopelessly lost. She puts me on standby for a 1pm flight delayed until nearly 3pm. I go to the gate, make a few phone calls and wait. If I make stand-by I arrive in time for my 7pm flight to Birmingham. If not, I leave tomorrow.
My luck is good today and I make the stand-by flight, arrive in time to make my flight to Birmingham. I decide to go and get a better seat, as my recent trick I like is to pick a window seat in the rows of the high 20s and low 30s – where the middle seat is empty and the aisle is occupied. Nine times out of ten, the middle seat remains empty and I can spread out. I’m in luck. Nice guy behind the counter gives me an entire row to myself. Score! He also realizes I’m not even checked in. When I “checked in” earlier, the gate agent checked in the wrong person on my group itinerary. Good job asshat. You could have made me miss my flight. And, you even looked at my ID. Did you not notice my ID didn’t match the boarding pass you handed me? (Yeah, neither did I.) You’re still an asshat.
The chance to spread out offered no opportunity for sleep. I change position over and over and sleep will not come. I consider taking the Tylenol PM I brought with me but with a 5.45 hour flight, that may be a bad idea. After dinner I’d get three hours of sleep at the most and then possibly feel more miserable with the sleepy drugs. I went without. I pacified myself with my own personal TV monitor and watched “Twilight.” I’m pretty sure husband wouldn’t want to watch it, and I was intrigued. Happy I watched it, because I really liked it. Completely absorbing (as If I had other things to do), a little bit obvious the target audience was 13, but overall pretty good movie.
We eventually are served breakfast of a flat warm croissant and a fruit salad of un-ripened honeydew, canteloupe and grapes. At least it isn’t yogurt.
We land and shuffle to baggage claim. My bag is the first to arrive as it was gate checked in Newark. I had to lug it around from DTW to EWR because of my stand-by status.
All bags arrive. We depart the airport for the hotel. We arrive and are told by the cold front-desk staff that check-in is at 2pm. I explain that I know when check-in is, but we’d like rooms as soon as they are ready, as we’ve come off red-eye flights and will be sleeping in your lobby until rooms are ready. I ask every other hour and am continually told no. Find my travelers a room or I’ll annoy the crap out of you. After waiting in the lobby for about three hours (which seems like a freakin’ eternity when your body thinks it’s awake 3am – 6am). I go to my room, unpack and light-nap for about 4 hours. I get up, shower, brush teeth, and go to dinner. I turn on my sociable front and buy a round of drinks for everyone, and then dinner for everyone. My co-worker does not arrive after a severe-onslaught of the flu stomach has rendered her unable to leave the bathroom. I’m asked by all the dog lovers on this dog trip what kind of dog I have. I’ve never in my live owned a dog. I tell them he’s small and furry and his name is Sebastian. And he meows. Owning a dog is not a prerequisite for escorting a dog tour. We also do tours to two of the world’s largest flower shows, Wimbledon, Oktoberfest, and Blackpool Ballroom dance. I also do not garden, play tennis, care much about beer, and really don’t like dancing. So, there you go. I’m still good at my job.
Afterward, I return to my room and my lovely pajamas. I again consider putting myself to sleep with Tylenol PM and forgo the idea. For some reason this first night I can always fall asleep easily, but will always wake up somewhere between 3am and 5am and be up for about two hours. Upon returning to sleep when the alarm goes off I am too exhausted to get up. This particular trip, I’m up from 4:39 am until about 6:30. I finish off “Me Talk Pretty One Day” by David Sedaris. The alarm goes off at 8am, I reset it for 9am. I awake at 9, jump into the shower and begin to feel weak. I feel weaker and woozier and horrible and odd. It worsens until waves of nausea set in. I begin to think I’m pretty sure I’m gonna throw up in the shower. I quickly rinse off and get out. If I don’t lie down immediately, I’m going to pass out. I look in the mirror and I’m white as a sheet, no color in my lips, cheeks or anything. I throw on the robe and lie down on the bed and curl up in a ball, waiting for this … this whatever it is to pass. I must be dehydrated. Maybe I’m getting sick? Maybe I got up and got moving too fast? I remember one trip to Italy where I was hit with early-morning nausea. It must be the jet-lag. Slow down. I lay there for about 5 minutes and then slowly get ready. I go downstairs and get cereal, pineapple and a croissant and coffee. I sit and stare at my food for about ten minutes, with no desire to eat. I eat a few bites of each item and sip a bit of coffee. Slowly throughout the day I feel better and better, but cautious because of the weird wave of whatever that knocked me on my ass this morning. And, as I predicted about 48 hours after leaving my house… I begin to feel normal. Optimistic about exploring Birmingham and enjoying the UK.
After all this, I get to do it all over again in May. And June. Don’t cha just love travel?
The upcoming Red-Eye Flight. Number seventeen in my lifespan of just thirty years. I love to travel but something about red-eye flights to Europe make me want to slit my wrists. From the moment you depart for the airport, until about 48 hours later – it’s all pretty much pure torture.
I depart my home for Detroit airport, knowing that a blizzard is wreaking havoc on the Eastern Seaboard, and upon arrival find my connecting flight to Newark has been cancelled. I sweet-talk the nice lady behind the counter, explaining that I’m the group leader for a tour and without me my traveling companions will be hopelessly lost. She puts me on standby for a 1pm flight delayed until nearly 3pm. I go to the gate, make a few phone calls and wait. If I make stand-by I arrive in time for my 7pm flight to Birmingham. If not, I leave tomorrow.
My luck is good today and I make the stand-by flight, arrive in time to make my flight to Birmingham. I decide to go and get a better seat, as my recent trick I like is to pick a window seat in the rows of the high 20s and low 30s – where the middle seat is empty and the aisle is occupied. Nine times out of ten, the middle seat remains empty and I can spread out. I’m in luck. Nice guy behind the counter gives me an entire row to myself. Score! He also realizes I’m not even checked in. When I “checked in” earlier, the gate agent checked in the wrong person on my group itinerary. Good job asshat. You could have made me miss my flight. And, you even looked at my ID. Did you not notice my ID didn’t match the boarding pass you handed me? (Yeah, neither did I.) You’re still an asshat.
The chance to spread out offered no opportunity for sleep. I change position over and over and sleep will not come. I consider taking the Tylenol PM I brought with me but with a 5.45 hour flight, that may be a bad idea. After dinner I’d get three hours of sleep at the most and then possibly feel more miserable with the sleepy drugs. I went without. I pacified myself with my own personal TV monitor and watched “Twilight.” I’m pretty sure husband wouldn’t want to watch it, and I was intrigued. Happy I watched it, because I really liked it. Completely absorbing (as If I had other things to do), a little bit obvious the target audience was 13, but overall pretty good movie.
We eventually are served breakfast of a flat warm croissant and a fruit salad of un-ripened honeydew, canteloupe and grapes. At least it isn’t yogurt.
We land and shuffle to baggage claim. My bag is the first to arrive as it was gate checked in Newark. I had to lug it around from DTW to EWR because of my stand-by status.
All bags arrive. We depart the airport for the hotel. We arrive and are told by the cold front-desk staff that check-in is at 2pm. I explain that I know when check-in is, but we’d like rooms as soon as they are ready, as we’ve come off red-eye flights and will be sleeping in your lobby until rooms are ready. I ask every other hour and am continually told no. Find my travelers a room or I’ll annoy the crap out of you. After waiting in the lobby for about three hours (which seems like a freakin’ eternity when your body thinks it’s awake 3am – 6am). I go to my room, unpack and light-nap for about 4 hours. I get up, shower, brush teeth, and go to dinner. I turn on my sociable front and buy a round of drinks for everyone, and then dinner for everyone. My co-worker does not arrive after a severe-onslaught of the flu stomach has rendered her unable to leave the bathroom. I’m asked by all the dog lovers on this dog trip what kind of dog I have. I’ve never in my live owned a dog. I tell them he’s small and furry and his name is Sebastian. And he meows. Owning a dog is not a prerequisite for escorting a dog tour. We also do tours to two of the world’s largest flower shows, Wimbledon, Oktoberfest, and Blackpool Ballroom dance. I also do not garden, play tennis, care much about beer, and really don’t like dancing. So, there you go. I’m still good at my job.
Afterward, I return to my room and my lovely pajamas. I again consider putting myself to sleep with Tylenol PM and forgo the idea. For some reason this first night I can always fall asleep easily, but will always wake up somewhere between 3am and 5am and be up for about two hours. Upon returning to sleep when the alarm goes off I am too exhausted to get up. This particular trip, I’m up from 4:39 am until about 6:30. I finish off “Me Talk Pretty One Day” by David Sedaris. The alarm goes off at 8am, I reset it for 9am. I awake at 9, jump into the shower and begin to feel weak. I feel weaker and woozier and horrible and odd. It worsens until waves of nausea set in. I begin to think I’m pretty sure I’m gonna throw up in the shower. I quickly rinse off and get out. If I don’t lie down immediately, I’m going to pass out. I look in the mirror and I’m white as a sheet, no color in my lips, cheeks or anything. I throw on the robe and lie down on the bed and curl up in a ball, waiting for this … this whatever it is to pass. I must be dehydrated. Maybe I’m getting sick? Maybe I got up and got moving too fast? I remember one trip to Italy where I was hit with early-morning nausea. It must be the jet-lag. Slow down. I lay there for about 5 minutes and then slowly get ready. I go downstairs and get cereal, pineapple and a croissant and coffee. I sit and stare at my food for about ten minutes, with no desire to eat. I eat a few bites of each item and sip a bit of coffee. Slowly throughout the day I feel better and better, but cautious because of the weird wave of whatever that knocked me on my ass this morning. And, as I predicted about 48 hours after leaving my house… I begin to feel normal. Optimistic about exploring Birmingham and enjoying the UK.
After all this, I get to do it all over again in May. And June. Don’t cha just love travel?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
crazy for april
I like to stalk my friends from time to time. Emails. Texts... whatever strikes my fancy.
April recently went out of town and this hilarity ensued. Enjoy.
First I send some random message to April, and then... AutoReply:
Hey kids--this is an auto-response.
I won't be checking email for the next few weeks so please try to hold off for a while.
(Oh and I won't have my phone or have access to vm either).
Feel free to contact Mike if need be---he'll be around taking care of things.
Thanks!
Smooches & ass slaps,
A
My Response:
Your smooches and ass slaps are no good to me now. I miss you.
Where are you?
Is it warm?
Another AutoReply:
Hey kids--this is an auto-response.
I won't be checking email for the next few weeks so please try to hold off for a while.
(Oh and I won't have my phone or have access to vm either).
Feel free to contact Mike if need be---he'll be around taking care of things.
Thanks!
Smooches & ass slaps,
A
My immediate response:
Oh is that you? I got all hopeful. It isn't you. You aren't back.
Your auto reply taunts me.
Taunt.
Taunt.
I was holding a piece of your hair and thinking of you.
and stroking the hair.
While watching Private Practice.
And thinking of you.
And Indian Food.
And Rice.
And Beads.
I miss you. Your pretty eyes.
The way you make my ass quiver.
Your hot tub.
The sexy way you take off your braces before you eat and floss and brush your teeth when you are done.
That's hot.
Call me.
Lover.
Wait, this hair isn't yours.
Gross.
And the next day... I send yet another message:
So, I was just curled up in a ball on the floor in a corner in the dark. Rocking back and forth, holding a crumpled, moist photo of you and me... together. And I made a haiku for you.
I call it... "Impatiently waiting for you to return home because life just isn't the same"
Lonely for April
Showers of love to bring me
Fowers of Awesome.
I will read it to myself over and over again until you return. I will cry until there are no more tears.
Smooches.
And it's immediate follow-up:
In my impatient-ness and brainstorming I messed up your haiku.
Please still be my friend. I will make it up to you!
Fowers = Flowers.
P.S. If you were stung by a jellyfish I'd pee on you.
A few hours later that day.... more emailing:
I googled "haiku" and it said you're supposed to make an image that goes with your haiku.
Attached to this email is an image that I think accurately reflects the haiku I wrote for you.
I also wrote a song.
But I cannot tell it to you.
And I cannot sing it.
I'm afraid the pain is so palpaple, (in my song of mourning)
That to release it will make all the unicorns in the world die.
And David Bowie will no longer be able to rock it.
And Chuck Norris would collapse and weep.
And all the puppies in the world would leap off a tall, tall cliff.
And Rapunzel, oh dear sweet Rapunzel. Need I go on? How much longer can I describe
the torture of innocent things that would surely happen, should I set free the song of such pain?
Of such longing? Of such hopeless need?
I could not tell it.
I could not sing it.
For I love the unicorns and do not wish them to die.
For I love David Bowie, and his ability to rock it.
For I love Chuck Norris and his rock-hard man exterior of shiny shining glory and strength. I do not
wish to see his tears, which is sad, because they can cure world hunger.
For I love all the puppies in the world and do not wish them to leap off a tall, tall cliff.
For I love dear sweet Rapunzel and wish her no harm.
For them, I will not do it.
For you, I would do anything. But I won't do that.
Sweet dreams.
And this image was attached:
See in this image I made, there's April's favorite things. Little Johnny Depp's, Penguin's and Prince's!
And soon. Soon April returned and replied!!!
Emails like this just make me love you that much more
I saw a tree in the Philippines and it reminded me of you. I took a picture —it was called a “Golden Shower”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cassia_fistula
April's second reply:
I finally got to open the image.
I mistakenly drank vernor’s as I opened the file.
Vernor’s in your nose is not nice. My nasal passages are moist from Vernor’s now.
You have to sing me my song on Saturday—why must you abandon me in my time of desperate need? I shall cry myself to sleep tonight.
Never gonna give you up.
And my response?:
Oh no,
You should not consume liquids when looking at such things. They will spray.
I apologize for the moistness of your passages. Giggles abound when melissa can't sleep and has the power of photoshop at her fingertips.
Moist.
I do not want to abandon you in your time of need, but cannot help it - I must go. I will be with many dogs on Saturday and will not see you.
/frowny face
And how can you suggest I sing to you the song of great mourning?!
Have you no love for the unicorns, Chuck Norris, David Bowie, puppies, and dear sweet Rapunzel?
I'm never gonna give you up.
Never gonna let you down.
Fondly,
-m
Let that be a lesson to you all.... I'm a stalker.
April recently went out of town and this hilarity ensued. Enjoy.
First I send some random message to April, and then... AutoReply:
Hey kids--this is an auto-response.
I won't be checking email for the next few weeks so please try to hold off for a while.
(Oh and I won't have my phone or have access to vm either).
Feel free to contact Mike if need be---he'll be around taking care of things.
Thanks!
Smooches & ass slaps,
A
My Response:
Your smooches and ass slaps are no good to me now. I miss you.
Where are you?
Is it warm?
Another AutoReply:
Hey kids--this is an auto-response.
I won't be checking email for the next few weeks so please try to hold off for a while.
(Oh and I won't have my phone or have access to vm either).
Feel free to contact Mike if need be---he'll be around taking care of things.
Thanks!
Smooches & ass slaps,
A
My immediate response:
Oh is that you? I got all hopeful. It isn't you. You aren't back.
Your auto reply taunts me.
Taunt.
Taunt.
I was holding a piece of your hair and thinking of you.
and stroking the hair.
While watching Private Practice.
And thinking of you.
And Indian Food.
And Rice.
And Beads.
I miss you. Your pretty eyes.
The way you make my ass quiver.
Your hot tub.
The sexy way you take off your braces before you eat and floss and brush your teeth when you are done.
That's hot.
Call me.
Lover.
Wait, this hair isn't yours.
Gross.
And the next day... I send yet another message:
So, I was just curled up in a ball on the floor in a corner in the dark. Rocking back and forth, holding a crumpled, moist photo of you and me... together. And I made a haiku for you.
I call it... "Impatiently waiting for you to return home because life just isn't the same"
Lonely for April
Showers of love to bring me
Fowers of Awesome.
I will read it to myself over and over again until you return. I will cry until there are no more tears.
Smooches.
And it's immediate follow-up:
In my impatient-ness and brainstorming I messed up your haiku.
Please still be my friend. I will make it up to you!
Fowers = Flowers.
P.S. If you were stung by a jellyfish I'd pee on you.
A few hours later that day.... more emailing:
I googled "haiku" and it said you're supposed to make an image that goes with your haiku.
Attached to this email is an image that I think accurately reflects the haiku I wrote for you.
I also wrote a song.
But I cannot tell it to you.
And I cannot sing it.
I'm afraid the pain is so palpaple, (in my song of mourning)
That to release it will make all the unicorns in the world die.
And David Bowie will no longer be able to rock it.
And Chuck Norris would collapse and weep.
And all the puppies in the world would leap off a tall, tall cliff.
And Rapunzel, oh dear sweet Rapunzel. Need I go on? How much longer can I describe
the torture of innocent things that would surely happen, should I set free the song of such pain?
Of such longing? Of such hopeless need?
I could not tell it.
I could not sing it.
For I love the unicorns and do not wish them to die.
For I love David Bowie, and his ability to rock it.
For I love Chuck Norris and his rock-hard man exterior of shiny shining glory and strength. I do not
wish to see his tears, which is sad, because they can cure world hunger.
For I love all the puppies in the world and do not wish them to leap off a tall, tall cliff.
For I love dear sweet Rapunzel and wish her no harm.
For them, I will not do it.
For you, I would do anything. But I won't do that.
Sweet dreams.
And this image was attached:
See in this image I made, there's April's favorite things. Little Johnny Depp's, Penguin's and Prince's!
And soon. Soon April returned and replied!!!
Emails like this just make me love you that much more
I saw a tree in the Philippines and it reminded me of you. I took a picture —it was called a “Golden Shower”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cassia_fistula
April's second reply:
I finally got to open the image.
I mistakenly drank vernor’s as I opened the file.
Vernor’s in your nose is not nice. My nasal passages are moist from Vernor’s now.
You have to sing me my song on Saturday—why must you abandon me in my time of desperate need? I shall cry myself to sleep tonight.
Never gonna give you up.
And my response?:
Oh no,
You should not consume liquids when looking at such things. They will spray.
I apologize for the moistness of your passages. Giggles abound when melissa can't sleep and has the power of photoshop at her fingertips.
Moist.
I do not want to abandon you in your time of need, but cannot help it - I must go. I will be with many dogs on Saturday and will not see you.
/frowny face
And how can you suggest I sing to you the song of great mourning?!
Have you no love for the unicorns, Chuck Norris, David Bowie, puppies, and dear sweet Rapunzel?
I'm never gonna give you up.
Never gonna let you down.
Fondly,
-m
Let that be a lesson to you all.... I'm a stalker.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
because I can't do better
That beagle just robbed a starbucks
Jack Gray
AC360° Associate Producer
Move over, Sully. The Westminster Dog Show is in town. It’s like a canine version of Fleet Week, only with more one night stands. In fact it’s the one week of the year when Manhattan’s fanciest hotels can be trashed by long-haired creatures roaming the hallways on all fours and management can’t automatically blame Mickey Rourke.
Like all visitors to New York, the Westminster participants try to strike a balance of business and pleasure. The Poodle window shopping at Cartier. The Bichon having his picture taken in front of the Seinfeld diner. The Schnauzer trotting into a Times Square massage parlor.
But if you think an influx of dogs into one of the world’s most populated cities might cause problems, think again. In fact, one of the reasons why I like dog tourists better than regular tourists is that they’re much less disruptive. You’ll never come across a Welsh Corgi blocking a busy sidewalk, digging around in his fanny pack for misplaced tickets to Mamma Mia.
And you don’t have to worry about a posse of Great Danes strutting through SoHo, clad in leather pants, pestering you for directions to Dolce and Gabbana.
Sure, not every dog is perfect. Border Collies are Kleptomaniacs. And Pugs have an insatiable penchant for prostitutes. But just remember that for every Cocker Spaniel who steals your iPhone there’s a civic-minded Pekingese willing to give you CPR…even if you don’t need it.
It is exhausting, though. There are so many different breeds in the city this week, it’s almost overwhelming for a dog lover like me. As you’ll learn if you watch the telecast of the dog show, each breed has its own special qualities. Take for example the Maltese. They excel at cuddling and conning senior citizens out of their Social Security checks. Then there’s the Scottish Terrier. They’re known for their loyalty and fondness for black market handguns. To say nothing of the Dachshund, a dog small in stature but big in ability to launder money through the Cayman Islands.
And don’t even get me started on Saint Bernards. They say they’re there to rescue you but they’re really just there to steal the gold fillings out of your teeth.
In the meantime, watch out for the Basenji, the so-called barkless dog. As if that isn’t a scam.
Jack Gray
AC360° Associate Producer
Move over, Sully. The Westminster Dog Show is in town. It’s like a canine version of Fleet Week, only with more one night stands. In fact it’s the one week of the year when Manhattan’s fanciest hotels can be trashed by long-haired creatures roaming the hallways on all fours and management can’t automatically blame Mickey Rourke.
Like all visitors to New York, the Westminster participants try to strike a balance of business and pleasure. The Poodle window shopping at Cartier. The Bichon having his picture taken in front of the Seinfeld diner. The Schnauzer trotting into a Times Square massage parlor.
But if you think an influx of dogs into one of the world’s most populated cities might cause problems, think again. In fact, one of the reasons why I like dog tourists better than regular tourists is that they’re much less disruptive. You’ll never come across a Welsh Corgi blocking a busy sidewalk, digging around in his fanny pack for misplaced tickets to Mamma Mia.
And you don’t have to worry about a posse of Great Danes strutting through SoHo, clad in leather pants, pestering you for directions to Dolce and Gabbana.
Sure, not every dog is perfect. Border Collies are Kleptomaniacs. And Pugs have an insatiable penchant for prostitutes. But just remember that for every Cocker Spaniel who steals your iPhone there’s a civic-minded Pekingese willing to give you CPR…even if you don’t need it.
It is exhausting, though. There are so many different breeds in the city this week, it’s almost overwhelming for a dog lover like me. As you’ll learn if you watch the telecast of the dog show, each breed has its own special qualities. Take for example the Maltese. They excel at cuddling and conning senior citizens out of their Social Security checks. Then there’s the Scottish Terrier. They’re known for their loyalty and fondness for black market handguns. To say nothing of the Dachshund, a dog small in stature but big in ability to launder money through the Cayman Islands.
And don’t even get me started on Saint Bernards. They say they’re there to rescue you but they’re really just there to steal the gold fillings out of your teeth.
In the meantime, watch out for the Basenji, the so-called barkless dog. As if that isn’t a scam.
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