Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Friday, May 24, 2013
Okay look, I'm sick of the Detroit bashing. We have a great hockey and baseball legacy. The Tigers and Red Wings mean a lot to Detroiters and Michiganders. Yes, they're our teams, but we also see them as ambassadors. They represent us. If it's possible for Detroit to produce high caliber sports teams, maybe, just maybe, Detroiters aren't as awful as the press we get.
I suspect that's part of the hatred for Detroit sports teams: Fans of other cities' teams can't wrap their heads around getting beat by a team from lowly Detroit. Accepting and admitting a Detroit sports team is, gulp, good, means admitting there's something positive about Detroit. Apparently that's just not something a lot of people are willing to admit. Detroit has been America's scapegoat and butt of jokes for so long that it's become impossible to accept or admit that anything good can come from there. (Every Motown artist of merit, Iggy Pop, MC5, Marshall Crenshaw, Eminem, Jack White, Detroit Cobras (to name but a few), Jerry Bruckheimer, Sam Raimi (and Bruce Campbell), and hundreds of actors past and present, myriad Pulitzer prize winners, and, oh yeah, Thomas Edison and Henry Ford (okay, Edison was from up the road in Port Huron, but close enough to count) But, yeah, nothing and no one of merit has ever come out of Detroit.
Yes, there are financial and political issues, serious financial and political issues. (Do not get me started on the recent rumor about selling art from the Detroit Institute of Arts. Seriously. Do not get me started on this unless you want to hear me swear and cry and finally get into a fetal position rocking in a dark corner.) And there is the crime that stems from financial and political issues. But like the urban blight, crime is limited to specific areas of Detroit. The rest of the metropolitan area is home to decent, neighborly, interesting, and yes, often very down-to-earth people. Sure, some are a little quirky, and some are not the savviest, but that's the cool thing about Michigan in general. We're comfortable in our skin and accept our neighbors, whatever their particular skin is. We help each other, we genuinely care, we give second chances. We defy general categories. We are proudly not the East or West coast, and we're not even really Midwestern. We're a couple of peninsulas. And each peninsula just one small border shy of being an island. It is my long held believe that is a key factor in the unique social and cultural composition of Michigan.
What really makes me angry, frustrates me, is that very often the people who bash Detroit have never been within 300 miles of Michigan, much less Detroit. You think the octopus on the ice at Red Wings games is barbaric and emblematic of the violent mentality in Detroit? You're entitled to your opinion, but there's more to it than what most people realize.
I'm an animal rights person AND a lifelong Red Wings fan. I do not condone the practice of throwing any animal, dead or alive anywhere, especially in a nationally televised arena.
No. Octopi are not native to the Great Lakes.
But. In fairness to Detroit, there is a long standing large Greek population in Detroit. Detroit's Greektown is incredible, the food is 100% authentic and Greek Detroiters are warm, friendly, full of zest and are part of the very unique (and I mean that in a positive way) tapestry of Detroit. Detroit would not be Detroit without its Greeks.
But because of the large Greek population and the large number of authentic Greek restaurants in and around Detroit, authentic Greek ingredients are abundant and easy to find in and around Detroit. Octopi are a staple of Greek cuisine and feature prominently in many dishes. (Braised octopus is a favorite of some of my Detroit friends of Greek heritage, others like it grilled, and of course calamari is very popular. I don't eat it, but I'm often told calamari at any Detroit Greektown restaurant is the best you'll get in the US. Calamari has been served at every Red Wings party I've ever attended in Southeast Michigan,
and most bars feature calamari specials during the playoffs. ) So, yes, it is very easy to find octopi of many types, sizes and origins in Detroit. They are plentiful. Even my itty bitty home town's grocery carries them or will special order them if you want a specific type.
Further, the Eastern Market, which is a huge, fabulous, storied, historic farmer's market in Detroit and the origin of the original Red Wings octopus tradition, has vendors who sell all manner of animals, dead and alive. You can even choose a live animal and have it slaughtered on site so you can have the freshest meat possible. This is normal and important to cultures other than American, and
Eastern Market is one of the few authentic, real deal farmer's markets
in the US featuring honest field to fork foods. While I suggest vegetarians and vegans avoid the meat and fish stalls, the rest of Eastern Market is a great experience that is truly rich in culture and hospitality. (An unfortunate scene involving sheep at a childhood visit to the Eastern Market helped make me the vegetarian I am today, but I don't hold that against anyone.)
The reality is that if those octopi weren't thrown on the ice, they'd be dinner at a restaurant or home. Like I said, I don't condone the practice, and I don't eat animals, but there are local cultural factors to consider before condemning the entire state of Michigan as violent neanderthals.
Here's the equation:
A hockey team has to win 8 games in two 7-game playoff series to get the Cup. Octopi have 8 tentacles. Detroit has access to a lot of octopi thanks to the Greek population. Yadda yadda yadda, a tradition in the playoffs was born. (And no, that doesn't explain the tossing of octopi for a hat trick.)
I believe in dignity and respect for all living, or once living, creatures, so no, one more time with feeling, I do not condone the practice. Many (many) Red Wings fans, vegetarian and otherwise, do not. But I do understand there are cultural and local reasons behind it. To Detroiters, octopi are as normal as cows and chickens in the butcher case. (And no, that doesn't make it okay to throw a steak or chicken leg into the arena.) Octopi are no "weirder" to us Detroiters than lobsters or shrimp. In fact, in some parts of Detroit, octopi are probably more normal and more prevalent than lobsters and shrimp.
My playoff tradition is to wear my (getting threadbare) Gordie Howe #9 jersey and my Tigers cap when I watch the games and pass on the calamari.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
I haven't posted a Michigan shout-out post for a while. Sorry, Michigan. I'm, you know, going through something.
I'm not big on the whole cupcake trend. The cupcake lovefest is waning, which is too bad for enterprising bakers who were able to breathe new life into their shops, but it was all just a bit too much. For the sake of small business owners and the people they employ I'm hoping the bottom doesn't fall out of the cupcake market. But I do hope the fever pitch cupcake hype calms a bit.
Mrs. Field probably launched the baked-good marketing machine. Then remember when croissants were all the rage? Croissant shops popped up everywhere. Then it was bagels. Then biscotti. Blondies had a little moment in the baked good marketing sun. Then those cookies that look like flowers delivered in a "bouquet." So, you know, there is solid empirical baked-good marketing data for the cupcake people to use. People like novelty baked goods but baked-good trends fade fast. Get in early, make a giant cake pan full of money and get out before TLC has a show featuring the baked good as a topic for a reality show. (TLC is my trend barometer: Once they air a show featuring something that thing's popularity (and trend value) is waning. If TLC is airing a show on a product or service, don't invest, the value is dropping, you missed the quick investment money opportunity.)
Right. Now that I've said all that, I have the nerve to turn around and say, "Rock on Just Baked! Check out these cupcakes!!!"
That little girl in the photo is displaying the exact look I had when I bit into a Faygo cupcake.
Faygo pop is sometimes the butt of jokes. Jokes about being poor and living in Detroit. But. I like the stuff. Redpop especially. It's kind of like a Twizzler, but with fizz and a little something more, something redder. Yes, redder than a Twizzler! I know! If you've never had the pleasure of a Faygo Redpop you haven't fully lived life. Plus it's fun to say. Redpop. Redpop. Redpop. No, it's not a Vernor's, my go-to pop of choice, but Redpop is special. It's for birthday parties and Christmas and sack lunches packed for school field trips to the zoo and sleepovers and the last day of Summer vacation before school starts and a secret ingredient in punch and...you get the point. It's special.
If, by chance you end up not enjoying the sweet red elixir don't despair over the money spent on pop! My parents used to use Faygo Redpop to attract hummingbirds to the garden.
And now, oh glorious bake-a-licious goodness, now the sweet nectar that is Faygo Redpop is available in cupcake form. Like Redpop, it's reminiscent of a Twizzler. But different. Redder.
The grape and orange pop flavored cupcakes are good, too. The grape tastes exactly like grape pop and the orange has a nice citrus-y zest. I like citrus-y zest.
As relieved as I am that the cupcake trend is subsiding I wish metropolitan Detroit's Just Baked bakery continued success. I also hope they go national with their Faygo flavored baked-goods. I would love for Just Baked to put Detroit on the national baked good map. Plus they have a Fat Elvis cupcake. ("Our moist banana cake topped with peanut butter-buttercream pillows then hand dipped in our homemade ganache. Takin' Care of Business!") I mean c'mon, that's not just jumping on a trend, that's inspired.
If you can't find a Faygo cupcake in your area here's a recipe that is really good, straight from the Faygo website: Faygo Black Cherry Chocolate Cake
And for the crafty/adventurous, also from the Faygo website, how to make your own play dough using pop! This was a holiday staple craft in my Sunday school. We molded entire diaramas of Bethlehem out of play dough we made ourselves. I was usually in charge of sculpting the animals because I had a way with rendering animals play dough, but one year I couldn't get a good texture on a lamb so I re-worked it into what became baby Jesus.
My parents were very proud. They beamed as the parishioners looked on at our painstakingly crafted nativity model. "Our daughter made baby Jesus this year!" I remember parishioners being impressed. Or at least pretending to be impressed. Having your home-made play dough baby Jesus chosen for the display was quite an honor. And pretty much the highlight of my Sunday school career.
After Advent ended we took the hardened home-made play dough baby Jesus home. He was put on display on the mantel next to my brother's shop class wood and copper owl-perched-in-a-tree sculpture. He was there for a couple years and my parents explained to visitors that it was baby Jesus and that I not only sculpted Him, I also made the play dough from which He was formed. I think they were trying to boost my self esteem. I mean, sure, a play dough baby Jesus used in the church Sunday school nativity is no small feat, but, it's not on par with a mixed media owl-perched-in-a-tree shop class project. But I digress. Faygo rocks. (and rye! Rock and rye!!! Rock on! (That's a Michigan thing, rock and rye is another Faygo flavor))
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Moment of silence for Ernie Harwell. If you're not a baseball fan or you're a non-Detroiter ignore this post.
The problem with good guys, strong voices that can be trusted and respected, is that they are, in fact mortal. And they die. They leave great memories, but their voices are silenced and somehow that doesn't seem, well, right. The world seems quieter, but not in a good way. A "something's missing" way.
Ernie Harwell.
Synonymous with the Tigers and Summer. The first thing that comes to mind when I hear the words The Tigers or Summer is Ernie's voice coming from a small portable radio in the garage. Or car radio or transistor radios on boats and beaches. He's so woven into the fabric of summer it's an instantaneous reaction.
My dad always turned on that old, beat up portable radio in the garage as he worked in the yard and puttered around the garage in summer. If he was in the back yard, he'd make periodic treks to the garage to catch up with the game. My dad grew up a Norwegian immigrant in Minnesota. Hockey, skiing and football were the only sports that mattered up there, but he was curious about baseball, he wanted to love it because it's so American. My dad loved anything that screamed American. When GM called my dad to Detroit (also because it didn't get any more American than General Motors) he never let go of his allegiance to the Vikings, but, he latched onto the Red Wings and Tigers like a newborn baby. He was a Tigers' fan, loyal and proud. And that was due, in large part, to Ernie Harwell. When he and my mother moved to Detroit they tuned their radios into WJR. There was Ernie, announcing the games. They used to go to the games with friends. Both my parents were enthusiastic about having a home team. It fed their craving to be just like any other American. And Ernie, the voice of the Tigers, was so enthusiastic and seemed like such a nice guy...how could you not be a Tigers fan? How could you not love baseball?
Ernie's voice drifted from the radio in the garage through the screen doors and throughout the house. Other dads in the neighborhood did the same thing. So as you rode your bike around the neighborhood on a sunny early Summer afternoon, drifting on the warm breeze were the prisms of water drops spewed from sprinklers spinning in spirals, the smell of barbecues and lilacs, the sound of lawn mowers...and Ernie's voice calling the Tigers' game. As you rode between houses Ernie would fade in and out, in a sort of Doppler effect. Bucolic. It's the definition of modern bucolic.
I think of Ernie as the narrator of my childhood summers. Even though he only called Tigers' games, in my memory, in my imagination, he called my entire Summer vacation. It's his voice I hear when I think about anything related to The Tigers or Summer. "And she's off, Trillian takes to the sand, it's a lovely day here on Lake Huron, it looks like Trillian's ready for a big day, oh yes, here she goes, she's winding up, going for a third pail of water, yes, yes, that's it, she's done it! She has a moat! She made a sand castle fit for the highest nobility! Right there on the banks of Lake Huron, oh my goodness the stands are going wild!"
You know the song, "Boys of Summer?" Of course you do. I like that song. Maybe I'm weird (no comment necessary) but whenever I hear it, in the faint, distant background of the melody I swear I hear Ernie Harwell calling a Tigers' game. Logically I know it's just my imagination captured by the aural incense of a well crafted song, but still...when I mention that phenomenon to anyone from Michigan they get a faraway look in their eye and agree with me. "You're right, Trill, I do hear Ernie!" (I wonder if Glenn Frey, also a suburban Detroit native, feels the same way about his band mate's solo hit...)
One of my earliest memories is riding home from a Tigers' game in the backseat of the family Pontiac. It was a hot mid-Summer night. We'd been to a Tigers' game, possibly my first, I was probably four-years-old. The game must have gone extra innings because it was really late. I fell asleep at the game, I vaguely remember my dad carrying me out of the old Tigers' stadium and my brother protesting that I ruined everything, it wasn't fair that we had to leave early because I was tired. (As an adult I can see his point - it wasn't fair to him that his tired little sister couldn't hack an extra inning game.)
As we drove on I-75 there was a moment of sensual serendipity that has stayed with me ever since. It is my happy place. When I can't sleep, when I'm stressed (which is a lot, these days) I take a second to go to my happy place, and this is it, this is the one safe, beautiful, happy place I rely on to calm me.
I was pulled out of my drowsy backseat slumber by my mother gently saying to my dad, "Oh look, the Northern Lights are spectacular tonight." I vaguely remember seeing her gently reach over and touch my dad's elbow, her arm silhouetted against the dashboard lights. Back then (which makes me sound really old, "Back then...") once you got a few miles out of the city there wasn't much light pollution. Anyone from Michigan knows - night is dark in Michigan, really dark. The Michigan night sky is uniquely dark, though. Deep blue velvety hues, not a solid color, there are subtle variations to the deep blues. And dotted with stars of all sizes and luminosity. I presume it has something to do with the lakes, being surrounded by huge bodies of water must have some effect on the color of the sky. I dunno. It's different, it's pretty, who cares why? But, back then, especially when the heat index was at its peak and the Northern sky was especially clear, you could see the Northern Lights. Sometimes brilliant, sometimes faint, sometimes really colorful, sometimes just soft shades of white, but for a few magical nights you could see them flickering in the Northern sky. We'd all go out into the backyard, all the neighbors would, too, and just stand there in the silent, hot Summer night looking at them.
Okay, so there we were driving home from a Tigers' game, heading North on I-75. My mother spotted the Northern Lights, the excitement of which woke me. I was in a sleepy cotton candy/Cracker Jack/Vernor's daze. I remember this vividly: I turned my head from my left shoulder to the right, to rest it on the car door (this was before car seats or even seat belt laws). My head felt like lead but I wanted to see the Northern Lights, so I managed to rest my head on the car door, positioned so that I could look up and out the car window at the Northern Lights. My eyes were at sleepy half mast but the sky was so beautiful I couldn't close them, I couldn't stop looking at the Northern Lights. The Pontiac's tires on the pavement made a gentle hum in my ear resting on the car door. And from the other side of the back seat my brother, with his mitt in his lap, was practicing his Ernie Harwell impersonation, re-calling the game we'd just seen, word-for-word, inning by inning. My brother was replaying the Tigers' game, impersonating Ernie Harwell's narration. Driving through the night on I-75, the Northern Lights flickering so bright and so close you could almost touch them, the hum of the Pontiac's tires steady and strong, my parents in the front seat, a belly full of cotton candy, Cracker Jacks and Vernor's, and my brother impersonating Ernie Harwell. Even then, even as a young kid, I knew this was a special kind of bliss. Everything, right then, at that moment, was perfect. And it's Ernie's voice I hear narrating that perfect moment.
And oh, the beauty of AM radio. Sometimes you can pick up an AM signal from a freakishly far distance. On car trips, family vacations, my dad tried to tune in WJR to keep up with the Tigers. No matter where we were, all over the country, I'd prod him to tune in WJR to see if we could hear Ernie (or J.P. McCarthy) in far flung places. Once my dad was able to tune in WJR as we drove through Kansas City (must have been a clear day with good trade winds). That was the thrill of that vacation. I even wrote about it as a highlight to my summer vacation when I returned to school in the fall.
When my parents had friends over for barbecues, if the Tigers were playing, the radio was tuned into WJR and Ernie Harwell was a guest at the party. It wasn't just the men who were interested in the game. The women would cheer and raise a glass in toast when there was a score. The sound of the crack of a ball on bat made everyone listening at the barbecue go silent and hold their breath, listening to Ernie calling the subsequent play, hoping for a jubilant Ernie proclaiming a home run. All across the neighborhoods all across the city and state, this backyard scenario was played out - the question might not be how many games did Ernie call, but how many barbecues did Ernie entertain? Millions, I'm certain of it.
And so many boys, not just my brother, grew up impersonating Ernie. My brother still does this - play-by-play commentary of everything, anything, while impersonating Ernie, "Mum opens the oven door, and ahhh, yes, there we have it, it's, it's PIE!!! The fans are going crazy tonight!"
Some things are so special, so unique to Detroit, that unless you grew up there, lived it, it's probably difficult to understand the romance, fondness and affection those of privileged to live have for the sounds of Detroit. It's because Detroit had such strong voices, such distinct sounds. J.P. McCarthy's Music Hall and Focus, Sir Graves Ghastly's laugh, Bill Bonds' alcoholic on-air rants, Olly Fretter tempting with five pounds of coffee, the rev of engines on Woodward or Eight Mile, local musicians getting played on the radio and getting national fame, music drifting into the night from Pine Knob...but Ernie Harwell, his voice is the one we hear as the steady, sure, reliable voice of Detroit.
Moove over Linda McCartney, there's a new vegetarian frozen entreé in town and lemme tell you, they're good. Real good.
And based in Fashionable Ferndale. Moo Moo's, we salute you.
If you're not near a Meijer, why not ask your local grocer to stock them?! Power to the people, right on and all that. And it's a great way to show support for Michigan.
I'll be showcasing the good things about Michigan and Detroit, maybe once a week or so. I'm sick of the Detroit/Michigan bashing. Sick of it, hear me? S-I-C-K sick of it. I want the world to see and know the great things about the Great Lake State. With all the bad and negative news "the media" just loves to pounce on about Michigan, I've decided to try to spin the negative spin backwards by showing off the positive people and things about Michigan that never, ever seem to get any media attention. Combating negative with positive and all that. (Yes. A special Compassion Snuggie® for the entire state, upper and lower peninsulas.) It's an infinitesimal drop of positive in a huge negative bucket, but it matters. If you feel so inclined, show some love for the good people of Michigan follow the links I post and tell your friends. So when yet another negative news story comes out of Michigan or Detroit (and they undoubtedly will) you'll know it's not all bad. You'll know there are some good people - intelligent, talented, creative, nice, hard working people - in (and from) Michigan.
I'm especially proud to launch this brigade with Moo Moo's. By the way.
