Mike's Best and Worst of 2005

With a minute to the ball drops, Management is sad to report that at the stroke of midnight a stake will be driven through our old dear friend Mike’s heart. For those who have been friends with Mike, this may come as a shock. As we all know, he descended from a booze-free planet and conducted an experiment, the failure of which sent him packing to where he came from. He was happy to leave. But apparently, his ship malfunctioned and he came crashing back down again. Worse, he found that with so much time on our planet, his body had become altered and unfit for life on any planet whatsoever. Accordingly, Management, especially with the tie-breaking vote of that hard-ass Mitchissmo, has decided to act in Our interests, as well as his.

Farewell, Mike. It was grand...sometimes.

At 11:59 on 2005, Mike issued a Summary Report for this tragic calendar year, which We respectfully share:

Best Week: April 6-13
Worst Week: July 14-21.




Best weekend: April 22, also known as Best Birthday Ever. Unfortunately, this date also marks the beginning of the downward spiral in what is now seen as worst year on record.

Best Days: January 2, March 3, June 21, August 9, August 14, September 22, December 6

Most Productive Days: April 6-13, July 29, October 12

Least Productive Days: pretty much all of September

Low Points: October 1, most of autumn

Funnest Nights: April 16, December 10



September 11: worst hangover from September 10, with biggest tales and pictures to prove it.

Other Dates of Bitch-Slapping Note:

September 23: Miscalculation leads to biggest ego bust, destroying record proudly held since 1987. (shit).

Other Bad Days: January 17, February 18, April 27, July 14, November 30

What Mike Learned:
1. There's a reason why some people can't do some things that others can do
2. Losing shit is easy
3. Getting it back is a bitch

Ghosts of Grosse Pointe Christmas Past

Knowing that no trip home is complete without a visit to the old haunts, Mike snuck away from family dinner at The Restaurant (the only One) to the back room, otherwise known as Le Bar (the only One), where Mike saw a Romper Room of old faces-- only this time, no fake ID was needed. Random gossip was traded. Faux-intimacies were formed in Pinot Noir clouds between former high schools enemies. Husbands, their wives safely at home looking after children, hovered by the understandably annoyed bartender, a young woman too fine and silently strong to be condescended to by these inhabitants.

Safe with a camera in hand, Mike was entrusted with the Bartender's life story.

Mike eyed a familiar male face that resembled the sidekick in Othello. The face stared back. Later, it was revealed he was "that guy-- that older (by 4 years) guy" who dated best friend in high school. Mike's marital status was immediately asked of. He passed Mike a business card. "If ever you're in Chicago, come by my club."



Out of town visitors blinked when the bartender asked if they wanted a hummer.

Hummer (n.): a Michigan libation with ice cream, coffee, and naughty juice.



Mitchissmo and her camera were banished years ago for certain celluloid sins, but Mike had an in.

The next best thing to drinking is finding people who will tolerate you photographing them drinking. The buzz is like no other. (the Bartender's name is Susan).













Many Shiraz later, Mike found himself in a Cadillac on his mom's driveway, having an endless heart to heart pow-wow with a girl who was and remains one of the town's golden faces. Life, love, regrets-- the usual holiday cheer.

Mike could not stop staring at her skin, and wondered how often she exfoliates.

Yeah.

We realize that we are posting things a day late. It's been that kind of a year, and we would like to be done with it already.

Now, back to our regular programming.

Grosse Pointe Christmas

Management has declared that blogging about one's family is passe today. So we will just show, not tell.

But we will post the best IM comment of the day from my best homie N:

"Man, your mom looks like a hardass."

Grosse Pointe vs the De-Troit: A User's Guide

People ask me where I’m from. And I proudly say Detroit. Oh yes, I do.

In the olden (pre-1997) days, they would stop at that, slightly apologetic, and look away or change the subject. Nowadays, after yet another decade of a populace vacating the core of that geographical thing which is truly called Detroit, people (rather intelligently) cock their eyebrow and say “Uh, are you really from Detroit?”

I’m convinced that this new awareness is mostly because of 1997's Grosse Pointe Blank. After all, who in the hay would be aware of a Michigan suburb? Suddenly, people know that place, and expect a certain trustafarian essence, forgetting that this is the Midwest, and that Management moved away half a lifetime ago. Okay fine-- so it is also embarrassing to admit we are from this place of ultra-right wing money hoarding, not to mention being associated with its whale-print corduroy white Christian “who’s that brown person in our church?” vibe.

But let’s put it this way—I’m less than a five minute bike ride from where 8 Mile begins. And it would take me about a ten minute drive to get to that area of which Eminem speaks. My fair suburban Detroit loves boundaries and has its lines drawn in the asphalt between the B and W. The tall green elms and manicured lawns stop abruptly where Detroit begins. That, indeed, is what gives Grosse Pointe its special status; unlike Bloomfield Hills and Birmingham, we not only are a suburb of Detroit, we are right there, bordering it. A sign and some trees are all that separate the two.

In high school I swore I would come back and make a movie about it but a one Michael Moore beat me to it, and how!

In 1999 East Detroit changed its name and shed its bad connotation to become “Eastpointe”. It is white, part of the new, the hoarding—not the old rotting core of that forgotten place down the freeway. I mean, right next to the elm trees.

Stanlito loves le Boeuf du Detroit! And Other Tales of a Canine Dissident

For pet owners, Holidays are hard times to find any sucker friend or safe haven, so one Stanlito-Stanislau was drugged, stuffed under a plane seat and emerged in the Grosse Pointe to hunker after Beef Tenderloin on the whims of it being siphoned off by renegade meat cutters.

This was a momentous occasion for Stanlito. He has been banned from the capital of Michigan Preppy since 2002, after peeing on the Mom's fancy white carpet in 2001, then peeing in the same exact spot on a new carpet in 2002. No matter how we moved the furniture that year, we were discovered in the end and forced to make our early escape like a bat out of hell in our Dodge Stratus rental. But now the Stan is cuter, saner, and lacking in teethl; we had high hopes. I checked the white carpet every hour, bringing him out to pasture to unload any risk. Things were going swimmingly. And then, I let a second slip and the Curse of the Stain let itself be known again. Of all the other rooms in this large 1940's labyrinth, he had to pick there, the Achilles' heel of fancy home decorating.

We'll never know what draws him so tragically to that spot, like a masochistic serial killer wanting to re-visit the sites of his own sociopathic destruction and societal ostracization. We'll simply never know.

We moved the couch and counted down the hours until our Exile to Brooklyn.








In other news, someone got a toy camera!

Holiday Time in the De-troit

Rare is the person I've met who's been to Detroit. They've driven through, they stopped over on Northwest, they've always been curious about Detroit Techno, Eminem or the White Stripes. Others say it is the ugliest city in the world, and I must admit-- as I make the drive from the airport through Dearborn, Inkster, and past the Uniroyal wheel and the burnt out and long forgotten factories-- that I wonder if the sun ever appears out here... and why my parents decided on living here at all, of all the places one could live. But the gray flat and endless broken freeways are home sweet home and have bourne a life-long love for the underdog.







Above, the infamous "Michigan Left Turn", an annoying process of never being able to turn left and a subsequent dance of vehicular somersaults, all just to get to the mall. The Mall!!

By the amount of pictures I'm taking-- a dangerous act, given that I'm driving at the same time-- I wonder if this means that I'm getting ready to never come back.

'Tis that Day After Christmas and We're All Totally Pissed

Blessed be those who try to shoe shop on Boxing Day (especially if you are a size 8).

When I was a young adolescent, I took venganeance on every offer my poor procreators made to me. My highschool sweetheart would speed up my driveway at 8 a.m. on December 26 so we could capitalistically return the love to Hudsons Department Store or, God forbid, Saks.

These days, all we want is health care...

Merry Whatever

Whatever it is you do or don't celebrate, have a good one from Mitchissmo and Stanlito!

Office Holiday Parties: the Ultimate Hangover

While Management has never missed one since transplanting to the N-Y-C, this year did mark the first that we participated on the inside track of that precious American workplace event, the holiday office party. And by golly, we had fun.

While everything seemed fuzzy-wuzzy, we are still not sure why everything went back to normal in Times Square cubicle-land the next day.

But we know there was love. And we have the pictures to prove it.







Holiday Party in liability conscious environment= cafeteria transformed into disco.

Not sure aboout you, but we've always wondered what the salad bar would be like as a pick-up spot where someone's grinding against us to that "hump" thing. (sorry-- I just can't get enough of that)









Holiday party + chicks= talking crap in corner, the only good place to be at any party







Thank God it's almost all over...

Goodbye, Sweet Bed, Goodbye

We had good times, we had bad times
There were times when you would not let me go
and you made me late to work
There were times when I could not come to you at all
and you wondered, who is the six foot jerk?
Alas, it was just that damned dog,
borrowing into you like a rat hole.

You have been good to me, dear bed
but sadly you're full of smoke
you're given me aches to the head,
so into the trash yard you'll have to be bro'te

Thanks for catching my fall the last seven years. Adiós.

(oh, and I'm totally sorry about the scratching dog)

On the Bright Side: Strike Sex

And other Strike ad goodies

(Note that Management has never blogged 3x in one day. EVER.)
(Shrinks often say that serial blogging is a sign of anxiety displacement).
(does the period go inside the parenths or outside?)

OMG of the Day

Holy crap. Will the feminist back lash ever end?

Revenge of the Outer-Borough Support Staff

Because we know a lot of people are bored at home due to the MTA strike, or bored at work due to the MTA strike because your support staff is nowhere to be found, and also because, as others have noted, Mitchissmo only likes to have parties when the subways are messed up, we've decided to have a party tonight. So all of you who profess to be friends of this middle child are mandated to come, and your absence will be severely punished. And don't use any of that "the subways weren't running" crap. For one thing, we still have truck loads of newly smoke-free dry cleaning to be unwrapped, and real frinds help friends.

Egg nog and NY1 will be served.

December Weekend Re-Hash

Drinks waiting for their owners during cigarette break, Lower East Side

Alma Mater Melancholy (at least the Kroks are still at it...)

An invitation to teach a class at ye ‘ole Alma Mater brought on a 24-hour walk through Disorientation Zone. The Puritan brick was the same but its insides were not. Apparently, the conveyor belt of a certain demographic has been in constant spin since I left, producing an endless stream of students who zipped around with all-out purpose. The place has been invaded by replicas of me and mine. I could have sworn I spotted what’s-her-name, what’s-his face, and that other guy. I almost yelled out a name or two in front of my favorite—“oh wait, it’s not there any more”-store. Twisters have barreled through and plopped Starbucks and luxury bag stores on top of my old haunts.




Source of Melancholy No.1: Utter dead-girl walking outrage. I mean, there is no trace of my having ever been there. Except when I pass by a tree where a British girl had thrown a shoe at me (or was it an earring?) (or was that someone else?) and told me I was a shit workaholic girlfriend. At the time I merely laughed and gunned another beer, but the last laugh was not mine. (Ears ring when exact item throw and words are repeated by mongrel girl in 2003 and lesson is repeated to self: flowers never get the girl back. Ever.)

But my favorite hallway had the same smell: a long, forgotten and seldom used basement lined with rooms of dingy old Steenbecks where I ate dumplings while toiling away nine months and a dying relationship, only to emerge in a new and single light. Bad habits were forming, but they worked. And they have proven to be reliable.

I passed by the theatre where, on one flower incident night during graduation week, I was champagne-fuzzy-fussy and decked in black tie and agitated. My teacher stared at my drunken agitation, confessed a crush on British girl and told me, hands stuffed in his tweed pockets, that he wished he and his girlfriend of 20 years had had kids but they had always chosen work. At the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about. But even through my haze, it stuck.

Two years ago he was wiped out by cancer, all in six months.




Source of Melancholy No. 2: Every few hours it seemed I was taken to the Faculty Club, and each time I was subjected to the same group of students singing about Baby Jesus and come all ye-whatever. I took a look around at the insides of the Alma Mater machine and see what I never saw in the yard protests. And as the belting choral voices continued bringing church to us all, I recall New York Times article about the Evangelical spread, which has even infested this once sacred place. And still they sang and no one noticed. They're winning...

Source of Melancholy No. 3: I finally found a track of my footprints in the departmental archives. That was nice. It was also nice that the students in my class were surprised by my date of graduation. Once I got over the (totally mod and renovated screening) room I babbled and screened away. Who knows what I said—all I could think about was how smooth their skin was (not a single crumple, line or indentation!), and how indignant that 19 year olds still exist (I felt this at 20, too). I could have sworn that the students, in lieu of sleeping, were drooling during my lecture. But bless their souls, they are savvy and flattered me.

Student #1: It's kinda funny that the actors in your film are like, 30-year old Goths.
Mitchissmo: You're totally right.

Despite what boredom was endured, it didn't stop them from passing me their business cards at the end of class, followed up by e-mails about possible post-graduation jobs. I do still have some smoke damage that could use some cleaning up...



Whatever yearnings I had to visit every once-was and see former soul-flames and drink every memory and relive relive relive, and as much as I adore the gut-wrench of bashing down memory lane again and again, it hits me for the hundredth time in post-childhood: there is no there there, just here... and even that’s receding pretty damn fast.

I fled to my car. Onward.

Grad Art Geeks and Makin' Robots

Never-ending work-obsessed nights, an inside-joke busting world of friends limited to the confines of the building you've been working in for days on end, a do-or-die work ethic, minimal sleep and a diet of coffee and cigarettes: you're in grad school baby, art grad school. (Cue Yeah Yeah Yeahs)

A visit to Bean Town and my girl Amber's MIT mystery zone immediately wisked me into participating in a final term project involving wine, cigarettes and 5000 lines of computer code, all of which I endured, knowing once upon a time not long ago I too had to sucker each passing friend into helping me. Kharma.

As a reward, I got a tour of the latest think tank projects, including dancing shoes, almost-real animals and robots that could pin me down and accidentally kill me on a desk.

While it is unfathomable at the time you're consumed by it, grad school will, in fact, be over someday. And you will miss the obsession, the consumption, and the conviction that your film or painting will surely cure cancer. You will even miss the poverty and the sleep deprivation.

Santacon on the Move

Today, Management has decided to get out of the usual myopia and join what will undoubtedly be hundreds of blogs whooping it up about last night's NYC Santacon.

Hopefully, we made your cab stop and you said "what the hell?"











Shout out to the political chicas who busted out a DIY version of "Come all Ye Faithful" in front of McDonald's. Only caught "Oh come let us exploit them," as we teetered into the Continental, but a bang up job girls. Well done.







Among other surprises, our good but dangerous friend Mike descended to our planet and rolled out some scandalous missions which thankfully never came to fruition.


NOTE: ceci n'est pas une kiss! (These people are not kissing. For real.)

Nothing like a "hey, let's make it look like we're making out" picture with your best friend. It was funny in third grade, and it's still funny in your thirties early twenties.



By the end of the night-- whenever that was-- I have a feeling Mike narrowly escaped being wrung up on the coal side of the Naughty and Nice List. Phew.

Soot in the House

Another thing I've learned about fires; days later, you'll still find soot embedded in your skin.

It will take many, many swabs of Sea Breeze. Yuck.

News Flash: Fires Suck (and Thank God for Horny Firemen!)

Like most days, it started just like any other day.

A night of counseling dear west coast film peops suffering from the rebuff of Black Monday (aka the day they found out that the films made by re-mortgaging their houses did not get into Sundance) left me exhausted the next day, and still in bed at 11 a.m. That’s when I heard what I thought was some angry fourteen-year old drunk and skipping school, breaking glass things out on the sidewalk. “Obnoxious little fucker,” I thought. When the mess he was making and breaking started smelling like burning rubber, I hurled myself out of bed, ready to give him a feisty Brooklyn Irish yelling. That’s when I saw the brown smoke billowing into my living room. To self: “Shit, did I leave my incense burning?” A quick look out the window confirmed no, this wasn’t just a little Nag Champa. Flames and smoke leaping out of the apartment downstairs put the old Amagdlya into fighting flight.

Talk to self out loud. Summon all elementary school lessons. Call 911 and scream calmly. Spell street while putting on the sluttiest jeans possible, the ones that leave ass hanging out while standing. Be sure to wear a thin sweater without a bra. Think about grabbing G5 and 50 cubic feet of your life’s work, then open door and get knocked back by wall of smoke. Re-prioritize. Recall December 2000 San Juan flight stranded on tarmac next to firefighter forced to retire at 32 due to smoke inhalation-induced Emphysema. Grab makeup bag, iPod and a thong (what the fuck?). Grab whimpering biting Chihuahua. Close eyes, take deep breath and fly down invisible stairs.

Once on sidewalk stand beside downstairs Venezuelan DJ neighbor holding his Dachshund Coco. “Hey.” “Hey.” Dogs sniff each other. Wait for fire trucks and watch flames. Minute one, two, three, four. Discuss with Venezuelan DJ the value of all our computers, audio and video equipment. Remember other dog in apartment underneath fire. Minute seven… ten; recall protests against Brooklyn firehouse closings and start to get pissed, consider fighting fire by self. Fire trucks heard. Fire trucks can’t get through due to some double-parked asshole oil truck. Run to asshole and maybe scream something (memory redacted).



Five fire trucks arrive and firemen hunks hoist mountains onto backs and strut off. Primal female instinct kicks in and become weak-kneed damsel in distress. (Note to self that, camera or hose, men with equipment are hot) As firehunks swagger into building, recall "Heroes of 9-11" nudie calendars. Almost faint as they start eagerly bashing in all windows and throwing out furniture from various floors. Eyes flutter to my own windows and everything I own.

Mission #1. Be sure to get on their good side.

“Can you not use water in my apartment unless you really really have to?”

Receive dazed look. Ramble about client jobs, life's work.
Venezuelan DJ chimes in about endless computers.

"Which apartment?"
Bat eyelashes, maybe even have a quivering lip that may or may not be voluntary.
"Third on right." Marshal nods.

Repeat #3R plea to every fireman you see heading in.

Mission #2: Think of Somebody Other than Yourself.
Mention to fire marshal the annoying dog Toby on first floor that always attacks your dog. Fire marshal insists dog ran out. "No way, that dog's a freak. It’s still in there cowering." Receive shrug.

An hour later, flames are gone and it’s all smoke detail, killing burning wool, and a lot of male back patting, hugging and general We-Killed-the-Fire camaraderie at the truck. For the 10th time, mention annoying dog Toby in apartment underneath fire— "you know, the one that now has a flood?" Look around and see that posse of three firehunks is sipping coffee with that look in their eye... and it's directed at you.


"You in 3R?"
I nod, and ask fire marshal if I can get the dog now. But the words aren't even out of my mouth and the tall one of the posse rises to the primal male cause of performance and bounds to the door. "I got it, chief."

Moments later, he emerges with a puff of shaking gray fur wrapped in a towel. Tby was mellow. Even Toby suddenly knew not to be annoying.





Mission #3: Bring it Back to Yourself

With new horned-up firemen posse on your side, think about G5, 50 cubic feet of oevre and 750 square of crap again.

"So, is-- my apartment okay?"
They nod a little too knowingly.
"Can I get in there quick?"
Before the words are out of your mouth they bound up again.
"We're taking her, chief."
You, the deer in headlights, follow them.

Once inside your apartment, realize that your desk was covered with "Save Porno" leaflets. As you try to find what you thought you were looking for but can now not remember (and thus grab another thong), the Firemen posse is browsing the slutty gallery pictures in your living room, further assessing your character. He looks at one of a tuxedo-d guy in college being fed by women. "I like that one."

Lesson: Porn saves lives... or at least pooches and your drapes.



Once they leave, the Venezuelan, the Puerto Rican, the AmerIrish Mitchissmo and the Haitian (the flame-bombed victim) were left to stand and scratch their heads. You all trade cell phone numbers and dog-sitting duties. Thanks to nagging litigating lawyer ex-boyfriend, you had insurance. The only one with insurance.

Send ex-boyfriend mushy and grateful e-mail.

2 Days later, when the 5-man cleaning crew arrives to clean every last soot-covered magazine, pillow and sock and finds the stash of cheesy (like, way cheesy) Lesbian porn your ex-boyfriend jokingly hid for Valentine's Day in your dog's cart and they giggle and whisper, you wish your Spanish was more up to speed.

Send ex-boyfriend scathing e-mail.



5 days later, It still smells like a fire's burning from 2 blocks away.
It takes days to realize how lucky you are. And the gratitude comes and goes.
Fire is scary. Thank you, firehunks.