Without the Ocean

Nice Super Bowl ad there, Pete Hoekstra.  I used to think you were a pretty decent guy I didn't agree with.

I see you've deleted your negative comments on Facebook.  I also see your Facebook followers claiming that this ad is "not racist" and is "pro-Chinese".

I think you, and they, are overtly racist.  And fuckwits.  And if you're just pretending to be a racist fuckwit to drum up the racist fuckwit vote and get yourself a Senate seat, shame on you.

 Sometimes I wonder which is more insane-- Macomb County or Lenawee County?

On balance, probably the entire Thumb.  But Macomb and Lenawee have both spawned a series of true-crime stories from hell lately.

 Vocal Neighbor Lady on the street behind us is upset because her precious kitty brought home a "three pound rat" over the weekend, and she blames the local abandoned property (which we're trying to save).  Neighbor Lady is advised that the surest way to prevent kitty from bringing home RATS is to keep "Mr. Orange" indoors, instead of letting him roam the neighborhood where he acquires rats and such from the railroad tracks and the garbage bin at La Pita.

We have witnesses.  Keep the damned cat indoors.

 I find it weird and kind of touching that, in an age when the victims of car wrecks, plane crashes, and worse are shown in their blood-spattered and sheet-draped horror on cable news and the Internet, a sixteen-year-old picture of an unidentifiable victim of a thirty-five-year-old wreck is off-limits.

So off-limits that an article in the Detroit Free Press apparently couldn't state exactly what made this photograph significant to those with a stake in why the Fitz sank.  Answer: the victim was wearing a life jacket in the photograph.  But I had to look that up elsewhere.

I dunno who the man, or corporation, behind Pizza Hut is or was, but Michigan is the home of two of the perennial also-rans of the pizza business: Tom Monaghan of Domino's, who wants to build a little Catholic paradise down in the Everglades, and Mike Ilitch of Little Caesars, who wants to rule the pro sports scene in Metro Detroit.

Domino's finally got the message that their pizzas were caca-in-a-box and have retooled the menu so their offerings are edible; I have not tried them myself but my friends tell me that the pizzas are indeed pretty good.  Caesars, which has never in my lifetime been about high-quality grub, is likewise embarking on a new course by reintroducing their old "Pizza! Pizza!" deal in Metro Detroit. Ten bucks'll net you one square pepperoni pizza, one five-topping Supreme pizza, both of them terrible.  I'd welcome the abandonment of the utterly crass "Hot-N-Ready" campaign except that they aren't.  I guess you now can have two shitty pizzas within seconds of walking in the door.

Ilitch has been a good owner of the Tigers and the Red Wings, but everything about LC's is obnoxious.  While other fast-food joints have been steadily backing away from the notion of "we have pre-made food waiting under heat lamps for hours," the entire Hot-N-Ready business uses that yucky idea as its selling point.  Add to that the people waving signs at you on street corners AND the simple fact that their crust, sauce, and toppings are vile... well, they are.  Seriously, I used to like Little Caesars when I was ten or so-- we were broke, so two pizzas for cheap plus the Crazy Bread seemed like a pretty good deal.  And either my taste buds weren't honed yet, or the ingredients were better in the pre-Hot-N-Ready days, because I can't even stand the Crazy Bread now. 

So, one of these days I might try the new Domino's recipe with its spicy sauce, even if the money is going to someone I don't like.  But Little Caesar's isn't getting my business unless they abandon the race to be "firstest with the crappiest" and concentrate on what's going into the actual food.

Note: The Canadian Pizza Pizza chain is not related to Little Caesars.  Really.

Each city has its own code.  Say "chihuahua house" in Dearborn and everybody knows you're referring to the little brick house with the neatly clipped lawn and several dozen dead dogs in the freezer.

Chihuahua House came up last night as my sub-committee for the neighborhood District discussed what to do about the place my spouse and I refer to as the "sad house," the derelict specimen across the street and several houses down.  The sad house, with its broken windows and appropriately somber-hued siding, is a disaster zone-- leaking roof and flooded basement, rotten plaster and mold.  Every sad house has its story and this one's tale involves long-dead parents and indifferent heirs; you'd need a flow chart to track the number of people who need to sign a quit-claim deed to the place, but not one of them bothered to take care of it.  Or legally inherit it.  Or pay the back taxes, which aren't especially much.  Or even move out the junk, until this weekend when we noticed signs of movement.

The sad house, like the other homes in our District, has historical and architectural significance in a uniquely Dearborn way (hint: Fords are involved).  It may be as much of a loss as Chihuahua House, toxic from neglect, but it would be worth the effort to save.  

"South Detroit" is, technically, Canada. Windsor, Canada, to be specific. I live north of that border.