It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

This is going to be belligerant.

When I was a kid, I was part of the Purdue Musical Organization Christmas Show three years in a row (until I got the boot because my voice wasn't good enough and my mom was too Jewish--the latter is a bitter assumption). I remember it being pretty awesome. Confetti cannons, sleighs across stage, jazzy coreography...it was a kitschy Jesuspalooza. I might be wrong, but I vaguely remember there being real life elk or deer or something on stage one year with Santa (I am probably misremembreing that). I have never actually SEEN the show, however, so this year my boyfriend and I decided to attend (tickets were buy one get one free!).

And it was the BIGGEST crock of shit I have EVER seen.

I was expecting something especially extravagant, since it was the 75th anniversary, but I was wrong about that one. I have never seen anything so...white. White. Max (who, despite being Jewish, was slightly more impressed than I) turned to me during one especially schmaltzy rendition of "Silver Bells" and whispered, "If someone ever asked me, 'What do white people like?'...I'd show them this." I mean, it was literally white. There were maybe two or three people who didn't have the skin color of buffed ivory. But let me start from the beginning.

The first thing that came out was some tiny little Jon Benet Ramsey girl in a Christmas sweater looking all aglow and hideously singing some unidentifiable Christmas song. Other people started to come out in pairs, unixplicably all wearing Old Navy Polar fleece and khakis. They pointed in awe around the venue, as if Santa himself was soaring above our tiny little heads. It all crescendoed into a big dance number which consisted of coreography that they picked up from the American Sign Langauge Association basement. If they were singing about happy hearts, they drew a heart in the air, in front of where their hearts were in case we didn't get it.

The setup of the show was really boring. There were no props, no stage set up...just plain risers and some fancy lights. There were no "theme" songs either...I remember there being silly songs about food and kids (including myself) came out running around dressed up like chefs, or Western songs with kids (including myself) dressed up like inappropriate cowgirls. But the PMO groups just filed out in their sparkly uniforms and stood there in rows and sang. It was more of a PMO recital than a Christmas extravaganza.

But, of course, they wouldn't let us forget WHY we celebrate Christmas. Jesus was EVERYWHERE, and not just in the second act, which is traditionally more churchy. Now, I am proudly in the process of becoming a full member of the Catholic Church. I pray every day, am at my church two or three times a week, go to Confession, blah blah blah. I'm more religiously involved than most Christians I know. I love Jesus. But I'm not IN LOVE with Jesus. Man, these people really love Jesus. One particularly scary song kept alluding to the "anger and hate" thrown upon Jesus until the male soloist bellowed out the line "...until He was nailed to a treeeee!"

WHAT?!

Ok, FIRST of all, it was a fucking cross. Maybe you're thinking of Judas, he hanged himself on a tree. But why would you be singing about Judas at Christmas? Come to think of it, why would you be singing about the Cruifixion at Christmas? Wrong fucking holiday, dude.

And SANTA. Good LORD. At the end of the first act, all he did was kind of pop out of a box at the end of the song and declare "I AM SANTA." Which just seemed ludicris, like he was launching down onto some alien planet and its inhabitants stood in awe around his red, bulbous figure.

The whole time I was hoping the Second Coming would happen right there on stage. Cause I don't think Jesus was watching and going, "Hey, they're rejoicing in my presence. Right on." Because you know everyone on stage is thinking about how they look, how much they want it to end so they can get drunk, don't fall on stage, have to remember my coreography...blah blah blah. Either stick to the creepy God-like Santa, or to Jesus.

And get new outfits. Those wide leg black pants and shoulder padded sparky purple flower jackets are pretty 1980s Yonkers real estate agent. Sheesh.

Why Detroit?

Vacancy has always been as important to me as air. In an abstract sense, I do my best in the spaces between emotions. The times where I can hold my emotions in my hand and observe them for a short time before they hit me again are by far the most important times in my life. But as much as I need those vacant spaces in my heart, it is the tightness of the city that allows it all. The anonymity of the urban experience does something that is indescribable by prose or essay. Here, I try to portray that feeling through phrases of thought and images of the only city, the only place, that feels home to me--Detroit.

As far as cities go, Detroit is as vacant as it gets. The aftermath of the race riots in 1967 has left it a ghost of its former self. It is by no means a great cosmopolitan city. For most, it evokes fear and disgust in its abandoned factories and crumbling avenues. While I recognize that, I am also endlessly in love with the city. Every broken window and pothole in the pavement emanates such a raw sense of urgency and sincerity that I think is too commonly dismissed in society, in favor of careful precision and calculated elegance.

When I was a senior in high school, I was driving around Detroit with my mom, who lived in Detroit for a long period of time when she first married my dad (who is from the city). We were driving through Mexicantown, the Hispanic neighborhood, and I was gushing about my love for the city. I am continuously struck by what my mom said to me then: “Don’t romanticize this city. Don’t turn it into something it’s not.” At the time I was angry; I felt like she had invalidated my emotions. Now, though, the differing thoughts between us propose a new thesis (for with time comes that distance from emotion that I so strongly need): Romanticizing the city can be just as valid a reaction to it as a more rational view, because the city is so subjective. The city is what we make of it, and I have made Detroit into my home. Romanticizing Detroit has allowed me to render it a legible space, one that I can move around in without feeling overwhelmed or confused.

...And Other Stalker Activities

Editorial comment on my previous post: I think I may come off as one of those...fanatics. Like the ones on the old MTV show where they would stand naked on their roofs with their favorite celebrity's name written in blood on their chests. I AM NOT ONE OF THEM. In all honesty, I wouldn't really want to meet Jack White.

Really!

It would ruin the myth. My bestie/fellow White Stripes devotee, Corey, and I love to discuss what we would do if we saw Jack White in Wal-Mart or something. And my response is always "I don't know." I know I would make an absolute blubbering fool of myself, for one. There is no way that I could see the most consistently important figure in my life, besides my mom, and not automatically sob. I cried in Art History this morning when I found out I got an A+ on my Art History exam, so I'm definitely going to cry when I see my most reliable companion in this mortal coil. I'm also really afraid that I would fuck it up even further by trying to be cool--something I definitely am not. And at every other moment I love that I'm not cool, in fact I hate cool. But I feel like I would try to impress him, and obviously fail. Because I've gone over the scenario a billion times in my head of what I would do/say if I ever met him, all that would come out is "...........fhjdshkfkfaqooooooo" and I'd faint dead onto the floor. It would be too overwhelming I think.

Plus...what if he's a dick?

So yeah, I actually would never want to be in a close vicinity with him except for at a concert. Hey, I was like 12 feet away from him when he walked into his tour bus at my second White Stripes show in Indy a few years ago, so that's fine enough for me.

I'm Going to Write a Blog About My Blog in My Blog!

WOAH.

So. Go to Google images and type in "Detroit Mexicantown" and see what comes up first. OK I'll just tell you. MY. ARTWORK. Do you REALIZE that Jack White has probably Googled that?! JACK WHITE HAS PROBABLY SEEN MY ARTWORK. Which was posted on this blog, so he probably read my blog (because he has the spare time), which mentions him, quite a bit! And he would LOVE me, obviously!

JACK WHITE IS COMING TO WHISK ME AWAY.

Woompava, Woompava, Boiler Up!

I'm not against team spirit. I think a moderate amount is pretty healthy and good for forging a sense of community, especially in college when thousands of kids are feeling pretty lost (and plus, you choose the college you go to, so you must have some sort of pride in it). But Purdue has taken it to a ridiculous level in this past week. I moved in last Saturday amid cheers. Not from my parents for moving out (although they might have been cheering, too). Not to myself for moving on to this exciting chapter in my life. No, I moved in to Meredith Hall amid cheers of Boiler Gold Rush team leaders. As we pulled into the parking lot, they started doing a peppy chant about how happy they were to help me move. They asked me if I was PUMPED UP for PURDUE! In the first five minutes of my being at Purdue University, I was already in the environment of a professional wrestling stadium.

It became very clear, very fast, that I was in trouble.

See, I moved in a week early to participate in Boiler Gold Rush, a week long orientation program. I thought it would be pretty relaxed, full of club call outs, doing Boiler-related crafts, and talking about ourselves in fun ice breakers.

I was right about the ice breakers, except the fun part. I love talking about myself and finding out other people's tastes. Unfortunately, other people's tastes seem to center around their hair color and their agriculture majors. I had nothing in common with the people in my group (although some of them liked the White Stripes, which is obviously the correct opinion). It was awkward and humid on that first night. And then came the team chants.

The dorms were separated into themes and we had to compete against each other for, well, nothing except bragging rights. And my dorm's theme was breakfast cereal. BREAKFAST CEREAL. And not only was I surrounded by pictures of Fruit Loops, we had chant with enthusiasm ABOUT cereal.


To the tune of "I Kissed a Girl" by Katy Perry.

That's the punchline, really. I was going to elaborate on this, but there really isn't anything else to say. So I basically quit BGR after the second day. I hid in my room and watched episode after episode of House and let the calls from my BGR team leader go straight to voicemail. But even then I wasn't completely safe. The Boiler Express, a little train vehicle that rides around campus that I rode when I was in kindergarten, would circle my dorm every ten minutes until 11:30 at night, honking its horn and carrying kids that were VERY excited to be Boiler-ing up.

So the past week has been a bizarre, black and gold circus. And I have watched, annoyed, smoking cigarettes. And I think that really probably says a lot about me. Not that I smoke cigarettes, but that whole watching from the outside thing. And I am much happier in that place then playing on a moon bounce and flirting with RAs.

BOILER UP!

Maybe They're Just Really Fat Ghosts.

ATTN: ORBS ARE NOT GHOSTS.

It's become the very in-vogue (En Vogue?) thing to take pictures at night at graveyards and cornfields with decrepit barns (where a farmer DEFINITELY hanged his whole family and then his self- that's DEFINITELY not a legend/rumor/ridiculous story told by stoners on cruises). Then to put the pictures on Facebook, Myspace, or their ghost blog and point out white, nearly-transparent circles on the (UNEDITED!) pictures and claim them to be ghosts.

THEY ARE NOT GHOSTS.

Here's an example of one such picture:

If you look at this picture without knowing about the "orb phenomenon" you'd probably guess that it's probably just a camera glitch. Or snow. Or rain. Or dust. Or the effect of using the flash in really dark settings bouncing off of dust particles with a shitty digital camera. In all logic, you would be right. But some people-the same people that wave sage around their houses in a reckless manner to rid their bathrooms of bad spirits-would say you are WRONG! NAIVE! UNSCHOOL-ED IN THE FIELD OF THE SUPERNATURAL.

These people are, of course, ridiculous and possibly out of their minds.

I don't doubt that supernatural situations occur, or that ghosts exist. I'm sure there are some pissed off Confederate soldiers wandering around Gettysburg. But why would they choose to come to life (no pun intended) in the form of a circle? That's not scary, it's not even remotely creepy. It's just kind of an irritating obtrusion in the photograph. If I were an angry spirit unable to cross into the other world, I'd appear as a bloody-eyed Medusa or something. Definitely something more like this:

Much more effective.

But maybe orbs are really ghosts. And if these ghosts really are choosing to appear as orbs, those are some weak ass ghosts.

6 Inch or Foot Long?

I haven't written on here in ages. But a friend of mind, who also happens to be hilarious and a really talented writer, said that this (and Scene Kid of the Day, but that's a story for another entry) is one of her favorite online things to read. So with the pressure on to turn up the hits, I return.

Most of the reason I haven't been writing is that I'm too busy making your Italian BMT (would you like the works on that?) at Subway. My mom would beg to differ since I only work about 10 hours a week. But I feel like I've earned my sandwich cred there since I worked last summer and fall at about 20 hours a week and I will undoubtedly return next summer.

The job itself isn't too bad. Aside from prepping the crab, most of the tasks aren't that disgusting or arduous. It's the customers that makes me want to take my hand and slam it into the bread oven. On the spectrum of fast food, Subway is probably the most expensive (although Arby's is getting up there...have you seen the price of a beef 'n' cheddar recently?) and thus attracts the biggest assholes. I don't care if you have a BMW parked outside, ma'am, you have to pay for the extra cheese you put on that sandwich.

There are a lot of different kinds of assholes that come into my place of employment, though. So here is a brief list of them. If one of these sounds like you, please, stop. I will not hesitate to get really pissed off at you but not show it because I don't want to get written up.

1. The Sandwich Dreamer- This is the idiot that stands blankly in front of the vegetables and just CAN'T decide if he/she wants cucumbers or not. Especially when there is a line out the door behind them. Or the person that spouts out their entire order, veggies and all, in one breath without telling you what kind of bread. And then not being able to decide what kind of bread they want. Let me tell you something: most of our bread tastes exactly the same. Everything is based off of either white or wheat dough, and once you douse your sandwich in honey mustard, you won't taste a difference anyway. And even worse about the Sandwich Dreamer is that they almost always come through drive-thru. Ma'am (because these are usually middle aged women in minivans...or stoners), there are 10 cars behind you, so please decide if you want regular or spicy mustard.

2. The Big Order- This is pretty simple. Don't come in at 12:15 during lunch rush and order 10 foot longs for your office buddies. We hate you and everyone else in the store hates you.

3. The Stickler- This person is straight out of whitewine.com. They don't think our white bread is white enough for them, they aren't sure if the bread is fresh or not (we make it every morning), please change your gloves even though all you've touched is food, the same damn kind of food that you are going to eat, can you double wrap that?, those banana peppers look pretty hard, here let me show you, oh man not that much mayo! etc. These people wouldn't be too unbearable, except they are always the most condescending DOUCHE BAGS on the face of the planet. I cannot express how much these people make my blood boil. They absolutely deserve to have their hearts ripped out by wolves. I'm not a 4 year old, yes I speak English, and yes, you need to leave my store before I take this loaf of Italian Herbs and Cheese bread and beat your face in with it.

You're ugly anyway.

Today some jerk came in asking for directions to campus, and when my perfectly kind coworker chimed in, he turned to him and said "Excuse me, SHE was giving me directions." He was not using his indoor voice or his friendly tone. I wanted to shove jalapenos into his eyeballs. And since my last day at Subway this summer is tomorrow, I decided to not just grit my teeth this time. I said to him, "Sir, first of all don't be rude to my coworkers. Second of all, buy a map." And I turned on my heels and went back to the kitchen to scream about it. Do you know how good that felt? And that all of us feel that way about you if you fall into one of the above categories?

Now, are you going to have a meal with that?