Here's something I hate.

When people ask me where I'm from and I say Detroit and they cannot fucking LET IT BE.

They get this stupid smirk and say, "Yeah, but not really Detroit, right?" or "Oh come on. Not 'Detroit' Detroit. You must mean somewhere outside the city."

Next they try to get me to clarify the exact street of the hospital where I was born, where my paternal grandmother resides, where I said my first word, etc. in a thinly veiled attempt to trap me. HA HA HA HA. GOTCHA, YOU SHELTERED SUBURBAN WHITEY!

Yes, I am not from Detroit in the strictest sense. I was born in St. Clair Shores. It is part of Macomb County. It is 13 miles outside central Detroit and is considered part of the Detroit metro area.

I say I am from Detroit because no knows where the fuck St. Clair Shores is. If I say 'Detroit' it's easily understood by everyone. I've said Detroit to a Nigerian taxi driver and he's all like "Ahhhh jes, Motor Ceety."

I identify as a Detroiter. My aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and so on all live there. I've been back to Detroit at least once a year my entire adult life. I've been to countless auto shows, the Renaissance Center, Greektown, Cobo, Tigers games, museums, grocery stores, restaurants, etc.

What's with the socio-economic witch hunt? When someone says they're from San Francisco you don't go, "Oh yeah? But WHAT PART of San Francisco???! Huh??" "Are you really an Eskimo? SHOW ME YOUR IGLOO!"

It's only because I'm a whitey. If I was black no one would be questioning me. They'd be like "Detroit? Cool. I'm down, my man." Pretty fucking racist (both ways) if you ask me.

I've never ONCE said being from Detroit makes me tough or cool or whatever. I don't cop a attitude about it. I don't understand why people get so weird and crazy.

When I was a vegetarian I went through the same thing. The first thing people do when you tell them (and I never volunteered it, people always had to force it out of me) is to try to find out when was the last time you ate meat.

Then it's "Do you eat THIS?" and "Do you eat THAT?" and then, "HA HA! That mustard contains chicken broth/turkey sweat/lamb teeth. You're not really a vegetarian."

Damn. I'm really worked up. I think I'm going to go call Eminem and see if he wants to go wilding. There's a plate glass window in front of the Vermont Candle Company that's just begging to have a rock thrown through it. PEACE!

midtown

I bought corn at a street fair Saturday and they didn't give me a stick. They were out of sticks.

The plan was to get the corn, leave the street fair, cut over an avenue and walk 10 blocks to the subway. Eating my corn. Walking.

Instead I dodged tourists and baby strollers and feigned interest in reggaeton compilations, "name brand" cosmetics so old the foundation has separated in its jar and now looks like salad dressing, and 600 thread count sheets.

Why? Because walking around outside a street fair eating corn on the cob with no stick to indicate it is a street fair purchase MAKES YOU FEEL LIKE AN ASSHOLE.

You only realize when you step outside that little wooden gate. Certain foods do not well out of context. Hot dogs are versatile. You can take them anywhere. Sporting events. Movies. Walking around on your lunch break. Your car. The beach. But you can't eat lobster on the F train and you can't eat corn on the cob stickless unless you want to look like a total fucking hillbilly.

THIS IS A SEPARATE POST ABOUT A SEPARATE TOPIC

***i accidentally got drunk before i went to see my shrink. i was at work and we had this little mexican party celebrating the work we did on account XYZ. this company is like catholics and their saints. we're always celebrating something.

HOW TO MAKE A MARGARITA, as told by the two dudes running catering, each of whom who couldn't have been any older than 16:

1. pour four inches of tequila into bottom of glass.
2. garnish with lemon and 1/4 inch of margarita mix.

do not stir. do not add ice.

right as i was finishing i remembered i had an appointment that i had switched from earlier in the week. i drank a huge bottle of water and drank a diet coke but i still felt rocked.

right when i walked in i told him. i asked if he a zero tolerance policy and told him i'd understand if he wanted to boot me. he let me stay. probably because he knew i wanted to go. he's a real spookbag. he knows EVERYTHING.

OTHER NEWS
the race was good. first half mile was all asses and elbows. people knocking each other down trying to break free. lots of hot dudes. all of them into exercise and gainfully employed. ASS ON WHEELS. only problem: everyone's in running clothes. can't separate the creative artsy guys from the D's. beards are often a good indicator but it's summer and boys are shaving. TRAGEDY.

i keep getting reader's digest in the mail for no reason.

Beautiful 1BR Crock of Shit in pre-War building. WILL NOT LAST LoNG!

Looking for an apartment in New York when the vacancy rate is at an all-time low is a real fucking HOOT, let me tell ya.

Highlights this morning: An $1100 studio in Williamsburg with no bathroom or kitchen but "Plenty of room to be creative!" and an agent who laughed at me when I told her my max monthly payment. I'm not going to be rude and disclose it. I'm old school and saying your rent is like saying how many people you've slept with or how much money you make. Let's just say it could probably be someone's mortgage, were they not living in the world's 15th most expensive (albeit #1 in the FUCKING UNIVERSE) city.

In an hour I'm going to see a one bedroom in Astoria. The ad says "15 minute commute to Manhattan!" I just looked at the address and it's 6 stops before you even transfer to the F train. IN QUEENS. which is still OUTSIDE MANHATTAN. 15 minutes my ass, Richard at MQRealty.

good underpants matter

i'm running in this race tomorrow (wednesday). i just ate cereal. i am carbo loading. i actually don't know anything about carbo loading. what do you do? eat lots of spaghetti the night before? my dad told me that once. he used to do aerobics in the 80s. back then they called it "calo" and he and my mom had matching navy jumpsuits. my mom still exercises. she takes country line dancing classes and pilates at the senior center.

i just checked the race web site and it looks like there will be a lot of people. 15 thousand. i hope there are a lot of specials and decrepits. my goal is to place in the upper third. half is fine as well. just not anything below.

i like the name of this event - JP MORGAN CORPORATE CHALLENGE. a race that celebrates not charity, not the environment, not little bald cancer kids. but industry. COMMERCE! the stuff that makes the wheels go 'round.

i read the rules and frano the nano is allowed to go. this is fantastic. some races they don't let you. i need 'bad news' by 50 when my energy level plummets. funny thing about that one. he's singing about how to properly shoot somebody and it goes

"And rule number 11, you caught a body but you not a legend
You better watch where you heading."

i always thought it was

"And rule number 11, you caught a body but you not 11.
You better watch where you heading."

i am submitting the preceding anecdote to reader's digest. look for it in the 'life in these united states' section next to the ad for land's end moccasins.

there are a lot of people running the race in my company. i don't recognize anyone from the creative department. maybe i will make vagina friends with a nice project manager or something. her name will be brooke. brooke the bevaginaed project manager.

Separated at Birth

steve sanders from 90210, fetal pig

to everything click, click, click.

A dying iPod is like a senior in the throes of dementia. Todd (his name was Todd the Pod) would go to play a song, forget what he was doing, then black out and start making wheezing noises. He'd emerge from the darkness to play a few seconds of a song, sending my hopes into the stratosphere. YES, that's right Todd! Judas Priest! You like Judas Priest! REMEMBER JUDAS PRIEST? Nurse, can you get the doctor in here? NOW! And some green jell-O.

The clarity would leave as quickly as it came. Even though no buttons were depressed, Todd would switch to a track entirely different than what was indicated on the display screen. I'm sorry, ma'am. We can make him as comfortable as possible but...Todd, what are you doing? Ma'am, we're going to need you to step out of here. Todd, THAT'S THE ALARM CLOCK. TODD, WE ARE LISTENING TO MUSIC. MUSIC. TODD, I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE. ANSWER ME!

Today I went to the Apple store and bought home Todd's replacement. Her name is Fran. Frano the Nano. Her first song was My Hood by Young Jeezy. Disposable income does wonders for grief. I turned on the Christmas lights and danced around the living room in a fit of yuppie ecstasy. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and realized I looked like a fucking iPod ad. Somewhere an ad exec is jisming.