Happy Halloween from your local establishments

I walked into Matthews Medical Bookstore today and I was greeted by a bowl of candy. “Fantastic,” I said to myself as I eyed the treats and continued walking. The friend I was with bought a box of gloves and the cashier then offered us some cider from a nearby jug. We obliged and it wasn’t until that moment it dawned on me that this was a Halloween promotion. They had apples for sale, candy corn in cups, a candy bowl, and a selection of Halloween/autumnal scrubs out front. I even eyed an orange stethoscope which I would not be shocked to find was part of the promotion. I am not sure the exact daily patronage of the Matthews Medical Bookstore, but let me just say that other than at the beginning of the semester, I have never had any company in the store. Needless to say, on this day, I was surprised to find the lengths the staff had gone to prepare for the Halloween festivities.

The Medical Bookstore party got me thinking of all the crazy promotions that places use. I can understand a car dealership, furniture store, or even a large Barnes and Noble type bookstore using such a promotion. But for maybe ten customers a day, it seemed like the Halloween party was a little much. I mean, I appreciated it, and maybe that’s the point, but I also walked away feeling depressed. I just imagined people all over setting up little Halloween promotions for twelve customers. I suppose I should have been more hopeful. Maybe the goal wasn't to make more money, just to show people a little love. I enjoyed the friendliness, but the thought of someone planning such an event and only fifteen people witnessing it seemed a bit crazy. In retrospect, however, I am starting to feel quite fond of the experience (maybe my evening beverage is playing a role, but still). I am glad that someone took the time for their co-workers and a few customers to spice up the day. Happy Halloween to you Matthews Medical Bookstore of Detroit. I hope someone buys your orange scrubs.

Regional Bias

I just returned from patrolling the streets of Detroit to ward off any would be arsonists. I was armed only with a dinky flashing yellow light, a goofy hat (which did entitle me to free white castle, see 10/18 for more details on the WC), and the brawn that I and my three other partners carried (which was a lot). Rather than wax philosophical on the urban plight that drives its own residents to burn their own neighborhoods, I am going to wax philosophical (or not, I really don’t know what that means) about the term “Devil’s Night.”

Apparently, due to the prevalence of Arsonists, the night before Halloween in Detroit has been termed “Devil’s Night.” I grew up knowing that Devil’s Night was the night before Halloween and that I was, as a rebellious youth, supposed to cause some sort of ruckus (toilet paper, eggs, etc.). However, it wasn’t until I went to school in Indiana that I realized people had never heard of Devil’s Night. Which blew my mind. Never hearing of Devil’s Night was as preposterous as never hearing of Christmas and New Year’s. It simply was. Maybe you could celebrate it on a different day or in a different form and i.e. Hanukkah or Chinese New Year. No cultural offense intended, I know Hanukah and Christmas are different, both just involve gift giving winter-season events and can (sometimes) both be spelled starting with a C.

Yet I digress. The point is, that not knowing about Devil’s Night was a completely new and unfathomable observation. I may rate it on par with discovering that not all children were boys (I don’t remember that realization, but they seem analogous). I went on to further discover that people don’t even sing the right version of Rudolph the red nose reindeer. Instead they interject incorrect exclamations at the end of lines. For example, the reindeer game Rudolph played in my book was Monopoly. Rudolph went down in history like George Washington. And all the reindeers shouted out with glee, like the toothpaste (that one never made sense, but I just went with it; apparently gleem was a popular toothpaste).

All that to say, some of you may argue with Rudolph’s activities and I find your answers unacceptable. I am amazed by the effect that growing up in one area with one set of norms has on me. I still cannot imagine a place anywhere where the day before Halloween is not occasion to form a city-wide patrol preventing arson. I will never accept an alternate version of Rudolph. And, no matter what anyone from Indiana, Ohio, or any other state says, Euchre was and always will be a Michigan game.

F-O-X. Fox.

One of the most interesting facets of my new place is that I can clearly see the glowing “FOX” sign atop one of Detroit’s finest establishments: The Fox Theatre. Not only do I have a perfect view of the glowing neon (and color changing-sign) from my living room, but from almost every single point in my current residence (which is not a large surface area) I can see the sign. Imagine a flashing red, white, purple, and blue equivalent of Mona Lisa’s eyes. The thing follows me everywhere in my place. I am not disturbed by this fact, rather I love it. When I wake up in the morning, I usually throw on a pot of coffee and spend the next five minutes staring at the three glowing letters. The sign comforts me for some strange reason.

A related facet of my current home is that now when driving towards the city of Detroit, I am actually moving closer to home. That means, no matter what angle I am approaching the city from, I can just follow the skyline and it will take me home. Although the constant traffic noise and lack of greenery can be disconcerting, there is something generally comforting about city-life, even Detroit city-life. I think the Fox sign exemplifies this. Not only does it brighten my apartment, it beckons to me saying “sure you can see me, but do you know how many other people are watching me too.” For some reason, this comforts me, and in a strange way I enjoy the community the sign provides. Goodnight Fox, Goodnight Detroit.

The real meaning of Halloween

Somewhere from eight years old to twenty-two years old Halloween transitioned from being about chocolate candy to being about eye-candy. However, the costumes remain largely unchanged, only slightly suffixed. The following former costumes vampire, cowgirl, ghost, zombie and cheerleader have now been turned into vampire-slut, cowgirl-slut, ghost-slut, zombie-slut and, well cheerleader. I guess some things never change (kidding in case any of my extra-spirited friends are reading). However, the fact that girls use Halloween as an excuse to dress skanky is almost as cliché as using a sheet to make a ghost costume. My class party this year even has an award for “most provocative.” I am guessing they are not taking about a costume that really makes you think.

However, the flip side of the female’s role, is the standard costume’s guys wear. Sometimes we’ll attempt to be comical and fail just slightly short. For example, a couple years back I went as “guy caught in a windstorm” and a friend went as “guy being electrocuted.” Other than him having an extension cord sticking out of his fly, I don’t think we quite pulled it off. However, I think the bulk of Halloween costumes for guys are attempts to be some sort of archetypal Chuck Norris like character. I have seen costumes for Rambo, Neo (of the Matrix), hardcore cops, and a slew of other large gun slinging characters. I am not sure what Halloween costumes say about a person. Maybe that girls want attention and guys want to be Chuck Norris. Then again, tell me something I don’t know.

I admit, I like TV (but not that much)

Maybe its because I just finished a semester-like test, or maybe because I recently moved out of my home, but in the past few days, I have had a sort of reacquainting myself with the world of television. I am not talking about sitting in front of the boob tube all day and vegging-out. I am talking about actively engaging with whatever show is on and investing myself emotionally, physically, mentally, and the like in every episode.

For example, my roommate and I were searching for a thirty minute show our cable box offered “On-Demand” the other day as a study break. The only non-drama we could find was Kid Nation; so we gave it a go. Seven episodes and a few days later, we haven’t looked back. The original appeal may be slightly wearing off, but I have already, picked my favorites, my love-to-hates, and my hate-to-loves of the show. After my roommates favorite kid does something cruel or stupid, I yell at my roommate the absurdity of his choice. He does the same to mine. We discuss the finer character traits of eight year-olds as if we are debating finely aged wines. Their just kids, but put in the world of Kid Nation, you can see the ridiculousness of life and especially the absurdity of the way the kids mimic phrases they have heard adults use. To shake things up, the four-member “council” awards a twenty-thousand dollar gold star each work and the jockeying the kids do for the star is ridiculous. All that to say, I feel as if in some weird way I know the kids on the show.

I have always enjoyed a good comedy, but I can never remember a show were I just wanted to hang out with the characters as much as “The Office.” I feel as if Jim would just be a riot to hang out with, and watching the show, I feel as if I am. The looks at the camera move the show from a mere voyeuristic delight to a strange illusion of actual interaction.

I had a hard time changing the channel yesterday, because Denzel Washington was starring in Déjà vu. Any time Denzel is on the screen, I can hardly turn away. You just know he is about to do something incredibly B.A. Even though I have already seen the movie, and my friend owns it, when it graces the television screen, I could hardly bring myself to turn it off. I don’t believe this is because I didn’t have to go through the effort of putting a DVD in the player, but actually because deep down I know that somewhere else, someone else is watching this same movie with me.

Which brings me to the crux of my recent TV renaissance. I am not sure the illusion of community that TV brings is bad. I used to. I used to dream of owning a home without a television (and actually still plan on it). When my “introductory offer” runs out on my cable, I will cancel it. However, in small doses, juxtaposed with actual interaction, I think that a good television show can be good medicine. No expectations, no requirements, just actively engaging with the interesting world that lie out there. It’s strange for me to think about how people would eat dinner in front of the TV and treat it like a fifth family member. But in a weird way, I think that in moderation that sort of attitude can be healthy. Obviously, the state of things in our culture is probably out of hand and I cannot bring myself to endorse most of what is on television. But as a relaxed form of passive active engagement, TV has grown dear to me. And if I am hooked on “Kid Nation,” who knows what show I’ll be watching next.

Test Day

Today was test day. Medical school test day is pretty much like college test day, except for the fact that the test day is eight hours and half of that is spent walking around a room full of cadavers. Still you have the same distinct characters taking the test who I will describe below.

The early-finishers: I swear, every test the instructor just finishes passing out the one-hundred question exam and at least one student pops up from their chair and heads to the front of the room. Everyone assumes they have bladder issues but then they place their scantron in the finished pile and bound away after four grueling minutes of test taking. Seriously? Did you even read the questions? How can you be in medical school if either a) you don’t bother to actually take a test with full concentration or b) you have sort of ultra-speed power to read, discern, and select the best answer at a rate of 3 thousand words per minute.

Then, there’s the rest of us. I am sure the early finishers have some of the following quirks, but they leave so early I couldn’t pick up on them.

The caffeinated – Part 1 – The bladder busters: This group is frequently confused with the early-finishers because they had to the front of the room at roughly the same time: moments after the test starts. Likely, they decided to down a thermos of coffee after pulling an allnight studying session or just to kick-start test day. About fourty-five minutes later, they find themselves trapped in a testing room and make it about three minutes before waddling to the bathroom in hopes they don’t spend the rest of test day with a characteristic centrally located wet spot. Luckily, they get their problem taken care of early, and often as they leave at least three times in a two-hour test. To qualify for this group, not only must you have a bladder the size of a peanut and a ridiculous penchant for morning liquids, but you must have some sort of ADD to allow you to pop in and out of your seat once every quarter hour

The caffeinated – Part 2 – The bouncers: Some lucky souls can hold their bladders after having to much caffeine. What they cannot hold with their jittering extremities, are their papers, pencils, water bottle, or their own physical body. Once sitting in the seat, they inevitably bounce paper, pencils, pens, and the like all over in a spastic manner. Sometimes, they may become situated and start getting in a groove for a short while. Soon, however, they start to twitch. Think Will Smith doing the shoulder thing where he pretends to hold one from dancing while the other starts. That is what these kids do all test day. They slowly bounce, their left leg, then their right, and then, inexplicably they start bouncing on their toe faster than a hummingbird flaps his wings. I get tired just looking at the bouncing leg, or arm, or pencil, or whatever organ seems to erupt in to spontaneous vacillations. And I cannot not look. I am always situated with two of these individuals located just on my periphery. I see just enough so the constant movement captivates 90% of my attention. Usually, however, by the last ten questions of the test, the leg has stopped bouncing, the caffeine has worn off, and this unlucky student finds him or herself sleepily drooling on their scantron.

The anti-mimes: The anti-mimes are those people who love to be incredibly expressive in all facets of life. During a test, this includes a response to all questions and choices. These are the kind of people who spend half of the time at movies looking at the screen, and the other half looking around to make sure that others see them laughing. Since no one is paying attention to facial expressions during an exam, they resort to audible responses. An easy question draws out a slight laugh as if to see “please, don’t kid me.” A hard question forces a “hmmmm” from the test takers lip. I have not yet learned how to interpret the cacophony of other sounds that erupt from their lips throughout the test. Sighs, throat clears, yawns, and every other audible expression imaginable manage to force their way out of these test takers.

The snifflers: Self explanatory. The only confusing thing is in a room full of people with reams of paper in the form of tests, how could their not be a single piece of paper towel or anything else to wipe the perpetual drain from their nasal cavity.

The paper shufflers: The souls who are determined rather to take the test in sequential order, do approximately one question from each page as to maximize the time spent riffling through pages. I’m not sure if this strategy is effective for anything else than making the people around you crazy. However, when they are done taking the test, their papers at least look as if they took out some aggression on them, so props for that.

The tortoises: Whether it be a nine question test or a nine-hundred question test squeezed into eight minutes or eight hours, the members of this clan will use every last second of allotted time. I am not sure if they pace themselves, allowing ten full minutes for each multiple choice question, or if they just retrace their decision making process for each question six times over. Whatever the method, they make sure they don’t give up their exams until the last call is given out. Again, I am not sure the advantage of this strategy, but it does ensure that by the end of the exam, they will likely have the room to themselves. Maybe not a bad deal after all given the aforementioned.

A Random Post

I have a problem with the current state of vocabulary in our great nation. My age group peers (and those unfortunately following in their footsteps) have inundated our language with the use of a single word so completely, as to devoid a good word of all meaning. Some may site the emergence of a fragmented post-modern worldview and the alienation of the human experience as the source of the predomination of this word, to which, I say “hogwash” (there’s an underused word).

For example, I will use the defiled word below in a variety of contexts that I have heard it used in recently (or at least am sure someone would use them in).

“I had a fun night, but it was so random.”

“Jake is a blast. He’s so random.”

“I randomly ran into him at the store the other day.”

“That couch is so random”

The last example might be the worse. That couch is random? Is it? Does it, as the great Miriam Webster (I know its not a person) once said “lack a definite plan,” or “Have elements with a definite probability of experience.” Or did it, as our good friend, the condensed Oxford English Dictionary states, “happen without conscious decision” or “involve equal chances of each item.” In one case, I do believe the couch did “happen without conscious decision” because it could not choose. It is a couch. However, I think a word like inanimate more adequately meets that criteria.

The use of the word chafes me, not because I really care that there is one less adequate word to choose from, but because the sentiment underlying its usage is that the occasion described by it is so extraordinarily unfathomable, it must have been random. It is not random to see a friend at the store. You both shop, you did not “randomly” run into each other. Simply because you did not plan on running into them, doesn’t make it random. I didn’t plan to write this post today, but I decided to do it. The decision wasn’t random. If you both had a wheel at home with certain destinations such as: store, bar, café, home on it and you both spun your wheel and ended up at the store, it could have been random.

Jake is not random because he does stupid crap. More than likely he plans to do stupid crap because you like it. If he had a bag of possible stupid things to do in his pocket, and randomly selected one, I would agree that Jake is not only random, but also a blast.

Finally, the random night, was probably not random at all. I think anything that takes place after a certain critical point in the evening is considered random because the alcohol in the system did not allow logical decision making. The opposite of logical is not random, it is illogical. There I think is the rub underlying the whole issue.

I really don’t know why this one word chafe me more than others though, it’s so random.

(Why Walk Down Woodward)

My eyes were tired of staring at words of images about the heart, lungs, throat, abdomen, thorax, sacrum, iliac, and the combinations iliolumbar, iliosacral, laryngopharynx, splenorenal, gastroduodenal, pancreatico-do-I-really-have-to-do-this? My mid-day beer was wearing off, along with my morning patience, so my roommate had no trouble convincing me to go for a walk. I realized, I hadn’t left the apartment all day, and a trip to the outside world seemed nice.

In fact, so nice, I nearly forgot that the outside world hardly existed after five p.m. in Detroit. Instead, wide-laned roads were filled with ghost cars. Broad sidewalks masquerading as busy promenades, functioned then only to buffer dirt-burned lots from black-asphalt roads. We walked slowly towards the party store where we hoped to buy enough soda to last us the day or two until the test. The only greeting we received as we passed by was the glinting reflection from the cast iron bars lain across the front door. “The Source” of urban apparel (I assumed) was likewise shuttered. So too, were just about every check-cashing, liquor-lotto, and grubby corner café we passed by.

The first interaction I had with the outside world all day (my roommate and the technological wonder that is facebook excluded) was a startled bum popping up from a doorframe, blocked with wood just enough to nestle him beneath an ominious pair of eyes on a sign reading “this area is being watched.” I wondered if he was doing the watching, or if someone was supposed to be watching him sleep. “What time is it?” he exclaimed as if he was late for an appointment somewhere. I wondered if his reaction would have been different if I had quoted him a time seven hours on either side of the actual six-twenty p.m. A young lady in a wheel-chair solicited us for her bus fare and we gently obliged supplying a nickel more than she asked.

After passing half a dozen condo establishments in the works, we finally stumbled upon a party store still open and stocked with soda. We selected a fine variety of locally produced ginger ale (if you live outside of Michigan, be sure to try it if you see it, a real treat). Walking out of the store a women with a twenty-four ounce beer can in a paper sac asked us for some change. We both again obliged and made some small talk. Her male friend, or at least, street colleague for the moment, asked what we were doing for the night. We shrugged, and he proceeded to detail the race (Detroit Free Press Marathon) we missed the day before. The woman made some slurred small talk as well, and asked if we just got off work. I replied “kind of” thinking a study break classified as “just getting off-of work” in a way. She informed me that she wouldn’t have gone to work either.

We continued back towards our domicile, passing-by closed down businesses, abandoned lots, forlorn apartments, until reaching an open bistro with beautiful floral arrangements meeting all of its seven guests, and also, twenty or so empty tables. An escalade parked next to us, complete with yorkie terrier poking out the window. A woman in front of us overheard our commentary and exclaimed, “She brings it with her everywhere. Bet she’ll bring it right in here” as she pointed to a check cashing establishment.

Right then, a man shouted his evening plans to an uninterested passerby and a ball-capped fellow shouted “that’s the original . . .” assumedly in unison with the rapper in his headphones. We watched, like spectators in a movie, out of place in this entire experience, and further estranged from a world by both the absence of ourselves from it for the entire 9-5 day and the absence of life outside after that day is over in the city. The people we ran into were unfamiliar, but pleasant, and their lives, to me, an entire mystery. So too then was the walk in a city abandoned years ago, but with the air as if someone might just try hard enough one day to restore it. So, until then, I think I’ll try and walk the desolate streets when I can, and hope they become less desolate.

The long way home

I am now convinced that the string of towns I have always seen on maps connecting cities like Detroit, Flint, and Grand Rapids do exist. Before, I may have believed that they were trivial villages set just-a-bit back from the interstates to give important people going important places something to keep them awake on cross state journeys. Recently, however, I seemed to have developed a penchant to eschew the interstate thoroughfares I formerly swore by, and search out the black-and-white signs denoting state or national roadways. I don’t think I will ever look back.

The difference between the fast-lane on the interstate and the winding lane through various small towns and villages is incredible. On the internet, all I do is tick down the miles until I reach my exit. On the back roads, I find myself spending a ton of time looking behind me. What did that sign say? What kind of tree is that? Was I supposed to turn there? Instead of being consumed with the destination I become lost in the journey. The journey includes making a turn on a road because it is heading towards the evening sun and you want to go west. The journey includes pulling off to see the world’s third largest beef-jerky store (for the record, if that claim were true, the fourth largest store would have to only be selling one strip of jerky). The journey includes heading a little out of my way because my map has a blue water way by US – 49, and US – 45 hasn’t done anything for me in miles. The journey is fantastic.

When I end up at the destination I find myself refreshed, encouraged and ready to start the next leg of my journey, this one without standing still. I am more connected to the world, because I know for sure that there exists a universe between my destinations not just the wormhole of the interstate. Sure I may have lost an hour or two by sitting at stop lights or wandering winding roads, but I would gladly take three hours of living over two hours of hastening to a place so I can start to live.

Friday Night Live

It is currently 10:20 pm and I am about to retire on a Friday night. This has occurred before, but never with the amount of studying put in before hand as I did this Friday night. The sad part is not that I studied on a Friday night, but that I studied without thinking twice about what I was doing. I had no alternative until I was about to go to bed and I realized I did a lot of studying during a time when I usually attempt to do anything but. However, in a few days, I’ll have completed 75% of my first set of courses and be on East zee street. Also known as E Z street (when you study too long, your jokes suffer. Well, if you had a sense of humor in the first place they would have).