Last time I mention this campaign

I think the truncated, Eminem-less Chrysler ad that they've been showing on TV (I can't find a copy of it online) post-Super Bowl is much better than the full length (better in that I think it makes their point better. I don't know if it'll sell cars or if their point is one that should be made in the first place: people have argued that it would be better to focus on the domestic car industry's improved product quality before making a general "Detroit is cool" statement and maybe they're right.)(This relates to my shorter is better idea about how the huge majority of albums should be under 30 minutes and how Kanye's latest album should've been released in "gym edit" (stripped down to the essence for Tim Taylor-like power) and "director's cut" (with all the ornate artistic flourishes that add a third to the run time of the album) editions.)

The Devil Inside

Do you ever feel like God is punishing Detroit? That nothing can be simply enjoyed? That every silver lining was manufactured by anti-union Ohio State dropouts in Akron?

The Sweatpant King passes along this depressing story about our prophesied savior (therefore the Sky itself will give you a sign: the woman will know not gasoline but will give birth to a car, and she will call him Volt. And the Sky will look down on the Volt and say: this is the chosen one, with him I am well-pleased.)

The story is almost poetic in its cruelty. 1. The Volt has to maintain a certain minimum temperature while it's charging. 2. This winter has been brutal. 3. To stave off (totally justified) certain death, rats climb into the relatively warm underbelly of the Volt. 4. Rats are disgusting. 5. I'm no scientist and I'm too lazy to read, but I think humans hating rats is pure biological instinct, an evolutionary response to the plague. 6. I don't know enough about evolution to know if you can develop an evolutionary response in a few centuries. 7. Now that I type that, I remember that people in China and some places in Africa eat rats, so my two lonely fragments of half-digested information are in conflict. 8. Mich, how'd you know about the international rat consumption if you're too lazy to read? Facebook picture albums. 9. As you might have assumed, it's not good to have rats living in your car: certain mechanical problems can occur. 10. I'm hibernating until July.

In conclusion: just when you thought winter couldn't get any worse and that rats couldn't get any worse, they form like Voltron to multiply their soul-killing power into a destructive force the world could not possibly have imagined. And the Packers are the Super Bowl champions. And tomorrow is Monday.

(Wait, must draw strength from the Chrysler ad. Must remember. Must give thanks. Rats are stupid, we can solve this. Winter will be over in six months, we can survive this. This is the motor city, this is what we do.)

Praise God for Detroit and the Dirtbombs. I'll go hard this week.

You called another time

Detroit eighth grader interviews Eminem for her school newspaper. I interviewed the notoriously taciturn Geoffrey Fieger when I was about that age, and I think that was my last journalistic encounter with a quasi-celebrity (he's a celebrity by Michigan standards.)

I also did the first ever interview of Caleb from Starling Electric in the year 2000.



He was less animated then.

It's been a long time, shouldn't have left you

My brother reminded me of an old blog we used to typity type on, and I'm still so far behind on work from being out of Michigone for a couple of weeks that I can't write anything new just yet. So let's go all the way back to 2008 for some embarassingly dated proclamations related to Detroit sports. (These are all from the first page of entries, I'm tired and lazy.)

Me:

Maybe the biggest question in sports right now is: just how good are the Hornets?... If the Stones can’t win this year, I’d love to see Nawlins do it.

The Hornets were the biggest story in all of sport? And if the Stones can't win this year. How young we were. How precious. How innocent. If the Stones can't win this year.

Pat, after a playoff win against the Celtics:

[Stuckey is] going to be a stud, like i said after watching him in the summer league. A little coming out party tonight much like tayshaun had against the magic back in his rookie year... Michigone, you still want to blow this team up and start over?

Yes, yes I do.

And here is TBone, typically restrained and subtle, after a penalty against the Wings:

i dont know if i can ever be friends with any of you ever again. the man paul bunyoned osgood in the chest. if that was your precious lebron james who suffered a shove while trying to dunk everyone would be up in arms. it doesnt matter if osgood was trying to protect his defensemen, or if he called riberio a pussy and then said he raped his wife. you dont ax hack some dude in the chest. and osgood is a crafty veteran and took a dive when that happened, smart move. i hope mccarty busts riberio's face open. then i hope he comes to this blog and tells you all are a disgrace to fandom of your HOME TEAM.

go cheer for the stars guys. seriously, i don't know any of you.

this is why the stands are empty. too much objectivity. this is subjectivity. this is detroit hockey. the red wings. i'm very upset with all of you. i feel like the native american (though i'm actually an italian dude) when he sees young people throw bags of garbage out their car window. right now, theres a tear streaming down my face reading what you write.

Yup, this is my friend.

What you know about the Great Lakes?

I need to grow, I need to go deep, I need to fast, I need to switch from donuts to Donuts.

This is what we do

This is worth saving:

Spirit of Detroit

Twitter rants are always painful to read because saying a lot requires many 140 character bursts and the viewer has to scroll down and find the beginning and then work her way back up to the top. So here's Michael Moore tweet take on the Chrysler commercial presented like paragraphs:

Re: Eminem/Chrysler ad: Putting aside the idiot execs who ran the Big 3 in2 the ground & putting aside(!) how cars melt the polr ice caps... Those of us from Detroit/Flint etc area will NEVER let Det & MI die. We r suffering through a 1-state depression, people feel abandoned... We created the Amer mid class. We were the 1s who fought 4 decent wages/health care/safer work cond--our unions&strikes made that happen... & we MI gave u Aretha, Supremes, Stevie, Madonna, Iggy, WhiteStripes, FrancisCoppola, SDS, corn flakes &Thomas Edison grew up in Pt Huron... So when the ad says "Imported from Detroit," how does it feel to think of us as a foreign country, no longer part of your America?

I'll tell u how WE feel: Your America is letting the rich run all of us in2 the ground. I'm sorry, but that's just not an option. U with us? That statue in the spot is called "Spirit of Detroit." The murals were painted by the socialist Diego Rivera. That JoeLouis fist? That's us. Thx 4 listening 2 that. I'm glad the spot ran. Moving. Reminded us Michiganders that all's not lost (btw that car's built in Detroit) Nite!

Imported From Detroit

I've never received so many texts about a commercial before:



My only question is about the symbolism of the choir singing to no one in the empty theatre while Eminem says, "This is the Motor City: this is what we do." What is what we do? Make cars, make music, make art? What are they trying to say?

Weighing on my soul now

I don't know what's up with Detroit's Alex Winston claiming New York origins on this video, but she's dope anyway:



And here's a "hidden track":

What Killed Detroit?

Charlie LeDuff is the best writer in Detroit and on Detroit and maybe the best newspaper writer in the country. If you haven't read his big Mother Jones piece ("What Killed Aiyana Stanley-Jones?") from a couple months ago, check it when you can :

No one cared much about Detroit or its industrial suburbs until the Dow collapsed, the chief executives of the Big Three went to Washington to grovel, and General Motors declared bankruptcy—100 years after its founding. Suddenly, Detroit was historic, symbolic—hip, even. I began to get calls from reporters around the world wondering what Detroit was like, what was happening here. They were wondering if the Rust Belt cancer had metastasized and was creeping to Los Angeles and London and Barcelona. Was Detroit an outlier or an epicenter?

Moving on up

There's been some great content being generated in the comment section by our thousands of readers that needs to be showcased here under the bright lights of Michigone's main stage.

First off, this amazing tale of Yzerman and urine and ladygarments:

I've heard Yzerman pee before. Yup, true story.

He was a client of mine when I worked at a high end lingerie store on Michigan Ave. He would call me 5-6 times a year and I would send him lots of hot lingerie for his wife Lisa. One time I called him and he answered while in the bathroom. He just told me to hold on while he finished and flushed. I think I heard him put the seat down too. What a gentlemen.

He was always very nice and sent me a Christmas card every year with a nice tip in it. "Thanks for all of your help this year. Merry Christmas, Steve Yzerman" I didnt keep any of the cards(much to Zach's dismay) because honestly this was pre ZJ and I didnt know a thing about hockey then. I was just happy he boosted my commission. But I'm learning and I can now throw down with any Hawks fan that comes my way. Baby steps.

My ex-girlfriend famously thought his name was "Eisenbaum." Zach's girlfriend is best friends with him. Unfair is life. I guess I'll have to overcompensate with my Paul Newman-like good looks and Paul Newman-like salad dressing empire.

Speaking of condiments, trivialstuff takes on a weighty matter:

Carry out place gripe: Is there a reason that all of these places that now use squeeze bottles to put mayo on your sandwich, wrap, pita, etc have to completely drench the sammy with mayo. They carefully measure out all your other ingredients, but the minute you ask for mayo the flood gates open up.

I mean I can't quite bring myself to order sans condiments, but I also don't need 6 servings of mayo. I always order "lite mayo" now, but even that causes confusion. Because someplaces actually have "lite mayo". So do I want that, or just not very much mayo. Dan was once asked by a friend on their way visit us in East Lansing "Do you live near Abbott Rd, or Abbott the dorm". Dan's response was "It's funny you should ask that question because the answer is Yes". Dan wasn't in the clearest state of mind. But I digress. The answer to the lite mayo quesion is also "yes". I want you to add a little bit of flavor to my turkey sandwich without increasing the Calorie content by 78 percent.

The thing is, I don't know why they feel the need to rock all that mayo anyway. Or am I just abnormal, and everyone else considers it standard to go back and forth over a sandwich with a squeeze tube of mayo 5 or 6 times.

I think we need to change the condiment conversation. Let's automatically go with less mayo unless someone asks for extra. You can always add more. It's gonna be a lot harder when I finally get agitated and ask you to remake my sub or scrape off those last two tracks of mayonnaise.

TS, I've got a solution for this problem: when the sandwich artist is finished with the first line of mayo, tell them to stop with the mayo: "That's good." That's all you have to say: "That's good." What are you doing while they spend 30 seconds flooding your sam with unwanted mayo? trading stocks, closing deals, splitting conjoined twins?

On Yzerman and "Hoarders"

I was in Boston and this guy was from Toronto and what does a guy ask another guy: so, uhh, you must be a Leafs fan, eh? "Nah, Wings fan." Oh really, me too, how come? "Steve Yzerman."

Guy was obsessed with Yzerman, lived breathed died Yzerman. Subjected himself to the ire of his family in Toronto and friends in Toronto and neighbors in Toronto to cheer for Yzerman. Spent a solid hour describing his favorite games and moments and memories of Yzerman. Flew back home to Toronto to be at the Hall of Fame when they were inducting Yzerman.

I was in Boston and this guy was from Baltimore and what does homeboy ask me: "so, uhh, you watch the NHL?" Yeah, Wings fan. "Oh really, I'm a Blues guy." Oh, sorry, I guess we can't talk anymore, I hate the Blues. "I understand, but I do love Yzerman." And now I'm the best man in his wedding next week. (Not true, but I didn't know how to end this paragraph.)

I know it sounds ridiculous, and it probably is ridiculous, but I honestly feel like I am a better person today because of the time I spent watching Yzerman and wanting to be like Yzerman. So many games, so many hours, so many years watching a guy do his job so well. Without Yzerman in my life I'd probably be selling horse while snorting horse and betting on the NHL (Not true, but that'd make for an interesting blog.) With Yzerman in my life? I'm finished my Ph.D. and developing fuel cell technology that will likely save Detroit and the environment and all that is holy. (Not true, but at least I'm writing a blog, put this on the fridge ma dukes.)

(All four of those paragraphs were just prelude to a complaint about reality television (really)(sorry.))

Here goes: my only problem with reality television is some of the people who watch reality television and my only problem with some of the people who watch reality television is when they say: "I just watch this because it makes me feel better about my life."

I swear that every conversation about "Jersey Shore" or "Hoarders" (or that new show "Jersey Shore: Hoarders"--isn't it a crazy fire hazard that that juiced-up obsessive compulsive has ten thousand cans of hair spray in his crib?!) ends with someone saying, "I only watch because it makes me feel better about my life" and me saying, "Dear Yzerman, please teleport me away from this place and into your tender embrace."

How exactly does that psychological process work, how does watching dysfunction make you feel better about your life? I gawk at car crashes all the time but I still don't have a car.

Not that I'm judging, I can't say shit, I'm the guy who just told you that my great moral leader is a hockey player. But I can say honestly that I've never had any kind of curiosity about Stevie's life off the ice (I assume he's married and whatnot?)(I have heard he loves to play golf, but I cannot think of a single other thing that I know about his life)(I hope he still keeps a house in Michigan, if only to microscopically artificially inflate real estate prices)(who wouldn't want to say Yzerman owns the crib next door?)

And Yzerman is the kind of guy you actually could watch to feel better about yourself. Watching Yzerman play hockey made me feel better about myself because he showed me what excellence is, what consistence is, what humility is. Watching Yzerman reminded me 82 times per year (+7 +7 +7, etc.) that I have the potential to be great. He gave me joy, he gave me hope, he made me aspire.

Watching drunk people or sick people can be interesting but feeling superior isn't feeling better. We are exactly where we were before the show started.

Yes we can.

Detroit Mock City

I don't have time right now to write my thrilling conclusion to yesterday's post about why eating out ruins lives and how we should fix it, but this video from my brother is just as good:

See what had happened was

Paul Clemens wrote a memoir a few years ago called Made in Detroit that I had a very mixed reaction to for reasons that I cannot recall whatsoever. But it's an interesting read and I'd recommend it to anyone who wants to try to understand Detroit and if anyone wants to read it I'll reread it with you. He's also written a new book called Punching Out: One Year in a Closing Auto Plant. Allow me to excerpt the excerpt from the Metro Times:

"I've been called a vulture by more than one company," Clark said. "That's OK: Vultures have to eat. I feel like I provide a service, just like all the people making the calls off of my newsletter are providing a service to the plant. You're closing — what are you going to do, just walk off and leave it?" The business never ceased to amaze him. Earlier in the year, he'd been at a closed plant in Massachusetts. "I'm on the fourth floor," he said, "inventorying some equipment. We're going to tear the end off of the building, move the equipment out, and then tear the building down — within the month." He was hired by the company that had closed the plant to "sell the equipment off their job site," he said. "So, I'm on the fourth floor, inventorying this equipment, and I hear this errerrerr — strange noise. So I walk to the stairwell and go down to the first floor, and, I swear to God, there, on the first floor, is a guy buffing the floor. Of a building that's going to be torn down the next month. The only two people in the building are him and me. And I stopped him and said, 'What are you doing? This building's going to be torn down in a month.' And he said, 'Really? I wondered.'"

It was, Clark said, force of habit. "That's why people sit in the shadow of a plant that has closed down and twiddle their thumbs waiting for it to come back," he said. "'The biggest employer in town is closing' — that's one of the most common statements in that Plant Closing News. 'The biggest employer in town is closing.' Single-employer towns are losing their single employer. Waiting for it to come back. 'Tain't never gonna come back, McGee."

Click here for the book. As soon as I get it I'll write about it.

Against cooking and restaurants and leftovers

I know that cooking has become America’s fifth major sport (unless competitive eating has already taken that place) and that once again I’m alienating myself from the culture by saying this but: I hate cooking and you’re all crazy.

(Not that I’m on some macho bullshit, I’ll meet you halfway, I’ll wash every dish in your crib, I’m a retired professional dish technician (summer of 1998) but I’ll Favre and get back into the game and strap on my dishtowel (I wish I had a better comparison to make than Favre, dropping his name probably doesn’t instill a lot of confidence in my sanitary habits, and somehow makes “strap on the dishtowel” sound filthy.) But rather than subjecting ourselves to all that wouldn’t it be easier to go out and get giant burritos and then, drunk on grease and joy, roll ourselves unevenly home down the sidewalk like human-sized avocados? Is that too much to ask? Wouldn’t that be more fun?)

I realized when I was leaving Boston that in the previous six months I had gone to the grocery store one time (I had purchased ten dollars worth of stuff, ten cans for ten dollars (pinto beans, black beans, Chef Boyarglee.)) For breakfast I’d usually have a bagel or bagel sandwich ($3), for lunch I’d usually have a salad the size of a bathtub ($10), and for dinner I’d usually have something like the small bag of pretzels and small bag of almonds ($3) from the convenience store. If I did that every day, it’d be about $450 a month, which seems like a lot of money but doesn’t make me sick to my stomach with regret. But it also doesn’t take into account my ten dollar a day (minimum) caffeine habit (thank Yzerman that the spot by my old office had free iced coffee refills) or going out to dinner with friends (when arranging a restaurant-based large group event, the instigator should just ask you: hey, do you want to spend $60 to sit next to the least interesting person in our social group for two hours while trying to text outsiders covertly without looking like a jackass? Yeah man, I can’t think of a good excuse right now, so that sounds wonderful, good looks on the invite, sign me up.)

My cousin is a consultant for a lot of restaurant chains and he once told me that America spends something like 700 billion dollars every year eating outside of their homes. That’s a lot of bread (in the Big Sean sense and in the Panera sense.)(Also, that figure could be absolutely wrong, I tried to confirm if my memory was accurate but I’m tired.) And then there's these related numbers from 2006:

In 1901, according to a 1997 Bureau of Labor Statistics study, the average family spent almost half of their budget on food. Just 3% of that went to meals away from home. Today, we only spend an average 13.3% of our budgets on food--but 42% of that money is spent in restaurants.

So we've got this dual process of innovation where we've gotten a lot better at cranking out very cheap food in America but we're also eating stuff made by people who don’t share our DNA a lot more than ever before.

Problems with the latter: eating out is usually more expensive than cooking at home and often a lot more expensive than cooking at home. Eating out can be a lot less healthy than eating at home (I used to work with a lady who would alwaysalwaysalways describe the giant portions at a nearby takeout spot as generous: “ooh, they’re so generous, what a generous amount of chicken, they’re very generous with the roast beef, I love how generous they are.” Generous because we’re paying them. Generous because they’re not cardiologists. Generous because they’re not the one who is going to get blinded when the button on my khakis rockets heavenward after I just spent an Ottomon Empire-sized chunk of my afternoon choking down a Greek salad the size of the Aegean Sea (someone please cut the cord to my keyboard.)

And I know what you’re thinking (and this is where the macho bullshit comes in) and, no, I won't do it. I’m not eating half of the salad and saving the other half. I’m not getting it put in a box and taking it home. Not that I’m opposed to leftovers, I love leftovers, I can eat the same thing over and over for days. And maybe this will change now that I’m back in Michigan and everyone drives everywhere, but before that I couldn’t handle the process of getting the leftovers put in a box and leaving the leftovers on the table and realizing and turning around and going back in to get the leftovers and walking the leftovers eight blocks to the subway and holding the leftovers for 20 minutes on the train and everyone staring at you going, “you couldn’t finish your salad?” Like the takeout place guy, the guy who gives his leftovers to the beggar on the street is not generous. He’s just tired of carrying the box.

And I know what you’re thinking: “You’re right about everything, I’ve never agreed with someone so often, my head hasn’t bobbed this much in a four minute span since the first time I listened to Jay's “Hard Knock Life.”” And I appreciate you thinking that. And for the first time in my life I have an actual solution to what I’m complaining about and a way to make life better. But I need to go out to lunch. More tomorrow.

The boy that cried Big Sean

When the hell is Detroit's Big Sean finally going to have his album released by Kanye? I've been telling people Sean's about to blow up for so long that it's going to be anticlimactic when it actually happens. It's like when Matt told me 15 years ago that someone was about to release a personal laser razor to shave your face with. I've asked him for a dropdate every six months since and still nothing and you know what: you can keep your stupid laser razor now, I won't be fooled anymore, the slow bleed from cuts on my neck gives my shirts character, I enjoy getting shaving cream in my mouth when I try to drink coffee mid-scrape (your boy can multitask.)

On whining

One of my least favorite things about writing is rereading things later and going: who unleashed that endless string of cliches and all around wackness out into the world? That was me? Surely someone hacked my account, they did me like they did Carmelo! This is especially true for me with blogging because I’m publishing anything that’s on my mind and with no editorial team to say: hey, homesickle (note: that’s what my theoretical editing squad would call me), that sentence has fourteen commas, tone that down, and be funnier and go harder. And at least those poems I wrote when I was a kid that I find hidden in old books like humility daggers--did I really rhyme “home” with “fall of Rome”?--I can blame on divorce and hormones and Elliott Smith albums. It’s worse to regret stuff I wrote yesterday. The guy who wrote the post twelve hours ago is only eight cups of coffee and one boxing lesson away from the guy I am now. But still that guy said some ish that I want to back away from.

In the post from yesterday I talked about feeling adrift, and feeling like no one--not even my icon Michael Moore--was inspiring in me any great confidence in the future of Michigan. And your response to that should be: aww, were you ornery because moms was too busy to make you dinner (yeah, how’d you know that, do you have my address, can you send a pizza over?) and, so what, do something about it.

I’m mostly into hip-hop at the moment, but the greatest cultural influence on my life has long been punk rock. Not that the aesthetic ever appealed to me (I know we’re into standing out, but it sure seems like a lot of work) or that I ever identified with the community (is this rebellion or are we bothering people just to bother people and can we turn those speakers down, it’s a weeknight) or even obsessed over the music that much (I never loved it the way I loved Wu-Tang or Nas or Damien Jurado.) But there is real liberation to be found in punk’s unapologetic nature and rejection of established institutions. Record labels don't like our music, we’ll start record labels. Venues don't want us around, we’ll play in our friends’ basements. Bathrooms won’t let us take showers, we won’t shower (just playing, I don’t know where the anti-cleanliness ethos came from.) We’ll do it ourselves.

The problem is that these problems are so big. There are no DIY solutions to the global economic crisis and environmental degradation and winter being so damn cold and long and freezing and lengthy and icy and endless. But the best lesson of punk rock--that you don’t need anyone’s permission or blessing to live how you want to live--is huge and hugely energizing. If you want more for your life, if you need more, go be more, don’t wait for Moore (I’m sorry, I know, but I had to.)(And I’ll stop saying sorry, that’ll be my last apology in the history of this blog.)(Wait, I should also apologize for saying punks reject societal expectations for hygiene, that’s an unfair stereotype.)(But, seriously, go to a basement show and tell me what you experience.)(Let’s move on.)

On dating in Michigan and having a good friend

TBone: you e-mailing my girl, dawg?
Michigone: yeah man
TBone: you nudging me out?
Michigone: straight-up pushing you out
TBone: not cool
Michigone: compromise, three way relationship? more ESPN, less pressure, best of all worlds. but we might need a bigger bed, i sleep oblique
TBone: your ability to meet girls is oh, bleak

On Michael Moore and winter and the economy

Michigan’s biggest problem is the weather. Specifically, the winter. It snows every day, every, single, day, I can’t stand it. As soon as I make enough money I’m establishing dual residency in Michigan and Costa Rica and you won’t see me from when the Lions are mathematically eliminated from playoff contention until the Tigers’ home opener. Unless you live in Costa Rica, in which case, holler at your boy. And, actually, it’s always freezing for Tigers’ opening day, so I’ll be back in June for the Stanley Cup parade. Our only hope on this matter is that global warming continues to the point that Michigan becomes a thin strip of grass from Houghton to Detroit, an archipelago like the Florida Keys on HGH, and I’ll be living in a loft in Lansing that overlooks both Lake Michigan and Lake Huron.

Michigan’s second biggest, and even more depressing, problem is the economy.

I was in self-exile in Boston for eight years, I just got back two weeks ago, I don’t know up from down, I’m looking for something, I’m hungry. And who is always interesting and provocative and happens to live down the street? Michael Moore, who did a lengthy interview with the Traverse City Record-Eagle recently. Check the first minute of this (or watch the whole thing, but I’m only going to talk about the first minute right now):



Even Michael Moore becomes boring and conventional when talking about the economy! No wonder that we’re thoroughly unenthused whenever politicians (who are best served to never take strong positions about anything) talk about this stuff.

I love Michael Moore, I was an early adopter, “Roger & Me” influenced me deeply when I was a kid. When Michael Moore first came into the record store that I worked at, probably around the year 2000 when I was 16, I swooned like a Spice Girl had entered the room (probably the first time Mr. Moore has gotten that comparison) and forced myself to go talk to him: “Hi, Mr. Moore, sorry to bother you, I’m a big fan, I love your movies, I love your writing, I love your hat, I love the music videos you made for Rage Against the Machine, what are Rage Against the Machine like, oh they’re cool, they seem cool, I bet they’re cool, it’s nice to hear they’re cool.” He politely continued shopping and when I rang him up I was shocked that he used a credit card: Michael Moore, using a credit card! Shouldn’t he be leading protests against the banks or something? Shouldn’t he be paying me with autographs from Zach de la Rocha or something? Shouldn’t I be paying him for something? And when he became one of the most important filmmakers of the last decade, I felt weirdly validated, like it was a recognition of Michiganders everywhere: I’ve seen this dude, he really exists, and he’s doing something, he’s saying something, he’s building something, it’s possible. And he’s polite! And he uses credit cards!

I know I’m being critical and unfair here, but in that video clip Michael Moore says if he was in charge the first thing he would do is appoint a jobs ambassador to represent the region and talk about how awesome it is to live and work here and try to convince people to move their operations from somewhere else to here and--I don’t know, am I crazy?--it just seems too small. We’re playing a rigged game and we’re getting killed and we’re losing everything but we’re too scared to leave the table. Or at least ask for a new deck. And we just keep playing with the same people and we can’t believe how bad our hands are getting.

Even worse than the insecurity about our tangible livelihoods is the helplessness, the psychological toll that comes from not knowing how to make life better. The death of organized labor has left a gaping ideological hole in our discourse. The Democrats have no clear argument about the economy and the Republicans just want less taxes and less regulation and demand more and more takebacks from the remaining stable, unionized, middle class (those three used to all mean the same thing) jobs: teachers, nurses, government workers.

That being said, it’s a great time to be rich in Michigan. Hopefully my business takes off (I’m starting a line of super high-end dental floss that uses GPS technology) before the economy rebounds and I can buy the whole village of Northport for the price of the SUV it’ll cost me to drive to my house when all municipal roads are no longer plowed.

In all seriousness, I loved working in the service sector, I never had more fun at a job than selling records to the regulars and to tourists and to Michael Moore. But I was 16, and I recycled every penny I had back into the store (trickle-up economics, pay vinyl addicts to work in your music store.) Now I’m 26 and I want more and I don’t know where to find it.

State of the State of the State of the

For the eight years I lived in Boston, I always tried to engage in the community however I could, volunteered at places that were making it better, campaigned for a couple of days for the guy who became their first black governor (I could've done more but his office was located on an inconvenient subway line), booed the Yankees, got outside the tourist areas and saw a little bit about how the people who actually live in the city actually live in the city. But that was it. I'd make resolutions about how I was going to wake up and read the Globe and engage with this place where I was living and figure it all out and then I'd wake up and buy the Globe and my eyes would cataract and I'd skip to the sports section and what do I care about the Bruins and let's get online and see how the Wings did.

It's not good, the disconnect. If my brother was dying I'd break down walls to get to him. If my friend's brother was dying I'd open every door. But then I read online about some kid in Ohio dying and damn, that really sucks, and I'm clicking Ashley's 200 pictures from her trip to Las Vegas and you'll never believe it but she posed in front of that casino and that casino and that casino and she is cute, isn't she cute, you have to admit that she's cute, and I've heard so much about those Vegas buffets, I'm hungry, I should've copped those 7-Eleven nachos when I had the chance.

Now I'm back in Michigan and I'm ready to get my act together, I'm ready to put some roots down, improve something for somebody, make a home and tend the lawn (until I make enough money to pay someone to tend the lawn) and start popping out kids like it's nine months after Las Vegas. And tonight was Governor Snyder's first State of the State address and I watched it, the whole thing (well, I had to piss midway through and I zoned out a bit toward the end but I was physically present for the huge majority of it. And I would have gone back and watched the stuff I missed but my house doesn't have DVR, what century are we living in, I think Sir Edwardo Comcast must have installed our box himself via candlelight.)

Breaking news: Snyder says Snyder is going to create jobs. Have you heard that we're lacking jobs? We are. But Snyder is going to create them. By measuring how many we have. "We will measure and measure and measure--and that is how we will succeed" (loose quote, I don't have DVR.) You hear that, children of the Michigan diaspora? We're going to start measuring. Please be home by Easter to collect your job.

The best part of viewing the State of the State was watching the new Lieutenant Governor sit awkwardly in the throne directly behind the Governor at the podium and stare up smilingly at the back of Snyder's domepiece. It was probably the biggest professional day of the guy's life so far and he's still basically embedded on his boss's backside. A good lesson for all of us: don't let your job define you, it's not your fault if you look funny back there.

Actually, the best part was when the PBS host was narrating the Governor's family's entrance into the chamber and said something like, "There's Snyder's twentysomething son--he's... looking for work." Even the Governor's son is unemployed! We're all in this together! I bet he wishes his dad were a Democrat, a Democrat definitely would've scrounged up some kind of paycheck for his kid somewhere in some Lansing agency.

The worst part, as with all of these speeches, is the constant fake clapping and the endless standing ovations about nothing.

"You know, my predecessors felt that burning old people for fuel would be a great way to boost revenue, but, you know what, in my administration, that simply won't be an option." [Crazy applause/standing ovation.] "As a matter of fact, I won't allow even the oldest of the old people to be converted into fuel." [Three euphoric senators faint like the front row of a Drake show/standing ovation.] "That's just me, that's the kind of person I am: I won't tolerate your grandparents being burned for fuel!" [Crowd reacts like Joe Dumars finally traded Rip Hamilton/standing ovation.]

This isn't a phenomenon limited to the television viewer. I attended a few of these speeches in Boston and it feels just as stupid when you're there, standing up and down as fruitlessly as me back in the day at high school dances: "New song, might stand up and see what's going on, nice little song we got here, what's happening, might just nod my head a little bit, see where that leads, might sway my knees a little bit here, yep, here we are, at the dance, this song sucks, why did I ever like this song... oh, look, a chair!"

Who are they standing up for and why? The viewers are bored and anxious. The Governor knows he didn't just become a Dr. King-like oratorical genius. The congresspeople aren't used to working this late and they're all tuckered out. So why do we insist on all this antiquated and superficial nonsense? Rick needs to get to the hard parts: measuring our way out of this mess and finding his son some work. And I'm as confused about what we should be doing as ever, but at least I invested an hour. I haven't watched that much PBS since I stopped gambling with friends about how much people's stuff would be worth on "Antiques Roadshow." I guess I'm older now.