This couple haunts more and more every day. She's trying to decide just where it all went wrong. He stopped wondering long ago because it doesn't matter. All she can do is hit the Lithium.
I chose this because it's green, and this is the month where things are green, but not for reasons of Spring.
Short stuff today; busy on another barn-burning and utterly inefficacious Screed. But I will say this:
My exposure to modern music comes mostly from what Daughter plays. Her taste is eclectic and pretty good. I asked her friend if my daughter had a reputation for her musical selection - shot in the dark, you never know. Turns out yes: the one who finds the peculiar interesting things that are -
Daughter interrupts and says I'M SO QUIRKY AND INDIE, with sarcasm.
I've been told before she's the humorously sarcastic one of her group.
She just yelled down the hallway WHY ARE YOU LISTENING TO PITBULL, and I had to say, no, I'm not; it's Nicola Fasano. Pitbull probably stole this. What I'm doing is going through the things I Shazamed as I walked through my second source of new music, or at least different music: the 333 skyway. I don't know who's in charge of the music. It's all XM radio. You get one guy at the desk, he may go for the geezery rock station, which is why the album version of "Dazed and Confused" played the other day. Then it's the 80s channel. But sometimes it's that chilly modern electronic lounge I like, and I have to stand there with my phone in the air like I'm trying to pull in a radio station from the moon, waiting until the phone vibrates to tell me it's identified the track. Then I go home and look it up on Spotify.
It's good music for doing laps around the deck of a ship. Oh, I'd like to think I would hear it in some swank nightclub where the music is played just loud enough to be heard, but not so much that conversation is impossible. But the more I think of those places they're filled with shaved-head Russian mobsters and cold, calculating women.
Most of the modern music I don't like, because I don't like the voices. I don't like the frayed and fried female style of the day, or the whatever-dude stoner buskers. I don't want to be one those of guys who never listens to the music of his era, because it's like not reading novels or seeing movies. It's saying nothing is a good.
It's giving up.
My daily commute, aside from the one downstairs to get coffee, has two routes - the highway, which is usually a five-minute drive, or the road alongside the highway. Here's an example of how giving you one view tells you nothing. When I look right:
It's the side of a defunct bar. When it was open it was one of those places whose address the cops have stored as a macro in their computer. In 2013 there was a fire that killed one man - an 85-year old fellow who'd lived in the building for decades, and used to be its caretaker. I felt bad for him; in those 85 years he'd seen Lake street slide downhill. Some blocks have rebounded, but that building was never the same after the freeway came through. So yes: urban distress. But turn to the left:
The only place one picture tells the entire story is probably Antartica.
You'll always find a painting or two, usually something done by someone who took it up later in life and got good enough so that people could tell who was in the picture. Oh, that's your sister! This one I recognize. Say, you're gettin' pretty good at this. Can you do the trim on my house?
The hook placement was accidental. Or it wasn't.
I should hold this until the Fourth. Maybe I repeat it because . . .
. . . that'll give you a few months to figure out what the devil that thing is.
Fort Street Detroit. Isn't it nice to take a break from small town decay to refresh your palate with big city decay? Although "refresh" isn't the right word, unless you regard a warm glass of rusty water as "refreshing." I don't know. You might.
Not moving a lot of washing machines these days. it seems:
Typical early 20th century commercial structure, with a 1950s remodel job. Painted sign probably comes from a later era. They couldn't match the panels on the blue side; wonder why.
Plants sprouting out of the roof.
Let us return to the days of yore:
Sometimes a man just needs to forge his composites, and needs a plce to go:
The door suggests they catered to a trade that was hunched and stooped from years of dealing with unforged composites.
Google's Street View allows you to go back in time, as noted. Today:
Yes, there's a bigger entrance; there has to be. No terminal would have such a miserable little scurry-hole. But I think it was a garage. An earlier view:
Looks better when the light bathes the bricks. The sidewalk looks well-maintained.
Nothing will ever happen here again:
The raw-hamburger look in the middle suggests they ripped off a lot of the old decorations to put on a new facade, or it's just some sort of cement. The building on the right has that hideous sixties pre-fab sheets of faux rocks. It's a mess, but once these were stores that sold goods and services that people wanted. That's over.
Five years ago:
Five years ago they probably wondered how it could get worse. Well, it did.
You can't even guess what this was:
One possible explanation: it was covered for a century by volcanic ash, and archeologists are making great progress digging it out:
A tidy building, modest, with apartments or offices upstairs and a bustling store with bright big windows below. But there's nothing left to do here anymore.
Nothing left to loot.
What did the gate lead to? These were often just ornamental, so it's odd that it's boarded up if there's nothing on the other side.
A rest home for thin people, perhaps. Very thin people.
This one might still be open, but the graffiti suggests it's not.
Its 2009 Facebook page has one entry: Friday Night BLACK OUT JUICE $2
The craptacular pseudo-Mansard roof saved the upper floor details from paint or destruction:
Compared to what it looked like when it was first built, well, you shouldn't. Compare, I mean.
This thing is enormous:
When you look in the wayback panel, you can see that space has been available for a very long time. It's a huge structure, and I wonder what it was. Surely that was a clock up there.
At least there are some signs of life, right? Clean and well-maintained:
Alas: that was 2009.
Finally: deposits currently not accepted.
I'd love to get inside. You suspect they closed the bank and walked away, and there are some gems within - a carving, a moldy mural. Perhaps just a lamp from 1963; that would be enough.
Ta; da. See you around.