Riley and I walked down to Caniff & I-75, where we met Matt for a hand-off of the newly minted Ann Arbor Paper put out by Hoard & his Laura. The walk was nice. In front of Krot Funeral Home we chatted with an old Polish lady who has a 12-year-old Pekinese that is not allowed out of the house. They used to have a Cocker Spaniel, 18 years they had that dog, and then the tumors, they developed, and doggie had to be put to sleep. They had her since she was so small. Nice lady to stop and chat with. And then a guy heading across I-75 to Detroit, he decided Riley was probably a mix of Terrier and Chihuahua. She can attract attention some days.

Some of the buildings along Caniff:
08.11.03: Linking instead of posting some of these photos in an effort to correct a Blogger archiving error I'm having.

Planet Ant Theatre
Krot Funeral Home
St. Lads
Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant
Old funeral home and new Muslim H.Q. of some kind.

My girl (Dawn) cannot see me today. She left a message, short and to the point, and sucking in crying. Not whining crying, but the hopeless torture chamber kind of crushing that I know her life is. I think it's happening now, her spirit is finally being crushed. I've been amazed over the years at how she stays so sane in the face of her life, the goons running her asylum, and now it's finally too much, I think. That's what it sounds like. It happened to me. I want to forget mine, but I want to help her. Mostly, though, I am just an audience, a friendly face in the stands watching the wreck.

I finally accepted the reality of how bad it really was for me. For years. It hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks two nights ago leaving the movies. Harry and I saw Freaky Friday, and there is the best stepdad ever in that movie. That, combined with the earlier call to Dawn and her dead numbness that I remember so well, just crashed it home. It really was that bad for me. And the part that clicked in that I have never really got before was the humiliation of it all, of how everyone else in my world saw it, saw how rude and mean and humiliating my stepdad was to me, but it was just an accepted part of life. That's why I guess I've had trouble tuning into it having been that bad, because life went on relatively normal all around it. What, was I some kind of freak that it was okay to treat me like that? I guess that's the conclusion one would draw.

Keri O'Kee

Tonight I am out on the town with my oldest friend, who dates back as early as the 3rd grade, to sing karaoke. Public reading on Tuesday, singing outloud in front of people today. I must make myself give this a go. Ahhhh! My buddy, Carrie, is a local karaoke superstar who goes by the name Keri O'Kee. Ha ha ha!

So I've been using my neti pot for a few days, and this morning I think I overdid the salt, because I feel like I'm drowning off the coast of Florida today. (That's not me in the video, but what a hoot, eh!? Weirdo as it the neti seems, my sinuses have never been better.)

Hello. And welcome to Thursday's edition. You will find an updated links section down to your right; let me provide you with a brief tour of today's offerings:

vintage mobile homes This fine site treats the viewer and frequent link-clicker to photos of vintage mobile homes and their parks, as well as other exciting views of mobile home fun. Unfortunately, I have not found a match for my beloved cottage, a vintage mobile home with a one-room addition.

motor city rocks Here we find a superior source of all things Detroit music, from show dates to band descriptions to photos and blurbs of even neighborhood dive bars. Being quite familiar with the latter, watch for my write-ups of several in the coming weeks. Three cheers for the creators of this site and their labor of love.

tornado footage If you haven't watched this yet, go do so now. It's amazing, terrifying, and just like my childhood nightmares. Very cool. And have sound turned on if possible. In fact, watch it with the video window maximized to full view where it takes up your whole monitor; I just did this, and can barely stand to watch it so big -- too scary!

Enough for now; the tour will continue after this brief intermission.

A million years ago I became a mentor to an incredible person named Dawn. She was 8 years old when we met, and this Fall she'll be a high school sophmore. The entire experience with Dawn has been filled with pain for me, because I love her so much and feel I can't be what she fully deserves, and because I re-live my own miserable experience through hers. After dropping her off after our visits, I sob all the way home. I want to HELP HER. I want to give her the childhood, and now teenagehood, that she deserves. That won't make her go insane. But I am so limited! And there is such guilt in that, because I sure as hell am bitter than nobody saved me when I was trying to survive in her shoes. She's the scapegoat to every insecurity and asshole bone her (step)father has. And she is the only one with adult sensibility in the house; it's been that way since she was tiny. She's so smart. And she's punished for it anytime it makes her parents feel stupid.

When I talked to her tonight, she sounded so horrible, so dying inside, stiff and numb, and couldn't really talk because of the tension that hinges on her in the house. She said she'll try to call me tomorrow so we can plan to see each other; it was too bad there tonight for her to even go into it. I hung up, walked the dog and cried, and called her back and told her that I want her to come stay with me, as long as she wants and is able, even if I have to be at work during the day. Just so her soul can breathe a little.

How do I deal with the fact that she is living daily with the nightmare that I can only visit in tiny, therapy-sponsored doses? Am I too damaged to really help her, or is that a cop out because I don't want to get too close to my own horror that lives inside from all those years? I have to quit letting myself believe she's as happy as she usually seems, and remember this phone call night and the reality she hides from me. I need to see her every week, no matter what it does to me.

Depressed

I am depressed. I guess that's what it feels like; I never used to think I got depressed. I just thought the way I felt was my own private funk. It never occurred to me that I might be depressed. Frankly, I still don't think it really fits. Because Being Depressed sounds to me like it's a single state, a mono mood, a sole plane of experience. And I never have that kind of luxury, where I exist all at once in one particular state or another. I might have the darkest of depressions going on, but still be compassionate to a friend, or crack up at a movie. As soon as I tried to write that, though, I sort of recall the times when the mood does saturate all other moods. When it gets that weighted down, it can be very comforting. Like a lead blanket. Or when my grandpa (in a non-perv way) would lay on us when he tucked us in and it was cold. That weight of him pressing down felt so comforting. That's what the really dark funks are like, too. I don't have to worry about what I should be doing, or which of my infinite options I might pursue at any given moment; it's a one track relaxation trip. With a built in excuse. But like the highs, I can never keep it around as long as I'd like. Three days in, I'll get the urge to do something -- socialize, or see a movie, or draw a picture, or call a friend -- and I fight the urge, wanting to stay down under the heaviness where it's safe and simple. But eventually the darkness crumbles, little holes of light start taking over, and next thing I know I can barely remember why I wanted to stay down in the hole. I'm just heading in right now, so I should have a few good days.

One of the more subconscious reasons I think my body fights to stay on the less-than-eye-candy end of the spectrum involves experiences like this morning, where driving to work I was ogled and hit-on by a grizzled 40-something dude in a flannel shirt riding his banana-seat bike (probably home) at 8:30 a.m.

So, I read outloud. I read the story I-75 South tonight at Urban Break's open mic. That story is posted here somewhere, and is the true account of the first leg of my hitchhiking to Florida journey when I was 16. My reading did not, I am sorry to say, wow the crowd with my brilliance. I did go first, too, which Harry says is a killer. But, whatever. I am mostly okay that the applause was apathetic and bored. I figure I'll force myself to do this 10 times, and then evaluate my progress and/or potential.

I have three new cartoon people drawn and looking at me here next to the laptop on my desk. They are cute. One guy especially --- he's got a comb-over and wears a Central '78 sweatshirt. Then there's a little girl, and a me doing stand-up.

Looking at Wynonna Judd is looking into a mirror.

The morning jogging is going well. Two days strong.

Harry is mad at me for being dense about the stand-up world and what is going on in his head. I have to remember not to bring this up to him. I don't doubt that I'm obnoxious as a newbie considering entry into the ring; he's worked his ass off and given blood, sweat, and tears (literally) to stand-up for three years now. He rocks, but always wants to be a little better.

I am doing karaoke on Friday. ... Ha ha ha! What the fuck, eh? I'm going out with Carrie, who says we will sing a song together for my first time, so I can drop out if I want.

I am aggravated with my therapist and how our session went today. She is not feeling the positive side of my current sampling of all things creative. She wonders if I shouldn't narrow it down to one thing at a time, and schedule it in. I am frankly quite surprised by her attitude; she's supposed to be so gifted-friendly. Whatever. I am full of the rage-transformed-into-power and will not let her or anyone slow me down. Until I'm ready for a crash. But that's a long way off.

Webster

This morning has been productively spent adding the links to the right of this post, down under the archive links. I am feeling pretty stylin' at my developing Web prowess. If only I could find out how to get the archives to list in reverse order now.

Today I made arrangements to start writing some pieces for motorcityrocks.com. I happened upon the site a few days ago and sent a fan letter to the editor. While it's awfully red, it contains exactly the kind of information I always wish I had in one place when deciding where to go out for the night. Which bands are playing when, and what those bands are like. Where they're playing, and what each of the venues is like. What the neighborhoods are like even. And photos of everything. So handy! So outfit-planning-friendly! I'll be writing venue descriptions, and maybe a column or blurb about some nights out on the town.

And tonight is the open mic, where I m u s t f o r c e m y s e l f to do the public reading. I just want to start chipping away at the fear of being in front of crowds. It's terrifying to think about. But I'm going to do it.

The Bronco, she still runs. My insurance doesn't cover anything, and the cop hasn't called back to buy her. I keep driving her, but better find out if the hood opens; an oil change is way overdue.

My dad bought a house today in Skiatook, Oklahoma. This will be his 32nd move in 30 years. When I was 10 he left the state, and just moved back here last Spring; my stepmother wanted the family stuff and talked him into it. They've moved once in the year they've been here, and now this. So, Skiatook. But my stepmom is bound contractually to her job until May, so the house will allegedly sit empty until then. But it won't; my dad will be down there lickety split. Their timing suck ass: my sister is three months pregnant with twins. Get this: they're moving out of state so they "can do more for us," for my sister and the grandbabies. That's their logic, that it will free up money for visits. I think they believe it.

My head hurts from a ponytail on my head.

I am embarking on the following activities in the coming months:
-- Publication Attempts
-- Prose Reading at an Open Mic
-- A Return to Improv
-- Stand-up Comedy
-- Singing Lessons
-- Comic Strip Drawing
Like my old real estate friend, Bob, used to say: "If you throw enough shit at the wall, some of it's bound to stick."