Number of Posts: 5
I was born in Detroit. My parents were two hippies that managed a home for retarded adults. As a child my friends were all in their thirties and forties. That was fine, we were operating on the same playing field mentally, if not physically. As I grew in maturity I realized that I had a small army of man-children willing to take me as their leader. I was crowned King Fucktard. My reign was short lived as the troops were implicated in a failed assassination of Detroit Mayor Coleman Young. Excuse my sarcasm, but ruling the retards was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Since then I've meandered from dead end job to dead end job. My father quickly shed his hippie hair and adopted a hard pro-working stance for me. I was eleven, my empire in ruins, when I was forced into slavery for a local pay if you want news rag. This was beyond easy to scheme. This led to a full Detroit News route, and I had the distinct pleasure of witnessing JOA firsthand as the Free Press and Detroit News combined forces. This heavenly moment granted me the divine pleasure of carrying several tons of combination Sunday papers across the neighborhood. Luckily for me I had retained the services of a huge mongloid. This beast of burden easily pulled my rickshaw. Next, I lost my manservant and began pushing carts for a local grocery store. There’s something extremely calming about pushing seventy carts through six-inches of snow while being pelted with freezing rain and dodging the old people that stole the fucking carts in the first place. Just because you fought Hitler doesn’t mean you can take your groceries to your respite home in the store’s cart. Fucking old people. This excellent resume booster led me to my next high-paying job pushing carts for a bulk grocery store. This job went from vaguely entertaining to outright religious when Sam Walton strolled in and bought the place. Something about praying and then chanting our store number, #6666, struck me as being oddly hypocritical. I left that place to join the ranks of the mallrats. The gap offered me the chance to waste my paycheck on slave labor created hipness while trolling for teenage ass. I was let go for refusing to shave. I next tried my hand at working for an alternative food store. The best part was knowing that the lesbian stocker’s code for hot chicks was price check in aisle whatever one the hottie was in. It was also worth it to take the trash out at 7:20 A.M. and catch all the lesbians and other employees in the know watching this teenage girl shower, with her window wide open. Every single morning there were a ton of workers scrambling to find trash for that dumpster! I was fired from there for refusing to change the way I dress and/or remove my piercing. The vegetarian’s supermarket was feeling a squeeze from the local normal grocery stores and my image didn’t mesh with what they were looking for. I slid into a video store next, and to make my life as close to Clerks as possible, I quit to work the night shift at 7-11. My quitting the video store had nothing to do with the female owner pulling her sliver handgun out and plopping it on the counter every time the rickshaws waiting for their food to be prepared next door came in to browse. Well, maybe a little, but it had more to do with me working a six hour shift and seeing only one customer. I spent the whole time watching porn on the in-store telly. Not to say 7-11 was better, but at the time it fit what I wanted. I was skating fourteen hours a day and had moved into the skylofts, otherwise known as 1217. This was the headquarters for techno parties in the city of Detroit. The djs, promoters, e dealers, doormen, bouncers, and groupies all had lofts in that building. My roommates were ½ stripper that I had met at the gap and ½ flip that I had met skating. I could care less about the parties, but there is something to be said about returning home from a night clubbing at St. Andrews Hall and finding 6,000 people partying in your building. I moved down there to have ready access to a concrete jungle, I was six blocks from Hart Plaza. The lit underground areas of Hart Plaza offered a 24-7 skate arena, no matter if it was raining or snowing. The only problem was bums pulling guns because you were interrupting their beauty sleep and the police station by the river. If the police caught you they would toss your board into the Detroit River. One of the many perks to living at 1217 was that we were on every guest list in the city of Detroit. All you had to do was say 1217, and bingo, you were in. By this point I had left 7-11 and started on the nightshift at UPS. At the time the horse track next door made this excruciatingly hard labor job very malodorous. I left to manage a Pier One, wandered out of that retail cesspool to do inventory for a major autopart supplier. That job made my brain hurt. Chinese labor was so cheap that the corporation could buy parts in Detroit, ship them by boat to China (with a little coke, and smuggled Mercedes thrown in) to be assembled and then shipped back to Detroit to sell to the big three. That job found me being tailed by private eyes and videotaped. That had less to do with me and more to do with the thugs at the warehouse over that spent the night smoking weed, drinking forties and shooting their handguns. Those guys were my friends compared to the psycho I was working through the night with. Psycho, as I called him to his face, thought it was supremely funny to drive his forklift at me, with the forks at chest level, and swerve at the fucking very last second. The night was spent counting millions of parts and hoping that Psycho wouldn’t include me in his tantrums. I moved to a new loft, one above a strip club in Greektown, and started bouncing at St. Andrews. This job was barely worth the money to mingle into fights and break them up. On one hand I got to meet a lot of kickass people, Henry Rollins, Eminiem, Kid Rock, Kid Rock’s midget, not to mention a plethora of local hip hop artists. On the other hand I had underage kids threatening to shoot me. St. Andrews has always been a stronghold for Detroit Hip Hop, with breakdancers, circles of freestylers, and mad djs spinning. I have currently left all that behind me to teach small children with the Montessori Method. I am currently living in a small bland suburb just west of Detroit.
- Spaceman of Detroit, 09 Feb 2010 in Uncategorized
- Scrappers Eat the Packard Plant, 30 Jan 2010 in Metroblogging Detroit
- The war on the market, 19 Oct 2008 in Art&Culture&Detroit Gifts to the World&FLICKR Photos&Metroblogging Detroit
- Eating at the Woodbridge Pub, 21 Sep 2008 in Culture&Detroit Gifts to the World&Food&Metroblogging Detroit
- What’s good, Detroit?, 14 Sep 2008 in Metroblogging Detroit