Eat SLOWly

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Slows Bar BQ
Date:                    12-10-13
Location:                2138 Michigan Avenue, Detroit
                         In the shadow of the

                         decomposing train station
                         (by the way, shame on you,

                          Manny Maroun!)

Detroit is never going to come back. We’ve covered that ground already. Accept it. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not rooting for the final demise of the Motor City. Not at all. It’s worth saving. I just don’t think it is possible. 

I ate lunch at Slows Bar BQ in southwest Detroit this week. It’s basically where Mexican town meets Corktown. If ever there is a reason to save Detroit, it’s because of places like this (I’m referring to both Slows and Mexican Town in general). I'm aware that I’m late to the carnivore’s paradise that is Slows, and they have no shortage of good press from just about every outlet, but that’s not going to stop me, so here goes.

It was a cold, windy day when I visited Slows for the first time last week. After working outside all morning with my new (yet familiar) survey partner, we decided it was time to warm up. And since there was no way in hell I could stomach another Mexican meal that week and since Duly’s doesn’t have any form of anti-freeze on tap, we ventured to the edge of town and popped into Slows. (Oh, and please don't misunderstand, Mexican town restaurants are basically the bomb, but eating at them more or less every day for over a week is my tipping point.)

Slows was comfortably busy for a Tuesday at 1pm.  Good sign.  We got seated right away, near the bar and looking out at Manny Maroun’s giant monument to neglect (frankly, Optimus Prime should have leveled it when he had the chance). Our waiter was quick, friendly and knowledgeable. Since they have over 50 beers on tap (ahhh, anti-freeze), I guess he pretty much had to be.

Mr. MacDowell showing
 off the goods.


I’ll cut to the chase. I had a Triple Threat sandwich that consisted of amazing bacon, amazing ham and, wait for it, amazing pulled pork. And since 10,000 calories of BBQ madness apparently wasn’t enough, I added some waffle fries too.  (Oh, and since I can always double up on the statins, yeah, put some cheddar on those fries too.)

Honest to Tlaloc*, I really thought you had to go much further south (and I don’t mean Del Ray or Zug island) to get that quality of BBQ. There were no clingy sauces (those were on the table), the meat was BBQ’d to moist perfection, the portion size was outstanding and the prices were very reasonable for an urban eatery. 

My only criticism was that my partner’s Diet Coke hadn’t seen carbonation since probably about the time the old train station was operational. But that was his problem. He should have ordered beer. Silly boy.

This place is a must-see if you find yourself on the southwest side and Detroit hasn’t already closed down and been sold off for parts.

m. karvinen

*Tlaloc is the Aztec god of thunder...seemed an appropriate reference so close to Mexican town.

Soy is Dead

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Nitsches Fine Meats
Date:                    11-22-13
Location:                23½ Mile and Van Dyke
                         Shelby Township

 

 

“After coming into contact with a religious man

 I always feel I must wash my hands.”
Friedrich Nietzsche – Philosopher

 

“After using the restroom,

all employees must wash their hands.”

Ken Kiel – Owner, Nitsches Fine Meats

 

My philosophy students could never spell NIETZSCHE.  This won’t help.   

By the way, this is actually a great little butcher shop on the east side.  So be brave and check it out, because, to paraphrase Friedrich, that which does not kill us, makes us stronger (but more than likely also elevates our cholesterol).

Oh, and their website is called GoMeat.net, and that just cracks me up because I basically have the maturity of a five-year-old.




m. karvinen

Smell My Finger

From my archives, this repeat is in response to a conversation I recently had with my friend Charlie (and a tribute to all men of a certain age).

 

So I went and had my annual physical a while back. No big deal. I’m a grown up. I’ve been going for several years now. It’s one of the few things my overpriced insurance gets right.

I’ve got a pretty good doctor. His name is B. G. Patel. He has no actual first name as far as I can tell, just B period, G period. Yeah, it’s a little weird, because I guess one initial is simply not mysterious enough. Anyway, as I’m being led through the usual poking, thumping, turning and coughing, good ‘ol BG informs me that due to my age there will be a new test added to my annual regimen. At this point he dons a rubber glove, grabs some lubricant and tells me to drop trou and bend over the examination table. 

Oh, the humanity.

Now I don’t really know what a prostate is, but I do know where it is located, and based upon BG’s latex-ed and lubed finger still motioning for me to spin around, well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he planned on taking the expressway to get there. And although it was crystal clear that someone was about to go spelunking while the other was about to be spelunked, and I really wasn’t interested in being on either side of that transaction, all I could focus on at that moment was the freakishly large fingers on my otherwise petite, Indian doctor.

Man, why hadn’t I noticed that before?

Okay, so I’m not a certified idiot. I knew this was coming eventually in my life, so it wasn’t a complete surprise. And since I’ve found that growing older is as much about losing all semblances of dignity and modesty as it is about gaining wisdom, I bent over and braced myself to take it like a man.

I’ll spare you most of the gory details, but suffice it to say, it was very uncomfortable. And perhaps if he wouldn’t have dimmed the lights and started humming Barry White the minute I turned around, I wouldn’t feel as violated now. But that wasn’t even the worst part.  That occurred when he was  apparently shoulder deep in my rectum (this is an estimate based upon the tapping I could feel on my molars) and said,

“Feel that?  That’s your prostate!” 

He said it with inappropriate enthusiasm, like he had just spotted our car in a crowded, holiday parking lot.  Since I honestly didn’t’ anticipate dialog during the exploration, I hoped it was a rhetorical question.  I didn’t possess the desire nor the ability to answer him.

I left my physical dazed, limping and in need of several hours of showering and/or counseling.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be the case.  Since I had scheduled the entire day off, I also had an afternoon appointment already set up to take my car in and get new snow tires and rims put on it.  And since it was automotive related, I pretty much got violated there, too.

All said and done, at least my diary entry was concise that evening:

“Dear Diary, today I got two rim jobs.”

m. karvinen
 

Someone Needs a Hug

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Over Compensating
Date:                    11-18-13
Official Location:       Sears Parking Lot
                         Troy, MI

Thank God a picture is worth a thousand a words, because I am speechless.

...and not in a good way.

I wouldn't have been able to take these pictures in direct sunlight, as my face would have probably melted like in Raiders of the Lost Ark.


m. karvinen

Nice shirt, Douchebag.

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  NoTown
Date:                    11-16-13
Official Location:       Detroit at Large

 

It cracks me up how people from the suburbs refer to themselves as Detroiters when they travel outside of Michigan. I've seen them in their clean, artificially distressed, "Made in Detroit" t-shirts, and I've heard them talking about their latest excursion to Lafayette Coney Island or a hockey game. I think to myself, "You are just like me; you are from the suburbs, and trust me, asshole, you are fooling no one."

 

I grew up in Troy. And I assure you, although it's only six miles up the road from the Motor City, it is a universe away. Troy is a candy-assed, white bread, strip mall breeding ground that doesn't inspire a lot of t-shirts. But I'm proud to be from there anyway. Good schools, decent taxes, lots of 7-Elevens, what's not to love? 

 

When I was a kid, the city motto was "Troy: The City of Tomorrow, Today." Aside from totally distorting my temporal perception, that motto always made me feel like I was growing up in some futuristic space colony, and I and my fellow Trojans would be the first to own flying cars, robot butlers and universal health care. Alas, it was just a motto, but it did give me hope.

 

I work in Detroit a lot now. And I don't work in the 500 or so polished, square feet surrounding each People Mover station or casino entrance that many suburbanite "Detroiters" visit when they are feeling frisky and want to buy a t-shirt either. No, lately, my job has taken me into vacant lots, back alleys, and the societal backwaters of a city that has completely gone to hell in a hand basket. 

 

Just in the last month alone, I've trudged through hobo villages in vacant lots. I've been approached by a bat swinging guy looking to kill the two kids that stole his television. I've chased off wild dogs with rocks and my pocket knife. And Thursday I even saw one of those same dogs get hit by a car on Michigan Avenue, and not one person stopped or otherwise gave a damn.  Sad thing is, it didn't really phase me either.  It's just one less wild dog I have to defend myself against later. 

 

I don't think kids in Detroit grow up dreaming of robot butlers and jetpacks much.  I can't imagine how kids in Detroit grow up with any hope at all.  That kind of environment changes you. 

 

And it changes you in ways a t-shirt never quite will.

 

  

 

m. karvinen

 

Stone(d) Mason

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Mason's Bar & Grill
Date:                    11-07-13
Official Location:       13490 Farmington Road

                         Livonia, MI

My Donkey Kong companion and satisfied Mason-ite, Jimbo

In the event that there are three people in metro Detroit that have not heard of Mason’s Bar & Grill, this entry is for you. For the rest, what are you doing reading this crappy blog? You obviously have some spare time. Get back to Mason’s. Go now. Don’t be stupid.

 

As for those aforementioned three, well, let me just say, “Mmmm, Mason’s.” How has this place operated under my radar for over fifty years? I can only assume that there has been a dedicated conspiracy to keep me from knowing about it. Perhaps I unwittingly offended the Polish community and hiding this joint has been their payback. If so, I’m so very, very sorry. I will never again question how many of you it may or may not take to screw in a light bulb.

So, how did the cat finally get released from the bag? Well, I was hangin’ in Livonia with my lovely sister-in-law, Reet the Beat, the other weekend, and she casually brings up this local bar she and her husband have been enjoying for years called Mason’s. And as if she’s speaking of something as mundane as the weather or actuarial tables, she casually tells me they make one of the best burgers in the world. That’s a mighty bold and provocative statement to say to a judgmental, food whore like me. Since she’s typically not prone to hyperbole, I truly wanted to believe her, but she may just as well have asked me to believe that George W was an intellectual president or that Santa Claus loves venison. Needless to say, I had my doubts. She was not exaggerating though, and now I am torn between wanting to treat her to a day at the spa for turning me on to the place or kicking her ass for keeping it from me for so long. Sisters!

Mason’s was everything I needed it to be after a long day swinging a sledge hammer (which suggests that I’m either in construction or I take my Donkey Kong way too seriously). To me, there’s just something so comforting about a working-class bar that has successfully fought the temptation to redecorate since The Brady Bunch originally aired. Needless to say, there are no pretensions there.  I don’t know if it’s the brown, wood-grained Formica bar, the red leatherette chairs, the wobbly tables, or the 50 plus years of bric-a-brac and private jokes hanging on the walls, but this place pretty much had me at, “Just sit anywhere, Hon.” Add a minimalist number of tap beers (the crappy domestic, the light version of that same crappy domestic, and the brown one that is kinda’ full-bodied but still, in essence, a crappy domestic) and a full complement of mid-shelf liquors, and this bar, to me, is like a giant hug from grandma (assuming grandma could hug your liver directly).

But as Reet the Beat promised, the real attraction here is the burgers. Mason’s makes a humble, simple bar burger by which all other bar burgers should be judged (and, yes, before you flame me on what you incorrectly perceive as my naiveté, I’ve been to Miller’s, The Red Coat, Duggan’s and dozens of other fine contenders.  I stand by my claim.) Mason’s burger comes in a classic, one-third pound version and a nearly obscene, two-thirds pound version, and I’ve tried both, because, well, I’m willing to sacrifice my arteries for you because I care.

 

The good stuff in a nutshell: 

• Fresh, hand selected and hand smashed beef from Eastern Market
• Steamed buns
• A tray of fresh fixins’ brought to your table (or in my case, barstool)
• A generous side of crinkle cut fries. 

The bad Stuff:

• Seriously, if you put a gun to my head, I guess I could say that the napkins are too small for wiping up after the super juicy, 2/3 pounder. But don’t let that deter you. Bring your own beach towel if it bothers you. 

Oh, and if you want the deluxe experience, add some bacon and grilled onions for a few pennies more, and then sit at the bar and watch the cooking magic unfold right before your very eyes. And when (not if) you go, play it safe and don't mention my name (and it would probably be best if you didn't mention light bulbs either).


m. karvinen

Consider Porn

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Gardner-White Wash
Date:                    11-02-13
Location:                Northbound I-75
                         near Great Lakes Crossing

 

Okay, so I think it's Gardner-White who overpaid on this one. I drive by this billboard regularly, and I can't for the life of me figure out the connection between the headline and the woman pictured. Granted, she's attractive, and that's always better than the alternative, but what's with the sassy, nudge-nudge-wink-wink expression. It's almost like she's mocking the headline and saying, "Don't overpay? Ha ha ha, (wink). Of course you are going to overpay. Don't you have any idea what kind of mark-ups are in the furniture business you dumb-ass, potential customer?"

 

I’ve bought things from Gardner-White, and I’ve been generally pleased with the value, so I don't think this is the message they want to project. If I were them, I'd be looking for a refund from their advertising agency. And speaking of that agency, what might their rationale be for using this graphic anyway? My guess is that either the creative director is related to the model on the billboard, or the creative director was trying to get in her pants. When in doubt, always guess sex or nepotism (and if this was Tennessee, well, I guess it could easily be both, but that’s a whole other issue).

 

Anyway, can you think of a better advertising pitch for this picture? If so, let me know in the comments section below.  Here's what I came up with...

 

 

 

m. karvinen

Turn your Head and Cough up some Candy

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Egg my House, please! 
Date:                    Halloween, 2013
Location:                Fargo, ND

Okay, so technically this isn't a Weird L'il SIS, as it refers to an article I read rather than something I saw first hand, but I'm not changing the name of my blog to Weird L'il SIR. We'll just make an exception today for this special, holiday edition...

The letter above is an actual note a Fargo, North Dakotan intends to hand to trick-or-treaters tonight who she deems are "moderately obese." Needless to say, this concerned "village member" has been the brunt of a lot of verbal bashing on the news stations all morning, where they are calling her everything from a fascist to a self-righteous B*$^ch. Always the contrarian, I wonder if it is possible she simply may not have gone far enough?

If she's willing to provide this rudimentary health screening as a concerned member of her village and then provide a written report, I say, "own it!" In for a penny, in for a pound. Invite the adorable little Thors and Katnisses in. Have them queue up in the living room. Provide them with some outdated magazines to pass the time. Take them into the den individually and check them for scoliosis, hernias, myopia and perhaps do a little blood work. A blood pressure cuff and a hop on the scale on their way through the kitchen, and you've just provided an invaluable service I bet the rest of your villagers would gladly rally behind. 

And if I know kids, nothing screams Halloween fun like a thorough, preventative health screening.  So when the doorbell rings tonight, don't be surprised to hear, "Trick or Treat...me to a glimpse of my LDL and triglyceride levels!"

Happy Haunting!

USA Today Link


m. karvinen

Pear-ish the Thought

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Pear today, gone tomorrow
Date:                    10-26-13
Location:                My back yard
                        

As I'm standing here cooking breakfast, there's a deer outside eating the last of the fruit from under my pear tree. Stupid deer. I hate them. They shit all over my yard. If it didn't require extraordinary effort on my part, I would run right out and smack that deer upside the head with my frying pan. Of course I would never catch it, and I don't want to be known amongst the neighbors as that guy who chases deer with a frying pan. Especially since I'm not wearing pants yet.

To add insult to injury, my dog apparently believes that the tender little nuggets of deer poop are Milk Duds, and she scarfs them up like a suicidal diabetic. I believe the dog and the deer share the same stupid brain, and when she eats deer poop, I'd like to smack her upside the head with my frying pan too. The wife has a problem with that, though. She's fond of both the dog and the good frying pan.

But let's stay on course. The pears are the real enemy here. As much as I hate deer and deer-poop eating dogs, I really hate pears. Pears have no business being part of the biosphere, and should be rounded up and driven off a cliff like lemmings or Kardashians. And since I don't endorse mass fruiticide lightly, here's the reasoning behind my anti-pear stance.

Pears are Asymmetrical

Real fruit (apples, oranges, Oxycontin) look pretty much the same as you spin them on their vertical axes. That's harmony and balance achieved through evolution. Pears, on the other hand, have weird little tops that twist and turn like a Bill Clinton congressional testimony or, if Paula Jones is to be believed, his genitalia. (I realize that's a really dated reference, but pears have sucked for a very long time, so it's still in play.) Just so you know, contorted, asymmetrical protrusions are nature's way of telling you that you are a biological dead-end, and natural selection is probably not picking you up again for the fall season. By their very shape, pears are basically screaming, "Don't look at me! I'm a hideous mutant just waiting to go extinct." Anything that desperate should not be trusted.

Pears are Teases

They sit on the limb for over a month with their bulbous, come hither shape looking fairly edible.  Go ahead, pick one and take a bite.  I dare ya'. Remember the old balsa wood airplanes you could buy when you were a kid? Ever bite one? Same exact taste as a September pear. No big deal, you think, my fault. I just need to let it get ripe a little longer. Although that won't happen until sometime in October, you'd better pull up a chair, clear your calendar and start waiting now. Because when they do ripen, you only have about six seconds, at which point the weight of the swarm of bees that forms on a newly ripened pear causes it to crash to the ground and it immediately starts rotting. Within moments, all the pears from any given season are lying on the ground, turning into vinegar, and being jealously protected by a swarm of bees. But you still gotta' clean them up, or your yard starts to smell like a great big douche.

Pears Taste Like Shit

Pear pie, pear jelly, pear shortcake, pear upside down cake, pears in a blanket. You know why you don't know anyone with a good recipe for these desserts? They don't exist. And yet people preserve pears too, but not because they crave pears all year round and want to capture that taste in a bottle. No, people preserve pears because they hope they can store them long enough until someone actually comes up with something better to do with them. They are like the Walt Disney's head of fruit. Admittedly, there is one edible thing you can make with pears. It's a lot of work, but you can make pear sauce. With a lot of boiling, peeling, grinding and the right amount of added cinnamon, nutmeg and brown sugar, it tastes just like apple sauce. You know what else tastes just like apple sauce, though? Fucking apple sauce, that's what, and you can buy that anywhere for next to nothing! At their best, pears are posers.

Pears are gritty

Gritty? Really? Is that even a fruit adjective? Sweet, crisp, juicy, tart, mouth-watering: these are fruit adjectives. But gritty? That's not even remotely appetizing. Ever see a child eating an apple and the thing pops out of his hand and falls in a sandbox? If he picks it up and starts eating it again, he's pretty much eating a pear. In no version of reality is that appetizing. And if your kid enjoyed eating apples he dropped in a sandbox, you'd take him in for a psychiatric evaluation. We should do the same for people who say they like pears.

Okay, I'm done ranting.  I feel better.  I'm going to put on some pants now and go rake up the rotting pears, because even though it's mid-morning in late October, around here it's beginning to smell a lot like a Summer's Eve.

m. karvinen

 

Hang Up and Drive

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Drive by Hypocrisy
Date:                    10-20-13
Location:                Side of a late model Camry
                         Southbound I-75
                         Auburn Hills-ish

Amen, my brother.  How many times have I had that very same thought but just lacked the commitment to have it stenciled on the side of my car? 

Of course, the irony of me snapping that picture with my smart phone from the driver's seat while doing 70 down the expressway is not entirely lost on me either, but still, Amen.


m. karvinen

Slice of Heaven

Today's Weird Li’l SIS:  Saroki's Food Station
Date:                    10-13-13
Location:                Wixom & Loon Lake Road
                         Wixom?













God, I love pizza.  But not just any pizza.  Sadly, the Little Kaisers, Papa Porta-Johns, and DomiNo-way-in-hells of the metro-Detroit area have all but neutered our collective memories of what really good pizza means.  Yeah, there are exceptions like The Alibi over in Troy or Louie's down in Hazel Park, but I can remember a time when non-descript party stores used to sell wonderful, cheesy, thick and manna-like slices on nearly every corner.  And like me, they were cheap too!

A long defunct party store named Mr. B's over near Stoney Creek was my first true love back in the 70's.  They made some absolutely amazing slices, and if you took the time to actually order an entire pie, the box weighed in at about 10 pounds, and the steam pretty much had it disintegrated before you got it to the car.  And when you opened what was left of that box, usually in the parking lot, you were treated to an orgasmic sensory onslaught of smeared together colors, tastes and aromas.  I'm getting a chubby just thinking about it.  But alas, all first loves must come to an end.  I don't know what happened to the eponymous Mr. B., but I would definitely like to shake his hand or donate to a cloning initiative.

In the early 80's, Vico's Party store in Troy was my next 'Za d'amour.  Same kinda' deal as Mr. B's, but the edges of their crust were slightly more caramelized and the sauce was a tad more rustic.  And although we didn't even know what rustic sauce meant back in the 80's, we liked it.  As a bonus, they not only delivered, but they delivered beer too.  As minors with deep phone voices and absentee parents, we took advantage of that quite regularly.  Hmm, small wonder they went out of business.

From about that point on, the promise of the excellent party store slice had faded to nothing more than a glint in my mozzarella enhanced thighs, and I was pretty sure I would never again find a place to compete with the rose colored taste buds of my youth.  Oh, thankfully, how wrong I was. 

On an otherwise eventless Tuesday last month, in a gas station/party store plopped down unceremoniously next to a trailer park in Commerce Township (or Wixom) (or what the hell's the difference?) I was once again reunited with the pizza gods, and I have to tell you, thine name is Saroki. 

I was completely caught off guard by the discovery.  Because I suppose that I have self loathing tendencies, I sauntered over to the heat lamp display case perfectly prepared to be disappointed in what I might find there.  It's pretty much a sick habit of mine.  I immediately noticed some thin, round slices which did not look impressive enough to risk, as my heart has been broken before.  And the fact that they were rounds was just all wrong.  A real party store slice, I've always held, should have four corners.  But then something caught my eye on the top shelf: another slice of round.  Granted, wrong shape for a purist, but there was something oh so compelling about it. 

"Is this a Chicago Stuffed slice I see before me," I asked my inner bard?

My eyes were not deceiving me.  I was certain.  I threw caution to the wind and excitedly ordered two of the "stuffed" slices from the first paper hat I could establish eye contact with.  He quickly corrected me, calling it "Detroit Style."  Yeah, whatever, I thought.  Just shut up and give me my slices. 

This post is getting way too long, so I'll cut to the chase.  Those two slices of pizza were, hands down, some of the best slices I have ever eaten anywhere, let alone from under a convenience store heat lamp. Regardless of the proprietor's geography tourettes, they were definitely Chicago Style stuffed slices on par with Pizzapapalis downtown or Giordano's in the Windy City itself.  They were loaded with meat too: pepperoni, ham, sausage, you name it.  Imagine, a $3 slice just humbly waiting in a gas station with the power to not only electrify your taste buds but restore your beliefs in humanity, history and Jesus Christ himself.

Okay, maybe I exaggerate a little.  As I mentioned, I really like good pizza.  But still, I recommend you check it out.

m. karvinen

But it Burns when I Build

Today’s Weird Li’l SIS:  STD Contractors
Date:                    10-7-13
Location:                Huron Ave
                         west of Downtown Pontiac

You know, only in a country where capitalism knows no shame could you take something like contracting an STD and turn it into a business.

My dad always told me that if you do what you love, you’ll never have to work a day in your life. These people obviously have one messed up dad.

Oh, and it just stands to reason that if you are going to specialize in STD's, you'll probably find a big Johnson hanging around nearby.


m. karvinen

What's INA Name?

Today’s Weird Li’l SIS:   The Troy Luk Club
Date:                     09-30-13
Location:                 Big Beaver near John R
                          Troy

Aside from the word choice being incredibly offensive, whatever happened to a rabbit's foot or a four-leaf clover?

m. karvinen