I had never seen such shameless, community-ridden obsession. People carried trays stacked upon trays of impatiens, marigolds, pansies, petunias and whatever else you can get at the most overblown farmer’s market you’ll ever see. How I lived here for eighteen years and never realized the absurdity of my daily life now blows my mind, but it’s something that can only be realized now, as I am but a visitor to this place. Painfully manicured lawns and multi-thousand dollar sprinkling systems and yearly paint jobs on peeling cupola’s and god awful dinner plates that hang from the wall that bear no sentimental value to their owner’s, who couldn’t reproduce their image if you offered them a gift certificate to Speedway or Nordstrom--this is what drove me to insanity and what drove me out of Birmingham, Michigan.
Garage sales here are an ordeal--hell, everything here is an ordeal. Whatever event my family hosts follows a stringent and always broken formula for success reached through purgatory: time for preparations requires no less than five times the length of the suggested event (a four hour wedding shower demands at least 20 hours of prep time, and exactly 18 of those hours must take place in the 24 hours leading up to the party), and the event must feign the appearance of luxury, supplying cheap wine and Smirnoff and bottles of Labatt Blue in hand-painted and monogrammed glasses.
What cheap bastards live in the Midwest, and why then, is it noted for its prosperity? Why is Speedway always 4 or 5 cents cheaper per gallon, but more importantly why does everyone know that? Why is the main street that links downtown Detroit to the suburbs of Ferndale, Royal oak, and Birmingham lined with businesses whose storefront i image is burned into the back of my retinas, yet i have never been in? Why are stores organized by the product they sell (all the mattress stores are on the same block; same with the home theater warehouses) Why are there so many fucking stores? And on the opposite side of the street there’s a cemetery a mile wide and who the fuck knows how deep? I see the same guy sitting at the same grave every week, more dead than the lover he mourns, and he’s the only person I ever see in there.
Maybe he's the only human person here. The only person capable of finding something to care about that is real. Or maybe he's just holding onto the memory of a world that used to be real. It's sad. Not only do the fucking people obsess over television, and have parties worshiping the idols they project onto their walls, but the fucking parents work for the TV company. It’s all so wrong. Kids here will buy ecstasy, but they don’t even have a reason to eat it. How can anyone retain sanity in this creative void? Its different from places like Nebraska or North Dakota, because those places are supposed to be boring--in fact they pride themselves on it. This is supposed to be better. Better than what?
I loved this piece. Your voice is very straightforward and humorous at times. You have a gift for allowing readers to see and feel what you are talking about. I've never been to Michigan but I truly feel like I can imagine exactly what it's like. The only part I'd change is the ending because it was rather ambiguous. I think this could make a great longer piece.
ReplyDeleteI think this would be better as a journalistic piece, for a couple of reasons. First, your critique of the town becomes a bit whiny and gets lost in your merely deriding it. I guess it doesn't seem fair to me, like you are blaming everyone in the town, when really it is a phenomenon much larger than them. So, in order to avoid that, it might be more effective if you investigated just how precise and purposeful the construction of suburbs/materialism really was. Additionally you may see what it is like to write with more distance-- because by becoming so angry/emotional you kind of contradict your original assertion that you are only a visitor, an outsider.
ReplyDeleteLiterature about the boredom of rural America can be just as dreary as the places written of, and it happens here a few times, though not often. Some angst gets built up by "Why are there so many fucking stores?" but I don't feel the same anxiety about the depth of the adjacent cemetery, so the second 'fuck' feels forced instead of impulsive. And it ends with a question mark though it isn't a question.
ReplyDelete"…more dead than the lover he mourns…" cleverly drives the point and it's a nice line.
"human person" may or may not be redundant.
The slips in grammar are- 'nuff said.
McMansion culture gets put really nicely here ("feign appearance of luxury…"), but without providing some kind of redemption for the place, and the frustrated tone throughout the whole piece, what could be a reflection on transcending a "creative void" or rising out of one's environment seems like a rant with little that a reader can learn from or use. This could probably be fixed by just stating more about the man in the cemetery, who is like a beacon in the blandness.
"Kerosene" by Big Black deals with similar themes, and happens to have the kind of frustration this piece does so well.
He said that better than I did.
ReplyDeletebecause
ReplyDeletehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuO3wwLuF0w
I think you capture the image of michigan very well here and your voice is very good. Overall I really liked it and could totally picture what you were describing(on a side note, I have some family in missouri and they do they same thing for weddings, as well as serve the same types of bad alcohol haha.) The only thing I would watch is the ending. Who says that michigan is supposed to be so called "better" and if it is, then why is is supposed to be "better" than these other places? You do bring up a good point though better than what? What are you comparing this place to anyway?
ReplyDeleteYou almost created your hometown as a sort of character that is defined by the people living within in--an element of the piece that I liked. The little glimpses of life in your hometown (the widower, the garage sale customers, etc.) really give this piece a nice angle.
ReplyDelete