Table Talk

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?