Suzy Says

I took a little time off from policing* the “kids” (1 old dog + 2 kittens = 1 naughty teenager + 2 babies) to go and visit my dear Kathleen. It was a beautiful weekend, with the summer warmth lingering and the trees by the side of the road just beginning to flaunt their annual Fall finery. My heart lifted as I swept past the giant Uniroyal tire: almost there!

The Henry Ford – if you didn’t already know, it’s America’s greatest history attraction – decided to have a special exhibit on Rock Stars Cars and Guitars just for me. Apparently the Museum doesn’t mind if my trip is delayed or if I arrive late, unlike the Tigers. And it was well worth the wait: sleek dream machines owned by those for whom money is no object, including the King, who shot his steering wheel when he discovered the keys to his Pantera were missing. And I thought I was impatient.

In addition to this collection, there is a vast and breathtaking one which is always on display and includes the last horse-drawn Presidential vehicle (Theodore Roosevelt’s, if you’re curious); the car in which JFK took his fateful drive (oddly, it was re-furbished and re-used by subsequent Presidents, which was news to me); a curvaceous, creamy 1931 Bugatti worth $25 million (and driven by Kathleen’s friend, who is a curator at the museum, at Goodwood); a trailer given by Mr. Ford to Charles Lindbergh in the 1940′s so he and his wife could travel the country in peace (their itinerary is neatly noted in Lindbergh’s hand on the underside of a drawer); a Tucker; Old 16, the first American car to win an international race, made in 1906 and still in working order. Try and keep your envy in check – I couldn’t – when I tell you that Kat’s Bugatti-driving buddy got to drive this gem with none other than Mr. Paul Newman.

All this and a 1952 Oscar Mayer Wienermobile, too.

Where there’s cars, there’s traffic. But never is traffic as fun as it is at TJ’s, Kathleen’s favorite restaurant in Detroit (and mine, too). The lily has been gilded by the addition of a patio, where it was warm enough to enjoy both the food and the passing street scene, which, being in downtown Detroit, is something to be seen. My favorite was a guy shuffling past, who kept up a running commentary on what he saw, including our appetizers:

“Eatin’ they little salads…takin’ care o’ they health…”

I’m still laughing.

*I have no idea how real parents do it. Just keeping Rita out of the kitten food and putting up with her increased naughtiness level (her kitten invasion protest) and keeping her from chasing the kittens while keeping them from Rita’s dishes and bed is almost more than I can handle.

Happy birthday to Kathleen, who is truly one of Detroit’s treasures. Spending time with her is always the best thing about being there.

Kathleen and I met when we both worked at the Hell Corporation*, and meeting her was one of the very few good things to come out of a bad situation. Maybe every cloud really does have a silver lining (and for the gift minded, please note that Kathleen prefers silver, white gold or platinum). She was definitely my personal silver lining during those dark HC days.

She was smart enough to get out first, but we always stayed in touch, and get together as often as we can. She is one of those rare friends you could call at 2 am in tears and she’d get right in the car, no questions asked. And when she got there, she’d actually make you feel better.

She loves Iggy Pop (and wrote a review of his most recent Detroit show that is better than any music magazine you’d care to mention) as much as she loves the Symphony. She knits and knows pretty much everything there is to know about hockey. She is as beautiful as she is smart, and as funny, too. She is fiercely loyal and utterly tolerant. She knows what love is.

Hope you’re having a great day, girl!

*Like He Who Shall Not be named in the Harry Potter series, it shall not be named. But it knows who it is.

A lot o’ people don’t realize what’s really going on. They view life as a bunch o’ unconnected incidents ‘n things. They don’t realize that there’s this, like, lattice o’ coincidence that lays on top o’ everything. Give you an example; show you what I mean: suppose you’re thinkin’ about a plate o’ shrimp. Suddenly someone’ll say, like, plate, or shrimp, or plate o’ shrimp out of the blue, no explanation. No point in lookin’ for one, either. It’s all part of a cosmic unconciousness.

– Tracey Walter as Miller, Repo Man

I’ve been feeling slightly chilled for the past few days, like a young Beaujolais* (or an old lady). Hopefully, that’s just a coincidence, like all the other coincidences this week:

• I was listening to the Everly Brothers when I read a passage in Richard Ford’s latest novel, The Lay of the Land, in which the hero wonders which Everly Brother is Don (Don’s the older one, in case you, too, were wondering).

• Finished watching the final episode of Monk’s first season, in which Tim Daly was a guest star, and started watching a new Law & Order in which Tim Daly was the guest star.
• Finished reading the Halle Berry interview in the April InStyle, put on CNN, and there was Miss Berry being interviewed.
• Finished watching a 50 year old episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and while idly flipping through the TV channels afterwards, came across Jeopardy, showing a clue to which the correct answer (or question, depending on how you look at it) was, you guessed it, Alfred Hitchcock Presents.

Weird, don’t you think? Also it sounds like I do nothing but read, drink, and watch TV. I do walk the dog, too, you know.

As for the suspense I left you in:

• The cable guy showed up. He wasn’t crazy or a TV addict (as far as I know), and he kept all romantic advice to himself. So much better in real life than the Jim Carrey one in the movies. Of course, someone at the office was supposed to flip a switch and didn’t, so the cable still wasn’t working when I got back from Detroit, but that was solved with a phone call and a ten minute wait on hold.

• The trip was a success from a business standpoint, but not from a personal one, since the delightful Kathleen was (temporarily, thank goodness) on the DL. Detroit without Kathleen is like coffee without caffeine.
• If you’re wondering where the beautiful people (other than Miss K) are in Detroit, I can tell you from experience that they are in a certain real estate office downtown. The landlord of our soon to d?but Detroit office lent us his conference room for the meeting marathon. Two of the loveliest girls I had ever seen brought us coffee and water. As soon as they left, my boss and I looked at each other and said, “Wow.” A few minutes later, another beauty passed the glass doors of the conference room, and then the ravishing receptionist came in to tell us the first candidate was there. After she left, I said, “This is ridiculous!” in admiration, and my boss said, “I can see what one of their hiring criteria is!” And what a sight it was.
• In keeping with the beauty theme, all the Michigan-based managers we interviewed were incredibly sharp dressers (though sadly, not up to the standard set by the bevy of realty beauties). I have never seen so many men with subtly monogrammed cuffs, exquisite cufflinks, daring ties, and flawless manicures in my life. Definitely the most remarkable part of the trip.

*Before you start thinking that I’m the type of girl who’d drink P?trus on the rocks, let me assure you that light red wines should be drunk at about 50 degrees – that’s “room temperature” in the bad old pre-central heating days, or slightly chilled in these halcyon, heated ones.

It wasn’t all bad, despite Hotel Hell (yes, I diid get my deposit back) and the Tigers’ heartbreaking World Series loss.

For once, I had a non-Chevy, non-blinding blue rental car. It was a white Pontiac Grand Prix (at least Pontiac is a city in Michigan) and not at all a clown car. Best feature: the butt warmers in the seats! Rita and I both give them two paws up.

Dinner with Kathleen was fabulous, of course. She is one of the most interesting people I know. It was great to catch up, the food was wonderful, as always, and we had a bottle of nicely chilled white Bordeaux from Graves (90% Me, 10% Kathleen, the designated driver). I even had dessert and ate some of hers. Dessert fans: if you’re ever in Detroit, go to TJs. I had double berry crumble and Kathleen had housemade seedless blackberry ice cream with hot fudge sauce. Being such a good friend, I helped her out with the sundae, and it was a little piece of heaven. They make all their own desserts, and it’s worth the pilgrimage.

You probably won’t believe me after that rhapsody, but I rarely eat dessert. It was so worth making an exception!

And finally…what’s not to love about the giant Uniroyal Tire?

The vending machine at Hotel Hell, consisting mostly of Kools and Newports

Honestly, can’t I leave y’all alone for a few days without all hell breaking loose? I notice none of you cleaned up or did your homework*, either. Next time, you’re getting a babysitter. I don’t care how old you are!

While you were raising hell, I was soaking in it.

A fairly huge error in judgment – and lack of local knowledge – led me to spending a memorable night in Hotel Hell. Thinking that I needed to be downtown in order to get to my 9 am meeting on time, I chose the only hotel which allowed the lovely Rita to accompany me. Little did I know what I was in for.

Arrived late in Detroit, as per usual, having been lost, as per usual, and stalled in traffic for over an hour, as per usual (for extra fun, the car started whining about its low fuel level while I was still stuck. That’s Halloween scary. Or as they call it in Detroit, Devil’s Night.) Found hotel, which was built in the 1920′s. The lobby retained vestiges of its former glamor, but the oddly assorted inhabitants didn’t. To give you an idea of the other guests, one of them informed me that he had lived there for a year, but it was better than being homeless (a few minutes later, I could have debated that point), and another was screaming “You fucking retard!” into his cell phone. Oh, and he had a tattoo of a spider on his face and neck. Yes, yes.

Braved the strange smell – something like old movie theater combined with despair and the reek of failure – to find the room. There was no lamp or overhead light in the room. I called the front desk in near darkness to inform them of this defect, and was asked if I was sure. To paraphrase AA Milne, either a lamp is there, or it isn’t, and I pointed this out to the clerk. She said I could try another room. This room only got one channel on the TV, and in looking for the remote (there wasn’t one), I discovered a half-eaten chocolate bar and “Destyni’s” phone number.

I didn’t call Destyni, though. I called the front desk again. She said that the cable had been turned off in some rooms, but she didn’t know which ones, and she was the only one on duty (for a 20 storey hotel!). However, the bellman(!), who came on duty at 11 pm, could tell me. I bet he could tell me which floors the hoes and crack were on, too. Finally, I moved to Room Three. There was cable, no remote, the usual strange smell (but windows I could and did open, resisting the urge to hurl myself out), a stain on the carpet approximately body-shaped, and as I closed the door, the front of one of the bureau drawers fell off. committing furniture suicide. I could hardly blame it. Rita was so horrified she hid all night, pretending she was somewhere else.

I called the Red Roof Inn, made a reservation for the following night, and poured myself a drink.

Nothing can scare me now. I spent a night in Hotel Hell and lived to tell the tale. Final irony: I had to give them a $100 deposit for Rita, so I’d keep the room, and I quote, “in tip-top shape.”

*Ah, Feasterville Trevose, my little enigma. Will nothing induce you to reveal your true identity? Are you millionaire Bruce Wayne of stately Wayne Manor? You can tell me.

The Spirit of Detroit statue gets its very own Tigers shirt!

On my way tomorrow to the home of the Tigers and the fabulous Kathleen!

Wednesday: Spend all day getting there, getting lost, finding hotel.

Thursday: Meetings all day. Can I pay attention and be nice for 10 hours in a row while being all dressed up and pretending to be smart?! Dinner with Kathleen that evening (what a relief) either at TJ’s or somewhere we can watch the Tigers game.

Friday: Spend all day getting home, getting lost, etc.

Detroit seems to be my second home these days, so I feel justified in saying: