Welcome To The Night Train. The Start of Football Season

From the National Affairs Desk-

     The whole suite is buzzing. The entire suite is silent. Lightning has just struck the JCMsTown Compound and all the animals inside and out are on edge. All access to the outside world is a pipe dream. Well, it has been for a few months now, but now it is for real. There is no phone, no internet (no loss), and no TV. The television feed cut out during a pre-dawn screening of "Lovelace" just as Amanda Seyfried as pornography icon/sometimes hypocrite Linda Lovelace was just about to remove (doff) her top. Because I am a professional I have seen Amanda Seyfried sans clothing both in public and private settings, but the TV getting zapped at just that moment, before a scene I had seen numerous times, is just another "Hi ho, fuck you," from a higher power in a year full of them, the Chinese Year of the Fuck You.

     The generator kicked on so at least I have a light to write by. It is still an hour or so before sunrise so I might as well get some writing done. I have that life or death purgatory of a medical procedure this week and I don't want my last post on record to be that downer from last week about Ginsberg and the potential of more rioting. Now that RBG is laid to rest and the chickenhead protestors fizzled I can get moving on to more pressing matters such as one of the cats trying to walk on the ceiling. My calendar says I have a mandatory Covid test this weekend before my cruel, invasive procedure. That should be fun. This no internet is starting to bug me. How am I supposed to track being tagged in late night, ill-advised, gibberish, ghoulish, posts by others who are also up way too late. It will be impossible to discover these things when the internet comes back on because all the posts dragging my valuable name through the mud in a hailstorm of misobservations will have been deleted in one of those, "Oh god, what did I write last night?" moments. That is fine, and I take solace that I was working while these bad flashbacks from ghosts are transmitted to the four people reading. Well five if you count my North Central Positronics staff making screencaps and sending them to me.

     Oh right, the Covid test. I had one earlier this year when in the ER and it came back negative. Wasn't too bad. I am not really worried about the one this weekend despite more opportunities for those micro-puffball monsters to grab my bloodstream, nuke my liver, sodomize my lungs, and blow bubbles into my brain. After all, this spring/summer I have been to around ten different doctors, covered the Dream Cruise, invaded an anti-ICE bikini car wash, gone to the grocery store around 85 times, and went to Twin Peaks Northville, MI USA (the only restaurant I've been to since the lockdown/soft re-opening). Speaking of soft re-openings, the staff at Twin Peaks was great, their seasoned bacon even better, probably because its had its shots, and I was able to grab the last non-alcoholic Heineken.

     Right on cue there is a furious pounding on the door. Realizing that I left the baseball bat outside and the unused 4th of July mortars in the basement, I grab the hand cannon and approach the door wondering who it could be. It can't be another lawyer/process server. The last post is only days old and this one hasn't even gone up yet despite the pontifications of a (futile) lawsuit hinted at in the screengrab above. I can't see any overturned cars either.

   "Who's there?" I shout while filling a bag full of clumped litter to throw in the intruder's face in case the firearm decides to jam. There is no reply which means it could be the police, ho ho ho.

   "I'll have you know that I am a white male journalist with multiple valid ID's, a clean record, and am a registered voter. Ummm, for the good guys," and I hear a deep sigh of relief from outside.

   "Open up neighbor. Its your neighbor." Thank god I think. He must at least have some...

   "I got a beer for ya, the non-drinker kind you fancy. I heard howling coming from your way so I figured you were out. You do know there ain't any alcohol in this?" Neighbor says through the door.

God's be saved! I open the door just as the power comes back on and invite Mark and Izzy in. The cats scatter and I take a seat with my fake beer. After next week I won't even be able to drink this swill anymore barring a miracle. Thankfully Jesus is a degenerate gambler and he has the smart money on me (with the points). Until then its a diet of water and bullshit.

   "Workin'?" Mark asks.

   "Freelance," my reply, not exactly a lie, but..., "hey, do you or Izzy want something to eat or drink. The Boston/Miami replay is on. How about some acid?" I notice that Izzy has already started to rummage through the kitchen looking for a steak or chicken.

   "Nah, me and Izzy are waiting for this week's shipment of China White. Gotta go. See you later. Luck at Doc's." After Mark and Izzy leave I bolt the door, smash the faux beer, and try to get some sleep to prep for my Covid test. The last thing I hear is the electric fence zapping off. Its the weekend.

     My Covid test is at 1pm so I had plenty of time to dig up the hazmat suit. I made it a personal goal to get as much use out of it as possible. I also contemplated eating that last hit of acid. I have never taken a Covid test with a head full of acid. However, I don't want to spend one of my last days of freedom thinking I have a giant eel crawling up my nose into my mouth. So I decided to just stick with the hazmat suit. The test itself went fine. I made a point to mimic/mirror every motion the intern administering the test (also in a hazmat suit) made. The test itself lasted five seconds and I sped off but not before asking if they had anything for my other nostril ha ha ha.

It was still early and I was bored with nothing to do so I decided to hit up a few party stores where I made sure to be "that asshole" who holds up the line while perusing the $2 scratch off's. I decided to go easy on the weekend warriors because I could have always played twenty 4-digit picks without using a bet slip.

Next up was grocery shopping at Kroger. By this time the hazmat suit had begun to stick to my body and the only way to correct that is to practice karate in the foyer. It was then I realized that there would be no shoplifting today due to my radical appearance.

One benefit of the hazmat suit is that I had my pick of the best steaks as nobody wanted to be within 12 feet of me. It felt like I was back at the Hamtramck Labor Day fest watching a set by Kimball or some other band that lasted for six months.

Those last two pics were from actual Hamtramck Labor Day fests that I have covered. What is truly scary is that it was cancelled this year due to the pandemic, but would it really make a difference if it wasn't? Oh well... When I got home I just relaxed, a fine plan, you should try it. I finally looked at my paperwork from the Covid test where it told me to isolate myself until I get the results. This part was actually highlighted. I may frame it and hang it above the National Affairs Desk if all goes well. If the results are ugly this is one post that will be taken down faster than you can say, "His writing on his blog made me so sad and infected with the Fear that I had to call off from work for a week."

     Since this may be my last post for a while here are my picks for the remainder of the sports seasons:

Hockey- Tampa Bay Stanley Cup champs. This may have already happened by the time this article goes up. *Update- It did not. My pick still stands.

Baseball- American League: Tampa Bay Rays, National League: LA Dodgers. World Series: Dodgers getting their first title since 1988 in a six game series.

National Propaganda/Basketball Association- Eastern Conference: Miami Heat, Western Conference: LA Lakers. Championship: LA over Miami in 5 games. Boooooo.

Football- AFC: Baltimore Ravens, NFC: Green Bay Packers. Super Bowl: Green Bay Packers 24-20. Number of kneels during anthem: 12 (if Trump wins), 0 (if Biden wins). No anthem if Biden has already stepped down by the big game and Harris is Pres. Ha ha just kidding.

March Madness- Kansas over Duke in the Champ Game.

Wrestlemania- Main event: Roman Reigns def. The Rock. Co-Main Event: Edge def. Randy Orton. Undertaker stays retired.

Well that's it for now, for a bit. If everything works out I'll be winterizing the Compound up north this fall, shooting some guns, scaring the neighbors, and pondering if I should buy the Majestic Complex. Bye bye.

From the Iceman Commeth,

Bryan Metro

A Lavender Eulogy For RBG and Louisville

 - From the National Affairs Desk

"Yes, well, when we're applauding my aptitude at making rescues, we should keep in mind who causes most of the accidents in the first place."  Res Ipsa Loquitur

Highchief, here's the brass taxes. I'm sitting in the re-opened National Affairs Suite at the National Affairs Desk. The past few weeks, fuck it, months, have been a real wild ride. But you, Constant Readers old and new, black and blue (ho ho ho), all know that because we have all been on the same ride together as consumers of the News and media. Life has never been more polarizing and interesting, for good or bad. Each new week seems to bring a new calamity that populates every form of media and, by proxy, our lives. I have made it very clear that I despise the media, and those few who run it. It seems like the memos have been going out every day, and getting through, from the Economy to Covid to BLM to protests to bang bang shoot 'em ups to riots, back to Covid to sports to the West Coast is burning and climate change. I had a feeling that this week's media memo was going to be about health coverage, but that went up in flames as well with the passing of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg along with the pall of violence hanging over Louisville, KY as the nation waits for a ruling regarding the murder of Breonna Taylor. I can see both candidates parlaying the death and impending destruction of Louisville into the election home stretch. We haven't even reached the debates yet. So, I have postponed my original post for this week until the future (it was about ghosts). This makeshift post is one of fear (mine), one of emotion (yours), and one of hope (??). Nobody knows what's real anymore and I find that energizing and, more importantly, fun. So let's get started.

I haven't worked for another person since 2017. In that time I started my own multimedia company called North Central Positronics. Ain't that a peach? Slowly, things are happening. Of course I've always had my freelance writing to fall back on so income is generated there. Isn't that crazy? Doesn't that make you hate and despise me even more? Actually, that was all bullshit. You would have to be a professional waterhead to believe any of that. However...

I still need funds. I still strongly feel that I could survive from income generated through the journalism I provide you. You ungrateful swine. If that freelance stuff doesn't work out Pay Me at paypal.me/. The hot shit, goddamn cheap fucks with disposable income, is y'all should be paying for local journalism and conversation. If I comment on your social media post, pay me. If I share your post, cash me. For example I got this public post from Lee G here stressing the severity of the Louisville situation.

With me reposting, it has now reached more people, raising awareness, than Lee could ever dream of. So Lee, Cash Me. If I screencap your public post and, as a bonus, offer a critique of it while expressing concern about the state of society (and mental illness), who knows, I may agree with you. But I may not. Either way, cash me at cash.me/#WetFanny. We should be able to live happily, however we like, doing the things that bring us peace and joy. Y'know, like writing this blog. Did you know that it took me 25 minutes to write that peace and joy nonsense? Good god, man. Peace isn't being someone's employee. Its me working for Me; being a fucking bum. If the Constant Readers respected the work local journalist(s) (?) do, the tireless efforts of Mr. Magoo, there wouldn't be a need for cashapp's and PayPal's but guess what? Me and my cult (of personalities) will still find a thing to bitch about every single, goddamn, hour of our lives. What I just wrote there about "respect"; toss it. The average Constant Reader doesn't even see us local journalists. How they going acknowledge or compensate us when the expectation is we just do it for free? If you've learned some things from this site like corrupt local music fests, or tasteful nudes, or how to take a joke... Pay me. After all, this is my job. Its what I'm here to do and I've been A-Number 1 for years. I've even had my assistant, Joan "the Moan", draft an all-inclusive presentation for the JCM Focus Group (unpaid interns):

I mean what other local journalist would cover, even a brief mention in passing, the mass deletion of tweets and rewritten rhetoric from a cornerstone like The New York Times? (See below). How exactly does one going from a Pulitzer Prize to self-censorship? They did it on there own. There wasn't even a lawsuit. This is the Cash Me Culture at its finest, so uhhhh, Pay Me.

Okay watersuckers, if it wasn't painfully obvious, that previous tirade was complete satire on my end, but be afraid, very afraid, that there are some out there who would type such gibberish. And do it while maintaining a straight face. They are out there. Alright, back to the National Affairs Desk in the present, the week before I undergo a very important and severe medical procedure with ominous implications regarding my future. Enough of that. The National Affairs Suite smells oddly like spoiled milk and there are unread books (Google it) stacked everywhere along with notecards scattered containing early dawn thoughts, some that make sense, most do not. While trying to clean up I find that last hit of acid that I didn't take at my MRI and wonder if I should take it while writing my RBG obit. I've never done anything like that before and even if it falls flat at least it won't be as flat as that Bahama show that pollutes my FB feed (Cash Me). Jesus Christ. Maybe I should save it for when the Docs put me under. "No need for that ventilator you vultures. I've been breathing through your noses for hours now." They would know that I'm not to be believed but would probably knock me sideways anyway. I've already taken the time to write my PayPal/GoFundMe info in Sharpie on top of the incision site. If I add to that the LSD-25 will I have fantastic, vivid, dreams and adventures or will it just be darkness followed by a cruel body buzz when/if I wake up? When I was a kiddo I convinced my pops to toss an explosive into our above-ground pool. I wanted to see if it just fizzled out or what ended up actually happening: blowing a giant hole in the pool. It was one high quality explosive. I am that explosive. Or am I the pool? That was the metaphor I initially thought of. What is in the future? Let's get to the meat of the matter. The fat is in the fire. The Terra has been stomped. There is a (very) mild chance that this will be my last post. If so, Cash Me. If not, then just Pay Me. I know some have wondered why I haven't written much lately. Now you do. So, let's hop on that road to the future, one where all the exit signs are visible and well-lit. It should be a fun ride and then you can cash me a drink at the Clearing Tavern.

Ah shit, I forgot about the eulogies. Let's start with Louisville, KY because it hasn't happened yet and I like to be ahead of the curve. In a Lavender exclusive I have obtained some photographs of the preparations going on in downtown Louisville in anticipation of the ruling of potential punishment for those involved in the Breonna Taylor shooting. As I said, interesting times indeed.

Very prudent to protect the gas lines and hopefully those who can drive and not have to be dropped off by their parents will be deterred.

Louisville September 2020 is a complete ghost town it seems. Very eerie.

I have included a pic of the local Louisville North Central Positronics HQ which has been fortified along with additional police support.

I try to look for the bright side in everything so even if massive property destruction and violence is avoided there will at least be ample canvas for the burgeoning mural trade.

As I said, this post is meant to be one of hope so lets hope violence and negativity will be avoided and we as a society can continue moving forward to a bright future; a future of equality, justice, and true freedom.

In conclusion I wanted to touch on the passing of Justice Ginsberg. I didn't know Ruth personally, but I knew of her. The 90's and 00's don't offer any favors in the memory department. Based on the reactions I've seen I'll go ahead and check off that she was a most important person in our Nation's history. She will be missed by many for a long time (or until the next media memo goes out). Her passing makes the next few months very intriguing and social media very insufferable. This is why I didn't want to go too over the top in this eulogy. Case in point, see below:

Good lord, what kind of fan fiction was that? Just when we're almost making progress on the black vs. white wormhole now they saddle us with men vs. women, and most concerning, Marvel vs. DC. I understand we all have our ways of expressing grief and/or looking for attention, but c'mon man. Those were so cloying and putrid and a breeding ground for mockery. Here is one of my favorite replies:

Here is one last one where the grief begins its familiar merging with extracurricular activities.

Yeah, the buffet line ho ho ho. Of course there is nothing wrong with writing/calling your politicians or even demonstrating/protesting, but you don't need me to tell you that. But if you did, CASH ME! Those things are our freedoms that RBG helped to shape and protect. *Previous sentence was genuine and not a ploy to get laid by the girl from Twin Peaks Northville, MI, U.S.A.

All joking aside, RBG obviously made a difference for a lot of people. I actually know some of them. They are real people with real feelings and opinions. It takes a transcendent soul to accomplish that. Trust me, I know. To balance the jokey screengrabs above, grab a book (Google it) or (gasp) Wikipedia her. Its a pretty good story, one not tampered with by journalists from the New York Times (yet). I just wish she would have smiled more. She always looked so severe. Then again there's not a lot to smile about. Fuck that, of course there is, taking the kids to the zoo or a Red Wings game for the first time, a rocking sunset (on or off LSD), feeding a bird, the unexpected nude leaks of Brie Larson. Sometimes you just have to look. Of course it helps if you are not a justice on the Supreme Court. And if you are having trouble finding that smile, well, that's my job, remember? A-#1. If that's the case then take that time to smile. And when you're done, all together now, CASH ME! Oh, and to call-back to my earlier satirical rant, RBG didn't work for RBG. RBG worked for her country. Her peace was not being somebody's employee. Her peace was a lifetime of service, and what she believed in. And she did it all without a fucking PayPal. I guess that last bit was me at my most profanely profound. Well, that'll do it for this one. Wish me luck on the Doc thing, or don't. I've pretty much accomplished everything I wanted to do in life already, so every day is sort of a bonus. Take care of your loved ones, try to weather the storm, enjoy what you can, and finally, Pay Me! Till next time, till the very end, I'll keep shutting down the lazy, hateful waterheads and investing in pain relief for the migraines caused by excessive rolling of the eyes. Until then, I've got a job to do, and do it well/half-assed, I will. Trust me this won't hurt.

From the Iceman Commeth,

The Thing Speaks For Itself

Bryan Metro

 

The MRI, Dream Cruise, and Bikini Car Wash

 "May you live in interesting times."- Ancient Chinese Curse

From the Local Affairs Desk-

   Hey all, Metro here. Well, one can't argue that these are indeed interesting times, even cursed times. If that is so, then why has it become so difficult to churn out anything of substance or interest? I have covered this dilemma in my last few posts and find no reason to revisit my opinions on the media, sports, politics, etc. I'll leave that to the big boys and even then everything is on repeat. I can't even watch TV anymore because of the commercials and promo's for the latest series executive produced by XXXXXXX. I'm just not that kind of guy; not that kind of guy! Since I feel that I'm winding down here on the blog (and elsewhere), and that soon I will be a man (or "person", if that makes you feel better about yourself) on an island (no, I don't know what I mean either), so Metro snuck out of the lockbox and all future/remaining posts will be from him (or Born Evil).

   I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle. But to who? The cliche answer would be "myself". Ugh, but how lame, boring, and unoriginal would that be? Jesus, that's two questions in the first two paragraphs. Not like me. I usually have all the answers. Then again, up until last month, I was interesting, unpredictable, and original (I understand some would disagree), so maybe, this time, the cliche fits. I can't take all of the credit, so let's say a 50/50 split with the doctors playing pinball with my body, the invoices out of nowhere on buried issues, the friends I never see anymore, and a bunch of other Blue Ribbons. The funny thing is I can deal with losing (in my own, obsolete, way). Its the road to that defeat that is the pain, mile markers replaced by signs, all of them saying "No Future, No Future, No Future, No Future, No Future, No Future, No Future, No Future, No Future, No Future, No Future, No Future," no sign of my exit ramp. 08/03/20

   Moving on that road, what are the latest going-on's around town? I try to be a fly on the wall now and then, but even social media has dried up, unless you find reading the same links/memes over and over. Either that, or everybody has just blocked each other. I did see that Woodman and Doofy Deficate did a pop-up show near Third Man Records for the Iggy Goose Lake thing. I saw a pic of their gear in shopping carts and almost jokingly commented for them to put them on the curb and I will have "the roadies" pick them up, ho ho ho. But I didn't. Most of the summer fests are cancelled (DIY, Labor Day, most of Arts, Beats, Eats). Everything is now livestreamed which just feels empty and not a lot of fun. Then there's this thing called "Benihana" or something, the "only nightly call-in show in Hamtramck". I was stunned at the amount of "likes" and comments but then realized that its just the same 7-10 people, all in on some inside joke I have zero interest in. I have yet to watch an episode because my dvd of "This Is 40" has been on repeat. In conclusion, the concepts of fun and adventure are in a vacuum in 2020; quite the cursed time to be in. Transition...

The MRI Diary-

   I found out about the need for a MRI when the Doc's ran a bunch of tests on pretty much everything (I had already quit drinking at this point, which is mildly frustrating). They concluded: MRI-Liver-45 Minutes. I had never had one and had no idea if I was claustrophobic. Keep in mind I was raised on empty local crowds. They basically said I would be placed in a tube where Death would be pumped directly into me; I mean pictures would be taken. I was told it would be noisy. I joked in an earlier post that I should take my last hit of acid beforehand. I decided not to, which is good because the banging and beeping of the construction site noise triggered an acid flashback to when I first took it and drove my friends to the casino, won $15, and then locked myself in the bathroom for an hour. After getting back to a house (a small miracle), I stayed up all night listening to amplified jackhammers outside my window along with the sounds of my friends vomiting outside. The toughest part of the MRI was holding my breath and releasing, but after 25 times I started to get lightheaded and praised Jesus I didn't have lethal amounts of narcotics up my ass, or nose, or lungs. That did not stop me from pausing the test to slip the nurse a note/contract I drew up the night before on Ativan. It read: "If anything happens to me during the test and I don't make it I would like my final wish to be entombed and buried in the MRI machine in lieu of a malpractice lawsuit. Cazart! B.M.". The results came back in a day and were... well that's for another post. This Tuesday (today? yesterday?) a "Tumor Board" is meeting to discuss my options. Thankfully, they'll let me know by phone. Tumor Board...what the hell is that anyway? Sounds like something out of a Tom Wolfe novel. Man, I could really use a drink right now. Oh, and I stole my hospital scrubs.

The Blue Ribbon Shit Factory-

   Believe it or not, I have never been to a Woodward Dream Cruise. Cars aren't my thing. I was more fascinated by the Cruisers and Gear Heads versus local businesses; every year, back and forth. This year the official Cruise was cancelled but didn't stop the car junkies from doing it anyway. Of course, being 2020, it had to be politicized. Now it was Trump versus Protesters. Black Lives Matter duking it out with Pro-Lifer's. I could probably zap out a 5,000 word article on the irony of the car contingent being mostly pro-Trump set against the backdrop of the auto bailout. So if anyone has 1K laying around for an advance, contact me.

I got there late and I guess most of the drama happened in the early afternoon. My writing schedule usually ends around 6am/sunrise, so I missed it. Thus, the whole experience was a letdown. There was okay people watching, some okay cars, and lots of lawn chairs. It basically looked like this...

No blood, no shouting, no grenados. Yeah, late to the party. I decided to ditch the Silver Hornet and spend some time on foot hoping for the big scoop. I covered Woodward from 14 Mile to 8 Mile and it was all the same aside from the occasional millennial protesters like these guys.

I didn't even bother to ask them to elaborate on their platform other than the all too easy materialism, exhaust fumes, and BLM. I'd probably make some crude joke about not being able to breathe with all this traffic to help them along. But I didn't. I saw a news van so I kept moving. I did notice that the Pro-Cruise (Trump) crews had control of the road.

I made it to the Fox News van which ended up being empty (there is irony somewhere here), so I made it my base of operations, the interim Local Affairs Desk, and tried to find something combustible (not on four wheels). My Sharpie was starting to die so the sign is tough to read up there. It said "Cobbs Modified GMC 3-71 Blower on Navarro Manifolds Matter!". My main observation of the whole thing is that the people that were still there were creatures of routine, disciples of the wheel, who just wanted to sit, talk, and get away, have fun, cool drink, back pats, coolers filled with sunglasses and no fear. I don't see myself as a psycho "Mask Mandator", but I see their benefits and participate, but in the end, do what you want. Given the scope of the Cruise, I did feel a little unsafe seeing the lack of masks, but that just altered my distancing. I'm a journalist, not a preacher. Do as you wish and if I end up sick its my fault for getting antsy about writing. From my makeshift Local Affairs Desk at the Fox News van I really saw nothing of note; very disappointing.

I decided to grab some 5pm breakfast but they were closed. I was unable to find out if it was due to the pandemic or Cruise traffic (there is some irony here). Thankfully there was an IHOP nearby so it was back to stompin' the terra. But before I did, I couldn't resist, for old times sake...

I shortly ran into the first group of Trump supporters. They were jovial (a little too much), but there was no incident. I noticed what could have been a few counter-protesters coming, so I used my secret weapon, the American Flag, which meant they had no option other than halting and kneeling, stopping them in their tracks as to not to offend the large church with the larger BLM banner (and the NBA). Close call.

I found it notable that most of the car gang were casual, just having a good time while the protesters were dour, angry, sad, a little bitter; miserable. Being miserable while reading every news link is not the way to get through life. A couple blocks over I ran into this lady who was protesting in a peaceful way. I broke out my "Unemployed Musician" sign to hop on the demographic, but it just made me sad. The woman was very nice and said, "Someone has to do it." Since I've never taken a stand, I wished her long days and pleasant nights and moved on.

I passed a Chicano millennial whose form of protest was flipping off cars. Boring; kept walking. God I could use a drink right now. I tried to have Fun With Signs, but like everything else, it just seemed forced and hollow. Maybe I need my own nightly call in show.

Heading back to the Local Affairs Desk I switched into the hazmat suit which actually triggered somebody to yell, "I can't breathe," which I found to be timely and tasteless, the theme of the year. It was time to leave. This isn't fun anymore.

The last thing I saw was a mailbox. For a second I thought I Todashed to Greenfield Village. All I wanted to do is hug and protect it. Or maybe I watch too much 4am news. Overall, I was underwhelmed and depressed with the day along with my coverage so I split. Thankfully, waiting at home was a flyer for my next weekend project... and a steak.

The Anti-ICE Bikini Car Wash Company-

   The flyer I stumbled on was for an anti-ICE bikini car wash the next day. It was set up by a few people who I've had run-in's with in the past, mostly during the El Club debacle a few years ago. I think that's water under the bridge though because none of them tried to sue me, and even a few show signs of having logical brain cells. Disclaimer- In regards to Pro/Anti Immigration and ICE, I am indifferent, neither here nor there. Both sides have their psycho divisions. As a journalist, I try to populate my cruel satire with indecision. That way I do not have any bias. I am not advocating this group. I am not blasting this group. Here is the flyer so you can do your own research and donate if you please, or antagonize if you disagree. I'm no preacherman.

One thing we can all agree on is girls in bikinis equal a good time. I have been to a few bikini car washes so I knew I would have to tread lightly, and be aware of my surroundings. I could be entering a Den of Mousetraps here. But before the car wash I stopped at the Hamtramck/Third Man Stadium to honor the 100 year anniversary of the Negro League. There was nobody else there which was cool; no publicity stunts or hanger-on's, not even a pop-up show. I had never been there before and I found it to be very nice (how's that for a descriptive adjective Milo?).

One can feel the history amongst the dirty paper plates, cups, and half empty water bottles. Fucking savages. I had the brilliant idea earlier that day to pick up a carton of eggs to dirty up the Silver Hornet. Why go to a bikini car wash with potential Doff's and just have them spray the car with a hose? I had to muck the bastard up and let the sun work its magic. The first egg was "Mr. Mail-In Egg". Since that mailbox from the Dream Cruise segment is probably gone by now, hidden in one of these abandoned houses, I had to take drastic measures about sending my opinion on everyone in this year's election so Egg+I Voted sticker+Postage Stamp and we're good to go. Now do I vote for Trump/Pence (deviled/hard boiled) or for Biden/Harris (scrambled/ over easy)?

As always, I was indifferent so I just decided to smash a bunch of these fuckers onto the car. The poor schlomo working in his yard had no idea what to make of the cracking of the bat/eggs and the wild histrionics and whooping coming out of my mouth.

It was time for a costume change before the cops came which ruled out my officer's uniform so I chose my "You look like I could use a drink" shirt, but decided I didn't want to call too much attention to myself. The hazmat suit was at the cleaners.

I finally went with my Fat Albert jersey which would be fine at an immigration event, but not a Negro League field. Upon arriving at the wash I noticed about 90% of the signs, banners, and merch said, "Fuck ICE". Since I wanted to fit in I started my own but my spare Sharpie also ran out and I ended up walking around with a "Fuck" sign. I couldn't even include a question mark.

I did think about photoshopping "Fuck Cobbs Modified GMC 3-71 Blower on Navarro Manifolds" when I got back to the JCMsTown Compound. But I didn't. The first order of business was to get the slop washed off the car. The poor girl assigned to the hood jumped at the sight of the eggs. "Somebody egged your car. Who would do that?" she asked, and I replied, "It was me," and after that there was no more talk. I secretly wanted her to look in the backseat and see the egg carton sitting there and coming to the realization that I was telling the truth, playing with fire. The rest of the wash was uneventful aside from the passenger side mirror falling off, no fault of theirs. It had been hanging by a thread for weeks. Once the wash was over I stashed the Silver Hornet where it wouldn't be broken into because I wanted to check out the setup. Man, the walk from Bloomfield Hills was brutal ho ho ho. The setup was modest, but nice, with a merch table selling stickers, face masks, shirts, and posters, a grill with veggie hot dogs (ugh), and a DJ who was set up far away from everyone which I found odd since the chances for noise complaints were zilch. Here are a few shots of the fun. The second one even features a Doff in the background (back to the shoe cam).

After enough wandering around I visited the merch table. I passed on everything, but the George Floyd poster was a tough call. I do admire the elbow grease put into the items for sale. I just couldn't live with my neighbors, friends, or pastor seeing me with a shirt with "Fuck" on it. I could just imagine what my fellow parishioners would say. "Did you see what that guy who is always dressed like a police officer or scientist was wearing at mass last week?"

What I saw was a bunch of people that were casual, with friends, just having a good time. I didn't see any protesters, but if I missed any, I bet they would have been dour, angry, sad, a little bitter; miserable. Wait, that sounds if not familiar then at least profound. I could go on but I just got my first stink eye of the day (guy in black).

So I just turned the other way and wandered some more, eventually getting back to that road.

Afterword-

Whew, that was a lot of pages and a lot of photos. I found the finished post a bit dull by my standards but it picked up by the end. It felt good to get out, be with the people, and write again even if it costs me my life. If not, even better. I always have the Tumor Board on Line 1. I hope those who actually read the whole thing caught how different the two events were, but how alike they were in a sense. That duality is what drew me to the pen and notebook, not fancy cars or bikinis (well a little for the bikinis). The one thing that I'm proud of, aside from still having a good baseball swing, is that there were three situations where I could have rationalized having a drink or five, but I didn't. Once again, I'm no preacher. Drink all you want. Have fun. You may even run into me one day and buy me one too. I just wanted to see if I could do it. And yo Adrian, I did it. See you down the path.

From the Iceman Commeth,

Bryan Metro