Metro Escapes Detroit

"It will be a miracle if this goes off as planned..."

Hey all, Metro here. This was the first line of what was to be in my journal of adventures, but it was the only thing I wrote. Sorry, I'm in LiveJournal mode. I will try to make this as Milo-less as possible. Emphasis on "try". Don't worry, I tie it into the local scene.

I didn't think I would survive last week. On Tuesday me and Born Evil were to cover the first ever WWE night at the Wings game (Carmella, who shook my hand, was a peach in person). Then up at 4am on Wednesday to catch a 9:45am flight. The next four days were to be spent in Orlando for a wedding (I was in the bridal party as the Man of Honor). Then fly back the day after the reception (never a good idea).

Leading up to this death race I spent most of my time in bed worrying about the worst that could happen: The panic attack or seizure from not having a drink during the ceremony, engine failure on the plane, the hijacker with time management issues who waited until after the engine failure, the ominous call from the doctor back in Michigan saying "We need to see you as soon as possible", the raving madman wielding a baton at an Indian couple at the baggage claim, the father who vanished from the plane mid-flight, the fear when the stewardess says "The life vests are under your seats but you won't need them", the frustration at having forgotten to tape all of this week's Patty Winters Shows, terror at the realization you forgot the Xanax and more importantly, extra boxers, and you are in the middle seat and already starting to smell, and the worry about receiving additional court information. Just kidding on that last one, ha ha.

Medium-size story short- It went off fine, as planned which was a relief and also slightly disappointing in a weird way. Of course there were a few hiccups: Being pulled aside by TSA because I worse my wedding suit to save money and some brat behind me yelled "Its the Joker" (the suit was Lavender, duhhhh, with a green shirt and orange tie). There was also the vomiting in the hotel room after the reception, not because of too much drink, but because of a coughing fit. After cleaning the trash can like a true gent I lined it with a towel and put an index card on top simply saying "I'm back" in blood red lipstick that appeared out of nowhere.

There were also a lot of positive moments as well but the Constant Readers don't want to hear about that because that's personal and part of a different project. Switching to essay mode, I took two things away from this whirlwind week.
One- While in Florida I experienced a catharsis of sorts. For four days I had no laptop, no internet, no Facebook, and a bare bones burner phone in case I got lost/went missing. After Day 1 it was like I was out of detox. I felt great. I was no longer inundated with posts about the neighbor with a basement full of bones, how to reduce your debt, the catastrophic box office of the latest Ghostbusters...I mean Terminator movie, the economy, the plane whose engine had failed, and additional court information. Just kidding on that last one, ha ha. But it really was a cleansing feeling. Not once did I feel a panic attack coming on, but that could have been the constant beer being fed to me with the day usually starting with a voice saying "Here, Number 1". You should try it (minus the beer if you wish). Just disappear, even if it's here. Also, value your friends. I don't mean to sound like I'm lecturing. I don't want to be "that guy" who's now straight edge and feels the need to tell everybody how great it is as they all internally roll their eyes (nothing against sobriety, but it can be insufferable and pandering). I digress. Value your close one's. I don't have a bunch of friends (surprised?) but that's by design. So many people are boring (segue in 10...9....8...), but the friends I have mean so much and never take them for granted. This past week I reconnected with old friend Kevin Owens along with making a new one in Negasonic Teenage Warhead.

Two- When I got back to Michigan I was surrounded by a sense of emptiness. Don't get me wrong, I was happy to be home as my vacation quota is around four days before I completely lose it and roam. But after getting home, as The Writer, I need to write to make myself "level", and I saw that there was nothing at all (locally) to write about. I know its nearing the end of the year and things are lean, but wowie zowie, this is the worst I've seen it. The first thing I saw was a Hip In Detroit interview with Divorced Ryan Allen where he compared himself to Kurt Cobain and I spent the next two hours in the bathroom crying (no wellness check needed). What I am saying/asking is if there are any hot (local) topics that none of the local pussy journalists will touch, message or e-mail me. I made a promise to keep writing so give me something to work with: the sex scandal between ????, the record release show that's actually worth going to, the GoFundMe's that are worth contributing to, not the cash grabs like Electric Six or some revolting blob asking for money. Give me something to work with. Everything is so boring. Thus, I gift you with my most boring post of the year. Lets work together. I'll be your mirror.


I'm Back
Bryan Metro

Jack White's Baseball Bat and Summertime (Mild NSFW)

Hey all, Metro here and this post is a little bit of light and dark. It is a combination of the usual opinion and fiction and back to reality. I will admit it is a typical 2019 Metro post that is scattershot and follows the script of local stuff coverage with laughs that some of the Constant Readers enjoy along with some fiction and gore which some readers like and wrapping it up in that blue bow with real important things (which nobody cares about). I was also going to include a pop culture list but held off so I have something else to write. I will start off with this nugget that came across my desk today. I am writing on Saturday July 27th, 2019.

You obviously saw my post about the circle jerk sandlot baseball game sponsored/organized/cliqued by Jack White and Third Man Records. I spoke to a few who attended and they had a good time which is cool and there was no negative energy which is cool and donations were taken to benefit the park, Hamtramck Stadium, which is very cool. Now comes the swerve (you knew it was coming). There is now an auction set up for a limited amount of bats (50) signed by White  I immediately rolled my eyes at the starting bid of a predictable, yet still pretentious, $333.00. As of this writing on Saturday to be published Monday the 29th (Hi Robby Sr.!), the auction had zero bids and zero watches. I made a mental note that it was set up on July 24th and there were still zero bids (nor any social media promotion). In fact this post may be the first you are hearing about this which doesn't surprise me considering the quality of local scene reporting these days. Of course the first thing I noticed was that there was no contact information. Who is running this auction? Who set up the page? The verbiage on the page...oh wait, here is the actual link that has been active for days that I just saw on Saturday:   Buy My Bat!
Here is a photo of members of the team holding some of the bats, but not the bats you are bidding on because those were mass produced (or bought and painted) way before the game.

Smash cut back to the verbiage saying that a "portion" of the sales will benefit the field, the obvious angle. Actually it will go to the "Friends of Historic Hamtramck Stadium", which I didn't know even existed. You know where this is going.... I would feel more comfortable giving my hard earned minimum bid of $333.00 (ugh again) knowing what "portion" of the total fee is going to the field, and yes I understand that there are costs involved but these people have the money for it. A "portion"...spare me. Where's the rest going? Ben Blackwell's Weight Watchers account? We'll never know but its another example of the local music inferiority/martyr syndrome and now we switch to fiction for a bit before switching back to facts. Fiction:

                                                                  Summertime

My name is Patricia and I love my city, especially in the summertime (its my favorite season). I work two jobs, both of which don't pay the most but it helps pay the bills at least and sometimes I am able to go out and have some fun, see some bands, local art, the latest indie at Cinema Detroit or the blockbuster at the Bel Air (so I can watch people because that's what I really do). Detroit has always been a part of my life dating back to my birthday in 1985 and I have so many memories here. This is my town. I remember my first show at the Gold Dollar (I was underage but nobody cared), I remember riding the Boblo Boat for the last time in the summer of 1993 but don't remember any of the rides but I had fun just watching people (because that's what I really do). I remember bragging to friends outside of Wayne State's Old Main about my experience at the very first Metro Times Blowout and waiting for their reactions, watching them (because that's what I do), wondering if they realize it would have been impossible, and then making a decision that they were no longer my friends and one of them stopped showing up to the Economics class and I never saw her again. Nobody knows what happened to her (but what do you think?). It was summer and there were secrets and I was in the city and I think it was around 1999 and

"Summertime. And the living is easy. Fish are jumping and the cotton is high."

I'm much older now (but not really, I'm only 34) and I still love this town, especially all of the new stores and venues and restaurants and history and sometimes I like to just sit at Campus Martius sometimes on lunch break, from a job I do nothing at, watching everybody, families, happy people, the occasional bum, but they seem happy too. It makes me feel good to see everybody happy and makes me forget about attending the first ever Blowout. I'm just glad to see people happy. I've kept watch.

"Your daddy's rich, and your mamma's good looking. So hush little baby, don't you cry."

I receive a text message from Bryan Metro, a former co-worker, not exactly hot but charismatic which sometimes matters, and he jokingly sent me a link to an auction for a signed Jack White baseball bat from that circle jerk game the other week and I called somebody I knew who was involved in the play, I mean game, and they got me a baseball bat for free (I wasn't the only one) so now I have a new, unused baseball bat, and I think tonight is a great day to check out of work early and play some ball.

"One of these mornings you're going to rise up swinging. Then you'll spread your wings and you'll fly to the sky."

On Sunday, July 14th I decided to head out to people watch, maybe catch a show, eat out of an overrated food truck and I had already been to Eternal Tattoos to get my "Ms. 45 Home runs" ink on my thigh that no one will ever see and I had the Jack signed bat with me at the session and I still do and it is July and I see a young girl, probably 16 being followed by a man, probably around 32 and I am watching them.

"But till that morning, there's a'nothing that can harm you with daddy and mamma standing by."

The man eventually forced her into an alley and attempted to assault her. The demographic of the criminal doesn't matter and it would be a story that would bore you. This may turn into an attempted rape/murder and

"One of these mornings, you're going to rise up swinging. Then you'll spread your wings and fly to the sky."

It was then when I used the Jack White signed baseball bat to crack his fucking leg in two which was followed by the obvious strikes to his head. At this point the derelict, Marcus, actually started asking me for a job. I hit him again just for fun, shared a laugh with the (now empty) space where the victim was a minute ago, and then hit him again just for fun. After making sure the victim was gone I made him suck on the Jack White signed baseball bat for about two minutes longer than necessary but really, who cares and then I maced his face, not long enough to blind him but enough to make him look like he was crying (he already was by that point). I then whispered "I know where you live and its nowhere anymore," as he continued fussing. I then inserted a tire gauge up his ass for a final laugh and it didn't work and I don't know where it came from.

"But till that morning, there's a'nothing that can harm you. With daddy and mamma standing by."

It's now July 18th and I took another half day at the office not that it mattered to anyone because nobody knows when I'm there, so I'm just walking around town, Hamtramck, the usual, and the sun is already down and I'm humming Christmas carols just loud enough so people can hear me, notice, question, move on, and I see a limping man, around 32, and I circle the block to get a better look because he is so fucking slow and he has an eyepatch and I recognize him from my intervention a few days ago and now he's trying to break into a house. I immediately clipped him is his (poorly) bandaged leg (materials most likely stolen from the Jos. Campau CVS), and when he saw me he started crying for real this time (I had left the mace in the car). Of course he started babbling, whining, begging (again), probably sounding like his intended victims. He mentioned his broken leg which was a cue to hit it again hoping to rupture all the pins or splints there and then got depressed because he probably didn't have any. To cheer myself up I hit him in the head again, aiming for the eyepatch, and then made him suck on the Jack White signed baseball bat again for old times sake and way too long this time and then I hit him again with it officially sending into lucid zone, still crying, and he turned to me and said, "You know my mother is going to say that I was a good person," and then I chuckled and said, "I do know that, I've seen this story before. I'm not going to let you become a headline or a Twitter trend. I'm just going to let you drift into the purgatory of becoming a stereotype", and then I went back to the car and came back (the stupid bastard barely made an effort to move) and maced him again just because.

                                              Summertime and the living is easy

                                                *End of Fiction Back to Real.

Hey all, Metro back. The previous was a work of fiction. However the events described did happen. They happened this month. Received a little local coverage, but not a lot. Unfortunately a local girl at the age of 34 named Patricia, a watcher, part-time vigilante, and owner of a Jack White signed baseball bat was not there. That part didn't happen. I have to stress the previous section was fiction and did not include demographics, but these assaults happened this month, and that other month, and at that one Blowout.
 Oh here are the links because this really happened:
Don't walk alone.......
And I'm the one being sued.

Just keep in mind that nobody is actively caring about these incidents because it corrupts/fractures the narrative (I saw zero posts about it on my social media feed; they had to be sent to me), nor did anybody during the Blowout abduction/assault, but oh my lord did you see the latest tweet from so and so and we should just focus on baseball, local fields that really aren't used, and just remember to blink.

It's Summertime but the Iceman Commeth,
Bryan Metro

The First Chapter/Act of Metro's Screenplay "Piss Bag"

Hey all, Metro here.  With the success of "A Quiet Place" and "Bird Box"  I have decided to rip off/write a screenplay/novel called "Piss Bag".  And as a bonus to the Constant Readers here is the first chapter!!



It all started in the summer. At first it was only covered by TMZ and Reddit and most of society laughed it off, but as more and more people died everybody started to take notice.

My name is Ben, and I am currently trapped in a bathroom at MidCi in Sherman Oaks, Ca, along with my wife, an African American named April, her daughter from a previous relationship Roont (bi-racial), our son Logan, and our adopted Asian daughter Finn.  We have no idea how long we have before TIME RUNS OUT!

When the mainstream media finally caught on they called it "The Nose Pop", and it started that summer. At first it was a few deaths here and there, but then it started to gain traction. Famous scientists from around the globe concluded that the fatality epidemic was being caused by a neurological reaction to foul smells. This is when the panic began. Thousands lost their lives by trying to be proactive and plugging their noses which resulted in a multitude of asphyxiation deaths that CNN termed "The Suicides". My family tried to maintain life as usual, but every now and then whenever I passed a dumpster or an Indian restaurant, the boils would start popping up on my arms.

Yet still, I refused to give in to this mysterious, unexplained plot point epidemic. And because of this is why I am stuck in this bathroom now.  It was my mistake refusing to acknowledge an obvious MacGuffan and took my family to get pizza at MidCis.

Everything was going great until the asshole next to us orders one of those custom jobs with next to everything on it. Almost immediately, the entire restaurant erupts into mass chaos.  The businessman at the window table cut off his tongue with a fountain pen.  Nicky, that Italian greaseball and everybody's favorite regular, had his stomach cave in as he was rushing to the door. With Nicky's 350 lbs blocking our only exit I realized we had to work fast. The couple to the left of us started to disrobe for one last time before their hands fell off. I noticed that our daughter Roo's hair had begun falling out so we had to act quick. So I gathered the family, along with a few other survivors: Tully, the transgender artist, Betty, the lesbian who lives next door, Randy, the failed musician, Outrageous Mike, the model, Trent, who lives in that house near the beach, and Zoro, who we call Zoro because nobody knows his real name but he is Mexican.

So here we are. A stalemate. Stuck inside of a bathroom. Right now I can hear the screaming outside.  Thankfully it only lasts for a few minutes and the screams are replaced by the sounds of chewing. I went to comfort my wife April but she was on her phone with her broker. I was sure the kids would need their father figure, but they were pre-occupied with some game on their tablets.

Tully, the tranny, was the first to crack. He turned on all the water faucets and started to scream for help. Already knowing that smell can kill you, I immediately questioned whether sound can as well, so I choked Tully until he stopped moving, and just to be sure, I removed his eyes in case sight can doom us.

By this point, I was three beers in at the restaurant along with the six I had before we left.  Thankfully, we are trapped in a bathroom, waiting it out.  I go back to April, who is finally off her goddamn phone, to tell her that I have to go take care of "Hungry Harry" and will be back once I relieve myself. I make sure to check on the rest of the survivors as well.  Tully has passed away most likely due to the smell ingestion before getting into the bathroom.  That would be my best guess. I then receive the coldest chill of my life when I reach the urinal, with my equipment already out, "Hungry Harry" ready to spurt.  My worst fear has come true.... A Piss Bag.

So that's it!  The first chapter of the soon to be hit movie and my next book.  What happens next? How long can the characters last? When is too much for the Piss Bag and it breaks? Jeeze, this screenwriting stuff is easy!

From the Iceman Commeth,
Bryan Metro