michael jackson is becoming
last night i hung out with a few friends from work and wanda the german economics student in what happens to be a frigid warehouse/theatre/concert hall/who-knows-what-anymore building downtown. actually, it's pretty much in crackville (about one mile away from the coolest university in the city of detroit, wayne state -- where dj leaureate kasey kasem, pulitzer prize-winning poet philip levine and various others matriculated).
the goliath of a building is in a sort of suspended animation--a real halfway house--the area is...hm...trying to...regentrify, i guess. but it's questionable according to many, and it's happening at a slug's pace. anyway, local drug dealers, vagrants and myriad itinerants have sway. and, well, as these things usually go, the artist-owner and his wife who live in one of the building's many compartments are cool and have cred in the community so there's relative peace in the vicinity.
i'd been to this ghostly place on two separate occasions before. once for a halloween bash. three years ago i think. it looked different, but i suppose it's only the light and my perspective. then, for me, it was strangely becoming.
and the second time, early last year, for an editorial meeting for a new litery arts magazine. during the first visit i didn't notice how cold the place was...too many people and too much dancing. during the second visit, i noticed exactly how cold it was, as i was already deep into a cold. besides, my doctor believes i have renauds disease, and no matter what the mercury indicates, nothing short of a texas summer does much to make my fingers thaw. still, the place was becoming. become what is the question.
this third time, however, a $20 space heater kicked out enough heat to take the visibility out of our breath. and tom, a kid who at last check was supposed to be living in reykjavik, was entertaining the troops with his trusty laptop and adult-style distraction--including x-rated concert footage and the single best piece of pop culture of the 80s: thriller.
michael jackson.
from childstar
to snake oil salesman
(which video was that, anyway?)
to molting snake,
the king of pop has become finally--and seems to remain--the prince of poop.
how easily majesty crumbles. you'd barely even guess at what it hides. and still, still, it is becoming. it must be. why else would we be so fascinated?
the goliath of a building is in a sort of suspended animation--a real halfway house--the area is...hm...trying to...regentrify, i guess. but it's questionable according to many, and it's happening at a slug's pace. anyway, local drug dealers, vagrants and myriad itinerants have sway. and, well, as these things usually go, the artist-owner and his wife who live in one of the building's many compartments are cool and have cred in the community so there's relative peace in the vicinity.
i'd been to this ghostly place on two separate occasions before. once for a halloween bash. three years ago i think. it looked different, but i suppose it's only the light and my perspective. then, for me, it was strangely becoming.
and the second time, early last year, for an editorial meeting for a new litery arts magazine. during the first visit i didn't notice how cold the place was...too many people and too much dancing. during the second visit, i noticed exactly how cold it was, as i was already deep into a cold. besides, my doctor believes i have renauds disease, and no matter what the mercury indicates, nothing short of a texas summer does much to make my fingers thaw. still, the place was becoming. become what is the question.
this third time, however, a $20 space heater kicked out enough heat to take the visibility out of our breath. and tom, a kid who at last check was supposed to be living in reykjavik, was entertaining the troops with his trusty laptop and adult-style distraction--including x-rated concert footage and the single best piece of pop culture of the 80s: thriller.
michael jackson.
from childstar
to snake oil salesman
(which video was that, anyway?)
to molting snake,
the king of pop has become finally--and seems to remain--the prince of poop.
how easily majesty crumbles. you'd barely even guess at what it hides. and still, still, it is becoming. it must be. why else would we be so fascinated?
posted by stacy muszynski at 7:02 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home