Pardon My French

I decided that I was going to write today.
Today’s the day, I thought, because yesterday, I just couldn’t force it. Even though it was my first day off in over a week and I actually did have the energy to take my protagonist to all of the places I frequently imagine as I stock grocery shelves with cans of beans, corn and the like. The tap was just…dry. So I gave up, and did my best to reflect for the remainder of the day.
And the day before that, I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. God, there have been more days like that lately than I can even count. And so I run and hide from the comforts of the house– the couch, the bed, the kitchen table that lately have been adequate workplaces for me– because today they’re a little too comfortable. I drive to a nearby coffee shop because today’s the day I’m going to write, dammit!

I order my coffee, put down my usual unnecessary pile of crap and stare at the laptop screen.Twenty-five minutes later, I still haven’t written a damn thing.
My eyes dart from one end of the room to the other. There are other people working/trying to work. Is no one else hearing this noise?

But she wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts
She’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers…

Is this seriously a real song? I google the lyrics. Ah, Taylor Swift. Good to know, I guess. A middle-aged man and his wide arm gestures won’t stop yammering at a barista about football. Some guy to my right talks about why he thinks “text messaging is the stupidest thing in the world.” A lady behind me asks the same question three different ways before her study partner finally understands what she’s asking him. A bell cries out each and every time anyone passes through that door frame. I read and reread the last few sentences I’ve written, words from days ago, and try my best to regain my bearings.

Yeah, it’s been a tough month. National Novel Writing Month has been kicking my butt. As of Friday, I have 7,373 words for the entire month of November, a far cry from the 50,000 word goal. Friends of mine, who are also participating in NaNoWriMo, pump out thousands of words per day. I envy them. In fact, I’ve been consumed with jealousy as I face hurdles like my burnt out part time job, a naggy mother and a “this is shit, everything I write is shit” attitude that comes and goes, sometimes staying to haunt me for days at a time. My friends keep telling me I’m missing the point. “Just WRITE. Write as much as you can. That’s what this program is all about.”

It took a few weeks, but I decided that this philosophy, personal wellness and reason also in mind, I need to forget about the monster word counts. I’ve got another week of NaNoWriMo. I’d like to see 15K by then. If I don’t, then whatever. I’ll get to 50,000 eventually.

We’ve all seen them.
Photo essays of some of Detroit’s “best” shit holes in America’s most well known and respected news publications: the ruins of the vacant Packard Auto Plant and Michigan Central Station, the rotting skeletons of abandoned homes that were long ago burnt to the ground, the urban prairies–”wildlife” that’s slowly taking back the city and urban farming.
These are supposed to be the representation of what Detroit is like.

As Vice Magazine’s Thomas Morton so wisely noted earlier this summer in his article “Something, something, something Detroit: Lazy journalists love pictures of abandoned stuff”, because depicting a city that appears to be decaying from the inside out, from the local government to the face of the rubbled landscape, that get all the hits on news websites, these sensationalistic stories therefore prioritize those that have actual newsworthiness.
“There’s a total gold-rush mentality about the D right now,” Morton writes. “And all the excitement has led to some real lapses in basic journalistic ethics and judgment.”

To create some relevance here, what got me all fired up about this subject was my discovery of a TIME article called “Detroit: The Death — and Possible Life — of a Great City” earlier this afternoon.
“So, is this your thing now TIME?” I thought to myself, half kidding, as I scrolled past a photo captioned ‘abandoned homes in Detroit.’ “Write that same old Detroit stereotypes story every couple of months?” My jaw dropped when I realized that this was EXACTLY what the magazine is doing.

Without commentary from any locals, historical experts or city leaders, and using exclusively demographic information that appear to be lifted from a Wikipedialike source, TIME writer Daniel Okrent blogs from the first person perspective, as though he were an expert on the historical timeline and current state of the city. But, he’s certainly no expert.

While he claims to be a “Detroit native”, Okrent moved out of the city for an education at The University of Michigan and from there moved out of state the first chance he got, in the 70s– it’s pretty safe to say that he didn’t experience the ups and downs of living in Detroit duringthe last 40 years. His recent return to Detroit to pose the hypothetical question “Could we regenerate a city, and regain a sense of who we are as Americans?” is like a slap in the face to the people who actually live here.

He’s not actually writing from the perspective of a true native. He’s focused on fulfilling his own agenda, keeping people across the country comfortable through maintaining their ideas of what Detroit is like. While his voice is that of a martyr, he’s not actually doing anything to help rebuild the city. There’s no suggested plan of action to clean up or rebuild the city– there’s not even any words of encouragement. He just wants to retell the same story that’s been told a thousand times before.

What continues to frustrate me is that there’s not even a place on TIME’s website for me to comment on why this is unfair and unethical journalism.

In an AutoMK article called “TIME comes back to Detroit”, it’s reported that there’s a whole team of TIME reporters and photographers actually stationed within the city. Because it’s en vogue, TIME Magazine decided to buy a house in an old-money neighborhood to serve as their Detroit Bureau during this “Assignment Detroit Project” for the next year. Interestingly enough, this isn’t the first time TIME has had employees in Michigan and for similar reasons.
“Until about ten years ago, they had a whole editorial and advertising team in the cushy Detroit suburb of Bloomfield Hills. Then, a decade ago, they left, tail between their legs, afraid of sinking auto advertising revenues and lonely for their even-more-cushy Manhattan high-rise,” the article reads.

It continues: Rampant gang and crime that was prevalent through the 80s and 90s has dramatically decreased, the murder rate has dropped below the average of most major U.S. cities and there has been a rebirth in business entertainment.
“However, for someone just coming back to the city, it’s hard to see the improvement, so, like TIME Magazine, it’s much easier to apply a story line to a situation rather than put things into context,” it reads.

TIME is in The Motor City “because Detroit affects all of us”, they claim, while all the while The Detroit Free Press has been doing a stand up job with it’s coverage in the last couple of years. What this TIME in Detroit business is really about roots back to the fact that the national media loves to dump on this city from the safe sidelines. It’s like they’re fascinated with the city collapsing in on itself, but don’t want it to actually involve them.

For three weeks, I worked as a temporary employee for hipster chic clothing store Urban Outfitters.

Desperate for a job, I applied to just about every place of business in the area this summer. But, of all the places where I submitted my application, I never thought for a second that I would ever receive a call back from Urban Outfitters. I didn’t consider myself “hip” enough to work there.

In an online essay I stumbled upon today, Urban is accurately described as having a specific style. “A style that will fit anybody, but it is not for everybody. It has more to do with metropolitan hipsters, with action, with movement, with incontinence, brightness.”

On the application, inquiries about my education came second to off the wall questions like: “who are your main fashion influences?”

Everyone employed on the floor of UO wears high end fashion and are covered in tattoos. They are self described elitists, and if you don’t look like them, hang out with the “right” people, wear the “right” brands or listen to the same music as they do, you are not worth their time. I’m a recent college graduate without an income. My last clothing purchase was a graduation dress, before that, I don’t even have a guess. I choose my friends based on how they make me feel– the conversations we share, whether or not I feel I can trust them. I don’t have cable, I haven’t illegally downloaded music in over a year and I go to local cafes to get online. So, you do the math. I don’t fit in there.

But, there was a lot of dirty work to be done these last few weeks. Heavy lifting, many trips up and down the Freddy Kreuger movie reminiscent basement stairs, rack organization, keeping the store looking pristine clean– it was the kind of work that called for temps. The current staff didn’t want to get sweaty, mess up their hair, smear their green eyeshadow. They hired 30 people, even if we weren’t the Polaroid snapshot of what it means to be hip and we did the work for minimum wage.

The Ann Arbor Art Fairs bring in suburban folk from across the state. The local culture disappears during this time- you see fewer people with dreadlocks and purple hair and suddenly everywhere you look, there are colorful striped polo shirts and Wal-Mart shoppers riding Amigos. This middle class crowd likes to wander the streets and buy “art”– kitchen ware-like salad bowls and Biscotti jars, wiry jewelry, cheap sunglasses and T-shirts. There really isn’t a more perfect time for Urban Outfitters to have a huge sale.

Clearance items from UO locations from across the state, New York City and Santa Monica, California are shipped to the Ann Arbor store. A 60-foot-long tent is erected in the front of Urban and orange 50 percent off stickers are stuck to a majority of the store’s usual very expensive stock. In other words, the store is full of people all weekend.

Sometimes, during job interviews, the interviewer asks the interviewee about character strengths and weaknesses. Hands down, one of my best traits is my strong work ethic. This retail job was no exception. I showed up on time, did the best I could and before leaving my 8-hour shift for the day, I would always asked if there was anything else I could do to help. That’s probably why it was so insulting to be called “temp” (when there was a name tag on my chest) or to be continually ignored and waived off when attempting to make casual conversation with my co-workers. The pattern resumed as usual when I professionally inquired why I wasn’t paid (like everyone else) this past Thursday.

I spent three days badgering my supervisors, asking why I didn’t receive my paycheck via direct deposit this week and constantly pushing representatives at UO payroll. The problem was minor, an easy fix and one that shouldn’t have required so much headache. They have refused to pay me until next pay period. I’m lucky I have Phil to help feed me. If I didn’t, I don’t know what I would do.

I learned a lot about myself while working at Urban. 1.) Retail isn’t for me. 2.) I have some serious ethical issues pushing a capitalist agenda– I just can’t justify talking anyone into buying unnecessary stuff. Especially if it’s overpriced, like a T-shirt or pair of jeans from Urban Outfitters. We’re in the midst of a recession, people have families to feed, necessities that need to be paid for. People are told all day long to buy, buy, buy. Personal welfare comes first.

But, my Urban Outfitters education didn’t stop there. I realized how incredibly stupid the store’s sales model really is. Urban pays careful, special attention to the whole “hipster” culture. This includes all related youth subcultures: electronica & dance club raver types, those who enjoy experimental/crust punk/noise, hip hop heads (mashups), squatters, skateboarders, backpackers and whatever’s left of the indie rock, emo, goth, punk and metal head movements.

The vanguard hipster (never identifying, always hating the term) does not even consider buying clothes from the mall. They fall outside of the mainstream and therefore spend a lot of time digging through bins at thrift stores and boutiques, meticulously searching for unique pieces that help them to maintain their cultural aesthetic. The reason a vintage T-shirt from a thrift store is so great is because no one else has one like it.

Chains like Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie and American Apparel cater to the people who think that they are hipsters or want to be hipsters. They study what the kids in Brooklyn are wearing, recreate the look and sell it back. No longer an “underground” movement, the average person wants to be able to easily cop the look without the work. They market “fake vintage” tees, pre-ripped jeans, shirts that come with the lettering ink pre faded.

In some cases, I think these companies have missed the point. They’re capitalizing on a look that has been created cheaply, intended to be interpreted as ironic. These people are trust fund kids living in the city, attending college/graduate schools and drinking $1 PBR. They don’t have a lot of money. They pay $5 for vintage Levis, not $125 on BDG’s.

Remember those shark embelemed, multi-flourescent colored T-shirts and Bermuda shorts from the late 80s? They were sometimes decorated with triangle patterns? I remember when I was pretty young occasionally seeing them on overweight dads during the summertime. Even back then I thought they were hideous. In 2008, some kid in a thrift shop somewhere probably had similar sentiments upon discovery and so he bought it for 35 cents. Hideous= ironic. Hideous ON PURPOSE.

I hung up several pair of Maui & Sons board shorts and many a T-shirt during my time Urban. Urban Outfitters clearly has made some sort of agreement with Maui & Sons, selling some of their “vintage” merchandise for a lot more than 35 cents. Try $25 on sale for a T-shirt, in the $50 range for the shorts sale price. In my opinion, it’s a little too much to pay for something that was inspired to be worn on the basis that it was ugly. But, people STILL BUY IT.

The store also profits on Generation Y’s fondness for nostalgia. Maybe it’s a longing for a time when things were more simple, or perhaps our commercials, TV shows and Mondo Juice played a bigger role in raising us than we all initially thought. You walk into Urban, you can buy replicas of the stuff you had when you were little: “My Little Pony” and “Back to the Future” T-shirts, Nintendo belt buckles, Where’s Waldo? books, Run DMC Action Figures and Rainbow barrettes. My childhood is being exploited.

We’re a consumer group that will never have enough kitsche. Our generation keeps buying up the empty authenticity, the economy remains stagnant and all the while, Urban Outfitters still makes a $548.4 Million profit per year. The fact that these marketers know us so well is something I find absolutely terrifying.

I was at work, in the middle of happily writing my Facebook’s Birthday story when I received an excited call from my sister.
My mom, who was in town for the night, had just hit for $1,500 on a two cent slot machine at Soaring Eagle Casino.

When I talked to my mom moments later, she said the entire casino came to a complete stop when the machine’s bells started ringing and the lights began to flash. A manager and a few other staff members walked over to her, checked her identification and one by one, counted out 15 $100 bills into her hand.
For as far back as I can remember, my mom has always held the philosophy that when she wins, we (my sister and I) win, too. She said each of is were going to receive a $100 bill. It was a promise that she filled the next morning after some coffee and breakfast at IHOP.

We made a quick stop to pick up Court and mine’s paychecks at Warriner Hall before heading to 5/3 bank. Apparently, last year, I made arrangements to have my CM Life checks direct deposit. My business at the bank was to confirm that funds had in fact been deposited into my checking account. But since I was at the counter anyway, I decided to break my $100 into $20s. The teller stared at the bill for what was probably a solid 30 seconds before telling me he’d “be right back.”

At first, I assumed that perhaps it was protocol. All banks seem to become paranoid when they are given large bills. But after a few minutes had passed, I knew something as up.

A woman came through one of the side doors, extended her hand, introduced herself and then asked for me to come into her office.
Immediately, my mom piped up from behind me. “Is this about the $100.” She probably looked like a nosy customer and they ignored her. It took a moment to explain to these people the origin of the bills and to verify that this woman was not a complete random.

As we were shuffled into this lady’s office, she immediately explained that the money was suspicious, but also that she didn’t think that we had a printed these bills out of our basement.

As she laid my $100 out on her desk, I immediately saw what she was referring to. Benjamin Franklin’s face, the watermark that can usually only be seen when it is raised to light, was clear on the surface of the money.

Another one of the bills seemed disproportionate. The rectangular shaped frame that encased the green coloring, Franklin’s face and information (like the serial number) had very little paper on it’s outside toward the top, but much more toward the bottom.

Five of the 100’s were suspicious.
At this point we were told that it was a possibility that they were counterfeit bills that had already been reported that were accidentally still in circulation. If this were to be the case, then my mom would still be given the $500 and the teller would be out the money.
We moved offices where a woman dialed The Secret Service to check the serial numbers of the bills. It turned out that none of the bills had been reported to the offices as suspicious.

This is my $100 bill:


Notice how the sides of this one are uneven:

You can see Benjamin Franklin’s face on the surface of the money:

That’s when the woman told us that they would be sent to the Secret Service for investigation. If they were found to be fraudulent, the Secret Service would destroy them and my mom would be out $500. It was a chance my mom didn’t want to take. She told this woman she was going back to the casino. I was surprised when she looked relieved. It was something the bank no longer had to deal with.

So we go back to the casino. I’m thinking we’re going to go show someone a receipt and they’re going to exchange the money. Nope. My mom goes straight to a cash machine, puts in the hundreds and swaps them for $20s. The only one the machine wouldn’t take was my $100, the one with the Franklin face visible on the surface.

To resolve this problem, my mom went over to a slot machine and slid in the money. To my surprise, it was accepted. My mom hit the “cash out” button the second it lit up and a receipt popped out. She exchanged her receipt for $20s, then we walked out.

Now that I think about it, there probably wouldn’t be an incentive for my mom if she were to have taken the money to the management. Because she didn’t address the problem the moment the money was handed to her, because she didn’t notice that there was anything wrong with the money, she probably would have lost her money. I’ve heard stories about people being screwed out of $20 and $50. They came back to the local businesses where they received the bogus bucks and weren’t given an exchange.

Because there’s no incentive to saying anything, I wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t the first time this has happened. And I have to wonder just how much counterfeit money is floating around in Mount Pleasant.

We did a story a couple of weeks back about counterfeit money, but not about how people that are unlucky enough to be handed one of these bills are screwed out of money. I talked to the Lifers about. We want to have someone interview my mom. It will be interesting to see if anyone else has had a problem in the last year.