AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL NATIONALLY BROADCAST METEOROLOGISTS

Dear Nationally Broadcast Meteorologists,

I am writing in hopes that you will read my advice to improving your weather reports, seize upon it, and enact great change.

When you are in front of your giant weather maps, gesturing, indicating, and making claims, please do not continually stand in front of Detroit. Let me clarify: at least give Detroit a brief moment on the map, made visible to all of your viewers.

I realize that your body will always block viewers from seeing one part of the country or another, and I sense, from repeated broadcasts on the Weather Channel, FOX News, and CNN, that standing in front of Detroit, Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Alabama is a fairly comfortable and convenient place to be while doling out the country’s weather report. However, I have noticed something much more sinister going on. I have detected an undercurrent of prejudice against our particular Midwestern city: even when you are examining Midwestern weather patterns, you still manage to block Detroit, mostly with one sharp shoulder, essentially erasing us from national consciousness. Not even our weather is significant.

I understand that Detroit is not so important when you are relaying crucial information about the hurricane force winds across the Gulf of Mexico. Nor does it matter much when you report about the sunshine in Miami or the balmy highs recorded in the Carolinas. Yes, I am sure that the snow reports from those great and beautiful ski resorts out west are very important to thousands of people not located in Detroit. I am even willing to acknowledge that many may not find this city as interesting as New York or as beautiful as Washington D.C., two cities that get an awful lot of face time on your programs.

But please, step aside for just a moment and let us glimpse ourselves on your giant, colorful, sweeping maps. Yes, there we are. Directly above Toledo. Just east of Chicago. Unbelievably, we are north of Canada.

We would like to be included. We are part of the world’s weather patterns just as much as those other cities that photograph so well: Atlanta, Seattle, Dallas, some snowy little hamlet up in Vermont. Sometimes we do not even appear on your travel ticker. Perhaps you do not realize that we have two brand new airport terminals or that ocean-faring freighters routinely cruise up and down the Detroit River and into our Great Lakes. You rarely, if ever, send your brave weather reporters up here and photograph them standing knee deep in floods or leaning headstrong into typhoons. You reserve those on-location shots for other cities. Cities where a heavy snowfall can produce for your viewers those cliché montages of people shoveling out their cars, unrecognizable commuters bundled up in scarves, and weary, delayed travelers, sitting amongst their luggage at airports, waiting for the weather to clear and for a rescheduled flight out. These things, apparently, never happen in Detroit. Our rivers and tributaries never flood, banishing people from their homes, ravaging neighborhoods, destroying sewer, electric, and gas systems. Tornadoes never touch down in the middle of this city, except in 1997 when one funnel cloud swept up Detroit’s famed Woodward Avenue, demolishing blocks of historic homes, shops, and businesses. Yes, a snowstorm in Miami could make for a cute story about sunbathing gone awry, but a devastating snowstorm in a place which expects frequent snow, but whose inadequate city services prevent it from plowing streets and sidewalks, repairing burst and frozen water mains, shoveling out fire hydrants, from basically insuring its one million citizens safety, makes for a far more compelling and more newsworthy story. For you, we cease to exist. Yet, when you exclude us from daily life, from even the mundane, we fall further and further into the periphery.

Lately, as you very well know, we have been in the news for other things. Certain things pertaining to the auto industry. We are not proud of this news. And we are not proud of the news we have made before that: a corrupt and ridiculous mayor, crime rates, the Lions. So, it would be nice to at least give us our weather. Any kind of news that makes us feel like we are actually part of this Union. News that does not remind us that we have been in a recession for years longer than the rest of the country. News that does not describe our low unemployment rate and high obesity index.

In these hard times, it would be nice if we could catch a glimpse of our metropolis on your map, and we do not want to see it while you raise your arm and point upwards to Minneapolis-St. Paul, lodging us into your armpit. However, I would like to commend you on not hacking off our upper peninsula, as so often happens on maps depicting the United States. It is so nice to gaze upon St. Ignace, Sault Ste. Marie, and Marquette, those lovely northern reminders of our French heritage. But, Detroit needs its place too. We need to be rewritten back into our country’s narrative, perhaps then the nation might understand our hardships, our terrible reputation, our ongoing reliance on the auto industry.

Please, take advantage of our unique weather patterns and report on us. Let us peek out from behind your blazer or blouse. Give us a place on your map. Let us re-enter a national dialogue on something other than the economy. Talk about us like you talk about San Francisco and Fort Lauderdale. Talk about us like you talk about the rest of the country, so that we can begin to feel like we are part of the rest of the country.

TITANIC STILL SUCKS

A short time ago, Entertainment Weekly magazine ran a feature on the Academy Awards. They were not choosing winners and losers, or speculating on the recent ceremony. Rather, the authors revisited previous winners and decided, as history so rightly allows us, if those winners actually deserved their Oscar award.

Some readers judged this endeavor harshly. Self-righteous, nasty, letters-to-the-editor ensued. Readers were aghast and bitter. I was not. If the Oscar is the most coveted award in the film industry, we should debate if certain films, performances, or technical feats actually do stand the test of time.

In that spirit, I would like to reflect on James Cameron’s film Titanic. It sucks. The film won eleven Oscars at the 1997 Academy Awards ceremony: best picture, director, costume design, cinematography, visual effects, sound, sound effects, original song, original score, editing, and art direction and set decoration. Even so, it still sucks.

The lackluster script, inane dialogue, and trite storyline prevented Titanic’s screenplay from even garnering a nomination. Although, the obvious lack of chemistry between the doomed lovers Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio did not hinder Winslet from receiving a Best Actress nomination, which she rightfully lost to Helen Hunt’s performance in the brilliantly-written As Good As It Gets. For all of its superb work to obtain realism, to remain true to the intricate details of the ship and those people who were involved in the tragedy – costuming, set, special effects – the most intrinsic part of Titanic, the storyline, was a total farce which undermined the entire project. Many argue that its commercial success speaks to the film’s quality, however, most of the profit the film gained came from the parents of teenage girls, very similar to this year’s Twilight.

Titanic reminds me very much of the effects-laden The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Both films are like cotton candy at the carnival: beautiful to look at, wonderful to taste, but full of sweet wistfulness that wears off quickly and leaves you empty. Like Titanic, Benjamin Button did not fail in spectacle. Gazing upon Brad Pitt scene after scene, no matter how aged, is an incredibly lovely way to spend three hours. Also, witnessing the progression of history, the body, and the mind, so stunningly rendered throughout Benjamin Button, even encapsulated in a fairly weak script, provided more sustenance than the melancholy Titanic. However, both films strayed far too deep into nostalgia at their ends, when each film’s lead characters, all dead, are lovingly resurrected onscreen, hovering over the audience, sparing us from leaving the theatre emoting over their deaths. It is always a bad sign when the film’s beloved haunt the credits.

Even though Benjamin Button was overlooked this year, the Academy still loves nostalgia. They proved it again in several categories, especially in bestowing Best Picture honors unto Slumdog Millionaire. Feel-good movies always fare much better than those that move the audience through a sublime range of emotions: Milk, Frost/Nixon, The Reader. Discussion surrounding Slumdog Millionaire before this year’s ceremony emphasized its underdog identity and its low budget. After it won, it was immediately transformed into a distinctly Indian film which rejuvenated India’s slum population and shed light upon their extreme condition. The ensuing newscasts constantly replayed images of Indian citizens crowded around tiny televisions, watching Oscar footage and the film’s youngest stars returning to their slum, lauded by fans. Not once did any of these newscasts mention that this distinctly Indian film was adapted and directed by Brits and backed by EU and American funding, an interesting consideration for a film set in India, a hotbed of post-colonialism.

In the end, Titanic simply stands as a technical masterpiece, a sentimental haze of lighting, sound, and effects. I would have honored any of the other films nominated that year in its stead. L.A. Confidential still reeks smartly of the corrupt tension it so powerfully set to the screen and As Good As It Gets, a film whose dialogue will forever stand the test of time. Gus Van Sant’s Good Will Hunting bordered on maudlin, but was keenly tempered by Matt Damon’s angry lead. This year, in Milk, Gus Van Sant again demonstrated his acute ability to direct a heavily emotional film away from becoming sappy or self-pitying. Last, British director Peter Cattaneo’s The Full Monty, is perhaps the most deserving of the bunch. This stark comedy about unemployed mill workers who striptease to make ends meet, contains some of the most riveting and intensely emotional scenes in film history. Consider, especially in light of our current economic climate, Tom Wilkinson’s character, Gerald, distracted by dancing garden gnomes during a crucial job interview, a job he must land to preserve his marriage, his manhood, his identity, essentially, his life. Unless you are a tiny mythical being in stone statue form, devoid of emotion, you will find yourself laughing too hard during this scene to realize you are actually sobbing.

Entertainment Weekly chose not to re-examine the Titanic phenomenon. However, twelve years later, Titanic stands as a technical masterpiece, which is key to its staying power. Like Benjamin Button and even the Bollywood pageantry of Slumdog Millionaire, Titanic is very simply, nice to watch, but offers nothing to contemplate, except for, perhaps, what James Cameron has been doing since his big win.* I am surprised that nobody at VH1 picked up on his ridiculous “King of the World” acceptance antics and cast him and his 1998 counterpart-in-silliness, Roberto Benigni, on the celebrity has-been reality program, The Surreal Life. After all, this is a show which cultivates spectacle.

*It would be absurd of me not to point out that since his big win, James Cameron was busy working on Avatar, the highest-grossing film of all time. Alas, it also sucks. March 2010, PLO.

RESOLUTIONISTS ATTEMPT SELF-COUP D’ÉTAT

It is the first week after the New Year and thousands of resolutionists have invaded gyms across the country in a bold attempt to seize control of their own fitness regimes. Few will succeed.

The following exists as a primer which may aid in their success.

1. Do not spend large amounts of money on new fitness clothing. Gym outfits, especially pink gym outfits, scream “resolutionist.”
2. Spitting in the drinking fountain is not an indicator of masculinity.
3. Gym benches are not for resting.
4. Do not perform indiscreet demonstrations of vigor. Flexing in the mirror, push-ups in odd locations (the pool deck, the parking lot), and general swaggering do not intimidate other gym goers, nor do they contribute to your potential success in attracting a romantic partner. No one is actually paying attention to you.
5. Contrary to popular belief, wearing a cropped top does not de-emphasize your gut.
6. In the same vein, spandex is not a type of camouflage.
7. If you eat large quantities of garlic, stay at home and continue your fitness campaign in private.
8. Excessive celebration is discouraged. Do not attempt to engage fellow gym goers in a high-five after you experience fitness success.
9. Do not attempt to speak to people wearing headphones. This type of headgear suggests that one cannot, or more accurately, does not, want to hear you.
10. Sweating in the sauna is not considered exercise.
11. Lingering aimlessly on a machine, loudly chatting in your cell phone is stupid. Plus, sweating all over your phone is unhygienic.
12. Refrain from texting. You will most likely walk into someone who is at the gym to work out. Side note: if you are over 25, you should refrain from texting at all times.
13. You will not lose those stubborn 90 pounds by attending yoga class.
14. If you cannot swim, abstain from using the lap pool. You cannot achieve fitness success by floating around the lane and occasionally moving your arms.
15. Jeans are not a suitable form of exercise clothing, especially cut-off jeans.
16. Excessive grunting while doing any exercise is stupid.
17. The time you spend in the locker room applying makeup and styling your hair before you work out could be more usefully applied to actually working out.
18. Only time spent at the gym exercising contributes to fitness. This precludes standing around and chatting, lounging in the spa, hanging out at the juice bar, or haggling with the administration over your gym membership rates.

MICHAEL JORDAN & ME: AN ABSOLUTELY FICTIONAL CONVERSATION

It is Saturday and I am reclining in my La-Z-Boy, eating donuts: long johns filled with vanilla cream. This is my ritual.

I am still haunted by the Boba Fett t-shirt I saw at my local comic shop the day before. I can’t stop thinking about it. I must acquire that shirt. However, it’s not a simple purchase.

This t-shirt will come at a price far greater than the $14.99 the shop is asking. I’ve never been willing to go this far before, but I know what I need to do.

I put on my White Lion Pride album to motivate myself before enacting the first phase of my plan. I listen while I think. I stuff the rest of the donuts into my mouth. I rock out a little bit. By the time the album is done I’m feeling relaxed. I’m feeling good. I lean back in the La-Z-Boy and pick up the phone: I am ready for the most important conversation of my life.

I dial up Michael Jordan.

MJ: Hello, Jordan here.

I almost puke donut back up into my mouth. This could turn out bad, but I need that Boba Fett shirt.

PO: Hello Michael Jordan, it’s me, Petra Orloff.
MJ: I’m sorry, who?
PO: Uh, Petra, Petra Orloff.
MJ: Do I know you?
PO: No.
MJ: Oh.
PO: I just need a quick minute of your time.
MJ: How’d you get this number?
PO: Um, really this will only take a moment. It’s about Star Wars.
MJ: Star Wars! What! Are you kidding me?
PO: No, I happen to take Star Wars very seriously.
MJ: I told you guys a million times, I’m just not interested in that kind of stuff.
PO: Uh, no, I’m not actually representing…
MJ: You’re not with what’s his name?
PO: Lucas? No.
MJ: Well then, who are you?
PO: Actually, I’m the biggest Star Wars fan on the face of the earth and I want to buy a Boba Fett t-shirt.
MJ: Look, I’m not signing anything. I really gotta go.
PO: Wait, wait. (I knew White Lion would come in handy.) I don’t want you to sign anything. I just want you to apologize.
MJ: Apologize?
PO: Um, yes. Please apologize for all the crap you’ve talked about Isiah Thomas, and also for freezing him out of the 1992 Summer Olympics.
MJ: What?
PO: You know, the first Dream Team.
MJ: I know, I know, the first Dream Team, but what?
PO: I would like an apology.
MJ: For Isiah?
PO: Yes. For Isiah.
MJ: I don’t under…
PO: I need closure.
MJ: Fucking closure?
PO: Yes, so I can buy the Boba Fett t-shirt.
MJ: What the hell does this Bubba-what have to do with me and…look, I’m just getting off the phone.
PO: I’ll call you back.
MJ: I won’t answer.
PO: I’ll keep calling. Mr. Jordan, please, you don’t understand how bad I want this shirt. Just apologize, I’ll hang up, and then I’ll go out and buy my t-shirt.
MJ: You’re insane.
PO: Sometimes, yes.
MJ: What are you talking about, a t-shirt? Look, I’m not apologizing for anything. I hate that little shit Isiah. And he’s still throwing his ego around. Look how he screwed up New York. What the hell does this have to do with Star Trek anyway?
PO: Star Wars.
MJ: Okay, Star fucking Wars. Same space shit anyhow.
PO: No, not really. Star Trek actually depicts a future in which…
MJ: Okay, okay, I really don’t care. I just want to get off the…
PO: Look, I’ve hated you ever since you decided to freeze Isiah out of the Olympics and since you made all sorts of comments about…
MJ: Hated me? HATE-ED ME?”
PO: Yes. You really should have just sucked up your ego and…
MJ: ME? MY EGO? Do you have any idea what it was like to play Detroit in those days? Do you have any idea how dirty those guys were? What about Daly’s Jordan Rules? Huh? Freeze out? You wanna talk freeze-out? 1985 NBA All-Star Game? Ring a bell? What about that shit?
PO: Still, it really didn’t give you any right to…
MJ: Right? I’m Michael Jordan, for Christ’s sake. I’ll do what I want.
PO: Yes, and you did. You kept basketball’s most dynamic player out of the Olympics and…
MJ: Most dynamic player? Have you ever seen my highlights?
PO: I’ll tell you what I didn’t see: Space Jam.
MJ: Really? Everybody loved Space Jam.
PO: No. They didn’t. Look, I need your help, I’m the biggest Isiah fan on the face of the earth.
MJ: You already said that.
PO: What?
MJ: You said you were the biggest Star Wars fan on the face of the earth.
PO: Yeah, and…
MJ: You can’t be the biggest fan of two things on the face of the earth.
PO: Yes I can.
MJ: No, you can’t.
PO: You’re doing it again.
MJ: Doing what?
PO: Deciding who gets to do what and be what and all-around deciding stuff for other people. This is what I mean. Please Mr. Jordan, just apologize and we can be done here.
MJ: I’m not apologizing.
PO: You have to.
MJ: No.
PO: Look, I avoid everything you endorse. Nike. Hanes. Ball Park franks. There was that whole Gatorade phase and even Coca-Cola for a little bit. And I do it all out of respect for Isiah. For love of Isiah. My god, do you know what it’s like to be a sports fan and not eat a Ball Park frank?
MJ: They’re actually very good.
PO: What?
MJ: Ball Park franks.
PO: Yeah, I know. That’s my point. I want to wear a Hanes t-shirt and grill hotdogs again, so please apologize.
MJ: They plump when you cook them.
PO: The franks?
MJ: Yes.
PO: I know.
MJ: And if you add just a little bit of cheese sauce right when…
PO: Michael! Seriously. Just apologize so I can go buy the Boba Fett t-shirt. It’s a Hanes.
MJ: It’s Hanes?
PO: Yes, it’s Hanes.
MJ: Hanes makes that shit?
PO: No, I think someone bought a bunch of Hanes and you know, put an iron-on on it.
MJ: An iron-on?
PO: Yes, a decal. Now, Michael please…
MJ: An iron-on? What do you want that cheap stuff for? You should try the Hanes heavyweight with…
PO: Look, if I could have done this some other way, I wouldn’t be asking for your help. Now, I just want an apology. Apologize for wrongs committed against Isiah Thomas and I’ll be happy.
MJ: What do I care about you being happy?
PO: You’re supposed to be a hero. Heroes don’t go around degrading other players.
MJ: Now who’s deciding shit?
PO: Seriously, that’s just common knowledge. Common hero knowledge, actually.
MJ: Common hero knowledge? Are you for real?
PO: Yes.
MJ: Listen you, me and Isiah, we’ll never get along. He’s an idiot. And you don’t need me to say that, he does a good enough job of that himself, he’s ruining everything for himself.
PO: Look, I’m not even campaigning for a public apology, just, you know, tell me that you’re sorry. We can keep this between ourselves.
MJ: No.
PO: Michael, I’m not even asking you to acknowledge his greatness, just say you’re sorry.
MJ: No. This is crazy. I can’t believe you’re even asking…this is crazy.
PO: Michael, please. You don’t even understand what it’s like to be an Isiah fan. Especially now. The ridicule I face. People laughing and pointing at me. People spitting on my game day jersey. I’m a basketball pariah! I’m a sports leper! Yeah, everyone understands the Jordan fan. But the Isiah fan. That’s a different story. We’re ignored. We have no voice. We’re written off as lunatics. We’re…
MJ: I know what it’s like.
PO: What?
MJ: I know how you feel.
PO: You’re a secret Isiah…
MJ: No, no, no. Christ, not Isiah. Jesus.
PO: Then you can’t possibly begin to…
MJ: Tonya Harding.
PO: Did you just say Tonya Harding?
MJ: It’s true. I’m not ashamed, but it’s hard. Try finding someone else who’ll admit they’re a Tonya Harding fan. Man, the way that girl could kick out those triple axels. She was just magical.
PO: Tonya Harding is a criminal!
MJ: Now who’s saying what?
PO: She’s a criminal. I think she actually went to jail. It’s not the same as Isiah. It’s not even close. Isiah’ll beat you fair and square. He never had to club somebody in the leg for it.
MJ: You know, she never clubbed anybody, she only…
PO: Oh yeah, she only hired some guy to do it.
MJ: No, her husband did. If he hadn’t done all that, she would have beat the crap out of Oksana Baiul on the circuit.”
PO: Yeah, with a lead pipe.
MJ: That’s it. I’m really getting off the phone. I’ve had enough.
PO: So that’s it, you’re not going to say sorry. You’re not going to finally atone for all of your sins against one of basketball’s greats?
MJ: No, I’m not. And he isn’t really that great.
PO: Seriously? Are you serious? You never scored 25 points in one quarter of a playoff game!
MJ: So, I’m Michael Jordan. I didn’t have to.
PO: Did you hear me? One quarter! One fucking quarter!
MJ: No. But look, I’ll do this, I’ve got my own steaks.
PO: Steaks?
MJ: Yeah, steaks. I got my own steak brand. Michael Jordan Signature Steaks. They’re delicious. I won’t apologize, but I’ll send you a steak.
PO: I need an apology. I don’t need meat.
MJ: You don’t want a steak? They’re a helluva lot better than a Ball Park frank, that’s for sure. You could grill yourself a nice steak, sit down, relax in your new t-shirt…
PO: I don’t want a steak.
MJ: Everybody needs steak. Protein’s good for you.
PO: I want an apology.
MJ: Take a steak.
PO: No.
MJ: Come on, just take the steak.
PO: I need more than that from you Michael.
MJ: I’ve got nothing left to give except for the steak. I can’t help you.
PO: Well, you know, I expected more from you. I really expected more. You’ve disappointed me. Again.
MJ: Okay, well, I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should just hang up.
PO: You probably should. You’re a giant disappointment. Really, you are.
MJ: Really?
PO: Yes. And I tell you what I’m going to do. I don’t need your fancy Hanes and your bloated Ball Parks. There are other options. I’m going to keep on wearing Fruit of the Loom and eating Hebrew Nationals. And, I will find another Boba Fett t-shirt.
MJ: Hebrew Nationals?
PO: What do you expect?
MJ: Listen, you don’t have to go to extremes here. Just take some time, think about these decisions you’re making and…
PO: I won’t. My mind is made up. I hope you’re happy with yourself because I still don’t like you very much.
MJ: I could still send a steak.
PO: No Michael, I’m getting off the phone. This is goodbye.
MJ: Petra, don’t freeze me out. Please don’t freeze me out…
PO: Goodbye Michael.

THE CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON

The wind is blowing hard. The sky is dark and it gives way to hail and rain, and then even more hail. This is a gesture to the storms which will come in November, the kind of storms Gordon Lightfoot sings about in Edmund Fitzgerald. The kind that snap freighters in half. Soon the weather will be fierce. But, for now, the winds have not yet taken away the foliage and the air is just beginning to smell like cedar and pine.

We think about the war. We think about money. We think about the election.

We think about football. We have Brett Favre’s career-high six touchdown passes and 289 yards in the Jets' 56-35 win over the Cardinals. We wait patiently for the start of the regular NBA season. We wait for Quantum of Solace to be released. We watch Law and Order marathons on TNT.

We miss summer. We miss Tigers’ baseball. And we miss soft-serve from the local Dairy-O, which stayed open as long as it could, but finally closed down for the season when the weather turned.

It is fall.

There are rows of blaze-orange sugar maples. Wild geese are flying late at night. Squirrels are going berserk. People have put up horrifying, giant, inflatable Halloween decorations: Shrek, Scooby-Doo, Frankenstein.

At a crosswalk, a small boy creeps through the intersection. Four cars wait. His green plastic webbed feet come down hard on the hail, breaking it into the concrete. He is wearing a green, amphibious-looking rubber mask, complete with terrible, large gills. His green shirt billows out behind him. He holds a crumpled paper bag in one clawed, webbed hand. The other rests on his mother’s arm. It is hard to walk with those feet. Each step must be measured carefully. At any moment he could trip. We wait for him to pass, gas idling out of our cars. He is very slow. His mother is patient next to him. We continue to wait. Now, seven cars. We are not thinking about McCain or Obama, about layoffs and foreclosures, or gas prices, stocks, and bonds. Instead we just watch as, slowly, very slowly, the Creature from the Black Lagoon makes his way across Main Street and heads towards downtown.