Check out The Detroit Free Press article for the full scoop:

Thai-sushi lounge Oslo and jazz club Café D’Mongo’s

plan big parties this weekend

Photo by Courtney Henriette Smith

http://www.freep.com/article/20110317/ENT05/103170327/Thai-sushi-lounge-Oslo-jazz-club-Caf-D-Mongo-s-plan-big-parties-weekend

www.deadpigeonsociety.net.

Questions? Comments? Email Vivienne: www.viviennehenriette@deadpigeonsociety.net.

We are currently seeking artists to illustrate our upcoming series, Stories from the City.  Please contact Courtney at my.father.is.smith@gmail.com for more information.

In the meantime, we welcome you to submit your questions to our shampoo-man, Robert Nelson, at lateniterobert@yahoo.com.

Some of these were newly remodeled with fresh coats of paint, ornate gardens, and porch furniture. Many more had long since lost their residents. Roofs and walls caving in, these shells waited for the moment when they too would return to dust. The path was littered with soda pop cans, candy wrappers, the broken off ends of beer bottles–the occasional condom. All things that want to return to the earth but cannot.

I remember an open paperback book that sat exposed on an abandoned porch for months. Its yellowed pages whitening through the winter, then fattening with the melt, and wilting with the thaw of spring.

On a hot summer day I finally gathered the nerve to touch it. I do not remember the title, but I still feel anguished for disturbing such a perfect museum display.

Before I knew there were farms, I saw only trees and too much grass. I saw the barriers drawn by wooden fences but little beyond. My friends, I knew, kept chickens in a coup behind their house down the street. On days when I ventured close to the expressway, I saw goats, doing whatever-goats-do, in the double-wide lot belonging to an eccentric lady. Her house is full of vintage Barbie dolls, kept pristine inside their boxes, according to local lore.

North Corktown conjures memories of Southern places. Everything slow and quiet. But in those Southern places, there is the opportunity for escape–the hidden forests and streams winding down hills. Places to get lost. And shade.

On hot days in North Corktown, I wore a hood and sunglasses. The sun was so intense walking through the open spaces. Everyone I know here says they need to take to the woods at some time or other.

Sometimes on my walks, I would encounter a group of children on their way to or from school. An old man. Mostly it was just me and my dogs. The last survivors in this desolate place.

Until I looked up, twisted my head about the expansive blue sky, and caught that dark marker, that sepulcher, that house of specters: The train station.

The train station has been empty since I was a child. I have never been inside, but I know its shadowy exterior well. At a distance, it appears as a vision, a myth. As one draws nearer, it has the look of so much fabric, weather beaten and moth eaten: a hanging building.

Looking to the train station, is it possible to feel alone?

Surrounding the station is Mexican Town and Corktown, with their many houses and friends, grocery stores and bars. Before the station is vast lawn encircled by a road. Beyond the road is Slows BBQ. There was once the Mercury Coffee Bar. Soon there will be Astro Coffee Shop. Down Michigan Avenue is the Lager House where I have yet to see The Juliets play. Further down is downtown and The Book Cadillac and Chef Andy and Roast. There is d’Mongo’s and Eros Lounge and Larry. The Synagogue. Josh and the coffee shop he swears every month he will open next month.

Looking to the train station, one is never alone.

Tilting one’s head to the left: the lights of the Motor City spaceship. The place where the aliens landed and established their casino colony. An eternal flame: neon rainbow lights fading in and out. It is an open cut on the horizon. It is a strange sight to behold–stranger still when standing beside a chicken.

It is best to keep one’s eyes on the station.

I am no longer in North Corktown, but it is here where my thoughts remains. It has been a long string of weeks and I, like everyone I know, need to keep my sights on something bigger, grander.

Some days we all need to be reminded that there’s more than the dead Detroit pigeons on our doorstep.

Robert hasn’t written a new Advice Column in some time. Our shampoo man’s golden heart is in a thousand pieces, and I am worried. The month of March brought much thunder and lightning. The rain pounding on all our bruised winter souls. It has been a period marked by nightmares. Friends who haven’t remembered their dreams in years, tell me they have woken in cold sweats from the most terrifying visions. My dreams linger for days. Coming to alone in bed is the worst. Spring is either a perfect time or terrible time to lose a lover.

Dateline’s Detroit special aired. It has caused quit the stir. I didn’t see it, but I heard something about Kid Rock and the man who catches and feeds raccoons to hungry Detroiters. Charles from Le Petit Zinc is also interviewed. I have no excuse other than I don’t care–about the show. I love Le Petit Zinc. Even people, like myself, who don’t own televisions have managed to take a strong position. How unfair to only portray the negatives aspects of the city! Perhaps. The smoking ban went into effect May 1st. To these people, I say: Take deep breaths over your micro-brews. Detroit is a fine place–to read a book, to catch a film, to nurse a broken heart.

Mine may not be in a thousand pieces, but it is certainly fractured. The Juliets cancelled their show at the Lager House. For those who don’t know, The Juliets are a chamber pop band headed by Jeremy Freer. Add a violin and cello. I so wanted to see them. I have not been as disappointed since 2000-whatever when Jack White and Jason Whats-His-Name got into that altercation ending with Whats-His-Names faces smashed in and on the cover of the morning’s papers and Brendon Benson never performed. Oh well. The Juliets will play again. And you can’t blame them. Their drummer left the band. That’s like losing a lover.

In the midst of their loss, The Metro Times gave them a write-up entitled Baroque With Backbone. That’s sweet. Maybe it hasn’t been a bad run for all of us.

Maybe. But it’s been a long run nonetheless.

On a quiet Saturday night I met a fellow who said he came to Detroit to become a butcher and wound up working for Toby Barlow. He is a tall man with a mass of curly reddish hair–a very impressive and pleasing sight, this gentleman. He has a perfect cadence to his speech, so that, while one would imagine the curly mass atop his head bopping this way and that with every comma and period, his hair stands perfectly still. We mostly talked about food. This man is Brian Merkel, and he makes sausages. Delicious sausages

Myself, I do not eat much meat. Once, however, I lived with a man who did. He enjoyed venison and goat and bacon very much. We lived in the neighborhood of North Corktown, on the corner of Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, beside an vacant lot. Upon this open lot was a small hill overgrown with all sorts of wildlife–bushes, a great variety of flowers and weeds, grass taller than me. The Island. Our dogs had a great time exploring it–peeing, sniffing, getting brambles stuck in their fur. Until one day, a group of civic-minded teenagers equipped with rakes and hoes and swords- the most awful collection of weapons one can imagine- and reduced my private utopia to a stubbly lump.

Just as the tears were forming, my carnivorous lover interjected. Look. He drew a finger toward that ghastly object in the sky.

Last Friday my friend and his pack took to the train station at 4 am to take time lapse photographs of the sunset. It was really something, he said. A prize moment.

The next day Slows held a BBQ before the train station. I wasn’t there, but I hear it was grand. Jerry and Mary Inch were there. So too was Toby Barlow who, the night before, purchased one of LOVELAND’s neighborhoods. Alan Scheurman performed dressed as a member of the Incredible String Band. Where was I? Not there! Nonetheless, I can imagine the scene: many pairs of shorts, flip-flops, and sundresses. Bright colors. All of this set against a wide expanse of green before the gray curtain. The weather was perfect for a picnic. I do regret not attending.

David and the Burton kids were also showed up. David tells me Brian was serving sausages. Something was wrong. His hair. That’s it, David says, it was his hair–completely shorn. David tells me this, and I am afraid. Has spring gotten to Brian too? Have the lonely heart rains penetrated his soul? Is his heart in a thousand pieces? Spring can be a perfect or a horrible time to lose your hair.

But then, I saw Brian the night before, and he looked fine. He was chatting with a most striking woman who spoke the Queen’s English. Her accent–Australian? English? I do not know, but Brian seemed content. And David didn’t say he looked unhappy– only mop-less.

What is this cliche, again? April showers bring . . .

It’s been some time since I’ve driven by my old grounds, but I will believe that my utopia has grown back wilder than ever. Losing a lover is rough, but lovers, like drummers, come and go. I wait with patience for Robert to write again, for the Juliet’s upcoming show. To borrow those words which everyone borrows, that were written on the side of MOCAD for the longest time, everything is going is to be alright. One can see the train station from miles away. For now, it still reins–the one constant in a changing city, the thing that reminds us we are all part of something greater, older, as fragile and susceptible to time as ourselves.

Spring is the perfect time to lose one’s hair–or anything, for that matter. There is the summer ahead to start again.

The most eclectic you’ll find in the “D”

Some of the stuff works and some of its fake

A lot of things he saved from the grave, no jake

But some of it still works just fine

And that includes the turntable, that’s no crime

When you look close, you’ll note with glee

Stacks of records tall as a small tree

Al Green, Miles Davis, Issac Hayes and more

Scattered all over, even stuck in the drawers

We’re startin’ to play ‘em early each night

If you wanna hear ‘em come down for a bite

Now, don’t wait wait ‘til the night gets late and breezy

If it’s vinyl you crave, come down to the Speakeasy

Yes, yes, yes, music lovers!  We’ve got it all at D’Mongo’s.  Whether you like it “groovy” or live, you’re sure to be boppin’ any Friday night you stop in.  And for those of you who thought all of the recorded music came on shiny, slivery discs, you can get a taste of history (and maybe one of Larry’s stories) early on Friday.

And coming up this week (Aprile 30—Olde English spelling) we’re once again going to enjoy the sounds of the baby grand under the capable hands of George Higgins as he treats us to jazz and blues standards mixed in with some of his own compositions.  We’ll also be featuring Ian Link, with his boyish good looks and dandy covers of country-western tunes (yeah, like Cash and Nelson and Williams.)  And then we’ll kick out the jams with our own Uncle Chuckie Patch who serves up his eclectic mix of Beach Boys and Michael Jackson, with a little Besame Mucho thrown in for spice (yessiree, his music matches the décor.)

All that plus the generous drinks (until 2:00am) and Larry’s yummy food (served until midnight or until we run out, whichever comes first!)  Aaannnd the outdoor patio will be open if Mother Nature cooperates.  Now you know there’s no other place you’d rather be on Friday night.

I’m Detroit Sheila E. and “I’ll be seein’ you…”

Before I have time to fully enjoy this moment, Andy Boyle enters the conversation.  He too owns LOVELAND property.  Andy says he hopes we are not neighbors, so he can take over my property through adverse possession–and steal my architect! At this moment I realize Andy may be a bleeding heart civil rights lawyer, but he is also a top notch jerk.
 
Despite this, Andy is among my favorite people I have met in Detroit over the past year.  This week he joined Larry and I for lunch at the Thai restaurant on Woodward Avenue where he and Larry discussed African Art and world travels. Larry and I listen as Andy shares tales of hiking through Thai mountains and encounters with women with golden rings cast around their necks. Andy is also one of Larry’s favorites.  Sadly, he, like so many people I meet in this dead pigeon place, is moving away to some functioning city with jobs and public transportation. 
 
I lost my favorite girl, Lydia, last year due to this same tragedy.  Ryan, why can’t you build a city where all my friends want to live? 

The trick is to find a good man and stick him in the kitchen.  This is what Michael Symon did. He gathered a handful of Ohio-ians and transplanted them to the D to run his high end endeavor, Roast.  Thank you, Mr Symon, for boosting Detroit’s population.  Thank you for giving us Executive Chef Andy.

Andy wins Best Chef in This City. He is tied for this position with Marc, Executive Chef of Wolfgang Puck Grille in the MGM Casino. Marc has a wide grin and a marvelous chef’s belly that shakes when he laughs–which is often. Of his restaurant, he says that one has a million excuses not to visit–it’s too nice out, it is raining, I can’t stand the never-climaxing-ring of casino music . . .   Of course one is well rewarded when one does visit: the food and atmosphere are nothing short of dreamy. But enough of Marc. 
 
Chef Andy. It does not suffice to say he is from Ohio. He has travelled extensively, and his experiences figure into some interesting stories. We discover we both have aunts in Paris and talk of the Eiffel Tower at night–flashing on and off, lit up like a sparkler.  The mysterious and identical heavy, wooden doors that line the streets of Paris, that leave a stranger wondering: What is inside? Andy’s worked in Paris.  He’s worked and trained in NYC. Now he’s in Detroit and, by outward appearances, seems to be enjoying himself.  

We are sitting at a round table–a candle and salt and pepper shakers in the center. It is one of many identically set tables in this square room lit almost entirely by small flames. To the left is a staircase lined with flickers of light that lead to a DJ booth.  The atmosphere is relaxed. The candles, soothing–if not slightly dangerous. Chef Andy excuses himself to order drinks.  I remain to converse with Andy Boyle and my new friend, Ozioma. 
 
Ozioma moved here over a year ago from NYC and is a reminder of how harsh Detroit can be to outsiders. Who talks to you when you walk in a room? Of course, everyone is friendly once properly introduced, and we have a great time exploring. 
 
Tonight we began our evening at the Majestic Cafe to see Spitting Nickels. Dennis Miriani is their lead singer and one of the sweetest and most charming men I know.  If you ever have the opportunity to see his band, please take advantage of it. Even if the music isn’t your thing, their entourage is irresistible–perhaps because it includes man-about-town Joe Posch and our own sudsy shipwreck, Shampoo Man Robert Nelson.  Already drunk from car troubles and too much jager, Robert approaches Ozioma with open arms and declares something unprintably outrageous. No, dear, you cannot be offended. That is his charm.

Two cocktails later, we are off Cliff Bell’s to catch the end of a jazz act.

Isn’t this place magnificent?

I’ve never seen anything like it.

It is half past two am when Ozioma and I arrive at the secret location with Andy Boyle. We are inside Detroit’s only, as far as I know, PDT (please don’t tell)–a once a month members only bar. I’ve heard of a few of these floating about New York, but what distinguishes this happening is the food: each month a guest chef is chosen to prepare breakfast for the crowd. Also unique is the fact that this wild and brilliant scene is the project of one woman who transforms her living space every month, so that Detroit’s bohemian class can have a place to mingle.

Tonight’s dish: tacos and burritos–a crude description for such simple delicacies.  Behind the loft’s long kitchen island Chef Marc is preparing plates.  A crowd gathers around him.  Rumours say Slows Chef, Brian Perrone, is also behind the island.  I’ve never met the man and couldn’t tell him from tat, but I do love Slows. The Genius is a perfect sandwich.
 
There is Camilo Pardo. And over there, that is Dai Hughes.  His coffee shop, Astro–cross your fingers–is set to open in the fall.  It has been so long since I have seen David Blunk II! His hair is taller and more tilted than ever.  Who else? Phil Cooley and Tenley Lark. Everyone is here–except LOVELAND’s Jerry and Mary Inch . . . and Louis. Louis is missing. Mr Mongo is also not here. If Robert were here–well, as my friend Ricky says, that’s a whole other talk show.  3 am. I assume he and the pool boy are locked in a romantic lover’s embrace.  So–almost–everyone is here and having a time.  
 
Wait! Ryan! Ryan, Ryan! Please make me a house–a villa, if you will.  Then Andy approaches with some nonsense about adverse possession, and I do not care. 
 
It hits me: There is a surplus of Andys in this room.
 
If one moves on, fine.  My future Gossip Columns will be far less wordy. 

Take it or leave it. I love my Detroit life.  Where else can a semi-employed retail wench like myself enjoy such a plush lifestyle?  Sure, I live in a garbage can city, but my rent is cheap.  I can afford to eat at five star restaurants. I can afford to buy land–perhaps, only two twelve inch plots, but they’re mine.  In what other city, would I sit on the board of a synagogue?  My friends own a Movie Theatre.  And here I am in the middle of the night, eating secret food at a secret location, surrounded by all sorts of amazing people who have devoted their lives to the pursuit of all sorts of brave and innovative endeavors.

Together we are forging a new way of life.  We are praying to the gods of vittles, drink, and fine music.  How thrilling to be a part of this cult!  What a pleasure to be at this undercover bar–the most legitimate of all Detroit’s speakeasies.