The 11th hour

Now that I’ve sufficiently packed a third of my life into three articles of luggage, I believe I’m ready to embark on this exciting (harrowing) journey to the Mid-west. Specifically, Michigan and even more specifically, Detroit. I was there last year for about a week and a half. It was dope, but I don’t think I got a real feel for it. Plus this time around I’m scouting for potential growing grounds. Recon and vibe measurement will be key for sure. It’s gonna be a doozy though, I can’t even lie. But there’s something to be said about just getting up and going to somewhere on a slightly planned whim.

And no whim is complete without a little surprise and uncertainty. As such, I’m chatting up a Tinder match I met last year in Detroit. Funny enough, we matched on my last day in Michigan and agreed to meet at this vendor-event-fair thing the following day. After about two hours of awkwardly circling the venue in search of this girl, I left in a small huff. Come to find out, our phones were the culprits as I received a text from her stating that she was finding parking…at 12:30am that night after I got back to LA. I wasn’t mad or anything, shit happens. I told her I’d hit her up if I was ever in the area again in the future next time. And what do you know? I’m heading back to the scene of the crime. So part of me does hope we can rectify the Great Phone Cockblock of 2016. Although things are looking positive which is always nice.

Then there’s another certain someone I met around the same time that I vibed with pretty well. Chemistry was there, we related on a bunch of shit, and overall we had a great time. But, as I surmised, proximity was an issue so I got that whole spiel which was fine. I mean she didn’t bother addressing what I actually said and went on a tirade about some things completely unrelated. Eventually, after about seven minutes of asinine anecdotes about long-distance relationships, cold pizza, and terribly characterized anime characters she hit me with the “so I’m not trying to do that right now.” To which I asked how she even deduced all of that from a question about staying in touch. Boy do I love assumptions. I’m not gonna say shit though. I mean she’ll find out most likely though mutual acquaintances or maybe even this post. She might even think I’m an asshat. I mean she wouldn’t be wholly incorrect, but I know I’m not remembering wrong.

Considering the significantly low cost of living, I could probably hack it at some rinky dink gig while I secure my golden goose. $500 for a studio? $700 for a 1 bedroom with some decent square-footage? I don’t need my appendix or gal bladder, but the idea that I don’t have to sell either to have a space of my own is enticing to say the least. Whereas in LA LA land, my ass gets a broom closet and maybe a toilet for the same price…in a seedy area probably.

I really should be sleep, but the night owl life…she be a cruel mistress. Anyway, beyond these prospects, I’m looking forward to bathing in the ashes of the rising Phoenix that is Detroit. It’s kind of crazy to think that this trip and the city’s resurgence will coincide with some sort of revival of my own current state of affairs. And if that’s the case, I’m ready to burn baby, burn.