When Best Intentions Stop to Smell the Roses

“…We’ve reduced…[problems] by 92 percent from Day 1.”

Who said this?

a)    Detroit’s new Emergency Manager.

b)   Kwami Kilpatrick’s “I’m sorry” PR manager.

c)    Lucy Bradshaw

The answer is C: The other two people don’t exist.

Lucy Bradshaw is the general manager for Maxis, a division of Electronic Arts video games. If you’ve played video games for more than ten years, you’ll recognize Maxis as the maker of Sim City, the most popular open-ended video game ever made.

Until last weekend.

Last week, reviewers who praised their tester copy began backpedaling. Polygon.com, who loved the game enough to rate it 9.5/10, now posts Sim City with a flop 4/10.

What happened?

Let me repeat Lucy Bradshaw’s quote, “We’ve reduced game crashes by 92 percent from Day 1.” Any time you have that much room for improvement, there are going to be a few haters along the way.

“The doctor says I’m 92 percent herpes free!”

Not quite the same thing, but you get the idea. It’s a PR nightmare.  Those of us who live anywhere near Detroit know exactly what Maxis is going through.  We tried to build a city too, and we too failed miserably.

We didn’t even have to overcome Maxis sized Sim City adversities like roaming monsters and alien attacks. We just needed to overcome ourselves. We couldn’t do it. Even the governor said enough is enough. He’s now picking an emergency manager to clean things up.

What’s an emergency manager? You would be like an emergency manager if you reloaded your Sim Detroit to find that your little brother had hacked your game and run your city into the ground before saving over all your old games. Your job as the emergency manager would be to bring the city back to its former glory.

Sim City players found last week that they were more like Detroit emergency managers than they realized. They couldn’t access their games because Maxis’ servers were overloaded with players.  Some players couldn’t access their cities for days. They were the lucky ones. Other players found their cities were never saved at all. 

Detroit knows how they feel.  We’ve got a city council that’s blocking every connection from an emergency manager. The council would just as soon let your little brother continue to play for you, thanks for logging in anyway. 

“We’ve reduced city spending by 92 percent. We’ll just live without luxuries like police departments, fire departments, street lights, and street paving.”

That’s funny, that’s just what your little brother did. What’s next? Alien invasion?

“Maybe you haven’t been keeping up on current events, but we just got our asses kicked.”

Different aliens. Maxis doesn’t have trademark rights to those aliens. Neither does Detroit. Our aliens were played by Kwame Kilpatrick. He’s all ours.  Or is it the other way around?  If you haven’t been keeping up with current events, Kwame Kilpatrick is the ex-mayor of Detroit.  Have you seen the new Sim City ads with the Sim mayor sitting on the desk in his underwear talking about what he’s done with his city, because it’s his? That’s Kwame, except Kwame wore pants.

Today a federal jury convicted Kwame of 24 out of 30 counts, which included racketeering, corruption, fraud, and extortion.  The federal government only got 80 percent. Not as good as Maxis. I’m just saying…

It’s still enough to put away Kwame for a bit, and put any city in a little brother-sized hole. Detroit’s current council is intent on throwing a rug over that hole and pretends nothing ever happened.

“What hole, mom?”

And here we are: Maxis, Kwame, Detroit, all looking to put in some serious time to correct mistakes made in the past. Only Maxis admits that there ever were mistakes made in the first place.

Me, I just wish there were a way to reboot the city and start from scratch.

Disfunctional Locationships

Ever notice when a locationship ends, the imperfections of the offending location glare brighter than Las Vegas neon?

Detroit and I, we still hang out. Really, it’s because we have to. I have nowhere else to go. Although we’re uncomfortable around each other, we smile and muddle, until we can afford to separate.  It’s in this time that bad locationships, are the same as bad relationships. This is that phase where everything the other person does wrong reminds you exactly what pushed you over the edge in the first place.

My reasons for disillusion should be filed under “irreconcilable differences.” Detroit isn’t abusive, overly violent, and it rarely cheats. It’s not perfect, but it tries…sometimes, and for some people, that’s enough. For me, it’s like stealing a kiss from Jane Krowly in junior high. She was beautiful when she didn’t speak, but once you kissed her, you had to talk to her.  It was doomed from the start.

Same with Detroit. Despite it’s rugged reputation, I wanted to believe in the city that slept with a gun under her pillow. She’d lived through a lot; now was her underdog comeback.

We all love underdog stories. MyQueen and I watched “Rudy” last weekend. Even she chanted “Rudy! Rudy! Rudy!” in the end.

“Alright honey, can I stop now?”

“No! you gotta keep going! Rudy! Rudy! Rudy!”

“You are so going to Steel Magnolia hell for this…”

Underdogs remind us that we all have a shot. I’m in a very underdog susceptible place these days. You know what we all love even more than underdogs though? We love redeemed underdogs. That’s right.  Look at the prodigal son. Who didn’t cheer the young rebel come home to make good?

“Detroit! Detroit! Detroit!”

That’s right. Detroit’s been a bad boy. We all want to believe that this is its time to come home and make good: to apologize and accept the reward of grace, and not the reward it deserves. We’re ready, Detroit!

Unfortunately, if Detroit were the prodigal son, our story would end with Detroit coming home, suffering from a raging case of herpes, turning to its father, and saying, “Ya know, I think I want to go out whoring some more.”

The latest prodigal efforts by Detroit involve the island of Belle Isle.  When I moved here, I knew nothing of Belle Isle. MyQueen was quick to educate me though, she’d grown up with Belle Isle history.

According to Wikipedia, it’s a 982-acre island on the Detroit River that houses a race track, aquarium, and a conservatory.  According to MyQueen, it’s a kick-ass piece of Detroit history.  Belle Isle has been a park since the mid 1800’s, although during World War II it also served as a staging area for the military. This is that part of the Detroit personality that first attracts you.

Until you find that it’s a part of Detroit that she just squanders.  Belle Isle, through the bad years has suffered as much as Detroit itself. The bathrooms don’t work and have been replaced by porta-johns. The paths and trails are littered with branches, leaves and other discarded debris. And despite the natural beauty of the park, everything seems to be buried beneath the gloom of disregard.

On the one hand, you can’t blame Detroit for the disregard of Belle Isle. Maintenance costs are roughly $6 million a year, and that’s just keeping it at its current state. That does not include building it back up and repairing what needs to be fixed. Last year they had to stop the Belle Isle Grand Prix because the road patch came up mid race. Belle Isle needs some pretty expensive TLC that the Detroit can’t afford to give itself, let alone one park. In Detroit’s state, fire and police departments are luxuries.

“Ya know, I think I want to go out whoring some more.”

That’s where the State of Michigan comes in. Not the whoring part. Michigan is the father; try to keep up. Michigan offered to take care of Belle Isle, to maintain it as it does any other state park.  The state offer wasn’t to buy the park, but to lease it for 10 years. After 10 years, Detroit could elect to take back Belle Isle, or leave it in the hands of Michigan. This wasn’t an adoption program, as much as a foster parent arrangement.

Yes, the state would reap the profits, and those profits would go back into the park system, but Michigan is in a much better state than Detroit is—figuratively speaking, of course. Michigan can afford it. Belle Isle is our prodigal son’s love child, and Daddy Michigan, is more than willing to look after her, while Detroit gets it’s private parts cleaned up.

Like any deal, this deal did have a downside. For the city, the downside included a clause written into the contract saying that although the state would maintain the property, it would not maintain the utilities, which would be lighting and plumbing. So the toilets would probably still on Detroit to fix. It also said that the state may, but is not obligated to continue any contracts, or construction affiliated with the park. That meant that the state could let go of people, bring in their own people, and even hire new teams for construction or maintenance projects. 

The downside for the visitors?  The state would charge an $11 fee to visit the park. That’s $11 you’d pay to visit any state park, and once you’ve paid the fee, you could visit any state run park within the year for no additional charge.

At the mention of a fee, the city of Detroit balked. First the city said, a fee is outrageous! This is a public park, for the public of our fair city. Later they amended that to say, unless the city gets that fee.

A city fee is a not as good a deal as a state fee though. First, a visitor won’t get to visit other city or state parks for proposed fee. Second, according to the Detroit Free Press, the proposed city fee will need to be a per visit fee, to potentially break even with the $6 million per year maintenance. Even with that fee, Detroit mayor Dave Bing, says the city will need to close 50 other parks, and limit the maintenance of 19 other parks, to support the costs.

Translation: we’ll create 69 new locations for our limited vice cops to patrol.

So did Detroit get greedy, seeing that the state would charge a fee, or was it the part of the contract that endangered deals they’d brokered with local companies, or was it something completely different? Whatever the cause, the city has said, “no thanks” to the state’s deal, and the state took their money to play somewhere else. Now Detroit will need to find a new way to staunch its financial bleeding.

Detroit: It hurts when we pee.

That’s not the official city slogan. The PR team is discussing alternatives. They do say that the state offer wasn’t all that. That’s all they are willing to say. That, and that they will have their own plan…soon. Soon, but for now nobody’s sure of anything, except that the city wants to charge an entrance fee to the park, and that they’re talking of revising a previous plan that was rejected in the 1990’s because it would cost $180 million to implement. Where is the city getting $180 million when they can’t even keep Belle Isle toilets open?

The only thing anyone can be sure of is that, with Detroit, it’s hard to be in a dysfunctional locationship.

Sources: Detroit Free Press mlive.com.

Dinner Out

“So how do you plan on letting Detroit know you’re dumping her?” That’s MyQueen.  She likes to play along. I’m just happy she reads my blog. She’s already seated at the table.

“I dunno.  I figured I’d just let it go. She’ll get the idea over time.” Yeah, I’m a classy guy. I take off my coat, throw it over the chair next to her and sit down.

“You can’t do that! You have to sit her down and let her know.”

“Uhm, are you guys ready to order?” The waitress is giving us the look. You know the one. The “I know what’s going on here, but I don’t know what’s going on here,” look.

I give her a look back that says, “I do know what’s going on here and you have no clue.”

“Sir?” The waitress looks a little panicked, and turns to MyQueen, “Should I call him a doctor?”

Maybe that wasn’t the right look.

MyQueen sighs and sips her wine. “No, he’s okay. That’s his normal face.”

The waitress hangs out while I look over the menu. When she has our orders, she leaves and we continue our 50 ways to leave your location conversation.

“Slip out the Ren Cen, Glen…”

It’s been a long week, for both of us. I found my dreams like Ralphie found his glasses in A Christmas Story: crushed under foot. MyQueen had an interview with Cagney and Lacey, except Lacey didn’t even care enough to show up, and Cagney might as well have come drunk.  Yeah, I lost my dream, she dodged a bullet and yet we’re both mixed—we both hoped for more, and we both need a drink.

“I think it’s okay, I don’t think Detroit is that into me. I think she’s trying to distance herself.”

MyQueen takes another drink. “Mmmm,hmmm. What happens then?”

“What do you mean?” I’m pouring more wine into my glass. I’ve already chugged the glass she had waiting for me.

“Well, if you leave her, you end up in Denver, LA, wherever.” She swirls the wine. Fruity goodness climbs up the glass as if it’s drawing to her voice. “Where are you if Detroit leaves you?”

“Wichita?” I shrug.

“Ain’t that the truth.” She downs the rest of her glass, then dangles it before me, in a “Fill!” fashion. “I think we need to avoid that.”

I nod, and fulfill my responsibility by refilling her glass. We’re gonna need more wine at this rate. I make a subtle motion. The waitress may not be able to interpret table banter, but roll an empty bottle across the floor at her, and she takes a hint.

In the meantime, my wife grabs a crayon from the table. Yeah, we’re eating in that restaurant.  (I’d mention their name, but they refused to pay for adverting.) “Okay, so where do we want to move?” She writes down “LA” in blue wax. 

I shake my head. We’ve both been there, done that. She draws a frowny face next to it, then pulls a crayon line across the letters.  Next word: “Denver” I nod.  It might be cool.  It’s kinda like where I grew up, except 10 times the population and none of the relatives. “Actually it sounds pretty good.”

“Okay,” she nods and puts a smiley next to it.

“Rotelli?”

“Where’s that?” I look up.  It’s right here. That was our waitress. I point to MyQueen. She gets the plate slid before her. I get the other plate full of cheese red sauce.  I think there’s meat underneath.

As we eat, we unwind and continue our conversation. She mentions Vegas, and then says “Scott!” cuz she likes watching “Flipping Vegas” and believes we can move in and become instant friends with the stars, Scott and Amy.  MyQueen’s “Scott” is a perfect imitation of Amy whining.  It’s sort of like Mary Tyler Moore saying “Oh, Rob” to Dick Van Dyke, except MyQueen’s mouth is full of pasta and it sounds like “Scoh-waht!”

We laugh. It’s ok. You don’t have to. It’s not funny to anybody else but us. Later I draw a US map that looks like wounded dog. We laugh some more, and the waitress calls the manager.

“So you folks having a good time?”

It’s true. We are. We need it. In truth, we need each other. When things get rough, it’s good to know we can come together at the table and laugh. To know that sometimes life kinda sucks, but things will get better. We’re here. We have each other and we’re in this together. I down the rest of my glass, take MyQueen’s hand, we pay the check, and leave.

“What about Chicago?”

“Isn’t that like kissing Detroit’s sexy sister?”

We haven’t got everything figured out yet, but we’re trying, together. And no matter where we land, I know we’ll have fun in the process.

Now I just have to work up the nerve to tell Detroit.

MyQueen in my official "Happy Hat."