North Woodward

Like Moses fleeing Egypt and finding refuge in Midian I was a stranger in a strange land. Having fled Chicago in ‘84 I journeyed east to the unpromised land of Detroit. 8 Mile Road. “I'm a man I'm a make a new plan” Eminem makes and takes the rap while party stores and strip joints pockmark the urban warscape. “Super Lotto” “Beer and Wine” “Liquor“ “Money Orders” “We accept Food stamps” “Girls, Girls, Girls” 9 Mile Road. Driving north through Ferndale where the Exiles of Gentrification live, I was reminded of the sixties and drag racing stoplight to stoplight. 3-2-1-green zero to sixty in three gallons muscleheads in their muscle cars dual quads, hemi-heads bored and stroked, raked and shackled four on the floor, two in the backseat Jim Beam in the glove box and fuzzy dice on the mirror. Up ahead the Reuther crossed where once a 10 Mile Road proudly served. Named for a firebrand labor guy, the freeway heads east out of Roseville, veers south through Warren then north and south again. Torn up and re-built before it opened, the 20 year in the making gerry-meandering freeway flows west around the Zoo with a zig through Huntington Woods and a zag through Lathrup Village. 11 Mile Road and electric eclectic, engaging Royal Oak; home of the Star Dream sculpture Farmer’s Market and all things hip— Just ask ‘em. 11 and a half Mile Road. Art deco portico with garish neon, never washed windows and a pair of 69.9 a gallon pumps, “No Gas” “No Gas” Vinsetta Garage, a Woodward fixture since prohibition, is voted Motown’s best car repair year after year after year. 12 Mile Road. The National Shrine of the Little Flower, de-flowered in the 1930’s by radio Priest Charles Coughlin whose coast to coast broadcasts railed against bankers and Jews and that communist FDR. Like a journalist trying to find the Who? What? Where? and why? Like a little boy peering through a keyhole I found myself in a Motor City funk looking more than tasting.