Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

Since this blog is the second part of a series, I recommend reading Part One—the biker, the musician, and the driver before you meet the king and the volunteer.
On Friday, January 21, the first day during my third visit to Detroit, I had the pleasure of meeting Doug and George, the oldest and perhaps most interesting men of the five cool dudes from Detroit.

Doug the Art-Deco King
I met Doug Ramsey when I stumbled upon his shop Deco Doug located in the artsy section of Royal Oak, Michigan. Although his storefront is small, Doug’s shop is full of rare and authentic treasures such as a 1920s chandelier and a 1930s cash register that he uses to conduct business. He talks fondly of each item and can tell you exactly how he acquired it. When I jokingly asked if he took things from dead people (I had just seen the film Please Give), he responded, “No. Not usually.” I immediately fell in love with his dry wit.
Somehow, we started discussing how his business had declined when one of his biggest buyers, a General Motors bigwig, had become a father and no longer had as much discretionary income. Then Doug mentioned Google. According to him, someone from the company had come into his store to take pictures and put him on Google. The whole thing seemed suspicious to me and although Doug has some computer skills, his Internet knowledge seems limited. I asked him if he had a website or had sold his items on Ebay. He has considered creating the former and has bought stuff on the latter. He looked at me possibly sensing my growing excitement. “What could I sell on Ebay?” he asked.
“Something unique. Something celebrity.” I scanned the hundreds of items turning 360 degrees trying to find the perfect thing to illustrate my point. “THAT!” I pointed to the glass cabinet.
“What?” asked Doug as he peered through the glass trying to discern which item I meant.
“That baseball. You said 1930s—right? Signed by a famous ballplayer?” He nodded. “That is an Ebay item. You need to figure out which ones are … I dunno know maybe 10 or 15 percent of your inventory. The rest would be sold on your website.”
“I need a young person like you. Someone with your enthusiasm to get me going.” I smiled and gave him my card knowing that he won’t call me. Although I can write and edit web content, I cannot design his website. Not only does he need a web designer, but he also needs a photographer. Most of all, he needs a local energetic “young” person who appreciates his store and sees its future possibilities. Doug says if I ever move to Detroit that I should stop by again. I think we would make a great team.

George the Grumpy Volunteer
I actually met George for the first time when I visited the DIA in October. George volunteers at a desk just outside of the gift shop on the main floor. His primary duty is to print copies of any artwork that a patron requests, which I find incredible since most museums don’t offer this service.
Unfortunately, I caught George at a bad time that Friday night. He was swamped with requests. When I asked for a copy of Robert Henri’s The Young Girl, George muttered that he didn’t think he would have time. “Write it down,” he said shaking his head. “Come back later.” Later? The museum was closing in ten minutes. Not wanting to deal with Grumpy George again and sidetracked by Eugene taking me to the Rivera mural, I did not go back to retrieve the print. I had forgotten about George until my most recent trip.
Once again, I went to the DIA on a Friday night because they stay open until 10pm. Having already seen the permanent collection, I focused on the Fakes, Forgeries, and Mysteries exhibition. An hour before closing, I had viewed the exhibit, drank a vodka tonic, and bought too many books. Still wanting a print that wasn’t offered as a postcard in the gift shop, I decided to see George.
Thankfully, there was no line. Once again, I requested an Henri only this time I asked for The Beach Hat. George didn’t recognize the artist; in fact, he didn’t seem that familiar with art at all. He apologized for the slow computer, but I didn’t mind because we were talking. Since he mentioned being a child during the Great Depression, George must be in his eighties. He volunteers at the museum three days per week but only weekday afternoons and/or evenings. “I used to do mornings,” he said. “But the children. They’re so loud.” I nodded and told him I used to teach.
I showed George the books I had purchased, and his eyes lit up when he saw The Detroit Institute of Arts: A Brief History. “Now that’s a good buy.” George flipped through the book showing me the original DIA building. He remembers that it became the welfare department after the DIA moved to its current location on Woodward Avenue. Turning more pages, George pointed to one of the DIA’s most famous works: Rodin’s The Thinker. George says it was originally inside when the museum moved, but then it was placed it in front of the entrance. “Can you believe that? Outside? In this weather. Humph.” That’s when I realized that George cares about art. He cares about the museum. Most importantly, he cares about Detroit. As it turns out, he likes The Beach Hat.

I want to thank all five dudes Marcus, Eugene, Dana, Doug, and George for giving me their time, telling me about their lives, and educating me on a variety of topics from what it means to be Jamaican to how to survive a winter in Detroit. I love how eloquently Eugene’s friend describes Detroit, “[It] is an archipelago of interesting places in an urban sea of desolation.”

I would add, “inhabited by amazing people” between the words places and in.

AWW — XoXo

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During my three visits to Detroit, where my husband has been working on the television show Detroit 1-8-7, I have encountered many friendly folks. My mother has said from the time I could speak that I never met a stranger. My ability to talk to anyone has allowed me the privilege of meeting some interesting people over the years although my habit of speaking to strangers used to annoy my sister Adrienne. Why do you talk to everybody she would ask. You don’t even know those people. However, her complaints never stopped me from chatting with salespeople, drivers, or anyone else who seemed amusing.

What Adrienne didn’t understand was if I was talking to people, I was in a “good” place. With the exception of one person, I met all of these men during my visit last month, which tells me I am letting down my guard, coming out of hibernation, and joining the world again. If I had stayed underground, I would have missed the opportunity to know them. From youngest to oldest, meet the biker, the musician, and the driver.

Marcus the Jamaican Biker
I met Marcus at the Detroit Institute of Art (DIA), one of my favorite places in Detroit. He is completing an internship at the DIA as part of his undergraduate education, which includes architecture and business classes. A first-generation American, Marcus moved from Florida to Detroit in order to attend school. He intrigued me with good looks and easygoing nature, but he also educated me on what it means to be Jamaican. For example, when I complained about the cold weather and how the heat in my rental SUV (GMC Acadia) didn’t seem to work, he said I know what you mean; I ride my bike every day.
“As in bicycle?” I asked. He nodded as if riding a bicycle in the snow was the most common thing in the world. When he made a joke about being Jamaican that I didn’t get, I asked him to explain.
“In Jamaica,” he said, “you’re expected to have four jobs by the time you’re 12. Otherwise you’re lazy. You work hard. Everyone works hard. I only have one job besides this one [internship] and school so I can’t complain about riding my bike. Besides, it’s not so bad.”
Wow. Even though I have always been a hard worker, I owned a car at Marcus’s age (approximately 20), and I would never ride a bike in the snow. Then again, I’m not Jamaican.

Eugene the Nice Musician
Of all of the cool D-dudes, Eugene is the only man I met last year, and he is the closest to my age. I went out to Tallulahs with my husband’s coworker’s girlfriend—a girl’s night-out gone wrong. I like Nadia, but I spent the first hour with her standing on my feet and nodding my head as I listened to her tell me her entire life story. To be fair, I was in my Funky Fall Blues phase. However, once we sat at the bar, Nadia turned her attention to a man, and I was off the hook, which is how I met Eugene. He happened to be standing next to me.
Eugene gives off a “Nice, harmless, well-mannered” vibe. As soon as he said hello, I knew he wasn’t going to act inappropriate. (Sometimes, a wedding ring presents a challenge to the opposite sex.) Soon, we were immersed in conversation where we discovered we had many things in common. Eugene is a teacher; he showed me the Silly Bandz on his wrist that his students had given him. I laughed as I attempted to figure out the shape of each band, and I found it charming that he wore them in public. Eugene is also a musician with his own company Telepathic 3-D Productions.
When Eugene asked me about my plans for the next day, I told him that I was going to the DIA. I was looking forward to it because I didn’t get to see it during my first visit to the city the previous month. Imagine my surprise when Eugene said, “I work there tomorrow night. I help with the Drop-In Workshops. We’re making sugar skulls for Día de Los Muertos. Day—”
I interrupted him, “Day of the Dead.”
He laughed. “Yes. Oh, of course, you know what it means. You live in Los Angeles.” I didn’t tell him how much the holiday reminds me of Adrienne. “You should come by and make a sugar skull,” he said.
Although I opted not to make a sugar skull, I did contact Eugene the next day when I arrived at the museum. I saw him and his friend Charles supervise the children in the workshop. Eugene gave me tips on specific exhibits, got me a huge discount at the gift shop, and showed me the Diego Rivera mural, which I had somehow missed. Being the perfect gentleman, he walked me to my car. Besides being a nice, polite, intelligent, Midwestern guy who owns his own home and makes a decent living, he gives tours of Detroit. If you are interested, email him and use me as a reference.

Dana the Dynamic Driver
I met Driver Dana at the end of my trip. A kind, large man with a warm smile, Driver Dana works for Thrifty car rental, and he drove me to the Detroit airport. Since only he and I were in the shuttle, I started talking to him. I told him how much I liked the name Dana for a man.
“Really?” he asked as if I wasn’t being sincere.
“Sure,” I said, “It’s just like Tracy or Kelley. Gender neutral. Cool and interesting.”
“Well, I’m actually two out of four.”
“What?” From there, he explained that he was named after his godfather Dana, but then his godfather named his son Dana. Okay, three. Then Driver Dana named his son Dana. Four.
“And you all hang out together?” I asked.
“Yep,” he smiled as he turned into the airport.
“How do you, ya know, tell each other apart when saying someone’s name?”
“Oh,” he laughed, “I’m Little Dana, and he’s Big Dana.” Somehow I knew he meant Big Dana was his godfather, but I wanted to ask if his son was Little Dana Jr. And what about Big Dana’s son, Dana? Was he Big Dana II? And why, did a man who seemed so unsure about his name choose the same one for his son who must feel lost in the sea of Danas? In that family, Dana might as well be Chris.
Driver Dana and I talked about other subjects including the dreadful demise and hopeful resurrection of Detroit. He watches Detroit 1-8-7 and he thought it was cool that my husband works on the show. He laughed about my “Detroit jacket” and my plan to stuff it in my suitcase as soon as I got inside. As we said goodbye, he added, “You tell your husband he has a sweet wife.” Will do, Little Dana.

As the first three of the five cool Detroit dudes, Marcus, Eugene, and Dana are under 50 years old and part of the Millennial or Gen X generations respectively.
During the next installment of Five Cool Dudes from Detroit: Part Two—the king and the volunteer, you will meet two older men from the Baby Boom and Silent generations who express their passion for art in different ways.

AWW — XoXo

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I made these observations during my first visit to Detroit over Labor Day weekend. Now you may wonder, why visit one of the “Most miserable cities in America” (#1 in 2008, #7 in 2009, and #4 in 2010 respectively)? Well, my husband is currently living in Motor City because he works on the television show Detroit 1-8-7 on ABC. (Yes, I am plugging the show, but it is not my motivation for writing this blog.)

• American flags fly all over Detroit. At first, I thought it was only one flag, which I first spotted in the center of the suburb Royal Oak where my husband lives. What a great landmark I thought to myself—especially if the GPS doesn’t work. Then I realized there are flags everywhere. When I asked my husband about this strange phenomenon, he guessed that maybe it’s because Detroit is a union town. I asked some locals who replied, “I don’t know” and “We have flags in Detroit? I never noticed before.” America’s largest and oldest flag company, Annin, is not located in Michigan. I even contacted the Flag Manufacturers Association of America and no such luck. If anyone knows why there are so many American flags in Detroit, please post a comment on my blog.*
• Most of the houses are made of brick. As I drove around the city, trying to kill an hour before going to eat dinner with my husband on the set, I noticed that all of the houses looked the same. I’m used to the variety of LA architecture (e.g., Craftsman, Bungalow, Ranch, Spanish, Georgian, Art Deco) as well as building materials (e.g., wood, rock, stucco, brick). Depending on how you look at it, Los Angeles has many personalities or no one identity. In Detroit, however, it didn’t matter if I was in a partially deserted neighborhood with dilapidated homes or in the elite neighborhood of Grosse Pointe with beautiful houses, most of the structures are similar in that they are made from brick. Of course, the quality of brick differs, but it’s still brick, which gets boring after a while. I can only assume that brick is the best material to withstand the horrible Michigan winters, which the natives love to mention with sly grins on their faces.
• Michigan is freaking cold—even in September. I should preface this comment by saying that I am always cold. Always. If I am not shivering in the shade, my husband 1) knows that my thyroid medication is off and 2) calls me a freak because he is so used to asking, “Did you bring a coat?” (He makes me keep a fleece in my car for emergencies.) On this particular trip, I thought for sure I had packed the appropriate clothes because I check the weather before going to any destination. Unfortunately, I was not prepared for the wind blowing off Lake Huron at Mackinac Island, a romantic and quaint place that my husband took me to as an early anniversary present. I was shaking before we boarded the ferry. My husband sighed, bought me some long underwear, and then spent the next two days chastising me for not bringing a real coat. To which I responded, “I checked the weather!” Eventually, I just glared at him as my limbs trembled and my teeth chattered.
• People love their booze here. Even before I arrived, my husband told me, “Man, the women here can drink.” When he asked a local woman why people consume so much alcohol, she replied, “When it’s gets cold, all there is to do is fuck and drink.” Two activities that warm up the body, I might add. Michigan actually takes driving while intoxicated very seriously. There are constant TV commercials warning against drunk driving and highway signs that read, “Buzzed driving is drunk driving.” At the Detroit airport, I struck up a conversation with some residents to discover why Michigan is so vigilant about DWIs. An older woman named Helen thought that MADD had started in Michigan, but she was wrong. I should have known better than to listen to her considering she was drinking a Bloody Mary at 7am and still nursing a hangover from the night before. Helen and her boyfriend waited five minutes until the bartender could legally serve them alcohol. I almost fell off my barstool when her boyfriend happened to mention that she is 39 years old—only one year older than I am. I had Helen pegged for 49. The excessive alcohol intake is not doing her skin or her body any favors.

Although my husband enjoys the city, I cannot say I love Detroit. However, I like the people. From the cashier at Petco who pointed me in the direction of the only Indian restaurant he could remember to the park ranger who allowed me access to Lakefront Park (normally reserved for Grosse Point residents) on Lake St. Clair, every person I met in Detroit was friendly, helpful, genuine, and real. I doubt I could I tolerate Michigan winters, but I could definitely spend more time with Michiganders.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I spotted a Michigan native on the ferry; she was wearing tight short-shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. I’m guessing she was probably warm.

*A few days after I published this blog, a Detroit native explained that he believes the Americans flags are due to Detroit’s former nickname as the “Arsenal of Democracy” during World War II.

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