I had the occasion to visit Detroit over the weekend, and was utterly fascinated by what I saw. There’s no doubt that the city has long occupied its own place in the American Myth, from automobiles to Motown. Music is a huge part of Detroit’s identity, with dozens, if not hundreds, of name-checks in popular song. (Of those that I’ve heard, David Bowie‘s “Panic in Detroit” best captures the freaky vibe of the modern Motor City; Christian Death‘s cover perhaps more so.)

Detroit is a study in contradictions: part urban wasteland, part entrepreneurial experiment. I was there to give a talk on technology and creative communities to an audience of artist fellows of a well-known philanthropic organization. So many of the people I interacted with had very strong feelings about what it means to survive — and perhaps even thrive — in a city left behind. Everywhere I looked, there was evidence of DIY enterprise and risk-taking. There was also blight on a scale that’s hard to reconcile with notions of American exceptionalism and opportunity.

How could a U.S. city decay to such an alarming degree? Parts of Detroit look like Sarajevo without the bullet scars (and I’m sure there’s some of those, too). Looming over the city are hulking testaments to industrial and domestic catastrophe. Empty factories, warehouses and domiciles pepper the landscape, which is eerily vast and devoid of people. From what I’ve been told, the city of Detroit is big enough to hold the entirety of San Francisco, New York and Boston, but it is home to a mere 713,777 humans. The population fell 25 percent between the years 2000 and 2010. And it doesn’t look like most of them will be returning anytime soon.

Yet some do go to Detroit to make a life. Maybe it’s the fact that in some cases, you can buy a house for less than a grand. But I like to think that it’s about the chance to build. To do something perhaps small, but lasting. To participate in the most uncertain experiment in urban renewal since New Orleans got creamed by Katrina. Maybe ever.

It’s gonna take a lot of work. Even to an outsider, the challenges seem insurmountable. Detroit has some amazing architecture, remnants of a great industrial and cultural past. Unfortunately, much of it is in a state of advanced deterioration. And no one is building anything to the previous scale, which means any new construction is guaranteed to be dwarfed by epic atrophy. There is no greater testament to this than Michigan Central, which looms mightily in decomposing grandeur. Its crumbling edifice utterly dominates the nearby Michigan Visitors’ Center, and is flanked by lesser — but still impressive — examples of civic ruination. They film apocalyptic movies here, many of which take place in some dystopian future.

For Detroit, it is an inescapable present.

You’d expect to see this kind of thing in certain former Iron Curtain villages, but not in one of the America’s most storied cities. Even the pockets of life and light — and there are some — only add to the feeling of monumental calamity. It’s like a Grant Morrison or Warren Ellis comic came to life, minus the cheery bits. Yet even amidst the deserted domiciles and too-wide-to-be-empty streets, there is hope. Development shoots up wily-nilly from the pockmarked landscape like brightly-colored flowers poking up from cracked concrete. Cautious optimism is reflected by those making their lives among the ruins of the 21st century.

Detroit, I pity you. I fear you. And I admire you.

It’s officially the unofficial start of summer! If you watch your local news, you know this is an extremely confusing time for Americans. We have no idea how to comport ourselves after the third week in May. Your local ActionCast FactCopter team is editing their twelfth summer safety tips segment of the week at this very second.

And just in time. For without these segments, how would we know not to eat raw chicken marinated in sun-ripened mayonnaise while diving head-first into a shallow 39-degree lake? And they always provide the most wonderful traffic tips. “Give yourself extra time.” Wait, I can create time? Like some kind of god? I have god powers? JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE, COME TO MY APARTMENT. THE TIME-GOD COMMANDS YOU. Damn. Okay, no. I’m not some kind of god.

And neither are you, probably. So you will need these summer safety tips, unless you want to die of Summer Confusion. Upwards of one American(s) per year dies of Summer Confusion. Don’t become a fake statistic.

Bob observes safety first! Ahoy!

Sunscreen. Always wear sunscreen. Especially at night. I know there is no sun at night, but there are ghosts. Sunscreen makes you invisible to most ghosts, such as creepy-ass little kids who want to tell you who murdered them, and lonely Victorian people sexily twirling their parasols at you going “Yooo hooo!” like weirdos. The higher the SPF (Spook Protection Factor), the better the results.

The ocean. Swimming in the ocean can be a great way to unwind after a long night of ghosts. But the sea is a dangerous place, filled with Jawses and Jaws Twos, garbage from unlicensed human-animal hybrid experiment clinics, and the tears of whales who are sad because you often forget to recycle. The best way to confront sea danger is to find one of the Jawses and ride around on its back. Sharks are the cops of the ocean. Go on a ride-along and you will be safest jerk in the whole ocean. He might even let you arrest someone! In this cop/shark metaphor, “arrest” means “eat.” Which reminds me…

Food safety. Did you know that 20 percent of all foods are actively out to get you? Potatoes, for example, are very rude. It’s not fatal or anything, but it’s downright annoying when you are preparing Grandmother’s Kind of Weird Potato Salad That Contains Meat For No Clear Reason, and one of the spuds is like “Nice job. Where’d you learn to cook, Airplane Food School?” Asshole! Most starchy vegetables are rude in the style of late-’80s standup comics. They are impervious to irony. But not knives. So you will have the last laugh. But be sure not to eat too much. Why?

You are fat. Look in the mirror. Are you a man? Congratulations! You are awesome and perfect just the way you are. Go enjoy the hot weather and howl at girls. You are the star of your own Jimmy Buffett song. You are that guy from Sublime, only not dead. Hop into some enormous cargo shorts and stuff those banana-bunch feet into dad sandals and fucking work it. Are you a woman? Uh oh! You’re too fat. Unless you’re too skinny. Either way, you’re too fat. What you should do is immediately change your body type. Not by exercising. Only women who are already fit (but not too muscular, because that baffles men in the cargo-shorted area) are allowed to exercise in public. Just make it happen. Get perfect. I hear reading cruel comments on the internet works wonders, so here’s one to get you started: hahaha your a fat looser beach wale lol hahaha. Hope that helps!

The three Rs. If you remember nothing else in your entire life because you have some sort of remembering disorder, remember the three Rs, and you will have the safest summer ever.
1. Rules. Follow every tip you hear on the news, especially the ones based on studies funded by large corporations where the results encourage use of their products. Rules are the foundation of fun. You can’t spell fun without rules (the rules of spelling.)
2. Remembering. Remember that remembering disorder I just mentioned? Me neither. I think I have it.
3. Rules. Follow every…wait, did I do this one already? I feel like I did this one already.

Have a safe summer, everyone! Hope it goes SWIMMINGLY. Hope you have a WHALE of a time. Hope MY SOPHISTICATED WORDPLAY IS NOT LOST ON YOU.

The Contrarian is temporarily suspending publication in order for the Editor in Chief to take a much-deserved vacation. Our daily schedule will resume on or around June 12. We apologize for any inconvenience this service interruption may cause, and promise to take lots of pictures of our tour through Paris, Rome, Sicily, Turkey and Greece.

I’ll be in Paris. For real. That is, if I don’t get spirited away to my Father’s Kingdom along with the rest of the pious bigots faithful. Yesiree, Saturday, May 21 is the day — at least according to religious radio broadcaster Harold Camping, who came up with the latest apocalyptic meme to sweep the globe.

Camping is basing his end-times prediction on a numerological formula of his own device. Meaning, all the billboards loudly proclaiming “the Bible guarantees it!” are utter bullshit. In fact, the Good Book explicitly says the opposite: “Of that day and hour knoweth no one, not even the angels of heaven, neither the Son, but the Father only.” [Matthew 24:36].

That hasn’t stopped Camping’s ministry from driving paranoid Christians into a tizzy. So what’s the math behind his claim? It’s kinda complicated, even to Scientific American. Apparently, it has to do with the date of Christ’s crucifixion, which is conveniently unverifiable. But not to this wackadoodle:

Camping takes Christ’s crucifixion to be April 1 in 33 AD. Come May 21, 2011, Camping says, 722,500 days will have elapsed since that occurrence. And 722,500 is (5 x 10 x 17) x (5 x 10 x 17). Those numbers are important, according to Camping, because 5 symbolizes atonement, 10 represents completeness, and 17 is for heaven.

Why does 5 symbolize atonement? Here we turn to Exodus 30:15: “The rich shall not give more, and the poor shall not give less than half a shekel, when they give an offering unto the Lord, to make an atonement for your souls.” For those of you who prefer fractions, “half a shekel” would be 1/2 shekel; the decimally minded might favor 0.5 shekel. Camping is evidently in the latter camp; he takes this verse as evidence of 5′s association with atonement.

Blarbity-blarb, derp-derp. Is anyone even taking any of this seriously?

Turns out, yes. Some Christians are even taking that job and shoving it in anticipation of Armaggeddon. I assure you, this is not why I’m going on vacation. Total coincidence.

Organized atheists are also taking advantage of the insanity. According to DC rag Roll Call:

A group of self-described Godless Americans is defying predictions of the Rapture to kick off a new campaign this week against the religious right. As some Christians quit their jobs this week to prepare for the end of the world, the Secular Coalition for America headed to Capitol Hill with an ambitious task: reducing the influence of religious interests on government. The lobby group — created in 2000 to unite atheists, humanists, nontheists and nonbelievers of all stripes — chose this weekend to meet because of its significance to a small faction of Christians. For followers of religious radio broadcaster Harold Camping, Saturday marks the beginning of the end of civilization and the return of Jesus Christ as predicted in the Bible.

Getting ready for a three-week vacation is actually not that different from preparing for the Rapture, come to think of it. We have four cats and a bunny, which makes it difficult to plan a holiday. Imagine if you were taken by God? Thankfully, The Creator has a plan for our furry friends (or at least his followers do). It’s called After the Rapture Pet Care, and it’s an honest-to-Jehovah business.

If the Rapture does come this weekend, I guess most of our readership will be “left behind.” Which leads me to my final point: if there’s a lack of posts here over the next few weeks, it’s because I’m ON VACATION, not sharing fondue with Sarah Palin and Moses.

Unless, of course, I am…

Titor claimed that in the year 2038, a computer-based mainframe error called the UNIX 2038 problem would wreak havoc upon the world and only an original 1975 IBM 5100 computer could solve the problem. Titor claimed that the 5100’s BASIC and APL programming languages held the key to future salvation and he was a soldier sent back in time to retrieve one in working condition.

Think of it as an uber-geeky Terminator, with Titor as the Michael Biehn character.

When asked about his year-2000 pit stop, Titor said that he dropped in to pick up some family photos lost during the “second Civil War” and to warn us of a cattle-based disease outbreak that would kill millions of people.  He also hinted at future historic events, scientific laws yet to be discovered and breakthroughs that would change human life as we know it — including time travel technology (his machine was nestled in the trunk of a 1975 Chevette). Like some Nostradamus firing off prophecies from a local Starbucks, Titor lit up scientific message boards for months with vague announcements hinting at the world to come.

Titor offered to answer any direct questions asked of him but refused to repeat himself. He confirmed the Everett-Wheeler Model of Quantum Physics and claimed that this discredited the Grandfather Paradox. The enigmatic man from the future kindly responded to most queries with a keen sense of duty and patience, but occasionally got peeved at naysayers. Eventually, the fatigue from being called crazy and the repeated denial of his warnings made Titor bow out of the message boards in March of 2001 — leaving us to the mercy of fate (or destiny).

Since his disappearance, John Titor’s predictions toppled one at a time — each failing to come true even as his legend continues to grow. His forecast of the 2004 Civil War never materialized; its escalation to near-apocalypse status in 2008 also proved false. Although some suggest Titor did hint at such events as September 11 and Hurricane Katrina, his failures overshadow any authentic augury. And now we wait for the 2015 Russian nuclear attack that destroys all major US cities, leaving Omaha, Nebraska as our nation’s capital. Why should we believe this prediction? Well, Titor’s followers — and he does have them — claim that his arrival in our time changed the path of history and steered us away from these horrific events.

Like another enigmatic modern-day folk hero, DB Cooper, who became a symbol of his time, John Titor holds a place in our own culture. Titor reflects our desire for online anonymity coupled with an urge to berate and harass from behind the impersonal architecture of message boards. When Titor reached out to our imperiled society with a desire to help — or maybe just to get some attention — we, in typical fashion, mocked and drove away.

According to his own posts, in 2011, the 13-year-old John Titor lives in Florida and is training with the “Fighting Diamondbacks” in preparation for the upcoming Russian conflict. Perhaps we should track him down and apologize before we run out of time…

Santana spent the last 50 years of his life on the island, every so often wandering into nearby port cities for supplies and other goods. He never divorced, but rarely saw his children or invited friends out to visit. People respected the privacy of an aging man who renounced modern society.

Time passed, and mainland dwellers became unnerved by the odd acquisitions Santana made with each visit, namely, old unwanted dolls. He would gather them from local garbage dumps, trashcans or the side of the road. Sometimes he traded fresh fruit grown on his island for a frayed and forgotten artifact from some stranger’s childhood. Ironically, Santana appeared to be swapping his own memories for those discarded by others.

Eventually, someone asked Santana what he did with the dolls. His chilling response spread quickly through the area.

It seems that Santana’s island was haunted by a wicked little girl who drowned in the island’s canal. She stalked Santana and menacingly occupied every facet of his life — blaming him for her watery death. He took the dolls back to the island where he spread them out, tying them to trees, to his house and to other objects in an attempt to distract and appease the child’s spirit. In 2001, Don Julian Santana stopped coming into the town. Some time after, the locals summoned the courage to go to his island, where they discovered his body drowned in the same canal that had claimed his ghostly tormentor.

It seems fitting that Santana, a man who rejected the life that was given to him, was haunted by a manifestation that desired the life that was taken away from her.

Santana’s legacy has resulted in one of the creepiest locales in the world. The small island is creatively littered with plastic corpses representing discarded childhood memories. For reasons unknown, some dolls were left intact while others were dismembered or seemingly tortured by the Mexican recluse. Although Santana claimed he gathered the playthings to appease a menacing spirit, it is perhaps more likely that the Island of the Dolls was the physical manifestation of a deeply troubled mind. Or maybe, Santana established his own silent society to ward off those who would interrupt his idyll.

The Island of the Dolls exists today as one of the most peculiar man-made sites in our world, not for the supposed haunting, but because it offers a window into one individual’s unconventional relationship to place and memory. It is a reminder of our own desires to break free from unwritten societal rules and establish our own safe haven where we can live — and die — as we choose.

That’s why I’m struggling with this year’s SXSW. I had a rough first night due to some peripheral nonsense, and it really hasn’t gotten much better. I love music, but not the live rock ‘n’ roll version, which for me, provides little payoff to go with the disorientation and fatigue. I also don’t like crowds of people, unless I’m in front of them. But not while performing music — I gave that up some time ago. I understand why most musicians feel the need to play live, because I’ve been lucky enough to have had some enthusiastic (and sizable) crowds. It’s a powerful feeling. Still, it was never enough to make up for the innumerable associated annoyances. Just ask my former bandmates.

I could blame a lot of this on my high-functioning autism, but I’m wondering how much of it is also just my personality. I wish I’d pursued an academic track, that way I could “perform” and engage intellectually, albeit in a controlled setting with fewer variables.

I’m frankly embarrassed to be saying any of this here, because I feel tremendously guilty for not “having fun” with all the other party people. I also don’t make it my business to “piss on hospitality,” to quote Troll II. I like public speaking and brainy debate. I just wish it didn’t come with all this crowding and noise.

No sooner than I get back from Toronto do I jet off to Austin for SXSW. If things are a bit quiet around here this week, that’s why.

If you’re in town for the Bacchanal Music Fest, be sure to catch my special conversation with legendary producer Sandy Pearlman, which takes place at the Austin Conference Center at 3:30 PM, Wednesday, March 16.

Here’s the description:

The Future of Music – Is There One?
3:30 p.m. | Room 9ABC

Have the (probably) unintended consequences created by the relatively recent technology paradigm shift from analogue to a seamless digital universe of recording, production, storage and distribution of music led music itself to fall from grace? At least in its recorded incarnation. In this movement from tape deck to shuffle the deck, from analogue scarcity to digital infinity: Music has itself become hyper ubiquitous but correspondingly less influential. Is the Resurrection of Vinyl telling us something really important? In all the annals of unintended consequence, will the fate of music on digital platforms be the most unintended of all, the loss of ability to move the human spirit?

—–

Catch you on the flip…

When I get back, we’ll be enacting martial law at this here magazine to give you all the pithy commentary and randomness you so deserve.

I am not going to talk about the election outcomes right now. This post is about me, dammit.

My last few weeks have involved the amazing Future of Music Policy Summit, speaking engagements and meetings on each end of the country (including CMJ in NYC followed by a kickass trip back to VT), an international TV appearance,  new recordings for the Strange Angels project with Arthur Leon Adams III, and the erection (ha!) of our new label, Lux Eterna Records.

In between all that, my wife and I managed to squeeze in a few days together in wine country, where I did this phone interview with Baltimore City Paper while driving the corkscrew mountain path that is Pacific Coast Highway. Then it was off to SF for a meeting and some hang time with Art (during which I taped a segment for NPR; not sure when that airs).

Now I’m back in DC for a day, then I go to Baltimore to speak about the state of music distribution in the digital age at this event hosted by Maryland Lawyers for the Arts. Friday, I have another engagement at the IP Empowerment Summit at Howard University alongside some real superstars in public policy, technology and law.

On Saturday, I pick the missus up from the airport (she stayed on in Sonoma for a training). Maybe we’ll catch a movie or just stay in with the cats and bunny. Either way, we shall have a time!

I’m hoping to bring in a few new writers to Team Contrarian in the next few weeks, to ensure the same level of quality our readers have come to expect. If you’d like to throw your hat in the ring, email casey.contrarianATgmail.com with a brief summary of why you think I should make you a star indentured servant part of our crüe. Please have writing samples available at request.

As you were.