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Friday night Mary Grace and I went down to the Detroit riverfront to see India.Arie in concert.

After the concert, we took a circuitous route back through what's left of Detroit's warehouse district. Made me sad.

The desert came to Detroit.

Many years ago now, when Detroiters voted yes to casinos (PLEASE, don't get me started), the riverfront was going to be the site of the permanent casinos. A glorified riverfront amusement park for adults. Like an oasis inthe center of the blight. But in the meantime three casinos were erected in "temporary" locations.

That was, like, 10 years ago.

*sigh*

And the City, in it's infinte jackassery, bought up the warehouse district wholesale, closing some of Detroit's landmarks, two of which I drove by the other night. Made me nostalgic for "the old days".

One was The Rhinoceros Club, a swanky/seedy place where live music was played, and you could always hear some amazing singing. I remember once, in high school, "sneaking" in there one night. And as good as the music was, the kitchen at The Rhino was renowned. I had tournedoes of beef in a port wine reduction that night that still make my mouth water...gone.

After my Daddy left my Mom, he and I used to go down to the warehouse district to a place called The Soup Kitchen Saloon to listen to blues. This wasn't Chicago blues, my Mom would have enjoyed that, being from Chicago. No, my Daddy, being a Mississippi boy, took me to The Soup Kitchen to hear some Mississippi Blues.

We'd sit in the dark, tearing up some ribs and washing 'em down with vodka with a splash of tonic. We feasted on that particular brand of gutbucket, greasy, skillet blues, that back country, black and blue, nasty make ya wanna shake your ass, Delta roots music kind of blues.

My Daddy would be transported back to the juke joints of his youth, and he'd tell me stories of sneaking in when he was a boy to hear Etta James sing "Roll With Me, Henry", talk about music that makes ya wanna do it...gone.

Damn you, Detroit, for your greed, for not knowing when to leave well enough alone, for trying to slap a big money band-aid on what's wrong with the city...

There was nothing wrong with the warehouse district until you tried to "help". Fools, we were, prospecting for gold and oil in the desert. Speculators playing a shell game in the desert.

My memories are tumbleweeds blowing through the empty place left in my heart.

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