There's no place like home...trust me...

I heard on the radio this morning that my home town of Flint, Michigan had made the news yet again. This time it was because the singer of a local punk band (Treephort) had stripped down to a thong on stage and proceeded to light the thong on fire, romping about, causing someone to call the authorities. Despite the guitarists attempts to explain that they were professionals, and that such a stunt was well within their experience to monitor and control, their set was cut short. No one was arrested.

You know, I'm glad for such things. I have been so tired of hearing people say--"You're from Flint? Have you seen Roger & Me?" At least I can rest assured that Flint is a town full of MANY morons, and that one day it will be known for MANY ridiculous, depressing things. Which reminds me. One day my friend Glen went to the tourist office (yes, Flint has an office of tourism) to see what they would say about the city. They spent nearly the whole time describing the lovely hotel downtown to him. This is an interesting thing. Did you ever see the Wiz? It's like Harlem with a big, expensive tower in it. I can't imagine wanting to visit a place simply to see its lovely hotel. You can't even gamble there. Not that I think a casino is a particularly desirable thing, but there is some economic benefit to that kind of big money prostitution.

In defense of Flint, I will say that are some things happening there. It has an amazing cultural center, albeit a poorly run cultural center, and there is much good theater to be seen (check out www.flintcitytheatre.com if you're so inclined). Beyond that, I see Flint as a diving board: You take your first couple of steps, you get your footing, you look around a bit, and you jump away from it, never looking back. Unless, of course, your family and friends refuse to relocate with you. In that case, you must stare into the face of the blizzard every Christmas.