Warning, kids:  This is where it gets X-rated, and not by my choice.

After an abbreviated workday, I found it necessary to attempt to locate and close with a clandestine clubhouse once used as an inner city refuge by the notorious Purple Gang. 

Anyone familiar with my particular brand of vacation pleasure will know that I simply can't pass up the opportunity to investigate scandalous sites from the past.  It's a sickness, I suppose, but it keeps me from picking up twenty dollar hookers anymore.

The Purple Gang was to Prohibition era Detroit what Al Capone was to the second city of Chicago, supplying most of Detroit and much of Michigan with illegal hooch brought in from nearby Canada.  "Blind Pig" establishments, a low-rent version of the famed speakeasy, were plentiful in Detroit and numbered as many as 15,000.  The Purple Gang kept the Blind Pigs in business.

During the five years from 1927 to 1932, Abe Bernstein and his gang of primarily Jewish gangsters inflicted incredible violence on the citizens of Detroit.  The gang was rumored to have killed an estimated 500 people just to ensure their stranglehold on the livers of those unable to adhere to the rule of Prohibition.  Following the end of a fourteen-year dry spell, the Purple Gang branched out to even more traditional Mafia-like shenanigans; primarily illegal gambling and protection racketeering.

During my extensive research of all things Detroit, I learned that there was a decrepit old building located in an impoverished area of town that had once been a hangout for the crazy little gang.  The building still stands and is currently known as The Schvitz.

The Schvitz was built during the 1930's and served as a Russian-style bathhouse and supperclub to the immigrants of this largely Polish neighborhood.  It was originally known as the Oakland Health Club, but at some point evolved into its modern incarnation of The Schvitz sometime before the demographics of the area began to change and the Poles found themselves once again emigrated to another town. 

As it stands now, very little remains of the old Polish neighborhood.  Well . . . little except for The Schvitz, which squats like a huge grey fortress amidst the burned out tenements and vacant lots strewn with inner-city refuse. 

The windows of the old building have since been filled over with concrete and cinderblock, likely a security measure but also just as likely an attempt to block out the desolation of a landscape that once teemed with prosperity.  The portico and loading dock, as well as the entire north end of the old structure, is surrounded by a chainlink security fence topped by military-style concertina wire.  There is very little about the building that presents itself as inviting.  Nothing but its history . . .

Incredibly, it still serves as a bathhouse to old school Poles who continue to brave the area, but it most certainly looks quite different than it did during its heyday.

Here it was more than a few years ago, circa 1952 and 1968.

Here it is as it looked earlier today at my first glimpse.

Having done my research, I knew that the only way into the club was to knock at the barren door under the tiny awning at street side, stand before the security camera, and hope that I would somehow be looked upon favorably.  I'll be the first to admit that I was a bit nervous to knock at that door, but was even more fearful of being forced to remain standing alongside a particularly bad section of Oakland Avenue in modern day Detroit. 

I eventually heard a soft buzzing sound which was followed by the door popping open a few inches.  Having left humility in my hotel room back in Canton, I literally scampered into the building, glad to have found refuge and jazzed to find that I was able to pass the test by looking either non-threatening or at least somewhat Polish in origin.

What I found inside was not a total surprise; a warm and steamy oasis having a somewhat claustrophobic feel and decorated in a 1970's motif.  Dark walnut paneling hid any and all of the cinderblock foundation. Vinyl-covered couches and recliners littered the landscape, and oil paintings of certifiably nude women in repose hung from most every wall.

Old newspaper clippings and photographs of the infamous Purple Gang, cheaply framed after an apparent visit to the local Walmart, lined the hallway that lead away from the front door to the low-ceilinged open area at the center of the building.  And as nervous as I might have been before knocking at that door, I soon found myself closely inspecting the photographs and news accounts, firmly in my element as a . . . well, as a historian?  Yeah?  Yeah, a historian . . .

The skeletal staff, consisting of heavy-set Polish men, were warm and welcoming and utterly insistent that I take a "schvitz" in their establishment. 

I think I may have failed to mention that the word schvitz is Yiddish for "sweat" or "sweating."  Obviously, schvitzing is a time-honored tradition for all those crazy cats coming from Russia, Poland, and wherever else it is that the Yiddish might call home.

Being that it was late afternoon and I really had nothing else to do back at the hotel, I buckled to the friendly pressure of my new European friends and forked out the required $3.50.  In return, I received a terrycloth robe, some rubber flip-flops, and the promise of a good old-fashioned Russian steambath and flogging.

For the next hour or perhaps even two, I sat sweating amongst men; large hairy men, complete with that whole Slavic balding thing I've come to associate with the Russians/Poles/Yids. 

They were all very gracious and patient, often repeating themselves when I was unable to decipher the current dirty joke that they might be telling.  I'll admit that the whole thing with being whipped by a branch of oak leaves was kinda weird,  but it too became downright acceptable when the guys broke out a bottle or three of Stolichnaya. 

It's funny how vodka makes everything alright, even those utterly awkward situations in life when you find yourself naked amongst strangers.  You can consider me a new fan . . .  of vodka, not naked hairy men.

Flash forward four hours: 

There became a point when I could no longer feel my upper lip or pronounce the letter L, and the seven Poles I had befriended took on the look of twenty-one in my Vodka-inspired triple vision.  It was only at this point that I felt it necessary to say goodbye to my friends and attempt to make my way back to the homey confines of my budget hotel in the suburbs of west Detroit. 

Tipping a hand to the guys in farewell, I stumbled out of the steamy basement and clumsily felt my way along the darkened hallways in search of my clothing.

It was also at this point that my journey took me from the somewhat weird into the downright surreal, particularly when I started to pass naked men and women in the hallway. 

To the best of my recollection, I didn't remember there being naked women when I'd first made my way into the club.  I stopped for a moment, grabbed a piece of the wall and gave some serious thought to it, but still came up with no recollection of women being present when I first made my way inside. 

Incredibly, these women occupied most common areas of the building, ranging from the hallways to adjoining rooms and even to the central meeting room where I'd first made my entry.

Many of the women, as well as the men, were large.  Many were small and skinny.  Many were white, many were black, and many were missing that whole balding thing of the Slavs.

Did I mention that several of the men and women were engaged in . . . well . . . in copulation?  Well, they were.

The copulators . . . that's what I'll call them at this point . . . occupied the swimming pool, the darkened rooms off the hallways, the kitchen area, the vinyl couches in the great room that was cloaked in 1970's paneling, even the pool table in the great room. 

I'll spare you any more description of what I would witness, but suffice it to say that I'd somehow happened upon a modern day orgy of proportions known only to Caligula or maybe the modern day Vince Neil.

Further conversation with party goers, albeit with averted eyes, revealed that  The Schvitz bathhouse was in fact a weekend swinger's pad catering to the prurient proclivities of greater southeast Michigan.  Had I been a little more thorough in my research on the Internet instead of checking out the history of lutefisk, I might have discovered this . . .

And in the end, I'll have to admit that it was certainly not the worst situation I've found myself in here on the big blue ball.  In fact, given my propensity to take embarrassing shortcuts in life, it really wasn't all that bad at all.

A $93 cab ride took me home.

You believe me, right?  Right???

I feel that I have failed you, kids, as my top secret government assignment and the lack of sleep have produced a relatively lackluster performance.  The work has taken me well into the shank of the evening since I've been here.  This, combined with the fact that one of my partners in Oregon has disregarded the three-hour time difference and has taken to calling me at 12:30 a.m., is taking a heavy toll on my ability to function.

Finding myself free of work duties by 4:00 today, I set out to try and knock off one of the top two things on my Michigan to-do list; one being to explore the Chicken War in Frankenmuth.

During my research of Michigan, I determined that there was a virtual war going on in Frankenmuth in which two cousins were engaged in perpetual battle to win the The War.  It seems that the little town is home to two Bavarian-themed restaurants owned by the respective cousins, each with their own special recipe for the ultimate in a full-course chicken dinner.  Both restaurants were also said to be well-stocked with German beer and waitresses ensconced in not much more than a tightly-bound bodice.

Hey, it sounded much better than the Tuba Museum in Okemos . . .

Setting out from my hotel, I punched the address into my GPS and headed north on what could only be considered one of the worst roadways in all of Michigan.  Visions of chicken, sugarplums and dirndls danced in my head as I relished the thought of what I might experience in cozy little Frankenmuth, but it was only after driving about twenty miles that I realized that I'd made a slight miscalculation by not having researched the exact location of the town. 

For some reason, I believed that it was a northern suburb of the Detroit metro area.  Not the case, as the complimentary rental agency map would show. 

Frankenmuth turned out to be better than ninety miles away, which was a bit more than I felt like driving for a little yardbird or the local Fraulein population.

And so, this is where I once again have failed you. 

Maybe tomorrow will be better . . .

Although Michigan has allowed me to explore everything hockey, it has been lacking in the other interests that I will commonly pursue when in uncharted terrain.  Simply put, there's not an interesting dead person to be found and because of this I have avoided making the standard stop at the local cemetery. 

Oh sure, Henry Ford and Rosa Parks can be found moldering in the area, but I require something more . . . well, exotic, or maybe just kitschy.  I nearly bit at the thought of seeing George Peppard, but was distracted by yet another bright and shiny object that caught my eye along the highway through Canton.

Miles Gilbert Horton, better known by the nickname Tim, was a Canadian hockey player during one of the numerous heydays of our great frozen sport.  Tim's majority of time spent in the show was during the 1950's and 1960's, when he patrolled the blue line for the Toronto Maple Leafs, and generally scared the crap out of everyone except for perhaps Bobby Hull.  Even more appealing to me is that it was rumored that he was a tremendously good natured fellow, whose immense physical presence overshadowed any need for immature nastiness.  Are you listening, Chris Pronger?

Anyway, Tim Horton would go on to become even better known as a restaurateur, co-founding a family oriented donut shop that has since become the largest franchised restaurant chain in all of Canada. 

Sadly, Horton was killed in an automobile accident in 1974, but his legacy lives on today in the form of overweight Canadian Americans and the ubiquitous roadside sign advertising the distance to the next Tim Horton restaurant. 

I first became acquainted with the Tim Horton franchise after the boy of mine decided to immerse the family in hockey and force us to cross the border into British Columbia countless times.  The Tim Horton restaurant, I was to learn, was as much a part of Canada as Paris Hilton is to the U.S.

Primarily known for being a donut shop, Tim Horton's seems to have branched out in modern times and now serves soups, sandwiches, and most other comforts of home.  Think of it as a high-end Dunkin' Donuts, but with all the extras and without the usual freaks clinging to the counters.

Of course I had to stop.  Dead people could wait, but it's not every day that one has the opportunity to visit such a venerated monument to donuts and dead hockey players.

Faced with a dozen or more decisions of what to have for my early lunch, I found a most curious meal combo that really defies any explanation.  I can only offer this photo:

Tim's been gone several years now, but I can only assume he had some sort of thing for the chili and donuts . . . together.  It's nothing that I would consider as a proper pairing, but who am I to say?  Some people might find it strange that I like me some banana bread and lutefisk.

Yes.  I did the combo meal.  Kind of a Mount Everest thing, you know?

Sadly, Miles Gilbert Horton is buried in Toronto, Canada, and was unavailable for comment due to death, an expanse of perhaps two hundred miles, and one of those pesky border crossings. 

As previous readers know, I don't do very well at international borders . . .

Today's investigation took me into the heart of Detroit, which was something I wasn't altogether prepared for.

Now mind you that I consider myself somewhat worldly and well traveled, particularly when it comes to my perceived experience with urban blight.  Heck, I was born and raised in a suburb of south Los Angeles, and one of my favorite activities when visiting the southland is to insert myself into the areas that are known for their danger. 

In Los Angeles, I've explored the location where members of the Symbionese Liberation Army met their fiery deaths in 1974.  I've braved the heart of the central gangland that is home to the Crips and the Bloods.  I've even been so bold as to slip into a nudie club on Hollywood Boulevard at well past two in the morning. 

None of it can compare to the surreal theatre that is downtown Detroit.

All kidding aside, it was really quite sad and defies any sort of reasonable description.  My guess is that it's is something that simply needs to be experienced.  At an unusual loss of words, I can only say that a significant portion of the area consists of crumbling, burned out buildings, and people either too damaged or worn out to care.

Of course, my time downtown also included a visit to Joe Louis Arena, where the Detroit Redwings hockey club pulled up short this year and rolled over in the last period to the Penguins from Pittsburgh.  Don't get me wrong; I'm no fan of Pittsburgh either.  The deciding factor in my allegiance this year was that Pittsburgh had never gone as far as to sign Bob Probert to a contract . . .   

As you can see, the arena isn't really much to look at from the outside.  One reason is that it is far outdone by a nearby sculpture of the arm and fist of the famed boxer from Detroit for which the venue is named.  Sadly, I could think of no way in which to surmount the arm for a personalized pic without some sort of misadventure with the downtown police.  Badges only fetch a certain amount of diplomatic immunity, and mine was tapped with an ugly episode involving a misplaced  . . . well, it's not really worth mentioning. 

The last stop on my downtown tour was a brief look at the headquarters for General Motors, something that again defies any sort of description but certainly rates a photograph. 

As many of you know, I am a loyal Chevy man and have lived my life within the cliché of having a father and a grandfather who were also loyal to the brand.  I'm thankful that neither Dad nor Grandpa are around to see that their flagship is about to be turned into a Walmart.   

And once again, kids, that's all I've got for now.  I'm tapped out for the day and have no further energy to go on with the description of a mildly unfortunate moment in the hot tub of my secret hotel . . .

Maybe tomorrow, okay?  If I remember . . .

Just like sleepy little Eugene is the self-proclaimed "World's Greatest City of the Arts and Outdoors," so too has Detroit taken a little creative license in declaring itself none other than the one and only "Hockeytown." 

You'll see the motto nearly everywhere; on billboards and bumpers, banners and baby clothing, on barns and restaurants and neckties.

For anyone familiar with this typically northern sport that has taken over me and my family, you certainly understand why I volunteered for this highly-sensitive government assignment that has brought me to Michigan.

I also suspect that most of you are not hockey fans and have likely turned the channel already.

Anyway, if you're still with me at this point, here are the highlights of the day, which was devoted to everything known as Mike Modano.

During my extensive research into southern Michigan, I found that a west Detroit suburb was home to the boy who would one day become the all-time goal scoring and points leader amongst U.S. borne hockey players.     

It's really an impressive feat, when one considers that I've already amassed thirteen points (two goals, eleven assists) in my five years as a late blooming recreational player.  My stats are impressive, I'll admit, but I'm also quite realistic in the knowledge that I'll really never be able to match the record of Mike Modano.  He's currently sitting at better than 500 goals and well over 1300 points, so nothing shy of steroids and some sort of Buddhist do-over can help me close the gap.

The suburb of Westlake took their own literary license in renaming the city ice rink after the local prodigal son, proclaiming it to be the Mike Modano Ice Arena.  They even went as far as to dress the exterior with a cartoonish likeness of the man as he hoisted the Stanley Cup in the 1999 championship series.

I found the inside of the rink to be pretty much the old-school standard that I've seen in Vancouver, B.C., and other northern cities; a building rusted with frost bite and showing several layers of paint that could only signify several decades of hard use.  Championship banners, from youth teams to juniors and even adult leagues, hung from all walls and surrounded the empty sheet of ice. And the lobby, although old and worn, held several display cases that were adorned with obvious pride, containing memorabilia from the boy's early beginnings in hockey.

I won't go as far as to say that I could feel the ghosts of hockey past whispering to me, as that might be a bit melodramatic, but I must admit that I still pimpled up a bit when I thought of the young Modano playing his Squirt and PeeWee games in the old barn. 

As many of you have probably realized already, there exists a supple gooey sub-layer of my stoic and hardened veneer.  Sometimes the weenie in me tends to show a bit.

And finally . . .

Not to ignore the stalker tendencies that I have, I was also able to determine the location of the home presumably occupied by the parents of Mike Modano.  Jumping to conclusions, I figured this to also be the boyhood home.  It sat just a mile or so from the ice rink, well within striking distance.

Yes.  I did the drive-by.  I know you would expect nothing less of me.

Admittedly, the drive-by was a little anti-climatic.  The boyhood home of Mike Modano turned out to be a well-tended bungalow of significant age, situated amongst other aging homes in an unpretentious neighborhood not terribly unlike my very own. 

I suppose that I had expected the parents to live in some sort of opulent dwelling or maybe even a mansion, given the success of their son, but was surprised to find that this wasn't the case at all.  In fact, if the truth is to be told, I found it somewhat comforting to think that I probably won't need to remove my yard cars if my own son is ever able to climb the hockey ladder and fail to buy me my mansion. 

Still, it was a little weird, but we all know that weird is what I thrive upon.

And that, kids, is all I have for today.  Not my best, but all I can do with minimal sleep brought on by a calling from our government . . .

That's the way. 

Uh-huh, uh-huh.

I like it. 

Uh-huh, uh-huh. 

It was on yet another run to the local In-n-Out Burger that I came upon it like some strange little oasis in the great expanse of strip malls and . . . well . . . pretty much just strip malls.

I was clipping along Sherman Way in the blue collar community of Reseda, thinking of nothing in particular and grinning like a damned fool only because it's really what I do best. Quite certainly I was once again lost in the simple joy of being in my homeland, enjoying the sunshine and palm trees and everything else that I've come to associate with the California Promise. In fact, the only thing missing was a double-strength avocado and banana smoothie tucked between my legs.

It was as I passed the intersection with Lindley Avenue that I realized the voices in my head had somehow taken on the unmistakable sound and rhythm of Harry Wayne Casey and his inimitable Sunshine Band. It really shouldn't have been that surprising, I suppose, since I've come to suspect that the San Fernando Valley is sorta stuck in the 1970's anyway. At least in my world, it's always 1977 when I'm kicking it in Reseda . . .

Glancing to my right at a vintage strip mall ("vintage" being 1972), I came upon a familiar sight that had me frantically reaching into the memory banks for some sort of an explanation. Déjà vu not being an altogether uncommon experience for me, I had never before found it to involve a nondescript little donut shop in the San Fernando Valley.

And only because I'd seen the movie about a zillion times, I quickly locked upon a scene in which a charming young black man wearing a white polyester suit is buying donuts on Christmas eve.

The movie was Boogie Nights and that actor was Don Cheadle; one of my favorite films, and truly one of my favorite scenes.

And that's when it hit me like a two-ton vat of Astroglide.

The realization that I was at the very epicenter of the adult film industry.

You see, the San Fernando Valley has become somewhat renowned for its hundreds, if not thousands, of pornographic film production companies. Many are situated within the working class confines of Encino and Tarzana and . . . yes, Reseda. Quite simply put, if it involves skin, it was likely filmed somewhere in the general area.

Now having never seen such a blue movie, I can only imagine what it might involve. And although I might have never indulged my more prurient interests in X-rated film, I did find myself drawn to a mainstream production called "Boogie Nights" which focused on the adult film industry of the 1970's and early 80's.

The movie is an interesting little fable about the dangers posed by celluloid sex and drugs and a life lived in excess. Front and center in the movie is Mark Wahlberg, portraying the . . . uh . . . well, the wildly out-of-proportion character of Dirk Diggler.

I am told the Dirk Diggler character is based firmly upon a real-life adult film legend known as John Holmes. I'm further told that The Wadman, as he was affectionately named, is no longer with us, having apparently moved on to a big porno soundstage in the sky. Rumor has it that he was taken by the AIDS virus in 1988, but that's only if my sources are to be truly believed . . .

Unlike the real life and ragingly hard times of John Holmes, the movie has a relatively happy ending in which everybody just keeps on trucking.

Anyway, after recognizing the donut shop as the film location for a climatic scene in Boogie Nights, I couldn't resist slipping inside for a peek and maybe a donut or two.

And of course, I couldn't resist throwing down a buck for a glazed twist that the owners had aptly named The Diggler.

You only live once.

Our Rose Parade experience nearly didn’t occur at all due to my misfortune of oversleeping on New Year’s morning.  Following a little too much tippling the night before, I made the mistake of setting the alarm for 4:00 p.m. instead of 4:00 a.m.

   

I’m sure I could do better if somebody were to sign up for the pay-to-view site . . .

Our arrival in the San Fernando Valley was unheralded, and yet still deeply gratifying after a brash decision to let the fifteen-year old boy drive most of the way from our home in Oregon.  Stef really did quite well, I'm proud to say, with the exception of a pesky habit for making abrupt unsignaled lane changes in front of California Highway Patrol officers.  In the end, I was also thankful that he used some tact by not resorting to, "Do you know who my Dad is?"  Diplomatic immunity only goes so far in the family tree, I'm afraid, and I'm also pretty sure that the officer didn't know who I was.

Once again, we found ourselves ensconsed in the hospitality of the Holiday Inn of Woodland Hills.  Whereas the San Fernando Valley often gets a bad rap, largely due to unfortunate stereotypes that are often undeserved, there are still plenty of perfectly acceptable communities both east and west in the great basin.  Woodland Hills is just one of those places.

The most endearing point to be made about the Valley and Woodland Hills in particular?  They still value a good fondue party.  And shag carpet.

Now for those of you familiar with my previous missives from Los Angeles,  you'll either be disappointed or downright elated with my inability to really delve into the texture of the city on this particular trip.  It's a short stay this time, and I'm also on a very short leash.

It seems that I have been placed on some sort of probation by the boy and his mother in which I've been restricted to visiting just one gravesite and one location of scandal and/or murder.

I'll do my best for you, but it may not stand up to some of my previous product.  Hey, I'm just saying . . .

The first day was relatively tame, punctuated only by a decision to take in downtown Los Angeles and the seasonal outdoor ice skating rink that is constructed each holiday season in Pershing Square.  It's really a neat concept when one considers that ice and the subtropical California climate don't really go together.

Sadly, the sheet was small, crowded, and melting.  Although Stef and I had both brought our hockey skates, we decided that there really wasn't any real potential for creating sustainable holiday memories without suffering some sort of mishap on the 50 by 90 foot sheet of ice.  In surveying the fifty or so people hugging the makeshift boards of the rink, it was apparent that Angelenos don't get a lot of ice time and I couldn't help but smirk in my superiority.

Our visit in the downtown area was brief and unremarkable, save the fact that I had the fortitude to turn down free tickets to a taping of "The View."  Dont' get me wrong; I like trainwrecks as much as the next person.  It's just that one has to draw the line somewhere.  My line just happens to be near anything associated or formerly associated with Rosie O'Donnell.  In fairness, I've also got a personal embargo on anything related to The Donald.

The guy offering the free show tickets also proferred a complimentary High Colonic for the entire family.  Out of ignorance, I again chose to pass, but only because I don't even know what they would put in such a concoction.

And that, kids, is the extent of our first day in sunny southern California.

And since we need to get an early start in order to make it to the 8:00 a.m. kickoff of the Rose Parade, we've decided to forego any midnight celebration in favor of sleep.  Has my life become this pathetic, or what?

After all, the trip is really about seeing the Rose Parade and I wouldn't want to ruin it with a lack of sleep.  Whereas I was subjected as a boy to countless holidays with my parents and grandparents tippling cocktails into the wee hours, thus robbing me of any possibility of going to the Rose Parade, I won't do the same to my own son.  I've vowed to tipple only until 10:00 p.m.

Here's a rare pic of me with my grandparents.  New Year's Eve 1967.  I'm the one in the center.

Tomorrow I check another item off that damned list.

C'mon, admit it.  We've all got one.  It's just that some a bigger than others.  You know what I'm talking about.

Some prefer to call it a "bucket list."  Others refer to it as a "dream list."  To any and all, it is a very personal inventory of those must-do items to be completed before one calls it a day here on the big blue ball.

Mine is simply known as "Stuff I need to do before I wind up naked on the stainless steel table in the basement of Sacred Heart Medical Center with all my detective buddies standing around looking at me and wondering what they are going to have for lunch."

Maybe I should work on a new name for my list . . .

As one might expect, most of these lists include such sentiments as finding true love, giving unconditionally to strangers, enjoying the laughter of children, and naked skydiving.

In an informal and non-scientific poll within my own office at work, I learned that other common items on the list might include:  sailing around the world, seeing the canals of Venice, driving a Ferrari Testarossa, and helping Johnny Depp trash a comped suite at the Palazzo in Las Vegas.

My list is a bit more pedestrian, I suppose, not withstanding my preoccupation with naked skydiving and Britney Spears.

Which brings me, yet again, to another whirlwind tour of southern California and the chance to check off one more "to-do" on my own personal list.

Me?  I'm down for the Pasadena Rose Parade.

And fuzzy kittens.

Stay tuned.