Sitting beside me were a couple of women who had driven five hours from Wheeling, Ohio to see the show. Holding a large, plastic cup of beer in her hand as if she was at a Tiger’s game, Terry said, “This will be the fourth time I’ve seen her. Five hours is nothing. I would have driven 15 hours—there’s nobody like k.d.” Her girlfriend leaned in over her shoulder and nodded her head at me, adding, “It’s true, it’s true. You’re going to love the show.”
They were right.
On stage Lang is simultaneously ironic and sincere, in possession of a fearlessness and confidence that she pours right in to her receptive audience. Her voice is a wonder, the sort of thing that gives one pause and forces consideration of divinity– as if for reasons unknown a presiding spirit touched her with a vocal genius that would ever elude the rest of us. Watching, she reminded me of an oracle, an entity that defied categories of gender and who by turn and flash of light, appeared masculine or luminously, mystically feminine. In another age she would have been burned or worshipped as a God.
In Detroit, she was simply adored.
The embodiment of a single-combat hero for a generation of women, the power and self-assurance of her persona– the complete absence of uncertainty– seemed to be helping the audience imagine better, idealized versions of themselves. A kind of alchemy was taking place, and for 90 minutes the crowd was celebrating in who they were and who they might yet become, free now from all the battles they might have confronted as young, gay women growing up in the States in the 1970s.
At one point in the show I looked behind us and saw two black women near 60, the only black people in the crowd, I think. Both of them– looking like they had dressed for church– had their hands pressed to their lips as if in wonder or prayer, and tears glistening in their eyes. It was a holy moment, I think. With Lang’s voice rising so clearly, it felt like we were all in a cathedral rather than a casino. Looking about, everybody seemed so lost to the voice that it was impossible to know to what point they might have been transported, or what healing they had been looking for in this pilgrimage to MotorCity in the first place.
]]>One of the people who escaped the mall on that day was Toronto Blue Jay third baseman Brett Lawrie. This is what he tweeted to his more than 125, 000 followers:
“pretty sure someone just let off a round of bullets in the eaton center mall…Wow just sprinted out of the mall…Through traffic…”
“ People sprinting up the stairs right from where we just were…Wow wow wow”
These are some other eyewitness reports:
“Everybody panicked and ran as fast as they could. We sprinted up the escalator and people were falling on top of one another and I was very scared I was going to get trampled or shot in the back. It felt like America not Canada.”
“My wife jumped on our kids and protected them. She pulled my youngest out of the stroller and laid herself out beside her. She sang songs to her and pulled out her breast so as to comfort her. It was an amazing and beautiful thing to do. She’s a hero.”
“I knew something was wrong when I heard two different groups of people screaming and crying as they ran past. I was frozen, not knowing what to do. An Asian woman stopped to tell me what had happened. She had a tattoo of a man standing in front of a tank on her wrist, and when I saw it I knew it must have been inspired by Tiananmen Square, and I wondered if I was feeling the same sort of terror that they felt on that day. I was still stunned, but the woman tugged me on the shoulder and then I began to run, too
“ When I heard the shots and all the yelling I couldn’t help thinking that it was my mother’s birthday. I just kept saying, “I can’t die on my mother’s birthday, I can’t die on my mother’s birthday,” and I just ran with the mob until I hit the street.”
“Ever since I was a child and I saw the Columbine shooting on TV, I’ve had recurring nightmares about this sort of thing. I’d always been waiting for it to happen, I guess, and there it was, happening. I should have been scared, but I wasn’t, I was calm, thinking that I had a role to play and had been summoned by God to be present on this day.”
“I’d just bought a new high definition TV and I didn’t want to drop it. I worried about people running over it. But I did drop it and then I ran like hell.”
“Me and my friends come down to hangout at the food court all the time. There’s a girl who works at the Dairy Queen I’ve always wanted to talk to, but she’s so pretty I get too nervous. When the shooting started I thought of her. I didn’t want her to be scared. I wanted to save her, but everything happened so quickly that I don’t even remember running. Suddenly I was standing outside on the street and I knew right then that I wanted to marry her. I hope to tell our grandchildren that story one day.”
He’s got great potential as a baseball player and as a family provider, and he also happens to be a cute Jewish boy. For a multitude of reasons this makes him one of the most eligible bachelors in NYC, and one of the women jumping on the Ike train is my friend Yael, who happens to love the Mets, live in Brooklyn and be a member of the Jewish faith. She has asked me if I would write a letter to Ike on her behalf, with the hope that I might be able to help arrange an everlasting and blissful union.
April 2, 2012
Dear Ike:
First of all, I want you to know what a big fan I am of yours. I am hoping that under the power of your bat my fantasy baseball team, A Fury of Pigeons, will claim the championship this year. You are the wind beneath our wings.
Of course, it’s not just time for you to step up on the baseball field, but in your family life, too. You’re not getting any younger, and as your past has reflected, you’re injury prone. I mean, your ruggedly handsome face could easily be broken in half by a foul ball or you could acquire a disfiguring venereal disease from a groupie and then where would you be? You’d be single and childless, Ike, single and childless. And then you’d die. No heaven or anything. And so, I would suggest to you that it’s time to settle down with a nice Jewish girl.
Her name is Yael, and although she is older than you and has an unusual genetic condition that prevents her body from growing finger or toenails, she is an avid baseball fan and has dressed up as Mister Met for 13 Halloween’s in a row.
She’s pretty tall, can play the guitar a bit and is both a lawyer and a writer. Think about those last two attributes.
As a pro athlete, it’s inevitable that you will eventually be caught urinating in a public drinking fountain or while drunk, crashing your Escalade into a woman training a guide dog. Such accidents are inevitable in the warrior culture of pro sports. Yael can use her professional skills to combat these infringements on your personal liberties and by implementing her writing skills can serve as an awesome PR machine spinning everything you do into humanitarian victories
But where’s the romance in that you might ask?
Well Ike, as you’re known to have ++ power, Yael has the ++ looks. It’s her ass, her ass will make you drop your bat.
Former Mets Darryl Strawberry, Wally Backman and Howard Johnson can serve as references should you have any questions about her adventurous, liberal, fertile and sometimes unpredictable nature. She’s very spontaneous, but also very reliable—like a good, cut fastball.
Yes, if she were a pitch, she’d be a good, cut fastball.
However, you should know that she is scared of spiders, overpasses and is an intellectual. These are small matters in the big picture, and I’m sure that the two of you could over come these problems. So what do you say, Ike, are you ready to give love a chance?
Michael Murray
PS: Yael carries some debt from law school.
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