Monthly Archives: January 2007

There’s no business like snow business

For years, Michigan has participated in a sizable coalition of locations that observe the customs of winter. These customs involve, among other things, ice, snow and temperatures below freezing. The coalition has long been largely united in honoring winter — until now.

This year, pieces of the United States’ coalition representatives staged a rebellion, dodging nearly all winter customs in favor of conditions commonly associated with spring. The reasons for this rebellion are yet unknown, but for quite some time, the fractious faction was successful in its efforts to avoid winter.

Unfortunately, while winter was being held at bay, we in the rebel-controlled territory had little opportunity to enjoy the season on the ski slopes. Temperatures above 40 degrees brought only rain, and try as we might, it’s simply not fun to ski on wet grass and mud; it just ends in misery, depression and mud-caked bindings (not that I know this from experience). But our sorrows were not permanent.

After some time, the faction’s determination eventually was weakened by the superior strength of the larger coalition, and all winter customs quickly returned to the humbled rebels. The rebel dominance was first broken with an ice storm, followed by a thin blanket of snow, all accompanied by freezing temperatures. Like Narnia backwards, winter had returned after a long absence.

To celebrate the return of the land of ice and snow, I made a trip to Mt. Holly, a local ski hill. Since I prefer to avoid large crowds, I decided to arrive in the morning; I expected the Michigan ski crowds to follow their typical pattern: sleep in the morning, ski in the afternoon. Sadly, I was wrong; it seems many others shared my desire to celebrate the weather.

When I entered the parking lot, I saw several school buses expelling crowds of small- to medium-sized humans. Though this was not the ideal development, I thought there might be enough hill for all of us … until several more school buses pulled into the parking lot. And a tour bus or two. I began to wonder if a cruise ship, having taken a wrong turn off the Caribbean Ocean, might pull onto the shoulder of nearby I-75 and let its fun-seeking passengers swarm the hill. Every ski hill has its saturation point, when there is enough wax on the hill to make even Madame Tussaud shake her head in amazement; I was certain the parade of school and tour buses — eight school buses and four tour buses, as it turned out — would push Mt. Holly’s limits.

For the first hour or two, I was pleased to find that while I would have been happier with a smaller crowd, there was enough space for us to ski without the effort morphing into a schussing cattle drive. The hordes in the lift lines seemed to grow smaller by the time they reached the top; this benevolent phenomenon defied explanation, but to be honest, I didn’t ask many questions about it. I just enjoyed the open spaces.

Eventually, the persistent throngs began to make a successful voyage from bottom to top; still, we could all still ski with relatively minimal caution. There were times I reduced my speed for safety’s sake, or even paused at the top to wait for a particularly clogged run to clear a bit. But even then, for a while, the hill seemed to withstand the onslaught of the crush of people-haulers in the parking lot.

At noon — the time I had mistakenly expected the crowds to arrive — the hill finally seemed to become overmatched. I was slowing or pausing more often, and the tops of the runs were full of snowboarders securing their back feet to their boards (and skiers glancing with amusement as they began their runs without such mundane delays). But before I’d arrived, I’d set 12:30 as the end of my ski day, so after a few slow runs down the crowded hill, I was happy to leave Mt. Holly in many, many other hands.

During my three hours on the hill, among all the relatively typical sights — butter knives (see below); needlessly “pretty” skiers; overconfident skiers and boarders — I did find one concept imported directly from the highways and cashier or bank teller lines of America.

We are all familiar with the sight of someone gabbing cheerfully on a cell phone while traveling 85 miles per hour, or while mystifying a poor cashier or bank teller with cryptic nods and baffling gestures. These sights are just another part of the landscape of the modern world, along with white iPod earbuds and poorly-written emails. But my morning on the slopes added a new sight to my world: a person talking on a cell phone while traveling down the hill.

I can understand the use of a cell phone in a car. After all, unless you’re a NASCAR driver, driving isn’t often a destination activity; it’s a tool to get to a destination. And I can even understand the use of a cell phone in a checkout line, if only because such mobile technology is particularly effective at minimizing good manners and simple courtesy. It all registers in my mind. But schussing while yakking had never even crossed my mind.

To my apparently feeble, old-fashioned mind, ski hills were a destination activity, not a large, cold, expensive phone booth. I always thought the most enjoyable technology on the hill was the ski equipment, not the phones. But thanks to that enlightened Mt. Holly customer, now I know the truth: cell phones are the only destination. The world is my phone booth.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my skis ready for my next phone trip.

—–

[“Butter knives” are those inexplicable snowboarders whose lives seem to be dedicated to scraping all loose snow off the beginning of a run. Their knively activities can occasionally make the beginning of a steeper run particularly treacherous. If anyone can give me a good reason for this — other than “It’s too steep,” because that’s not a good reason — I am composed entirely of ears.]

The amazing race

Martez Wilson, a top defensive end who recently committed to the University of Illinois, explained the impression he got from Illinois coach Ron Zook:

“When he first started recruiting me, it felt like I was family to him already,” Wilson said at a press conference to announce his commitment. “I felt he was no uptight white coach.”

Officer, I’d like to report a theft: my pride has been stolen!

On Saturday, I went with my brother-in-law, my nephew and my parents to the North American International Auto Show in Detroit.  The show itself was fun, but the most notable event occurred outside the show; in fact, though we visit the auto show every year, this experience was a first for us.

When we got to the city, we headed for the Cobo roof lot to see if they’d let us park there. But, as is exasperatingly typical, the roof lot was open only to monthly permit holders, so we began to look for alternatives. As we drove down a street near Cobo, we spotted a man with an orange flag. We paid our $10, found a spot and walked to the show.

After the show, we arrived at the parking lot only to find that the attendant was gone, and so was our minivan. The lot belonged to a church, and it turned out that the ersatz parking attendant was, in fact, an ordained scamster. We had been snookered by the common parking scam.

Oops.

The church building had helpful signs providing the phone number of the towing company charged with clearing the lot of unwanted guests; after calling the company to confirm their possession of our vehicle, we headed back to Cobo so my father could catch a cab.

The towing company lot was well outside downtown, actually past the old Tigers Stadium; those familiar with Detroit will know the general condition of the neighborhoods surrounding the old stadium. For those who don’t: it’s not good. Most would avoid the area. But my father didn’t have a choice, so while we waited at Cobo, off he went to Boulevard & Trumbull Towing (2411 Vinewood, Detroit, in case you ever mistake an orange flag for credibility).

When he arrived, the process did not begin well. As one might expect, they have to match the person to the vehicle; they do this by looking at the vehicle’s registration and proof of insurance. Why was this a problem? Well, as a Chrysler retiree, my father’s van is not a typical lease; thus, the registration and proof of insurance do not mention my father anywhere, instead listing DaimlerChrysler as the owner. Since my father’s name is not DaimlerChrysler, B&T was skeptical.

To connect my father to the van, B&T wanted him to obtain from Chrysler a signed, notarized document proclaimed my father to be the parent or legal guardian of that vehicle. With no idea of what number to call, and with the likelihood that no helpful person would be working at any relevant Chrysler offices on a Saturday, the situation did not look good.

After some verbal wrestling with B&T, my father realized there were potentially useful items in the van: a stack of service records from the local dealership, complete with his name and the van’s VIN. They retrieved the records from the van, and, very reluctantly, they agreed to accept them as proper identification.

But wait — there’s more!

In order to repay them for their noble act of rescuing his van from its rampant illegality, B&T wanted $192; naturally, he called upon the power of Visa to assuage the nobility of B&T. The clerk, most likely wondering what had given my father the idea that any piece of the process would be so easy, told him they would accept only cash.

Since my father is not the (crazy) type to carry $192 on a regular basis, he asked for the nearest ATM. There was good news and bad news: the good news was that there was an ATM only two and a half blocks away; the bad news was that they would not provide an armed escort for the walk there and back. In a decision we uninanimously applauded, he elected not to make the trip to that ATM. Instead, he called us.

As it happened, we were sitting just a few feet from one of the many ATMs in Cobo; we told my father we would extract the van’s bail money from that ATM and catch a cab to B&T. I genuflected at the altar of the ATM — twice, since the single transaction limit was $100 — and before long, we were on our way.

Once we arrived, we were able to empty our pockets and reclaim the van. We also saw another frustrated man trying to reclaim his car; in fact, he was in an even tighter spot. He had traveled from mid-Ohio, he was driving his father’s car — so his name wasn’t on the registration — and his father was on vacation in Florida. We held little hope for his reclaiming his father’s car that day.

Before long, our paperwork was finished. As we walked to the van, we spoke with one of the B&T drivers. He gave us two pieces of information:

  • Many such parking scams are perpetrated by Detroit’s homeless; they steal flags from legitimate parking lots, wave a few cars into a private lot, pocket the money and walk to another lot. Rinse, repeat.
  • During last year’s auto show, that B&T lot alone towed 165 vehicles.

In retrospect, we probably should have spotted the scam and moved to a legitimate public parking lot: he gave us nothing to put in our windshield to indicate that we had paid, and he displayed no city permit. Hindsight is a bit unfair; it’s too easy to look back and see what you should have noticed at the time. But we did miss the clues. Oh well. We will be wiser next time.

Finally, this experience prompted three questions:

  • The police presence around Cobo was fairly heavy during the auto show. How much extra effort would it really take to crack down on this sort of scam? Could a few of those officers make an occasional pass through the area to check the legitimacy of orange flags on private lots? With just B&T towing 165 vehicles, it seems like a scam worth addressing. After all, Detroit is trying to polish its image — but do you think that frustrated man from Ohio is going to want to make a return visit?
  • The church has a contract with B&T to tow unwanted cars from their lot; given their proximity to Cobo Hall and Joe Louis Arena, they must be familiar with having cars towed from their lot during major events. Could the church make some effort to prevent scammers from using their lot during such events? Even something as simple as to accompany the B&T signs with “NO EVENT PARKING” signs might be worthwhile.
  • Can somebody please compel towing companies to accept credit cards in these situations?