My cousin, Nic Harnois, is a 17-year-old who works for his dad on their poultry farm in Michigan. Nic and I share similar backgrounds: Our parents both moved to a rural area to escape the crime, cramped living situations, and depleted job market of Detroit.
We love this guy. We love him to the tune of $277,000+, apparently, because he is an old school, uphill-both-ways, Greatest Generation, pulling-himself-up-by-his-bootstraps kind of man.
Not everyone has the luxury about worrying about the comfort of chickens.
We lived in a brownstone off of Eight Mile in a decidedly not dangerous and predominantly gay area. To the west of us, houses began to fall in on themselves and the night became progressively darker. The streetlights were out.
Also, a casino baron named Herb bought a package of 6,000 Detroit foreclosures for 3.2 million dollars, which is the cost of FOUR abandoned CT towns. Maybe it’s just because his name is Herb, but he sounds kind of nice:
Well, well, well. Remember the Detroit Write A House fellowship we talked about, wherein a Detroit organization gives you the deed to a house if you agree to um, live in Detroit and blog about it for two years? Well, according to The Michigan Daily, they’ve declared a winner. That winner is a poet from Brooklyn.