Dana Burland

ArtPrize to Grand Rapids is what the season premiere of Grey’s Anatomy is to Gen Y females; what Wayne Gretzky is to hockey fans and what Tickle Me Elmo was to moms of toddlers during the holiday shopping spree of 1994—combined. For the last four years the city has turned itself inside out with art. Exhibits hang from bridges, float in the Grand River, nestle themselves in empty patches of grass, mold onto the sides of buildings, hang on any/all vertical wall space and jump out of public fountains. In three square city miles live 1,500 exhibits. It’s a ridiculous, near-impossible-to-see-everything, amount of art. The mass consensus amongst Grand Rapidians is that ArtPrize rocks. It’s pulls in big bucks for the city ($15.4 million last year), exposes locals to art from around the world and makes this little-big city an early October destination point. The atmosphere around town is full on celebration. The interactiveness (viewer votes from Smartphones determine how the $560,000 priz...

Silence—sans crowd ‘whoa’s Black lights, pipe drums, paint-by-spit Rave—to a butt song* * a song about butts.

Ignore the crazy hair, enjoy the view behind. This past weekend I spent some quality time with B, his parents and our bikes. We tackled (and schooled) the Zoo De Mack ’s younger brother, a 30(ish) mile Fall Frenzy ride in northern Michigan. It was windy, there was rain (albeit only five minutes or so), and the hills had to have grown taller for our ride back—but it was great. This was my first Fall Frenzy; the first Fall Frenzy for B and his parents, and their first ride over 25 miles. The four of us met in Harbor Springs for the weekend ride. And despite a cold and rainy forecast on Saturday morning, everyone was in sunny spirits. Well, sunny/nervous spirits. B and his parents absolutely rocked this ride. Nothing about 30 miles is easy, especially when you have limited time to train and challenging weather; but it rarely seemed like an issue to my biking crew. Everyone’s spirits remained high, even those wicked climbs in the last seven miles. I tracked the whole thing on...

There weren’t many females at the indoor shooting range last Saturday; and by ‘not many’ I mean none—other than me and my mom. She was happier than a Pollock on Paczki Day that I was home this past weekend and willing to go shooting with her. When we got to the range near opening time, four lanes were already full with men a glow from heightened testosterone. My mom (in her baby pink ear protectors) and me (in a bright colored plaid button up that screamed the-only-thing-I-hunt-for-are-sales) only stood out just a little bit. Once geared up, my mom clipped the brown paper target to the automated dry cleaner rack gizmo and flicked a switch to send it about 10 feet back, then we loaded up the magazines. Handling bullets next to my mom felt so strange; it was like orchestrating a drug deal while on the phone with her talking about dinner plans, or to be more realistic to my teen-hood it was like telling her I was going to Tori’s house and going driving with pals around Birmingham inst...

When I moved, the first restaurant I ran back to with an empty stomach was the Electric Cheetah . This was the first place I experienced the culinary glory of sweet potato fries, and thought so highly of EC’s version, with their 64-crayola crayon like variety of aioli dips, that my pals and I dubbed every Thursday “Carb Thursday”, just to have an excuse for ordering four servings. I won’t tell you how many times within the last month that I’ve been back there; nor will I tell you how many times I’ve recreated this simple quinoa grape salad I’ve ordered each time I’ve been. The EC chefs do this up to the max with crispy onions, grilled turkey and a sherry-based vinaigrette. Sista don’t have time for crispy onion strips and swanky vinaigrettes—especially when this is tasty enough in a more simplistic form. Make this salad. Pack it for lunch. Pack it for lunch for the boy you like to smooch. It’s been tested and proven, the menz like it too. Quinoa Grape Salad Ingredients Qui...

Just slightly above knitting, my grandma’s favorite hobby is to fret. This was only amplified when she retired about nine months ago. Once, when she was harassing me for the 12th time that week about the same old subject, I asked her if there wasn't anything else she had to concern herself over. She laughed evilly cackled and said now that she didn't have to work, she only had MORE time to concern herself fret-able topics. Oy, the kibitzing over bupkis, Marge! I’ve prided myself on my lack of fretting; my calm, easy going, non-dramatics—until lately. What retirement did for my grandma, full-time employment did for me. My typical day is all about routine, and not dotted with football games; deadlines for the school newspaper and Hawaiian themed parties. It leaves plenty of room for the social cortex of my brain to go idle and circle around the same old subjects like the 80-year-old Jewish woman I’m not. It’s time to put the kibosh on this meshugaas. I want to...

This past weekend was my third here since I moved back, but it felt more like my first. It was the first weekend I felt like the apartment was actually up and running, and not like I was running around to get it there. So, instead of running to Target 20 times, I ran on the trail (the paved like buttah, wide and open and beautiful trail) behind my apartment complex, and biked it with B plenty too. Our 30-mile ride is coming up at the end of the month, so on Saturday I took him out for a marathon ride. We found out just how far the trail system goes (forever), just how badly rotten deer in the woods smell (vomit-inducing) and just how necessary energy sport chews are for a two hour ride are (will dance for gummies). The night before we met up with B’s family in East Lansing for the Michigan State football home opener. B was all nostalgic for his college days, but I was a little shell-shocked coming from a university with a glorified high school “stadium”. Seriously, why do NFL tea...