The Walk of Shame

"Everyone loved your work. Sorry we didn't sell anything" 

 And with a halfhearted "oh, that's OK, it really was a very strong show though", my 8 foot crated works of art and I were out the door.

The walk of shame consists of the last trip out of a gallery after taking down and packing up your unsold work. Sometimes, from behind a desk and without even trying to pretend standing up, the gallery agent (usually an unpaid intern) will throw you a "Do you need help with the door?".

"No, I got it. But thanks!"

There are varying degrees of shame. The easiest to take is the summer group show consisting of older flailing artists at the urban coffee house where absolutely no one questions you when you unhook your work from the wall and walk out on the last day of the show. The coffee house experience usually is followed with a promise to yourself to never ever show your art in a place that lacks even the most basic security AND that sells vegan sandwiches. The promises last about a year.

A group show at an established regional non-profit gallery can be a little more bitter, especially when your art is part of an annual fund raising silent auction. When that shit happens you almost want to call the joint and tell them to burn it in the alley rather than endure the walk. I mean, when I get invited to be a part of one of those shows, I usually try and give them something of quality that will appeal on a broad level and that has an attractive price point. That is why it fucking hurts when no one bids on it and I get the email to pick it up.

The bitterest pill is the solo show walk of shame where nothing sold, not even the goddamn prints. The whole afternoon consists of taking down, packing up every goddamn piece of art and walking out the door past other artists bringing their work in for the next show. I compare this experience to that time in high school when, by some random act of Christ, you and the hottest girl in school hook up. Yep, you know she has a 'history' and she is completely out of your league but you really think you are hot shit and can rock her world.  For exactly one month she giggles at your jokes, seems interested in the same music as you and makes out with you in your car. Then nearing the end of your month long 'relationship', the planets align, the heavens part and the opportunity to shank her becomes a firm reality. It the back seat of your car she and you are naked from the waist down and nothing can stop what is going to happen. Well, almost nothing. Maybe it was because you were nervous. Maybe you should have rubbed one out before the date; or maybe it was God having a big laugh at your expense. What ever the reason, your date is now yelling at you in the dark for 'getting that shit in her hair' and also ruining her new acid washed jeans that she just bought.

During the ride home, several quiet apologies are thrown up and allowed to drop without acknowledgement. The last words spoken by you is a quivering 'I'll talk to you tomorrow' addressed to her back as she is closing the passenger car door and almost running to her front door. You instantly know that whatever you had with her is now over, but you don't know how bad it is until Monday when you get back to school. She is now avoiding you in the hallways and when you do see her between classes leaning up against her locker flirting with other boys (athletic types) she whispers to them and they both look at you and laugh as you walk by. You never forget that feeling.

That feeling is the equivalent to the solo gallery show, nothing fucking sold, come pick up your shit, take all of the fucking show post cards too, walk of shame. While it may never get better, every walk of shame gets you further away from the first one.

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Ajax and Buckles

"Life is about the journey, not the destination"

My parole officer told me that during our first meeting and I never really understood it until the fucker pulled my parole because he thought I was drunk. I did two years in Jackson to figure out what he meant.

If you you have been following my blog, thank you. If this is your first visit, take your pants off because you are in for a treat. My last post I came clean about a dirty little secret that I have hidden since the mid seventies. I was forced to repeat the fourth grade because of my attraction to Bill Kennedy. I am not proud my failure, rather I felt that being held back made me the more well rounded man I am today.

Fourth grade, the second time around, was fun. While I was not the tallest kid in class, the extra year I had on everyone else gave me an air of wisdom that the other kids lacked. I found that I could influence the weak minded into doing things that entertained me. I once got all the boys in class to believe that if they all flushed all the liquid soap in all the johns at the same time, that the pipes would burst from all the bubbles. No, it didn't work and the school was without soap for a month, but is was kinda fun. Slowly though, the same two kids started to gravitate towards me during the school day.

Ajax was a lisping ginger headed boy who liked to tell dirty jokes that he learned from his babysitter. Ajax was not his real name and I have long forgotten what his real name was. Everyone called him Ajax because we had a teacher who took attendance by calling everyone's first initial and last name. A. Jacks. I thought it was a cool nickname. 

Buckles was a dirty little boy with greasy sandy hair. He was poor and dressed like it. Buckles was also a little stupid most of the time, but once in a while he would have a spark of brilliance that astounded Ajax and myself. Buckles got his nickname from his father. Well, his father gave him the REASON we called him buckles. Once in a while he would show up to school with a massive bruise on his back in the exact shape and outline of a man's work belt buckle. He always denied his dad beat him, but when I got Ajax to pretend he was gonna beat me with his belt, Buckles went completely batshit on us and started bawling 'No Daddy' or something. It took us an entire lunch hour to get him to stop trembling like some homo.

Because of our school system's complex busing route, neither of us ever met outside of school, even in the summer. Each one of us lived pretty far from each other and even with bikes it was a pretty far ride to their houses. But during the school year, Ajax, Buckles and I were like the Three Musketeers all through fourth and fifth grade. We were always on the same kickball team because we were chosen last and were always the first out during dodge-ball and the bench time allowed us to make fun of all the other kids who always seemed a little better or a little more popular. Good times. But, good times began to grow up around us. Elementary school evolved into Middle school and our friendships evolved too. 

Of all my school years, sixth grade had to have been my most awkward. I was already a year older than all the other kids and my body was not handling the flood of hormones very well. My face was like a large Domino with extra sauce, I had a weight problem that exacerbated my pungent body odor and when the wind blew I got an erection that made it impossible to sit for any period of time or walk normally at any pace. My friends were growing up too. 

Ajax had gotten very tall and was becoming quite a snappy dresser. In sixth grade, he was the only kid in the entire school who would regularly show up for class in a sport coat and wearing a perfectly polished pair of penny loafers. His red hair was always perfect too.He even had a little leather briefcase that at least once a week, a group of eighth grade boys would throw onto the school roof. For the most part though, Ajax was able to bypass the hideously disfiguring side effects of puberty.

Buckles was still greasy and poor. His mom left his dad and the beatings seemed to stop for good. Of the three of us, he was the only one who got free school lunches every day. I know this because he would sell me his pizza and chocolate milk every Thursday for a buck and a half. I have no idea what he was using the money for, it was certainly not to buy new clothes. Buckles was still wearing the same shirts from forth and fifth grade and some days he would even wear his older sisters hand me down My Little Pony shirts. Christ did he get his ass kicked by the eighth graders on those days.

The high flying days of glory we had spent locked in friendship during fourth and fifth grade had melted into lunch hours spent alone together in the middle school library drawing boobies and penises in all the history books. Some of the drawings were pretty good too. Ajax did this epic work of Hitler naked from the waist down in a History of War book, all in pen too. After four years of middle school, I don't think any book or magazine was left untouched in some way. Didja notice the FOUR years of middle school? The Plymouth Canton school system was a little over crowded and to lighten the student high school population, in sixth grade, they began a plan to move ninth grade back down to all the middle schools. We all would have to spend our freshman year in middle school.

On the surface we all bitched about it. But deep inside I knew that Ajax and Buckles felt the same way I did. In some small way, it was comforting to know that our youth was being detoured away from the adulthood of high school. Like a baby chick who purposely spends an extra day or two in it's egg, all warm and safe under it's mother. We would be able to share our library lunch hours together as good friends for one more year of school. 

Ninth grade came too quickly for my taste. The three musketeers rarely met for lunch anymore in the library. Buckles had began smoking cigarettes with a grizzly group of kids out behind the school utility shed. His hand me down My Little Pony shirts had been transformed by black spray painted stenciled band logos of DefLeppard and Iron Maiden. He had also began to smell of skunky marijuana. I know he was a valued friend, but it broke my heart to know he was getting involved with drugs. Besides, I had always thought Ajax would be the druggie.

If Buckles' turn towards drugs and rock n' roll saddened me, Ajax's transformation was like the surprise of a wet toilet seat. 

Ajax had thrown himself into the world of theater and dance. He had joined both the middle school's drama club and intramural dance squad and been elected leader of them both. His youthful sport coats and penny loafers had become black stretch pants and leg warmers. I was kind of proud of his hard work too. Yes, he did work hard. Yes, he sucked at both drama and dance. But, he worked really hard at them and he really liked what he was doing. I always regret never telling him how proud of him I was. I always gave him a pretty hard time about how much he sucked. Hell, Buckles started openly calling him a homo to his face because he thought he sucked so bad. We all used to just laugh though because we knew he couldn't be gay, not one of the musketeers.

We had all changed in some way and grown a little apart. About half was through the ninth grade we learned that the three of us would not be going to the same high schools. Buckles and I would be attending Plymouth Salem while Ajax would be attending the newer Plymouth Canton. Ninth grade would end up being the last year of The Three Musketeers. The three of us knew we would have to go out with a bang. 

The freshman dance was scheduled for the end of the school year and Buckles had a plan. He told Ajax and myself that he would provide the 'party' all we had to do was buy his ticket to the dance and get him a ride to the dance. We agreed and split the eight dollars between us and Ajax would have his 'uncle' provide transportation for them both. I told Buckles though that I didn't want any pot or drugs and he told not to worry. What ever Buckles had in mind, I was sure it was going to fucking rock.

The dance was held on a Friday night in the school gymnasium/cafeteria. The students were to end class, go home and get dressed and come back to school at 6:30. It's funny that for the entire two months I knew about the dance, it never occurred to me to ask a girl to the dance. I did have a crush on this one girl and during lunch hour even told her best friend that I liked her but when she ran back to tell her friend about my crush, they both pretended to gag, throw up and laugh. I had prepared myself that the warm touch of a woman would have to wait until high school or maybe college. So, I was going alone to the dance. I did ask Ajax and Buckles if they had planned on taking dates. Ajax told us that his 'uncle' did like him dating and Buckles remarked that he 'didn't need some bitch coming down on him'.

Friday came and when I got home from school my mother had laid out what I would be wearing to the dance. The tan three piece suit was my older brother's before he grew out of it and it had a certain Dance Fever feel to it with it's wide collars, three button vest and elephant bell bottom slacks. The disco slacks and jacket were a little tight but if I didn't sit I knew I would look pretty sharp. The cherry on top though was a thin black leather tie with piano keys printed on it that my mom had bought for me at the mall. She was so proud that she had picked it out all by her self and I was really touched. It looked like something someone would have worn on MTV. I thought I looked damn good as my mom snapped pictures of me standing in the driveway. 

My mother would be my ride to the school dance. She asked how late I would be and what time she should pick me up. Buckles grand party plan came to mind and I remember telling her that if I needed a ride that I would call her. She said 'Ok' and gave me a hug as I got out of the car. 

It was five minutes later that I realized I had no money for a phone call home.

The school was all lit up and the gymnasium/cafeteria looking like a goddam Rose Bowl Parade. There was paper flowers on the walls, bunting around the tables, streamers hanging from the ceiling and balloons on the dance floor. 

I was one of the first 20 or so kids to arrive at the dance, even the DJ had not shown up yet. Teachers we all had seen a few hours earlier in class were now all tarted up in cheap evening wear and prepping the snack tables. I remember leaving the gymnasium/cafeteria to get some fresh air and seeing the janitor in the boiler room. He was not tarted up and was still wearing the same overalls he had been wearing a few hours before. At the time, it made me sad that he was not invited to dress up for the dance.

I was outside standing near the open front doors of the school watching all the kids starting to file in. They all looked so cool. Some of them even had dates. They all looked so happy. Then I saw this red Pontiac Bonneville pull up. It was a fire engine red convertible with white leather seats and tan thin man was driving. He had Ray-Bans on and in the passenger seat was Ajax. Buckles was in the back seat. I saw him say something to Ajax as Buckles pushed the front seat forward and opened the door to get out. Ajax nodded at the tan thin driver, got out and closed the car door. 

Buckles was a mad man and immediately high fived me while Ajax proceeded to give me this mock slug across the chin and he complimented me on how sharp I looked. Before I could even say 'thanks', Buckles reminded us both about his party plan. He had what looked like a book bag with him under his jacket and told us to follow him. I looked Ajax in the eyes to try and get a read of what was planned but Ajax just winked and shrugged. So we followed Buckles to the rear of the school's utility shed.

"You guys are about to get fucked up!', Buckles announced as he produced a large glass bottle of red liquid and a clear Ziploc bag of what looked like tiny brown seeds.

"I took this from my mom's boyfriend", he huffed as he uncapped the bottle of grenadine took a gulp and handed it to Ajax.

"These are marigold seeds, eat these and it's like acid", he opened the Ziploc bag and thew a hand full of seeds into his mouth. 

Ajax took three large swallows of grenadine and handed me the bottle. It was my first taste of booze and it was sweet. I handed the bottle to Buckles as he gave Ajax and I a handful of marigold seeds. Ajax shot them into his mouth and began to chew. I followed. We all washed the seeds down with hearty swigs of grenadine. I remember trying to wrestle the bottle away from Buckles as he tried sucking the bottle dry. Our threesome of sin quickly degraded into a grassy wrestling match for the last drops of booze. We were fucking hammered.

We entered the dance floor like we owned the joint. I vaguely remember doing jumping jacks while the DJ played Staying Alive and seeing Buckles grope some girl in the corner. The lights and the music had become a part of me while I did my jumping jacks. 

Then I saw her.

It was my crush.

Even in my psychedelic haze, I could tell she didn't have a date. She was dancing alone. 

I didn't run, it was more of a hop to her side. In my hallucinating eyes I was now her date. No one would be dancing with her but me, whether she liked it or not. She did not like it. 

On the dance floor Mrs. Jacobson lightly tapped my shoulder and asked if I 'was ok?'. I told her that I was fine but she and Mr. Mendalson insisted that I needed to sit and take a little break. I sat for a little while but it was like there was battery acid in my veins. From my chair I could see Ajax and his drama friends play acting, I could see Buckles fingering some slut behind the DJ booth  in the dark and I could see my crush, the girl I lusted over, giggling and pointing at me with her girlfriends from the dance floor. It felt like the entire dance floor was pointing and laughing. 

When you know you are going to throw up, you know you are going to throw up. 

I knew I was going to throw up.

I bolted out of the gymnasium/cafeteria and tried my best to make it to the bathroom. I didn't. 

I made to just outside the boiler room where the school janitor was stationed. The pink broth that flew from my throat contained almost everything I had eaten that day. I could see the fish sticks I had for lunch, the pizza rolls I had while getting dressed for the dance and remnants of the marigold seeds I had swallowed an hour before.

"JESUS CHRIST", the janitor burped from his folding chair and card table in the boiler room. 

I was not about to let some fat fuck toilet cleaner harsh my buzz for puking in his pristine hallway, so I ran. I ran outside to the school utility shed. Ok, when you are puking, the world becomes entirely in focus. It's like the fucking Matrix, you can see everything. Heaving pints of pink vomit from my knees I could count every single cigarette butt on the ground. Under the wet dirt I could feel the difference between Pepsi Cola bottle caps and Coca-cola bottle caps. I could also fully understand that the black leather tie with piano keys printed on it that my mother had purchased for me was entirely ruined. From my chin to my waist, I had entirely ruined my suit.

I knew I couldn't go back into the dance, so I waited till I could see Ajax or Buckles come out. What seemed like eternity passed when I saw a fire red Pontiac convertible pull up. Ajax's uncle. My savior and ride home! I saw Ajax exit the school and enter that long sleek convertible. 

I ran up 'Can you give me a ride home?", I asked.

The tanned 'uncle' looked me up and down. I could tell that my muddied disco suit stained in pink vomit was not a good match for the Bonneville white leather interior. He looked at Ajax and slowly shook his head.

"Maybe you could catch a ride with Buckles, he is going home with that girl", Ajax added.

I nodded and they drove off. I waited in the shadows but never saw Buckles come out. I think he left early or something. 

Oh well. It was a long walk home. You could say it was a journey home that night. I grew up quite a bit during that walk home. About half way home, I made a promise to myself that I would work my hardest to do smart and successful things and not act stupid or do stupid things. Well that promise lasted about six weeks. But, it's the journey, not the destination. 

Every week I find myself kneeling and stained in my own vomit is a chance to promise myself that I will never allow myself to kneel in mud or walk home stained with my own vomit. Hell, I am doing better than both Ajax and Buckles (I'll tell their story another time). 

It's the journey, not the destination.

My Obsession

You are an obsession

I cannot sleep

I am your possession

Unopened at your feet

There's no balance

No equality

Be still I will not accept defeat

I will have you

Yes, I will have you

I will find a way and I will have you

Like a butterfly

A wild butterfly

I will collect you and capture you

If you know me personally and read my blog, you will know that every post I write opens a small tattered shoe-box and exposes a very old personal secret of my very own. This week will be no different.

I was forced to repeat the fourth grade at Fiegel Elementary. 

I am not proud of this part of my life and for the most part have hidden it from everyone close to me outside my own family. Hell, up until last month, even my wife of God knows how many years didn't know about it. When I did tell her about it she shrugged and then asked me if I was drunk again. Well, I was drunk. But that's another story.

So anyways. 

The summers of my youth were spent in front of a television. Being an overweight and socially inept youngster did not afford me a grand buffet of childhood friends. The warm light of the television would never laugh when you wet yourself at the Cub Scout weenie roast or throw a Dixie Cup of urine at you during a kickball game. Television never judged me or questioned my choices, it only quietly accepted me. 

Every summer weekday I awoke to the crazy antics of Popeye and Bluto. I would then spend a wonderful brunch with my neighbors on Sesame Street, the Count always was my favorite. I even had a kick-ass puppet of the Count. One Banana...Two Banana...Three Banana...

After brunch I would spend the afternoon with the man who made me the man I am today.

Mr. William 'Bill' Kennedy

Bill Kennedy had his own show on WKBD Channel 50. "Bill Kennedy At The Movies". They would run some old movie and after commercial breaks he would chat for a few minutes with aged B list stars or ingratiate his viewing fans with personal tales from 'Old Hollywood'. My God this guy was suave. I swear I  could smell his Old Spice aftershave wafting though my television's speakers and if ever there was a man who could be judged above all other men, it was Bill Kennedy. I know in my heart that I loved him and everything about him. NO NO NO, not in a sexual way. Christ, I was a pre-pre-teen and years away from even mere thought of my balls dropping. I loved him in the same way a soldier loves his commander or a player loves his coach. If Bill told me to fucking light myself on fire, I would have done it in a second and smiled the whole goddam time. Summer afternoons were spent learning how to be a man under the swaggering tutelage of my mentor, Bill Kennedy.

To this day, I can still replay classic episodes in my head. When Bill 'Unmasked' the Unknown Comic live on the air was epic. So was every time he played 'What Ever Happened To Baby Jane' because he always had great stories about both Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. In fact, I would bet my left nut that he banged them both.....at the same time. To this day, that is the one question I would ask him if given the chance, "Did you bang Bette Davis and Joan Crawford at the same time". I almost had the chance to ask him in person, believe it or not. I had read in the Free Press that Bill would be at the Tel-Twelve mall signing books or something and I made my mom take me. She took me to the mall after I cried a little, but what ever he was doing was all over by the time we got there. I still remember looking for his limousine in the mall parking lot feeling sure that I had just missed him and if he saw me waving he would stop and shake my hand. I sobbed on the ride home but stopped when I asked myself  'Would Bill Cry". No, Bill would not cry dammit.

Summers melted into autumn and soon school started. But, everyday I was without my Bill was a day without a hand guiding me towards manhood. I missed his charms. Then I found a way.

The first time I was kept home sick was the flu. I spent the day on the couch with a waste can beside me watching TV. For two days Bill's baritone voice and the smell of Vicks VapoRub was a soothing comfort between dry heaves into the tin basket. My return to school was not met with celebration. I needed Bill and believed in my heart that in some way he needed me.

For the first three months of fourth grade, I think I spent more time at home than at home than in front of a chalk board. There were tricks that I had learned. When playing with other kids who were sick didn't work, I started getting creative. Eating a raw egg that I had hid in the garage for two weeks earned me three days with Bill. Drinking a pint of warm spoiled milk earned me two days. A glass of wood grain alcohol got me two weeks home and a spot at the front of the classroom near the chalkboard when I got my eyesight back. I can even remember trying to break my own arm in an attempt to stay home with Bill. The days absent from school began to add up and I was neglecting the homework that was being sent home. Then came the day that I was kind of expecting. I was watching Bill when my mom came into my room (I was given a small 9 inch black and white TV of my own to watch) and snapped off the set. My first instinct was to scratch my mother's eyes out and howl to turn Bill back on, but the antifreeze I had drank had made me week as a kitten. Her red eyes let me know that she had been crying and I guessed it was the letter in her hand that caused her tears. In a soft trembling voice, she let me know that I was failing the fourth grade and that I would have to be held back. Next fall I would have to repeat the fourth grade. She hugged me for what seemed like an eternity then turned to leave. 

In a gravely voice learned from a master, I spoke.

"Turn the TV back on", I demanded from my sick bed 

The rest of the school year I pissed away fucking around in class. I knew I would have to do it all over again so why even try. Fourth grade ended and summer with Bill came and went. Soon, what should have been my first day of fifth grade was instead my second first day of fourth grade. The jig was up. If Bill taught me anything it was to buckle up when times get tough and get the job done. I didn't miss another day of school until 12th grade and that lice thing I had.

P.S. be sure not to miss part 2 "Bill, Me and my freshman homecoming dance". Coming soon!

Insert Title Here...

"A feast for the eye, a fabulous adventure for the heart and the spirit"
                                                                                                     
I thought someone said that about my art one time a couple of years ago, but when I confronted them to say thanks, they denied ever writing it and said I was a hack.

I wasn't disappointed, not at all. Disappointment for me is something that first ended in a warm sticky mess in under three minutes and is topped with a sobbing "Sorry for ruining your sweater". Disappointment must be savored like a bowl of Lucky Charms ruined by milk that has soured, you never forget the taste and learn to check dates before pouring another bowlful. I have always tried to learn from disappointment.

"Please Shower Before Entering Pool"

When you see this sign there is a spark of excitement. You think "Cool there is a pool here". The first time I ever got excited to read a sign that stated this was my entry onto the fifth floor at St. Mary's Hospital. It never occurred to me that it was highly unlikely that a small suburban hospital would have a pool on the fifth floor....

....or on the psych ward.

After three days I finally had the nerve to ask a fellow patient, "When do they open the pool?".
The girl laughed at me and told me that another patient put that sign up a month ago. She laughed and laughed while I savored my disappointment. Another valuable lesson learned. There are no pools in life's psych ward.

Is it possible to share one's disappointment?  The other day, a friend on Facebook posted how he is "SO ready to take the gloves off with Syria". That is a bold statement coming from someone who likes show tunes and sports a COEXIST bumper sticker on his Prius. When I read his bold post, I felt his disappointment that the man he openly loves and voted into office is going to have fellow humans killed. I'm sure his loud exclamation that he is a fighter and not a lover is his way of welcoming his disappointment in his leaders. While I did indeed feel his disappointment, it was a short and fleeting embrace that ended as soon as another friend posted a cool link to free porn.

Sharing disappointment is best left as a one way street. Always try and savor the disappointments of others and never share your own. The dude that wants to bomb Syria now looks like a bitter fucktard to everyone who tried to tell him that he would be disappointed in his life choices. If you ever get involved in something that disappoints you, bury it and bury it deep. Only unearth it for others to see when no harm can come from it. If you don't bury it, people will use it to cut your fucking throat.

The first time I learned not to share 'fresh' disappointment was during my early teens. I may have been 13 or 14 when I arrived uninvited and unexpected at a friend's house. Well, the kid lived in one of those 'co-op' apartments for poor families. Because of this, I always felt that I was better than him and made fun of his McGregor tennis shoes and Tuff Skin jeans from K-Mart.. I mean, come on, I was not poor as a child and thought his economic predicament was quite amusing.

Well, getting back to my story.

It was a warm afternoon near the end of a seemingly endless summer vacation and I knocked. Ray opened the door and I could tell he had been expecting someone else. He invited me in. Ray's mother worked afternoons and there was never a sitter to watch him and his slightly younger and very hot sister, so I wasn't that surprised to see her and 3 other teens in his living room smoking cigarettes. I had a big crush on her and she looked so fucking hot smoking a Newport in her tight blue nylon running shorts with white piping. She giggled and said "Hello, Topher". Ray then interrupted my dizzyingly hormonal buzz with a short statement, "There are some girls and guys coming over in a minute. We are gonna make out".

For exactly half a second, I could feel every hormone in my early teenaged body rush to my genitals.

Then came the crash.

"You can stick around, but you wont get any", Ray stated with a certain cold fact.

Ray could see my disappointment like a 500 watt halogen light bulb from three feet away.Through a hormone fueled haze, I remember telling him that I had to get home anyways for dinner. I swear I heard laughter as the door closed behind me.

A few weeks later middle school started I swear to God that Ray told everyone about that summer afternoon I was not invited to partake in my first teen-aged love fest. He got me back for every one of my "Your mom shops at Salvation Army" jokes. In his own way, Ray reminded me that I would never be welcome at the cool kid's table in the lunch room of life and that my disappointment in learning this fact tasted as sweet, to him, as free cotton candy at a county fair.

It took a couple of years for me to realize that my disappointment had fertilized the joy of others. I still roll that summer afternoon through my head trying to think of snappy comebacks to hide my own crushing disappointment. To this day, I use that day to help me maneuver through my constant and daily disappointments. That day is like a aged numbed scar from a dog bite that never healed right and reminds you to never pet strange dogs.

Remember, if life was never disappointing we would never be reminded to shower before entering the pool.

Summer is ending.....

When I started this thing, my wife made me promise that I would not write about certain things.

1: My ex-wife
2: My children
3: My 'record'.
4: My erectile dysfunction

So far, I have honored her wishes and I will continue to honor them.

Summer is quickly creeping towards fall and you can even see the beginnings of the trees starting to turn, their leaves turning from a deep emerald to a darker hooker green. Everything that ever happened to me that is worth remembering has happened in middle August. This August is no different.

This summer I learned to never trust anyone. Well, never to trust anyone who has not seen you naked.

After I sold off all of Kay's belongings at the Wednesday morning flea market, I knew that I would have to find a job to help pay for the rent on my new studio. After scouring the Craigslist jobs page with no real offers, I answered a help wanted ad in the Muskegon Chronicle. The job being advertised was for a part-time crew member at the Wesco gas station on Sherman. Not the best job in the world for a Master's Degree holding artist, but a job is a job and cash is king.

A phone call and a quick meet and greet migrated towards the obligatory filling out of paperwork and the scheduling of a first day on the job.

.....ok, from this point on, I have promised the Wesco Corp. that I would not use real names and use only vague generalities when speaking of my short employment with the Wesco Corp.....

I was informed that my first scheduled day of work would be a Wednesday morning and that it would consist of a short employee orientation and a instructional video.

So far so cool.

Wednesday morning came and I arrived early. I was given a blue polo shirt to wear and ushered into the break room to watch a short instructional video. After the video, I was paired up with a veteran team member and shown the ropes on how to work the cash register and run the pop corn popper.

Without saying too much and breaking my signed agreement with the Wesco Corp., I thought the next few weeks I worked there were fun. I really thought I was doing a good job and getting along with the other gas station attendants. But, never trust anyone who has not seen you naked.

Well, a couple of weeks ago I noticed that I had only one day scheduled. It was a Friday afternoon shift. What was odd was that it appeared that there Friday afternoon was over scheduled by two people. I didn't occur to me at the time, but I was being called onto the Wesco Corp. carpet and I did not know why.

Friday afternoon came and when I showed up for work, the cashier on duty told me that the boss needed to see me and to not punch in. Goddamn it.

I was told that my work was appreciated and above standard but a couple of cashiers informed the boss that I had done things that made them 'uncomfortable' working next to me. I asked him for specifics  of what I was accused of doing that made these women so 'uncomfortable'. The boss man told me that he couldn't reveal who had made the accusations but it did have something to do with my language.

I knew exactly what he was talking about. The week before I called two cashiers 'Dumb-asses' because they were allowing teen boys to steal beer from the cooler while another boy distracted them by knocking over the sunglasses display. When I saw what was happening, I shouted "Hey, you little fucks. Get out of there". They dropped the beer and ran off and I should have told the boss about the attempted theft immediately but I thought the two cashiers were my friends and promised I wouldn't tattle. Man did they fuck me over!

I tried telling the boss about the kids and the beer but he told me that the Wesco Corp. does not support hostile work environments and that my employment was being terminated. Goddamn it.

They made me sign a separation agreement before I could receive my final pay check. Goddamn it.

Well, summer is almost over and from now on if there is someone in my life that I need to trust, I plan on stripping naked and whipping my dick out on the spot. Get it out there baby and out of the way....trust me.

I'm not painting, so I may as well fucking write...

I am really trying not to make this blog a diatribe about my personal woes. I really am, hand to God.

A few close friends and even fewer family members know that I have moved my studio to western Michigan in an effort to restart a dying art career. Well, not so much restart it, but when it does die I will need a large body of water to dispose of it's rotting corpse. The shores of Lake Michigan offer miles of pristine beaches that will openly accept the ashes of my short artistic life choice.

Shopping for studio space was interesting. In the tri-county Metro Detroit area, there are a plethora of artistic spaces. In fact, it's like a goddam hippy artist love fest going on in Detroit. Everyone is all fucking happy about sharing burnt out warehouses and calling them 'artist studios'.

Sorry, I like hot water and a toilet in my studio and a real dumpster that gets emptied every week. But, that's the rub. Beggars cant be choosers and Muskegon is not known for it's neat and tidy industrial parks with comfortable light industrial properties that can be leased at affordable rates. At the start of spring, when I start looking for a studio, I knew I would have to think outside the box.

Muskegon is a former industrial town located on the sugar sand shores of the azure Lake Michigan. Well, the city is really on Lake Muskegon which empties into Lake Michigan. But who's counting. Anyways, as I was saying, Muskegon is a town that used to work hard and liked to play just as hard. I say 'used to' because Muskegon's better days may have left port. What factories there are left here are being razed for scrap and the shore line businesses that used to cater to the hard working families during the beautiful summers are now ghosts of what they where.

Just west of the downtown region is the greatest of these summer ghosts and that is where I eyed my future studio space.

Way back in the late 40's, just after the war, Muskegon thought they needed something like a boardwalk. If you have ever been to Virginia Beach or Treasure Island, you will know what the city planners were shooting for. One of those brightly lit avenues loaded with t-shirt shops, gaudy souvenir stands and maybe even a 'Ripley's Believe it Or Not' in there somewhere.

They may have been shooting for a classic boardwalk, but their aim was a little low. What they settled on was a summer beach boardwalk that was influenced by the television show 'Gun Smoke'. A tiny TV western town on the shores of Lake Michigan. Loaded with faux saloons and general stores that all sold the same shabby summer wears. I have seen photos, it was an eyeful.

It didn't last.

From what I have read, it kind of went down hill fast. By the late 60's it was mostly head shops and used clothing stores. What ever summer crowd Muskegon wanted to draw, Grand Haven had won them over with it's jazzy night life and elegant dinning. Today, the Cowboy Boardwalk is kind of like a sad Potemkin Village. While you can still see the western motif in what is left of the wooden buildings, inside they are just empty shells. Over 60 years of paint layer over paint layer has acted to preserve the buildings and keep out most of what the harsh Muskegon winters can throw at them.

Almost every day I drove past this little town and yet I never noticed the little faded 'For Rent" sign in one of it's windows. I don't know, maybe it was never in the window till a few weeks ago? In black Sharpie there was a number. I wrote it down and promised myself I would call it on Monday morning.

Monday came and I called. It was an answering machine and I left my name and number.

After the first week without hearing back, I was thinking that the space was no longer available. But, as I drove by, I noticed the sign was still there and the waist high weeds around the side of the building were now cut. Very interesting.

Then I got a call from an unfamiliar number. I answered.

The man on the other end sounded old. Well, older than me. His name was Martin. He asked if I was still interested in the space. I told him yes and that I would very much like to look at it. He asked what would be good for me and I answered, "How 'bout Thursday morning?'.

The man stated that Thursday would be fine and that he would see me then.

"Cool beans", I thought. Then I realized that I didn't ask any good questions like 'how much'.

Thursday morning came and I was early. I sat in my van listening to Morning Edition on NPR and waited. A dusty black Buick pulled into a parking space and could see there was an old man inside the car. We exited our cars and precisely the same time.

"Martin?", I offered. "Hi, I'm Chris".

I always use Chris with strangers. Topher makes people think I'm a weirdo.

He extended a thin arm. I shook his hand and even on a warm day it was kind of cold.

"So you want to rent my building?"

"Well, I would like to look at it", I said.

He stated that we would have to go in the back door as the lock on front door is broken. Well, there really was no front door to speak of, it was a sheet of aged and weathered plywood. We walked around back, over the freshly cut weeds, and he fumble with the lock on the heavily painted steel door. It opened with a quick pull.

How does etiquette work here? Who enters first? The first thought that came to mind is that if I did not enter first, Martin would feel as if I were disrespecting his property. The second thought that followed was that if Martin was going to kill me, this empty building would be a great place to do it. A few awkward seconds passed as we both stood looking into a black hole of an open doorway. I stepped in, if he was going to kill me he had better do it quickly.

"Lights on the left", Martin offered.

I flipped the switch and a dual 4 foot fluorescent utility light hanging from the acoustically tiled ceiling flickered to life. It the greenish flickering light, I could see that someone loved knotty pine paneling. The whole room looked like a goddam ski lodge.

Martin walked in, "This is the back office".

That would explain the metal file cabinet left over from the Taft administration standing in the corner. The room smelled like my grandfather's basement the summer he tried to make wine.

Martin walked through an open doorway, turned and flicked another light switch. A matching fluorescent fixture buzzed and woke up.

"This here is the front"

I could tell this room was part of some kind of store front. While the front windows had been replaced with the same knotty pine paneling long ago, you could still make out where the windows would have been and where colorful beach wears would have proudly hung for sale. Between the boarded windows was what used to be a door that I'll bet had a bell on it that 'dinged' when customers entered. That door now shared the same paneled fate.

The brain juice started flowing. I began to think of how I could use the space. The windowless front area could be storage and the back area could be my work area. It could work.

"Bathroom is upstairs", Martin coughed.

"There's an upstairs?", I was shocked.

This building must be an incredible optical illusion, because from outside, it does not seem physically possible for there to be a second story. Maybe we are on  the side of a hill, I thought, and there is weird extra space like at the 'Mystery Houses' you would see along old Route 66.

I followed Martin around a corner and, sure enough, up a very thin flight of wooded stairs. Marin opened a narrow 4 foot tall door at the top of the stairs and kind of did a New York City doorman motion for me to go through.

"Lights on the right", he coughed.

A single light bulb on the ceiling sparked on and illuminated a single very small and very old toilet. The ceiling was at a forty degree angle, matching the roof line of the building. At it's highest, the room could not have been more that four and a half feet tall.

"Little low in here", I observed hunched over.

Martin reminded me that the room will look bigger when you are sitting on the can.

*Golf Clap*, well played Martin. Well Played.

"How much are you asking", I offered as we turned and walked down the thin stairway.

 "700"

I was shocked, "A month?"

I could tell that I had pissed Martin off. Martin had showed his hand as a property hoarder. You know one of those guys who owns a shit load of buildings but never does anything with the goddam pieces of shit. Martin really didn't want to rent out this space. This space was his teen-aged daughter and no man was going to be allowed to rest his business inside his loving daughter.

As Martin escorted me out of his prize property, I made an effort to make him feel better, "I love the wood in there".

His eyes lit up a little as he told me a story of how him and his son put that up in '83.

"Well, I have a few other spots I'm planning on looking at. I'll probably give you another call in a week or so", I lied.

Martin did not offer to shake my hand as we turned away from each other. As I drove off, I could see in my rear view that Martin was just sitting in his Buick. 'Probably making a phone call', I thought.

I few weeks afterwards I found my spot. It's perfect.

I know it's been a while...I paint goddam it, not write!

This has really been the summer from hell.

After Kay died, it was all down hill. I mean, fuck it, I only got about $90 from selling her shit at the flea market.

I was all set to write about the goddam 12 hour day trying to pawn off all her shit to the good people of our community. But, that was like four weeks ago and my heart was not in it. It sucked ass too much. Maybe I'll write about it in the fall when my seasonal depression kicks in and I need something to vomit up to keep going.

After Kay died, I was forced to move my studio. Don't get me wrong the new studio is the cat's tits. It's just that when you move, you realize how much of your work hasn't sold. Jebus, I have a ton of shit that I am seriously thinking of turning into a massive bonfire. I bet it would burn for weeks.

Anyways, the 4th of July always makes me remember my youth. In fact, the earliest memory I have is of a 4th of July spent in northern Minnesota. It is not a happy memory.

Since well before my birth, the Crowder family made it a tradition to gather upon the shores of Lake Ottertail and celebrate God's gift of life. Every summer, the entire family would rent cabins, fish, swim and do things that families do. Cousins from hundreds of miles away would meet uncles from just as far away. A few would call this a reunion. Others would call it hell.

I mean, come on, let's be honest. The majority of my distant relatives lived half a nation away and seeing them once a year ranked them just below the cashier at Wal-Mart in terms of 'strangers'. Well, regardless, as a child, I had absolutely no say in where the annual family vacation was spent. If these were to become my childhood memories, I would try to make the best of them.

Returning to my earliest memory.

While northern Minnesota is best known for it's abundantly stocked lakes of hungry walleye, our family enjoyed a mid vacation week pig roast that usually fell on the 4th. While the fried walleye were savored on Friday as grand finale, the pig was delegated to mid-week.

From what I was told, this celebration was as old as our family. We would get to 'The Lake' on Saturday afternoon and on Monday our uncle would go into Battle Lake and purchase a small young pig. I remember that Monday.

I remember him pulling up the gravel drive with a wooden crate in the back of his red pick up. The crate was made up of real thin pieces of wood. There was no need to use thick oak planks, this pig was a young'in. Between the slats of wood was bright pink flesh. Along with my brothers, I poked at the caged beast. It squealed and we laughed.

At the time of this story and for many years afterwards, I was the absolute youngest Crowder. I was the end of the genetic line. So, I found that my aunts and uncles would heed my wishes easily. That Monday afternoon, I wished to play with that baby pig.

My uncle made it so. Although there were rules like 'no taking it in the water' and 'only till 8 o'clock', I loved that pig. I don't remember ever allowing it to leave my grasp. When 8 o'clock came I was not ready to let go of my Cinnamon. I remember putting up quite a fight. I wanted to take little Cinnamon to bed and hug him like a teddy bear. My grandfather finally put his foot down...

"God Damn it, just take the fucker", he ordered.

...and they took Cinnamon from me. Cinnamon spent Monday night in his crate. I sobbed myself to sleep alone.

Tuesday morning I was greeted by the scent of pancakes and bacon. In an effort to calm my tears, the evening before, Dad had promised that he would take me fishing in the morning. I had my fill of pancakes and then ran to the dock. My Dad was loading the boat with our gear. I was so happy when he let me release the cable that dropped the boat down into water. It made me feel like a big boy.

The boat dropped, I leapt in and Dad started the motor. Cinnamon was the last thing on my mind.

We fished all morning. I don't remember catching anything, but it was fun. Around noon My Dad pulled the cord of the motor and headed for shore. Looking over the side of the boat, the reflections of the clouds on the waves made me think there were huge boulders resting on the floor of the lake. Soon we arrived at the dock and Dad helped me out of the boat. From the cabin, I could hear my mother asking if we caught anything and my dad telling her we hadn't.

Waiting for me in the cabin was a cold cut sandwich and potato chips on a paper plate. My dad then came in with our gear, kissed my mom and proceeded to tell her how bad the fishing was. Once I had finished my lunch, My mom sent me into my room for a nap..

"You don't want to sleep through dinner", she said.

I remember dreaming but cant remember the dreams. Whatever the dreams, they were interrupted by the gentle nudging of my mother..

"Topher, wake up sleepyhead"

She then asked if I was ready for dinner.

It was a little confusing because it was still very light out. The sun was not even going down and it was well before dinner. But, I got up.

"Do you want to help shave the pig", My mother asked.

At this point, I had no fucking clue what was going on. I was having problems connecting my dear Cinnamon to shaving.

"Go tell your Grandfather that you want to help", my mother added.

So that's what I did. Outside on a picnic bench my grandfather was sitting running a straight razor up and down a leather strap.

"Mom said I can help", I walked up and said to him.

"Great, you can help hold him", my grandfather returned.

I still did not have a fucking clue as to what was going on. But, in about 20 minutes my uncle walks up to the picnic table carrying the wooden cage holding my sweet Cinnamon. Following behind my uncle was every one of my relatives. They were all smiles.

My uncle placed Cinnamon's cage upon the picnic table and my cousin set down next to it a large tub of lard.

My uncle proceeded to open the small wooden box. Instantly, my Cinnamon began to put up quite a fight and my grandfather demanded that we needed to hold him down. Between my older cousins and brothers, I remember squeezing my hand through them and grasping one of Cinnamon's legs. I really thought I was helping.

My aunt then opened the tin of lard and began to slather generous portions of rendered fat all over the pig. Little Cinnamon squirmed but I never let go. My grandfather then stepped up to the table and proceeded to shave the greased pig with  his straight razor. I laughed along with my older cousins. It was like a dream.

After a few minutes my grandfather stepped back and my aunt yelled "Let 'im go!".

I think I was the last to let go. Little Cinnamon leapt from the table snorting and squealing with all the kids and adults laughing behind. That little pink pig ran, darting around the camp grounds and between the cabins. It was the kid's job to try and catch him.

I remember laughing at my older cousins stumbling over each other trying to get a handle on the pig. I was never ever close enough to catch Cinnamon. I was too little, but I tried. Finally, one of the older kids cornered the pig between a couple of cars. The chase was over.

God, my sides hurt from laughing.

When you are young you don't make connections between a greased suckling pig and hot BBQ pit. I remember the scent of charcoal light fluid that after noon, but never connected it to little Cinnamon.

My cousin proudly presented the young pig to my grandfather standing at the picnic table. There was applause.

Using the same razor he shaved the pig with, my grandfather made Cinnamon fit for eating.

I screamed like a girl. At least that's what my grandfather said.

I cried my self to sleep that night, refusing to take part in the feast.

The next morning was rainy, so no one went out fishing. For lunch my mom made me and my brothers BBQ pulled pork sandwiches with fresh coleslaw. It was pretty good.

When life offers a hug, cover your genitals....

It has been a bittersweet week.

Life altering changes have a way of not only biting your ass, but tearing large chunks of flesh away in the process. Through a few smart investments and the sales of my very popular and very limited Presidents and Pantyhose engraved empty booze bottles, I have been fortunate enough to move into a new studio. Rent will be a little cheaper so I am looking forward to enjoying name-brand pudding cups! But, I'll have to wait to see. My wife has put her foot down again and insisted that I will have to go it alone when it comes to cash. She will no longer support my 'folly dream' of being an artist unless I can begin to pull down a serious paycheck. Thank Christ for the math equivalency exam Wayne State University forced me to take to graduate, because after an entire evening 'doing the math', I was able to calculate that I can make it alone on my own dime.

I think what pushed but budget up over and into the black was that I started digging in the trash for returnable pop bottles at the community college I work at as an adjunct professor. Epic coinage! Kids these days have absolutely concept of money judging how many bottles I scrounge up after a day of teaching. Although, my effort to shave some pennies from my budget has caused a few problems. I have been neglecting my wardrobe in an effort to save some money. On Tuesday  the sole of my left shoe fell off again while walking to class and I don't have anymore silicone adhesive to fix it. Then the other day, college security tried to escort me from the campus. They saw me digging in the trash and judged by my spendthrift dress that I was probably a hobo. Good thing I had my I.D. card in my pocket. Fuckers never did apologize for manhandling me though.

So anyways, as you may have read a few weeks ago, my friend Kay died. She was one of the founding members of my plein air painting klan. Well, her son Wayne called me out the blue asking if I wanted to make some money cleaning out their mobile home. He said that I would get $200, could keep anything I found because he got a nice insurance check and was hauling ass out of Michigan and down to Daytona to live. I told Wayne that I would be happy to clean the place and we agreed to meet up at the trailer park on Friday morning.

Friday morning I arrived at mobile home park 'office' to meet Wayne. The office was really just another mobile home with a piece of plywood with the words 'OFFICE' spray painted on it. Wayne was about a half hour late when he drove up and I think he was a little drunk. He got out his car, handed me an envelope with ten crisp new twenty dollar bills and a worn plastic NASCAR keychain in the shape of a large number three. On the chain was a single key. Wayne explained that after I cleaned the trailer, I was to drop the key off at the office.

"The trailer is way in the back, #28. Look for the flower pots", Wayne said.

Wayne told me that he was he was "getting the fuck out of Dodge" and I wished him well down in Florida. He turned, walked back to his car and drove off. I slowly drove through the park looking for house numbers. Then I saw the flower pots. Kay must have loved flowers because there were about a hundred small plastic flower pots surrounding her mobile home. In each pot was a small bunch of bright yellow plastic daisies. The plastic daisies stood out from the dead muddy brown landscape like a fart in a library. The flowers brought a small smile to my face. They were the first items loaded in my van.

There was nothing else outside to load so I unlocked the front door and entered. Well, tried to enter. I soon realized two things, Kay was a little bit of a hoarder and $200 was not enough money to clean her trailer. But, I made a promise and I don't like to let people down. Besides, there looked there may be some cool stuff to keep hiding under the piles of clothes. 

I backed my van up towards the front door and began walking out armfuls of stuff. Kay's trailer was near the park dumpster so as I walked out with an armful of stuff, I could swing by the dumpster first and unload the uninteresting crap. I had no interest in the many garbage bags of clothes that I found and threw them away first. Most of the furniture I ended up tossing, it all had quite a few stains and carried a particular odor that I found a little unsettling. My decision to keep items was determined by three factors; Is it cool, can I use it and could I sell it. Things like pots and pans I could sell. The microwave I could use or sell and I did find quite a few scrap books and old photo albums that looked cool. The Wii that Kay died while playing was missing and I never did find any NASCAR memorabilia. Wayne probably took those items to Florida.

My van and the dumpster began to fill up and It was pushing a little after noon. The trailer park was beginning to wake up. A couple people began to eye my movements from behind pulled drapes. One elderly man met me by the dumpster and asked "You throwing all this away?". I told him he was free to take anything that I toss. He took three garbage bags of Kay's clothes and scuttled away. 

An overweight woman on an electric scooter drove up to the dumpster with what had to be her son walking behind her. I heard her order her son into the dumpster and, after some movement, he would hold up an article of clothing. With a bark and a point from a wooden cane, the woman would shout 'YES' or 'NO'. After about thirty minutes I heard the breathless kid exclaim from the dumpster  "Momma, I think thats it. I don't see anything else that would fit" He climbed out, loaded their haul on his momma's lap and she drove off.

Kay's trailer emptied pretty quick and my van was almost full. There was probably a lot of stuff in my van that I was not going to keep, but I figured I could comb through it back at my studio. The entire morning, I was avoiding Kay's stained mattress and heavy oak headboard. The thought of bedbugs made me itch every time I contemplated lifting it out of the trailer. As I was standing in the center of the empty living room of Kay's trailer admiring my work, a man knocked on the aluminum door frame of the trailer.

"You really cleaned this place up nice". he said looking around. 

He said he was the manager of the park.

"Don't throw that bed out. I gotta guy renting this place on Monday. He can have it".

I thanked him, handed him the plastic NASCAR keyring with the trailer key on it and shook his hand. The inside of my van now smelled like the inside of Kay's trailer and the thought of a hot shower seemed like a great idea. But the shower would have to wait.

Back at my studio the unloading began and lasted well past midnight. As I would unload, items were placed neatly on the floor of my studio. Once everything was unloaded and layed out, I began to slowly comb through every item and rack its value. While quite a bit went right in the dumpster behind my studio, most of the stuff I saved was pretty cool or could be sold at the flea market held on Wednesday mornings.

So, keep an eye out this Wednesday for me at the flea market. If you are in the market for set of collectable I Love Lucy plates or a near mint pair of Disney figurines then look for my booth. All money earned goes towards rent at my new studio.

Kay would have wanted it that way.

Death In The Family...

Spring has sprung.

As much as I would like to believe that the dark grey velvet curtain that is my seasonal clinical depression has lifted because some aged prick that calls himself a weatherman and pronounced that it is now spring, I know in my heart of hearts that I have a few more weeks of winter. The sound of spring's first robins calling for mates only helps to entertain my thought that I made it another year and how I could possibly fuck the whole summer up.

Nothing about the past winter was especially brutal. I had absolutely no excuse to get some creative shit done. But, as I sit alone in my studio looking at piles of empty dollar store pudding cups, I have come to the realization that maybe I should give the art shit up. I mean, I am one step below working at Starbucks part-time.

When I started down this path as a full-time artist, I gave myself rules that I would follow.
1: I would have to pay for my own art supplies.
2: I would treat my art as a business.
3: I would not let anyone take advantage of me.

My wife added her own rules for me....

1: No sleeping at the studio.
2: I would have to find a way to pay for my studio.

Within the first year, I broke every rule. I have really tried. Hand to God, I tried.

This week I learned some news that forced me to take a good hard look at my chosen life as an artist.

If you are a follower of my blog, you know that last summer I organized a pien air oil painting group. Our painting klan met several times but fall brought colder weather and we decided to take a seasonal siesta. Of all that took part, we always had a few core regulars that brightened the landscape. Kay was an older woman who enjoyed hugs. Wayne was Kay's son and was at first very sceptical of our painting hobby, but soon warmed to it. Bob was a gentle soul who always seemed to have a creative side trapped within him. Finally there was Susan, she brought an air of seriousness and professionalism to our outings.

Well, I had not been in contact with anyone from our group since last October and had not thought of painting landscapes until last Tuesday. I was a little drunk and alone in my studio when I got a bug up my ass and felt like drunk dialing people. For the life of me, I could not find one phone number of any of my old girlfriends and had to settle with calling Bob from my painting group. Bob had always been friendly to me  and I thought it would be fun to shoot the shit for a while.

When you are drunk, you never know if people think you are a complete asshole. Even though it was well past two in the morning, when Bob answered the phone, I don't think he thought I was an asshole. To be honest, I think he was awake and not alone. The whole time we were talking, I could hear "Who is it?" in the background. We talked about the past summer and art. He asked if I was doing anything interesting and I told him that my entire winter was a waste and that I didn't do anything but try and finish my Presidential Pantyhose Engraved Booze Bottles. (They are still available on Ebay if you are interested)

Bob asked if I needed help. I told him that having someone else engraving the bottles might be cheating. That was not what he meant. He told me that he had been following my Facebook posts and thought that I may need help in another way. It was not for another three day after the phone call that I understood what he meant. Oh well, he dropped the offer when I asked if he was ready to paint landscapes and get the gang back together. The phone went silent.

"Bob? You there?"....

"Topher, Kay died".

Maybe it was the pint of Wild Turkey in me, but I began to cry.
"When? ..How?", I sobbed.
Bob told me that Kay died just after Christmas (they think). He told be that her son Wayne had planned on using the money earned from selling his NASCAR memorabilia to spend the winter in Daytona and attend the big race in February. Wayne had left for Florida Christmas Eve, right after opening his gifts with his mother and enjoying her Holiday ham dinner.

"When Wayne returned in late February he found Kay dead in her trailer bedroom", Bob added.

Bob told me that Wayne thinks Kay suffered a heart attack while playing bowling on her Wii. All the neighbors thought she had gone south with Wayne since her car was gone and never thought of checking up on her.  While anyone that did call only got voicemail because Wayne took their only cell phone with him to Florida and left it at a Waffle House in Lima, Ohio.

I was still sobbing from the news of Kay's death when Bob gently reminded me that it was three thirty in the morning and he had to work at eight. I apologized and told him that we should keep in touch. Bob's last words to me were "Get help". Again the idea help didn't phase me and I told him "good-night" as I hung up.

When someone dies, there is an unwritten rule that you need to drink booze. So, I poured a fresh one for Kay. The sharp sting of cheap booze mixed with the saline of my own tears. The next thing I remember was my cell phone ringing. It was my wife and she wanted to know if  I was planning on "Sleeping at home this evening". Before I could explain to her that I didn't think I should drive and that Kay was dead, the phone went dead. She was not interested in the fact that I had AGAIN broke her first rule of me becoming an artist and around eight the next morning she left a message on my phone reminding me of her second rule.

Living the life as an artist is the hardest thing I have ever done. Spring is in the air. I think I may give myself one more summer for my art to blossom.

Kay would have wanted it that way.

Coexist..

Good times.

For the past few years, Valentines day always causes fond memories to peculate up from the depths of my mind. No, not so much memories of love and romance. These trinkets of personal history are fond memories of when I had a 'real' job, before I was an artist.

I was not always an artist. No, I had a real job that came with a bi-weekly salary, an office, free internet at work, and a title. I was a Senior Field Engineer. That title may sound cool, but in reality a trained monkey with a closed head injury could have done my job. Good times though.

Of all the things I miss about my job was the friendships I made and the daily personal interactions I had with my co-workers and client. Being an artist, and not counting my wife, I have no one to talk to or interact with during the day. I miss the long breaks with the guys in the cafeteria talking about the local sports teams or the events of the past weekend. Yep, good times.

I loved the office pranks though. Yes we had real office hijinks. This one time we installed a macro in this guy Jimmy's computer. When he would type an email, it would replace certain words with the word PENIS. The day he was called onto the carpet to explain why he had sent an offensive email to a client was fucking EPIC. Then there was the time we switched the home page of every computer on the 5th floor to http://www.goatse.info/....and it was take your child to work day. Good times.

Pranks are cool. But, sometimes long and slow shenanigans are the best. You know, those pranks that evolve over months and months. They build and weave gentle tapestries of humorous plot twists, until they come to a head and explode like a big joke cigar. Yea, those are the best.

We had this one guy working for us. He was cool, but there was something about him that screamed "DOUCHE!". Alan was smart as a whip and did most of the project management for the IT department. He figured out who needed what and which drops needed to be activated. Then he would hand over the project to guys like me to be completed. Easy peasy.

Well, sometimes he would fuck up. Like, the time Alan ordered 250 laser printers for a new wing. It wasn't until after the client approved the quote, signed the contract AND accepted delivery of the printers that we found out that Alan ordered laser printers that were not net-workable. A simple solution would have been "Just order network cards for all the printers" but that would have been thousands and thousands of dollars above and beyond what the client had already contractually agreed to. Instead, Alan did some creative editing of the IT department budget and found a way to allow our clients to have brand new net-workable laser printers.

The Christmas bonus that year was that we were allowed to leave work an hour early. Good times.

Alan was different. He drove a silver Prius with a "Coexist" bumper sticker and liked to partake in amateur bike races on the week ends. Alan also had a habit, on Monday mornings, of sharing photos of himself and his teammates posing after a race wearing really tight black spandex bike shorts. Alan was married, at least he told us he was, but his office only had one tiny photo of his wife and about twenty photos of his racing teammates all wearing tight black spandex bike shorts. Alan also LOVED his Prius.

Right after Bush 2 went into Iraq, gas priced jumped and Alan began this habit of reminding all of us in the office that he was buying so little gas for his Prius. Funny man. See, I was driving a 1994 Buick Roadmaster with a 350 cubic inch engine. I loved that car but it was driving me to the poor house to keep it filled with gas every week and reminding me of the fact did not make me happy.

The last straw was when a few guys from the office were out at lunch and somehow the conversation turned towards politics and who we were voting for. Most of the guys were tiptoeing around the subject, but I proudly spouted "I'm voting for Bush". Instantly, Alan's usual light footed demeanor turned to something that resembled a stray cat being lit on fire.

Alan howled, "Why would ANYONE vote for BUSH? Only FUCKING RETARDS would vote for BUSH! All the REPUBLI-FUCKING-CANS SHOULD BE SHOT!".

As I flinched, I noticed that half of the entire restaurant had heard Alan's declaration and were now staring at our table. I silently counted to three, thinking that Alan would blurt out some playful trinket that would tip his hand that he was just joking or making light of serious political banter. But he offered nothing except a cool stare in my direction. Coexist my ass.

The remainder of our lunch was spent listening to Alan expound the liberal virtues of the Kerry- Lieberman ticket. Later, I played off Alan's sharp exclamation by jokingly stating that the only reason I'm voting for Bush is because Letterman would have a better monologue with Bush as President. I think he bought my excuse because he stopped staring at me.

Later back at work and in my office, I began to ponder how someone who proudly makes public his belief in peaceful coexistence could sound so cruel and, to top it off, I still could not figure out if Alan had called me a 'retard' for stating that I was a Bush man. I mean, I'm not a retard. I know I may not be the smartest man on the rock, but I am no retard. Not that there is anything wrong with being retarded. I just think it was rude for Alan to have insinuated that I was retarded. Besides, he was the retard who ordered 250 non-networkable laser printers. In fact, I was the one who noticed his stupid mistake.

I began to feel a prank brewing.

A few weeks later I found a novelty front licence plate at a pawn shop 'slash' head shop on Michigan Avenue in Inkster. In bold white capital letters "WHITE PRIDE" was printed on top of a red, white and blue rebel flag. What I was planning was well worth the $4.99 plus tax that I paid for it. I was giddy all weekend and almost couldn't wait to get to work Monday morning. I was so excited as I turned into the parking structure that morning. My plan was to locate Alan's car and then, during lunch, re-enter the parking structure, obtain the plate from my trunk, and install it on the front bumper of Alan's Prius. Step one was done as I saw that Alan had parked on the west wall of the third floor. I almost skipped the entire way to my office.

There was always a Monday morning meeting scheduled to touch base on new projects and compare notes on issues. Most of the meetings was usually spent yakking it up about our local sports teams with my fellow office mates. See, I have absolutely NO interest in professional sports, but on the way into work I make it a habit to listen to the all sports AM radio station. It always fills me in on what was happening on the court and-or field. It must have worked, because a couple guys wanted me to join their fantasy football league.

As always, Alan was managing to turn the Monday morning conversation towards his weekend bike race. He spent the entire weekend in Saugatuck with his team-mates. They came in second and partied it up at the motel Saturday night. Well good for him.

After the meeting, I answered emails in my inbox, transferred a few service tickets out of my que and then spent the next two hours reading the Detroit News in the cafeteria. After I finished the paper, I thought before lunch would be the best time to install my new prank. I would hate if Alan drove out for lunch in his sweet baby Prius. I moved like a cat making sure that no one was following me. I took the elevator up to the forth floor, then the stairs to the basement, exited out the shipping dock and then walked around the entire parking structure before entering it. I grabbed the plate from my trunk with the necessary hardware and located Alan's car. There was a red Ford truck parked next to his Prius that offered great cover as I installed his new 'WHITE PRIDE' vanity plate. The plate went on in a snap and I was soon back in my office dreaming of all the shenanigans that were going to happen soon.

It took a couple days, but the return on my investment was ten fold.

I put the plate on his car on Monday and on Wednesday morning he was driving into work on I-75. He got off on Martin Luther King drive and was stopped at a light when this hobo saw the plate on his front car and went nuts. Alan said the guy was crossing the street, came to a dead stop and started pointing at Alan's Prius. My guess is that he was pointing at the vanity plate. Well, the hobo was screaming some shit about 'the man' (Alan's words) when the light turned green and Alan tried to move forward. The hobo would not move, so Alan gave him a little toot of the horn. Well, the hobo went completely bat-shit at the sound of the horn and started beating the Prius windshield with his cane. The hobo did quite a number on Alan's Prius, he fucked it up real good. But, the real funny part came when the Detroit Police showed up to Alan's 911 call for assistance and took a gander at Alan's vanity plate. Alan still had no clue what was on the front bumper of his little pussy car when the cops gave Alan a $25 ticket for blocking the crosswalk and allowed the hobo to walk. It wasn't until Alan was in the parking structure and observing all the damage that he saw the vanity plate. He came storming into work with the bent up vanity plate screaming about "Who FUCKING DID THIS?", like who ever did it would fess up. Man, he was pissed. Good times...

Inappropriate

The Accusation Was Made

Damn Hippy Artists

....One More

Big Disappointment

I Thought I Could Last Longer

She Asks For Tissues

More Drunky Haiku

Warm Silver Tears Sting

As I Pull Up My Gym Shorts

Their Laughs Still Echo

Drunky Haiku

When I Watch You Dance

My Pants No Longer Fit Me

Please, Don't Stop Dancing

Merry Fucking Christmas..

For the past 2 months I have been living on Dollar Store pancake mix.

You know the stuff. It comes in a little plastic jug and you add a 2/3 cup of water, shake, pour and cook. It makes about 4 or 5 silver dollar pancakes. Or in a pinch, you can drink the mixture pure and un-cooked.

The holiday season hit me pretty hard. If you have been following my posts, you know that on Thanksgiving I made a joyful trek (or tried) up to my local Wal*Mart. My intent was to free the slaves of minimum wage from the shackles of monetary slavery. I made it about half way before being 'saved' by my wife.

Since that epic holiday afternoon, my wonderful wife has firmly placed her foot down and started to demand that I begin to 'pay my own way'. These are her words not mine.

At first, her stern words created a bold burst of laughter from deep within my throat. Then she made me hand over my Visa card. Well..., she took it out of my wallet while I was incapacitated. That my friends is VERY DIRTY POOL. I begged and pleaded, but she would not give it back. She told me she destroyed it and that if I wanted a credit card that I would have to apply for one in MY OWN NAME and pay for it myself.

Well, my kitty has grown some claws.

Some back history.....
When my wife and I met, I was a minimum wage monkey. 25 years ago I was making shit money. In fact, I once calculated that after being paid, paying my car note, insurance and rent....I cleared $3 a day.

Enough for a pack of smokes and a few gallons of gas.

These were the dollars that woo'ed my girlfriend to become my wife.

But, the American spirit was strong within me and I taught myself a valuable skill. When we were married, I made more money than my wife. I WAS THE MAN. It was great but it sucked really hard too. Lower middle upper lower management was not my station in life, I felt I could do better.

College and a degree in Fine Art was the way I went and my wife supported me. I still made more money than her so it was in her best interest to think it was cool or her ass was out on the fucking sidewalk.

Then came the day when she proudly announced that, after a week of careful calculation, my yearly income was paying her shoe bill. Yep, my money was 'juice', 'gravy', or just 'extra'.

Deep down I knew this day would come. My wife had actively pursued an undergraduate degree of some meaning AND earned an MBA while I pursued a lowly Master's of Fine Art.

If I had wanted to make money, I should have been spending my time panhandling at Cass and Second. Because, in the 'real' world an MFA aint shit unless it's from Cranbrook. Mine aint from Cranbrook.

So, I was locked into being a kept man. The only thing I had going for me was my sparking personality and my sexual prowess. For a number of years, those two things got me out of quite a few pickles. That night I passed out in the parking lot after the MOCAD opening celebration event....she was there to haul my ass home. My opening night solo show at CPOP gallery? Yep, she was there to clean the vomit from my rented tux and drive me home. Oh, the night I celebrated my solo show at Pawn Gallery in Dallas Texas? Yep, that was her bailing me out of jail over the phone. Then came my drunken Thanksgiving adventure to our local Wal*Mart....

The final straw?

As you may know, I never made it to Wal*Mart. The Wesco gas station was my finish line. I woke up in the front seat of our Ford Edge (with heated seats). It was at this moment that I knew I had really fucked up. The day after Thanksgiving, my wife laid down the law. I was to start paying my own way and supporting myself. Her money was no longer MY money. My art was now to be paid for with MY own money.

For a short time time whole new world look bright and I felt as if I could make it happen. I had accepted a few adjunct teaching jobs at a couple community colleges and I had sold a few of my works of art. Yep, my studio rent was being paid and the world was as bright at a new penny....

Then came Mr. Jack Daniels and my love all things drunken.

Do not misunderstand, my taste for American whisky began a few years ago. I became quite the conosur and could determine slight differences in brands and even the particular months they were bottled. Notes of caramel,  maple and cinnamon tickled my tongue and slowly clouded my reality. Up until late last year, I had never thought to use my taste for fire water as a medium. then one blisteringly drunk chaotic afternoon, I began creating thoughtful works of art out of the empty booze bottles that were littering my studio.

The first bottle was an empty fifth of Jack Daniels. The work was a bold first experiment and consisted of intricately engraved tentacles surrounding the square sides of the bottle. Looking at this new work of mine, I became giddy like a schoolgirl who didn't know what to do with her hands. This new work had opened up what seemed to unlimited creative possibilities and soon spawned a collection of what will become 44 separate creations honoring whisky, the American Presidents and the American love of nylon encased female legs.

But, here is the rub. When I started this journey, I was a svelte and boyish 188 pounds. I now weigh well over 225 and shake uncontrollably in the mornings. I have completed 34 presidential bottles and I am beginning to see the light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel.  But my fear is that my drive to create highly collectible and affordable art in an effort to pay my studio rent has turned me into a pasty, sexless blob of a man.

Art is destroying me.

Well, it can try. I will not surrender without a fight.