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.