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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.