A Bear of a good time

I grew up in Bay City, a small mid-Michigan city. From the time I was old enough to have an original thought, I always hated that goddamn place. And I really can’t blame or find fault with where I was raised. My parents were from there, I was an infant, they had the keys to the car and all of the cash, so I was pretty much at their mercy. But as soon I as able, I bolted and satiated my love for urban environs and pride and mystique I attached to their existence. And I encourage anyone else to do the same. Dirty Jase has coined the term “Mid-Michigan Kills” and I really believe that. Growing up in a stunted, industry-driven, culturally arid and insular community, I was lucky that our TV picked up the Channel 50 feed from Detroit. Aside from the Tigers games for which Frank and I would camp out seemingly nightly, we got the 10 o’clock news and that, I’m convinced fueled this weird, detached glow I had for my state’s largest city. I would watch the news nightly, viewing highlights of city mayhem and, on slow news nights, other Detroit-related minutiae. I’m sure my family was not exactly pleased when I would usher a sweeping hand wave — the type of gesticulation that says “shut the fuck up!” — and shush them, remarking loudly “There’s a fire on the east side.” But it wasn’t our east side, it was a town two hours away.

I return to Bay City maybe once every three months. My best friend Tom still lives there, as does my family (what’s left of the fractured mess) and Tom’s brothers, whom I love dearly. But, I grapple mightily with a conflicted sense of nostalgia and resentment when I hit town. But I put a lot of that aside this Saturday when I drove north to see some friends, chief among them, a staple of my childhood and adolescence, Harold, or, as everyone else knows him, Bear. We grew up together, hanging pretty tight from the fourth-grade through about 20 years old when I moved to Detroit and, a few years later, he would move to Arizona. We’ve seen each other maybe three or four times since 1990. We don’t talk on the phone, we don’t write and we don’t e-mail each other. I’ve missed him the last several times he's returned to Michigan and now work has brought him to the Mitten State for a return engagement, albeit temporarily. So I return to the roost Saturday, to see some friends and yuck it up, which is what we did.

The only folks missing from this picture are Jeff Wells, Martian and Nigger Pete (Hey! He fucking TOLD me to call him that, alright?!). And while I try to engage in some self-preservation here — I don’t like to post a lot of pictures of myself — I would bet that this is the last time the subjects in this photo will be at the same table any time soon, unless its after a funeral. And even then, that’s probably a stretch.

So yes, the elusive and wily Bear. Single-handedly, he has managed to infiltrate pretty much every glowing memory I have of my childhood and teen years. Our older brothers were (and still are to this day) very close friends. Our moms were super tight, they used to play cards and drink Manhattans with Mrs. Green, Mrs. Vayre and rest of these wacky, rambunctious broads. I had a good, strong childhood, despite the dumb and boring city in which I had to do it. There is an undeniable sense of connectedness to that, and the type of person I am today — industrious, humble, genuine. And I believe one fed off the other and none of it would’ve busted wide in the open field like it has if not for friends like him. He’s a PGA pro now and, like I said, we rarely see each other and probably will continue the infrequency of that, but in the meantime I consider our friendship sacrosanct, at the very least.

Jay-Dub and Bearold, relaxing over a few.