I'll remember this one

Memorial Day weekend hit the spot. We went camping at North Higgins lake with Brian and Kirsten, as well as Chris B. and his pooch Floyd (and no, that’s not some stoner-induced “Dark Side Of The Moon” nonsense). The weather was ideal, even when it stormed like mad starting in the middle of the night Sunday and going strong as we broke camp Sunday morning at about 9 a.m. Thankfully, this bad boy kept us dry as a bone. I’ll buy only Coleman products because they fucking rule.

I didn’t get many shots of the campers, as we spent most of our time eating, drinking and bullshitting, which, I believe, is the entire reason behind camping in the first place. You do all of this driving, take an hour to set up camp and another hour to break it down, endure bugs, other campers and the lack of your creature comforts of home to just simply chill, and to not think about shit, and to do whatever you want with your spare time. I did, however, manage a shot of this pretty girl.

After a night of excessive everything Friday night, Kerry and I drove to her aunt and cousins place on Torch Lake where we spent the day Saturday. There, we enjoyed a lovely tour of the grounds and a wholesome and nourishing lunch, courtesy of Cousin Matt, of homemade guacamole, turkey sandwiches (guac, cucumbers, turkey and provolone on sourdough), as well as taste of the local delicacy, crackers and smoked whitefish pate. We relaxed lakeside for a part of the afternoon before they let us use their showers (I love camping. I hate not being able to shower or jump in a lake) and we headed back to camp for more of the same. This was across the path from our campsites.

And these two were busying themselves quite a bit in it

We took a few small walks down by the lake. On the way, this guy was just lying there.

He had some bomb root structure.

One cool thing about camping is camping equipment. There is an array of gizmos and neat shit people prefer and often utilize, from hand-held hatchets to backpacks, matchstick holders, sandwich makers, you name it. Chris had this cool food prep setup, but I didn’t want to bug him while he was using it. It was this small pot and a propane tank about the size of an empty paper towel holder. He had this small plate thing and made gado gado, which turned out to be so goddamn good, it hard to believe he made it while sitting down on the ground. But I was especially impressed with Kirsten’s tacklebox. Instead of Rapalas, bobbers and lines, however, she has assorted goods one may need around the campsite, from matches to spices.

Kerry and I left our fellow campers Sunday to drive home, avoid the traffic and get some things done around the house. I put together this bomb outdoor fire pit Heate gave to us as house-warming. We brought a little bit of our camping spirit back to Royal Oak, where we had a fire in the backyard and drank beer from our cooler on the back deck.

Drawer

Desk drawer, recently opened (just after 9 p.m. tonight), good condition, accepting all reasonable prices or trades.

Blades of (not so) steel

This ceiling fan came with the house, in the master bedroom. It not only hums in a volume that is neither bothersome nor subtle, but had this fucked up wicker-honeycomb pattern on the fan blades. Because it was so loud and ugly, I just wanted to get rid of it and replace it. We found replacement blades at the store and thought maybe cleaning it up, spraying some WD-40 into the moving parts might help. I replaced the fan blades, which was a tedious task to say the least. It looked like this before:

And now it at least looks a little better. I'm assuming we'll get used to the sound.

Fence this

One of the first remarks I made about this house was that it needed some sort of fencing in the back yard — and by that I don’t mean the intense competition of the popular Olympic floor sport, itself at the very core a physical debate, a cunning exercise in attack and defense. No, we needed something to shroud the fishbowl that was our back yard.

Kerry and I explored every option — installed privacy fence, installed chain-link, doing part of it ourselves, etc. None fell anywhere near what we thought. That’s something else we have to get used to. But the fence was a necessity, not only for our privacy and whatever peace of mind you can establish with four houses all around you.

This what it looked like before, when they first started. It looked like absolute dog shit.

See that white shed and play area to the right? That’s my neighbor’s, and those houses to the back? It gets no better to the right, where a 3-unit apartment building is our neighbor. They’re cool, though. Well, they seem quiet, and young. And even if they do get loud or hard to sleep to, it will be short-lived. Trust me. But that is what they call an “aside.”

So yes, the back yard was wide open but the fence seems to be working out well. Kerry’s colleague added a true opinion on the fence. He said it’s like adding another room to your house. I agree.

Yes, I'm enjoying the sort of sequestered confines of our back yard of my suburban Detroit community. However, I'm the most gassed when I think about my fence not being there, when my boundaries are defined by the edge of some serious acreage, or that I don't need to worry about seeing or hearing my neighbor because he's on the other side of the lake. I love where I am and with who I am.

moses

mower, originally uploaded by norll.

I had to buy this fucker the other day. I took my mower to the shop by my house because the blade was bent. The report back was that it would cost more to fix it than what it was worth. So, with the grass growing high, I decided on this guy, self-propelled, Briggs & Stratton engine, side discharge/mulcher/bag option. We named him Moses. From the day I moved from home, I've always had shitty lawnmowers, or, more realistically, shitty equipment to use to maintain the grounds of places I rented. Because, you know, my landlords never cared and try as I might, I could only justify doing so much. I didn't give a fuck. Well, now, I give a fuck.

Taking it while I can get it … and nothing more.

The Tigers are playing their most inspired baseball in about 15 years. And last night was very nearly a pure definition. The Detroit Free Press is calling last night’s game the most important in Comerica Park’s seven-year history, and they’re probably right.

Trying to hold on to, get this, first place, in the American League Central and maintain, again, get this, the best record in baseball, Detroit faced a very smoking Reds team. Granted, they beat the hell out of Detroit Friday night, but Saturday the team did what winners do, and bounced back, shaking off the Friday night loss and winning Saturday in extra innings. Detroit not only came out with big bats, but managed some excellent defensive field platys, being smart in the outfield and keeping Reds runners honest. Detroit makes plays now, doubling runners back to first for an out, whereas before, the man would advance, possibly even to third.

Granted, the young Joel Zumaya did give up a grand slam in the seventh to tie the game. These things will happen to even good pitchers, especially guys like Z who is, what, 14 years old? And the grand salami was given up to Ken Griffey Jr., who made it 540 for his career.

Yes, it is unbelievably refreshing that Detroit, after 42 games, is 28-14. A healthy Magglio Ordonez hit his 11th home run last night. Veteran lefty Kenny Rogers is 7-2 and the club has the best ERA in the majors right now. Everyone is on pace to crush this year. But I know, and most others fan should accept, that the 12-game losing streak lurks in the distance. That the numbers will drop eventually, as will the Tigers standings. Maybe. But in these days and nights, I will look no farther than the next game in what I expect from this club.

Recognition on ESPN? Great. But the real satisfying marker came last night, when it took us 20 minutes to park, when the concession lines, ALL of them, where a dozen deep at each register, when a vendor told me guys were coming up from Cinci to sell beer at the game, when the 45,000-plus crowd on a Saturday night in May was the fourth-largest in Comerica history. It’s unheard of in these parts.

I’m glad Corbett got us on he season-ticket plan years ago because when this team does make the playoffs, and it will, I’ll be there in the upper deck, bitches.There are a lot of people who have suffered through some horrible baseball in this town for a long time, me, chief among them. And nights like last night, as well as the promise of possibly more to come over the course of a long baseball season, regenerates a long-lost optimism. For people like me, who, for years, stood and rooted and hoped for better things, to actually see and enjoy a winning team, even if it is only for this week, I'm having an idea of what others mean when they say "these are days." Because I remember a lot of other days. I remember days going down to the stadium, paying $5 to park and $5 to get in when I had only $15 to my name on a rainy Tuesday night and payday was Friday. And I'll remember nights like last night, sitting in my hard-earned season ticket seats with the love of my life, with money in the bank, and a nice house on a quiet street, and a good job, and a strong freelance career and a big, cold fucking Labatt in my hand, not having to worry about, shit, should I really have spent this money. Add a 10-inning win, and a first place team and a city full of baseball hope and I shall agree that, indeed, these are days.

Soul food, jazz and basketball

Saturday we took Casey and Mary

to Baker’s Keyboard Lounge at Eight Mile and Livernois, as part of her brother’s belated birthday acknowledgement. We like that place. And the music Saturday night was really something, it was this cat. He was phenomenal, as was the rest of his group. We had a rather memorable dinner of soul food and cocktails. It was quite a night.

Sunday we got up and tried to bang out some errands, but it was hard because a.) we were beat, and b.) we were meeting Megan and Duke at The Palace for the Pistons Game 1 against Cleveland. This helps to take one’s mind off the fucking choke-artist hockey team in the city. Duke came through with the tickets, as well as passes to the Cingular Room, which is this quasi-swanky, everything’s-complementary dining room and bar inside the venue. Very nice.

Before the game, we caught these folks.

The introductions are always quite a display there.

It didn’t take long for Detroit to pull away and make a rout of it

They shut down LeBron’s ass, holding him pointless in the entire second half. Nobody can beat this Detroit team in seven games. Nobody.

Garage rock

The following is a sort of recap of the weekend. I would’ve posted something sooner, but I’ve had the worst, most fucking relentless virus kicking my ass all over my house since late Sunday night. This thing was brutal, replete with complete and full body aches, organ soreness, a nearly lifeless sense of fatigue, intense stomach cramps, vomiting and the steady burn of a nonstop path to the bathroom, at one point, every hour, to shoot what felt like a rapid stream of cold tea from my ass. It is mid-day Tuesday and I’m just barely starting to feel normal again.

Disclaimer aside, Kerry and I saw something bizarre Saturday en route to the Tiger game. We passed the Woodlawn Cemetery on Woodward Avenue in Detroit and saw this

It looked like the gravediggers had taken some sort of break. There was nobody around at all. No car, no people, nothing. It was kind of strange. We got to the park and the Tigers were just killing the Twins . Detroit would sweep the series with a Sunday win, outscoring Minnesota, 33-1, in the span of three games. Seeing Justin Verlander pitch Saturday was a certain type of excitement.

He is one of a few good young, strong pitchers for Detroit this year. His shit was consistently in the mid-90s all day.

I broke up north later that day, to see Glom and hang out for a night. The purpose of the trip was to visit my brother Frank’s house to score my lawnmower he’d been holding in his massive, insanely stocked garage.

Frank and I are the veritable country mouse and city mouse story. He lives in a rural-type farming community. I’m 10 minutes from Detroit. And I’ve written here before of his prowess with the tools. The guy is amazing. I mean, he’s always been a great older sibling, especially a brother, because he’s embodied characteristics I admire. He has this skill/talent to fix or build just about anything. Aside from being a licensed master plumber, the guy is a total hot rod head, fucking master mechanic, electrician, hunter, gunsmith, carpenter, you name it, he probably knows how to do it and assuredly has the tool to complete the task. That, and the guy’s a quiet badass. He’s a career tradesman about to turn 40. Believe me when I say this: He’s strong.

And not just physically but, as I’d mentioned, very nearly Herculean in character. I’m a lucky guy. I have a lot of friends. And it’s always been easy for me to make friends, I don’t know why. It’s just worked out that way. I’m a writer, both professionally and recreationally. And when you write, as some have noted, you’re really putting yourself out there for any type of interpretation or critique or whatever. I’ve never worried about those elements because, I don’t know, I’ve always been able to divorce myself from those feelings that care about what others say in that regard. Give to me a compliment, I’ll love you forever. Criticize me, and I really won’t give a fuck, trust me. I’ve been able to make friends because people can count on me, because I learned at a young age that you never let your friends down, even — make that especially — at your own expense. I’ve always had my own style. Granted, I’m not the most fashionable fella in town, but I don’t follow too many trends either. My apartments have always looked pretty fly and distinct, and I’ve acquired a lot of some interesting shit. I’ve said all of this here because that stuff didn’t happen by accident. I believe the type of person you are as an adult is formed by, and has everything to do with, the type of person you germinate into as a young adult. As you gain age, wisdom and experience, you’re merely polishing your chrome. And when I was a young adult, I spent all of my time trying to be half as cool as my brother Frank. Dude had the fucking coolest friends, listened to the best music, always had the best weed, the most kicking stereo, man, ALL of the shit that was important in 1985, trust me. So yeah, I’ve put a lot of work into becoming a respectable, reliable, trustworthy person with his own indelible stamp on the world, but I’d be a boring lout without that kind of influence.

So it was especially interesting on Sunday when I stopped over and we began gossiping and bullshitting that my other, oldest brother Joe showed up. Frank said he might stop by to borrow some tools for a job he’s doing for a friend, and lo, he did. We stayed in Frank’s garage for nearly three hours simply talking and goofing off, trading stories, more family gossip and getting some things off of our chests. This is not a normal occurance for us. Our family is fractured and consists of little pools of siblings, sometimes doing their own individual thing, sometimes, rarely, coming together. For me, Frank and Joe to hang out on a Sunday afternoon is an aberration of all things normal. It was both weird and fantastic, me and my two brothers, in the same room at the same time, for something other than a holiday, yukking it up and screwing around.

Frank actually hooked me up with some items he’s had from my late mother’s china cabinet, which may or may not fit the taste of décor Kerry and I have in our house, but it’s still good to have those mementos, finally. It’s been a long time. When my mom died in 1990, everyone but me (and Frank) started clamoring for shit — jewelry, antiques, you name it — like a bunch of fucking jackals. I simply stepped back and went back to Detroit to lose my mind a few times, away from everybody in a city where I had about three friends. I never asked for anything, but always kind of kept one eye open that I knew Frank had a bunch of stuff in storage, holding tight despite my sisters’ entreaties to give to them this lamp or this mirror or whatever. So when I showed up Sunday and he had cooler full of stuff wrapped up in newspaper, heavy glass candleholders, a punch bowl set, some other glassware, and he said “you want some or all of this stuff,” I just sort of coyly and without much emotion said “Sure.” But when I was driving home, I was slapping the steering wheel, happier than hell to have a small piece of my past back with me. I knew it was in good hands all of these years and I never wanted to bother him for it.

So, we hung out for part of the afternoon and I thought to take some shots of the inside of his domain, Frank’s garage. It’s a trove of all things utilitarian, understand that. And not that anybody would get such a dumb idea, but the man has an arsenal of weapons in his home and would have no problem shooting someone trying to abscond with his hard-earned goodies. He has a car lift in the damn thing, so you can get underneath and work on the bottom of your buggy. I’ve never seen so many tools in my life. He has this bad bitch, but the photo doesn’t show the other one next to it, half it’s size, and equally stocked.

Got a screw loose?

Of course, any plumber’s garage is complete with one of these. No going outside in the winter.

I don’t believe that he thinks that much of it. I mean, he’s proud of his stuff and he takes care of his shit, but for a mechanical interloper like me to come in and look around, it’s a barrage of imagery, some sort of marvel. He looked at me almost oddly and kind of smiled when I asked him if I could take some pictures, like his face was saying “I guess, but I don’t know why you would.” If he ever gets a chance to check this out, maybe he’ll see for himself.