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.