Buck Pole

The bucks are hanging at Mill Creek in Dexter, an annual fall ritual celebrating the hunt and the harvest and the bounty from the land. No deer hunting for us this year- instead we went duck hunting on one of the small lakes near Chelsea. Not a single bird flew in the cold drizzle. To make matters worse, a couple of days later we came down with a most unholy case of poison ivy. We must have hunkered down in the wrong clump of bushes. Usually, we see the plant long before we get near it (the oily green leaves of three are forever imbedded in our memory after a Salmon River rafting trip in 2002 caused an outbreak serious enough for a visit to the emergency room), but the fauna was little more than brown leaves and bare twigs. This reaction may not be the worst we've suffered, but it still merited two steriod injections to the rump (which hurt like a sonofabitch) and enough methylpredisolone pills to last Barry Bonds for a month.

Back to the Dexter deer pole: LOTS of nice bucks this year. Despite the fact that 350,000 people live in Washtenaw County, there remains enough farm land and wood thickets to support a healthy herd. Perhaps too healthy- the county ranks as one of the highest in the state in deer vs. car collisions (averaging 1,400 road kills per year). We've had our share of close calls, but knock on wood, no accidents since moving here. Since we hit two in one year in another state, hopefully we've filled our road kill quota for life.


Look at this old boy, the largest of the bunch. He may just be an eight point, but as thick as his antlers are, this grandaddy buck clearly has been around for awhile.

Speaking of being around for awhile, our 20 year high school reunion is happening this weekend. For the last several weeks, we pondered going, but ultimately decided against it. The many reasons included: 1) We regularly see many friends from back in the day. 2) The few people (and we mean few) we would like to see probably will not attend as they moved out-of-state long ago and are not the type to return for a class reunion. 3) We have little desire to play nice to the skilletheads and ding dongs we've known since grade school who will attend en masse. 4) The occasion will be the equivalent of going to a bad wedding reception, with cheesy DJ music and people getting sloppy drunk, except this event costs $170 per couple. 5) We have no desire to engage in multiple awkward conversations that go no further than asking (and answering), "So what are you doing these days?"

This young buck won the prize for Most Abnormal Antlers. It's one of the most atypical sets we've ever seen- both antlers protrube from the left side before twisting upward. A large bony knob sits above the right eye, so big it almost forces his right eye shut. It's probably a good thing this guy was removed from the gene pool, lest his bad seed gets passed along. And it's probably a good thing we'll miss our 20 year reunion, lest we have to witness all the bad seeds we grew up with showing pictures of their offspring.

Dexter buck pole + missing our high school reunion. We have reached a new zenith. This has to be one of the most absurd postings ever written in the history of RR blogging.

Have a nice Thanksgiving and we'll be back soon, broadcasting from our perch above the epicenter of the random and absurd.

Spartans vs. Wolverines

Sunny and crisp, it was a perfect fall day for Spartan tailgating.

Burgers and brats sizzled on the grill.






Michigan fans watched college football on their HD flat screen.



A State fan displayed his opinion of the Wolverines on his back. Why some MSU students wear ridiculously obscene shirts like this in public is a question we we'd like to ask their parents.

A sell-out crowd of 77,000 filled the bleachers of Spartan Stadium.

The dorks sitting in front of us kept making annoying handsigns throughout the game.

Eight minutes into the fourth quarter, and State was up by 10. But their shot at victory flitted away as quickly as the setting sun. MSU lost another close game and the bummer cloud only got worse when we discovered Hop's van got towed and impounded. When it rains, it pours.

Best of All

A late October sunset ignites the sky over Portage Lake.

Hidden troves of gold loft high from towering trunks.



The morning sun pierces through the forest canopy.



Best of all he loved the fall
The leaves yellow on the cottonwoods
The leaves on the trout stream
And above the hills the high blue windless sky

-Ernest Hemingway

Silver Shrine

A million dollar sparkle shot from the top of the new MGM Grand casino while we were downtown this morning. We captured the sight from a parking lot several blocks away on Abbott Street, and like a moth drawn to flame, we had to go check it out. Swanky, it is. MGM Grand outdid all expectations with this very upscale and classy resort where, in all honesty, the only feature that distinguishes it from a Monte Carlo or Bellagio is the bourgeoise Detroit crowd, most of whom probably think the Wolfgang Puck restaurant is named after a hockey player instead of the world renowned chef.

As a matter of habit (thanks to this blog), we hardly go anywhere these days without our camera. And sometimes it pays off- like this morning. The sky quickly turned ominous but an opening in the clouds along the eastern horizon produced a beam of sunshine that illuminated the casino like a medieval cathedral during some dreadful dark ages' plague. Maybe it was a message from above: blessed are those who enter and may the contents of their wallets fill our slot machines. We attempted to maneuver for a closer shot but in less time than it takes a 21 dealer to flip over a blackjack, the sunlight ebbed and the silver turned dull gray before we could gain a better angle. Our luck ran out before we made it to the front door.

Luck was also on short supply on Michigan Avenue, where a DDOT bus sat parked in the middle of traffic, flat tire off to the side. A handful of riders were still in the seats, gosh knows for how long, no doubt wondering when the heck they would be getting to their destination. Hopefully, the occupants made it home and DOT fixed the tire (or had the bus towed) before nightfall or there won't be much bus left come sunrise.

No mail in the box at this house, sandwiched between Michigan Avenue and the I-75/Rosa Parks service drive. What a sensible location for a mailbox too- right on the utility pole. Usually the electric company tears off these types of unauthorized attachments, but given how the power has likely been shut off for years, Detroit Edison probably wouldn't care if someone mounted a sixty foot billboard to the pole.

Go south another block on Michigan Avenue and you'll find this old stone storefront looming over the sidewalk. Come the next freeze-thaw weather pattern, this omnipresent threat to pedestrians is coming down. Despite the shine and sparkle of new casinos, the city remains in a perpetual state of entropy, cracked and rusting away as gravity slowly tugs at the brick and mortar of thousands of abandoned buildings.

Spider World

Unseasonable warm weather this weekend had us working on the house- scraping old paint, pulling down a TV antenna from the roof that was installed thirty years ago, puttying a huge hole in the siding made by little bastard yellowjackets, etc. While we were making a general mess of things, we came across this furry beast under the back porch eave. Barn spiders must like these warm October days too. Mrs. RR wanted it to get the broom- "It makes me itch just looking at it!" she shrilled. Heck no! Anything this badass-looking can hang from our gutters all it wants. Lookee close- she's nibbling on a juicy bug like it's a piece of bacon. How cool is that?!

After she finished lunch, she turned and posed for shot of her dorsal side (the above shot is her ventral view, if our memory from junior high earth science class holds correct). While she looks intimidating, barn spiders are non-venomous arachnids (not that we'd want to get bit by one) who build webs on porches near outdoor lightbulbs. Their sense of prey must be honed to where they know light attracts bugs, especially those yummy and delicious house flies.

Here's one of her young'ins, strolling down the screen door, hoping a scrap of bug will be left when he returns to the web.
You're welcome to stay as long as you like, but be forewarned: we will be firing up the power washer soon. Sorry lady, but come next weekend, 350 psi of water is headed your direction.

Up next: a canoe trip down the Huron. Promise. Fall colors should be awesome.

Rock Star

Taylor, Michigan, a shot-and-a-beer suburb of Detroit plagued by an over-abundance of mullets and homemade tattoos, isn't exactly the kind of place where you'd expect to encounter a celebrity. Especially at a bookstore. But that's exactly what happened today when Motley Crue bassist Nikki Sixx visited Border's Bookstore to sign copies of his new book, old Motley Crue album covers, skateboards, bass guitars, and whatever body parts were placed before his Sharpie marker.

And by pure happenstance, we witnessed the hoopla. We were driving through Taylor when a radio station announced his mid-day appearance: Well, shout at the devil! Lunch today will be at the Southland Mall food court! And take the camera, we will!

Several hundred people were lined in front of the mall by the time we arrived. Sixx's appearance is probably the biggest thing to happen in Taylor since native son Steve Avery went to pitch for the Atlanta Braves twenty years ago. In a city where many residents trace their roots to the backhills of the rural south (the city is known locally as Taylortucky, a reference to when the town was an enclave for southerners moving to Detroit to gain employment in the car factories during WWII), having a bona-fide rawk star like Sixx visit is a big deal, indeed.

Sixx (born Frank Feranna Jr.) was in town to hawk The Heroin Dairies, his auto-biographical memoir drawn from entries he scribbled in his private journals during the height (or would it be the depth?) of his heroin addiction. The book chronicles his life from 1986-1987 and is equal parts do not do as I did because it almost killed me and no shit, there I was, snorting ants with Ozzy from the sidewalk next to the tour bus. We didn't wait in line for a copy, but we did ask this young man from Indiana (who looked like he could have been a member of Motley Crue, circa 1982) what he said to Sixx during their three second encounter. "I didn't know what the f*** to say", he said. "So I put my arm around him instead." Today, in all honesty, was probably the biggest day of his life.

We do have to give Sixx credit for being one of the most humble and unassuming rock icons out there. If you've ever watched him interviewed on TV, you can't help but be impressed by how articulate and introspective he is. We listened to a recent radio interview where he spoke with clarity and honesty about how he used drugs to mask long-standing unhappiness that, over time, compacted into a festering bullet wound on his soul. Instead of blaming fame or the wrong crowd, he blamed himself. It was a breath of fresh air from the usual chorus so often heard from self-absorbed rocker narcissists who have long lost the compass bearings of self-awareness and humility.

The crowd was vintage Taylor, even if many in attendance drove from somewhere far away. Aging Barbie dolls wearing fishnet stockings and barbwire tattoos sauntered about as if they were next in line for a backstage pass on the Girls Girls Girls tour (We overheard several lascivious comments from the silicone queens, most of which are not repeatable. The funniest was when one gal, long past her skanky 80's prime, blurted how Nikki Sixx is the only rock star she'd be willing to catch a STD from. Er boy). Young and old rocker types, the kind that play in metal cover bands doomed to advance no further than weekend gigs at bowling alleys, brought guitars to have autographed and copies of demo tapes that no doubt went straight into the dumpster. And then there were the trolls, the ones who live on the far outer fringes of society in permanent 1980's exile, where the record players spin Motley Crue songs over and over and the wait for the return of the Rule of Metal goes on and on and on.

But those days are long past, and will never return. Except when Nikki Sixx came for a visit, and Livewire was heard blaring from a Camaro as the driver burned rubber on Eureka Road. For a halcyon moment, it was 1983 in Taylor, Michigan, once again.