2/28/24
Newsletter #563
The Crack of Dawn
I moved into this house in October of 2002. I was coming from Jacksonville, Oregon, where I had lived for the previous year in a single wide trailer in the woods, decompressing from my many years in L.A. It worked, too. Living in a trailer in the woods actual did decompress me, making it brilliantly clear that I could never live in L.A. again, nor, for that matter, in a trailer in the woods.
In my discombobulated mind – although many others have had the idea before me – I somehow thought that New York City was the place to be. I mean, if you’re going to live in a city, why not the biggest city? I rented a green Mustang at the Medford airport and drove to New York. It was a lovely drive, although somewhere along the way I realized that I hardly knew anyone in New York, it really was a big city, and I had made no plans for anywhere to stay. With nothing but time on my hands, I drove to Stamford, Connecticut for some reason. Somebody somewhere had told me it was a cool place. I found myself walking the streets of Stamford, thinking, “This place is OK, but what on earth am I doing here?”
The next day I drove back to Detroit – home, theoretically. But mom and dad had long since divorced (and had both remarried), and the family house had been sold years before. I stayed at my old girlfriend, Carol’s, apartment in Royal Oak. I then basically had a nervous breakdown on her couch. I didn’t get off the couch for five days, just sweating and shaking and thinking – where do I belong? Carol thoughtfully ignored me, going about her business, checking in now and then to see if I was still alive, and occasionally making me eat.
When I finally arose from the dead, I went to a rental agency and signed up. My goal was to locate the cheapest rental in the nicest area, Birmingham or Bloomfield (which is broken into three parts: Bloomfield Hills, West Bloomfield and Bloomfield Township). Somewhere along the way in my life I learned that it’s better to live in the shittiest house in the best area, then the nicest house in a shitty area. You can fix up a crappy house; you can’t improve the neighborhood. In the very first listings I received from the rental agency, one said, “Bloomfield, 2 bedroom house on an acre-sized lot, $750 a month.” I said to Carol, “If this isn’t a complete falling down shithole, I’m taking it.”
She and I drove to the house, located in the farthest northeast corner of Bloomfield Township. It’s a strangely lost little neighborhood with dirt roads that are perhaps the very last in all of Bloomfield. It is literally across the street from Pontiac to the east; a swanky, lakeside community called Sylvan Lake to the north; and another nice lakeside community, Keego Harbor, to the west. We were shown the house by the owner, Mike, who I believe reads this newsletter, and therefore I’d describe him as friendly and handsome. Anyway, the house is 975 square feet, and built in 1933 by a maniac who had never heard of building codes (every plug is upside down). It was in poor repair and needed new everything, but it sat upon a beautiful acre of grassy, wooded land. And at $750 a month, and actually located in Bloomfield, it was worth it, and I immediately took it.
As Carol and I left she said to me, “That’s a shithole.” I smiled and said, “Yeah, but it’s my shithole now.” And that is where I still live. I have subsequently purchased the house and completely remodeled. This is what it looks like now.
Wow, Josh! The house looks amazing. I LOVE the siding. And the grass looks beautifully green as well!