Happy New Year everyone. Thanks for reading, and thanks for all the support during the good times and the bad. (This year had a lot of both.) Raymi often suggests I do a “best of” post, but don’t be confused, that’s not what this is.
I kept telling Deborah I was too busy to even think about moving, but with the design and installation of the Sprouse show finally over, I’m out of excuses: Apartment hunting begins.
No much happening in December with a broken arm other than getting flashed on the subway.
And that’s that. Tonight is going to be low-key. The plan is to stay home, drink champagne, and watch the entire Season 2 of Californication. Hope you all have a great holiday. See you next year.
My recent vacation marked the longest run of consecutive days without blogging since I started this thing way back in 2002.
I think.
I didn’t actually check.
In any case, next week marks this blog’s seven-year anniversary, which is actually more like 47 in Internet years. A lot has happened since then. Back in 2002, friends would say, “Doesn’t it freak you out to share so much stuff online?” whereas now they excitedly twitter about their own bathroom habits.
“You must be going crazy,” said Brad, as he stoked the campfire on the shore of Lake Michigan.
The moon was slowly changing places with the sun, casting shadows nearly as strong, the fire popped sparks into the crisp air, tiny waves lapped the shore, and the Internet was so far from my mind that it took me a minute to realize what he was talking about.
“Blogging? Actually, no, I don’t miss it at all, really. In fact, it feels pretty good to be away from it.”
I could’ve stayed there skipping stones in the moonlight for weeks without the urge to write about it.
Now that I’m back, I still don’t feel particularly enthused. I’ve forgotten why I started this blog in the first place — as if I ever knew.
Are you sick of alpacas yet? Okay then, how about motorcycles?
Deborah’s goal was to get a picture of herself with a baby alpaca, mine was to get a picture of myself cruising the bucolic landscape on my newly repaired motorcycle, with my newly repaired foot.
Brad had some good ideas about where to ride and gave me directions. “We’ll get some picture of you as you ride past.”
Unfortunately, most of the “action shots” are totally blurry. Who cares? To be riding again felt so good. The first day I went out, Brad asked me where I’d gone. “Up to Leland,” I said. (An hour-long 50 mile cruise round-trip that in New York City traffic would’ve been an entire day of near-death experiences and exhaust fumes.)
“That’s a pretty drive isn’t it?”
“Amazing,” I said.
“How was the foot?”
“No problem.”
“How was the traffic?”
“What traffic?”
Honestly, the entire time we were away, I couldn’t keep track of what day it was and I really didn’t care. And now, looking back I can’t remember what we did when — It’s all just a relaxing end of summer blur.
I do remember having a beach barbecue on the shore of Lake Michigan, which included the plumpest, juiciest grilled corn on the cob I’ve ever eaten. (Soaked in the lake for several minutes prior to cooking.) And some “veni-dogs”, hot dogs made from venison, that were pretty fucking good, too. Some beer, some wine and a nearly full moon.
“Do you think it’s full?”
“It looks full to me, what do you think?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s full.”
“I don’t know, it looks like it might be missing a sliver.”
And so on.
Labor Day Weekend and not another soul in sight.
I also remember bumming around the Glen Lake Yacht Club — also miraculously quiet — swimming in the lake and sunning on the dock until Brandon took me on a little sail around the lake, across water clear enough to see bottom. I’ve been sailing a handful of times, but I don’t pretend to know “how to sail.” Didn’t matter. “This is really just a one man sailboat that sails better with the weight of two people,” said Brandon as we glided across the lake.
Deborah gets seasick when there’s a heavy dew on the grass, and regardless of how many times I asked her if she wanted to go out on a boat — either on one of the six sailboats that Brad and Jandy own, or the “floating living room” that Joanne has — she declined. I get seasick myself when the conditions are right, so I understood and tried not to push it, but it was so nice out on the water, I couldn’t help myself.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go out on the boat?”
“Yes!”
She was more than happy to stay behind, suntan, swim and snooze.
Joanne keeps the “floating living room” docked under what can best be described as a carport for boats. “Shore Station,” it’s called — A metal frame anchored in the lake bottom that supports a canvas awning designed to shelter the boat while it’s not being used. Joanne and I went out on the boat one day and when we got a fair distance from the dock, Joanne noticed something white on the top of the awning. “It looks like a towel,” she said. “Or maybe a plastic bag.”
The boat hadn’t been used all summer and was having engine trouble. Rather that stay out and risk having the engine conk out completely, Joanne decided to head back to the dock. “Maybe Brad can figure out what’s wrong.”
Once the boat was settled in the slip, I got out and waded in the water to see if I could figure out what the white thing was.
A few feathers hung over the awning’s edge. “It’s a dead gull,” I said.
Running across the top of the awning is a spiderweb of fishing line designed to prevent the canvas from becoming a place for birds to hold sewing circles and shit up a storm. A gull had become entwined in the lines, no doubt becoming more tangled as he struggled to get away, and died. I went to the garage and returned with a ladder and some rubber gloves to see if I could get it loose.
“I think I’ll have to cut the fishing line,” I said to Joanne. From what I could tell, however, it was a single line that circled and zigzagged the awning and Joanne was afraid that. if I cut it, the whole network would unravel. “Don’t cut it,” Joanne said, “It’s been working well. Just leave it and let nature take its course.”
A couple of hours later, Brad and Jandy arrived. Brad and I took the boat out again to see if we could diagnose the engine trouble. The boat worked much better for Brad, though it still had some intermittent issues. We cruised around the lake for a while and then, as we returned, I told Brad about the bird. He pulled the boat up next to the slip and had me hold it steady while he balanced on the boat’s edge to investigate.
He took out a large pocket knife and cut off one of the bird’s wings and threw it into the boat. A minute later, the rest of the body followed. In the process, the line broke. “Grab that string, will you,” he said. It was nearly invisible, flapping in the wind. I reached up and grabbed it, handed it to Brad, and he retied it to the framework.
“There now,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t kill some more birds.”
Although I brought my laptop with me, there are a couple of reasons why I waited until I got home to start posting about our trip. The main reason is that it felt so good to be away from a computer screen, I could barely bring myself to take my laptop out of its case let alone turn it on. Brad told me that there was a wireless connection at their house, however, and said I was welcome to use it anytime. Old habits die hard so I took him up on it one morning and rode my motorcycle to the ranch for computer time and coffee.
“Did you see the new baby?” Jandy asked when I arrived.
“No,” I said, and turned toward the field.
“Right outside, that little black guy right there was born about a half hour before you got here.”
“You’re kidding.” I put my computer down, and headed toward the field with my camera. “How close can I get to them?” I asked, not wanting to intrude on the tender moment.
“About 10 feet is okay,” said Jandy.
I climbed the fence, approached slowly and stayed on the far side of ten feet. Probably closer to twenty.
I returned to the house and prepared to upload the photos to my laptop and post something resembling a “live update.” But as soon as I did, Deborah called to tell me that Joanne was going to a clinic about her eye — she’d broken a blood vessel the day before and the white of her eye was entirely red. Her pharmacist suggested she go to the nearby clinic. (Nearby meaning over thirty miles away.) Deborah was going with her, but since Deborah doesn’t have a driver’s license, she suggested that I go, too, in case Joanne came away with a patch on her eye and needed someone else to drive.
“No problem,” I said, and packed up my things. “Sorry to rush, Jandy.”
“No problem. Call us later and let us know how Joanne makes out. We’ll see you later tonight for dinner.”
As I left the house, only about a half hour after I arrived, the little black baby alpaca was already walking. “Deborah is going to be so jealous,” I said. She was but as I mentioned earlier, the babies were arriving left and right so she had plenty of opportunities to see some fresh ones of her own. Like this little dude, for instance:
Later that night, as we sat on Brad and Jandy’s porch having a delicious homemade grilled salmon dinner, we watched the young alpacas frolic in the field while their mothers grazed lazily, casting long shadows across the green grass as the sun slowly sank behind the hills. Deborah asked if they had names for all the babies yet.
“Nope,” said Brad. They were coming so quickly they hadn’t had time. “Why? Do you have some ideas?”
“How many names do you need?” said Deborah.
Brad did some quick counting. “Eighteen.”
Deborah read off a bottle of hot sauce that was sitting on the table: “How about Habanero?” she said.
“We’ve had a Habanero,” said Brad, and then he listed a number of other hot sauce words that they’d gone through over the years. Seemed like they’d covered them all.
“How about Fabio?” I suggested. “Have you had a Fabio?”
“No. We have not had a Fabio.”
Judging from his reaction, I doubt they ever will.
“We’ll come up with a list and email it to you,” said Deborah.
Brad laughed. “I very much look forward to seeing that list, Deborah.”
When I mention to people that my friend has an alpaca farm, they usually imagine a couple of animals on a couple of acres, but Great Lakes Ranch has nearly 50 animals on nearly 150 acres of land and is one of the country’s premier alpaca breeders. I didn’t even realize it myself until, last year, while honeymooning in Utah, Deborah and I ran into a couple at the welcome center to National Bridges National Monument. I noticed they had an alpaca sticker on their car, so I said, “I know this is a long shot, but I have a friend who raises alpacas, I wonder if you know him, Brad Sprouse.”
Not only did they know him, but they had just bought an alpaca from him and raved on and on about his knowledge and expertise.
“Huh,” I remember saying to Deborah, “I guess Brad and Jandy really have something going in the alpaca world.”
And they really do. Despite it’s size, it’s still a small family business. Brad and Jandy have two teenage kids at home who help when they aren’t in school, but for the most part it’s just Brad and Jandy taking care of it all. To see the impeccably maintained farmhouse, assorted barns, small garden, and pristine fields, it’s hard to believe. And seeing a photo album of what it all looked like before they bought the property didn’t make it any easier.
As we sat having cocktails in The Rose Lounge the night of our arrival, the Sprouse’s asked us to make a loose list of things to see and do while we were visiting. Top on Deborah’s list was alpacas. Ever since learning that Brad and his wife, Jandy, lived on an alpaca farm, and seeing the pictures on their website, Deborah has been obsessed with seeing them in person.
Winnie told Deborah that she has a picture of herself with the alpacas on her Facebook profile and Deborah decided she needed one too.
Brad couldn’t care less about “Facespace of Mybook or whatever the hell any of it is called” but he got a kick out of Deborah’s excitement.
“We can make that happen,” he said.
He explained that it would be best for us to get there before 9 a.m., before he let the alpacas out into the field. Arriving in Michigan as late as we did and being exhausted from the drive, we knew we weren’t likely to get there in time the next morning.
“No rush,” said Brad. “We have a few days. We’ll get it done.”
And a few days later, we did.
Once we were a little more in-sync with farming time, we made it to the ranch for a photo shoot. The animals had been fed and were waiting at the gate to be let out. The alpacas are very curious and will walk right up to you, but they don’t like to be touched and will turn away as soon as you lift an arm to pet them. But they’re used to Brad and he can work with them easily. “Pick out a baby for your photo shoot,” he said, “and I’ll round her up for you.”
Babies were dropping out of their mothers like ripe apples in October and every day there was a new one so there were more than a dozen to choose from.
Deborah pointed to a little tan one with smokey eyes. “How about that one?”
“Oh man,” said Brad. “Her mom is a bitch. I can try to get her, but unless you want to get spit on, I think maybe you should pick another one.”
“Um, yeah, no to the spit. How about the little white one over there?”
Despite knowing Stephen Sprouse for nearly twenty years, I didn’t meet his mother, Joanne, or his brother, Brad, or any of his other relatives until after he passed away. When we finally met, we all agreed that it was long overdue and regretted that it couldn’t have been under happier circumstances.
In the years since, there have been a lot of Stephen Sprouse projects and events — a book, a retrospective, the famous Louis Vuitton special collection, a museum show in Hong Kong, and so on — keeping me in regular contact with Stephen’s family. But regardless of the quasi-professional elements to our relationship, I have a lot of affection for them as friends and really enjoy getting together with them socially. Unfortunately it doesn’t happen very often and when it does, it’s always in New York.
“When are you and Deborah going to visit us in Michigan?” they always ask.
“Soon,” I always say.
Well, this year, “soon” finally came.
And so…
We checked out of western Pennsylvania’s beautiful “Ritz” Carlton Motel and were on our way.
A long haul, nearly 600 miles, from Daisytown, PA to Michigan’s Leelanu Penninsula and with a windshield full of bug splatter and the late summer sun setting in our eyes to slow us down, we were later than expected.
I called Brad along the way to give him a status update and let him know when to expect us. “Okay, we’ll see you when you get here,” he said. “Big Jo has a surprise for you when you get in.” (Big Jo is what he calls his mother, Joanne.)
Over the river and through the woods, we turned onto the long, tree-lined drive of Joanne’s beautiful lakeside home. “It’s the quintessential grandma’s house, isn’t it?” I said to Deborah. “Albeit with a few additions.”
Brad, Joanne, Brandon and Brandon’s girlfriend, Winnie, greeted us in the driveway. After the initial hugs and hellos, we were led inside where we sat around the kitchen table snacking on homemade pie while Joanne prepared the surprise.
Several minutes later, “Okay, follow me,” said Joanne, and she led us through the living room and down the hall. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
She pushed open the door to the spare bedroom revealing a floor-to-ceiling Day-Glo and neon rose radiating in all its luminescent glory. “Welcome to The Rose Lounge.”
“Wow,” was about all we could say.
Joanne told the story about how, when the big Stephen Sprouse/Louis Vuitton promotion ended, she contacted someone at Louis Vuitton to see about getting one of the neon roses that had been used in Louis Vuitton’s SoHo store, thinking it would be nice to hang it over the piano in her living room. But apparently she remembered the rose being much smaller than it actually was and was shocked when a delivery man came to her door ready to unload a seven foot square wooden crate. “Where would you like it?”
The crate sat in the middle of the house for a couple of weeks until finally, with a little rearranging and some help from Brandon and Brad, she managed to find a suitable place to hang it which, in the process, created the simultaneously cozy and intense “Rose Lounge” where we sat for a champagne toast and some chocolates to celebrate our arrival.
