ROADIES / FAT CATZ

As chronicled in past reviews, there is not much that can keep Tony and I from our appointed Friday Night Bug Juice rounds. Not the icy glare of a winter road, nor the similar icy glare of a loved one left at home will keep us from venturing out and about.

Our Mom convalescing from an unexpected hospital visit is a sure way to keep two acknowledged Mama’s Boys from getting our drink on (for a week anyway). Before getting to this week’s long awaited reviews (by Tony and I anyway), allow me to make a few observations about our wonderful five day, four night, no expense paid visit to exotic Oakwood Hospital:

I watched a young girl battle gum disease in the germ infested waiting room by flossing her teeth in plain view of all. What a brave lass!
Young love blossomed in front of my very eyes as a man popped a huge pimple on the nose of his best girl in that same waiting room. To see these two look over their hard fought prize, cooing, was indeed special.
Once our mom settled into her exam room, I was touched to see that our new friend across the hall introduced himself to us by sitting open legged in his hospital gown. To see his middle aged junk hanging low was to look into the window of his soul.
It did my heart good to hear two hospital employees arguing about treatment in front of my mom. Not necessarily about what was right for her, but about who was really in charge in Room 723. Stand tall men!
Finally, late one night as we were about to leave, a young male nurse stopped us in our tracks to talk about our mom’s pulmonary issues and her invasive upcoming tests. As he took in the shock in our faces, he turned the chart around and breezily corrected himself. It was Maria lying awake and listening in the bed next to my mom whose chart he was reading. What a scamp!

The time away from joy juice coupled with the anxieties at home led Tony to proclaim that he would make up for missing last week by doubling his efforts this week (his work ethic is admirable). We decided to expand our horizons, and give you, the reader, more to consider by venturing into Macomb County.

Our first drinks came at Roadie’s Pub in Warren, on West Chicago just west of VanDyke. No problem parking in the lot adjacent to the building, and no line getting into this good sized barn sitting on the north side of the street. The bouncer nicked us for $3 apiece, not a problem when a live band is playing.

There are bars at the front and back of the room, though the bar at the back was unoccupied during our visit. It took a couple of minutes to hail our waitress ( the spitting image of Amy Irving, right down to the crazy perm), but the $6.50 price tag seemed reasonable. We toasted my son Max, as it was his 21st birthday and the games began.

Looking at the busy room, we wondered why we traveled so far from home to see a downriver crowd. Definitely not dressed to impress, and not giving a shit about making their mark. So far, so good. It was a group skewed a bit older than most, and this bunch was ready for fun.

Leading the way into the land of fun was the band, Groove Council. Lead by a feisty chick on vocals, this horn driven group belted out funk from back in the day. I heard Pick up the Pieces by Average White Band, Gimme Some Loving by Spencer Davis and other dance tunes by Stevie Wonder and Sam and Dave. Not a typical bar band, thank God. This big sounding bunch kept the narrow dance floor filled to capacity, lots of big gals and the guys that love them.

Tony and I stood at the back of the well designed room, a mix of four person tables and more intimate bar height tables. We glanced at sports and Keno on the obligatory televisions above the front bar, but Groove Council kept the focus.

Roadies Pub would be a great place to bring a date. You don’t see any phony tough guys peacocking around, the prices are reasonable and the crowded nature of the dance floor means that you can dance with your lady and not have to do too much or stand out. Trust me guys, we need that.

We decided earlier in the week that this would be a two bar kind of night, so we reluctantly ventured out into the cold to nearby Fat Catz in Warren on VanDyke, just North of 696. We had a great time on the short drive, singing horribly along to The Frost tune, Rock and Roll Music ( undoubtedly the finest opening song to any live album).

Parking at Fat Catz is a cinch. Getting in proved to be a bit of a pain in the ass, not because of cover (there is none), but because of the two wiseass chicks hanging with the bouncer at the front door. The bustier broad wanted to compare chests with me and seemed put off that I resisted. She asked to see my ID and got a kick out of the notion that one so old could be asked to show proof of age. Why is it that the bustier the broad, the more hilarious and interesting they think they are?

Once inside, a couple of cold ones set us back $7.50. We settled in to listen to Dirty Sanchez (naming your band after a nasty sex act is like picking the number 69 for your softball jersey). They were a hard rocking bunch, though I am hard pressed to recall any of their songs. Nor could Tony, when I challenged him to do the same a couple of days later. Either we were bagged, or they were utterly forgettable.

The layout of the place was fine, a large U-shaped room with pool tables and people tables surrounding the band and dance floor. The crowd was way young, lots of testosterone and edginess. A sea of Ed Hardy shirts and recently purchased vintage tees.

Oh shit, here comes the chick from the front door. More hilarity and tits. Only she doesn’t hear or doesn’t get all the great retorts coming her way from an inebriated Tony (you cannot win a match of wits with this guy, drunk or not). I hear and remember them all and now realize that I was not bagged and that it was indeed the utter forgettableness of Dirty Sanchez that keeps me from recalling their set list.

This is a one and out bar, and Tony and I do just that, hustling to old favorite Rosie O’Grady’s for last call.

Cheers,
-Jim


Roadies:  7231 Chicago Rd. Warren, MI 48092



Fat Catz:  27253 Van Dyke Rd. Warren, MI 48093

CHERRY MARTINI

If I had fans of this web site, I am sure that one of the questions that would spring up is, “How do you guys select the bars you visit?” Well, yet to be found fan, Tony and I either draw from our extensive past travels or use this new fangled technology called the world wide web to find our weekly selections.

I used the web last week and selected two east side haunts, Robusto’s and The Hard Luck Lounge for a double barreled review. It could have been the crappy weather or the tough work week or the lack of patrons at either site, but the visits were so nondescript that a good time was had by none. This is ground breaking as Tony and I have been able to have fun at any shithole we have walked into. We tried to salvage the evening by catching last call at The Old Shillelagh. This failed, as we got turned around when leaving and ended up driving aimlessly through some of Detroit’s finest neighborhoods.

We even exchanged some testy words at work on Monday when comparing notes on that evening. I was feeling persecuted for being the one who suggested these two disasters and accused Tony of second guessing. At one point, I stole a line from “Snatch” and said, “ If I give a dog a bone, I don’t want to be told it doesn’t taste good.” Neither Tony or I knew exactly how it related to the situation at hand, but we both knew that he was the dog in my reference, and that is bullshit. I think I apologized, if not I sure should have.

This brings us around to the past Friday and my internet inspired suggestion of The Cherry Martini in Canton. As we did the previous week, we hashed out the suggestion and decided to make a go of it. The air was thick with tension during the half hour drive to Cherry Hill Road west of Beck. Both men were alone with their thoughts...

The Cherry Martini is in the middle of nowhere. You are traveling west on Cherry Hill Road, past civilization and into an area that combines some stubborn farms and housing tracts that feature golf course living and three “distinct” housing options that look exactly the same ( “What are you talking about, can’t you see that the flashing above our bay window is copper?”).

Street parking is easy around this place, given that you have stumbled upon an attempt to create a second downtown Canton. There are awful condos, a theatre, some dark businesses and The Cherry Martini.

There is no cover and no delay getting into the bar. It is a handsome space, a long rectangle with floor to ceiling glass walls looking out onto Cherry Hill Road. This would be even better if there was something to see on Cherry Hill (cars or people, and not just tumbleweeds blowing by). It is also very dark inside ( a godsend to a man with an old, spotty head), the dark punctuated by glowing red lights (it’s the Cherry Martini, remember).

Throughout the evening, Tony speculated that this would be an even better place to visit in the summer. His reasoning was that the wall of windows would reveal a vibrant street scene. He offered this opinion more frequently and with more volume as the night progressed. I did not share his belief, but given the angst of the past week, I kept this difference of opinion largely under wraps.

Getting a beer proved to be a chore. I saw lots of waitresses who were hot and excelled at looking busy without actually carrying drinks. A hip looking dude spent a lot of time behind the bar filling ice and flirting with the waitstaff. The barmaid spent her time at the opposite end of this long bar talking with a small knot of guys. When we finally got our beers, they turned out to be $7.50 for the pair. Later, the same two would be $7.75 and then $7. When Tony ordered a solo Labatt Blue, it was $4.75. I never could figure out what the damn things cost, but neither could the barmaid and she works at the place.

The crowd was consistent with what you would expect at a place with “Martini” in the title. A group of twenty somethings, dressed a bit better than average, or if dressed down, dressed down in clothes bought at Hot Topic. Apparently, news of the Cherry Martini has not reached the various ethnic communities around Detroit.

It was a friendly group, looking to chat, dance or pose with oversized martini glasses in their hands. This long, narrow club has a variety of seating available, comfy leather couches and chairs arranged in tight clusters to promote conversation. Tony and I sat at the bar the whole time, not wanting to frighten the younger generation with our time worn negativity or tight trousers.

Entertainment at Cherry Martini is provided by a DJ. Just as I was criticizing the crap the DJ du jour was spinning, Tony pointed out that the tiny dance floor at one end of the club was packed. I expect music to have a beginning, an end, and a distinct hook. When it is a cold beat that moves seamlessly from one “song” to another, I get sad. The techno crap was interrupted by occasional forays into disco, a stab at irony, no doubt. Still, the dancing continued.

If you are not into dancing, the music is just loud enough to allow strained conversation. A friendly girl sitting next to us at the bar introduced herself, and after talking briefly, Tony and I compared notes and discovered that neither of us could actually hear her name or precious else that was said. Whether or not that is due to the music volume, advanced age or ear hair is up for conjecture.

The Cherry Martini is not a disaster in the sense of the previous week, but is not a great destination either. Maybe in the summertime...

Cheers!

-Jim


Cherry Martini:  50296 Cherry Hill Rd. Canton, MI 48187

OLD SHILLELAGH

Traditionally, the downtown Detroit bar scene has not gotten along well with Tony and I. It started about two years ago with a trip to Jacoby’s. I understood from various internet sights that a sister pub, 313 Jac, was upstairs and a great place to visit. While sipping on our opening beers, I mentioned this to the waitress, asking where the entrance to 313 Jac was and if a band would be making noise there. She acted like I was trying to get into her secret club and didn’t know the special handshake. The patrons were just as helpful. Fuck Yous!

A few months later, Tony and I were looking for a place to drink after a high energy Hives show at the Shelter, and we spotted the Sweet Water Tavern. We knew nothing about the place, except that it was nearby and open. Once the door closed behind us, we knew a mistake had been made. We turned into Boone and Flounder walking into the Dexter Lake Club in Animal House. We gave a quick wave to Otis Day and the Knights, and proceeded to walk by the curious black faces staring at us, in search of the back door. The Sweet Water Tavern has no back door. About face, past the same set of now amused black faces and out the front door. Crackers!

I mention this because Tony was not very receptive to my Friday night suggestion of visiting Delux Lounge and The Old Shillelagh in the Greektown area of Detroit. Memories of these past disasters were still too fresh in his mind (he has a great memory, especially for the bad stuff). We ventured into Dearborn instead.

Dearborn is dead.

We started at the Double Olive. It was eerily dark, the televisions were blank, the music was muted and nondescript, and the few patrons were chatting in hushed tones. It is very rare for our opening beers to go unfinished, but it happened. We walked 100 feet to the Post Bar, and although the crowd was slim, the atmosphere was a bit better. The televisions were on, the girls behind the bar were ridiculously hot and you could hear the tunes. We stuck around for a few drinks based largely on the hotness of the barmaid on our side of the bar. I told you us guys are simple. We decided to mosey another 100 feet to Howell’s (aka The Howler) and found it to be loud, smokey and filled to the brim with dudes. Without ordering, we walked another 50 feet to Bailey’s, some faceless corporation’s idea of a cool bar. Under the harsh lights, we nursed a beer and talked about how fucked we were.

I suggested the “D” word to Tony again. He was either drunk enough, or desperate enough to agree, so we headed to our car and the trip to the mean streets of Detroit. While cruising on 94, Tony put in an urgent urine request. No problem, there are oodles of places to piss near the Rouge Plant (sarcasm). I got off the expressway and spotted some shit bar where we both took advantage of their sparkling facilities (more sarcasm). Getting back on 94 proved to be tough, but after a bit of cursing we were on our way once again.

After what seemed to be an eternity, we found a lot in the Greektown area to park for a reasonable $5. Much to my surprise, I was able to pull up a mental image of the map I looked at earlier in the day and we saw Delux Lounge and The Old Shillelagh sitting right across the street from one another at the corner of Monroe and Brush. We decided to hit Delux first, and I was halfway through the front door with Tony at my heels, when a huge black arm stopped my progress. “It’s $20 apiece to get in...and we only have about an hour left to party,” said the hard case blocking our way.

Look, if we are not hip enough to join your party, just say it, and cease with the trumped up cover bullshit. I am not the combative type and am not inclined to venture into a place where I am not wanted. Tony swears that the tough guy at the door referred to us as Wally and Beaver, but I can not confirm...or deny.

The Old Shillelagh was an oasis beckoning two almost defeated Irish lads into its bosom. After coughing up the $5 cover, I looked forward to a cold beer and some great Irish music. I got some cold beer and DJ techno crap instead.

It took a minute or two for my eyes to adjust and see the Irishness of the pub. I found it in the “let’s drink” attitude of the patrons, both male and female. It also became evident in the fight that took place right next to me. To the credit of the staff, they did not overreact and the two main combatants were allowed to continue drinking.

I could not honestly tell you what our beers cost, but I don’t recall recoiling in horror. I do remember that the crowd was a great mix, with a lot of girls hanging in groups (if that kind of thing is important to you). And wonder of wonders, I was hit upon. Does tall, athletic, good looking and bold appeal to you? Even though the opening line of “Do you know me?” was trite, I can’t deny that it felt good to be noticed. Did I mention that it was a guy hitting on me? Fuck all of you, I still liked the attention.

I am still not sure how the techno music on this main floor fits a place called The Old Shillelagh, but it did nothing to discourage the throng. There seemed to be no distinct dance floor, but tons of people got busy, their dancing spilling into the tables and milling crowd. It made for a fun, if not hectic atmosphere.

After downing a couple of cold ones, Tony and I spotted a few people heading up a steep set of stairs, so we followed suit. The longtime house band Black Mist was doing their thing, while a knot of dancers did theirs on the even smaller upstairs dance floor. We stood against the back wall for a bit, though my growing haze prevents me from telling you what tunes were played, or if these tunes had anything to do with Ireland. I can say with certainty that the crowd was lapping it up (along with a generous dose of booze).

It was near closing time when we made our way back down the treacherous steps to the still crazed main floor. Here, Tony thanked me for making him come to Detroit and saluted the drunken mob with a final Tanqueray and Tonic. The Irish and the Irish at heart always know how to have a good time.

Cheers!
-Jim


Old Shillelagh:  349 Monroe St. Detroit, MI 48226

B. BOOMER's

I’ve got a problem.

Every so often, a Friday Night rolls around and I am not in the mood to go out for revelry. The work week has worn me to a nub, it’s cold outside, I am not feeling quite up to snuff...

But, being a warrior, and not wanting to let little bro down, I grab a hot shower, a bloody shave of the head, douse myself in tacky cologne and head out the door. Many times, I find Tony to be in a similar mood. It’s like two chicks living together who get their periods at the same time. It can be quiet heading to the tavern of choice.

This is where my/our problem comes in.

The stink of stale cigs, the sound of a crappy cover band and the sight of a girl wearing clothes that are too tight for her body are the tonic that brings me back to life. Any worries, aches or tiredness are washed away with that first sip of Miller Light ( my personal version of Lourdes healing water).

That was the turnaround this past weekend as Tony and I stayed close to home, visiting B Boomers in Allen Park. This maize and blue haunt sits atop a small hill on Southfield Road at the foot of Roosevelt. There is parking on both sides of the bar, and on neighborhood streets if needed.

I have lived in Allen Park for 25 years, and a review of this joint cannot begin without an Allen Park Police warning. These pricks are well known to study the people leaving this bar in hopes of making a lucrative DUI bust. Never mind that I live on a residential street corner where punk kids and cell phone listening moms and dads routinely ignore stop signs and speed limits. The AP cops are way more interested in you after your third beer of the night. You will not catch a break.

There is no cover at B Boomers and rarely any line to enter. Not only is there no dress code, but don’t bother to dress to impress. Nobody else does. The main floor is filled with tables and chairs, which surround a small dance floor and raised bandstand. Up a couple steps to a small mezzanine overlooking the dance floor with more tables and chairs. Up a couple more steps to the bar and barstool seating. A few more tables flank the bar.

Why do I mention this configuration in such detail? Because you can’t walk around this fucking place, that’s why. Everybody stalks out their spot and hunkers down. If you are the type of person who likes to move about, forget it. You will stick out like a thin girl downriver, bumping shins all over the place and collecting strange looks.

Still, the beer is cold and cheap. B Boomers has draft beer specials all the time, if you can stand drinking from a flimsy plastic cup. Even though there is only one bar, the waitstaff patrols the floor and the barmaids work hard to keep you happy.

There are also live bands on the weekends, with Liquid Six kicking out the jams on the night we visited. Each member of this band took turns handling lead vocals, in search of someone who could sing a note or muster genuine emotion. I must have been the only prick who noticed, because the dance floor was consistently busy. Not full, but busy.

The crowd was decidedly mixed in age, evenly split between men and women and overwhelmingly white in hue. Big hair and muffin tops are in for the ladies, dangling cigarettes and droopy ass jeans for the men. People tended to hang with those they came with (see previous rant about tables and chairs). I don’t think I saw one guy hit the dance floor, just bouncing bundles of broads.

If you don’t care for the band du jour, there is Keno and tons of televisions including a dandy big screen at one end of the place. During big games and band breaks, the sound goes up on the television. This is a great idea, as Mickey Redmond can whip an Allen Park crowd into a frenzy. There is also a separate game room with pool tables, video games and pinball.

Although there is never any eating on Bug Juice Friday Nights ( Tony has always contended that food only slows him down), B Boomers is a good place to chow. I can vouch for their deep dish pizzas. There is nothing subtle about this pile of spicy fun. It is heavy.

B Boomers is certainly not a big destination spot, but if you happen to be a baraholic, it can turn a shite night right side up.

Cheers!
-Jim

B. Boomer's:  16006 Southfield Rd. Allen Park, MI 48101

J DUB's

At my house, leaving to go to the bar on a Friday night, almost every Friday night, is met with surprising goodwill. My kids briefly turn their heads away from the television, say good-bye and kiss me good night. My wife Andrea appraises my clothes, tells me I wear to much cologne, tells me to be careful and also gives me a kiss. Out the door I go, into fantasyland, nary a harsh feeling to be had.

If you happen to miss a Friday Night Bug Juice, say because it falls on your 27th wedding anniversary, and decide to go out on Saturday instead, you can expect the good-bye to be a bit different. In my case, Andrea did not give me shit directly, she tipped her hand by barking at our son Jack. He left her sweet-tarts in the basement (they were the larger size to be fair), tried to watch Ferris Beuller (for the umpteenth time) and misplaced the portable phone (again).

My son was paying for the sins of the father and I didn’t look back even once, as I waltzed out the door to pick up Tony.

I walked out of that fire and into the frost at Tony’s house. His wife Beth said very little as I waited for my brother, then reluctantly got up to see us out. The usual good humor and loving kiss were replaced by a grim look and a perfunctory “have fun.” When the door closed, Tony deadpanned, “She really means it.”

The credit we built up by trudging off to work Monday through Friday had been spent by Saturday. The working class heros blowing off a little steam had been replaced by two bums deserting their loved ones.

There was the usual gallows humor on the way to J. Dubs in Riverview, even leading to some talk about pulling the plug on the evening (this was quickly squelched as we reasoned that the hard part, leaving, was already behind us). We actually wondered if the weirdness of bug juicing on a Saturday night could be overcome.

It could.

J Dubs was a regular stop on the tour many years ago, but had changed owners and styles about twenty times since then. Tony and I had heard it was back to being a rock dive bar, so we decided to give it a whirl. It still sat on Sibley Road between Fort Street and Jefferson, the only beacon in an otherwise dark industrial area. No problem parking in the huge lot, though a few more cars would have been nice.

No line, no over zealous jarhead checking ID and only two bucks to get in. So far, so good. I was initially placed in the pay me no nevermind club by the distracted chick behind the bar. I finally caught the eye of a fellow stocking the cooler and ordered the usual Miller Light and Labatts. Very reasonable at $4.50, and it came with a tip that during POWER HOUR all Miller and Bud products were a buck apiece. When it came time to re-up, the barmaid reminded us of the beer deals, but Tony being the connoisseur he is, stuck with the more expensive Labatts. His taste buds are so well educated.

The bar itself is huge, maybe too huge given the empty spaces that abound. The bar that sits right in front of the door is surrounded by tables and chairs. The stage sits in the corner at an angle and has a decent dance floor. A large open space is on the other side of the dance floor and is dominated by long rows of banquet tables and a second bar for better service. An area near these tables that used to be lousy with pool tables has been replaced by...more banquet tables.

Whatever the Oakland County crowd thinks of when they hear the word “downriver” was present at J Dubs. Lots of facial hair, stocky physiques and heavy drinking. The guys looked pretty rough too.

The Kopykats soon hit the stage, some straggly looking alt rockers fronted by a physically imposing female lead singer. The only thing thin about this chick was her voice. The first song I heard was a hard rocking version of “You're So Vain”. No good. Still, they did their job as the dance floor, while never jammed, was always in use.

If dancing is not your bag, or if you have difficulty dancing to Alice in Chains, the wide open spaces lend itself readily to talking and mingling. Of course, Keno and numerous televisions also dot the landscape.

J Dubs has an overall friendly vibe. People go there to talk, listen and dance to strange rocking music, and not be judged on how much money they have or what they wear. If you’re not a pretentious arse, a good time is easily had, even on a Saturday night.

Cheers!
-Jim


J Dub's:  12850 Sibley Rd. Riverview, MI 48192

DIAMONDBACK SALOON

I hate country music, am suspicious of the South, think cowboy hats on guys look ridiculous and found myself traveling to Diamondback Saloon in Belleville Friday night for whatever the hell a hic-hop party is. I was leery to say the least. As always, little brother Tony was in the co-pilot seat promising to drink “like it was St. Patty’s Day.”

Getting to Diamondback’s is a snap, especially if you have easy access to I-94. Going west from the city, get off at Belleville Road and travel south a short distance to the service drive going west. It is a bit offsetting as you will feel like you are going the wrong way on this service drive (think John Candy and Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles). In about one mile, you will see the huge barn that is Diamondback Saloon. Parking is easy in the huge lot that surrounds the joint.

Tony and I were in bad need of drink and the short line leading into the bar did not seem as if it would be much of a deterrent. The fat ass checking ID had other ideas and was taking his job very seriously, matching face to license, rubbing the fucking identification to see if anything had been added and making a big deal subtracting the three dollar cover from a five dollar bill.

Finally inside, we headed to the long bar and ordered a Miller Light and Labatts. I heard “three dollars” over the din and assumed it was three apiece. I was pleased to find that three singles covered both drinks during some sort of drink special. Score one for the country folks. Occasionally, re-upping on the beer proved difficult. Subtract half a point.

This place was packed. It was a very interesting mix of cowboys and cowgirls, with neither side having a numerical advantage. The age of this throng was young, but there were enough older folks enjoying themselves to keep me from standing out (too much). The guys were all in jeans and untucked button down shirts or t-shirts, many had their dress cowboy hat perched on their heads. More facial hair in this crowd than normal, even saw a few beards (trying to channel Travolta’s first visit to Gilley’s in Urban Cowboy). There was no shortage of women, and as Eric Burden said there were “long ones, tall ones, short ones, brown ones, black ones, big ones, crazy ones.”

The floor plan of the bar is unique and a great big pain in the ass. The dance floor and band are sunk down a level. The dance floor has a rail around one side, a great pervert’s row perch for watching the action. After much debate, Tony and I stayed away from this choice spot because it was almost always populated by women. We didn’t want any good old boys thinking we was “queer”.

The seats go up around the dance floor and bandstand in three tier amphitheater style. Each of the three floors is jammed with tables and chairs and closed off at one end, making walking around next to impossible. The effect of this is a bit unsettling as each floor looks down on the action below, a cowboy version of Mad Max in the Thunderdome.

The hic portion of the evening is provided by the house band, Derringer, and from what I could tell they have played there for quite a while. They sound good, the woman fronting them is very hot and dresses the part, and most importantly they get people on the floor. A lot of people on the floor. They dance in clusters, alone, in huge groups, in small groups just fucking about and in couples who take this country dance thing very seriously.

When the band takes a break, a local radio station takes over and the hop portion of the evening gets underway. Classic hip hop songs, not too threatening to whitey, are blared and once again the floor is packed. I never thought I would live to see a bunch of cowboy hats moving around to Digital Underground, but this crowd was able to line dance to anything.

There is a very friendly vibe to the proceedings. It felt a little like a party that Tony and I walked in on, but were welcome at. A couple of embarrassing uncles that drink too much, but are more or less harmless.

My earlier leeriness was completely unwarranted. If you like to dance, want to hook-up, don’t need to throw around a lot of money or pretension. the Diamondback Saloon is a great bet.

Cheers!
-Jim


Diamondback Saloon: 49345 S. I-94 Service Drive  Belleville, MI 48111

ALBERT's ON THE ALLEY / KICKER's

In the last couple of years I have lost quite a bit of weight. One result of that loss has been the shrinking of my formerly sausage like fingers to a more normal size. Since my wedding ring could slip off with a casual shake of the hand, I removed it and left it on a shelf at the side of the kitchen sink. For two plus years. What a disrespectful twat!

I recently remedied that situation (for only $10 at Diamond Jim’s on 11 Mile and I-75). I am happy to report that the addition of the wedding ring did not influence the amount of ladies looking my way on a given Friday Night bar tour. None with the naked finger and none with the ring in place. Whew!

This Friday found Tony and I venturing to the west suburbs, starting at Albert’s on the Alley, located at the northwest corner of Ford Road and Middlebelt in Garden City. Parking is a breeze in the large lot behind the bar. The parking area was lousy with cops trying to ruin my fun.

We were a bit alarmed by the lack of patrons on the outside patio and at the small bar which we could see from the front door, but love of drink kept us moving. There was no cover, and as we moved past the small bar near the entrance, we could see that the real action took place in the two larger rooms deeper inside the club. A Labatt and Miller Light cost a reasonable $6.50.

Of course, most bars are worked by cute, younger women. The theory being that younger men will spend more and tip more if they think the person serving them will go home with them at the end of the night. THEY WON’T.

Having copped to that I must mention that the ladies of Albert’s are the most striking in the area. My brother noted that one dark haired beauty behind the bar looked like the animated chick in the Roger Rabbit movie. That’s high praise indeed.

The crowd was young, Tony and I looking suspiciously like perverts or cops to all the twenty somethings (we are not cops). The concept of ethnic diversity has not yet hit this corner of Garden City, giving the room an overall pasty appearance. The split of the crowd was even between guys and gals.

A tiny dance floor in front of the DJ booth was used sporadically, with girls only dancing to 89X type rock. The patrons seemed to hang in herds, with little mingling or hooking up going on. Maybe the guy herds were hoping to get with the dazzling waitstaff, plotting the tip amount needed to do the trick. SUCKERS!

If you didn’t come to bullshit, there is plenty of sports on TV and Keno to bet on. Weirdly, there was also a large, horribly lit neon room off to one side that featured indoor horseshoes and virtual golf. I didn’t venture into that area, in fear that the extreme lighting would not jive with my mottled complexion and bloodshot eyes.

Finally, there seemed to be an air about the place that indicated that a fight would be an easy thing to find (the air equal parts smoke and testosterone). Some fucking kid pulled my brother aside and apologized for being an asshole when Tony tried to squeeze by and get a drink from the bar. He sheepishly admitted that his girlfriend made him say he was sorry. I couldn’t decide if bottling him for being a punk or a pussy was in order, so we decided to move on to other drink.

After a bit of arguing about who should have googled the next bar, we found Kickers on Plymouth Road west of Farmington. Again, parking was a snap in the huge lot next to the building. This is some sort of entertainment complex, with a comedy club and martini bar as well as the aforementioned Kickers.

Again, no cover. I must admit that the particulars of this place get a bit hazy as the night progressed, but I seem to recall that getting a beer was a cinch and that the cost was quite reasonable. Tony soon tired of beer and cleansed his palette with a Tanqueray and Tonic, again reasonable and well mixed.

There was one main room dominated by a huge rectangular bar. There were tables and bar height stools strategically placed, making walking around and seeing the sights very easy. The second much smaller room contained the dance floor and DJ, who oddly enough was perched very high in the air on a carpeted altar, looking like the great and powerful Oz ( I would have liked for Oz to spin better tunes).

The crowd was also skewed young (where the fuck do I need to go, so I don’t have to say that anymore). This bunch seemed a bit more upscale and dressed more to impress the opposite sex. There seemed to be more mingling and dancing going on, a real treat for the eyes (again, why are us guys so bad on the dance floor and when can I expect improvement?)

I do have a complaint to air, one which is not limited to Kickers. Why do we need a men’s room attendant? In between texting and yawning, he offered me a slightly wet paper towel and a crusty mint. I took the towel and passed on the mint, wondering why that kind of personal attention was worth a couple of singles. Now maybe if he gave my dick a shake or two...

Tony and I briefly looked into the martini bar, modestly named Perfect Ten. At that late hour, I didn’t have the strength or will to battle the pretension. Stick with Kickers, you might even go home with a partner who will not be rifling through your things during the night.

Cheers!
-Jim


Albert's on the Alley: 5651 Middlebelt Rd. Garden City, MI 48135



Kicker's:  36071 Plymouth Rd. Livonia, MI 48150

ROSIE O'GRADY's

There are certain bars that exist for getting drunk. I found that out at an early age (I was born during that magical time when you could drink legal at 18). There was a joint in Dearborn called the Gem Bar (great name) and you could not go into that place without exiting drunk.

Stopping in after work for a quick beer-drunk. Hashing over the softball loss-drunk. Greasy bar burger before the Tiger game-drunk.

Rosie O’Grady’s in Ferndale is just such a place. Located in the midst of a zillion bars on W. Troy Street, just south of Nine Mile and west of Woodward, this is a place absolutely devoid of pretension.

Parking is free and easy in public lots surrounding the bar. I just wish that the men of nearby Soho Bar would quit undressing me on my way in, though I am happy to find my niche, no matter who the crowd.

There is, of course, no cover or dress code. To get to the booze, carefully walk by the constantly used pool tables at the front of the room. The only bar dominates the right hand side of the room. There is a rail in front of the bar for those who like to take their drink standing up, a variety of tables in front of the rail, and a small dance floor in front of the tables. They could put a salad bar on the dance floor for all the use it gets.

The crowd is impossible to peg. It is black and white, young and old, toothful and toothless... Nobody gives a shit what you wear, why you are there or if you have any game. People are watching the many televisions, though sometimes it seems as if the staff don’t give a shit what is on (I once saw Roadhouse on every TV with the sound down, a mortal sin considering the spiffy dialogue).

I am sure that romance, long and short term, have been spawned at Rosie’s, but there is not a lot of open hooking up going on. More often than not, big groups settle in and have fun within their space, with local sports being the main reason for any mingling.

So what do people actually do at this place? As old fashioned as this may seem, they talk. To each other. They don’t text, they rarely use cell phones and nobody gets hassled. In this utopian setting, everyone is welcome, and nobody gets fucked with.

Tony and I have been there so many Fridays that Miller Lite and Labatts are opened when we are spotted ($6.50 for the pair). I have, however, seen some pissed patrons grumbling over difficulty getting served, this in spite of the hard working staff in front of and behind the bar.

Laura and Mike usually work the bar where Tony and I drink, and I prefer that Mike pull my beer. Laura is very cute, the natural beauty of her face surpassed only by the natural size of her breasts. Of course, tips being important, these assets are always prominently displayed. I am so conscious of not looking at them, that I focus unnaturally on her face, my eyes never moving one speck. Then I start thinking, I’m staring at her nose. I end up flustered, not knowing what the fuck to do. Smooth! Fuck it, bring me my beer, Mike.

I have seen food ordered. I saw one young lady pick up a fried chicken leg, put the whole thing in her mouth, twirl it around two times and pull it out clean. If only I wasn’t married... I think I also saw a fried salad go by, but I am not sure.

Anyway, on Friday night, food is not the reason for Rosie’s. Like the Gem Bar before it, Rosie’s is a classic dive bar that exists for real people and real drinking. I have never seen a Martini glass, heard an angry word or smelled young adult pretension in this delightfully dark haven (heaven?).

Long live Rosie O’Grady’s!
-Jim


Rosie O'Grady's:  175 W. Troy St. Ferndale, MI 48220

PERFECT PITCHER / THE GLASS MUG

What does it say about a fifty-one year old man who he gets excited about visiting a new pub on Friday night? What about when that excitement begins on Monday? And, what about when that excitement is about a shithole in deepest Taylor called Perfect Pitcher?

The answers to these questions being too painful for consideration, lets get into the journey. My brother Tony and I like to warm up for a new pub visit by having a couple of beers at a “bullpen” bar. We chose Malarkey’s in Southgate. No problem getting a beer or seeing a TV, but no reason to stick around longer than a warmup. Sparse crowd, and those that were there were super low key, like they just received bad news from their doctor. Also, I hate it when the bar is staffed by a bunch of guys from a Gap ad. Creepy!

We moved on to Perfect Pitcher around 11, motoring into the epicenter of Taylor, on Beech Daly north of Northline. The sign lit up an otherwise dead area, and I snuggled my car in amongst the pickup trucks and Stars and Bars bumper stickers.

I recall suggesting that we pull the plug on this dump before getting out of the car, but Tony said we should at least get a beer. His courage and conviction were somehow inspiring. As I walked up to the door, which was not easy to find in the brick fortress, I was second guessing my choice of shirt, an Irish soccer jersey. Tony warned me not to wear anything to arouse the locals, and it hit me that many in this crowd probably consider soccer gay and the Irish trash.

As it turned out, these qualms were unnecessary. I opened the door, was floored by the volume of the band and the well lit nature of the bar. It revealed a handful of locals, and a greeter who looked me over for a few seconds. “Five dollar cover per person,” he said in a challenging manner. I turned on my heels and told my brother that ten bucks for this dump was out of the question. The asshole greeter heard this and started to follow us out the door, suggesting that something less than five a man could be worked out.

Fuck You! This dick saw that we had all our teeth and clean shirts and landed on a fee he thought we had in our deep pockets. When Lindsey Lohan and her girlfriend show up at Perfect Pitcher, the asshole greeter will probably try and hit them up for a $7.50 per person cover.

Not surprisingly, we knew of other bars in the area, and settled on The Glass Mug, also in Taylor on Telegraph Road south of Ecorse Road. Parking is easy in the huge lot, but please notice the Harleys arranged near the door. I seem to recall the term foreshadowing from high school English, and it is applicable here.

It is normally $2 to get in, but the bouncer must have been on a well deserved break, so Tony and I walked in free of charge. He did see us later in the evening, and I swear he looked like he was going to mention the whole break thing and hit us up for the four spot.

The inside features a small dance floor,surrounded on two sides by tables and chairs. Bordering the dance floor and in between the seating is a rail to stand at and watch the action. Tony and I selected a standing spot at Pervert’s Row, so we could keep an eye on the entertainment. No problem getting drinks, the staff is ever present and hard working. Two beers set us back $6. As an aside, isn’t the shot girl one of the most annoying aspects of bar life. It always seems like begging, one “no” is never enough and my brother ended up feeling sorry for the girl doing the schlepping and coughed up $5 for her to do a shot. Fucking heart of gold, that guy!

The music is provided by a standard DJ, straight from the Sears catalog. The crowd was skewed 60-40 toward men. The age of this bunch was a bit older than most clubs. Men and women both look like they could handle themselves in a scrap.

These people were out to have a good time, lots of dancing, hooking up and more interesting, failed hook ups. The biker guys are pretty persistent, and I watched one old duffer working a girl nearby pretty hard. He got nowhere despite multiple attempts. Maybe if he trimmed that whisk broom hanging off his chin, or learned the appropriate distance at which conversation is held, his luck would have been better.

At one point in the proceedings, the dance floor emptied except for one thirty something dude, who started to get his groove on solo. About thirty seconds into his routine, the bouncer strode over with purpose and chased him off the floor. Feeling good about intimidating someone six inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter, he walked back right by our area and muttered some anti gay shit to the crowd. Solo guy never hit the floor solo again. That shit ain’t right. I support people from all walks of life having the right to make an ass of themselves on the dance floor.

Intimidation and hate aside, thanks to The Glass Mug for salvaging what started out as a tough evening ( Remember, there are no bad nights out drinking, only less good ones.) Most importantly, fight sleazy bar behavior and stay away from Perfect Pitcher.

Cheers!
-Jim


Perfect Pitcher:  12900 Beech Daly Rd. Taylor, MI 48180



The Glass Mug:  8214 Telegraph Rd. Taylor MI, 48180

BOOGIE FEVER

If you are married or in some type of committed relationship, Boogie Fever in Ferndale is not the bar you want to be spotted getting your drink on.

Getting to Boogie is easy. Look for the big brick building on the west side of Woodward, just north of Nine Mile, the one that looks like an old Rite Aid. Parking is easy in the large public lot just south of the bar, but watch out for the Ferndale Popo, as they are almost always snooping around.

There are velvet ropes at the front entrance, though there appeared to be no issue getting in due to crowds or selectivity. I was wearing jeans and an old Allen Park Presbyterian softball jersey, my brother had on a t-shirt extolling the virtues of eating pork and a Charlie Sheen style shirt over that. I guess as long as you have the $6 cover, you are good to go. Weirdly, everyone is required to show picture ID, and it is taken from you and photographed for posterity.

Once inside, there should be no problem getting a cocktail, as there are long bars at the front, back and one side of the cavernous interior. The bartenders are excellent and work hard to get you drinking. A Miller Light and Labatt Blue set me back $8.50. All bottles, no tap. My brother and I were already slightly drunk upon arrival, but younger brothers being what they are, Tony felt he needed to kick it up a notch and soon switched to Tanqueray and tonic. It was expensive and came in a plastic cup. Yummy!

The real reason people come to this joint is the lighted dance floor that dominates the center of the bar, where the sweaty crowd writhes away to songs from the 70’s and 80’s that just refuse to go the fuck away.

It is an interesting mix of party people, definitely more guys than girls, but not overly sausage. The age spectrum is fun. There are young ones who think that the music being danced to is ironic fun and old timers who are convinced that Jessie’s Girl was the last great song ever recorded.

Boogie Fever is equal parts fun and desperation. Birthdays, marriages and divorces are being celebrated right next to men and women trolling for love or lust ( just like in the Rod Stewart epic Do Ya Think I’m Sexy). The dance floor is always packed, and the crowd stands three deep around the tangled mass watching for an opening. Warning to you guys who wait for slow songs so you too can dance: There are no slow songs.

If you aren’t dancing, there isn’t shit to do. No sports, Keno or food. And no I did not dance. I am married and dance like a fifty year old white guy, which I am. I did note however that almost every woman looks great dancing and no guy does. We all tend to move too much or too little. Why women put up with this is a mystery to me.

Not too long after our arrival, my brother was drunk as hell and wanted to go eat. Ain’t booze grand!

Who should go to Boogie Fever? People with a few bucks to spend and a roving eye for the opposite sex. Who should not go? Married folk who do not want to appear skeevy by checking out the talent.

Cheers!
-Jim




Boogie Fever:  22901 Woodward Ave. Ferndale, MI 48220

THE DUDS

JIM: When I was in third grade, I got myself dressed for school, came down the steps and presented myself to my dear mother. She looked me over, warming her bare feet against the heat register and noted that I “looked like a bag of shit with a rope tied around the middle.”

From leisure suits to platform shoes, I have always been on the ass end of any fashion trend and can count the number of times I have actually looked good on the fingers of one hand. Additionally, I have a problem with my ass...I have none. There is a straight line from my shoulders to my ankles, no bump. Though I do have a decent chest and shoulders, I tend to wear things baggy. No ass, baggy shirts...I guess I am a bag of shit with a rope tied around the middle.

When Tony and I first began these Friday night outings, I would wear shorts, Hawaiian print shirts and sandals. I looked like a fucking tourist. I quickly ditched that ensemble and switched to jeans, black boots and “club” style shirts. These were somewhat shiny, and were decorated with skulls or stars or bent martini glasses. Pure poseur. I decided to keep the jeans and boots, but switched to t-shirts extolling my favorite musicians (Ramones, Hendrix, Marley). Better.

I still wear the jeans and boots, but dress it up a bit more with untucked button down shirts, Dickies shirts or graphic prints. I never attempt to look anything but my age. I figure that the bald head, baggy eyes and random age spots trump any article of clothing I might wear.

TONY: My brother may not have the physique of a male model (he is basically a walking cube), but he looks damn good in his duds.

This guy found a look at the beginning of our journey and has kept it pretty well intact. The foundation is the industrial black boots. Of course, proper dungarees are next, though Tony prefers black to my blue. For a long time, little brother was wearing the Lucky 13 button down shirts. This is a black shirt with a cool, Deco style piece of art on the back.

I am happy to say that Tony has branched out recently and is now wearing colors (embracing his long dormant feminine side, no doubt). I don’t think you’ll see him donning a Pink Izod shirt any time soon, but he has added some blues and reds to his ensemble.

I am also very envious of his balls in the hat department. He has been known to jam a pork pie hat on his head from time to time. When in his hand, I am always leery. On his head it somehow works. If I tried that, dirty bar napkins and derisive laughter would rain down upon me.

BOTH: Michigan means a lot of horseshit weather, and one area Tony and I agree on is the wearing of black leather jackets. Tony goes with a shorter motorcycle style and I tend to go with a longer blazer style. My bro is tough, or thinks he is anyway, and never wears any extras. I like to wear a scarf, and for some odd reason it has become known as Jimmy Regal.

IN DA CLUB

One unintended by product from the website has been the curiosity of some over what exactly goes on during our Friday night excursions. What is said, what do you do, who do you look at, and can I go with you?

The answers are: lots, nothing, everyone and no.

Let’s start with the nuts and blots of the evening. Tony and I always prefer to stand as opposed to sit, and if we do sit, it is always at the bar and never at a table. Also, we need to be in the middle of the crowd, with the dance floor in plain sight. Many nights, the first hour of the evening is spent griping about location (“We might as well be out in the parking lot”) and speculation over where we should be ( “I think we can shoehorn in next to the two poseurs”) .

Being a gassy pair, the first few beers of the evening mean the discreet(?) passing of gas and indicating to one another that gas has been passed. Cries of “Jumanji” and “Whammy” often accompany a particularly large passing. On occasion, you might look at the other guy and notice glassy eyes or pursing lips and guess that he has gone “Downtown”. Finally, it is always special to treat your partner to a “Burp and Blow”, a covert burp accompanied by the blowing of the stinky burp breath into an unexpected face. Are you still interested in joining us?

After a beer or two has been had, we typically go on to the betting portion of the evening. This always involves Keno and $1 bets with each other that don’t involve the State of Michigan. We each pick a number and guess the game ( 55 and popcorn for example). As the night progresses, we may add first and last number, even or odd, to the mix. This means that $4 may be wagered on each game (74, Space Invaders, even on the first and odd on the last). We even have nicknames for many of the numbers: 1 is the loneliest number, 2 is worth a deuce, 3 is the intimidator, 6 is Larry Aubrey, 8 is dog balls, 19 is the captain, 55 is met with the singing of I can’t drive 55, 63 is Mister Insignificant, to name a few.

Any sport on TV is a source for more betting. Will the cumulative score at the five minute mark be odd or even? Which team will score the last basket of the quarter? How may pitches will it take Fernando Rodney to get through the first batter?

To the best of my recollection, payment on these $1 bets has never been made. That does not mean that constant bitching and whining does not accompany the ups and downs of your luck. It’s all about bragging rights, money means little to two men of means.

Of course, looking at and commenting on our fellow bar patrons is also a huge part of the evening. You might think that this is largely based on the female population, but you would be wrong. As street reporter Brian Fantana noted in Anchorman Ron Burgundy, “Don’t get me wrong, I love the ladies...” Well, we love the ladies also, but we are fascinated by the guys and the interactions between the sexes as well.

What we really enjoy are bar folk who physically resemble a combination of famous people. The keyboard player in Derringer at Diamondback’s is therefore Viv Algar, a melding of Spinal Tap keyboardist Viv Strange and Wayne’s buddy Garth Algar. A greaser seen at an east side haunt becomes Reggie Kovacs, a combination of Archie’s nemesis Reggie Mantle and old time comedian Ernie Kovacs. A pumped up black dude wearing a tight tee and black stretch pants at Boogie Fever is simply Black Lalanne, a politically incorrect morphing of his ethnicity and old fart exercise guru Jack Lalanne. Writing this, it strikes me that it may be time to update some of our look alike references.

Other folks receive simpler monikers. Two tiny headed broads giggling amongst themselves become known as the Pigeon Sisters. The tall guy dancing alone with an old school hat on his head is Dave Chapeau. The weirdly Eastern European dude dancing solo in a sea of cowboy hats at All Around is Christo (how this oddball escaped an ass beating is beyond me).

Importantly, the real enjoyment on any Friday Night is just hanging with Tony. We challenge each other to compile lists ( top 3 Beatles tunes, best live albums, most crushing Michigan football losses). We rarely touch on anything heavy and always keep real emotions down in the pit of the stomach where they belong. Laughing and enjoying each other, that is the real reason for the tour. May it live forever, Amen!

GAME DAY

Life may be like a box of chocolates, but I’ve always felt that the work week is like a bar of soap. On Monday, I am a fresh, out of the wrapper bar of Irish Spring. As the week goes on and I deal with one asshole after another, that bar of soap is rubbed between the fingers of life and I get smaller and smaller. By quitting time on Friday, I am the sliver of soap that constantly slips through your hands and collects in the rogue hairs around the drain of the shower.

Tony and I take different paths from quitting time to our Friday night rendezvous.

JIM: I feel like a new, albeit tired, man when I hit my house late Friday afternoon. Gone is the bullshit of the work week, the rudeness of John Q Public and the endless traffic. It is replaced with the relative quiet of home, the love of family and no decisions. My wife has a nice dinner ready and, as is our custom after most dinners, we head out onto our garden patio for games of Rack-0 and Yahtzee. Once Andrea finishes handing me my ass, we talk until 7:30 when she heads over to her dad’s house for a visit.

That is my cue to hit the couch for a nap, or attempt at a nap. My twelve year old Jackson is the X-Factor in this endeavor. As I begin to doze I feel his presence above me. I open my eyes and he asks if he can go to the park and hang. He goes and I start to doze. Fifteen minutes later I hear the side door open and he comes rushing in to take a leak (either he waits to the last second or I have forgotten what a young set of equipment sounds like, but his stream is strong). Out he goes, again I doze. Twenty minutes later, he is back to ask if the guys can hang out in the basement to mess around. One Friday night, my third wake-up came from a knock at the door and the little girl next door complaining about Jack and his friends using a Fart Bag to scare and ruin her evening (bet you didn’t know you could buy a commercial fart bag...ah technology).

At this point I give up and spend the remaining time up to 9:15 watching DVDs. Favorites are any Oasis concert, The Who in The Kids Are All Right, or Guy Ritchie films (weirdly, I get a lump in my throat during the end credits of the Who movie when they show montages of the band leaving the stage kissing and hugging; it’s Keith I guess, a tragic character in the Shakespearean tradition). At 9:15 it is time to drag my sorry ass up and get ready. I shave my head, once every four times nicking some fat ridge until blood flows like a scene from Braveheart. I then begin the daunting task of trimming my nose, ear and eyebrow hair. How these areas can get so wild in seven days is beyond me. I put a dab of Oil of Olay on my bald head, work the deodorant, and steal a touch of my wife’s cover-up for a nasty vein that sits on the left side of my nose. Done!

TONY: Of course, I am not present for Tony’s Game Day preparations, but I do know that they are much more serious and regimented than my own. I have also gleaned that Beth and my mom are to stay the fuck out of his way.

Friday night dinner is planned well in advance, nothing spicy or garlicky that could upset his delicate tummy or taint his breath. Once dinner is wolfed down, he repairs to his bedroom to watch DVDs, selections being very similar to my own (or is it mine to his?). He branches out a bit and adds Monty Python or 30 Rock to his library.

Somewhere around six, he goes to sleep and nobody messes with him until his wake-up call some three hours later. Lucky guy!

“Hey Tony, how did you sleep?”

“I went down hard and when I heard the alarm I was confused as hell and didn’t
know what was going on...I could have easily slept through the night.”

How I envy the purity of his nap, though he will never know the perils of the fart bag.

Once awake, a scalding shower and nose/ear hair primping begin his preparations (is the nose/ear thing a guy thing or an Irish/Scottish thing?). There is no head shaving for little brother as he is not bald, just balding. He does keep his head well trimmed and always has quite the dapper appearance. Finally, he bathes in cologne, a trick learned from living so close to the largest Arab population in the United States. Viola!

CONCLUSION: Essentially, we are good to go ( I will get into the evolution of our fab gear in a separate section). These routines have lead to a bit of “innocent ribbing” from our wives. They recently got together and compared notes leading them both to one big question: Why does it take longer than six seconds for us to get ready for Friday Night Bug Juice, six seconds being the time it takes for us to get ready for a night with the wives? Really, there is no dark answer. It is a comfy routine, a primping for the entire week and is not an effort to look good for any bar folk. I do want to look nice for Tony, however.

THE LADIES

ANDREA:  I have shown balls maybe three times in my fifty-one years on the planet. Perhaps the biggest came in 1978 when I asked the European Beauty delivering mail to my mom’s house out on a date. I remember thinking that if this went south, I would have to see this girl for the foreseeable future and pretend like the crushing rejection was no biggie. Inexplicably, she said yes and continued to go out with me even after our first date consisted of going to the horse track, drinks at a dive bar called the Token Lounge and a late bite at Denny’s. Oh yeah, I wore light blue pants made entirely of man made fibers and a shiny darker blue shirt with planets and moons. Pure class!

She continued to go out with me even after my asshole neighbor, who happened to be her co-worker at the post office, warned her that by going out with me she “was going to get burned this time”. Geez, you throw a few sodden parties, listen to hours of punk music at ear splitting levels and blow tons of ganja toward his house and this is your thanks.

I believe that in every relationship, it is obvious to the world which person married “up”. I married “up”. Andrea is model pretty (my dad gave Andrea the European Beauty label- he was bombed at the time but it is accurate and creepy). She is also very smart, has a good sense of humor, is a wonderful mom and is the rock of our little family. We have been married for almost 27 years and my only real complaint is that she may have surpassed me in the humorous gas category. Her clinching blow, as it were, came one morning when I got up for work and she saluted me from under the covers with a low, sad breaking of the wind. For that piece of work, she received the moniker of “Mournful Bum”.

In many ways hers is the most difficult blurb I have written, and not just because of my meager writing talents. How do you convey trust, respect, admiration, consistency, honor, courage, and love with words or anecdotes. It’s like living with a boy scout whose ass you want to grab.

I love my wife (She let’s me go out with Tony every Friday night).

BETH: I was leaning against a bar rail having a beer with my brother one Friday night (does every story of mine start that way?), when he moved closer and looked discreetly around me as if he was about to tell a racist joke. “ You know Beth from work?... We have been dating for about five years.”

Thoughts came racing through my head: How could he be dating a co-worker of ours for that long without me knowing?... What about his other out in the open long term relationship?... Had I ever commented about her large breasts in front of Tony?

Once this relationship became public, and Tony’s other situation came to a close, it became clear that these two were going to be in it for the long haul.

I have known Beth through our crappy job for a long time, and always admired her as a worker and a person. She had the rare ability to fit in with people from all walks of life, to make the tense client relax and the crabby client smile. She always made me feel good, and welcomed me each day with a “Hello Mr. Jim.” Any quips toward me from Beth were always accompanied by a huge smile and a quick raise of both eyebrows. More importantly, I greatly admired the selfless way she took care of her ailing dad, never a complaint to be heard.

I was not surprised that Tony and Beth chose to live together in the house we grew up in with my mom, who needs a little extra TLC (whether she cares to admit it or not). I have to admit that I was a bit surprised when they got married as I didn’t know that there was a woman alive who could tame that stallion.

We all love Beth, and welcome her into our dysfunctional family. Just don’t fuck with Bug Juice Friday Nights.

MOM: When I was eight years old and in third grade, the class had to write a story about our moms and I cried. For my mom’s eighty-first birthday, I wrote a note inside of her card and I cried. My mom makes me cry.

In Sister Fabiola’s Fourth Grade class, I faked being sick the morning of a class field trip to the circus. I was afraid to go on the bus to a strange place (and maybe a little afraid of the clowns). My mom easily saw through this, but instead of forcing me to go, or trying to teach me some kind of life lesson, she understood. My mom let me stay home, drop the facade and told me that my dad would take me to a Red Wing game instead. Later that year, I got to stay home for Game 7 of the ’68 World Series.

In this world, people talk a good game. My mom delivers the goods. If she walks into a roomful of strangers, in ten minutes she will be best friends with two or three people and commiserate with them about family problems or revel in their little triumphs. She is Christian, but not pushy. She is sweet, but not saccharine. She is a mom to the core.

She just gets it.

My mom gets a mention here for many reasons, but one is that she is the bookend of the Friday Night excursions. When I pick Tony up around 10 pm, we always stop and look in on my mom. She is lying across her bed, wrapped in an afghan, asleep in front of Frasier DVDs or asleep listening to a book on tape. She always wakes up and asks Tony and I if we have our wallets. Perfect! At night’s end, as I drop Tony off, she wanders out of her bedroom into the kitchen where drunk food is being prepared. Quite possibly the highlight of the week. Tired, crazy hair and ready to talk about the night or criticize the drunk food. Kissing her goodnight and heading home, I feel great, about ten years old again.

I know I don’t have the market cornered on great moms ( my mother in-law Betty was also a mom hall of famer), but, as I used to say when I was a kid, “I love her more than all the grasses and the sands.”

TONY

Recently, my little brother got married in Myrtle Beach. Since not many friends
and relatives could attend, I threw a little party for Tony and Beth at my house.
I felt honored to make a toast, and had a pretty good joke about his wife Beth’s
boobs, so I gave it my best. After my boob joke was received with decent laughter,
I tried to say something about my brother. I was shocked to hear my voice cracking
as I told family and friends that when it came to Tony, “ I could not think of
anything funny to say.” When I turned to look at my brother, all I could do was
mumble that I loved him so much and give him a kiss and hug ( he had a fresh, soapy
smell).

I really should not have been surprised, Tony and I have been close since forever.
I am six years his senior and have pulled a lot of crap throughout the years.
When he was in little league, I was umpiring and can vividly recall the traitorous
look on his face when I called him out on strikes on a chin high fastball.
I got him high for the first time in his life, and promptly abandoned him when my
mom came home and busted us ( he thought he was going to die that night and kept
looking at his fingernails for signs of his impending doom). We now work together
at the aforementioned shite job, and when not complaining, we are drinking or
planning to drink.

Physically, Tony is thick: Wide feet, stout legs, muscular torso and arms.
Like all the men in my family, his hair is beating a hasty retreat. He is
always messing around with his facial hair, but more often than not he sports
an iron jaw type of beard.

Inside, Tony is Irish to the core: Fiercely loyal to his inner circle, a
momma’s boy in the best sense of the word, quick to laugh and quick to anger.
Quite simply, he is the single funniest man I know; equal parts Monty Python
and Groucho Marx, wrapped in a well read steel trap of a mind.

In short, he is a devil and devilishly handsome.

JIM

I am a mess. On the outside, I look like a lot of fifty-one year old guys who
are desperately trying to hold it together. I have whipped my body into decent
shape, having lost about forty pounds, and now carry 202 pounds on my 5’10” frame.
I have no hair on my head, the retreat having started about twenty years ago.
I wear a fu manchu mustache and sport a soul spot, both gray as hell.
My outstanding physical feature is a nose that is pretty red in the winter and
bright red in the summer. All in all, a real treat on the eyes.

I have been married for twenty-seven years ( I will get to that poor gal later),
have three great kids, a steady job that I fucking hate and a small house in
Allen Park that is paid for. I can be fun to be around and have a good sense
of humor. Sadly, I intersperse that with periods of melancholy, thinking about
the big picture and threatening to overturn rocks and examine life. What a prize!

I decided to chronicle my Friday night excursions with my brother Tony (he suggested
calling it "Friday’s with Tony", but I hear Mitch Albom, despite his lack of size,
can be vicious). I come from a journalism background, actually worked for a
weekly Dearborn paper in the eighties, and only quit that because I am a coward
who looks for the easy way out (redundant?).

Hopefully, these reviews will help you spend your bar money wisely and give you a
little insight into the lives of two hapless Irish louts.

ONE UNDER BAR

I think it is a sin to wish away chunks of your life, like wanting the work week to go by faster to get to the weekend sooner.  You really owe it to yourself to suck the marrow out of each day.  There may be a routine to your life, but it doesn't have to be routine.

This past week has found going against this credo, wishing more than ever that Friday night would roll around.  My wife, and reason for living, informed me last week that a needle biopsy would need to be performed on a suspicious area of breast.  The biopsy would take place Wednesday, the results would be known to us on Friday.

Waiting for Wednesday; bad.  Waiting for Friday; fucking horrible.  On Thursday, we sat outside playing games and decided to try and help time pass by playing a game of ping pong (we are like hillbillies, as we have both a sofa and a ping pong table in our garage...and love it).  Andrea and I are pretty evenly matched, though my superior athletic skills and will to win puts me over the top on most occasions (her mom always contended that she let me win to keep the peace in the family...a wise woman).  Even though her chest still hurt from the biopsy and her mind was clouded by uncertainty, Andrea managed to jump out to a 20-10 lead.

At this point, I hunkered down, put on my game face, and started a comeback.  Soon, the lead was cut in half.  A marathon point ended in my favor, and the once insurmountable lead was down to 20-19.  It crossed my mind that this would be a good time to hit a long ball and go down to defeat.  It might give my dear wife a nice moment, a few minutes to relax and forget about test results.

Three points later, I completed my comeback with a 22-20 victory.

The comeback was not mentioned until Friday afternoon, when, after a bit of fucking about by the medical community, we received the results of the biopsy.  BENIGN!  After sighs of relief and some tears on my part, I brought up the big ping pong win and what an unmitigated asshole I am.  We laughed and hugged and Andrea readily (too readily?) agreed that I was an overly competitive douche and an asshole.  More laughter and hugging, but strangely, no retraction.

Friday night found me in even more of a celebratory mood than usual as Tony and I made our way to Livonia and the One Under Bar on the north side of Five Mile, just east of Leven.  This place sits proudly in front of the Idly Wild Golf Course (explaining the cleverly golf-inspired name) and has plenty of parking all the way around the bar.

I called earlier in the day and was told that, even though Spirit of '76 would be kicking out the jams, there would be no cover to enter.  I walked in the door first, Tony right behind me making sure my jeans fit just right, and saw a greeter checking out the ID of some young chippie.  We paused three feet in front of this dude, waited for what seemed to be forever, and moved on by, assuming that the age spots orbitting my were enough proof of age.

A second tough guy came running around the first and put the arm on me, astonished that I would try and skirt the $3 cover.  At that point on a Friday, after a horseshit work week and massive sleep deprivation, I could no more ditch the cover charge than grow hair.  I paid and made my way past the clucking needle-dick and into the bar.

Into the bar, yes.  To the bar, no.  It was like one of those frustrating mazes you did as a kid, each aisle between tables led to a dead end, the bar but a mirage, shimmering thirty feet in front of me.  Finally, we walked around the perimeter of the room, right past the jamming Spirit of '76, and to the long counter.  An eternity later, the lazy dog behind the bar took my $6.50 and gave me an ice-cold Labatt's and a room temperature Bud Light.  Though I have admitted to a ping pong table and a sofa in my garage, I am not hillbilly enough for Bud Light.  I always order Miller Light, and even though I never specify that I want it cold, I always expect it to be.

We found two seats at the back of the crowded room, with a cooling breeze from the front door and a perfect view of the tiny dance floor in front of the bandstand.  The room was an abstract array of tables, stools, and four-person booths arranged by a graduate of the (insert blind person's name here) School of Design.

Early on in the procedings, after surveying the room for a beer (that is an actual measure of time on Bug Juice Friday Night),Tony was ready to pass judgment.  "I'm not feeling this place."  If an ordinary citizen makes a proclamation after ten minutes, doubt him.  If Tony does, bank it.

I urged him to chill and enjoy the funk of Spirit of '76, no easy task.  Like most folks trying to channel the 70's they failed miserably.  Not only did they not look the part, they played songs from the 80's like "Working for the Weekend" (a tune which blows no matter the decade).  While the rabble ignored the lead singer's between-song banter, they did fill the dance floor for most offerings.

The crowd was the highlight of One Under.  It was an interesting mix of ages, though consistently pale in ethnicity.  Tony felt that there was a preponderance of bald heads in the joint, and later offered that they looked like cops (not his favorite people; mine either).  Still, there were a lot of girls mixed in with the bald, and the entire place was hopping and hooking up.  The volume was intense, the atmosphere hectic, and the overall vibe aggressive.  More looking for love than for fights, but a place where a fight would not come as a surprise.

At one point, I made my way back through the throng, back to the bar, in hopes of a cold beer.  I found a crack in the bar, between a chick staring straight ahead and two dolts checking me out.  I put both empty soldiers in the trough and waited to get noticed by the aforementioned lazy sod behind the bar.  The chimp next to me started to point and gesture wildly at the girl staring straight ahead on the other side of me.  This went on for a bit, before I asked him what the fuck he was up to.  His buddy answered for him, "Her date is in the bathroom and will be right back."  I looked at these two hayseeds and wondered if Tony might have an eye on me in case things went south.  "I'm just here for a beer.  Do you think I'm doing something wrong?" I challenged.  More gestures from Dolt #1, nothing from Dolt #2, more staring from Staring Girl.  After what seemed like an eternity, my beers arrived and I backed away.  No fight, but not out of the question.

I told Tony what happened, and judging from his string of profanity ("pig-fuck"?), he was not happy.  He noted accurately that more trips to bar were inevitable, however, as the waitresses walking around the place ignored us like our money wasn't green.  Oh, yeah, just before we left, I got another warm beer.

One Under was not a complete failure, more like a bogey (more golf-talk).  But, like the real game of golf, I don't see myself indulging again any time soon.

Cheers!
-Jim


One Under Bar:  35780 5 Mile Rd. Livonia, MI 48154