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
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
