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Welcome to Friday Night Bug Juice, a Metro Detroit bar review site. We're here to give you a look into the dive bars of the Detroit area, so you can hopefully spend your cash wisely, and get a little insight into the lives of a couple of hapless irish louts.

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Welcome to the section of our site where you can learn everything you ever wanted to know and way too much more about the gang that works hard ruining their livers to bring you all you need to know about the dive bars of the Metro Detroit area!

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
4 OUT OF 5
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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
2 OUT OF 5


Kicker's:  36071 Plymouth Rd. Livonia, MI 48150
3 OUT OF 5
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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
5 OUT OF 5
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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
0 OUT OF 5


The Glass Mug:  8214 Telegraph Rd. Taylor MI, 48180
2 OUT OF 5
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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 on Urbanspoon


Boogie Fever:  22901 Woodward Ave. Ferndale, MI 48220
4 OUT OF 5
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