ROCKSTARZ / PAPA JOE's

This is not the blog portion of the review I had originally written. That one has been shit-canned by popular demand. I tried to write a serious piece about Halloween, weaving images of fall in with the day’s events and tying it all up in a metaphor about the onset of winter and the inevitability of death.

As my son Jackson would say, “An epic failure.”

When I finish writing a review, I take a day or two to polish it (surprise!). I then print the piece and give it to my wife and brother to look over and critique. I can never be in the same room with them when this reading takes place, but I am nearby and listen closely for some kind of reaction. If two of the people who love you most in life give you the verbal equivalent of a shrug of the shoulders, it may be time for a rewrite.

It’s happened before, though this was the first effort panned due to the pure inability of the writer. I wrote one blog about today’s difficult economic times and the small and not so small ways that my family’s life has been affected, a topic my wife was not anxious to see made public. I also began one review chronicling a bad trip taken in my party days, a topic my brother felt was too dark and would best be kept in the archives.

Still, the first take for this week’s review, (you know, the one I ditched due to my inabilities as a writer) is my first genuine “epic failure”. I have learned a valuable lesson from this mishap. A great man once mumbled, “A man’s got to know his limitations.” I know mine. Stick to party stories and dick jokes and leave the serious stuff for serious people.

Tony and I are always serious about Friday night drinking, so we headed to Rockstarz on the south side of Ford Road west of Wayne Road in Garden City. A couple of days earlier, when I informed my son Max that this was the choice, he recalled his night at the pub, wrinkled up his nose and expressed serious doubts about our selection. “It’s really young,” he offered, punching the word young. Young is nothing new for these fossils, so Tony and I fought a cold rain and found a parking lot on the west side of the building. Not a parking spot, a parking lot...and one with no exit. Backing out onto Ford Road through a clueless bunch of kids is a delight, so we decided to do it twice when the lot on the east side of the building was found to be similarly fucked.

We finally docked across the street and made our way in, no cover to enter. This place is listed as a Karaoke bar, but the sound we heard upon entering was so vile it could only be made by a professional. The DJ was spinning metal, but not Priest, Metallica, or Blue Cheer (you know, good metal). This was a drone of guitar and some asshole putting the mic deep into his sewer and growling, a real toe tapper. It went on forever, about the same amount of time it took to score a beer. I’m not a big fan of a guy behind the bar, much less a greaser ignoring my needs. After much thirsty frustration, I visited the beer tub lady near the front door, but could not get a Michelob Light for little bro, Bud products only. And as Tony soon found out, warm Bud products only. Yummy!

We groused about the service, the unending crap being spun by the DJ, the lack of karaoke at a karaoke bar, the warmness of the beer ( we never got around to noticing the age of the patrons). Still, we were in need so I convinced Tony to hang for a second drink while we figured out where to go. After ten additional minutes of no service, we cut our losses, saluted the bar with a middle finger (figuratively, we could get our asses kicked if we really did it) and decided to figure out our next move in the car. We wouldn’t get a beer there either, but the music would be better.

About a half mile west of Rockstarz, on the same side of Ford Road we had noticed Papa Joe’s Bar and Grill. Neither of us knew what to expect, but it was close, there were cars in the lot and we felt comfortable that it could not possibly be as annoying as our previous mistake. A large parking lot surrounded the bar, one that allowed you room to maneuver and exit, score one for Papa.

No cover to enter, a long bar staffed by an attentive young lady in a saucy Halloween costume, cold beer at a decent price ($6.25 for the pair). Papa’s saves the night! (that’s two exclamation marks in the last few paragraphs, this must be a forceful review!)

Tony and I like to stand while getting our drink on, but the long bar was bit too full. We scanned the place and noticed that it resembled an old Denny’s with a DJ booth and tiny dance floor hastily dropped along one wall, restaurant booths along another and round tables filling in the balance. We tried to stand near a round table in the middle of the bar, soon realized we looked like a couple of assholes and sat down. Secretly, I was relieved, my old bones settling in for a decent soak.

The crowd was a good blend of guys and gals, some in costumes and some dressed to be noticed. This place really did feature karaoke, the highlight of the evening an energetic version of “We Are Family” performed by a gal dressed like a sheriff, an outfit made believable by her broad shoulders and large mitts. The dance floor received a lot of attention, mostly the ladies dancing to both typical DJ stuff and karaoke. Ubiquitous (love that word) televisions and Keno fought the singers and dancers for attention, and lost.

There was nothing outstanding about Papa’s, but it was extremely comfy and soared when compared to Rockstarz. It made Tony and I wonder how many other good pubs are out there, that do not advertise in Real Detroit or online, where a good time can be had at an affordable price. We promise to perform our public service by constantly looking for such places and reporting them to you, our faithful reader (singular).

Cheers!
-Jim

P.S.: The following is the aforementioned blog dumped for its poor quality ( still hard to believe that some are rejected, eh?)

“A multi-colored carpet of leaves covering tall grass and damp sidewalks Wicker and cracked plastic lawn chairs randomly arranged around a front porch decorated orange and black from head to toe. Glasses of wine, bottles of beer, and pumpkin seeds to nibble on. Costumes, partial costumes and coats for the less adventurous. A full moon fighting clouds for notice. Worry about school, career and health set aside for laughing, stories of past Halloweens and reviews of the night’s trick or treaters.

Matt spent a bit on a Clint Eastwood hat, but saved bucks on a poncho by cutting a hole in the center of a six dollar towel and draping it over his shoulders. Max went way out, as a fan of this holiday should, and became a pirate, cheating only by placing his eye patch over trendy glasses. Jack was not sure if going out was in his future, teetering on the “too old to trick or treat” dilemma, before finally caving and dressing like the heavy from Scream. Rachel, always a dandy in hats, looked cute as a western sheriff. Luke visited and was complimented for his hippie wig, but criticized for polyester floral pants and vest. Andrea and I, the oldest of this crew, dressed to fight the elements, forgoing clever for warm.

As the dark took over and the revelers began to dwindle, excitement began to grow for the trip to Tony’s house for the traditional Halloween meal. To be fair, Tony’s involvement in the meal was largely inspirational, the nuts and bolts of the preparation provided by Beth and my Mom. A short drive later, we were seated around the dining room table, nibbling on salty stuff while the sloppy joe and Halloween soup (elbow noodles, stewing beef and ketchup added when in your bowl) were heated up.

My Mom held court about past trials of getting multiple kids ready to “go begging”. Rachel and Matt jokingly fought over the party they were obligated to attend once dinner had settled. Max proudly kept my Mom informed about his upcoming graduation from college and internship. Jack talked about his “job” delivering the News-Herald. Beth fussed over dinner, threatening five dollar pizzas for next year. Everyone argued about favorite candies, costumes, trick or treat etiquette. Sooner than I would like, the table was cleared, party goers said good-bye and heavy eyelids drooped. Kisses, hugs and Jack and Grandma touching fingers to transfer his energy to her, took place in a crowded kitchen.

It was cold, the trip back home largely quiet. Halloween was over, winter was on its way.”


Rockstarz:  33279 Ford Rd. Garden City, MI 48135



Papa Joe's:  34275 Ford Rd. Westland, MI 48185

PENALTY BOX

Our homework assignment for this week is to tell a story that best describes the other bug juicer as a brother. As of this writing I am forty-six years old. Jimmy is six years my senior, but the next oldest sibling in our family. We have also been working side by side for almost twenty-eight years.

Not much has changed in our relationship lo these many years. I still look up to him and love hanging with the guy. This isn’t to say that we don’t have our moments. Many is the time people think or say that we agree with each other all the time. Spend five minutes with us and you will see, or most likely hear, that is untrue. There is nothing like having a verbal dustup over nothing. This is much to the chagrin of those around, specifically our better halves. However, if you are not one of us, and disagree with either of us, God help you. We will rip you apart like a pack of wild, starving dogs. He bleeds, I bleed. This is the cornerstone of our relationship. No matter what happens, I have his back and he has mine. I love the guy.

The story I chose goes back many, many years ago. Jimmy was a pimply teen and I was yet to become a pimply teen (morphing to a pimply adult, when the fuck does this end?) If you didn’t know me, you would think I am a normal, head on straight, strong willed person. Those who know me, or have a five second encounter with me, know better. I am, and always will be, a tightly wound obsessive cat, with many a mental deficiency.

One such deficiency in growing up was a fear of being alone. Jimmy and I shared an upstairs bedroom. My bed was at the head of the steps. His bed was across the room by the window (Side story: When Jimmy moved out I inherited the whole upstairs. I put my bed by the window. It was a perfect place to hang your head out to blow weed or barf after a night of drinking. One time I barfed a mixture of peppermint schnapps and sloe gin. It smelled pretty and made a picturesque streak on the aluminum siding.) Getting back, sometimes when we would shut the lights out, I would lay in bed and become frightened. Over what? Who the fuck knows? Mom and Dad were in the house, which should tell you it was awhile ago. Jimmy was less than ten feet away. I would still get scared. Those times I couldn’t control being chickenshit, I would ask Jimmy if I could come over and lay in his bed. He never, ever gave me any shit for coming over. He never mentioned it, he never teased me about it, and to this day, I don’t even know if he remembers. I do. It’s what my big brother is all about. He doesn’t make a big deal out of having my back. He just does. All the time.


-Anthony

After much bickering and name-calling (Tony wasn’t kidding, we loudly disagree on lots), the Tour decided that Penalty Box in Livonia was the place to be. It was easy to find, sitting on the south side of Plymouth Road between Inkster and Middlebelt in lovely Livonia. I seem to recall both of us voicing concern over the lack of cars in the parking lot surrounding this cinder block dump. Thirst and the kind of curiosity that makes you look at flattened squirrels led us to the front door.

There was no cover to enter Penalty Box (it’s hard not to type “The” in front of the name), and once inside, Tony reminded me that one internet description of the place crowed that Penalty Box featured, “the longest bar in Wayne County.” That is like me bragging that I have, “the softest nose hairs in Wayne County”. It may be true, but why the boast? Trust me, this tourist attraction is nothing more than a huge slab of 70’s mock walnut formica. As tempting as it may be to visit this slice of Americana, resist the urge.

No problem finding a choice spot at the bar and scoring two beers for $6.25. Once you get past the awesomeness of the bar itself, a dizzying tour of the inside reveals long banquet tables, taller counter tables and a small dance floor in front of the raised bandstand in the middle of the room. I’m still waiting for the first dancers to hit the floor, which leads us to the evening’s entertainment.

The best thing I could say about Sum Of Us, the band providing the torture that evening, is that they blended in perfectly with the bland formica bar. It would be the only blending done by this four piece. The chick drummer started each song with the same beat, speeding it up or down to fit (?) the song. The three old farts playing guitar and sharing the vocals were human Ambien. They played everything from The Eagles to Steely Dan with a mind numbing sameness (the Eagles to Steely Dan reference is a joke as these classic rock bands are remarkably similar in...oh fuck it). Did I mention that they placed a tip jar front and center? To the credit of the bored in attendance, it went ignored.

Which brings us to the crowd, if you can call thirty people a crowd. I seem to recall guys and girls, young and old, white and whiter. It was so quiet, that Tony and I had to practically whisper our stinging criticisms of the place. Purely a neighborhood joint, and certainly not a destination.

Testimony to our great boozing abilities, little brother and I still managed a good time betting on Keno, watching football and trying to guess what classic rock tune Sum Of Us was butchering. When it was time to leave, we gave the barmaid one of our cards, explained the web site and proclaimed that it was worth a look. She looked from the card to our faces, deadpanned “that’s what they all say” and tucked the card into her apron next to a stinky bar rag. Perfect!

Penalty Bar is no minor penalty, it is a major penalty for boring (you see, there is a penalty in hockey called boarding, the second so called joke I’ve had to explain in this review).

Cheers!
-Jim


Penalty Box:  28121 Plymouth Rd. Livonia, MI 48150

MOOSE MacGREGOR's

I’m pretty sure that this comes across through the reviews, but Tony is my best friend as well as my brother. For the blog portion of the next two reviews, we have challenged each other to write a short something about the other guy. No rules or guidelines, just a short something. I have given this a lot of thought, and have selected a moment, but with the moment comes a revelation. It is impossible to pen a single moment that encompasses my brother, or my relationship to my brother. It is a body of work. A loving, funny, sometimes drunken body of work. But, given the challenge, here is my story:

I was struggling. A pain in my sides and discomfort south of the equator had been diagnosed as an infected prostate. I did not take this news well. No man wants to be told his prostate is swollen and boggy ( I guess tiny and tight are the optimum). My doctor stated that antibiotics should do the trick, but to expect discomfort and a test for prostate cancer when the symptoms disappeared. Controlled panic would be a good description of my state of mind.

During the middle of my med cycle, Tony and I made a trip to Bloomington, Indiana for a long planned Michigan football road trip. Of course, Tony knew of my issue and was predictably sympathetic. Once we arrived in the thriving metropolis that is Bloomington and settled into our room, we decided to party a bit and hit the tiny indoor pool. Bad idea. The alteration to my mind, my distance from home and pure fear put me over the edge and for the first time in my life, I experienced a panic attack.

My brother was witness to this, and his handling of that moment was so kind and loving, my concerns melted away by the second. He was calm, listened carefully to what I said, asked questions to keep me thinking, made observations that made a lot of sense, and in the end had me laughing about the “horse-apple” that my prostate had become. In some quarters, little brother has a reputation as a person interested primarily in fun, less serious or studious. The truth of the matter as I know it, is that he possesses a brilliant mind, and one of the most caring souls on the planet. When I needed him most, Tony came through.

His long term prescription was two days of alcohol and laughter, with a dash of pizza for breakfast mixed in, the perfect tonic to what ailed me. My prostate woes are behind me (pun intended), but I will never forget the compassionate care I received from Nurse Anthony during one of my darkest moments.

P.S.: It was a tossup between this tale and the moment when Tony celebrated his release from third grade by pulling the headgear off a nun.

No tossup this week in bar selection, as fellow rumpot Anthony and I decided to visit Moose MacGregor’s on Telegraph Road south of King in Brownstown. Look for their bright green sign in an otherwise dank section of Telegraph south of King Road and park in the huge lot on the north side of the bar.

Before moving on to the guts of the review, a personal note regarding the name of the city and the name of the bar: I hate them both.

The parking lot was full and we parked next to three broads arguing loudly, two good omens in the world of Bug Juice. Ever the gentlemen, we let the girls enter the club first and they breezed past the greeter, still arguing. Tony and I were stopped and asked to produce five bucks each to enter. Either he didn’t want to interrupt their intellectual debate, or the presence of tits negated their entry fee.

Once inside, finding a place to hang became our immediate challenge. The band dominates one wall, a long bar the opposite and the space in between is jammed with tables and a tiny dance floor, all of which were packed. I managed to grab the last spot at the far end of the bar, score two beers for $6.25 and move over to a sliver of an open area near the ignored video games.

I barely had a chance to complain about our point of view, when Tony noticed a free table to the side of the band with a perfect view of the proceedings. While I applaud his scouting, would it have killed him to give me a bit longer to bitch?

Rocking the house this evening was Sykofish ( a third name to add to the hated names list for Friday night). These guys took on Rob Zombie, Alice Cooper and Thin Lizzy, managed to be heavy and get bodies on the dance floor, no small feat. I would be negligent if I didn’t mention that the fellow spinning tunes between sets was at the top of his game, managing to pull out some lesser known White Stripes offerings to please rock snobs like Tony and myself.

The crowd was a pleasant surprise. There was a close split between guys and gals, a wide variety of ages and everyone dressed nattily. I am further pleased to report that the combination of rock bar and deep downriver setting equaled drunken behavior, lots of creative dance steps and zero pretension (someone may have feasted on an Appletini, but I didn’t see it).

The evening went swimmingly (great seat, good band, attentive waitress) until Tony decided to invite Tanqueray and Tonic to the party. Increased venom for the Tigers September swoon, more convoluted Keno bets and a desire to see new faces at a new bar soon followed (we finished the evening’s program at the Glass Mug and it didn’t disappoint).

Still, I feel good about recommending this joint, as the webmaster and technical brains behind this unholy trinity, Matt, feels my reviews tend to be negative. So fuck off, give Moose four solid bugs and look forward to Tony’s short tale about me leading off next week’s review.

Cheers!
-Jim

Moose MacGregor's:  21980 Telegraph Rd. Brownstown, MI 48183

BOOKIE's / CECIL's DA BAR

While attending Wayne County Community College some thirty years ago, an intro psych class was released early by a teacher who realized we were wasting his time. It was a clear and cold December evening as I picked my way through my fellow classmates and headed across the partially frozen tundra to the parking lot thirty yards in the distance. Being in good shape (this was thirty years ago) and freezing my ass off, I decided to sprint the final distance to my car.

About ten yards into my sprint, my toe met a piece of frozen sod sticking up about two inches higher than the rest. I immediately started to pitch forward, lurching crazily, trying to catch my balance. This went on for twenty yards in distance and an eternity in time. Finally, when I realized that catching my balance was out of the question, I gave up all hope and leapt forward, a long haired (thirty years ago, remember?) Superman flying two feet off the ground.

Superman never had a landing like this. The books I held in my hand kept me from bracing, and I took it hard, bits of sod mingling with my fingers, pant legs pushed up to my knees, breathing labored. I was on the ground for less than a second and was back to running for my car like nothing happened. But something did happen, as evidenced by the snickering and mock concern I heard from my fellow classmates...the classmates I would be seeing for the next month.

The point is, bad stuff happens. Like it did a couple of Friday’s ago for fellow lush Tony and I as we headed to Bookies in Detroit. We are always a bit off our game going into the city, edgy at the thought of being accosted or having our car stolen. Let’s not get into the whole Detroit thing, we get up tight and that’s that. Anyway, after Tony mocked me for wanting to park in the street, we found a spot in the parking lot behind Bookie’s directly under the glare of the one working street light in the area. “Lots of light for the guys wanting to boost your truck,” I offered.

Once in the bar, Tony and I looked around at the twenty or so people on the main floor, and tried to figure where the people who belonged to the cars in the lot and the street were drinking. Over our first beers, we watched some beautiful patrons walk through the main floor, engage a Bookies rep, get on an elevator and disappear. We both knew that there was more to this joint than the lame first floor, there had to be additional floors of privileged fun.

After a bit of liquid courage, we got up and slowly made our way to the elevator. No Bookies rep. We pushed the up button and waited, wondering when someone would rush over and tell us we were not cool enough, or not invited enough, to head upstairs. Finally,the elevator door slid open and we entered a small cube filled with doctor’s office light. I morphed into a clear skeleton model, the veins in my body visible to anyone unlucky enough to look my way.

“The third floor button doesn’t work,” Tony noted, a bit of edge to his voice. “Hit the second,” I answered, desperate to get out of this shaft of light. The elevator jerked forward, and in seconds the doors slid open on the second floor. The harshness of the elevator announced our presence to the hipsters on the more intimate second floor, all of whom turned to look at the two old douche bags wearing thirty dollar jeans invading their world. I took in the crowd taking me in for a mere second and wheeled back into the elevator, wanting badly to escape attention. I’m not sure if Tony’s feet ever touched second floor carpet, but his frantic pushing of the first floor button told me he didn’t want to be there either.

Just as quickly as we headed up, we headed down, out the door, into our truck, on the expressway and back to downriver. After a brief argument over what happened, Anthony and I understood the situation for what it was, a moment so mortifying that mentioning it to our wives was out of the question.

After selecting the next, more comfortable watering hole, we began to speculate about the hip crowd’s reaction to our entrance/exit. We decided that they took turns putting napkins on their head to imitate our male pattern baldness, putting maraschino cherries on their nose to look like me, and walking out of the elevator on their knees to parody Tony.

This revelry made the trip to Taylor, and Cecil’s bar at the corner of Goddard and Pardee easy. Not easy is finding a parking spot in the small “L” shaped parking lot surrounding the gray brick bar. There is a large strip mall parking lot across the street for the overflow, but be careful crossing the bustling intersection.

There was no cover to enter (good), the atmosphere is dark (better) and the crowd was typically downriver comfortable (great). Once inside, Tony and I made our way to the bustling bar which dominates one entire wall and found it difficult to get a drink. Not only was it busy, but the broads behind the counter were more interested in trading insults and swiveling hips than taking orders. At one point, Tony leaned forward, elbows on the bar, head in hands looking like a forlorn kid who got stiffed by the ice cream man. This obvious dejection seemed to work, as our two beer order was finally filled for a reasonable $4.25.

Most of the karaoke I have heard is long bursts of caterwauling interrupted by surprisingly decent singing. Not at Cecil’s, where caterwauling is the order of the day. Maybe if some chick sang, a moment of sanity would have prevailed. Instead, we had to endure guys performing rap-rock (Korn and Limp Bizkit), pure rap (Snoop and Eminem) and metal (Rammstein and Ozzy). Everyone should experience a drunken kid screaming “Du...Du hasst...Du hasst mich” which translated means “You...You hate...You hate me.”

For some reason, possibly the alcohol or the night’s previous humiliation, Cecil’s was a lot of fun. Did I mention the dance floor in front of the performers? It was consistently bustling to both the karaoke and the intermittent DJ offerings. It did not have a hook-up feel, more friends acting crazy and dancing in groups.

The pool tables at the front of the bar and seating around the tables were also a beehive of activity. Though most of the playing appeared to be good natured, I saw a few bucks being passed around. Of course, there are multiple televisions and Keno for additional amusement.

Cecil’s is a good time. The drinks, while sometimes tough to get, are crazy cheap. There is plenty to keep you busy and a comfy crowd to get busy with. It surely beat the tension and perceived mocking of “The Bookie’s Situation”.

Cheers!
-Jim

Bookie's:  2208 Cass Ave. Detroit, MI 48201


Cecil's Da Bar:  22615 Goddard Rd. Taylor, MI 48180

CLUB CANTON

With apologies to Robert Frost, Langston Hughes, Walt Whitman and every other poet who ever wrote a poem:

Duke’s Lament

Born back in ’63

Wanted to grow as tall as a tree

Though soon realized not happenin’

Only grew to the size of a sapling

Inseam south of thirty

Waist north of thirty

In the time of Edwin Muskie

Called these measurements husky

Buying shorts, oh please

Always dangling past knees

Even Larry Legend shorts

Made it appear I’m wearing skorts

The outcome always clear

Answers very near

Mother had set the course

Marrying shortest family in Ecorse

I’m no longer taken aback

Never buying off the rack

For any pants I ever copped

Will surely need chopped

Inseam no longer brings fears

As I enter my autumn years

Got a bigger fear to stock

Did I mention my tiny Irish cock?

-Duke 2009

Theme From a Sour Ball

Are you drinking lots of water

Are you eating lots of bran

Has getting to a ripe old age

Replaced your youthful plan

You’re not a writer or a rocker

You didn’t make the team

You didn’t know the daily grind

Would rob you of your steam

Distant memories of smoking weed

Of fucking just to fuck

Windows down, tangled hair

Driving fast to press your luck

My advice to you old friend

Is to quit the fruitless fight

You’re body’s failing, the money’s gone

You’re inching toward the night

Get high because it’s Tuesday

Take your dick out for a walk

If there’s one more slice of pizza

Reach in and never balk

It’s all right to act the fool

To always take the chance

Hit the strip club when the sun is high

Pay a twenty for a dance

Give no attention to my meter

No hidden meaning in this wit

Forget tomorrow, get busy living

Lest you wind up in the shit

-James 2009

The first poem that ever moved me was one written on the wall of an outdoor bathroom at Camp Dearborn. It goes exactly like this:

Those who write on shithouse walls

Roll their shit into little balls

Those who read these words of wit

Eat those tiny balls of shit

I can’t remember a lick of chemistry, but that little ditty sits front and center. I have also shared this inspirational message with each of my children, who can no doubt recite it from memory. A confession: I had to google famous poets to write the one sentence introduction.

I began my two week vacation from work the right way, by driving to Club Canton in (surprise) Canton with fellow degenerate Tony. This bar has a real country shithole look, a big red building sitting amongst seedy hotels and trailer parks on the south side of Michigan Avenue east of 275. We parked in the generous lot, waived hello to Bud and Sissy getting out of their truck and made our way to the front door.

Not every bar is classy enough to use a genuine leather saddle for a doorstop, but Club Canton is. Once past the saddle, we were greeted in a friendly manner by two very tough looking doormen, who shook our hands and seemed genuinely happy to see two Irish hoodlums enter their world. There was no cover to enter, strange for a bar featuring live music.

Once inside, we took in the long bar against one wall and the bustling tables in the center. Getting a beer from the two deep bar was a bit of a chore. After forking over $7.50 for a Labatt and Miller Light, I turned around to find Little Brother.

“Is this any good?” I heard his voice over the country twang of Thunder Tone and saw him sitting at a choice table smack in front of the busy dance floor. It was more than good and gave us front row seats for an evening of good old boys and their fillies. After taking in the crowd for a few tunes, Tony and I played one of our favorite games, “What’s the average age of the crowd?” Usually that number is somewhere between 25 and 30, but we both guessed mid forties for this bunch. Not many fancy Dans or young hotties either. This group, not dressed to impress, was simply out to drink, dance and “Yeeeha”.

The stage at the front of the club appeared to be stolen from a rural grade school, a raised platform surrounded by cheap paneling giving Thunder Tone the appearance of performing in a diorama. With “Canton Club” written in crazy letters above the stage and a longhorn skull perched between the words, Tony and I agreed that it would be a great setting for a rock video (I could easily see the White Stripes filming here).

An extremely professional waitress had been keeping us happy for awhile, when Tony decided to give her one of our business cards ($20 for 100 cards featuring our web address and the Roadhouse phrase “Opinions Vary”). She was oddly impressed by the card and started fussing over us, making sure that she had represented the bar properly (she had) and smiling broadly. That cheap piece of parchment could have resulted in favors ( I’m talking about a free drink...get your mind out of the gutter).

From the parking lot, I felt like Club Canton would be the type of bar where getting your ass kicked would be a cinch. After experiencing their hillbilly hospitality, that seems more stretch than cinch. Go to Club Canton, leave your pretension at home and say howdy to Bud and Sissy.

Cheers!

-Jim



Club Canton:  39651 Michigan Ave. Canton, MI 48188

COMO's / ROSIE O'GRADY's

Is there anything more pathetic, pointless and self absorbed than liner note “thank yous” in a CD. Long lists of arcane influences, half assed stabs at humor and professed love for people not known by Joe Sixpack or Sally Hamburger. Having said that...

Duke (Tony) wishes to thank...Bessie, my love and partner in crime; Labatt Blue; Andy Capp; Python; Stooges (Iggy and The Three); HBO; 13; Howard Stern; Tanqueray Gin; Johnny, my other partner in crime (AKA Mallard and that Stray Cats dude); Mott; The Pros from Dover; Peanuts: Marx Brothers; Pacino/Deniro/Pesci; Myrtle Beach; Cap’n Kangaroo; Geils; Mesick; the tall handsome Swede; porn; Dolls and Pistols; Seinfeld; Nirvana; Wolverines; Duey Gullickson; Doonsebury: Silver Cricket; John Anthony Gillis; Wings; Sid and Sassy; Mich Light; Corleone family; Bugs Bunny; Riverdale High: Miss Wetmore; Dr. Schultz; Olympia Stadium; Barney Melnick; Big Time Wrestling; Ruttles; Glimmer Twins; Atticus Finch; St. Martha; the ‘Orrible ‘Oo; Racquel Welch; 3 Dix; air conditioning; Mad Magazine; 40 double natural; Mr. Ronald Koperski; George Carlin; Billy Sherbert; Raoul Duke; my loving Irish mother who always let me win in Mille Bornes; my arguing partner and best brother any brother could ever have Jimmy and his crew (Andy, Ray, the big fellow, the little guy and of course Louie).

Jim wishes to thank...my wife Andrea for being the rock of our little family; my three children (Rachel, Maxwell and Jackson) for providing my favorite role in life; ketchup and parmesan cheese for always being there; comedy albums from Carlin, Cosby, Marx Brothers, Pryor, Cheech and Chong; Rob, my best friend growing up and traveler through good and bad; New York Dolls; 68 Tigers; Bo Schembechler; Teddy, Baby and Louie; my little yellow house for twenty-five years of comfort; coffee induced regularity (drinking it, not taking it through a tube in my ass); my little brother Tony for defining the word loyalty; Friday nights for making the work week possible; Oasis for reaching me later in life when music had become stale; Ted’s Coney Island; Lake Breeze Lodge deep in the Upper Peninsula for having none of the comforts of home; shaved heads being socially acceptable; Mac products; Three Stooges and Little Rascals reruns for being the perfect compliment to an after school snack; Ernie Harwell, Mickey Redmond and Lord Athol Layton for being the Holy Trinity of Detroit sports broadcasting; Ten Eyck Park and Pine Park where I perfected bad sportsmanship; my lovely mom for giving me a soft side and always understanding.

Friday night found fellow booze hound Tony and I traveling to the Mecca of bad weekend behavior, Ferndale. The first stop on the Tour was Como’s at the northeast corner of Nine Mile and Woodward. One bit of advice regarding parking at this pizza joint/bar: don’t. Go to the west side of Woodward, park, and make your way back across Woodward (think drunken Frogger) to the pub.

Once there, go inside the restaurant, through the smallish dining area and out to the patio. We were greeted there by the manager, a fellow I have talked to over the years while working out at the “Y”. He explained that there was no cover, shook my hand with great enthusiasm and gestured grandly at all Como’s had to offer (thought he might amble over and buy us a beer, but...)

The best thing that Como’s has to offer is outdoor drinking. Tony and I made our way to a standing spot at the bar, only to be ignored by the bartenders chatting to one another. Finally, a kid who looked to be the busboy stopped by and took our order. His air of indifference and the difficulty of placing an order (“cans only sir”/ “Miller light in tall cans”/ “we don’t carry that brand”) made me doubtful. But, the kid came through and shined the rest of the night, keeping our order filled at $8.50 per round.

We turned away from the bar and took in the outdoor setting. It is a large space and is dominated by hanging plants and televisions which limit the sound from a busy intersection. I recall the muted beats of a DJ but could not tell you what was played or if anybody really listened. The wide variety of tables, booths and standing bar space were jammed with a crowd diverse in age, ethnicity and outward appearance (always nice).

Como’s has a reputation as being gay friendly, a characteristic that for some could be a deal killer or too sensitive for discussion. But, since I am not running for public office and don’t give a shit what others think, I will give you the straight (!) info.

The crowd did not seem especially thin, well dressed or artsy. They also were not flitting about, participating openly in sex, or doing piles of drugs (darn!). Folks were having fun drinking, groaning at the Tiger’s blowing a late inning lead, and eating thin crusted pizza, decidedly non-gay activities. Besides, if this were truly a gay crowd, wouldn’t some fellow have approached a juicy piece of man like myself?

One amusing aspect of the outdoor setting is that the men’s bathroom (and I assume the lady’s room as well) is a one person affair. If you are in need and head that way only to find the door locked, do you mill awkwardly around waiting your chance, or make your way back through the crowd and try later? Tony went with the latter and I loved watching him get rebuffed on three occasions before threatening to piss in the potted plants.

While I can’t define (or care about) the sexual preferences of the patrons or vouch for the pizza (eating is a no-no on the Tour), I can vouch for the setting and friendly vibe of Como’s outdoor venue (lot of V’s in that sentence). Still, when Zumaya finished blowing the late inning lead, we decided to wobble over to the newly opened Rosie O’Grady’s.

Have I ever mention that I love old Tiger Stadium (patience, I’m tying this in with the new Rosie’s)? It was dark, dank, had no ferris wheel or hi def scoreboard and was a great place to watch a baseball game. I attended the second from last game at the stadium (not enough status or money to go to the last game like hordes of phony Tiger fans), and at game’s end I made my way down the steps to the bullpen area and reached over the railing to scoop up some dirt from the hallowed ground. On the way out, I walked slightly ahead of my family so that I could get choked up and not feel like a complete asshole.

While I did not cut up a piece of sticky carpet form the old Rosie O’Grady’s in Ferndale, the closing of that great dive bar gave me a feeling similar to the closing of that great stadium. I’ve made an uneasy peace with Comerica Park, so a trip to the new Rosie O’Grady’s was needed (I think the tie-in was worth it).

The new Rosie’s sits loudly on the south side of Nine Mile west of Woodward and still boasts ample parking (way more ample than the aforementioned east side). As Tony and I cautiously made our way to the entrance, we were hailed by our good friend and bartender Mike. He was even more upbeat than usual. The outdoor break area he was talking to us from resembled a jail cell. Still, we managed to shake hands through thick metal bars and exchange pleasantries before ending our non-conjugal visit and heading inside.

At first blush, it is obvious that the new Rosie’s is going to be a hit with the masses, especially the young ‘uns. It features easy access to booze, outdoor seating made comfy by the presence of space heaters, a fire pit and flatscreens everywhere. Lots of space and light for texting and tweeting!

It took Tony and I awhile to spot the second half of the old Rosie’s dynamic duo, Lauren (pause briefly to picture her in a superhero outfit). Like Mike, she was all smiles over her new surroundings, and was working hard trying to keep the large opening weekend crowd happy.

It is way to early to render an opinion on the new Rosie’s though it is not too early to lament the passing of the old. Like that old edifice on the corner of Michigan and Trumbull, I will miss it’s dank charm, everyman personality and ultimate dive status. How the new Rosie’s fits remains to be seen (cliffhanger!).

Cheers!
-Jim


Como's:  22812 Woodward Ave. Ferndale, MI 48220



Rosie O'Grady's:  279 W. 9 Mile Rd. Ferndale, MI 48220

UNDECIDED

THINGS TO AVOID: BAD BARS, JERKS, & ASS-FINGERS

A small Asian man put his fingers in my ass this week. It’s not as lurid as it sounds. I happened to have a physical on Wednesday and my doctor happens to be Asian.

I skipped a year on my annual physical because I am a ‘fraidy cat. But late last week I gave blood, and the middle of this week found me wringing my hands in the waiting room of my family physician, imagining bad stuff about the results of that test.

After an hour in the waiting room watching a television psychic with a horrible smoker’s voice ( I have a vision of an iron lung in her future), I was called back by a too tan nurse and asked to produce urine. When I finished pissing on the container, my hands and the floor I made my way to the exam room for an EKG. I may be bald on top, but I am old school hairy on the chest and stomach, a bit less so after the EKG wires were ripped off my torso.

Then it was Doc’s turn to enter the room. We shook hands, an act I instantly regretted as I watched him wash away the bacteria from the last poor soul he examined.

Doc got right down to business and told me that my blood and urine results were great. Sugar fine, good cholesterol up, bad cholesterol down and prostate number lower than before. That last one is a biggie to me, as it is for all humans with a dick, so I quizzed him on the exact number. When he told me, I let out a brief cheer and told him it was better than last time. “Who remembers their PSA number from two years ago?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear. I fucking do, that’s who.

The physical part of the exam seemed like a snap, breathing in and out, holding my breath, real simple stuff. Until I saw him go to the rubber gloves. I was told to lower my shorts and underwear and lay flat on my back on the exam table. Doc was fully gloved now, and holding a huge tube of lube. He was making a point about something, though I was so focused on his gloved hand that I have no idea of what, pounding the tube into the palm of his hand, about six inches from my face.

It was then that I noticed my dick, or was it a cigar butt sitting on a peach pit. I am probably normal in that department, but with the stress and the harshness of the lights, I have never looked more pitiful. Just once I’d love to pull out a huge cock and hear someone gasp or give me a knowing wink. Anyway, the good doctor chose this time to continue his unknown diatribe, my equipment withering to infant status.

My testicle exam was quickly completed, not a lot of ground to cover I suppose. On to the grand finale! “Lay on your side and draw your knees up to your chest.” Was his voice more husky, or was I imagining things? The dreaded prostate exam was over in a matter of seconds, a tissue offered to clean up ( very sweet, but I really need something more substantial).

With my underwear and pants back where they belong, I felt a wave of relief sweep over me and began cracking wise with the doc. He congratulated me on my good health and I walked out into the cool of the morning with my worries about life in proper order. If you are healthy and feeling good, the rest of life’s complexities don’t seem so daunting.

The following bars are daunting however, and far worse than having a finger in your ass.

The Village Idiot on Mack Avenue on the east side is not just a dive bar. I can deal and revel in that. It is downright filthy and features a cast of skids/bums that can rival any. They have an old recliner sitting between pool tables that looked booze and urine riddled, a throne of honor in this dump.

The Hard Luck Lounge, also on Mack across the street from The Village Idiot is another spot to avoid. I feel bad saying this, as the inside is attractive and they have a programmable jukebox, but it is dead. The Tour has been there twice, and twice we left after one or two brews. There is little laughter, less noise and no life at this one.

The Best Damn Bar and Grill on Dix in Lincoln Park is putrid. I should have known something shitty was afoot when I saw a bouncer walking the parking lot looking for trouble. If you have to worry about your safety before heading into the place, avoid it. We didn’t. Instead we spent three bucks cover for the privilege of drinking a beer in front of people deciding who was going to get to roll us. Were there chicks there? Sure, a fat broad and her fat vertically challenged friend ( they looked like a capital O and lower case O standing next to one another).

Don’t forget to steer clear of the Dawg House on Van Born in Dearborn Heights. It is a rare combination of surly service and unfriendly faces. If you want dirty fingernails, big bottoms and furtive glances, this is the place. If, like me, you think a bar should be a fun place to briefly forget your troubles, avoid this dump like its patrons avoid soap.

Finally, don’t forget to forget Tailgators on Van Born In Taylor, State Bar in Detroit and AC Lounge in Taylor. One is dangerous, the next features impenetrable service and at the third I was called a “fag” while leaving. That last one still bothers me (not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. Remember, I loathe most people, gay or straight).

As Tony and I were leaving AC, we had to walk past a line of eight assholes checking out the talent(?). Tony was in front, and as we passed I heard “fag”. I stopped and looked at the lineup. One asshole was smirking and turned away to look at the dance floor. I paused for a second, considered busting his Republican chops, but continued out the door. I did make a mental note never to wear my pink and lime green rugby shirt in Taylor.

Cheers!
-Jim

COYOTE STATION / PEPPERBOTTOM's

This is some random shit that happened when I was a kid:

I was playing tag in front of my friend Jeff’s house and dying for a drink. I went over to the spicket at the side of the house and placed my mouth about one half inch from the spout. Just as I turned the knob to release the water, I felt a spider crawl into my yap. Too late, the water gushed out and shot the spider down my throat. Even as a kid I was repulsed by that one.

My friend Andy was well known for teasing dogs, especially his own. One day he was doing a particularly offensive dance in front of the mutt when the dog bit him. In the balls. Sadly (for Andy), the story gets better. At the hospital, as a means of isolating the damaged area, the nurse asked Andy to stand up, covered him from head to toe in a sheet and stuck his ten year old balls through a tiny (very?) slit for treatment. He would have been less traumatized bleeding to death.

I took tap dance lessons after school. Not bad enough? I pissed my pants because I didn’t want to interrupt the critical instruction from my muse, Mr. Jimmy. This may go a long way explaining why you never see me on a dance floor at a club. Memories of urine past.

I went to an outing for altar boys at Camp Dearborn. After a day courting melanoma, all I wanted was to win a transistor radio in the raffle (Christ, I really am old). Instead I won a Ball-Net-O! This stupid fucking toy was no more than a rubber ball and a cheap net used to catch and sling the rubber ball. On the way home, I threw the damn thing out on I-96.

In a moment that all kids dream of, I came to bat in the last inning of the championship game at Ten Eyck Park in Dearborn with the bases loaded and two outs, my team trailing by a run. I never took the bat off my shoulder, and my prayer to be walked never came true. I struck out and walked home crying. I don’t recall that being part of the dream.

My best friend Rob had a weight problem growing up (I think this is all right to bring up as I did also, and Rob has since slimmed down and is now just a big sonofabitch). One day while driving in a car with his mom, young Rob looked over at the car next to them while stopped at a red light. The asshole called Rob a “fatso”. Bad enough, right. It then dawned on Rob that the guy based his name calling on his round face only, that being the part of his body visible above the window. I believe he yelled at his mom for letting him get fat.

One day, a bunch of us were playing football in the backyard at the home of this oddball kid named Craig. Older brother of Jeff, Bobby, was drawing up a play in the dirt. He used a small stick to represent me, a bit of leaf was Jeff and a bottle cap was Craig. Bobby’s diagram of the play was interrupted by a stream of piss from Jeff raining down on the bottle cap that represented Craig. Bobby flip hopped the fence into his own backyard and squealed on Jeff. Game over.

Next week, I will go over some of the stuff that happened to me during puberty. It’ll break your heart. Meanwhile, this is the crap that happened to me this past Friday:

First, I must admit that Tony and I are having a devil of a time deciding what bars to haunt. We have exhausted our immediate area and are expanding our coverage, though the drive home is limiting that distance. This week, the debate raged, east side versus west side. The east side has been tough on us in the past, The Village Idiot and Hard Luck Lounge are two joints that broke our hearts.

But, courage is an important component in the Tour, so we made our way east through heavy rains to The Coyote Station on the west side of Harper, north of Ten Mile in St. Clair Shores. We were encouraged to see a lot of cars in the parking lot just north of the building and crestfallen when we walked inside the club (no cover) and saw only a handful of revelers.

Where were the people that belonged to the cars? I know the Allies would sometimes try to fake the Krauts into believing their numbers were larger by using wooden cutouts of airplanes. Was Coyote Station capable of such subterfuge?

Tony seemed particularly disgusted by the numbers, thoughts of previous east side disasters danced through his head. We took in the lighted dance floor in the middle of the place surrounded by a rail for standing, a bar at each end of the room for better service, countless televisions for sports, pool tables/video games/pinball/foosball/dome hockey for diversion. That these areas were largely empty led little brother to declare Coyote “One and out”.

Getting the “one” from the bar proved to be a bit tough, as I had to bear witness to a dispute between barmaid and waitress. My wish to see this feud morph into a wrestling match never developed, and after a while I was given a pair of beers for six bucks.

There was not much to look at, no crowd to speak of and a Tiger broadcast in rain delay, so we decided to have it out at the dome hockey game. If Tony and I are seeing who can throw little bits of stick into a sewer grate, I want to win (by the way, that is a real contest that we play when going for our lunch time walks). So, I was not thrilled to get my ass handed to me in every game played. I was thrilled, however, to see that the bar filled up nicely while we were busy cursing and playing.

We decided to grab a second drink and stand at the rail in the center of the room and soak up Coyote Station. The room, now bustling and filling rapidly, had a friendly feel to it. Mostly twenty and thirty somethings, with a few of us older geezers mixed in. If there are ethnic groups in the St. Clair Shores area, word of this place has not reached them.

The dance floor never filled up, but was used on occasion, groups of girls dancing to Prince and Afrika Bambaataa, tunes endorsed by Tony (I sometimes forget that, like Prince, Tony is almost black).

If not for dome hockey and the immaturity of my need to keep playing until I best Tony (I gave up on that after twenty minutes and four ass kickings), we might have left after one beer and declared Coyote Station shit. Hmm...this whole bar review thing might not be an exact science.

Still, we had traveled to the east side to look over two bars, and so we ventured back out into the rain and headed to Pepperbottoms. This barn was also on Harper, south of Ten Mile in St. Clair Shores. Parking was a snap in front of and behind the huge building, though I looked suspiciously at the glut of cars surrounding the bar. No subterfuge here, Pepperbottoms was jammed.

After parting with two bucks per for cover, we grabbed a pair of beers ($6 again) from the ice chest near the front door. Strangely, we rarely get our beers from the ubiquitous ice chest near the front door. The beer was easy to fetch, ice cold and going down my gullet in seconds. We may have to rethink the ubiquitous ice chest near the front door (ubiquitous is my word of the day).

Soon after soaking in the ambience of Pepperbottoms, Tony stole one of my favorite lines and stated that, “We are the oldest people in here by miles.” Tony further believed that we were being sized up by the kids in this joint as cops, an accusation made to our faces in at least two other bars (J Dubs and Stilettos...weirdly, the accusation at Stilettos came from a lesbian while we were trying to piss in their unisex bathroom).

These young ‘uns were ready to live it up and had no trouble lubricating at the multiple bars or from the highly attentive waitstaff. The music had less to do with the 80’s and more to do with unending beats. Whatever... it worked and the dance floor was filled all night, including one number that featured a contest between broads passing a dildo around in a smutty version of musical chairs (musical dicks?). Pool tables and other games provided further diversion for the hordes.

Pepperbottoms had more broads, was louder and more crazy than Coyote Station. So why did I give a slight edge to Coyote Station? Not sure, though Tony may have felt the same way as we split to make a return voyage to Coyote for last call. Wet minds think alike.

Cheers!
-Jim


Coyote Station:  25117 Harper Ave. St. Clair Shores, MI 48081


Pepperbottom's:  24301 Harper Ave. St. Clair Shores, MI 48080

CHELI's CHILI BAR

Nobody should develop a honking pimple on their chin on the day of their wedding, but that’s what I woke up to on October 17, 1981. I looked it over carefully in the bathroom mirror, gave it a few test prods and wisely decided to leave it alone. As a veteran of the life span of a pimple, I knew that I had twenty hours before it would blossom. If I left the damn thing alone, I could get through the wedding, after party and reception.

The day broke clear and crisp, the kind you get in Michigan during the fall. I made my way outside to check on my best man Rob and usher Jeff, two of my closest friends since forever. Both were ready to get the party started, and we talked things over while tossing a football around in the street. Going to Denny’s for breakfast seemed like a good idea. And, for maybe the first time in five years, the three of us went somewhere without first getting stoned (most of my stories from this period of life start like this...”We were headed to the store, smoking a joint”...”We were going camping and just bought a quarter pound of weed”...”We had to go to the funeral, so we arrived pre-rolled”).

It wasn’t until the grand slam had been wolfed down, and I was back at my parent’s house that the nerves set in. I showered and shaved, carefully avoiding the soon to be honking pimple. I thoughtlessly combed my hair (if I knew baldness was right around the corner I would have cherished those moments) and noticed that my balls were pulling up tight to my body. Now I was petrified. Not because I wasn’t sure about Andrea, but because I was going to co-star in a three hundred person play.

I put on my tux, an off white number with chocolate brown trim (Andrea gave me one job for the wedding, pick the tux, and I blew it). I could not wait to get to Holy Cross Hungarian Church and get this thing in gear. The hour prior to the ceremony was dominated by the photographer. I normally detest getting my picture taken, but on this day I was grateful for the intrusion. Before I knew it, I got word that it was time to line up with my best man and ushers. The aforementioned Rob and Jeff, my brothers Mike and Tony and future brother-in-law Danny stood at attention on the altar. All I recall from that portion of the ceremony was telling Tony to walk slowly down the aisle. Why I thought he needed reminding, I have no idea (young?).

The ceremony took forever, my wife looked radiant in her gown ( a restored beauty that her mother had previously worn) and I was filled with joy as we made our way down the aisle and gathered in the small vestibule at the front of church. It got crazy back there. Loud and hectic was the order of the day. Lots of kissing, hugging and crying. Some of the girls got emotional too.

After the ceremony, my sister Chris threw a beautiful and lavish party at her home to fill the two or three hours between wedding and reception. This is where things kicked up a notch. I seem to recall champagne popping everywhere, walking in on people “covertly” getting high and wondering how this rowdy bunch was going to keep it up for another six hours.

I should not have worried. The party and reception flew by in a haze of drinking, dancing and kissing. The photos from the beginning of the reception look a hell of lot different than those at the end. When the hall manager announced that the evening was over, my dad tried to bribe him into keeping the place, and more specifically the bar, open for another half hour (I guess I got the “I don’t know when to quit” gene from him). My final memory from the reception was Rob tipping back a serving tray with the evenings booze sloshed on it, drinking it down like a Roman warrior.

We stopped in at a local watering hole for last call, before my beautiful bride pried me away from my friends to begin our first married night together. I can still recall the look of exasperation on her face. Our first married moment of disappointment!

And speaking of disappointments...You would think that a great place to watch the end of Game 3 of the Stanley Cup semifinals would be at Cheli’s Bar in downtown Dearborn. Having to pay for parking in the municipal lots surrounding the bar on the north side of Michigan Avenue west of the Southfield Freeway was the first ass pain of the evening.

There is no cover to enter the bar. And, as expected, there were hordes of Wing fans vying for space to watch the pivotal game. What was not expected was the degree of difficulty getting a beer. There was one huge bar and one small bar on the main floor. The crowd around the huge bar was daunting, so Tony and I made our way to the smaller venue in hopes of snagging our drinks. We waited there for five minutes and never saw anyone manning this station.

On to the bigger bar. The ring of Wing fans around this bar was four deep in most spots. I felt I was on to something when I saw an opening at the far end near the windows looking out on Michigan Avenue. Here I could clearly see that there was one barmaid trying (?) to keep up with the thirsty patrons and the demanding waitstaff. Getting her to notice me was impossible. Perhaps it was the scowl on her face, furrowing her brow and narrowing her eyes which prevented my being seen (think Clint Eastwood in any Clint Eastwood flick).

I tried in vain to flag down any of the three or four waitresses who walked briskly by. About fifteen minutes had passed by and we were no closer to getting a drink. Did I mention that the sound on the televisions surrounding the bar was a horrible combination of loud and treble. I looked back at Tony, and we both agreed that it was time to move on.

Back out the door, heading toward Michigan Avenue and any of the other bars within walking distance. But wait, what about the steep set of outside steps heading up to Cheli’s outdoor patio? If we could make our way up there and grab a brew, Tony and I would miss less of the riveting third period. There, overlooking downtown Dearborn, we found large round tables, televisions and most importantly, a small bar much less crowded than the others, manned by an actual person. I made my way to the bar and was fucking ignored again. It took this barmaid a good five minutes to deal with three people and take my order. Oh yeah, no Miller products up here (maybe they don’t do well in the rarified air), so I settled for two Labatts at $7 (in a can, no less). Still, I was finally drinking and watching what was left of the third period.

The patio is a pretty cool space, and features large round picnic tables, many televisions and a less tinny sound system. Still, it remained tough to get a refill and the Wings lost early in overtime (can’t blame the bar or its owner for that...Chelios watched this game from the press box where presumably it was easier for him to be served).

Before I forget, this was not my first time at Cheli’s. Once, I went there with my wife, sat on the upper patio in the middle of summer and sipped a beer. While the two of us occupied one of the large picnic tables, Cheli himself stopped by and asked if we would mind having a few people join us at our table due to limited space. While my wife stared at his Greek good looks, I told him that would be fine. A couple of minutes later, a waitress stopped by with complimentary drinks from Chris. Very nice. I have also eaten there. My wife makes better chili.

Tony and I spent the rest of the night chasing a good time, but never really catching it. The Post Bar, Glass Mug and All Around were hit, the Post being the only place to stand out.

Disappointed in the Wings, but confident they will comeback. Disappointed in Cheli’s, we will not be coming back.

Cheers!
-Jim


Cheli's Chili Bar:  21918 Michigan Ave. Dearborn, MI 48124

EDISON's / THE BOSCO

It dawned on me early this week that If you write a review, you believe that your opinion matters more or is more valid than others.

It further dawned on me that I have no problem with that. Yes, my opinion on bar life is more valid than yours, more interesting too. But why limit it to that? My opinion on most things in life is more valid and more interesting than yours. With that in mind, these random recommendations can elevate your life toward my rarified air:

Go to the library more and the bookstore less. Why buy a book, when it can be lent to you for free. Stacks of expensive once read books at home do not make you smarter, and they won’t sell at the inevitable down the road garage sale... Purchase Rent-A-Crowd by The Len Price Three, a powerful garage rock band being compared to the Who and Kinks. Every track is a catchy piece of England...Use Frank’s Red Hot Buffalo Wing Sauce on everything. It is a frisky combination of heat and vinegar...Eat at Slow’s on Michigan Avenue in Detroit. The pulled pork and brisket sandwiches are great, though it wouldn’t kill them to include chips or fries with the sandwich...Go to Eastern Market. If not for the great deals on fruit and veggies, then for the people watching. Lots of interesting faces and stories on both sides of the vending tables...Beer is better and more predictable than wine. For years I have tried to embrace wine because I thought I had to. I now realize that the hit and miss nature of wine suffers in comparison to the steadiness of a red tinted beer...Nap when you can. Always on the couch, with an afghan and the window cracked...Subscribe to Sirius/XM radio. Howard Stern is a genius, and if you haven’t listened or listened only a little, then do not judge. The music channels are also a revelation, especially Little Steven’s Underground Garage...Mac is the way to go on the computer. The cost is annoying, but the product is as promised. You know the way you think a computer should work, that’s how the Mac operates...If you ever engage in an internal debate over wether or not you want to attend an event or go someplace, the answer is always to go. More often than not, you end up having fun. And if you don’t have fun, a shit evening is a killer story down the line.

Going out on Friday night is always the right thing to do, and so drinking partner and bon vivant Tony and I headed to downtown Birmingham and Edison’s. This pub is on Merrill Street, west of Old Woodward in the basement (or lower level as it is known in Oakland County) of the 220 Restaurant.

A Three Stooges episode entitled “Hoi Polloi” immediately came to mind. The Stooges were looking to be integrated into High Society and took various classes in reading, manners, and dancing so they could blend in. Not surprisingly, things did not go well and the requisite pie fight ensued. Now here we were, heading into High Society without the intense preparations the Stooges took on. Could a pie fight be far away? (I’m not sure which Stooge Tony is, but I like to think of myself as Larry, underrated in the humor department and a great head of hair).

Tony and I were ready to mingle with the blue bloods of Oakland County as we made our way into the high rent district that is downtown Birmingham. No issue with parking, which can be had on the metered street or in the large public garage just west of the bar (no fee for the first two hours, though most who attend this joint aren’t bothered by paltry annoyances like parking charges). Once you navigate the steep steps heading down to the lower level, you will be pleasantly surprised to find no cover to enter and no fat ass bouncer or steroid addled door man eyeballing your gear.

Getting a drink is always the first order of business and it seemed like it would be a bitch. The place was packed, and the crowd around the circular bar stood at least two deep. For some reason, I relished the idea of muscling into this bunch and scoring a Labatt and Miller Light. I was disappointed when a nice fellow noticed my plight and motioned for me to get in next to him and place my order. The attentive big man behind the bar took care of me right away and announced “$10.50”. I wondered if this included a drink for the nice fellow who let me in, but alas, it was for two beers only.

So that’s how they weed out the working class. Not with expensive cover charges or restrictive dress codes, but with expensive boozing.

Tony and I clinked bottles and saluted each other before taking in the scene. I liked the room immediately. It was dark, busy and had a friendly vibe. I could hear a band playing in the far corner, but could not see them as they played on the same level with the crowd and the dance floor in front of the band was thick with revelers. As noted earlier, the round bar was packed, and the tables around the bar were also jammed, forcing many to stand in the aisles and do their drinking. It made for a hectic (in an orderly, Republican way) atmosphere.

Looking at the patrons, a debate sprung up between Tony and I. Did we fit in, as I believed, or did we stand out like the Stooges, as Tony opined.

I started by saying, “We are wearing boots, they are wearing boots.” Tony nodded in agreement. “We have on jeans, they have on jeans.” Tony interrupted, “I have on $20 Wrangler jeans, and yours have a wear hole in the crotch.” Good point, but I continued. “They have on shirts, we have on shirts.” Tony again, “I have on a hoodie bought on sale at Sears for $5 and you are wearing an Irish soccer jersey.” Another good point, but still I pressed on. “We are wearing leather coats, they are wearing leather coats.” Tony started to irritate me. “You bought your coat at Kohl’s and I got mine at a resale shop.” He was on a roll now and continued. “We are the only ones in the joint with facial hair, my iron jaw and your seventies fu manchu. Not only is our hair not carefully cut and styled, you have none and mine is all over the place.”

Fuck, I lose.

I started to revel in the differences and glanced about for some pies to throw. Having found none, we decided to walk around and get knee deep in it. I found that, outward appearances aside, this bunch was not a lot different than those at the various dives previously reviewed. There is a lot of drinking, laughing and attempts to hook up. Exactly the kind of behavior you might find in Westland. I did hear one dandy mention to his gal that, “I have to go pee-pee,” a comment that if overheard in a Westland bar could get your ass kicked.

The band making the noise this night was Bazooka Charlies and they did a good job of keeping the dance floor filled past capacity. The television screens seemed to go unnoticed until the final two minutes of the Michigan State hoops game, and at that time the place went wild cheering Sparty on to victory.

You can have a good time at Edison’s, as long as you have deep pockets. The crowd, definitely older and upscale, is a fun one and not worthy of a pie in the face.

From Edison’s, Tony and I ventured south on Woodward to Bosco’s. Don’t feel bad if you have never noticed this place. It is so cool, they don’t bother putting the name on the building. If you must go there, look for the white opaque store front on the east side of Woodward, north of Nine Mile and just a few feet north of Magic Bag. You can park behind the bar, but be prepared for a zoo as many are vying for a few.

This was not the first time little brother and I have been in Bosco’s, and we have never had a good time. We recently saw the place recommended in Playboy (I only look at it for the articles) as the bar to go to if you are in Detroit for the Final Four and are looking for a place to mingle. Perhaps a fresh look was needed.

It was not.

There is no fee to enter, but the good ends there. The place is way too well lit, and way too clean. I don’t know how to behave at a bar that has no cheesy Bud mirrors or sports pennants on the wall. When I asked glamor boy behind the bar for a Labatt and Miller Light, he said they don’t serve Miller Light. Too common I suppose. I settled on a Labatt Light, imported you know.

There is a long wall of booth seating that goes largely ignored by the patrons who choose to sit on top of the banquettes instead of in the seats. These posers sit there in their alt gear looking at the rest of the crowd, whispering and judging. They look like the art clique from high school that hated the J Geils Band and insisted that Pink Floyd Ummagumma was the only record that mattered. I had an intense desire to start slapping the faces at one end of the snooty line and run to the other end until each privileged face was reddened.

Need I tell you that the music at this place is shit, and that not one ass has ever shook to it in my presence. Dancing is so bourgeois. As far as I can tell, the main activity at this place is outlining how shit everybody else is.

Fuck Bosco’s!

Tony and I decided to cleanse our pallets by having a late beer at old favorite Rosie O’Gradys. It ended up not being our final beer, however, as gay bar Soho called out to us on the way to our truck. I feasted on bottled water here and my cohort finished the night with a Tanqueray and Tonic. Neither of us got laid.


Cheers!
-Jim


Edison's:  220 E. Merrill St. Birmingham, MI 48009


The Bosco:  22930 Woodward Ave. Ferndale, MI 48220

WALKER's SPEAKEASY / FRANKIE's

Age has been on my mind a lot lately (the last ten years) and plays a role in this week’s reviews for a variety of reasons.

To begin, my fifty-second birthday is tomorrow. I loathe any adult who feels the need to make a big deal out of their birthday. I choose to celebrate my birthday in a non-traditional manner that makes me happy, by focusing on how horribly I am aging. As I type this review, I am sitting with my wife’s magnifying make-up mirror facing me. What follows is real, not the usual trumped up bullshit to make life sound more interesting.

I begin at the top of my head, an area that you would think needs very little description, having no hair. Alas, there is a lot going on up there. At the center of my crown sits a dime size age spot. This not being bad enough, it is orbited by areas of dry skin and small red eruptions. On the right side of my crown sits a mole that looks like a melting chocolate chip. Moving down, my eyes are droopy enough that the upper lid sits gently on the eyelid. Dark rings frame the bottom of the eyes. My nose always has a red hue and a pronounced vein on the left side. I live in mortal fear that it will soon morph into one of those crazy pickle noses that look like a dog has been gnawing on it for years. My right cheek has a triangle of red eruptions similar to those at the top of my head. I don’t have the wrinkled neck that so many old farts develop, just the same fleshy wardle I was born with.

My body is a temple compared to the horrors that sit on it. I have been fairly consistent with my weight, about 202 pounds. I have a decent chest and shoulders, though a smaller set of man boobs (moobs) would be nice. I have no ass, but never did. My legs have been the main beneficiary of my weight loss (not really a target zone), two pencils sitting loose in baggy shorts. Main complaints in the body involve a chronically sore lower back and right shoulder. I refuse to give in to the pain, and regularly lift weights and work the legs, even if it means waking up each night trying to find a position that allows sleep.

Oh well, let’s drink!

Friday night began with a trip to Walker’s Speakeasy, on Beech Daly just south of Joy Road in Dearborn Heights. Parking is found in the huge lot on the south side of the building. There is no cover to enter, but once inside be careful of the drastic elevation changes throughout this dark interior. One side of the bar sits at normal height, allowing for people to stand and converse. The other side of the bar is three feet higher and ramped at both ends. If you sit at the chairs provided on this side, your knuckles will scrape the ground (think Jim-Jim from the Detroit Zoo). People on the dance floor appeared in danger of hitting their heads on the sloped ceiling (think Mystery Spot).

The two person waitstaff at Walker’s worked their ass off and were as professional as they were good looking (that says a lot). A Miller Light and Labatt set us back $6.50, and the change was fanned out, giving you a good look at each bill to insure accuracy. Once, Tony was given a two beer reload when only one was asked for. The second beer was whisked away without a huff or roll of the eyes (silly girl didn’t know us yet).

The patrons of Walker’s Speakeasy defined the good times vibe of the place. This bunch was ready to drink and mingle. They were skewed a bit older than most and were a loud combination of black/white/hispanic, men and women, bikers and those not wearing black t-shirts.

Among the highlights:

A super drunk fellow introduced himself to Tony and I and auditioned for a career in stand-up. The Readers Digest version of his first joke had him working in a super market when a man asked him if he could buy half a head of lettuce. After balking at his request, he said he would ask his supervisor if this was possible. He found his boss and said, “Some asshole wants to buy half a head of lettuce.” Before his boss could answer, he noticed that the man was standing within earshot. Composing himself, he gestured toward the shopper and said, “And this nice fellow wants to know if he can buy the other half.” I laughed, Tony did not. Both of us were concerned when this budding Adam Sandler pulled up an ashtray and settled in for joke number two. When this one was less well received, he moseyed along some other poor bastard.
A three person soap opera played out right in front of us featuring Estelle Lee Curtis (a combination of Roseanne's mom played by Estelle Parsons and Jamie Lee Curtis), her younger by twenty years companion, and the rogue trying to intrude on their summer-fall romance. Estelle looked to be in her early sixties, but featured the body and style of a woman in her twenties. She was all over her young date, stretching her toned legs out for him to rub. This did not go unnoticed by the rogue nearby, who was inching his way closer to the amorous couple, one bar stool at a time. When the young lover went to the head, rogue went in for the kill. He seemed to be making some progress, but not fast enough, as young lover came back from the head (he probably forgot that young men stream faster than old ones). Rogue withered under the stare from young lover and slinked back to his initial bar stool. Feeling threatened, young lover decided to kick it up a
notch and marked his territory by openly massaging the old gal’s considerable chest. This was no covert operation, this was a full on grope as if he were trying to discern the ripeness of a honeydew. It worked. Soon, the engorged couple got up to leave, though rogue had one more trick up his sleeve. Showing more balls than I thought possible, he grabbed the long coat off the back of the old tart’s chair and gallantly helped her into the frock. This was ignored by the fired up couple, who fled into the night, or at least into the back of their car. Good show!

The rest of the bar riffraff was understandably less interesting. The DJ was awful, and had little idea how to connect to this older crowd. I saw him remove his white, straight billed ball cap, scratch his head and his ass for inspiration, and come up empty. The crowd preferred talking, talking loud and talking louder to anything being spun. A pool table at one end of the bar and televisions around the perimeter got a a lot of attention, though the quality of some of the pictures was lacking (not a metaphor).

Walker’s Speakeasy, while not a revelation was no disaster. You can have fun in this joint, not spend a ton of money and watch live amateur porn as a diversion.

The second stop on the tour was at Frankie’s on the north side of Ford Road, just east of Merriman. I almost flew by this dump, but managed to squeal into the tight parking lot on the east side of the building. Tony and I had been here years ago, hated the tight ass at the door and the preponderance of young shits posing throughout. You can see why a return trip was called for.

This time, we were ushered directly in, no cover charge and no tight ass at the door. The chick driven band was belting out a Pat Benetar cover as Tony and I made our way to the bar dominating the back of the room. The usual pair of beers cost $7.00, about right when there is no cover and live music.

Tony and I have been going to the boozer for almost ten years now, and I have been known to remark that I am by far the oldest turd in the place, pause a few seconds for comedic timing, and finish by saying that he is in second place. As we took in the crowd , Tony summed things up by noting in awe, “It looks like the cast of Cocoon In here.”

Holy shit, I was one of the youngest bucks in the place, one of the sharpest dressed too. This crowd was not skewed older, they were creaky. Groups of sixty-somethings sitting at large tables, senior citizens nursing beers at the bar and your great aunt on the prowl for dick. Tony and I stood at a bar height table near the dance floor and looked on in utter shock.

These were not borderline old farts trying desperately to hold onto their youth (familiar?). These were genuine old people dressed in man made fibers from Sears, JC Penny and Montgomery Wards. I puffed my chest out proudly, a banty rooster in a room full of lessers. That lasted about ten minutes, until sadness and melancholy set in. We hung around for a couple of beers, watched some stiff dancing and dumpy bodies, before heading for the door.

I had seen the (near?) future, and I blanched. Get me the fuck out of here, I’ll be back soon enough.

Cheers!
-Jim


Walker's Speakeasy:  8701 N. Beech Daly Rd. Dearborn Hts., MI 48127


Frankie's:  31268 Ford Rd. Garden City, MI 48135