It might not be, but I will give it a try.
I will make a two pronged argument as to why it should not matter that I was drinking at a bar that was rife with the opposite.
To begin, I submit that I have never had any game. I used to be pretty good looking, and I have the pictures to prove it. I had hair where it was supposed to be (head, face and chest) and none where it does not belong (nose, ears, back). My eyes were clear and blue, my skin was tight and my physique skinny (it was fashionable back in the day). The only bulging vein on my body was on my dick, where it belongs.
Given that, my obvious way with words and the free wheeling era of the late 70’s, you might think I had decent luck with the ladies. Ha! If some chick didn’t take advantage of “lady’s choice” (and whatever happened to that great idea), I was shit out of luck.
Secondly, at my present age, I teeter between scorn and irrelevance with the better half. Some think it is their duty to identify me as worn, while most notice me as much as the soggy bar rag sitting forlorn on the counter.
Christ, I must really like boozing!
This brings me to US-12, on the north side of Michigan Avenue, east of Wayne Road in the City of Wayne. You can park on the east side of the bar or in the large lot behind, directly across the street from the Wayne cop shop. That can get creepy when leaving US-12. I always picture a man in blue, thick necked and wearing fingerless leather gloves watching me from across the street, looking for the slightest wobble.
The bar entrance faces Michigan Avenue, and features a puzzled broad trying to keep up with a whopping two or three people at the mandatory coat check. Perhaps it is the taxing math involved in fleecing a single form each person that keeps the line from moving. Once you clear that hurdle, be prepared to plunk down $5 to get inside. For the mathematically challenged, like the dizzy skirt at coat check, that is $6 per before taking your first sip.
I think it was Dickens who said, “It was the best of bars, it was the worst of bars...” I now understand that he was referring to the US-12, a joint with a definite split personality, like the Patty Duke show for you old timers (you young shits can look it up on Youtube).
Tony and I started on the DJ/dance floor side. The bar was crowded, but we were served quickly and happy to pay $5.50 for a Miller Lite and Labatts. Once we toasted each other, the clinking of the bottles and a “cheers” being a weekly ritual, we looked about the large and noisy room.
It was apparent that this place was chick heavy, with no one type of girl standing out from the rest. There were ones that Tony and I quickly labeled as high maintenance (we were sure they wouldn't piss on us if we were on fire), regular ones (they might piss on us if we were on fire), and bar broads (they would piss on us, but only if we bought them a drink first).
It was also apparent that someone named D Rock had beat his last rhyme in January, as about thirty people honored the fallen rapper by wearing t-shirts telling us what day D Rock came into this funked up world and what day he joined Biggie and Tupac in that great big beatbox in the sky. I tip a forty to you, D Rock.
Tony and I also spent an inordinate amount of time, given the amount of women on the dance side, looking at the gargoyle peddling single roses to the crowd. You might be surprised to know that neither Tony or I have ever purchased one of these long stemmed beauties for that special someone. I thought they might cast a buck or two, but bon vivant Tony felt it would set you back a sawbuck. We were both too intimidated by Strega Nona to ask the exact cost.
We did notice that this may be the rare bar where women outnumber men. Good thing too, as there is not much else to offer. The music is, of course, shit. The beer prices past 11 jumped to $7 for the pair. Still, if you are a single guy with a goodly amount of product in your hair, muscle in your shirt and attitude to spare, US-12 may be a good bet. There seemed to be a good bit of action on and around the crowded dance floor, as well as the tables surrounding.
I almost forgot the other half of this place, the so called rock side. Not much to say. About ten people watching a lame cover band. The keyboard player/singer gets kudos for wearing his heart on his sleeve. If you can get emotional while singing a cheesy version of Video Killed The Radio Star (could there be a non-cheesy version?), pointing at your heart and making funny faces for ten folks who are sort of paying attention, I salute you.
May I suggest that you use the near empty rock side to purchase your booze and walk over to the more hectic side for fun. You’re welcome.
In closing, I neglected to include my best argument for dear wife not getting upset over my hanging at US-12. In the vernacular of D Rock, “I got much love and mad respect for Andrea, know what I’m saying.”
Cheers!
-Jim
US-12: 34824 W. Michigan Ave. Wayne, MI 48184
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