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