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