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
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