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
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
