LIONS & TIGERS & BEERS / SHOT MAKERS

“Hello, my name is Jim and I am a competetionaholic.”

If only there was a support group for this greatest chink in my chink-filled suit of armor.
From the moment my first grade teacher Sister Amobolese appraised my red face streaked with playground dirt and shrieked that I was a “Zulu” to the moment I felt I was being squeezed on line calls in a “fun” tennis mixer, I have had issues with competition.

The zenith of this disease displayed itself during the City of Dearborn Recreation Basketball League Red Division Championship Game ( long titles like that are a clue to the importance of the game). We were matched against a team of young Arab-Americans (I could pretend that the ethnicities involved made no difference, but I try not to bullshit on these pages), and we were getting our ass handed to us.

With two seconds left in the game, and the good guys trailing by a zillion points, our opponents called time out. Any ref with his shit together would have expected hijinks and called the game. But, out from the huddle both teams came. When the whistle blew to resume the game, the other team laid down on the court, relaxing as if they were on a sofa watching Al-Jazeera television, and rolled the ball into play.

As luck would have it, the ball found its way to me. I casually picked it up and started to walk off the court, the game having ended. It would have been so easy to continue out of the gym and into a nearby pub to drown our sorrows, but I am not about easy or competing for the sake of competition. I was pissed that we got killed and more pissed at being punked.

About ten feet from the scorers table, I looked over at the shit walking off the court next to me with the smile on his fucking face and tossed the ball off the side of his head with much gusto (I am getting mad and anxious typing this). All hell broke loose. Both teams began shoving and pushing, there was a wall of angry faces in front of me. Tony decided I needed help and stood between me and the angry mob. A punch came out of nowhere, landed on the side of his head and things kicked up a notch.

It ended with both teams spilling into the parking lot, an asshole from their team swinging around a tire iron and the Dearborn Police riding to the rescue.

A couple important issues related to that night:

I was not living in Dearborn at that time and was playing under my friend, and Dearborn resident, Jim Thomas’ name. Imagine his surprise at receiving a letter from the City of Dearborn informing him that he was no longer welcome to participate in Dearborn sports. Sorry, Jim.
Tony has always had and will always have my back, no matter how wrong I am and no matter what trouble my big mouth leads us into. If you take one of us on, you deal with two.
I can’t participate in competitive sport. I quit golf cold turkey, don’t play in “fun” tennis mixers and avoid all adult sport leagues. I am the original bad sport.

Relax, I’m getting around to the bar review thing. While I have ditched sport for reasons of competition, I understand that competition exists in other aspects of life. This includes writing and bar reviews (I know that the link is tenuous, but the basketbrawl thing is a great story). I cannot believe that these reviews and blogs are not getting more love. Not one email, not one random comment, not even a “You are an asshole”. A fucking donut hole. My reviews are way better than those you might find in Real Detroit or Metromix or other web pages. Get with it people, I’m doing my job, now do yours.

This past Friday found Tony and I traveling to Wyandotte, to visit Lions, Tigers and Beers on Biddle in Downtown Wyandotte. For the record, I was willing to set aside the shit name, ignore the television looping Wizard of Oz, and give this place a fair shot.

Plenty of street side and municipal parking around the bar, though that might not always be the case during the busier summer months. No cover to enter, no hassle with dress codes. The first thing that annoyed me, in what was to become a long list of annoyances, was the lighting of the bar. I don’t work well with the bright lights. Every age spot, ear hair and eye bag could be clearly seen from the farthest reaches.

Next up on the list of annoyance was the arrival of the super nacho platter for the group sitting next to us. The smell of onion was so strong, it threatened to overtake Tony’s extra strength cologne.

This brings us to the service, or lack thereof. Getting a waitress to stop proved tough, and when we finally flagged one down, she managed to make a bad situation worse by being huffy. On the next round, Tony decided to go to the bar to order and was rewarded by the barmaid throwing his change back to him. Money actually traveled through the air. My bro is generous to a fault, but this bitch got nada.

Finally, and most annoyingly, the crowd. A bunch of late twenty something, white, frat boys and girls wearing hip hop duds and acting the fool. News of the dangers of steroid abuse haven’t reached the guys in this bar, who took preening to a new level. Don’t feel left out ladies, you held your own. One tart dancing ten feet from me decided to assume the doggy position and back her ass up against her partner. It failed to draw a reaction from this sad sack, who was too busy flaring his triceps and tousling his hair to notice. A smart ass in the crowd tried to make it rain (drizzle?) on this chick by tossing a single her way. When she failed to notice, he sheepishly walked onto the dance floor and retrieved his buck. A perfect round robin of asshole behavior.

Leave it to Tony to sum up the bar by noting that the patrons looked like rejects from the Tool Academy, and by saying aloud as we left, “Lions and Tigers and Beers...Oh No!”

Even though there is something delicious about an annoying bar, like the final days of a nice scab, we felt the need for a better end to the evening. We decided to hit Shot Makers Bar and Grill on Dix in Southgate. It sits between Northline and Goddard amongst many other dive bars and small businesses. We stopped in the week before, so we knew what to expect.

Expect no cover, no dress code and no pretension. The place was packed on our first outing, much less so the second time around. Either way, getting a drink is a snap. The waitresses hustle and the big ruddy dude behind the bar is professional beyond his years. On our second visit, he remembered our beer preference, gave us a buy back on the first round, saving us six bucks, and making us feel like regulars.

The bar has a nice vibe. There is, of course, seating at the bar. But, the majority of the patrons sit at long banquet type tables. This promotes a lot of mingling, as you may find yourself getting intimate with your new found bar buddies whether you like it or not. The crowd was ready for a good time, all ages were represented. You might expect (I certainly did) a pretty rough looking crowd, but such was not the case. Though the neighborhood around the bar can be a bit dicey, the patrons were shined up in their Friday night best.

The live band did a good job keeping spirits up, when they decided to play. They took the longest break between sets, but did manage to sing Johnny Cash and Oasis without sounding like assholes. The volume was at a manageable level and allowed for a decent amount of mingling. Keno and sports worked the perimeter.

I expected very little going in, but ended up finding a friendly bar that you could feel comfortable taking a date to. I gave it one of the highest compliments I could think of by noting to Tony as we were leaving after our initial visit, “It’s the downriver version of Rosie O’Grady’s.” I was only half in the bag at the time.

Cheers!
-Jim


Lions & Tigers & Beers:  2929 Biddle St. Wyandotte, MI 48192


Shot Makers:  12045 Dix/Toledo Rd. Southgate, MI 48195

US-12 BAR & GRILL

Is it possible to recommend a bar based solely on the amount and variety of women who hang there? Is it possible to do this and continue going out on Friday nights with the blessing of a wonderful and understanding wife?

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

NORTHERN LIGHTS LOUNGE

Friday afternoons are a touchy lot in the world of Tony and Jim.

The end of the work day brings a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach and a tightening of the scrotum, as I dread the possibility of some emergency that will require my attention late Friday and early Saturday. This would never keep me from going out, or drinking less, but is still dreaded.

A culinary faux pas can also dredge up unpleasant feelings, such as Tony’s blistering review of a roast made by Beth a couple of weeks ago that included a decent amount of onions. Tony is fearful of unpleasant breath and gas (pleasant gas?), and he let his doting wife know it. Wife Beth is as tough a gal as you would like to meet, but Tony did manage to squeeze out a few tears from his better half. She really should know better.

Tony and I also monitor the weather reports on Friday (actually, much earlier in the week if truth be known) . It may surprise you to know, that a lot of bad shit happens on Friday. Heavy snow, black ice and violent summer storms seem to be the norm. Maybe not, but if you listen to our wild eyed ranting, you would think so.

It has been this horse-shit weather that has delayed our visit to Northern Lights Lounge on W. Baltimore in Detroit, west of Woodward and north of 1-94. For three weeks, this place has been on our hit list, only to be scuttled by deep snows. Detroit is not known as a city that plows or salts, and I blame that shortcoming for recent visits to The Hootch Bar and White Rhino (Yecch !).

This past Friday was decent enough, and I started the proceedings by dropping off a birthday present for Tony, eight days after his birthday and five days after his birthday party. I’m thoughtful like that. I purchased the Heavy Metal box set from Rhino records, four slabs of metal that I felt would appeal to Tony more than underwear or socks. Did I mention that the box set comes in the shape of a Marshall amp and has a volume knob that goes to 11? If that needs explaining, please quit reading.

The journey to Northern Lights was a breeze, expressway almost the entire way. The bar is easy to find as it is the only sign of life and light in the area around the Fisher Building. You can park amongst the swirling trash on the street in front of the bar, or in the tight lots on either side of the building. The area is a bit unsettling in its deadness, or is that just the suburban pussy in me coming to the surface?

There was no cover to get in, though I gather that changes depending on the evenings entertainment. Tonight featured a group of DJs, so no dough to enter. Once inside, more darkness interrupted occasionally by red lanterns. A confused patron tried to examine her money under the glow of my red nose. I held still long enough for her to get her shit together.

Northern Lights is a decent sized space, featuring a long bar against one wall and an old fashioned shuffleboard table dominating the front. The DJ and band live in the back, as does the small dance floor and unused foosball table. There is ample seating at the bar, at four person tables in front of the bar and in booths closer to the stage.

There is also the obligatory sofa, chair and cocktail table arrangement. Northern Lights offers a chessboard to go with their suite. I am sure that some of life’s headier issues have been solved in this bar while drinking a pint and playing speed chess.

A drink proved to be tough to get, as there is but one bar and it was staffed by two indifferent sorts. A tough looking waitress soon realized that we were there to drink, and tip, making the booze flow a bit better. A Miller Light and Labatts ran $6.75.

The crowd is what separates Northern Lights from the balance. It is a great mix of black and white, young and old, and hip and hipper. These are a few of the “types” seen this past Friday:

*A gregarious black dude who stopped by our table and insisted that he knew me from hanging at the Old Miami. I asked if he meant the Old Miami on Cass near Wayne State, and he said yeah. I then told him I have never been there. I just wanted him to know how urban I was. He clinked bottles with me and went away disappointed. Tony believes he was trying to get a fix on if we were the POPO.

*A sloppy drunk white guy wanted the black people in the bar to know, in no uncertain terms, that there was not a racist bone in his wobbly body. He loudly quoted both Martin Luther King and Rodney King (“I had a dream” and “Can’t we all just get along”) in uncomfortably close conversations with any black face that fucked up and made eye contact. Tony saw the dude from the Old Miami conversation wiping spittle off his face before racing away in the opposite direction.

*A biker type and his chick, she more threatening than he. Tony theorized that the guy had a ton of black hair dye in his crusty mop and was praying that the snow would hold off for fear of his hair leaking .

*An older guy with a pork pie hat and long pony tail, enthusiastically hugging the younger kids, which is fine. Until he took off his jacket and propped his arm up on the wall right next to our table, displaying one of the crustier looking elbows I have ever seen.

*A ton of alternative chicks, art students from nearby WSU (at least in my fantasy). Short hair with a second color, carefully selected sloppy gear and an aggressive dancing style that never seemed to tire them out. I hear that these young kids sometimes take drugs that help them keep on going. Take it from me kids, it’s a dead end street.

*Two seasoned drinkers, handsome in a Bruce Willis/Pierce Brosnan manner, looking dapper, somehow above it all. All the guys wanted to be like them, all the girls wanted to be with them...

A couple of fleeting images from Northern Lights. They fill the urinals with ice and you might be surprised at how much you can melt with the average beer whiz. Also,the DJ went largely ignored until he started playing snippets of popular songs by Prince, Eddie Grant, Madonna and the like. The dance floor quickly filled and stayed that way until we left for last call at The Old Shillelagh.

In the end, the great mix of people made the effort to reach Norther Lights worthwhile.

PS Could you tell that the Bruce Willis and Pierce Brosnan characters were Tony and I?

Cheers!
-Jim


Northern Lights Lounge:  660 W. Baltimore St. Detroit, MI 48202