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Welcome to Friday Night Bug Juice, a Metro Detroit bar review site. We're here to give you a look into the dive bars of the Detroit area, so you can hopefully spend your cash wisely, and get a little insight into the lives of a couple of hapless irish louts.

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Welcome to the section of our site where you can learn everything you ever wanted to know and way too much more about the gang that works hard ruining their livers to bring you all you need to know about the dive bars of the Metro Detroit area!

WALKER's SPEAKEASY / FRANKIE's

Age has been on my mind a lot lately (the last ten years) and plays a role in this week’s reviews for a variety of reasons.

To begin, my fifty-second birthday is tomorrow. I loathe any adult who feels the need to make a big deal out of their birthday. I choose to celebrate my birthday in a non-traditional manner that makes me happy, by focusing on how horribly I am aging. As I type this review, I am sitting with my wife’s magnifying make-up mirror facing me. What follows is real, not the usual trumped up bullshit to make life sound more interesting.

I begin at the top of my head, an area that you would think needs very little description, having no hair. Alas, there is a lot going on up there. At the center of my crown sits a dime size age spot. This not being bad enough, it is orbited by areas of dry skin and small red eruptions. On the right side of my crown sits a mole that looks like a melting chocolate chip. Moving down, my eyes are droopy enough that the upper lid sits gently on the eyelid. Dark rings frame the bottom of the eyes. My nose always has a red hue and a pronounced vein on the left side. I live in mortal fear that it will soon morph into one of those crazy pickle noses that look like a dog has been gnawing on it for years. My right cheek has a triangle of red eruptions similar to those at the top of my head. I don’t have the wrinkled neck that so many old farts develop, just the same fleshy wardle I was born with.

My body is a temple compared to the horrors that sit on it. I have been fairly consistent with my weight, about 202 pounds. I have a decent chest and shoulders, though a smaller set of man boobs (moobs) would be nice. I have no ass, but never did. My legs have been the main beneficiary of my weight loss (not really a target zone), two pencils sitting loose in baggy shorts. Main complaints in the body involve a chronically sore lower back and right shoulder. I refuse to give in to the pain, and regularly lift weights and work the legs, even if it means waking up each night trying to find a position that allows sleep.

Oh well, let’s drink!

Friday night began with a trip to Walker’s Speakeasy, on Beech Daly just south of Joy Road in Dearborn Heights. Parking is found in the huge lot on the south side of the building. There is no cover to enter, but once inside be careful of the drastic elevation changes throughout this dark interior. One side of the bar sits at normal height, allowing for people to stand and converse. The other side of the bar is three feet higher and ramped at both ends. If you sit at the chairs provided on this side, your knuckles will scrape the ground (think Jim-Jim from the Detroit Zoo). People on the dance floor appeared in danger of hitting their heads on the sloped ceiling (think Mystery Spot).

The two person waitstaff at Walker’s worked their ass off and were as professional as they were good looking (that says a lot). A Miller Light and Labatt set us back $6.50, and the change was fanned out, giving you a good look at each bill to insure accuracy. Once, Tony was given a two beer reload when only one was asked for. The second beer was whisked away without a huff or roll of the eyes (silly girl didn’t know us yet).

The patrons of Walker’s Speakeasy defined the good times vibe of the place. This bunch was ready to drink and mingle. They were skewed a bit older than most and were a loud combination of black/white/hispanic, men and women, bikers and those not wearing black t-shirts.

Among the highlights:

A super drunk fellow introduced himself to Tony and I and auditioned for a career in stand-up. The Readers Digest version of his first joke had him working in a super market when a man asked him if he could buy half a head of lettuce. After balking at his request, he said he would ask his supervisor if this was possible. He found his boss and said, “Some asshole wants to buy half a head of lettuce.” Before his boss could answer, he noticed that the man was standing within earshot. Composing himself, he gestured toward the shopper and said, “And this nice fellow wants to know if he can buy the other half.” I laughed, Tony did not. Both of us were concerned when this budding Adam Sandler pulled up an ashtray and settled in for joke number two. When this one was less well received, he moseyed along some other poor bastard.
A three person soap opera played out right in front of us featuring Estelle Lee Curtis (a combination of Roseanne's mom played by Estelle Parsons and Jamie Lee Curtis), her younger by twenty years companion, and the rogue trying to intrude on their summer-fall romance. Estelle looked to be in her early sixties, but featured the body and style of a woman in her twenties. She was all over her young date, stretching her toned legs out for him to rub. This did not go unnoticed by the rogue nearby, who was inching his way closer to the amorous couple, one bar stool at a time. When the young lover went to the head, rogue went in for the kill. He seemed to be making some progress, but not fast enough, as young lover came back from the head (he probably forgot that young men stream faster than old ones). Rogue withered under the stare from young lover and slinked back to his initial bar stool. Feeling threatened, young lover decided to kick it up a
notch and marked his territory by openly massaging the old gal’s considerable chest. This was no covert operation, this was a full on grope as if he were trying to discern the ripeness of a honeydew. It worked. Soon, the engorged couple got up to leave, though rogue had one more trick up his sleeve. Showing more balls than I thought possible, he grabbed the long coat off the back of the old tart’s chair and gallantly helped her into the frock. This was ignored by the fired up couple, who fled into the night, or at least into the back of their car. Good show!

The rest of the bar riffraff was understandably less interesting. The DJ was awful, and had little idea how to connect to this older crowd. I saw him remove his white, straight billed ball cap, scratch his head and his ass for inspiration, and come up empty. The crowd preferred talking, talking loud and talking louder to anything being spun. A pool table at one end of the bar and televisions around the perimeter got a a lot of attention, though the quality of some of the pictures was lacking (not a metaphor).

Walker’s Speakeasy, while not a revelation was no disaster. You can have fun in this joint, not spend a ton of money and watch live amateur porn as a diversion.

The second stop on the tour was at Frankie’s on the north side of Ford Road, just east of Merriman. I almost flew by this dump, but managed to squeal into the tight parking lot on the east side of the building. Tony and I had been here years ago, hated the tight ass at the door and the preponderance of young shits posing throughout. You can see why a return trip was called for.

This time, we were ushered directly in, no cover charge and no tight ass at the door. The chick driven band was belting out a Pat Benetar cover as Tony and I made our way to the bar dominating the back of the room. The usual pair of beers cost $7.00, about right when there is no cover and live music.

Tony and I have been going to the boozer for almost ten years now, and I have been known to remark that I am by far the oldest turd in the place, pause a few seconds for comedic timing, and finish by saying that he is in second place. As we took in the crowd , Tony summed things up by noting in awe, “It looks like the cast of Cocoon In here.”

Holy shit, I was one of the youngest bucks in the place, one of the sharpest dressed too. This crowd was not skewed older, they were creaky. Groups of sixty-somethings sitting at large tables, senior citizens nursing beers at the bar and your great aunt on the prowl for dick. Tony and I stood at a bar height table near the dance floor and looked on in utter shock.

These were not borderline old farts trying desperately to hold onto their youth (familiar?). These were genuine old people dressed in man made fibers from Sears, JC Penny and Montgomery Wards. I puffed my chest out proudly, a banty rooster in a room full of lessers. That lasted about ten minutes, until sadness and melancholy set in. We hung around for a couple of beers, watched some stiff dancing and dumpy bodies, before heading for the door.

I had seen the (near?) future, and I blanched. Get me the fuck out of here, I’ll be back soon enough.

Cheers!
-Jim


Walker's Speakeasy:  8701 N. Beech Daly Rd. Dearborn Hts., MI 48127
3 OUT OF 5

Frankie's:  31268 Ford Rd. Garden City, MI 48135
1 OUT OF 5
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