Have you ever read one of these lame reviews and wondered how Tony and I can have so much fun and still get home in one piece without any interference from the cozzers?
I sometimes wonder the same thing, and I am the designated driving half of the brothers.
In the early days of the Tour, Tony would start the evening behind the wheel and I would take over after the first bar visited. At this stage, I drive the entire evening, though Tony has many duties. He starts every Friday checking the brake lights, turn signals and headlights. He also selects the music we listen to on the way to the first pub.
About every other Friday I bemoan my designated driver status and claim that “I would love to go Chicago tonight,” a reference to the carefree ways of the Windy City where there is no driving and therefore no booze limit. Here in the Motor City, I grudgingly limit myself to an average of one beer per hour and try to stop drinking altogether somewhere around 12:30. Many times little brother will surprise me by coming back from the bar with his delicious brew and my boring bottle of water. What a beauty, a conscience even when bagged!
My biggest foe as DD is being plain old tired. It may come as a surprise that the end of the work week finds my flat ass dragging on the ground (nice visual). Combine that with a few beers and the fact that on a non-Tour night I am asleep on the couch by 10 o’clock, and you get a bleary eyed old dick at the wheel. To combat drowsiness, I hit sports talk radio to get pissed off, roll down the windows and drink a thermos of coffee brewed specially for the occasion by Miss Beth (beer, water, coffee, stale prostate...no wonder I’m pissing all night).
This routine works almost every time, though I have had a couple of moments that gave me pause. Recently, Tony and I partied at Edison’s in Birmingham and were having a blast. Out of nowhere, I felt like shit. My stomach churned, I felt drugged and needed to go home NOW. Tony understood and we made a silent trek back to Dearborn. Even in that condition, I was the logical choice to man the wheel. About five blocks from his house, my chin fell forward on my chest. Fortunately, Tony was on high alert and he jerked the steering wheel as we started to drift toward a row of parked cars. I jolted awake, scared out of my mind. I left my car at his house that night, and was escorted home by Lady Beth.
As a result of that near miss, I have been ordered by wife Andrea not to work out on Friday night and to spend a couple of hours sleeping on my beloved sofa prior to picking up Tony ( don’t snicker, we all take some marching orders from our ladies). I am also doubling my effort not to get caught up in the fun and mistakenly “go Chicago”.
I had no such concerns recently, as Beth was nice enough to chauffeur Tony and I into Downtown Dearborn for Dearborn Homecoming. It may be worth mentioning that our request that she wear a men’s suit, a spiffy cap and open the door for us upon arrival at the first bar was met with a smiling fuck off. Still, she did come through with the ride and for one night, there were no concerns about limits, cops or dozing.
Dearborn Homecoming is exactly what it sounds like, an invitation to Dearbornites past and present to gather at Ford Field and the bars that sit on Michigan Avenue, just south of Ford Field for the purpose of reminiscing. This weekend long event is a chance for grads of all the Dearborn high schools to get together, drink too much, lie, suck in their guts, stick out their tits and pretend that everything is just fucking great.
I’m never sure if I really want to see any of my fellow Edsel Ford graduates. My geek level peaked during those formative high school years. While I’m horrified at my reflection these days, it is a bit better (smaller, less pimply) than it was thirty-five years ago. Also, I am now able to (barely) carry on a conversation with a female without turning beet red or sprouting an erection.
From what I’ve been able to glean, little brother’s three year stint at EF was not a whole lot better than mine.
Still, it was Friday and the offer from Beth was on the table, so Tony and I made our way to the row of bars in Downtown Dearborn for boozing and, God forbid, a wrinkly face to face with an old high school chum.
At past Dearborn homecomings, we have made a game out of who will see the most classmates, each recognition being worth a point. A person we both know is designated the power ball and bonus points are given for finding him/her. I will end the gripping suspense and report that this year I won 2-0. Two meager sightings! Either our classmates are hiding from us (a possibility), we don't recognize their sagging faces (better possibility), or people our age don’t hit the bars any more (definite possibility).
Let me reduce the bars visited to a few candid shorts, before going more in depth on the best of the lot:
Double Olive: trendy, texting, mugging for the camera
Silky Sullivan’s: mixed crowd, trying hard to be hip, posing
Cheli’s: frat party, fitted caps, plastic cups
My favorite pub visited was easily Howell’s, a brick dump sitting on Mason Street, south off Michigan Avenue, west of Oakwood. It looks the same as it did when I first started drinking, thirty-five years ago. It just seems a bit shabbier sitting next to the shinier spots previously insulted.
Mention Howell’s, or The Howeller as many Dearbornites know it, and two things come to mind. Great burgers that take forever to prepare and the famous “Watch Your Step” sign just inside the back door. For a long time I have wondered if they meant literally watch your step, or the more ominous watch your step, as in behave once inside this bar. The step near the sign ain’t that big, so I’m still not sure.
A long bar along one wall, crappy tables and chairs opposite, a skinny aisle between the two. Appropriately dark. About ten cents spent on decorating (I assume the Bud mirrors and Lions schedules are free). Televisions dot the perimeter tuned to sports, but this does not have the feel of a sports bar. There is an internet juke box at the far wall, but this is not a rock bar. Men and women are present and they do mingle, but this is not a pick up bar. This is a place to eat and drink, real simple.
I’ve been in this joint many times, not just at Dearborn Homecoming, so I know the clientele that frequent Howell’s. Mostly, it is the disaffected few who don’t fit at the trendy places surrounding. Tony and I fit like a glove. Not a destination bar. Solid, like the brick it is made from. Dependable, don’t change what isn’t broken. Reasonable, as long as you “watch your step”.
Cheers! Jim
PS Tony told me I could/should write this: At evening’s end, Beth was called to complete her chauffeur duties and pick us up at a designated spot. I have seen Tony bagged to varying degrees on literally (not figuratively as so many idiots confuse) hundreds of Friday evenings. And on this Friday I had noticed that his nemesis, gin and tonic, made a devilish appearance. Still, as we made our way to meet Beth I was surprised to see Tony lurching madly forward, as if we were going down a steep hill with hurricane force winds at his back. I remember thinking that Charlie Chaplin made a movie where he battled high winds and that Little Bro was now channeling the great comic. I expressed my concern, but did nothing else to help. God forbid I put my arm around his shoulder, or take him by the hand, someone might think we are a couple (those who know us, are rolling their eyes as we are a couple in many ways). As we crossed Monroe, about ten feet from the curb, Tony hit the pavement. At least I think he did, as he was down for only a nanosecond. He was splayed on Monroe in a push up position, his hands bracing him from more serious damage. In the blink of an eye, he was up, moving forward to our meeting with his lady as if nothing had happened. Even in that drunken state, Our Kid knew that there is no shame in falling down, only in staying down. What a great boozer!
Howell's Bar
1035 Mason Street
Dearborn, Mi 48124
313-565-6322
