Friday Night Bug Juice: October 2010

Cougar. One of the most trite and tired words in today’s lexicon (and I’m an expert on trite and tired). Also the word used in various reviews to describe 336 Main in Plymouth, drawing Tony and I to it’s doors this past Friday. Not that we are looking for Cougars, dear wives of infinite understanding. What we have been looking for more often are bars that cater to a slightly older demographic. Thus 336 Main in Plymouth.

As background, I felt great that night, it was easy to find the pub in the middle of Downtown Plymouth on S. Main Street north of Ann Arbor Trail, parking was a cinch on the street, lively crowd milling about, no cover to enter. All is well, or is it (cue erie organ music)?

Tony and I copped a table near the entrance and checked the place out. It was pleasant looking enough. Tables with a view of trendy Plymouth at the front, a long curved bar along one wall, bar height tables all around, pithy sayings printed on the wall (“I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day”--- Sinatra. That’s not really on the wall but it’s better than anything they got. The far end of this dimly lit room featured a small dance floor and live serenading along to pre recorded music ( I didn’t think Lady Gaga could get any better, but I was wrong). The downstairs also has a bar, and a more intimate club setting. Translation: it’s smaller.

Getting a drink was not tough, if you don’t mind knifing in between the patrons sitting at the bar busy being fascinated with one another. You might also score a pair of beers for $7 from one of the unfriendly waitresses, smiles and polite conversation extra.

Once we settled in, it became apparent that the cougar description was off. I did see people my own age. They were men. Men being tricked into giving up their tables by hordes of young chicks, or old men with pickle noses being pity air kissed on the cheek by young hotties rolling their eyes, or some baldy with loose neck skin...sorry, that was my own reflection in the bar mirror.

Here is where the review gets tricky. It’s confession time. One of the reasons I like to go to the bars on Friday nights is because it makes me feel young. While most guys my age are sleeping in front of Friday night television, I am getting bladdered at the pub with my best mate. It’s one of the reasons I work my ass off to stay in shape, why I continue to listen to new music, why I feel fortunate to live in an age where a bald head can be cool. I fear old age. I’m fighting to stay young...and I’m losing.

This fucking bar, with it’s twenty something girls in their uniforms of tight, just below the ass dresses, perilously high heels, ubiquitous cell phone/camera accessories and the drooling dolts who follow them around made me feel old. I watched them float from table to table posing for “candid” shots. I saw them hit the dance floor in huge groups pretending not to notice being noticed. I checked out their fancy drinks, served in oversize glasses. None of it meant a damned thing to me.

And, like an aging slugger who can no longer get around on a fastball, I wondered if I was near the end. Not THE END silly, but the end of Friday Night Bug Juice (who am I kidding, that is THE END). How long could I keep going out, before it was my pickle nose near the pity air kiss?

To his ever loving credit, Tony tried to pull me out of my doldrums. He cracked jokes, made wry comments about the patrons and critiqued the music selection. It helped, but I was fucking up a precious Friday night and we both knew it.

We closed the night at Glass Mug in Taylor, and that was somehow better. But really, it took me a few days and a lot of help to put 336 Main in perspective. Andrea, always the ying to my yang, helped me live in the moment and quit thinking so much. Jackson, who hears everything, worried that the web page might end. Tony didn’t rush, he waited for me.

Here’s what I came up with. I will never fuck up a Friday night, or any other night for that matter, worrying about how I fit in by age, social status or any other measuring stick. I have earned the bags under my eyes and the age spots on my head by surviving everything that’s come my way. And, if some snot nosed kid thinks I’m out of place let him get rude with me. “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win”---Gandhi. Put that pithy saying on your fucking wall.

As far as the actual review, go with whatever Little Brother says...

PS Tony’s take on 336 Main and the evening was supposed to go here. He informed me that he was having difficulty putting a review together to share with our vast audience. I was sorry to hear that, but understood and respected his decision. As far as the bar itself, I am certain that the basics are correct ( directions, parking, pricing, etc). As to wether or not it is a good destination, I will recuse myself from that opinion.

Cheers! Jim

336 Main

336 S. Main Street

Plymouth, Mi

734-454-6500

INCOMPLETE

Bessie owed us, and it was payback time. Payback for a time when Jimmy provided taxi service for the Queen and myself to a strip club. I do want to point out that it was taxi service only for James. He did not come in and enjoy the fruits of the strippers. If I did not know the virility and machismo of the man, I would have questions. Regrettably, he is a model husband, father and brother. I on the other hand am questionable as a husband, a black sheep as a brother, and no children have sprung from my loin. Thanks God your hand cannot get pregnant. Jim’s offer of the taxi service was much appreciated and needed to be reciprocated.

The night Beth provided the taxi service, Jimmy and I were headed to Dearborn. It was Homecoming and we were celebrating, as past T-Bird alums. In other words, become blocked, don’t have any interaction with women, be a wallflower and not get laid when going home. Ahhh youth!

This night started off at the Double Olive. During any other time of the year there is no cover. Figuring they have you by the short and curlies, they charged $5 per person. For the $5 we were greeted with a band led by a female playing outside. The song we entered to was a Pink Floyd number. Since this review was written too long after the fact, I do not recall the song. To be honest, if it were the next day, in my haze, I still would not remember. James and I have debated the merits of having a recording device for all of our bon mots. Think Michael Keaton in Night Moves. “Call Starkist”. We have not bought such a device, nor do I think we will, but it is a good idea. Anyways, after the Floyd jam, the band took a forty-five minute break. No shit, forty-five minutes. Luckily it was a pleasant evening, so we decided to hang outside in the patio area. Our other entertainment that night was a grown-up Michael Anthony Hall serving at the outside bar. Once M.A.H. was slow in getting our drinks. He said he was busy texting his woman. I guess he thought if pussy was involved, a couple playas like us would dig. We’re married Irishmen you fuck. Give us a drink.

The forty-five minute break allowed us to have a discussion that usually occurs on a Friday when we are seeing a band. It breaks down in three parts. The first part is trying to guess the next song the band is going to play. For your guess, you need to factor in the type of bar, the clientele of the bar, what the band looks like, and any song you may have previously heard. Safe guesses are as follows: Pour Some Sugar On Me, Crazy Bitch, Superstitious, You Shook Me, and Some Kind Of Wonderful. The second part of the discussion is the song you would play that the crowd would like, that you would like. When you are raised on a diet of Mott, Sex Pistols, Toilet Boys, New York Dolls, Nirvana, White Stripes, etc...or as I like to call it, music not to get laid by, picking out a song that fits that criteria is difficult. Not impossible, but difficult. The third part of the discussion is to pick out a song that will piss off the locals. My typical choices are Commando ( most often picked) or Jesus Christ Superstar. At this point, I encourage our dozen followers to come up with songs that fit all three criteria and submit them to this site. The winner will receive Rice-A-Roni “The San Francisco Treat”, a bottle of Hi Karate and a can of Turtle Wax.

Now back to the review. After this discussion, we decided to pony up and hit Silky Sullivan’s. That night, no cover was charged, and we were able to go inside with little fanfare. Much to Jimmy’s disgust, the tables were stacked with ash trays. Jimmy and I disagree about smoking in a boozer. I believe it is my God given right to have a cocktail in one hand and a fag in the other. He likes to come home and not smell of smoke. Whose side are you on? No contest, just asking. After blowing down a Capone or two, playing a couple of games of Keeno, and just generally not being over stimulated, it was time to pull up stakes again.

This time we decided to head to Cheli’s. We have never really had a good time at Cheli’s. Both times we were there, we had much difficulty in purchasing a drink. It was in staggering distance, so after $5 a man, in we went. I’ll say this, the best part of Cheli’s was playing dome hockey. Does that give you an idea of how our time at Cheli’s went? The only recourse we had at this time was to find another watering hole to end our evening.

Like the thunderbolt that hit Michael Corleone, it hit us. It was time to hit a long time Dearborn establishment, Howell’s. Or as we say Hoooooooowler’s. Now this was a nice topping to our sundae. No cover charge, easy to get a drink, and a jukebox. I love to monopolize the jukebox at a bar. This evening, there was no line to play, so off I went. I believe in starting off with a long song. Typically, I start off with Pusherman by Curtis. The second song is always Wonderwall by Oasis. This is a nod to my beautiful wife Elizabeth. It is the song that describes our relationship and was our wedding song. Many people may claim Wonderwall as their song. Fuck You. It is our song and we don’t want to share. Ah fuck it, you can share, I’m in a generous mood. After Wonderwall, the songs are usually a crapshoot, usually rock though I will throw in some R+B, Soul or Classic Country. I have to admit to being somewhat pussy whipped, so additional songs may be Bessie influenced ( All Day And All Of The Night by The Kinks, Woman by Wolfmother, Sunshine Of Your Love by Cream and Beth by Kiss, not one of my favs, but I know where my bread is buttered). I do like to check out the crowd when my music is playing. On more than one occasion, I have had drinks bought for me based on my selections. On the flip side, if people do not like my choices, it puts me in a funk. I know, I’m a forty-seven year old child. I’ve learned to deal with it, so should you.

Back to Howell’s. As my music was playing, at this point in the evening with many a beer under and above my belt, I was more than happy to tell anyone within listening distance how my choices kicked ass. My apologies to our neighbors. After more cocktails at Howell’s, it was time to call Bessie for pick up service. However, the entertainment portion of the evening was not over. As we were walking to our meeting place, my motor skills deteriorated rapidly. I shit you not, in all of my ten years on the Tour, of which three are documented, I have never barfed, passed out or fallen down. Tonight was a different story. Jimmy said it appeared that I was walking down a hill with my legs flailing. By the time I hit the curb on Monroe across from Silky’s, only an act of God could have stopped me from tumbling. BOOM, down I went. I hit the pavement with first my right hand or palm to be exact. The rest of the right side of my body hit next. To my credit, I was not down longer than two seconds. At the time, I popped up more embarrassed than hurt. The next couple of days I was more hurt than embarrassed. I must have had pavement embedded in my hand for a couple days, and a bruise on my thigh that lasted well over two weeks. In other words, Jimmy and I had a blast. See you next year T-Bird alums?

Cheers! Tony

Double Olive

22027 Michigan Avenue

Dearborn, Mi

313-359-5533