If you’ve written as many reviews and blogs as Tony and I have over the past few years, and your legion on Facebook numbers a paltry twenty-six ( including a filthy stuffed lion named “Louie”), and nobody comments on any of the reviews except your sister Nancy, chances are you’re doing something wrong.
I think we can all agree that it can’t be the content, as the reviews and accompanying blogs are first rate slices of humor and pathos. And the web page itself is a thing of beauty due to the efforts of the mysterious Matt. Clearly it is time for a format change (think Penthouse deciding to separate themselves from the smut herd by showing bush).
Welcome to Friday Night Bug Juice Mach Two ! Tony and I will still be boozing and writing, but not within the confines of a review. This will be more stream of consciousness, more immediate, more intimate, more quick twitch, more everything. Fuck I don’t know, it’s just going to be different. Here comes the first one.
November 5, 2010 Andrea (frosting a cake): “Where are you guys headed tonight?”
Jim: “Pranks on the Marsh.”
Andrea (voice rising): “Isn’t that the place where the guy got shot?”
Jim: “Yeah.”
In retrospect, a nice shooting would have been preferable to the time we spent in Gibraltar. After driving for what seemed like forever, Tony and I arrived at the intersection of Jefferson and Van Horn to scope out two bars within a couple of miles of one another, Pranks on the Marsh and Buster’s Place. The first we came to was Buster’s Place. I called the day before to get the feel of the place and the dick who answered the phone bragged that they had the “best DJ in town”. I am the dick who believed him, not bothering to question why the “best DJ in town” would be spinning at this cement jail in the middle of nowhere. A quick trip through the parking lot revealed a mere handful of cars and a fat chick on her cell phone.
On to Pranks. A parking lot with even less cars and three shady looking dudes standing outside the entrance plotting evil (they may have just been smoking, but my wife’s remark about the recent shooting still reverberated in my hairy ears).
Back to Buster’s. We were not leaving deepest downriver without at least whetting our whistle. Once inside, we fought our way past both patrons and scored two beers for $3.50...total. The good ends right there. The aforementioned DJ of the year was trying to live up to his hype and was spinning like the place was full. “Don’t forget to tip those hard working ladies bringing you your drinks,” his voice boomed. He didn’t need to boom or use electronic amplification for that matter. He could have whispered and the whole joint would have heard.
“Fuck me,” Tony began. “ This is one and out. If they at least had a good looking waitstaff, I would be good for two beers.”
He was right of course. Back in the truck. Where to go? A number of bars were nominated before we landed on Club Charlies, inside the Holiday Inn at Northline and Reeck. Tony frequented the place in a previous life and said they have a band on weekends and a personable bartender. Of course, little brother was money as Fattrax was rocking (in a middle aged, classic rock way) the house and the bartender made us feel both welcome and quenched.
Club Charlies is nothing special. A band playing Grand Funk and Boston, small dance floor featuring downriver’s plumpest, cold beer and Keno for betting. Nothing special, but exactly what was needed. We settled in, relaxed and bullshitted about nothing for over an hour. In some ways, this kind of bar, with it’s limited visual and audio interests, is my favorite. Over the years, in places like this, I got to really know Tony and appreciate what a fine fellow he is. If you know him a little bit, you know he is funny. But if you spend more time with him, you will find out how smart, clever and interesting he really is. And no, I’m not looking at him through beer goggles.
We decided to finish the evening at nearby Glass Mug on Telegraph Road in Taylor. This unassuming shithole has saved our ass on may occasions. We have unsuccessfully chased a good party more than once, only to have the day saved by “The Mug” and its lack of pretension good time. No cover, a faceless DJ (not the best DJ, that honor as you may remember belongs to the hotshot at Buster’s), and a small dance floor that seems to be populated with energetic dancers of limited ability ( a great combo).
Tony and I took a spot standing at the rail overlooking the dance floor. Unlike Club Charlies, there would be less talking and more gawking at “The Mug”. A table of girls stationed right behind us would supply most of the evenings entertainment. They were bombed and hit the floor alone, in groups, with old farts at the bar, with bikers. Hell, they just hit the floor. What they lacked in style, they made up for in enthusiasm. Want to know what they looked like? Look up the word bawdy in the dictionary...
You are also treated well at The Glass Mug, all the way from the waitress to the shot girl to the smiling bouncer. Hell, if I was going to be thrown out of a pub on my ass, I’d want Sammie from “The Mug” to do the honors.
Closing time and an uneventful trip to Tony’s house. Some diet Dew, a slice of pizza, gummy candies, a hug and kiss from my sleepy Mom and a flavored coffee for the trip back home. That was a pretty good Friday.
Cheers! Jim
PS This review by itself does not seem all that different from past editions. The differences will, I believe, become more evident as time marches on. You will get a week by week look into the ruination of our livers, even if we decide to hit the same joint week after week after week after week after...
