Friday Night Bug Juice

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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!

DECEMBER 17, 2010

   I love nicknames.  Not so much getting them ( I don’t really have one, unless douche-bag counts), as giving them.
   My son Jackson has two paper routes that we hoof on Wednesday and Saturday.  We have bestowed nicknames on most of the houses on the beat.  These are usually based on the occupants themselves or a characteristic of the house.  Therefore you have St. Pat, Wet Porch, Sad Dog, Nautical, Officer T, Johnny’s Mom, Porch, Mailbox, Spartan, Ramp, Nice House, Maverick, Seal Dog, Cop, Creep, Marine, Columns and “I Paid Ya”.
   As you might expect, there are many nicknames on the Friday Night Bug Juice route.  As Anthony and I have been enjoying Edison’s in Birmingham a lot lately, the following are the regulars we see most weeks, their nicknames and a short explanation of how the nickname was earned:
1986:  Given to a mature woman whose dress, and more prominently, her hair are stuck in the year 1986.  As an aside, this broad has tried to strike up a conversation with Little Bro and I on two occasions, only to walk away confused and irritated.
Howeena Stern:  Simple, a female version of Howard Stern.
FOH:  An acronym meaning Friend of Howeena, her sidekick.
The Mayor:  An impeccably well groomed middle aged man of Hispanic or Italian decent  (Tony believes he is Greek) who works the crowd like a seasoned politician.  Of course he’s after love, but  will settle for a shake of the hand and some polite conversation.
Bummo:  This tall hipster is what one of the Marx Brothers would look like if he was a beach bum from Malibu.  Tony and I are fascinated with him and have been using his nickname in historical references.  “ A Bummo in every pot.”  “All we have to fear is Bummo itself.”  “Bummo defeats Truman.”
Scotty Too Hottie or STH:   A hipper version of our cousin Scott.  He sports shades inside, sings or plays percussion with the band of the day, and gets along with everyone.  One evening Tony and I struck up a conversation with STH, heard the story of his life and toasted him.  Upon leaving Edison’s and heading to a second bar for a nightcap, I noticed Tony looking out the passenger side window of the truck for quite some time.  I stared straight ahead.  “Hey Jimmy”.  I turned to look at Tony and he was looking back at me wearing the freshly pilfered sunglasses of Scotty Too Hottie.  I almost drove off the road laughing.  As a postscript, I wore the shades for the entire summer before finally losing them. 
Sagalaski:  This blockhead is the spitting image of Steven Sagal with a Polish twist.  My little brother believes that he purposely cultivates this look in hopes that some barfly will have a “Sagal fetish”.  Sounds right to me.
Uncle Bernard:  A fifty-ish nattily dressed black man that resembles the character on boxes of Uncle Ben’s Minute Rice.  If you construe this nickname as racist, blame the Minute Rice people, not us.  As an aside, this is one of the most dogged pick up artists ever seen.  He cannot take no for an answer, and is creepy in his determination.  Not a favorite.
Ted Dick:  A combination of Ted Danson and Andy Dick.  We tried Andy Danson, but Ted Dick just works better.
   There are more nicknames and we add to the list every week.  But this seems like a good place to stop.  I am still hoping to get a nickname, but realize that they are acquired organically, and can’t be forced.  Anyway, this is “Buck” Morrison signing off until next time.
Cheers! Jim
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DECEMBER 3, 1010

December 3, 2010  It’s not like Tony and I didn’t go out these last few weeks.  We did.  It’s just that my email got hacked and started sending out dick juice ads to everybody in my address book.  This included a good friend of the female persuasion from my high school days, business contacts and my kid’s high school.  In a panic, I cancelled my email account, not realizing that the web site was tied into it.  What I don’t know about technology is a lot.  With the knowledge of Matt and the patience of Yahoo, all is now well.
   This past Friday found Our Kid and I trying for a Friday Night Bug Juice on the cheap.  The past two non chronicled weeks (and didn’t you feel a nagging hole in your life not knowing what we were up to) found us at Edison’s in Birmingham and a four bar bonanza in Dearborn, two higher cost outings.  We decided to hit Diamondback’s Saloon in Belleville and The Glass Mug in Taylor, reasoning that both would have good crowds and cheap suds.
  The party bus, limousine, and cop car in the Diamondback parking lot hinted at the crowd size, and upon entering we had confirmation.  The place was packed.  It was three bucks a man to enter and three bucks total for the first round, so the hunt for cheap suds was likewise on point. 
   It was now up to us to have a good time.
   No problem there.  Derringer’s was rocking the house with what their web site terms “Country and American Rock and Roll”.  Fruity, pasty English rock is not allowed.  The guys playing instruments are faceless, the chick fronting the band is hot and endears herself to the crowd by wearing tight jeans and dancing amongst them from time to time.  In between sets, hip hop replaces the band and gets no less a reaction from the dance hungry crowd.  Why am I always surprised to see oversize belt buckles dancing to Lil’ Wayne ?
   At one point, Tony and I looked out from the raised railing and watched a packed dance floor of one hundred cowfolk line dancing.  I was fixated on one dude, standing 6’4” and tipping the scales at three bills, hat on backward, heavily tattooed, dancing by himself.  He was totally relaxed, and looked great.  As my wife always says, “Everybody loves a big guy that can dance.”
   As I watched this fat ballerina, my wife’s words of wisdom echoed in my hairy ears and reminded me that I can’t dance for shit.  Never could.  Even when the ability to dance could tip the scales toward an evening (or fifteen minutes) of romance, I was reluctant to hit the floor.  I either had to be extremely drunk or extremely desperate (both was the perfect storm) to shake my groove thing. I love music, even some dance music, but dancing is out of the question.  Damn that fat bastard! 
   As a married man, you might think that this stiffness would no longer matter to me, but it does.  For a couple of reasons.  One, I think that chicks find a direct link between a guy’s ability to dance and his ability to perform in the bedroom.  A dud on the floor equals dud ‘twixt the sheets.  Sadly, I’ve got nothing in my arsenal to break that link.
   Second, My daughter is getting married in less than a year, and it would be great not to have this dancing anxiety hanging over my head.  I would like to have some confidence going into the reception.  Is it too much to ask that my dancing be admired, or at least ignored, as opposed to pitied?  
   At first blush, I thought it might be a good idea to take dance lessons with Andrea.  But then I thought, can rhythm be learned?  Can thirty-five years of listening to Ramones, Rancid, New York Dolls and Oasis be trumped by two hours of New Country? My new wedding plan involves me drinking copious amounts of beer, crying like a baby for the father-daughter dance and otherwise avoiding the dance floor like any self respecting old white dude. 
   
   Back to Diamondbacks.  After the first three dollar round, subsequent trips to the iced beer bucket were seven bucks.  Like any drug dealer, they hook you on the cheap before you pay through the (red) nose.  This place was becoming less cheap, and less crowded, so we decided to mosey on to The Glass Mug in Taylor.
   The near empty parking lot should have been evidence enough that this was not going to be a raucous time at the Ol’ Mug.  Have I mentioned that Tony and I are not the sharpest guys after midnight on Friday?  I honestly believe that we were surprised by the lack of boozers in the joint.  After checking out both patrons, we decided to play pool, a diversion we enjoyed the past week in Dearborn.
   We played two games at The Mug and I won them both.  When coupled with my three consecutive wins last week, you get a pissed off Tony.  Why, a somewhat sodden little brother wanted to know.  I reminded him that he was the designated drinker and I was the designated driver.  Nipping outside for cig breaks during the game probably did not help his cause either.  When both of us are sober (admittedly rare), he beats me every time.
   Right after bouncer Sammie told us about his life as a Chaldean born in Australia who could speak sixteen languages (Bar Rule #11:  Believe about 33% of what you hear in a bar, 16% if the information is slurred)), Tony and I decided to call it a night and head back to his house.
   I could not leave until I drank three heaping cups of freshly brewed coffee laced with Tony’s secret sweet mixes, ate a slice of pizza, watched Sports Center and hugged my wandering mom.
   When I woke the next morning, I checked in on my son Jackson who had been feeling a bit under the weather.  He informed me that he had timed an early morning urine of mine, and I had streamed for forty-one seconds.  I was very pleased.
Cheers!  Jim
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