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