WEDDING DAY

   I didn’t cry at my daughter Rachel’s wedding.

   Everyone thought I would.  I thought I would.

   But I didn’t.  

   

   It was one of the happiest days of my life and not just because Rachel married Matt (the jury is still out on that one).  I was happy because everyone I looked at and talked to was happy.

A few impressions from the day:

Most brides look beautiful and Rachel was certainly no exception.  Her hair, gown and makeup enhanced all of her natural beauty.  What makes Ray different is her inner beauty.  Some people have a certain something inside them that is difficult to describe, but beautiful and easy to recognize.  My daughter has that.  She makes people feel like old friends, even if they met only a few minutes ago ( a trait she picked up from both of her grandmas, two women that could walk into a room of strangers and walk out with new friends).  She actually listens to people and has a sincerity that is genuine and never forced (she picked that up from her Mom, another genuine person).  Anybody can buy an expensive gown and spend a small fortune on their outer selves.  No amount of money can make you a natural, a person people gravitate to, real in every sense of the word.  My Rachel is that.

Matt looked pretty good.  Guys don’t have inner beauty, or none that I can detect anyway.

I looked fucking great.  I was fit as a fiddle from compulsive exercise and watching what I eat.  I didn’t go cheap on my new suit, had it tailored nicely, and spiffed it up with some urban accessories purchased at K+G.  When I see my multi peaked pocket square in the wedding photos, I get a chill.  My head had a nice shine. I put a little concealer on my eye bags and red nose (if broads can put on a little make-up, why can’t I?).  My ear and nose hairs were trimmed to a T.   You don’t often hear me say this, but I looked good (or is it fucking great?).

Leading up to the wedding I had predicted that a huge pimple was going to blossom on my face, though I could not decide on which side of my nose it would live.   I am old and should not have to worry about such things.  But I do...for good reason.  About two days before the big event, I felt a tingling on the right side of my snoot.  Sure enough, a red bump.  I could detect action beneath the surface as well, a sure sign that a real goose egg is on the way.   The morning of the wedding, I got up early and checked the mirror.  Major Zit!  As I checked out the red devil, I pushed up on the center of my nose, as if I was going to imitate a pig.  That relatively small pressure exploded my zit, the white prize hitting the mirror.  The pimple had subsided, no blood or scab remained.  It was a Wedding Day Miracle!

Two things made me nervous about the wedding.  I have to go back in time to explain the first.  When my nephew Terry got married, he asked me to be his best man.  I was happy to accept and started thinking about the bachelor party almost immediately.  What I failed to think about was the speech I would be asked to give at the reception.  The one in front of the 200 or so people...all staring at me...at the fancy Detroit Athletic Club.  I became obsessed.  I thought about it and rehearsed it for at least six months leading up to Terry’s wedding.  While swimming laps, while driving my car, while listening to my wife tell me about her day at work, pretty much all the time.  Anyway, I killed.  Because of that, people think that I can readily talk in front of big groups.  That is why Andrea nominated me to give a welcoming speech at Ray and Matt’s wedding.  I alternated between despair and rage leading up to that big day.  I blew a head gasket in front of anybody who would listen.  I also worked on the two minute talk forever.  My goal was to be quick, get a laugh and not cry.  Strangely, when it came my time to get in front of friends and family and open my mouth, I was not nervous at all.  After my opening salvo drew a laugh, I felt even better.  As I told Ray when it was over, it may not have been the best speech I could deliver, but it was the best I could do without sobbing.

The second aspect of the day that got me nervous was dancing and my inability to do so without looking like an utter asshole.  When Andrea and I learned of the wedding, I contemplated taking dance lessons.  I soon realized the folly of that and decided to ask my son Max to show me a few steps in the comfort of my own living room.  Unable to master even the simplest line dance routines and hearing the derisive laughter of loved ones, I ditched that as well.  Finally, I decided that hanging at the bar and watching others dance was my best plan of inaction (it’s the exact same plan I used while trolling the bars as a young man).  It worked perfectly (at the wedding, not when I was single).  I danced a slow song with my wife (“You’ve go tot start moving your feet”).  I danced the father-daughter dance with Ray and we talked the entire time (Ray did not tell me to get my feet moving).  It was one of my favorite parts of the evening, and the only time I felt like crying.

I loved watching others dance.   The heat kicked up a notch when impromptu circles formed and people took turns strutting their moves.  I believe I saw my little brother and best friend Rob engaged in a dance off, a contest certainly too close to call.  My sisters Chris and Nancy appeared to be feeling no pain as they traipsed around the floor.  When my niece Erin joined the group, arms gesticulating wildly above her head, she was overheard saying, “I can’t dance and I don’t care.”   I love that kind of spirit ( I just can’t drink enough to reach that level of abandonment).

Two of my dearest friends, Rob and Stan, attended.  I had such a good time drinking, talking and drinking with them that it made me wonder why I see them so infrequently. These are two good guys, battle tested friends that I will count as lifelong buddies.  To have them be a part of this huge day meant a lot to me.  I feel that I spent a lot of time hanging with these two turds, which brings me to my next point...

The night flies by and at the end of the party, you realize that you did not get a chance to talk with everyone for as long as you would have liked.  I know I will miss a few folks, but I am specifically thinking about Kathy and Tom, Fran and Mike, Debbie and Peter, Kathy and Joe, Erica, Leslie and Phil, Lori and Dale.  These are all quality people and folks you enjoy spending time with.  If I had a do-over, I would try and get around a bit more, have a drink with each of these people and see if I could get to the point where we joined the impromptu dance circle (It’s a goal).

When the evening came to a close, I got the bright idea to invite everyone over to my house to continue the party.  You see, there had not been enough drinking and carousing, it needed to go on a bit longer.  About thirty people came back to our house and (of course) the garage.  Champagne, wine and beer began flowing.  Music blared.  The White Rhino party bus parked awkwardly in the driveway.  I saw crying, laughing, hugging and other forms of inebriated behavior.  I was challenged by bridesmaid Kelly to see who had the bigger biceps (I did of course, but Kelly was no slouch).  I later found that Rachel did not enjoy this after party.  Apparently, being the sober bride and hanging with inebriated people for eight hours will do that to you. 

At this point, a few words about my brother Tony and his wife Beth.  Leading up to the wedding, when I confided in Tony that I was nervous about the speech/dancing/crying, he stated that “I’ve got your back.”  He did, always has.  This guy is loyal.  His capacity for care, even when watered down with drink, is huge.  When you combine that with he and Beth’s love of a good party, you will not be surprised to know that they were amongst the first to arrive at the ceremony and the last (along with Stan) to leave the after glow.  These two love a good time, and bring a lot to the party.  If a job existed that involved being invited to get-togethers to ramp up a good time, Tony and Beth would be at the top of their profession.

In closing, I cannot remember a better time.  To share it with family, close friends and new friends will stay with me forever.  I thought a lot about my mother in law Betty and wife’s cousin Doreen leading up to the big day.  They passed away too early.  Both of these great ladies loved to laugh and have a good time.  They would have surely added a lot to the night.  Those in attendance brought a lot of love to my world.  I understand that a wedding does not solve family problems or cure physical ills.  But it does make you feel good and sometimes feeling good is good enough.

Cheers! Jim

PS  The next day, my son Jack had a tennis match on Grosse Isle.  I take him to these matches, and while he plays, I go for a long run on the island.  Taking the obsessive workout guy persona to the extreme, I decided that ignoring the long night, alcohol and emotion from the day before, and running as usual would be a good idea.  Off I went, ready to prove to the world that a little thing like my daughter’s wedding could not keep me down.  When I got to the point farthest away from the finish line, my legs turned to stone and I could barely move.  I was on a path in the woods, in the cold, about two miles from my car, standing (barely) on non-functioning legs.  I considered making a beeline to the nearby police station and asking the cops to taxi me back to the tennis club and the sanctuary of my car.  I realized that the cops would only laugh at my predicament.  I decided that, while running was out of the question, I might be able to walk back.  I put my head down, concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and worked on ignoring my discomfort.  It took a Herculean effort (in my mind anyway), but I made it, legs shaking.  I told my wife this tale hoping for sympathy.  I got scorn.  Deserved.

DOWNRIVER PIT STOP

   I cheated on Tony last week.

   The night before Thanksgiving, the much touted “BIGGEST BAR NIGHT OF THE YEAR” found all quiet on the Bug Juice front.  Anthony and I figured it was best not to be bleary eyed and gassy on Thanksgiving, so we decided that the Wednesday before would be a good time to shut it down (we also decided against going out on the Friday after for reasons still not clear to me at this time).

   I sat in our tiny kitchen Wednesday night and suggested to my hard working/hard cooking wife that getting out of the house, even for a little bit, would be a good idea.  I suggested a coffee and pastry at City Brew in Allen Park.  But Andrea, God bless her, had a little something harder than coffee in mind.

   My son Max had been touting Downriver Pit Stop as a good spot to get a drink.  His bar buddy, Natasha moved to this joint from Dunleavy’s and was now patrolling behind the bar with family members.  Max also said he and friends were heading there on THE BIGGEST BAR NIGHT OF THE YEAR.  

   Andrea thought that this was a good recommendation and that we should call Max and let him know we would be stopping in at Downriver Pit Stop for a drink.  I was not so sure.  I liked the idea of getting a drink.  I liked the idea of checking out Downriver Pit Stop.  I wasn’t so keen on being there with with Max and his cronies.  What would we talk about?  They’re not interested in  U-M football or 70’s nostalgia and I’m not interested in texting or television shows with zombies.  In my mind, pick another bar. 

   So off we went to Downriver Pit Stop.

   Pit Stop is easy to find on the southwest corner of Allen and Goddard Road in Taylor.  Downriver-ites may remember this space as Gering’s, a long time local beer and burger joint.  The bar does not look any different on the outside, but once inside my wife and I noticed a few changes.

   While hard to pinpoint exactly, the interior had a generally cleaner and more spiffy appearance.  The lighting appeared to be enhanced, but not to the point of being obnoxious (like a vampire, I crave dark).   A long bar dominated one wall, a variety of booths and tables surrounding, pool table in the rear.  There is a small dance floor in one corner with a tight area for band, DJ, or in tonight’s case, karaoke.  Cozy.

   Andrea and I immediately spotted Max with his friends Luke, Sheila and Jay sitting at a four person booth in the corner.  We greeted the kids, saw that there was no place for us to sit either at their booth or nearby and told them that we would find a spot on the other side of the pub.  Sitting in a tavern twenty yards away from my oldest son and not drinking with him felt strange. 

   The strangeness went away in a hurry.  I would get some alone time with my beautiful wife, something I don’t get enough of (I must do better).  I sometimes forget that she is a great audience for my humor (?) and that we can talk about lots of stuff besides the kids and home.  Commenting on each karaoke performance was big fun and we marveled at their guts.    

   Pit Stop had two waitresses working the room and one stopped by immediately and took our drink order.  It was a little tough to get her to stop by a second time and we resorted to asking her partner for help.  After that it was smooth drinking.  During the course of our stay, I had three beers and Wife had one plus a mixed drink.  Including tips, this cost a measly $20 with a couple of singles left over.

   For diversion and conversation, you can’t beat karaoke.  There was a steady stream of singers with the emphasis on country.  But, in the course of the night we heard Adele, No Doubt and The Allman Brothers.  One long haired, scarf wearing dandy rocked the mic with Sweet’s Ballroom Blitz, complete with high pitched accents.  Very brave.

   Andrea noticed that the crowd was demonstratively supportive of all singers.  They would high five them upon leaving the stage, call out personal congratulations and in the case of the Gwen Stefani impersonator, dance enthusiastically to their efforts.  I, on the other hand, noticed that the crowd was pure downriver.  Dressed casually, lots of bald heads and facial hair (mostly on the men), and loud. 

   Periodically, Max and Luke would stop by our booth, pull up a chair and talk (I like that the young ‘uns paid tribute to their elders by coming to our table).  Max was keenly interested in knowing how much we liked his recommendation, as if he had a personal stake in the joint (probably his affection for Natasha).  Luke talked Thanksgiving and his role in the cooking (who knew the kid specialized in deviled eggs?).

   It is tough to recommend a place based on the activities of THE BIGGEST BAR NIGHT OF THE YEAR, but I have a good feeling about Downriver Pit Stop.  If you like a neighborhood vibe, good prices and all things downriver, give it a try.  As an aside, I understand that the food is good and a bit more ambitious than the norm.

Cheers! Jim

PS  Andrea and I snuggled together on the same side of the booth, and after a couple of drinks, she affectionately rubbed my bald head.  Eh tu, Tony ?

BACHELOR PARTY

   I took a couple of days off work in anticipation of my daughter Rachel’s wedding (more on that later).  I enjoyed getting up early and not going to work.  Funny how a day off can make coffee and peanut butter toast taste better.

   Since my wife Andrea was staying up late taking care of wedding business and worrying about details, I let her sleep in during these days off, and took over crowbarring my son Jackson out of bed for a day of high school learning.  Probably because it’s not my normal responsibility, I enjoyed prodding him, making his lunch and getting him to school.

   One day, I prepared an inspirational note for him.  I praised his hard work and diligence, told him that his good grades were the result of that effort and assured him that his future was limitless.  I even drew a crude sketch of myself (the only kind I can make) with a speech bubble telling him that I love him.  Tucking this note inside the once folded paper napkin in his lunch, I felt good and hoped for two results:  One, it would make him feel appreciated and two, his buddies would see it and give him shit for it. 

   When Jack got home from school, I was outside raking leaves.  I was anxious to see how the note hit him (I forgot a third result I wanted from the note, affirmation on what a great Dad I am).   He greeted me briefly and made his way inside for the all important after school snack ( I can think of few things more necessary or enjoyable than an after school snack; I can’t recall exactly what I ate, but I do know it was eaten while watching The Three Stooges or Little Rascals).

   Fifteen minutes later (the kid works fast), Jack came outside to help with the leaves.  We worked side by side for the next hour, Jack giving me a class by class rundown of what happened during his school day.  Still no mention of the note.

   When the raking was completed, my son and I headed inside to get ready for the wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner.  Nothing.  I could not take it any longer.

   “Didn’t you like the note I put in your lunch today?”

   “What note?”

   “Are you kidding, the note I tucked into your napk...”

   “What?”

   “Oh shit, you didn’t use your napkin did you?  You never use your napkin.”

   I had made a crucial error, one that my wife would have never made.  I tucked something I wanted the kid to see into his napkin.  Like pinning a note you wanted me to see on a bottle of shampoo.  Not going to happen.

   

   What did happen, before Rachel’s wedding to Matt, was a small bachelor party.  This party consisted of Matt (we had to invite him), Bug Juice partner Tony, son and groomsman Max, Max’s best friend and all around good guy Luke, plus myself.  We decided to get things lubricated with a few beers in my garage.  I have to admit, there was a whole lot less drinking at my house before we got a fancy patio installed and the garage gussied up.  I sometimes wonder what effect this will have on my youngest child Jackson, witness to this increase in partying (“Jack, run in the house and get a couple of Mich Lights for Tony and Aunt Bessie”).  He will either own a bar or become a minister.  I’m leaning toward bar owner at this time.

   After this pre bar drinking, Beth and Rachel took on designated driver duties and drove us to downtown Dearborn and Howell’s.  There is no place better to get a night of drinking started than the Howeller.  It’s cheap, pretensionless, dark and there is nothing to do there but drink and talk.  So we drank and talked.

   As soon as we sat down, an old fart at the table next to us asked us where we were from.  I told him Dearborn and Allen Park.  

   “You guys ain’t shit.”  

   

   He proudly noted that he was from Southwest Detroit, like that meant something.  I told him he wasn’t worth shit and a friendship was born.  Because of my proximity to him and the alcohol going down, Uncle Wally and I became fast friends.  He bragged that he was a dead ringer for George Carlin (definitely) and Willie Nelson (not so much).  Tony told him he looked more like Richard Harris and this brought forth a fresh stream of obscenities.  Before we left for the night, Uncle Wally asked Max if he wanted to dash outside and smoke a fatty with him.  Max declined, either because I was present or because a grown man calling himself Uncle Wally wanted some alone time with him.

   Ten minutes after we sat down, a table of pretty young things sitting next to us got up to leave (seems to happen to me a lot).  On the way out, one of the dollies leaned into our group and told Max that he was sexy as hell. She said this to him with me sitting shoulder to shoulder.  What has he got that I don’t?  I mean besides clear skin, blue eyes not obscured by droopy lids and youth. Shit!  Max chalked his attractiveness up to the Brett Michaels-like headband he was wearing, but I know better.  He is sexy as hell!  

   Howell’s was just what the doctor ordered.  The beer flowed, a few shots found their way to our table and Tony took the chalk from the community chalkboard and started writing “Matt Blows” on anything that didn’t move.  

   From Howell’s it was a short walk to The Post.  This joint was younger, louder and more conducive to dancing.  In short, it was more Max and Luke.  This younger duo knew every song being played, danced at the table to most of them and accelerated the shot downing part of the program.  We kept to ourselves at The Post, a result of the volume level.  Since Tony and I carry more weight (I don’t have time to explain this, we just do), our stay at The Post was somewhat short and we decided to sashay further down Michigan Avenue to Silky Sullivan’s.

   As soon as we hit Silky’s, I made a beeline for the head only to find the urinals and toilet filled with hurl.  Because I was bursting and somewhat intoxicated, I whizzed anyway.  The boys and I took a table right in front of the band and the dance floor.  Had we known how shitty the band would be and how few people they would entice to dance, we may have chosen digs a bit further away.

   Still, we made the best of it.  We befriended the female lead singer who coughed like the hooker in Full Metal Jacket.  In between hacks, she and the boys played some of the god awfulest covers of all time.  A few songs came to a grinding halt in mid stream, others plodded along to their sad conclusion.  So we drank.  I witnessed more shots coming Matt’s way and started to see the lights go out in his eyes.  As the sage older future father in law, I could have put a halt to this, but thought, “Fuck it.”

   At night’s end, the call was made to Bess and Ray to pick up the sodden group.  While waiting in the parking lot for our rides home, Matt and Luke decided to run around the corner in search of the hot dog vendor we saw over an hour ago.  The only wieners these two came back with was...nah, too easy.  Max also decided this would be a good time to get into it with a car leaving the parking lot.  Their response was to swerve dangerously close to our little group.  Nothing like a nice altercation to punctuate the evening.

Cheers!  Jim

PS  Ray texted Max the following day to inform him that, about five minutes from home, Matt stuck his head out of the car window and streaked the side panel.  Her first order of business that day, which by the way was her birthday, was to clean her future hubby's barf off the vehicle.

Way to go Matt!

KEEFER'S BLUE LINE SALOON

  Lately, I have fancied myself as an advertising guru (anything to blur the reality of my real job).  When I see one of the many crap commercials on television, I offer up my alternative commercial and it is always better (my opinion).

   I think we can all agree that the advertising campaign for Olive Garden is one of the worst ever.  The saccharine and wholesome nature of the ads are foreign to their core audience.  Friday Night Bug Juice Advertising and Media Division proposes the following:

Cue a wintry night scene.  The windshield wipers of the messy late model SUV struggle to keep the blowing snow from obstructing the driver’s vision.  There is a relieved cheer from inside the vehicle when the neon Olive Garden sign is spotted in the distance.  The vehicle pulls into a cleared parking spot close to the door.  The four passengers, two white middle aged couples ranging from chubby to mildly obese, exit the car and make their way to the front door.  

Cue the inside of the restaurant:  Our four visitors are shown finishing their order just as an ethnic female server (any ethnicity will do) brings them unlimited salad and breadsticks.  Some good natured laughter ensues as the four reach over their salads and put their hands on the bread basket at roughly the same time.  

Cue later in the meal:  The table is stacked messily with plates and bowls.  The table cloth runs red with marinara.  The laughter from the beginning of the meal has been replaced with the serious consideration of the four perusing the O Garden desert menu.  At the same time, all four recite “Tiramisu”.  For one split second, they look at each other in silence.  Then, laughter replaces the silence and the four nod at each other in contented agreement.

Cue end of meal:  The camera pans back, as the deserts are brought out to the four diners.  You see the Olive Garden logo on the frosted glass of the entrance door.  A hearty male voice intones, “Olive Garden...get your fat ass in here.”  As the camera continues to pan outside to reveal a wintry outdoor view of the Olive Garden, a second female voice voice quietly states, “Mention ‘I got my fat ass in here’ to server and receive 10% off food portion of bill”.

End of commercial. 

   No amount of advertising from the Friday Night Bug Juice media gurus could save Keefers Blue Line Saloon in downtown Allen Park.  Younger Brother pushed for this one, reasoning that we could not go to Edison’s every Friday.  Besides, he continued, the Tigers were playing (I’m late on the review, kiss my ass) and a local sports tavern made sense.  Finally, Tony pointed out that the proximity of Keefers to our homes meant that his wife Beth could drop us and pick us up, freeing me to drink without worrying about the prickly local gentry.  I voiced some concern about the selection, but agreed to go (Keefers would have beer and televisions after all).

   It was windy and rainy as Beth dropped us at the recently relocated Keefers.  Not a big deal you say, drinking is an indoor sport you say.  True, but baseball in Detroit is not.  Before we could enjoy our first beer at Keefer’s we got the word.  The much anticipated playoff tilt was rained out.  Not the bar’s fault, but a bad start nonetheless. 

   When Anthony and I hashed out where to drink earlier in the week (yes, we do that), one of the issues I feared at Keefer’s was the possibility of seeing a neighbor.  Bug Juice is all about hanging with my partner in crime and never involves small talk with others about local politics, high school football or the influx of minorities in our fair city (just wanted to see if you were paying attention).  Sure enough, when we made our way through the sad Tiger fans to the bar, I saw the star pitcher from the girl’s softball team I coached back in the day.  Bummer.  She was, and probably still is, one of the nicest young ladies I know.  But I didn’t want to hear what she had been up to and I couldn’t possibly make my pathetic existence interesting.  So I hid from her.

   We eventually made our way to the horseshoe shaped bar in the center of the room and made eye contact with the male bartenders (no good).  For the next seven minutes we watched the three stooges behind the bar look busy without actually slinging much in the way of drinks.  They seemed to struggle with the task of uncapping beer, probably a result of tired texting thumbs.  With a sigh (ours), we finally got a pair of beers for a reasonable six bucks and change. 

   Tony and I clinked bottles, turned and faced the crowd.  Less than one minute later I heard, “I fucked up.”  I wasn’t having it.  “Bug Juice means never having to say your sorry,” I countered.

   During our first beers, we noticed a large wet spot on the cement floor near our perch.  This surprised neither of us.  Show me a bar floor without a mysterious wet spot and then watch my eyebrows arch.  An obnoxious waitress appeared at our side, took in the wet spot and the two old dudes standing near the wet spot and bellowed, “Is that vomit?”  

   A couple of things.  Vomit is never just a wet spot, it always has chunks.  Next, if you are asking me to ID the spot, you must think I have intimate knowledge of its origin.  Finally, if you are so troubled by the wet spot that you feel the need to holler, quit trying to figure out responsibility and move on to the “get on your hands and knees and mop” portion of your job. 

   Once the mystery spot had been erased, our next encounter involved keeping a very drunk young punk from crowding our hard won space at the bar.  We heard Mr. Fauxhawk slur to his friend that he had found a spot to perch.  The spot he was referencing was just that, a spot.  No bigger than the dick in his pants.  I watched him drag a bar stool through the thick crowd , ready to plant himself uncomfortably close to Our Kid.  

   After laboriously dragging the stool through the crowd, he was surprised to see his spot had disappeared and was replaced by a puffed up Tony.  The two locked eyes.  

   “No thanks, I don’t need a stool, I’m happy standing.”  

   “Huh.”

   Mr. Fauxhawk was drunk, could not reconcile the bar stool in his hand, the long gone spot at the bar and Tony.  After looking from stool to bar to Tony, he glumly dragged the stool back through the crowd to roughly the same area he had started.  When last seen, the young man was gesturing wildly to a friend, trying to make sense of what had happened.  The friend had that look on his face that people get when someone much drunker than them is trying to explain something.

   Keefers was off to a slow start.  We talked about moving on, realized that we had no car, remembered that it was raining sideways, and decided to stick around.  I moved away from the crowded bar (nows your chance young Fauxhawk) and let Tony have a go at getting the next round.  It took a while, but I watched him order from five feet away and pay with a twenty.  Shit for brains came back with change for a ten.  I was just about ready to move forward and put my two cents in, but Anthony (already pissed) needed no help.  The words “I gave you a twenty” had barely escaped when the mutt turned and produced the additional change.  “That’s a my bad.”  No argument, no checking the till, no moment of reflection.  That tells me that he tried to rip us off, got caught, and gave in before things got shitty.

   Keefers...Out!

   We decided that walking in the wind and rain beat staying and hit the following Allen Park taverns:

Polo Lounge:  We walked in, checked out the band playing in front of ten to twelve bored patrons and were just about to order when a fat boy appeared out of nowhere, stood uncomfortably close to Tony and I and announced “Five dollar cover per man.”  When you have almost nobody drinking in your cavernous pub, and two high rollers like Anthony and myself take pity on your dump and agree to drink there, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth with that cover charge crap.  I didn’t need any input from my partner on this one.  I turned for the door and got ready to brave the elements once again.  From behind I heard, “Wait a minute, what about three dollars.”  

No Go at Polo.

Dunleavys:  Always a treat.  No pretension. No cover. No people either.  Not this Friday night anyway.  We drank there because we had to drink somewhere.  The affable bartender felt bad about being out of pretzels, and went to two nearby gas stations before finding some for me.  We couldn’t split after that kind of effort.  We hung out, watched football, played Keno and laughed our ass off at the evening’s events.

B Boomers:  No band this Friday.  No patrons either.  The barmaid was a dandy, friendly and fun.  We had our final beers here, but called it an evening a bit earlier than usual.  Beth picked us up and brought some gumdrops for me (She knows I love them and have one before we go out and a bunch after we get home; God bless her).

   Little Brother felt bad about the evening.  I understood, having had many of my own selections blow up (Flappers, Groove Lounge, Best Damn Sports Bar to name a few).  But in the end, no matter where we drink, as long as we are together, it’s a good time.

Cheers! Jim

MAN'S BEST FRIEND?

  Now a few words about dogs and the assholes that own them:

  I grow weary of the morons who walk around the neighborhood with a straining mutt in one hand and an old Krogers plastic bag in the other.  When their dog graces your yard with its steaming pile of shit, they proudly pick it up in the wafer thin Kroger bag and act like they are the greatest neighbors in the world.  For what, getting some of your mutt’s shit off my lawn.  Because I guarantee that you didn’t get it all.  At the very least there are still shit bits and shit juice remaining on my lawn.  If you dog owners dispute that, then prove it is not so by bending down where you triumphantly cleaned up and put a blade of grass in your mouth.  Hah!  And what about your asshole dog pissing on my lawn.  What good is your Kroger bag then.  Let your dog shit and piss in your own yard.

 I also want to kick the crotch of the dog owners who walk their beloved mutt around town on a leash, but don’t actually hold the leash.  The dog walks scot free about twenty yards in front of the proud owner who just knows his dog is so well behaved that he couldn’t go dog and bite you or chase a petrified cat/squirrel up a tree.  And, if this perfect dog happens to come toward you and you react with concern, the owner gets miffed and in a weary voice informs you, “He won’t bite,” like he and his dog talked things over prior to the walk.  I don’t care how great you think your pooch is, keep it on a leash when you venture out into public.

 I live in a regular suburban neighborhood, small fenced in backyards.  I don’t really get having one dog in such an environment, but why multiple mutts?  I had a neighbor, recently moved and fouling another community, who had four dogs penned in his thirty foot by fifty foot backyard.  One dog is a menace to fresh air and quiet, but multiple mutts indicates a lack of consideration on the part of the owner.

   Same neighborhood scenario.  You let your dog out and he barks.  Not a solo “Oh my God is that a squirrel running through my backyard” bark, but a series of “I am an asshole dog that doesn’t know any better” barks.  We have a dog in the area that punctuates the quiet with a ten minute barrage so steady that you would swear he is using a metronome.  If I didn’t hate him so damn much, I might admire his timing and stamina.

   

   I understand that these may not be popular gripes, but I defy you to take umbrage with any of them.  Go ahead.

Cheers! Jim

PS  In all fairness, I must point out that I was bitten by a dog about three years ago.  I was rollerblading in the street and passing by a house with four kids playing in the yard.  As I passed, I heard one kid shout, “Spike”.  I turned my head just in time to see “Spike” bolt through the open side door of the house and make a beeline for me.  I am pretty decent on the rollerblades, but I was not getting away from this dark, growling bullet.    Spike (yes, that was his real name, no changing the names to protect in this blog) missed me on his first pass.  He deftly managed a tight arc in the street, came back and sunk his teeth into the my well toned calf.  My legs flew out in front of me and I landed in the street on my tightly muscled back.  Fortunately, Spike was content with one bite, and retreated back into the house.  His concerned owner soon materialized and in a freaked out voice offered to give me a ride home.  I was having none of that and told her I would blade home and be back in five minutes to figure out what to do.

   By the time I got back, owner had printed a copy of Spike’s last visit to the vet in order to show me that all of his shots were up to date.  She apologized, though I was in no mood to hear it.  Off to the emergency room, where I was cleaned up, given a tetanus shot and a prescription for antibiotics.  The doctor also told me that I had to keep tabs on Spike through his owner to make sure he did not show any signs of  disease. 

   Aside from the physical scars, and the mental ones outlined above, I came out of it fine.  Which is more than I can say for Spike.  His owner sent me a check to reimburse for the medical expenses and inclosed a letter and documentation informing me that Spike had been put down shortly after his rendezvous with my leg.

   Any mixed feelings for my role in Spike’s ultimate demise?  No.  Like Bin Laden, he deserved to go.

PS Part II  This bitchfest does not include good friend Jim Thomas and his four legged buddy Jethro (Tony vouches for both, and that’s good enough for me).

BUMPERS

   The wedding shower for my daughter Rachel had gone beautifully (or so I was told, this having been the first wedding shower I attended).  The canopy didn’t collapse, the sangria didn’t run out and when the neighbor’s dog barked, my brother emptied the water from his straw in the mutt’s face, rendering him mute.  All in all, a great wedding shower held in my own backyard.

    I do, however, have one complaint.  The partygoers failed to observe ninety percent of the cleaning my wife and I did inside and outside of our house.  Would it have killed one of those broads to notice that I vacuumed all the cobwebs from the garage rafters?

   After the eating, drinking and customary cheating at shower games, the party began to wind down, leaving the usual suspects behind.  There was my five man crew, future son in law Matt (that was tough to type), Tony and his wife Beth, and close family friends Kathy, Carly and Luke.

   My two sons, Max and Jackson, got the idea to attach notes to some of the balloon strings and set them free.  Max drew a picture of himself (the exact same image he has been drawing since middle school) and noted the occasion and date before setting his orange balloon free.  Jackson, the internet junkie, asked the finder of his note to contact him on his YouTube page.

   Tony reached out to mankind with the following balloon attached notes:

 *I pissed on this note.

 *You are a dick.

 *I had sex with your wife.

   He wrote a fourth note, “While you are reading this, I broke into your house” but decided against sending that one into the great beyond ( I have been racking my brain trying to figure out why that message didn’t make the cut).

   Making the cut for the Bug Juice Two these last few weeks has been Bumpers Bar and Grill on Newburgh Road in Westland.  Though some online reviews have complained that the place is hard to spot, we had no problem breezing into the large parking lot on the west side of Newburgh just south of Joy.  Look for the large, red neon sign beckoning you inside.

   The clever owners named this brick barn Bumpers because half of the place is taken up by a game room with three pool tables, two of which are actually level.  Other diversions include the ever annoying air hockey and foosball. I would not have been surprised to see folded laundry on these largely ignored games.

   Don’t let the name and the tables fool you.  At its core, this is an old school rock bar.  The non bumpers half of Bumpers is suitably dark, with a long slab formica bar along one wall, a hodgepodge of tables and chairs in the center of the room and a small dance floor in front of a raised band stand at the front.

   My partner in crime and I made our way to the bar, grabbed a spot in front of a flat screen and ordered our usual Miller Light and Labatts, which set us back a very reasonable $5.50.  When you consider that there is no cover and a live band, Bumpers scores high for those on a budget (everyone).

   A quick clink of our bottles, a long pull and a moment to soak in the room.  The crowd looked like they walked out of Grapes Of Wrath, only not so lean.  The common denominator for this bunch was back fat.  Still, Tony and I found the patrons to be friendly and struck up conversations during each visit, some of which even made sense.

   Aside from drinking cheaply and gabbing, other diversions include listening to music ( I saw live bands on three separate occasions and can’t tell you one thing about any of them...shit, they may have been the same band all three times).  People do dance, but not a lot and not to hook up.  Watching the Tigers chase the pennant also grabs a lot of attention.  And, don’t forget the insanely well lit game room.

   It’s only fair to mention that the waitstaff is young, attractive and scantily clad (it’s only fair to mention it because my wife may have found out anyway).  That is not as big a deal as you might think.  Pretty much every bar we walk into has the young and attractive, it’s just that Bumpers amps it up with the scantily clad.

   On our third visit, young Tony and I were pleased that Erica, the barmaid we had seen on the past two occasions, served our drinks without us moving our lips.  It’s good to be a regular.  We always received excellent service, a friendly smile and some amusing bar chit chat.  Tony mentioned that she was also easy on the eyes, though I hadn’t noticed.

   A strange punctuation on our last visit involved Erica.  Closing time was closing in and Tony had just finished handing me my ass in the pool room.  We stopped back at the bar for last call.  We talked up Erica for a bit before she disappeared into a small room off the back of the bar.  She emerged with a long haired twenty something and introduced us to her husband.  I shook his hand before Tony and I disappeared into the night.

   When I reflected on this the following morning, I was troubled.  Did Erica introduce us to her hubby because she thought we were good guys who might enjoy a drink and conversation with her significant other?  Or, did Erica introduce us to her hubby because she thought we were edging into some weird infatuated territory and needed to be put in our place?   

   Please be the former.  We are not stalkers.  We are two happily married guys whose biggest sins are being rakishly handsome and disarmingly witty.  Damn these good looks!  Damn this charm!

   Anyways, if you are low on funds, enjoy old school rock and friendly patrons, definitely check out Bumpers.  And for God’s sake, don’t stalk the bar staff! 

Cheers!  Jim

CAPPY

  For the past week, the national morning shows (and who can watch this crap...”Today Matt Lauer tries his hand at making Eggs Benedict”) have been crowing about the beauty of the Sleeping Bear Dunes area of Northern Michigan, labeling it the most beautiful natural vacation area in the country.

   Having just spent a week vacationing in this area with family, I agree that it is exceptionally beautiful, though best in the country seems a stretch (aren’t Hawaii and Maine still part of the USA?). 

   My favorite memories of this vacation have little to do with the natural beauty of this National Park, but rather on a couple of activities that my family regularly participates in while at home.

   In the first, after a day lethargically spent walking around Northport doing little more than shopping and eating, we decided that a rousing game of tennis was needed for physical stimulation.  My wife Andrea, daughter Rachel, son Jackson and I piled into the car and headed for the Empire Michigan Municipal Tennis Courts.  If you want to know how the locals can identify you as a visitor, it will not be by the copious amount of fudge you are consuming, but through the use of their tennis facilities.  

   You never need to worry about these courts being occupied.  And, unlike the rest of rumpled Empire, the courts are well maintained ( we actually love the rumpledness of Empire and loathe the manicured/stuffy vibe of nearby Glen Arbor and Leland).  The courts sit isolated down in a little bowl, surrounded by large pines and a couple of tidy baseball diamonds.  You drive your car over a gravel road and park right next to the courts.  When you turn off your motor, it is just you and whatever animals happen to be staring at you from the sky or woods.  Quiet.

   Until we started playing doubles that is.  We changed partners every set, battled fiercely, and found it not surprising that the team my son Jackson played on won every time.  When we play tennis at home the injury bug rears its ugly head on a regular basis.  It’s almost always my brittle self, shoulder and forearm the focus of my crying ways.  This evening it was Andrea’s turn, as a wicked forehand glanced off her racquet and into her eye, bringing her participation to a premature end.  Unlike me, Andrea did not cry or whine (amateur).

   I try and pack the car for every occasion and that evening was no different.  Andrea found the cooler in the trunk and put ice to her eye to reduce the swelling.  She also noticed that I had brought along water, beer, a bottle of wine, wine glasses (we aren’t swine, after all), folding chairs and Cappy.  What is Cappy?  He is not a what, but a who.  Cappy is the bottle opener that we keep in our garage back home.  The one with the peanut shaped head, happy painted face, jauntily angled cap, and magnetically attached guitar-shaped bottle opener.  That I decided to pack this family famous bottle opener speaks volumes about our crew (we may need some help). 

   The kids and I volleyed for awhile after Andrea’s injury, but the evening heat and desire to get at the adult beverages had us soon calling it quits.  Oh yeah, we were concerned about Andrea’s eye as well.   I set up the folding chairs, broke out wine for Andrea and Rachel, beer for me and water for young Jack.

   I’m not sure if it was the injury, atmosphere or vacation mood, but the wine began to flow.  Initially, my wife voiced concern about drinking in a public park, but I quieted those concerns by pointing out our isolation and the fact that we were Up North, where pretty much anything booze related goes.  Soon, Rachel started to assign a voice to dear Cappy,  like that of a British man servant.  Oddly, she had trouble conjuring up that voice unless she was looking directly at Cappy.  The digital camera appeared and pictures of all were taken, including (especially) Cappy.  Cappy on the tennis courts, Cappy drinking wine, Cappy in a grassy meadow, Cappy planking.

   After killing the better part of the wine and a couple of beers, with the sun setting on another day in paradise, we decided to make the short trip back to our Empire home.

   This is when my second favorite vacation memory took hold.  We sat around the kitchen table, classic rock providing background from the living room and played cards for hours.  Specifically, we played 31 (aka Scat, Tonk, Blitz or Ride The Bus).

     Like playing tennis, playing cards is a regular home activity for Andrea, Jackson, Rachel and I.  My mom, however, is not a regular during these home games.  She is not always around when these impromptu games break out and she is sometimes reluctant to play due to difficulties seeing the cards ( my mom has macular degeneration, but never lets it define her life).  It might take her a bit longer to make out the discard pile or the difference between clubs and spades, but we were all so delighted to have her playing that nobody gave a damn.  Of course, we did take every opportunity to kid her about these delays (“Guess whose turn it is?” during a lull in the action).  

   

   We take 31 pretty seriously.  A worn deck of cards and bag of tokens for the players is tossed on the table and God help you if you grab a token one of the others consider “theirs”.  You will be mocked for knocking early, ridiculed for low scores and jeered for early exits.  I know this because these are all sins that I regularly commit.  I took one fact away from this vacation:  I blow at 31.  My mom, a rookie and a sight impaired rookie at that, regularly kicked my ass.

   I can’t say that I recall who won the majority of the games, but I do recall a lot of laughing, out of tune singing, old stories and family memories.  We snacked and drank a lot too.

   Yes, Sleeping Bear Dunes is magnificent, and if you want to call it the most beautiful natural vacation area in the country, I’ll let you.  But when the memories of the shifting sands fades, I’ll still remember partying after tennis, tossing cards and the laughing faces of family enjoying both.  And Cappy!

Cheers! Jim

POISON

  While chatting with my daughter Rachel the other day, I casually mentioned that I had tickets to see Poison at Pine Knob ( always Pine Knob, never DTE).  She didn’t even bother to cover the phone, but snickered as she informed her future hubby that I was excited to go to a Poison show.  I could practically see her eyes rolling amid the derisive laughter (by the way, these two were on their way to see the Captain America movie, a flick inspired by a kid’s comic book...I win).

   The point is, if you are going to see Poison in concert, expect to take a bit of shit from a large segment of the population.  After all, they are a hair metal band with song titles like Unskinny Bop, I Want Action and  Nothing But A Good Time.  Their lead singer starred in a cheesy reality dating show that featured his charm, good looks and hair extensions.  As a band, they preen, mug and prance.  They offer no social or political insights and in no way are looking to solve the world’s problems.

   Thank God!

   It was a perfect night in late July as Tony and I headed north to Pine Knob.  Your dynamic duo was joined for the evenings festivities, by little brother’s better half, Beth.  Was I bugged to share Tony with Beth?  Hell no.  Was I bugged that my lady decided against joining?  Hell no.  For some time, I have understood that going to a rock concert is not Andrea’s idea of “Nothing But a Good Time”.  

   We had great seats to the show and VIP parking courtesy of Huntington Cleaners in Huntington Woods (the leaders in insurance and commercial cleaning of garments and draperies...I don’t think they would be bothered by this shameless plug, though they would probably be horrified by its placement amid this horseshit web site). 

   Beth looked very nice in her over the calf stretch pants and print top.  Not sure if I ever saw her rocking the pig tails before, but it worked ( pulling out all the stops in a shameless attempt to get noticed by Bret Michaels, no doubt).  Tony and I looked like tools in shorts and t-shirts.

   We decided to bag the opening acts, a local band whose name eludes me and Warrant, performing without now biffed lead singer Jani Lane.  We opted instead for the Pine Knob Starlite Club, where three cold ones will set you back $21.  That did not prove to be much a deterrent, and in the blink of an eye three rounds had been consumed.  At this point, my duties as designated driver and tightwad took over and the consumption of alcohol ceased.  For me.  Not for Beth and Tony.

   We enjoyed the perfect summer night and classic rock tunes being spun.  But what we really enjoyed was the people watching.  Forget the guy-half of people watching.  We all look the same, crappy.  The ladies on the other hand are a delight.  They were all dressed to impress (Bret that is, not us crappy looking dudes in the crowd).  I saw lots of thirty and forty somethings in their whoriest best.   These broads were Friday night partying on a Tuesday and loving it.

   We could have hung there all night, but when the last slice of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” was served, we made our way down to our fabulous seats, seventh row on guitarist CC Deville’s side.  In no time, the lights dimmed (and is there a better feeling in the world than the lights dimming at a rock show) and Poison took the stage.  Bret looked great as expected in tight jeans and Poison tee.  No surprise there.  That the other boys in the band also looked fit was a bit of a surprise, pleasant at that.

   The crowd was on its feet from the opening chords of “Look at What the Cat Dragged In” and never sat for a moment.  They danced and sang along to Poison’s greatest hits and well selected covers “We’re An American Band” and “Your Mama Don’t Dance”.  All four guys in the band took turns in the spotlight, though it was clearly Bret’s gig.  He exhorted the crowd from one side to the other, from the runway above drummer Rikki Rockett to the front edge of the stage.  Bret also worked in his trademark “awesome” about twenty times, paid homage to the servicemen admitted gratis to the show, and gave lots of love to “The Motor City”.  These tricks of the trade worked every time.

   This was a drunk crowd, but not drunk in a confrontational way.  Drunk in a let’s hug, raise our lighters in the air and belt out the chorus of each song way.  Poison was hosting a party, providing the soundtrack and daring you not to have fun.

   After ninety minutes of party rock, and three or four shirt changes for Bret, Poison thanked the crowd one last time, promised to return next summer and left the nearly packed house grinning from ringing ear to ringing ear.

   For most people this would have been enough.  Beth and Tony are not most people.  A return trip to the Starlite Club was in order.  Drinks were ordered (water for me) and we stood about twenty feet in front of the DJ booth with the other Poison fans who refused to let the party end.  A dance floor soon broke out around us.  Tony and I would have looked like two lecherous douche bags were it not for the presence of Beth.  She gave us a certain amount of credibility; one of us was able to have a relationship with a person of the opposite sex.

   At this point, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Beth’s ability to be loved by all kinds of women.  Strange broads asked her to take pictures, talked to her about her jewelry, hugged her and even got down on the dance floor and rubbed her calves.  Seriously.  She has a fairly outrageous figure, likes to party and is outgoing without being obnoxious.  That she had such a good time was a huge part of the evenings revelry.  Beth even mentioned that she could provide this same quality to Friday Night Bug Juice.  Amid nervous laughter, Tony and I both said that this would not be necessary.  We knew it was time to call it a night only when they told us to leave.

   A perfect storm had been had:  beautiful evening, great seats, people watching extraordinaire, Beth and Poison.  I’m already looking forward to next summer (will work on getting my wife to attend).

Cheers!  Jim

EDITORIAL...SERIOUSLY

Scapegoat:  A person or group made to bear the blame for others or to suffer in their place.

    My wife and I have put two children through the Allen Park School system and have a third entering his sophomore year at the high school.  The first two have further distinguished themselves by graduating college with honors in four years and being employed in the careers for which they studied.  That these two careers are teaching and social work, two fields notoriously difficult to break into, is a third achievement.  The youngest is progressing nicely and was invited to the honors assembly at the end of his freshman year.

   How do we do it?  Are we Mensa members?  Are we at the top of our respective fields?  Do we drive the kids within a whisper of a nervous breakdown?  First, even though my wife is sharp, I drag our intelligence curve way down (have you read any of the crap on this web site?).  As to our professional lives, my wife is a former postal carrier who left her job after years of physical demand and I am a salesman for a family owned furniture restoration company.  You will not be reading about us in the Journal (that’s Wall Street Journal for my fellow average-ites ).  Finally, while we do emphasize education, we recognize that family and fun are key ( we have a ping pong table in our garage after all).

   I mention these scholastic achievements not to brag, though our three kids are pretty damn great, but to berate.  If your child is not doing well in school, do not blame the city in which you live, the building in which they study or the teachers standing in front of them.  Blame your lame ass self!  It is your fault and nobody else!

   This is where that scapegoat word comes in.  Attacking teachers and identifying them as the reason why your dopey kid can’t sit still, read or graduate may make you feel better about yourself, but it does not get you any closer to putting a kid out in the world who can do more than text and chew gum at the same time.

   When you place the blame on teachers, you are telling me that a relative stranger who is with your child a fraction of the time that you are, can influence them more than you can.  If this is so, you had better fix things on the home front, and quit making the honorable profession of teaching your personal scapegoat.

   Do not take solace in the sympathetic legislation put forth from Governor Snyder and his Republican ilk.  They have just managed to piggyback public sentiment with their real desire to replace experienced, well paid teachers with inexperienced, cheaper ones.  If this works, and the teachers and their union are gutted, keep your eyes out for the next profession in the Republican crosshairs.  

  If you are able to quit blaming others for the inadequacies of your parenting ( a tall order for the type of person blaming teachers) I think I can help ( God that felt good...finally an area that I can offer advice in; certainly writing, romance and skin care are out).

   To begin, my wife Andrea and I refuse to accept less than excellence.  Good enough is not good enough to us.  We never turn up our nose at a B grade, but we always feel that the kids are better than that and can achieve higher.  We also talk about school on a daily basis.  When my youngest and I walk his paper route, I ask him to take me through his school day on an hourly basis.  If you wait to start a dialogue with your student when there is trouble at school, it’s too late.  Also, our three always understood that blaming teachers, other kids or difficulty of tests is not an option.  Andrea and I have not always been thrilled with the teachers assigned to our kids, but we respected them and the position they held.

   Those general philosophies were combined with other daily chores.  Before they even attended school, we read to the kids every night before bed ( even now we reminisce about some of those Little Golden Books books like “We Help Daddy” or “The Very Best Home For Me”).  Andrea and I also believed in routine, putting the kids to bed at about the same time each night ( their own beds), getting them up at the same time (reluctantly), eating a decent breakfast (do Honey Grahams count?) and doing their nightly  homework ( is there anything worse than Sunday night homework?).

   I must stop now as I pulled a muscle in my shoulder by patting myself on the back.  Still, give personal responsibility a try.  Don’t look to Governor Snyder, look in the mirror.

Cheers!  Jim

PS  Bar fodder to return when Tony returns from vacation.