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!

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
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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
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