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
