Friday Night Bug Juice

CONTACT

Drop us a line!

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.

ABOUT

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!

DRUNKEN PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENTS

   The first public service announcement I recall seeing came courtesy of one of my baseball heroes, Willie Mays.  Though it was aimed at big city kids, Willie’s advice to stay away from blasting caps which might be lost at construction job sites lest you find yourself without fingers or hands, left a deep impression on me ( just how cavalier are these guys at construction sites in the 60’s, leaving blasting caps lying around like the butts of cigarettes). Though I never saw a blasting cap ( I did look), I treasure that early PSA and will continue to avoid the handling of blasting caps should I be lucky enough to ever find one. 
   In the great tradition of Willie Mays, here come PSA’s from two guys who should not give advice to anyone:
JIM’S PSA   
   I felt good about my new found maturity.  The date was March 23, 1979, my twenty-second birthday.  The past six celebrations of the day of my birth revolved around getting wasted with friends.  Things were different now.  I had a girlfriend, Andrea, and the revelry had matured.  Dinner, a cocktail, romance, grown up stuff.
   After respectably celebrating my birthday with Andrea in the manner mentioned above, I found myself back at my parent’s house about to go inside at a reasonable hour when I heard a shout from across the street.  “Hey birthday boy, you want to go out for a drink.”  It was my best friend Rob (I  recall seeing his devil’s horns reflecting in the moonlight).  I could have said I was tired and had to get up early for my job as a cub reporter at the Dearborn Times Herald.  I could have asked for a rain check.  I could have embraced my new grown up lifestyle and politely declined.
   Instead, I found myself heading to the Gem Bar at midnight on a work night.  In two short hours, I was stumbling uncontrollably around the bar parking lot, shocked at both the loss of my motor skills and the growing rips in the knees of my dress pants.  My only memory inside the bar, the blowing out of fire from a burning shot of booze seconds before its draining.  The perfect storm of birthday, Rob and the Gem Bar had crumbled my aforementioned “new found maturity”.  I went from Andy Taylor to Otis Campbell in the blink of an eye.
   I don’t recall getting home, hurling all over myself, my mom’s cleaning me up or her all night vigil to make sure I did not biff from excess.  I do recall getting up for work, still drunk.  I managed to make it into the Times-Herald office, mumble something about checking out a story at the police station and heading home to sleep it off.  Easier said than done, as I was still drunk when my mom woke me a second time for a quitting time appearance back at the Times-Herald newsroom.  Gosh, do you think they knew something was up?

   I can tell you that in the thirty-one years since that birthday, I have not been fall down drunk.  Call it fear of hurling ( it seems so primitive), dread of hangover or actual maturity, but the idea of getting dead drunk is repulsive to me.  I still love Killians, a backyard party and the inside of a dark bar.  But I know my limits and stay away from losing control to booze.   
   In summary, don’t pick up blasting caps and don’t over indulge in booze.
TONY’S PSA
   My cautionary tale occurs during the Xmas break from high school in 1979.  it was toward the end of our break and the fellow losers I hung out with were ready to drink.
   On this particular evening, I scored a pint of Peppermint Schnapps.  How did we score our drink at age sixteen when the drinking age was twenty-one?  We used two methods.  The first was to stand outside the store and ask people to buy for us.  Back then, this was common but economically very dangerous.  On several occasions, the people would take the money and skedaddle.  What were we going to do, call the cops?  
   The other method was to get the local half wit, who was probably a molester, and ask him to buy.  We had several local candidates.  There was Dale, who took too many acid trips and paid the consequences.  There was also Woodstock, who suffered the same fate as the aforementioned Dale.  The biggest and best was Dougie Dog(g).  He was a toothless half wit who lived near our junior high.  His availability and willingness made him a favorite.  I often wondered how many bodies were buried in his backyard.  I also wondered why, like the priests I served under, was I not touched?  Why was I not pretty enough?  Were they not chubby chasers?  No wonder my self esteem is shot.
   Regardless of the method, I ended up with my pint of Peppermint Schnapps.  On this night, we decided that Oakwood Hospital would be a good place to get our drink on.  Oakwood was expanding.  They had empty boxes from trailer trucks at the back of the parking lot.  We would just hang out under the boxes doing our thang.  This was not my favorite spot, but it would work.
   Me and the boys started thundering down our drinks of choice.  Somebody in our crew had sloe gin.  Why not mix it up with Peppermint Schnapps?  Yummy!  After blowing down our alcohol, it was time to shift to the smoking part of the evening.
   It was cold and we wanted to be warm.  Sometime before this evening, one of the boys had found a warm place on the Oakwoods grounds.  We found out that you could go into the Skillman wing, go straight to and up the elevators to the top floor.  The top floor was a boiler room and typically empty.  So, we blew down our hash.  As you old timers will remember, weed would occasionally dry up and hash became a ready substitute.  
   After hacking our brains out, or more likely running out, it was time to go.  Back down the elevators and into the night we went.  This time the security guards woke up and followed us out on to Venice Street.  Before catching up to us, they saw us throwing trash at the curb and on to the street.  When they finally caught us, they asked our names.  Being as blasted as I was, I kept yelling my name as if I were Alphonse Capone and how dare a rent-a-cop stop me.  After gathering all our names, the lazy sods went to just one of our houses.  That parent was to let the other parents know of our destructive ways.  
   The word did go around and the gig was up.  Alphonse and his crew were screwed.  When I got home my parents didn’t fuck with me.  What fun is rousting a drunk?  Wait until he’s sober or hung over and hit him between the eyes.  Waking up the next morning, I knew it was coming, both the punishment and my stomach’s contents.  Since I did not want to hurl in front of my parents, I had to improvise.  I thought it was best to open my upstairs window and blow outside.  What I did not take into consideration was the wind direction.  The aluminum siding was streaked.  The color was mostly red due to the sloe gin, but it did have a pleasant odor from the Peppermint Schnapps.
   The moral of this story is, don’t mix your alcohols as you may never drink either again.
   Also, avoid the Clap!
Cheers!  Jim and Tony, or Tony and Jim 
READ MORE

DUNLEAVY'S

    Before it was Dunleavy’s, it was O’Hannon’s.  Before it was O’Hannon’s, it was Maury’s.  When it was Maury’s it was the site of the third date with my wife, Andrea. 
   The first date was a trip to the racetrack (remember DRC you old timers), drinks at The Token Lounge and a late bite to eat at Denny’s.  I was wearing powder blue double knit slacks and a shiny shirt with planets and stars on it.  How this merited a second date, I’ll never know.  
   The second date came the next day, when I showcased my vast cultural side by taking Andrea to the Detroit Institute of Arts.  I won her heart over a snack in the DIA cafeteria.  Andrea dug into her cake, offered me none, and commented, “This cake is so rich.”  I, the ever clever wordsmith replied, “Good, can I borrow two bucks from it.”  This hack line is a moment that Andrea has never forgotten and one she often mentions to people who need an explanation as to why she is with me.
   The following day, a rainy Monday, was Andrea’s day off.  I called in sick (a great idea that I, and every other working stiff, should embrace more often) and we took in a matinee before heading to Maury’s in Allen Park to chat over a couple of beers.  There were no horses racing or paintings to look at, just the two of us at an old formica table getting to know each other.  Of course she was beautiful, still is, but what I remember best was how simple it was to talk to someone I was just getting to know.  Andrea’s intelligence, humor and easy going nature made it seem like we had been friends forever, very intimate.  It may have been a bit early for love, at least the type of love I have for her this day, but I understood that I had found something important inside that dark, old school tavern. 
   Segue:  That same old formica table from thirty-two years ago still sits inside Dunleavy’s, though I can’t help but wonder why a plaque has not been erected to let others know that this was the site of our epic third date.  Clearly an oversight on their part.
   Dunleavy’s sits at the intersection of Allen Road and Southfield, sharing parking with Ram’s Horn and Voran Funeral Home.  In theory, this means that you could pay your respects to the dearly departed at Vorans, drown your sorrows over a cold one at Dunleavy’s, and cure your late night munchies at Rams Horn without ever moving your car.  Talk about one stop shopping!
   Inside, Dunleavy’s is typical bar chic.  Televisions and booths of varying sizes around the perimeter, banquet tables with stacking chairs in the middle and a long bar against the far wall.  The decor is pure sports and booze.  If it didn’t come to the bar free in a promotion, it didn’t get put up.  Oh yeah, it’s still nice and dark inside this comfortable rectangle.
  
   Dunleavy’s is pure neighborhood bar with zero pretension.  The young waitstaff work hard, look good and are very friendly.  I would be remiss if I did not mention the fine work of Natasha, a server who has befriended my son Max and his buddies Carly and Luke.  If you sit in her section one time, you’ll have a friend at Dunleavy’s forever.  Like the waitstaff, the patrons are pretensionless (I made that word up) and friendly.  There are big groups of old folks, bowling teams, barely 21’s talking too loud, mourners spilling over from Vorans, and maybe a young couple getting to know one another.  The tightness and volume of the room on a weekend night pretty much insures some interaction, in a good way.
   There really isn’t much to do at Dunleavy’s.  There is no pool table, no shuffleboard, no dance floor, DJ or band.  It’s not a singles bar, though I would guess that drunken smash ups happen from time to time.  It’s not strictly a sports bar, though the local teams are always on the screens.  It’s not really a restaurant, even though the somewhat limited menu features a mean bar burger.
   So why go to Dunleavy’s?  Go because you want to get a beer or two and don’t have a lot to spend.  A Miller Light and Blue will set you back a reasonable $5.50.  Visit because you don’t feel like dressing to impress or posing for digital photos (if I see one more kid in Real Detroit looking phony tough for the cameras with their arms folded over their chests, fingers spread out 3-1-3 style, lips puckered, I will lose it).  Walk in and be treated like a regular, even if it’s your first visit.
   Or, maybe you’ll want to visit Dunleavy’s to sit across from a beautiful woman and get to know her better.  It worked for me.
Cheers!  Jim

Dunleavy's
6004 Allen Road
Allen Park
313-382-4545
READ MORE
 
back to top