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!