LOOK AWAY...I'M HIDEOUS

   Last Tuesday, while taking my early morning shower, I felt a twinge of pain on my nose.  After drying, I cleared the steam off the bathroom mirror and carefully regarded my face ( no pleasant task).

   To my dismay, I saw a red lump on the right side of my snoot.  The area was painful to the touch.  The spreading crimson swell told me that it would soon be painful to look at as well.  My life was about to change as I welcomed a huge nose zit into the world. 

   The next forty-eight hours proved to be building days. I battled the bugger as best as possible with a Clearasil cream I found in the medicine chest.  At that time, I could still look people in the face and forget about my budding buddy from time to time.

   Thursday, however, brought me to full bloom.  After getting the morning coffee started, I stumbled into the bathroom and looked in the mirror adjusting my eyes to the light.  As it turned out, I did not need to worry about any adjustment. My nose, not the prettiest bump of skin on the best of days, featured a volcano-like tower on the right side, crimson with red hot magma.  

   With the work day one hour away, fucking with the pus filled devil would be a bad idea.  I toyed with the notion of putting some concealer on the summit, but decided that keeping the area clean would be my best strategy.  I would have to make it through the work day dealing with co-workers and new clients on a face to pimple-face basis.

  “Hello, I’m Pimple form Guaranteed Furniture, here to look at your dining room table.”

   When I arrived home Thursday evening after working out at the Y, where I had hoped that the strain of a vigorous bench press might cause the volcano to blow, I decided to take matters into my own hand.  Literally.

   Back to the bathroom, taking in the enemy under the harsh lights of the vanity, I primed the pump by pushing and prodding the area.  This hurt like hell and made my eyes water.  I am a warrior at heart, armed with the belief that something this painful must provide a burst of pus followed by relief, sleep and recovery.  I would wake up in the morning with a bounce in my step and a flesh colored nose on my face.

   No.  No pus, no relief, no normalcy.  No.

   The result of all my pushing and pressure was increased size and redness. I was now the proud owner of one and one half noses, all red. Not exactly the result I was looking for.  Oh yeah, my son Jackson also informed me that the magic Clearasil I had been using the last three days, was about two years past expiration and as useful as spreading semen on my nose (the semen crack is mine, not his).

   Friday.  One final work day spent avoiding people, looking the other way (like that would help), and making lame jokes about a teenage predicament in the center of a middle aged face.   

   The talk between co-worker and co-drinker Anthony and I was centered less on work and more on how the object centered on my face might affect Friday Night Bug Juice.  I opined that an obstacle this hideous might keep me hunkered down at home; something that sciatic nerve damage, family obligations and common sense have not been able to accomplish.  Little Brother went back four years to a Friday evening spent at an outdoor bar, a pimple on the center of his nose glistening in the setting summer sun marring his otherwise handsome countenance, as the reason I must go out this evening.  I never really considered staying home, but his tale from long ago was so filled with angst that I could not bring myself to tell him about my prior decision.

   After my evening shower, I consulted wife Andrea about how best to cover the mountain (Tony suggested a nose prosthetic like the rapper from Digital Underground).  She was very helpful and picked the right shade of cover-up to go with my pasty Irish skin.  I applied and blended to the best of my ability, then stood back and regarded my situation.

   I had an angry mountain of nasty on the side of my nose covered with silly putty.

   Thank God for alcohol and a dark basement bar.  After a few moments with my friends Tony and Miller Light, I forgot about the pain, both mine from the zit and that which I inflicted on those unfortunate souls who noticed a red glow and followed the mysterious light to my face.

   The following morning, I decided to wash the crap off my face and see where I stood. I took the top of my buddy clean off and watched in horror as blood dripped down my face.  Now, my nose was both red and scabby.  Hooray!  

   The following evening, a hot shower reopened the wound and I could not get the damn thing to coagulate.  I resorted to putting a piece of paper towel on the wound, as if I had cut myself shaving.  I fell asleep on the couch with the blood dotted paper towel stuck to my nose.  What an asshole!

   The final indignation came Monday morning as I reported to the dentist for a 9 am appointment.  I’m not sure if you are aware of this, but the dentist trains a high powered light on the center of your face when doing his work.  I can’t catch a break.

   I have five days till Friday.  I hope to have a nose left by then.

Cheers!  Jim

POOR MOM

  One of my favorite moments on any Friday Night takes place Saturday morning.

  With the boozing and carousing part of the evening over, we find ourselves back at Tony’s house, in the kitchen we both grew up in.  The familiarity of the kitchen cupboards and counter tops is welcoming.  A quick flick of the switch and the smell of coffee fills the room (Tony’s wife Beth handles the filling of water and grounds before we even arrive, bless her heart).

   As anyone who has ever boozed and stayed out late knows, preparing something to eat to go with the coffee is also essential.  Again, this is where Beth comes into play.  Aside from readying the coffee, Beth also hides most of the munchies before our arrival.  She will leave a couple of slices of leftover pizza and my precious jelly candies in plain sight.  Chips, lunch meat, pastries and other items deemed too irresistible are stowed away.  Only Beth and God know where.

   While the coffee brews, Tony and I repair to the family room with a slice of microwaved pizza.  I have occasionally passed on the pizza (I am not as bagged as Tony and can still realize that a wad of cheese at 2:30 am is a bad idea).  Every time I pass, it pisses Anthony off.  He has been known to cut off chunks of his pie, spear it with a sharp knife and wave it in my face.  I usually give in, my love of pizza and fear of losing a nostril ruling the moment.

   We always watch television while we eat.  Sports Center on occasion.  DVR episodes of Saturday Night Live here and there.  But what we really enjoy are HBO soft core porn movies.  Not the Real Sex series (Tonight on Real Sex, nude poetry readings, liquid latex parties and a visit with a plus size dominatrix). No, we prefer soft core porn.  Tits, ass, grunting, moaning but no erections and cum shots.  You know, classy.

   Naturally, we like checking out the broads.  But we really enjoy chirping about the movies themselves.

“I hate those big round fake jugs.”

“There is no way you could put it in so easy in that position.”

“It’s too well lit for that.”

“Why is she moaning during tit banging?”

“Look at the goofy look on his face.”

“That guy looks like Monty Hall.”

“I’d be done already.”

   Last week, Tony and I were enjoying Bikini Girls From The Lost Planet while burning the roofs of our mouths on pizza.  From the doorway behind us we heard , “When did you boys get in?”

   We both turned around to see our dear Mother standing bleary eyed fifteen feet from the simulated banging and moaning.  The shock of getting caught caused Tony to drop the remote, spilling the batteries and battery cover onto the floor.  He scrambled to get the remote back together while I kept our Mom occupied with small talk.

“Jack’s got a tennis tournament tomorrow.”

“Oh God yeah...Oh God yeah”

“He’s been playing really well this year, undefeated so far.”

“Bring that big ass here.”

   I kept one eye on Tony.  He was making zero progress.  I had no idea there were so many possible incorrect combinations for two batteries and a back cover.   Just when I thought I would have to stage a pretend heart attack to divert my Mom’s attention, the couple on the screen fake came and the silliness of a porn plot took over.

   With the crisis averted and our dear Mother back asleep, Tony concocted a flavored coffee for my short trip home to Allen Park.  I called him to let him know I was home safe, he woke my Mom briefly to tell her that I got home safe and the countdown to next Friday began.

Cheers! Jim

TOUGH TOENAILS

“I cut my toe nails every two to eight weeks.”  Jerry Seinfeld.

It must have been nine weeks since I trimmed mine.  So I decided, what better way to spend a summer evening than to sit on the patio with family (wife Andrea and son Max were with me) and trim my toenails in the backyard.  In plain view of neighbors walking dogs, riding bikes or jogging for health.

After a a great deal of grunting and straining from bending in half to reach the damn things, I sat back and admired my handiwork.

Have you ever cleaned something like the garage or junk drawer and thought, “What the hell have I been waiting for?”  And once you get past that bit of self loathing, a warm sense of satisfaction spreads through your body.  You look at your neat new buddy and feel proud, almost happy that you waited so fucking long because the payoff is so great.

Yeah, it was like that.

Andrea and Max gave me shit for:

 Cutting my toe nails in broad daylight.

 Having the toenails of the hill people of Kentucky.

 Not immediately cleaning up my droppings.

I did not care, I was loving my new pink buddies and tried to defend the indefensible.

During this spirited defense, I looked down and asked,  “What the hell kind of bug is that?”  What appeared to be a quarter inch long off white bug was making it’s way across our brick paved patio.  It was moving in an unsteady back and forth pattern away from me.

Andrea got up to inspect.  She studied the bug for a long time before straightening and crying out.

“That’s no bug.  It’s an ant making a getaway with your toenail.”

Max and I scrambled to our feet and studied the little fella.  One solitary ant was towing my grotesque nail across the peaks and valleys of our patio.  He made good time across the tops of the bricks, but stalled in the routed areas between the bricks.  But that son of a bitch never quit.  He just tried different angles and kept moving.

Soon other ants joined in until eight toenails were moving across the patio (I say eight as my baby toes are so odd that they don’t really have a nail).   

The ants dragged them until they came to their homes in between the bricks.  Then they tugged the nails into their lair.

Lot’s of theories on why.  I heard food, protection and insanity.  My brother Tony later chalked it up to decoration, theorizing that my toenails were proudly being displayed on eight different ant living room walls. 

Either way, aren’t you glad that I am a swine.

Cheers!  Jim

TAKE THE DOUCHEBAG TEST (IT'S FUN!)

YOU ARE A DOUCHEBAG IF:

You wear white sunglasses.

You use a bluetooth.

You call a situation or person retarded or gay.

You refer to anyone as “bro”.

The bass in your car rattles windows.

You talk loud in public on a cell phone.

You use a cell phone in any line.

You purse your lips and give the sideways peace sign in any photo.

You don’t keep your dog on a leash (“He doesn’t bite”).

You believe you are, or need to act like a Housewife of fill in the blank.

You are a bully.

You jog on a main street.

You call a cigar a “gar”. 

You think money equals class.

You fuck with women or children.

You don’t start or stick with a sports category in Jeopardy.

You cut your grass before 10 am.

You call yourself a diva.

You have no concept on pushing a shopping cart in the store.  Move!

You want a President you can share a beer with.

You don’t wear socks with slacks and loafers.

You have a barking dog that you allow to bark and bark and bark...

You wear a Detroit Tigers cap in any color besides the official color.

Unless you are elderly or physically unable, you don’t shovel your sidewalk.

You consider yourself a Gleek or you have downloaded any songs from Glee.

You have your pants hanging down purposely showing us your underwear (I bet you have skidmarks).

You question why Denard is the starting quarterback.

You park sideways, taking up two spots.

You ask for cover in a near empty bar.

You make lists about what constitutes a douchebag.

Cheers!  Tony

With all due respect to Southern genius (oxymoron) Jeff Foxworthy:

Fashion Douchebags:  If you are a guy wearing skinny jeans and your name isn’t Wolowitz...if you spend more than $50 bucks on a pair of jeans...If you shave your head while still having the option of growing hair...If you are wearing a t-shirt that references your dick, sex, big tits or balls...

Sports Douchebags:  If you call a radio talk show and reference the call screener by name or use a nickname for one of the hosts...If you think you know more about the Tigers and their lineup than Jim Leyland, the same Jim Leyland who has been in pro ball since 1963 and lives with his players ten months a year...If you think that no athlete from the current generation compares to your generation...If you swear that you like both Michigan and Michigan State...If you root for Tiger Woods...

Today’s Generation Douchebags:  If you think that being a DJ makes you a musician...If you think that each of your thoughts is so interesting that it must be tweeted or posted...If you love your phone...If you order Pabst Blue Ribbon so you can ask for a PBR and be cheap chic...If you buy something because a big assed megalomaniac with a first name that begins with a K endorses it...

Random Douchebags:  If you think that it is solely the fault of Republicans, Democrats, Liberals, Conservatives, Rich or Poor...If you like Ted Nugent for any reason at all...if you think that your bumper sticker is hilarious...If you hear a story or anecdote and immediately feel the need to add one of your own that is sadder, cuter, happier, funnier...If the inside of your Christmas card includes more than your name and a short greeting...If you are standing where I like to stand at the pub... 

Cheers!  Jim  

THE HIVES

   Getting amped for a rock and roll show in the middle of the week can be a tough sell.  Especially one that is taking place at Clutch Cargo’s in Pontiac, a good forty-five minute drive from home.

   But that was the task at hand for Anthony and I a couple of weeks ago when The Hives came to town toward the end of their North American tour.

   Complicating matters somewhat was the baggage that each of us brought to the evening.

   For Tony, it was his upcoming vacation.  He and Miss Beth would be leaving to visit good friend and former Michigander Jim T (not sure if he wants his entire name mentioned in this ribald forum).  Mind you, they were leaving five days from the show date, but those who know Tony and Beth understand that this is really not a long time for them to pack all of their gear and sharpen their vacation focus.

   I had informed Tony earlier in the week that I had corralled my son Jackson as his replacement, in case the burden of getting ready for a week of debauchery proved too demanding and he did not wish to go.  In fact, Jack had turned me down flat, citing his hate of all things rock and all things crowd.  I did not let Tony in on that little secret.  If he did not want to attend, I would fly solo.

   The day before the show, Little Brother was still undecided.  I told him in the parking lot at work that I could not wait for what was sure to be a fantastic evening of garage rock, Swedish style.  I punctuated my love of the Hives with a Howlin’ Pelle (lead singer of the Hives) kick.

   The next day, Tony told me he was in.  Obviously, my kick had done the trick.

   My baggage involved a rare headache.  I used to suffer from migraines back in the day but have not had one in years due to the wonder drug Proprananol.  The night of the concert came at the end of a stressful work day (is there any other kind?), coupled with unrelenting heat and humidity.  I was not suffering from one of my debilitating migraines, but definitely felt pressure at the top of my bald dome.

   Much to my surprise, Tony did not have his bag of tricks with him that evening.  A bag that includes a veritable pharmacy, clothes for every occasion and weather situation, and random zit cover up.  We instead stopped at the Sav-On Pharmacy in Birmingham and I purchased a bottle of Sav-On Aspirin.  My Bro was appalled at my choice, calling it rot gut aspirin and making stomach growling sounds to indicate what he felt would be the result of my taking the off brand.  I told him that I would accompany the aspirin with a healthy dose of booze and he seemed satisfied with my plan of attack.

   Pontiac in general, and Clutch Cargos specifically, is a shithole.  

   Though you could shoot a cannon off in largely abandoned downtown Pontiac on a Wednesday evening and not hit a soul, I had a hard time parking my car.  Finally, an old guy with eyebrows wilder than mine motioned me to a spot half in his lot and half on the sidewalk.  I took it.

   Clutch Cargos was smaller than I remembered.  It was dingier than I remembered.  It was more rickety than I remembered.  In short, it was the perfect place to see a rock concert.

   The horseshoe shaped balcony was roped off, not a great sign for The Hives.  The crowd looked to be about five hundred.  A lot of guys, a few alt rock chicks and strangely, a few families with very young children in tow.

   After a pair of forgettable warm up bands ( I really have forgotten their names and see no reason to look it up), The Hives hit the stage looking fantastic.  As any fan of the band knows, these guys always wear a uniform of sorts.  On this tour, in support of the album Lex Hives (lex is latin for law, get it, the Hives are law), the band is sporting top hats and tails.  Like professional wrestlers, these guys understand that image means a lot.

   Also like professional wrestlers, The Hives have unique handles.  The aforementioned Howlin’ Pelle on vocals, Chris Dangerous on drums, Dr. Matt Destruction on bass, Nicholaus Arson on lead and Vigilante Carlstroem on rhythm.

   Final wrestling comparison, I promise.  The Hives give you a lot to look at.  Pelle is the ring leader. Constant motion, kicking, jumping off the stage to mingle with the crowd, standing on the bass drum, telling you how great The Hives are and how lucky you are to see them.  Arson is second in command.  Equal parts spitting and sweating, almost as much time spent in the crowd as on the stage.  The rhythm section does not move as much, but anchor things with an upright ferocity.  Finally, the big man, Vigilante.  I have always maintained that people love a big man (John Candy, Chris Farley, Refrigerator Perry) and they really love a big man who gives it his all.  People love Vigilante.  He sweats, he sings back up with vigor and he leans against the wall when it all gets too much.

   There is a lot of image, a lot to look at with The Hives.

   But it wouldn’t mean shit if they weren’t such a great garage band.

   What you won’t get at a Hives show:  Self indulgent instrumental soloing, acoustic sets with the band sitting on stools, ignoring past hits for the new album.

   What you will get:  Seventeen songs running three to four minutes each, an electric onslaught played with insane vigor, a generous mix of old Hives and new Hives (they open with Come On and toss in Go Right Ahead toward the end, both from the new CD and both certain to remain in their set for years to come).  

   Are these guys great virtuosos?  Probably not.  But sometimes, effort and attitude conquer all.  I saw Jeff Beck in concert back in the day.  No doubt a better guitar technician than Arson.  Yet I pick Arson.  While Beck dripped contempt for the crowd, Arson jumped into the deep end and mixed it up.  The Hives win!

   Tony and I were content to stand stage right for the first quarter of the show, but found ourselves migrating toward the mosh pit center stage as the evening progressed.  After mixing it up there for a bit, Tony marched to the front of the stage and I saw him hanging on to the barrier front row center for the second half of the show.  As a member of the Friday Night Bug Juice press corps, he felt it was his duty to witness the evening within spitting distance of the band (literally).

   When the concert ended, fueled by booze and punk rock, Tony began referring to himself as “The Baby Bull”.  I understand that this continued throughout the night, including some rants aimed at his wife Beth, who was desperately clinging to sleep.

   Tony felt that the show was top three all time.  I can’t go quite that far, but his vantage point was a bit different than mine, which could account for some of the disparity.

   I will say that each work week would be a hell of a lot better if it was interrupted with The Hives in concert.

   Lex Hives!

Cheers!  JIm

THE GRASS IS ALWAYS TALLER

   We had been talking about it twice a week for a couple of months.

   The grass in the large lot next to the vacant house at the end of our block had grown to three feet in height.  What had once been meticulously manicured now swayed in the breeze, housed rabbits and flourished in the summer heat.

   My son Jackson and I walked past this lot twice weekly, pulling a little wagon filled with News Herald papers.  I watched the growth and complained about the uncertainty of an unkempt empty house and adjoining second lot at the end of the block on which I live.  

   “This looks terrible,” I would complain.  “If the house is vacant, why isn’t there a for sale sign and why doesn’t the realtor make it look better?  Or why doesn’t the city do something about it, like cut the grass?”

   “Why don’t we come down here and cut the grass?”  

   Leave it to a sixteen year old kid to go put up or shut up on his old man.  He had heard me complain for years about people who wait for government to take care of issues that they could take care of themselves.  As example, I had long ago added sweeping up the street in front of our corner house to our yard chores.

   “If Allen Park can’t or won’t take care of the street, we will.”  Sweeping up leaves and debris along our curb and into the street became part of our weekly ritual, like edging or mowing.  In the end, I would always point out to my son the advantages to this extra care.

   “Our little yellow brick house may not be much,” I would say, “but we make the most of it and I am proud to live here.”  Trite, but true.

   Now, the kid had taken my own words and thrown them in my face.  He did this with no malice.  He really wanted to make the street look better and was not daunted by the task at hand.  

   The task at hand would be big.  This was a large extra lot and the height of the grass meant that it would need take more than the conventional lawn mower in my garage could provide.  I had recently purchased a new weed whacker and that would help.  Still, I went to ACO first thing on a toasty Sunday morning and went old school by purchasing a hand held scythe.

   While I was out, my wife woke up the sleeping teen a good three hours before his normal breakfast foraging.  When she told him that I was out getting supplies for the job he had suggested the day before, he got fired up.  By the time I got back from ACO, Jack was dressed, fed (no quick feat), and ready to go.

   We loaded up my car with the necessary gear and a lot of water, drove down to the end of the block and got ready to do battle.  Before the cord on the mower could be pulled, a neighbor directly across the street came over.

   “What are you doing?”

   It seemed obvious to me, so I understood that this was not the literal what are you doing, but the bigger what are you doing.  She seemed at least a little bit irritated by our presence.

   I answered in the literal.  “We are going to cut the grass in the lot.”

   “We called the police yesterday and showed them that this lot needs cutting.  They are going to get it taken care of,” she responded.

   “Judging by how things get done in Allen Park, I don’t think we should wait.  Jack and I are just going to do it.”

   She turned around and headed back across the street to her house.  

   Once she had left, a car pulled to the curb with two of my favorite neighbors inside.  They expressed surprise at our goal and I told them we did not want our neighborhood to look like the neglected ones in Detroit.

   “We both grew up in Detroit,” he answered.  Didn’t know how to reply to that.  “Sorry” didn’t seem right.  My response was to slip on the work gloves and mumble something about getting started.

   No more neighbors.  Time to get to work.  We divided up the lawn in ten yard increments.  I would swing the scythe into the tall grass and make it mower ready and Jack would follow behind with the mower.  This proved to be much harder than imagined and the convicts in the movie Cool Hand Luke came readily to mind.  “Taking it off over here boss,” I yelled into the morning air.  Jack just stared, never having seen the movie.

   By the time I finished the first ten yard swatch, I understood that this was going to be a bear.  I also understood that our intentions had been seen and verbalized and that quitting was not an option.  It is also not in my character to walk away from hard work because it is hard.  This lot would not beat me or,as it turned out, The Kid.

   I was pleased to see that Jackson shared my determination.  After the second swatch was cut, with many more swatches swaying in the breeze, I suggested that my son take a little break.  He bristled at this and fired up the mower.  He would keep busy and match me sweat for sweat.

   Like all good workers, we adapted to the task at hand.  The hand scythe would not work. Each swing met with so much resistance that my shoulder was quickly dying (how did Paul Newman and George Kennedy do it?).  I would use my new weed whacker to get the grass to mower height.  This meant starting high on the grass stalks and working your way down.  It also meant jamming and stalling the whacker about two thousand times.  Sigh!

   My wife Andrea stopped by and was surprised by our progress.  We got a thumbs up at just the right time to keep us motivated.

   It was hard work.  But, three hours after we arrived, we had beaten the overgrown lot.  It was not pretty.  The grass did not have a fairway appearance and some grass clumps littered the lot.  But the ugliness and neglect of the lot was gone.  The house might remain vacant, but there was no reason to stare it it and wonder if it portended something worse, a neighborhood eroding.

   I felt great and so did Jack.  I was proud of my son. It was his idea and he had responded big time.  He worked his ass off, matched his old man and made our block a better place to live.

   Two interesting results of this grass cutting:

 1. Jack and I noticed that the lot looked even better a week or so later, like someone had tweaked our efforts by recutting.  We found out that this was exactly what had happened, as a neighbor living in the middle of our block had wheeled his mower to the end of the block and made the vacant house look even better.  It remains tended to this day.  I understand that the recent extreme heat is a factor, but I like to think it is the efforts of people that keep it so.

 2. Everyone has an opinion on this, and have no problem sharing it.  Some think it was a good thing, some think it was misguided and not needed, some think we did it only to be looked at and congratulated.      

    Well?

Cheers!  Jim

NOT SO GRATE

 I am a fifty-five year old man that fancies himself a man’s man.  I succeed at almost every aspect of manhood that was preached to me growing up:

 1. I have chest hair and would never dream of shaving my pecs or gut.  Guys are supposed to have hair on their upper torso.  The only reason I trim the hair south of the equator is that I would not be able to locate my Braille dot if I didn’t ( the proverbial needle in a haystack).

 2. I have facial hair.  It’s gray and sometimes mixes in with my nose hair, but I have it.

 3.I love sports.  I watch Sports Center, subscribe to Sports Illustrated and The Sporting News, and can even speak NBA ( I once pointed out how much tougher hockey is than hoops to a group of black guys who had just finished playing a rousing pick up game at the Y; that did not go over well).

 4. I love women.  Looking at them, that is.  My heart loves only one woman, but my eyes love all.  I find something attractive about almost every female (it’s a gift).  Before you get bunched about this, my wife likes to look at guys also.  She admires Austin Jackson and Curtis Granderson.  Wait a minute, I think I detect a trend...my wife likes Tiger center fielders.

 5. I love being a man, strong and vigorous.  I want to unscrew the reluctant bottle cap, sweat through my shirt, fart louder, shit bigger and generally stink.   

   My manly Achilles heel:  The art of grilling.  We men are supposed to be great at this.  After all it involves making fire, burning flesh and providing great bounty for others.

   Alas, I am an utter failure.

   Not for a lack of trying.  I have wheeled my charcoal grill out of the garage on many occasions.   I always expect to hear rubber burning and see the rapidly disappearing tail lights of guests when my grill makes its appearance.  I guess people will eat anything if you serve enough cold beer.

   My big worry is that I will undercook something and friends and family will leave retching and clenching their ass cheeks together.  As a result of this fear, I tend to cook the hell out of everything, rendering my grilled food dry and tasteless.  In my world, dry and tasteless beats retching and clenching every time.

   Where does it all go so very wrong?

   Getting the fire started is no problem.  I have two chimneys and put a couple of sheets of paper in the bottom and charcoal on top, put flame to paper and twenty minutes later perfect coals.

   From this point forward:  Epic Fail!  I’ve turned burgers into hockey pucks, hot dogs into shriveled peckers and chicken into a call to Papa Romano’s.

     

   So what to do when struggling with the basics of grilling?  Buy an expensive rack of ribs and shoot for the moon.

   I blame You Tube for the seed of this idea.  I watched a bunch of videos from guys with deep voices and  syrupy southern accents and names like Grill Guys and BBQ Kings.  They made the preparation and grilling of pork look simple, resulting in fall off the bone perfection.  They were loved and admired by all. 

   I wanted to be those guys. 

   My journey began at Sam’s Club on Saturday night.  I looked over a puzzling array of meat, fat, blood and bone.  Twenty minutes and $35 later I walked out with a mysterious package of pork spare ribs. 

   To get this gross wad of pork grill ready, you need to get at it way earlier in the day than hands want to touch blood and bone.  Trimming fat and membrane leaves the kitchen looking like the cutting room floor of a Rob Zombie movie.

   It was way more rib than I imagined and took up most of the grate room, leaving only enough space for a pan of mop sauce that one of the southern fried assholes from You Tube insisted needed to stay on the grates to help keep the ribs moist. 

   Thirty minutes and one beer later, I was ready to mop some of the sauce onto my ribs.  

   “That’s way more peppercorn than I remember putting into the mopping sauce, “ I said to my sons Max and Jack as we peered at the huge slabs of pork. 

   My heart sunk as I discovered that it wasn’t the delightful spunk of peppercorn that I was mopping on to my expensive ribs, but pieces of teflon coating that had peeled off the inside of the mopping pan.

   I did what I always do during times of emergency.

   “Jack, run inside and get Mom.” 

   God bless her, Andrea tried to make the best out of the situation.  She blotted and washed.  She clucked her tongue and said we were making a bigger deal out of this than needed.  She tried to make us believe that teflon bits would soon be packaged as a spice and be recognized as just another pork condiment.

   The boys and I were not having it.  Max and Jack went to the internet, where the opinions ranged from harmless to death.  I wanted to call Poison Control, but Max pointed out that this was only for those who were already poisoned, not for those who were only considering being poisoned.

  This debate raged on for the next two and one half hours.  I kept a brave face during this lively, beer fueled battle, keeping the coals stoked in an effort to provide even heat under the teflon infused ribs.

   The timer said the ribs were done and it was put up or shut up time for Andrea, the spokesperson for new Teflon Bitz for Pork.  Just to make sure they were ready, I poked the ribs with a meat thermometer.  

   Ribs that were supposed to register an internal temperature of 165 degrees failed to register the lowest temp on the gauge of 120.

   To summarize:  $35 spent, hours of time purchasing/studying/grilling, a family divided and the fucking things were inedible by everybody’s count, including Andrea’s.

   We dined al fresco that day, ate Papa Ramono’s deep dish pizza and salad, along with homemade parmesan encrusted spuds and washed them down with Summer Shandy.

   The topper, the desert if you will, was the good natured ribbing (pun intended) I took from my crew.  In the end, they insisted that they wanted me to keep trying and would always be available when the grill was wheeled from the garage.

   They either love me or the Summer Shandy.

Cheers!  Jim 

ELIE'S

   One Friday night a few weeks ago, as I was eating dinner, I noticed a pair of rogue potatoes sitting on top of the microwave oven in our kitchen.  

   To be fair, I had sort of noticed them sitting up there for at least a week; the top of the microwave oven being the spot where I drop wallet, keys and money after each work day.  Notice them the same way you notice that your pants are getting a bit snug.  Notice, but don’t think of why or do anything about it.  

   Maybe it was their deterioration, my eventual awareness or just a lull in the dinnertime conversation, but I finally broached the subject of the rogue potatoes.

   “What’s with the potatoes?” I asked my wife Andrea nodding toward the top of the microwave oven.

   She and my son Jackson turned toward the rotting pair.  

   Andrea, who hates if I say anything that can be remotely construed as criticizing her home (not my home or our home, but her home; believe me men of the world, we are barely accepted gas passing visitors), glanced at the spuds and turned to me in mock horror.

   “Oh my God, I threw those potatoes out over a week ago.  How could they be back, sitting in plain view on top of the microwave oven?”  This was followed by a few notes of the opening theme to The Twilight Zone.  She looked at me with mouth agape to hammer home her point:  

   If you see rotting potatoes and they bother you, throw them away instead of asking me about them or waiting for me to take care of them.

    Though her message was subtle, I got it.  I would handle them while Jack and I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner.  When Wife left the area, I did toss out one of the offenders.  However, I grabbed his partner in rot, alerted Jackson to follow me and stealthily crept into the master bedroom.  I peeled (pun intended), back the covers and gently placed the remaining potato on Andrea’s pillow.  I put back the covers, made a show of smoothing out the wrinkles and crept out of the room.  Jack approved.

   This took place on the Friday night before my birthday, meaning I would be out boozing with Anthony when the covers were peeled back and the horror of the Potato That Would Not Die was discovered.

   Cue the dimly lit bedroom, shortly after midnight, a yawning Andrea weary from a day of husband and son, takes back the covers on her side of the bed.  She sees the brown demon on her pillow, cries out in horror and reflectively jumps away from the bed.

   Cue a husband arriving home after last call on what was now his birthday, a dish of ice cream in hand, ready to hit the sofa and check out Sports Center.  This is what I found staring me in the eye from the comfort of my sofa. 

     

   

   If I tell you that this portrait in potato is dead on, believe it.  From the ever present Who t-shirt to the skin hooded eyes to the outdated mustache, it’s all there.  There is even a mark on the top right hand side of the spud which corresponds to the mole I have on the top right side of my head (this will turn out to be a lot less funny if the spot on my head turns out to be cancerous and I begin to rot like the spud).

   And speaking of two rotting spuds that don’t belong, Tony and I have been frequenting Elie’s in downtown Birmingham lately.

   We found this little joint sheerly out of desperation, our beloved Edison’s having fallen short the past few weeks.  After a disappointing night at Edison’s, it was either Elie’s, The Corner in The Townsend Hotel or go home early.  Going home early...out of the question, narrowing our choice to Elie’s or The Corner.  In my mind, the only place in the Detroit area deserving the moniker “The Corner” was at Michigan and Trumbull and was also known as Tiger Stadium.  On to Elie’s.

   For a tavern in downtown Birmingham on Pierce Street just south of Maple, this little pub is surprisingly user friendly.  Plenty of street or deck parking (a warning about the deck parking: it is sometimes attendant-less and you will have to pay the fee with a credit card).  The front of the building is typical bar.  Tables and chairs strewn about, a window view of the goings on in trendy Birmingham, and a place to stand against the wall facing the wooden bar.  

   The back of the space is more restaurant than pub.  The only patron I have seen in this area during our late night crawls is former Piston Rick Mahorn.   For all I know, it is forbidden to sit back there, but who in their right mind would say anything to #44.  His head is the size of a fucking stove.  Tony and I spent about an hour watching him out of the corner of our eye, reminiscing about what a hard ass he and the rest of The Bad Boys were.  We talked about going over or buying him a drink, but chickened out in the end (we were afraid he might not like white people).

   There is really nothing to do in Elie’s except drink, listen to a surprisingly good soundtrack and be seen.

   First, the drinking.  No cover charge.  Two beers will set you back a modest $8.50, reasonable in this high price district.  It can be a chore getting a drink as nobody works the floor, meaning you have to split the crowd standing at the bar and get the hardworking bartender’s attention.  It can be done, but you will piss somebody off.  Good, it’s fun pissing off the privileged.

   Next, the music.  It is played at a level that promotes conversation.  It is also surprisingly varied and appealing to a rock snob like myself.  I heard the Dead Kennedys “Let’s Kill the Landlord”.  In Birmingham.  Surprising.  There is no dance floor and therefore no dancing (though I would like to see someone try to get their groove on to the Dead Kennedy’s).

   Finally, the crowd.  It is exactly what you might expect in Birmingham, and includes some of the same faces seen at Edison’s.  The first night that we drank at Elie’s, a patron from Edison’s that Tony dubbed Sir Ian Gere, a facial mash-up of Sir Ian McKellan and Richard Gere, welcomed us by saying, “What took you so long?”  

   Indeed.  

   We like the place in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that we so obviously do not fit in.  Apparently, there is an aura one has when downriver is your home.  You have non-meticulously groomed facial hair.  You sport t-shirts, jeans priced under $40, and plunk hats on your balding domes.  You treat those working the bar with respect and tip accordingly.  You do not sport a faux-hawk, wear too tight Affliction shirts or treat the people serving you like servants.  

   This is not to say that Tony and I have not enjoyed checking out the haughty in Elie’s.  We do.  But we have had a few odd glances and one memorable run in with two broads that ended with them calling us fucking smart asses.  I sensed that they were used to guys slobbering all over them and got pissy when Tony and I made it obvious we weren’t having it.  

   We like checking out the crowd.  We also like that we are different, better.  Downriver.

   Go to Elie’s for a reasonable boozing, good tunes and great people watching.  Just don’t be a douche.