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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!

SPORTS VENUE BAR


  In my ridiculous job, I find myself in many unsavory situations.  Last week was one of those times.  I found myself in the basement of an old church that had been drenched during the Great Rain of ’14.  My assignment was to look at moving a wad of ancient furniture around this disgusting lower level so that tile and carpet could be replaced (and if that’s not an advertisement to get your college degree, I don’t know what is...Jackson).

   I was shown around by a crusty church watchdog who could not wait to get out of the lower level and all of its yech.  He told me to lock up behind myself and then high tailed it (old fart style) up the steps and out the door.  

   I worked as fast as I could, touched as little as I could and was ready to high tail it (middle aged style) up the steps and out the door.

   But first, urination.

   I had noticed a small men’s room next to the stage in the social hall.  I walked in, flicked on the light and was pleased by it’s cleanliness.  It looked like every school bathroom ever seen.  Green tile floor, textured brick walls, two urinals that reached down to the floor and a toilet behind gray door.  I moved over to the urinal and considered what a good idea it was to have one that went all the way down to the floor and ended with a foot in diameter porcelain circle that you straddle while pissing.  Every men’s room that has the abrupt mid-air ending urinal features a disgusting testimony to man’s poor aim on the floor.

   When the first drop of my whizz hit the bottom of the urinal, a huge and hairy centipede appeared from under the porcelain rim of the previously praised piss catching circle.  

   “Shit”.  

   My word echoed around the room as I involuntarily stepped back and regarded my enemy.  He was big, but I was bigger.  He had a million hairy legs, but I stood firm on dry tile.  He had places to hide, but I had a powerful coffee induced stream at the ready (yes, it’s still strong in my late 50’s).

   I would win and I would make him pay for scaring me.  

   I focused on him and let fly.  The stream sent him scrambling to the bottom of the basin where he sought relief under the rim.  He went right rim, so I leaned to the left and fired under the rim.  When he scrambled to the rim on the opposite side, I leaned opposite and strafed.  After a few seconds of this cat and mouse game, he tried to go up and out.  Now I was mad.  I hit him hard and he tumbled to the bottom and quit moving.  The last fifteen seconds were piling on and purely personal.

   I zipped up and walked away.  The Urinal War had ended and I was victorious.

   A few days ago, I found myself back in this disgusting basement, working with our moving crew explaining what the program was for the day.  

   Once again, my visit ended in a need to relieve.  As I walked back toward the men’s room, I thought of those old horror films from the 50’s and 60’s where an outside source like atomic waste would wash over an innocent bystander such as a spider and turn the spider into a huge beast that would terrify the surrounding area and baffle the clueless authorities.  What if my urine had the same effect on the centipede?  What might I find when I flicked on the light?  Would a twenty foot centipede be waiting to hold me down and get his revenge by drowning me in his disgusting liquid waste?

   I could have gone to the safety of a nearby McDonalds, but that would be chicken shit.  I went in, flicked on the light and looked immediately to the urinal on the right.  My urinal.  He was there, looking like a lost eyebrow on the stark white porcelain.  He fidgeted slightly, a proud warrior.  He hadn’t changed in size, though he somehow looked different.  More erect, squarer through the shoulder perhaps.

   I stood, hand on light switch for a brief second.  I nodded, turned off the light and moved on to the bland safety of a fast food bathroom. 

   Partner in Bug Juice and younger brother Anthony and I were certainly not bugged to be going to Sports Venue Bar on Middlebelt Road in lovely Garden City.

   We were tipped to the joint by my son Max.  He had spent the previous week at this place with his drinking mates, Carly and Luke.  I asked him to give me the lowdown on SVB over dinner one night.  As Max is a slave to organization and thoroughness, I was not surprised to see him grab a piece of paper so that he could give me the layout of the bar while describing it in vivid detail.  The key, according to young Max, is that Sports Venue is two bars in one, one side for sports and one for dancing.

   One aspect left off his drawing was a picture of a red car flying up and down Middlebelt Road in a desperate search for the bar and the amber gold waiting inside.  I went three miles past, before turning around and whizzing by it again in the opposite direction (yes, I am well aware that I used the word “whizzing”).  After a great amount of cursing and one last illegal U-turn, we pulled into the crowded lot.  For the record, SVB is on the west side of Middlebelt, north of Ford Road and is somewhat difficult to see. 

   Once inside, my partner in booze and I made our way to the long bar which dominates the “sports” portion of the bar.  Our usual Miller Light and Labatt set us back a paltry $5.50.  It was doled out by one of a handful of servers, all of whom featured dick and balls.  Why a sports bar is not staffed by women is a mystery to this grizzled bar veteran.  The guys were attentive and did fine, but again, the dick and ball thing is not great.

   The sports side of SVB featured multiple televisions, keno and a handful of games for the more adventurous.  A variety of tables and chairs were scattered in front of the bar, all of them with a fine view of the flatscreens.  Even though sports is the name of the game in this area, the mix of men and women was decent.  This did not appear to be a hooking up area, and that worked fine for those in attendance.

   As Max noted via illustration, what makes SVB different, is the adjoining “dance” portion of the bar.  It is easily seen (good) and heard (not so good), through decorative holes in the wall.  A small dance floor saw sporadic and spasmodic action.  The tables around the floor and DJ were crowded with the curious and the horny.

   Tony and I were content to stand at the long bar on the sports side.  Serious boozing ensued, with Tony going smorgasbord:  Labatt, Corona, Rolling Rock, Coors, Buckhorn,  Weidemann, Red Cap, Keystone, Old Milwaukee, Hamms, Black Label (some of these were real choices, some not; you figure out which is which).

   Just as we were considering a move to the dance side of the equation, the door swung open and the Mod Squad of Dive Bars entered:  Max, Luke and Miss Carly.

   Tony and I were delighted to see this next generation and called them over immediately.  I had to hug my big man, daring anybody to have a problem. Nobody cared, or noticed for that matter.  Relax, Jim.

   These three know the right way to behave at a bar.  They don’t treat the staff like servants, tip well and have fun, but not “look at me” fun.  This trio can hang with the Bug Juice Two any time (even if Luke orders his Corona with a shot of grenadine poured right into the bottle).  

   When the youngsters made noise about grabbing a table on the dance side, Tony slammed the brakes on that idea, informing them that they were going to hang at the bar with their elders until we were ready to split.

  We split before closing, but not before enjoying our visit to Sports Venue Bar in general and hanging with the kids in particular.  I don’t see myself retiring from visiting bars any time soon, but I feel comfortable knowing that when I do, three pretty cool kids are ready to pick up the slack.

Cheers!  Jim

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HONORARY ZULU


   I recall standing up after taking a long slurp at the drinking fountain in fourth grade at St. Martha School in Dearborn and locking eyes with Sister Justa.  She waddled toward me with menace in mind and took in my red face, sweat plastered hair and untucked shirt before pointing at me with a crooked finger and bellowing, “You Zulu”.

     I took it as a compliment then.  I take it as a compliment today ( ten minutes before being labeled a Zulu, Phil Smith got in my way during recess and I threw him to the pebbly pavement.  He got up crying with little stones imbedded in his palm. Much later in life, he asked his mail carrier, my wife Andrea, out on a date.  She declined and went out with me instead.  Maybe if I don’t take away a piece of his swagger in fourth grade, Andrea’s decision is different). 

   I thought of this after biking past the packed baseball diamonds and parking lots of St. Francis Cabrini yesterday.  They were packed with kids in full uniforms carrying fancy travel bags filled with metal bats and new mitts.  Adult umpires barked out the balls and strikes while row after row of moms and dads sat at the edge of their seats watching and yelling.

  FACT:  Me and my crew from the mid sixties to early seventies would have kicked the crap out of the kids of today on any baseball diamond, football field or basketball court.

   Robert Summers, Jeffrey Hoover, Marv Raupp, Pat Lafferty, James Morrison.

   This is a partial roll call of ill tempered, highly skilled, max effort guys that dotted the sports landscape of West Dearborn from 1965 through 1975.

   Bragging by a sad old man you say.  Hell no, I say.

  We played our games at 10 am or 1 pm.  We got to the games by foot or bike.  My Dad was at work, my Mom was occupied with other kids and her home.  They never saw me play.  Nobody’s parents ever saw them play. So no kid ever heard his dad yell, “you’re still uppercutting at the baseball.”   As far as umps went, they were slightly older than us and feared.  A kid giving them shit was unheard of (your retribution might arrive later in the day at Ten Eyck pool).

   Your team might have a matching jersey and cap, rarely pants and socks.  You wore tennis shoes and caught with last years mitt.  The bat was wood and cherished.  If it broke, you taped/bolted/screwed it in place until it was kindling.  The ball was dirty and sometimes heavy from absorbing the elements.

   No wise parents, no adult umpires, crap gear, tattered uniforms.

   Than why was my crew so much better than todays?

   Pretty easy answer actually.  

   Because the hour I spent on the diamond playing a sanctioned baseball game was probably the sixtieth hour I spent playing baseball that week.

   Nobody out yet, bounce the ball off the side of the house and play catch.  Two guys out, play wall ball or curb ball.  Three guys, play pickle.  Four guys means home run derby or 500.  Six guys or more means a regular game, pitcher’s hand or pitcher’s mound (if I have to explain the difference between the two, then you are too young or a twerp).

   When you played with your friends all day, you got fifty at bats and the ball is constantly hit at you.  If you are playing with your chums and there are no adults around, you are going to take a ton of crap for bad plays, so you don’t make bad plays.  Lack of adult supervision is also how I learned how to curse like a champ, a skill I retain to this day.  

   I wouldn’t term this friendly competition either.  If you and I are playing curb ball, I skin my knees on the street trying to beat you.  If you win, I don’t say good game, I say let’s play again (I’m guessing this would happen, never got beat playing curb ball so I don’t know for sure).

   At night, I listen to Ernie and Ray Lane call the Tigers games.  I am not busy with Xbox or practicing jazz flute.  I listen and learn.

  Drive around today.  Do any kids play pickle or wall ball or 500?  Are any baseball diamonds buzzing with kids unless it’s a league game?  

   This is why the old Chestnut Street gang dominates the action against the pasty faced kids of today.  It’s not even close.  And when the game is over, we don’t expect Mom snacks or participation ribbons.  We are going home to play with our army men while we listen to the Tigers beat the Kansas City A’s. 

Cheers! Jim

PS  Don’t let the wrinkly skin fool you, I’m still a Zulu.

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A BIG NIGHT FOR THE BIG FELLA


    Most of my memorable moments as a parent have arrived unannounced.

   With Rachel, it involved arriving early for her softball games, sitting alongside a dusty diamond and talking about nothing while seeing who could toss the most pebbles into an empty cup (Hey Rachel, I let you win).

   With Maxwell, it was the St. Francis Ushers Pancake Breakfast.  We would arrive hours early for twenty minutes of set-up, then walk around the building exploring and laughing about the horrible chow we were about to serve.

   With Jackson, it was walking the paper route with our trusty and rusty wagon.  We would invent nicknames for all of our customers and I would get a class by class rundown of the day’s school activities.  I would always speculate about what my cut of the collection would be.  Never got a dime.

   Having gone through two high school cap and gown ceremonies with oldsters Rachel and Max, I was not anticipating a precious moment at young Jackson’s graduation from Allen Park High School.  Did I mention that the event took place on a muggy Friday after a rough week at work?  That it was at the ancient and cavernous Allen Park Civic Auditorium?  That our seats were at the rear of the hall where people on the stage could only be seen on grainy big screens?  That fresh air inside the auditorium was at a premium?  That my wife made me wear long pants when all the other dads were showing off their skinny legs and knobby knees?

   I have always found the cap and gown ceremony to be a pretentious exercise in tedium.  A parade of tired speeches, out of tune singing and instrument playing and an endless roll call of unfamiliar names.  And the payoff?  Seeing your mile away kid walk across a stage to accept a piece of paper (not even the actual diploma).  

   I fought sleep waiting for the program to begin.  In my haze, I heard Max ask, “What’s wrong with Daddy?”  I put on my big boy Daddy pants.  “Nothing, just a little tired,” I replied, straightening up in my seat.

  Finally the band struck up the entrance march (not easy to differentiate from the warming up).  We stood to watch the students march in.  They flew down the aisle two by two, a blur of bouncing hair and smiling faces.  I caught sight of Jackson.  He was beaming, long hair curling out from under his cap, face ringed with an orange tinted scruffy beard.

   This ten second burst of energy was followed by ninety minutes of sweaty hell.   There were monotone speeches from various Allen Park dignitaries (“Please welcome the Parks and Recreation Supervisor to tell you why a proud graduate never litters”).  There was the whitest chorus of all time, using their best American idol voices on a sappy tune.  

   And finally, the roll call of graduates.  Rachel tortured me during this endless procession by pointing out the current graduate’s name in the program and Jack’s faraway name.   Glacial.    

   Finally, the roll hit the M’s.  We inched forward in a ridiculous effort to reduce the chasm between our seats and the stage.  I caught sight of my man entering from stage right.  He was impressive in size and stature, a brilliant smile dominating his face.

   “Jackson Patrick Morrison.”  A beautiful Irish name for a beautiful Irish lad.

   We saluted Jack with a synchronized shout of “Louie”, an homage to his night time buddy and alter ego.  Jack claimed he did not hear us, but it does not matter.  Louie was properly recognized.

   Finally, the program came to a conclusion and the proud graduates flew down the aisle and into the real world.

   The lawn of the Civic Center was a madhouse.  The Class of 2014 mingled with parents, family, friends and teachers posing for informal photos or hugging and kissing. 
   
   It took a while to locate Jackson, but when we did, he was hanging with his crew.  It is difficult for an old fart like me to understand, but Jack and his posse bonded over video games.  They would hang at a friend’s house, play video games until the sun came up, eat tons of food and give each other shit.  You could not, however, neatly define these guys by their love of Grand Theft Auto.  They are tennis captains, hockey captains, workout warriors and talented students.  A good bunch of guys.

   I got a kick out of watching these big fellas hug and put their arms around each other without an ounce of self consciousness.



   There was one glaring omission from the evenings proceedings, Grandma.  The heat and the difficulty of getting around made taking my Mom to the auditorium seem like a bad idea.  Before arriving, we had discussed stopping over unannounced after the ceremony to visit.  But the evening had gone long and we considered a visit the following day instead.  

   Jack would not hear of it.  Andrea, Ray and Max echoed his sentiments.  I figured that even though the hour was late, there was a decent chance my Mom would be awake watching her beloved Tigers. 

   Let’s go.

   But first, Jack had to go back inside, get his actual diploma and go back to his buddy’s house to pick up the car.

   The four remaining adults decided that this would be the perfect opportunity to stop in at The Sports Haven bar for a quick beer.  After all, the pub is close to my Mom’s, we had time to kill and we were hot and thirsty.  Don’t judge.

   Jack went his way and we went ours, arriving at the equally muggy Sports Haven in Dearborn.  We ordered tall summer shandys all around and commandeered a table at the rear of the bar.  We drank, laughed and talked about the ceremony.  Somewhere in there, Max complained about the heat.  Finally it dawned on us to call Jack and tell him to meet us at the bar, so that we could arrive at Grandma’s together.

   A couple of minutes later, Jack called to tell us he was on his way.  A couple of gulps later, I went out in the parking lot to greet him and walk him into the Haven.  I saw him approach, directed him toward a vacant spot and watched as he got out of the car, resplendent in his green gown.  The kid stopped, wrestling to get his cap atop his flowing locks.  He was going to make an entrance.

   I walked in first, followed by my boy.  The sodden faces at the bar turned to face us and a rousing round of applause welcomed Jackson to the pub.  Jack sat with us at the rear of the bar while we saluted him with the last of our shandys.  

   Before we could finish, the waitress stopped by and told us that Jack would have to leave, as it was after nine and he was underage.  My boy graduates high school and an hour later gets the boot from a bar for the first time, and we are there to witness both.  I get misty thinking about it.





   


  Two minutes later, our merry caravan arrived at my Mom’s.  I had my key out, ready to make a surprise entrance at the side door.  Locked from the inside.  We would have to call and possibly wake younger brother Tony and wife Beth.  I knew from previous Facebook postings that the two had indulged in some driveway drinking that night.

   After a couple of short rings, a surprised, but happy Beth answered the phone and announced that she would be right down to let us in.  Tony and Beth may have been sleeping, they surely had been drinking, but they were delighted to greet us, camera at the ready.

   The real prize came when my Mom walked in, wrapped in her comfy robe, her voice cracking with pleasure at seeing the graduate.  Jack tightly hugged his Grandma, towering over her, holding on a long time.  There were seven of us cramped in that muggy kitchen.  It made me think of a chaotic scene in the rear of Holy Cross Hungarian Church some thirty-three years earlier when Andrea took pity on me and agreed to be my wife.  Chaos can be fun. 

   As they have done ever since Jackson was a little boy, my Mom and he said good-bye by touching index fingers so my Mom could “steal” some youthful energy from Jack.  It’s not stealing if the young man with the youthful energy wants you to have it. 





   The evening wound down with a late dinner at Applebee’s.  I was wedged in a
 booth between Ray and Andrea, looking across the table at Max and Jack.  I thought about the evening and the scene that had unfolded in the kitchen, thankful for the love of family and memorable moments that sneak up without warning.







Cheers!  Jim
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FOR SALE: INDULGENCE


   If you look in today’s Free Press (for the dozen or so of you who still actually purchase a paper), you will see an article entitled “Up North cottage market heats up.”  

   This article is accompanied by photos of cottages in northern Michigan that are for sale.  There is a nice Houghton Lake starter cottage for $339,000, an affordable cottage in Traverse City listed at $842,000 and a second home on Lake Charlevoix for a mere $1,595,000.

   Before going any further, allow me to state my credentials.  I am a northern Michigan veteran.  My parents had a second home on a working farm in Mesick for many years, I have regularly vacationed in the beautiful north with my family and consider myself knowledgeable about all things Michigan.

   These “cottages” listed for sale in the Free Press are so anti northern Michigan as to be sickening.  The people I knew that live up north and the ones I have met vacationing there, are generally a down to earth lot that understand their role in the beauty of their surroundings.  It is to be a small cog in the world, not to dominate it.

   That some rich swine from Oakland County got together with their asshole designers and constructed a monstrosity is wrong.  Just because you can do something does not mean that you should.

   The Lake Charlevoix cottage in particular is sickening.  It blocks the lake view of any poor sod who happens to live anywhere behind them.  If you happen to be boating on the lake, you will be confronted with this silly mansion, instead of admiring the natural beauty of the shoreline.  It absolutely flies in the face of everything around it, and goes against the first rule of decent design in that it does not fit.

   It am also troubled by the huge footprint a house of this size leaves on the land and its resources.  The energy used to heat and provide air conditioning for the pampered twits that spend the odd weekend roughing it in the woods, must be considerable.  Perhaps a more modest cottage, built with modern energy saving materials, would satisfy their up north needs.  Remember, your purpose is to re-connect with the world around you and not use it up.

   When I look at these photos, I am reminded of a confrontation my daughter Rachel and son Jackson witnessed at the IGA in Empire.  A fudgie was complaining loudly about the lack of a brand name cheese available.  

   “I can’t use Spartan cheese.  I need a name brand.”
  
   “Spartan is a name brand.”

   “It’s not my name brand.”

    Back home you get your cheese, up north you get Spartan brand.  Back home, you can try and dominate the world, up north just blend in for Christ sake.

   I suggest that anyone considering building a cottage in northern Michigan take a look at some of the older houses in the area and emulate those.  By all means, update and modernize.  But don’t build something obscene just because you can.  Try to let the world know how successful you are without fouling the environment for others.

   Oh, what’s the use!

Cheers, Jim

PS  “Oh what’s the use” is what I mutter almost every day while reading the Free Press, my catch phrase if you will (think of it as “Dyn-o-mite” or “I’m so confused”).
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JIM THROWS A FIT


   I wasn’t in the best of moods.

   It was a beautiful Saturday morning, after the shittiest of shitty winters, and instead of hanging out at my house sipping coffee with my wife, I was heading into work to see a troublesome client and work through a mound of papers.

   When I reached Birmingham on Southfield Road, I was overwhelmed by the amount of exercise buffs out and about.

   The most bountiful and easiest to notice group is the Birmingham Mom Brigade.  These are 35-45 year olds wearing the uniform of the day:  brightly trimmed running shoes, footies just above the shoe top, skin tight black yoga pants, a sweat wicking shirt in a color to match the trim of the shoe and a light black track jacket adorned with the brand name of the shoe being worn.

   This mom is running with perfect form. Her hair is tied into some sort of ponytail, swinging back and forth like a manic metronome.  A trace of her ear buds can be seen.  Sweating will not be allowed.  Pushing a stroller of single or double width or leading a dog or dogs on a leash is welcome.  If a PTA meeting materialized at the next street corner, she would be good to go without so much as a snicker about her appearance from one of her neighbors.

   The next category of exercisers irritating me was the men.  These 45-55 year old Country Club Members have short hair, freshly shaved Saturday morning faces and matching nylon track suits.  Forget about the splashes of color, this event is black suit only.   Again, the form is perfect.  The pace may be quicker, the hair might get slightly matted with perspiration (not sweat, for God sake), but being disheveled is frowned upon.

   Why are the men exercisers slightly older than their female counterparts?  I believe the 35-45 year old men are busy working Saturdays, pushing useless piles of paper around and trying to figure new ways of bilking without making anything or providing a service. It must takes a good ten years of showing the CEO what a hard charger you are to earn a better quality of paper for your business card and get Saturdays off.  Meanwhile, the wives of these useless  piles of shit are stay at home types working to instill intolerant conservative views in little Kyle and Bree. 

   The third group is a bit harder to describe.  They are the men and women in the Hard Core Bicycle Platoon.  Like football players, it is hard to actually see these pedaling fools.  Their skin tight tops are adorned with Italian tire companies, the ass of their pants is lumpy with prostate padding, their heads are crowned with tapered aerodynamic helmets, sunglasses hide the eyes.  

   Make no mistake about it, these people own the road.  It does not matter if it is a side street or busy thoroughfare, if the light is red or green, this is their time and their world.  Stay the fuck out of the way. These saddle riding dim bulbs also wear the wrist bands telling the world that Lance did nothing wrong.

   As I watched these three groups bustle about the streets of Birmingham, my desire to point my car onto the sidewalk and send them scattering like well coiffed bowling pins was great.  I figured that talking to the police about my actions would only slow my return home, so I resisted the urge.

   Once home, I noticed that the Downriver Exerciser was out also, but in a much different manner.

   Downriver is fatter, both sexes.  We struggle more with our form: heads wag, tongues loll, sweat pours.  We look rattier:  shoes are unkempt, shorts are the no-brand Target variety, a hoodie is the top of the day.  Also, there are just less of us out and about.  We nod or stop to talk along the route, exercise being more of an opportunity to get out of the house and bullshit with neighbors than a manic activity to stay thin.  

   The urge to drive a car into the Downriver Exerciser is almost nil.

   Later, I will explain the differences inside a Birmingham house and one Downriver.  Should be an explosive expose’. 

Cheers!  Jim
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WALKING THROUGH THE STREETS TO SOHO IN THE RAIN


  At the outset, the goal of this ridiculous web site was to illuminate and educate weary bar patrons.  To take you on a drunken journey to various pubs in the metro Detroit area  and let you know what is good and what is horse-shit in the ever changing world of bar boozing.  Things were going along pretty well.

   Then Tony and I met Edison’s.

   It was everything we loved in a bar.  It was age appropriate, and because oldsters drank there, it was dark (muting both the lights and my eye bags, yes please).  They featured a live band, either classic rock or classic R+B, so there was dancing, old- person-trying-to-hook-up dancing.  

   And possibly most important, we were regulars.  Not just ordinary regulars.  We were regulars a bit rougher around the edges than the balance of the Birmingham crowd, a difference we played to and relished.  Our presence at the round bar in the center of the room automatically brought forth a Labatt’s and Miller Light.

   One night after walking in and accepting our beers, we noticed a small group of women standing in our customary spot.  When they noticed us looking their way, they beckoned us over.  Unusual.  We warily approached and before we could say anything, the one who became known to us as O Oyl, because of her uncanny resemblance to Popeye’s girlfriend, said, “We were saving this spot until you guys showed up.”

   Respect.

   Toward the middle of December, Tony and I found that Edison’s had stopped listing upcoming bands.  I felt that something was up, but Tony shakily thought otherwise (classic denial).  I was dispatched to Edison’s during the work week to see what was going on in person.  The restaurant upstairs was being set up when I busted in and asked to see the manager. 

“What’s going on with Edison’s?”
“They’re closing.”
“You mean like closing for remodeling.”
“No, I mean like closing.”
“You mean like closing, but re-opening in a little while.”
“No I mean like closing, closing.  Like not open for business closing.”

  Thanks, I needed that.

  The only way to break tragic news like this is to be direct.  

  “It’s official, Edison’s is closed.”

   
 Since that day, Tony and I have become orphans, two fun loving Friday night boozers with no place to call home.  Or as my younger brother has so eloquently put it, “two apes flinging feces at each other trying to figure out where to go.”

  Friday night in early January found us trying to recapture pre-Edison’s good times by hitting downtown Ferndale.  The game plan was to lubricate at Danny’s Irish Pub on the east side of Woodward before catching the freak show at Boogie Fever on the west side.

   A cold rain greeted us that night, turning piles of snow into a gray-slushy nightmare.  The east side of Woodward in Ferndale was a tangle of poorly parked cars, honking horns and the possibility of distant street parking.  

   “It was never like this at Edison’s.”

   If the evening was to be saved, we would have to quit referencing past glories and adapt.  

   “Fuck this.  We know we can park in the big lot on the west side of Woodward.  Let’s get drinking at Boog .”  

   Better.

   We readily found a place to park on the west side.  The walk to Boogie Fever was horrible, a sideways rain soaking our bald heads and cheap jeans.  The entrance had moved.  We fast walked about searching for an opening in the wall that would get us out of the monsoon before being rescued by a heavy set black man wearing a huge Russian fur hat, hugging the wall and smoking (D’Ivan as Tony dubbed him).  

   Once inside, the bouncer stopped us from reaching into our pockets. There was no cover tonight.  

   Uh-oh.

   The cavernous Boogie Fever of our past, the one with the raised dance floor littered with assholes trying to recapture their glory days was gone.  It was cut in half, huge slabs of unpainted dry wall ringed with a few bar height tables and chairs, a cold cement dance floor for a few sad dancers.  All that remained from bygone days was the shit music of the disco era.

   We grabbed beers and took in the scene.  I believe Anthony counted twenty-six patrons.  Included in this mob were D’Ivan (in from the rain), a hippie chick with her belly tumbling over her jeans and Un-Foxy Brown, a sassy black dancer getting her solo groove on (it might be a slow bar night, but it will not stop Our Kid from doling out names; the barmaid was dubbed Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle; early on, she bowed her head and kissed a two dollar tip we left).

   That we had a few beers here should be chalked up to fear of going back out into the cold downpour and uncertainty of where to go next.  I recalled that there was a club called Orchid right around the corner. We summoned the courage to move on, fought a losing battle to stay dry on Woodward , and made our way to Orchid.  

   We opened up the large chrome front door.  A deafening beat and a huge black bouncer channeling his best Ving Rhames greeted us.  “Five dollars to get in, one dollar coat check.”  I turned to get Tony’s reaction.  A grimace.  I pointed out ten people inside the club wearing coats as if the coat check was the most heinous element of this shithole.  The bouncer got Vinger.  “Coat check one dollar.”  My wise younger brother was already showing his ass, heading back out the door.

   Tony and I had been in tough spots before, but it had been a long time since we did not have a “go to” bar to fall back on.  A decision was needed before the rain made us prunier.  We decided to walk further west on Nine Mile to Rosie O’Grady’s.  Not the Rosie’s that we loved back in the day; the new, corporate, chain style Rosie’s.  

   A funny thing happened on the way to Rosie’s.  We saw the welcoming lights of Soho, a gay pub that we had briefly last called many years ago.  The glass windows facing Nine Mile showed a pool table, an L shaped bar with an opening just right for two brothers and a table full of tough looking broads drinking long necks (how’s that for a stereotype right out the gate).

   We made our way to the bar, got two beers for a reasonable seven bucks and took in the crowd.  Almost instantly, the young lady to my left introduced herself.  I said hello and introduced, “my younger brother Tony.”  Why “younger brother Tony” and not just “Tony”?  Did I want to make certain that she knew we were brothers and not romantic.  I hope not.  It would be at least slightly homophobic and besides, I could do worse than Tony.  He’s handsome, funny, intelligent.  Not sure where I’m going with this... 

   We made some small talk with the young lady, before she leaned in conspiratorially.  

   “Do you two know this is a gay bar?”

   Tony and I feigned horror, wondered out loud if we were going to be singled out as breeders, or shown the door.  The young lady found us less hilarious than we found us, and turned her attention back to the friends she came in with.

   Tony and I turned our attention to two of our favorite pastimes in any bar:  the pool table and the juke box.

   The two couples playing pool were horrible, missing easy shot after easy shot, our quarters gathered dust on the rail.  

   We moved on to the juke box.  Let’s see:  Morrissey, The Smiths, Queen (welcome to stereotype #2).  My brother likes to refer to himself as a jukebox bully and has no problem feeding the machine.  He gets to hear his tunes, and more importantly he gets to make others hear them.  He is good at setting a mood and managed to find a lot of great songs (would have been a lot better if the sound system was more than half assed).

   After drinking and straining to listen to music, it was finally our turn to play.  That Tony and I ran the table for a long time is not a big deal in Soho.  What is a big deal is how friendly the place is.  In most bars, Tony and I hang together and rarely mingle.  Not in Soho.  We bar chatted a lot; balancing pool playing and talking music, sports and headlines.  Some breezy stuff and some not so breezy, a good mix ( one of our opponents was waxing nostalgic about the good old days when driving drunk was not a big deal, my kind of guy).

   I was hot that night, making many improbable shots.  There was no gamesmanship, no bitter comments or sideways glances.  Just a couple of high fives, shoulder rubbing, furtive glances ( wanted to see if you were paying attention).  

   What is Soho all about?  I saw pool playing, hand holding, laughing, toasting, kissing and felt a welcoming vibe.  The same shit you see at any cool bar.  

   I guess the girl standing next to me earlier in the evening was right, Soho is a gay bar.  All I know is that when things looked dodgy for two bar orphans, Soho welcomed us with open arms and showed us a good time.

Cheers!  Jim

PS  To Phil Robertson of Duck Dynasty, Dave Agema of the Republican National Committee, Rush Limbaugh Asshole Hall of Fame and other anti-gay small minded pencil dicks:  Fuck you.
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