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.
