EVERY PICTURE TELLS A SORDID STORY

   Last Saturday, my daughter Rachel came over for a visit.  My wife, Andrea had been cleaning out the bedroom closet and set aside a number of photo albums.  She brought a few of them over to the dining room table for a trip down memory lane.

   Most of the books had photos of when the kids were little and we reminisced about toys, clothes and events attended.    

   Then the big white photo album with the aged photos came out.  The one with pictures from before we were married.  Some highlights as reviewed with our daughter:

*Photos of my wife’s trip out west, just before we met.  The ones featuring the local guys that she and her girlfriend hung out with. I love looking at those.

*A Halloween party from thirty-five years ago, featuring an assortment of drunken revelers including my friend John dressed as Aunt Jemima, complete with blackface.  From the good old days, before political correctness ruined our fun...remember?

*A photo of me sitting crossed legged on a hotel room floor, licking the glue edge on a joint, with a mound of freshly cleaned pot at the ready.

*A lovely group photo taken from my parents farmhouse in northern Michigan.  A group of guys and gals sitting around a coffee table littered with drug paraphernalia and a big bottle of Southern Comfort (I’m most embarrassed by the presence of the Southern Comfort).

   As my brother Tony wryly noted, “It’s a good thing we didn’t take selfies back in the day.”

   Well, I’m out of the closet.  I inhaled...a lot.  

   But so did everybody else (I think that was my excuse the first time I got caught smoking by my Mom).  

   And by everybody else, I mean everybody.  It’s like that list of people that endorse Ferris Bueller as recited by the school secretary.  “The sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wasteoids, dweebies, dickheads.”  Yes, those people and more were using weed in the mid 70’s.

   I just purchased a Blue Oyster Cult CD from Amazon (sit tight, I’m going to link the pot thing with BOC).

   I started thinking about the time I saw heavy metal Gods, BOC, live in concert.  Set the Wayback Machine to August 23, 1975, the setting is Cleveland Stadium in Cleveland, Ohio.  The “World Series of Rock” line-up in order of appearance:  Frank Marino and Mahogany Rush, BOC, Aerosmith, Uriah Heep and Rod Stewart and Faces.  Those attending with me shall remain nameless ( did I ever mention that I went everywhere with my best friend Rob?).

   The success of any road trip starts with sound planning.  That is why we bought a plump bag of herb and a mysterious vial of hash oil for the long day ahead.  We went to the dealer’s for the weed, the hash oil a purely impulse buy.  

   Once home, we thought it best to try the oil.  If it was going to make us go schizoid, it would be best to do that the night before and not ruin the concert experience.  Our friendly neighborhood dealer recommended that we dispense the oil by spreading it on the Zig-Zag white we were going to roll a standard joint with.  

   Sounded reasonable.  However, once the joint was lit and flame met oil, it slowed the burning process, and a dreaded sidewinder was the result.  While we enjoyed the buzz (nobody went schizoid), the delivery system would need tweaking.

   A trip to the head shop at Van Born and Telegraph was in order.  We would need a special pipe for our mysterious impulse buy.  The store was an odd mash-up of party store, deli and head shop.  We carefully inspected all of the glass pipes behind the counter before settling on a very plain glass pipe (no weed leaf emblems, peace signs or butterflies for this manly bunch).  

   Before we could make our purchase, we were forced to wait as the clerk cut up ring bologna for some old fart.  We watched quietly from behind glassy eyes as the gross tube of mystery meat was plucked out of a nasty jar of spice water and cut to very specific lengths.  After what seemed like forever, old fart strode happily from the store and we made our selection.  We would need to try the pipe out immediately... to make sure that it worked properly.

   As soon as we hit Van Born, we saw the purchaser of the ring bologna walking home, munching on a section of his gross tube.  Since he was walking on the driver side of the vehicle and I was the passenger, I suggested to the driver, Andy (oops, I wasn’t going to mention names), that he roll down the window and ask the old fart how his dick tastes ( I cleverly thought that the ring bologna looked like a dick, not my dick, but a dick).

   Driver felt this was a good one, rolled down his window, delivered the line with gusto and promptly slammed into the back of a car which had stopped right in front of us.  Before both cars could rock to a complete stop, a cop appeared on the scene.  Talk about being scared straight.  I can honestly say I don’t remember what happened to Driver, but I know a trip to jail was somehow avoided. 

   The next morning arrived bright and clear, more than could be said for the group heading to Cleveland.  I was holding the glass vial of hash oil.  I took it from my pocket to make sure it was safe and promptly dropped it on the driveway.  The thin glass vial fractured, but the oil inside was so sticky that it did not escape.  We would have to take the damaged vial with us in a baggie (no shortage of those) and make do.

   I can’t really tell you much about the day long concert (the weed, oil and forty years distance being primary reasons).  I do recall:

*We sat near the OD tent (that stands for overdose for you youngsters) and were entertained during the endless parade of guitar and drum solos by the endless parade of kids who could not handle their high.  They should have tried everything out the night before like the wiser kids at the show.

*The day started hot, rained, and got hot again.  The grassy field turned to mud with stoners slipping accidentally and on purpose, an homage to Woodstock.

*Aerosmith stole the show, touring behind Toys in the Attic.  They were the only band to stay away from endless soloing and string together hit after hit.

*Uriah Heep was pure shit.  They thankfully ended their gig around 7 pm.  The stage announcer (not Wavy Gravy) told everybody to settle in as Rod Stewart and Faces would not take the stage until it was dark.  Two hours of waiting, after seven hours of partying.  What to do?

*No memory of Rod Stewart and Faces.  None.

   We drove home from Cleveland immediately after the show.  The term “designated driver” had not yet been invented.  And if it had, it would have been roundly mocked by the crew heading back to Dearborn from this all day affair.  We took turns driving.  For safety.  I drove five minutes before waking up one of my friends and telling him it was his turn.

   I end this saga the way I do most memories from this period of my life:

I have no idea how I survived.

Cheers!  Jim

PS  If any of my kids read this, it’s fiction...never happened... and don’t do drugs

CURMUDGEON NEWS

   I got up early, went to work, ran, ate dinner and became one with the couch.  It would take a lot to pry my heavy lidded eyes from Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy (yes, I love The Wheel).  The following commercial, and its misguided message did the trick. 

   As the commercial unfolds, we learn that the vapid twenty-somethings we are about to meet are “real people” and not actors.  They are instructed to hand over their cell phones, so that contact with the outside world for the next few minutes via any one of a million methods will not be possible.

   Reluctantly, their electronic umbilical cords are passed across the table to the host.

   A wood chipper is fired up by the only old fart you will see in this spot.  He is wearing a work jumpsuit and actually knows how to operate a piece of machinery.  Poor bastard, the “real people” think, he has to work for his living.

   Into the wood chipper go the recently collected cell phones.  These twits watch their precious phones get destroyed one by one.  They whine, cry, gasp and stare.  But they don’t move.  For a long time.  Finally, two dumb broads charge the whirring wood chipper, willing to part with a limb in an effort to save the devices that contain last weekends selfies taken in Midtown ( I always wait for one or both of these nitwits to stumble into the hungry blades Stephen King style, but alas, it never happens).

   Cue the reactions from the real people.   Tattooed plain white tee sits appropriately slumped in his chair, pissed and weighing his options (I’m ‘bout to get up on him).  The dick with the man bun on the back of his head is confused (who could do something so ugly to something so beautiful)  The black dude with the dreads looks at the host quietly, head cocked to the side (if I wasn’t so evolved...).

   The real people are “a little lost” and “scared”, they threaten violence, and begin to complain of physical changes in their beings. 

   Then the moment that brings my rage to a full boil spills out of the mouth of Michael P (I believe his last name is Pussy).  

   “I feel like I’m in the pioneer days, or something.”

   To Michael P and all of the other misguided assholes who can’t fathom that life existed before the cell phone, or that nothing of worth could possibly have been created without its inspiration, or that the generations that came before were simple:  Fuck You.

    You smug little shit.  The world got along just fine before you appeared with your cell phone, personal computer and apps. 

   The pioneer days, in case you forgot, designed the Mustang, recorded the White Album, brought down the Nixon White House, stopped Nazi Germany and wrote To Kill A Mockingbird.  FDR, Little Richard, Edgar Allen Poe, Jackie Robinson and the author of this rant, managed to get along just peachy without a cell phone at the ready.

   My wife and I took a trip to new York City in 1979.  You know how we found our way?  With a fucking map.  I drove, Andrea navigated and we bullshitted about where we were going and what we would see when we got there.  You know what?  We managed to navigate Manhattan, get a room on Central Park and see Neil Young walk into Studio 54.  All without the help of the all important hand held device.  

   After taking in New York, we drove to Virginia Beach and had the time of our lives.  Never once did I miss a word Andrea said because I was staring at a four inch screen trying to keep up with something my friends were doing five hundred miles away.

   Tony and I head to the bar for Friday drinking.  Never dawns on either one of us to bring in our cell phones.  I am pleased to hang with my brother.  I look forward to hearing his jokes and observations about the people around us.  I love my wife, but I do not need to know what she is doing at that moment.  I am busy boozing with the dapper fellow I walked in with.

   Being connected is over rated.  Being alone with your thoughts or being totally invested in the person you are with is cool.  If you actually look at the face you are conversing with, and really listen to what is being said, you won’t miss a gesture or nuance.  Long after you’ve forgotten a text about how stupid a friend's boss is, an inside joke or crooked smile from the person you are with will be remembered.

   Ironic that the device touted as connecting you to everything is leading you to isolation of the worst kind.

   Walk away from the phone.  You’re missing everything.

Cheers, Jim! 

PS The commercial touts the Chevy Volt allowing you to connect up to seven devices while driving...because that’s a good idea.

DEATH FROM DEATH METAL?

   I should have known better.  

   Fellow eternal adolescent Tony and I were at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit this past Saturday for the Eagles of Death Metal concert.  We had endured the caterwauling of opening act, Jessika Von Rabbit and were busy people watching from the front rail of the balcony enjoying light libations.

   I have been enjoying rock concerts since 1973 (J Geils Band at Cobo Arena, a pretty good start).  Only a rookie would wait until the house lights come down for the headliner before making a dash to the bathroom.  Getting sidetracked by the booze, people watching and anticipation of a great show is no excuse.  I tried to ignore my nagging bladder by pouring beer on top of it.

   It didn’t work.  I shuffled back and forth as a self important roadie went from mike to mike uttering the famous rock lyric, “Check, check, check one, check two.”  When he exited stage left only to come back a few minutes later with an armful of drinks, I knew I had only minutes to spare.

   I tapped Tony on the shoulder, told him I was heading downstairs to the bathroom, and made my way through the standing masses behind us.  That there was nobody else in the head at the time confirmed my suspicion that if I didn’t hurry, I would be caught downstairs when the band hit the stage, maybe the best part of any concert.   

   Alas, there is no hurrying a middle aged stream.  After what seemed an eternity in the slop that is the St. Andrews men’s room, I made my way out of the bathroom and toward the steps only to be stopped by a black clad security guard.  He spread his arms and informed me that I could not head back up at this time.  I clearly remembered washing my hands and could not figure out what I had done wrong.

  “Why not?”

   “Because the band has to walk down these steps to get to the stage.”

   “The band is going to walk by right here.”  I motioned to the short hall populated only by the two of us.

   “That’s right.  You can wait next to me.”  

   Seconds later, an even larger black clad security guy came down the steps followed by the rhythm section for EODM.  Behind them, Jesse Hughes the mustachioed wild man that fronts the band bounced down.  He stopped as soon as he saw me.

   “Fuck man.  I have that same shirt.”  He was excitedly pointing at my black Creem magazine tee with the Boy Howdy logo.  

   I am not sure if the shirt moved him, or if being in the presence of a man with a better mustache than his got to him, but he hustled over and put me in a tight bear hug, one that I naturally and enthusiastically returned.

   When he released me, I cleverly said, “You guys fucking rock.”  It was all I had.

   The heavily bearded guitar player, Dave Catching, caught my eye and I added, “This show is going to be fucking great.”  Remember, I had been pissing a minute before and had no time to prepare anything more than Beavis and Butthead banter.  He seemed to like it and returned my comment with a “Fucking great” of his own.

   Then they were gone.

   I tore up the steps and through the crowd to get to Anthony, still solidly sipping his gin and tonic and holding our spot against the rail.  I told him my story just as the band hit the stage.  He called me a dick with a giant smile on his face, his way of acknowledging that something pretty cool had happened.

   We turned our attention to the stage as EODM took their places.  My new best friend Jesse Hughes took the mike at center stage.

   “The doctors told me if I played this show tonight, I would probably die.  I have been sick the past few days with a 104 degree fever.  But I am all fucked up on Detroit drugs and ready to go.”

   While the crowd cheered this bravery, Tony swiveled and stared at me.  He, and anyone else that knows me, understands that I am a germ-a-phobe.  One that avoids and loathes the sick.  I had been hugged tightly by a man suffering from God knows what illness he caught while on the rock and roll road.

   The only course of action I could think of was to kill the germs with alcohol.  So I did.

   Did anything else good happen that night?

   Yes.  For a few hours on Saturday night, I was a punk kid again.  After spending the week getting up early, working, worrying and watching what I eat, I spent five hours drinking, laughing, engaging strangers in conversation and hugging deathly ill rock stars with the one person most qualified to accompany me on my trip back to immaturity.  Being related to your bad influence is pretty great, right Anthony?

   We saw a great concert from our front row balcony perch.  Eagles of Death Metal do not play death metal, by the way.   They play hard rock, punk, comedy, sing along.  It is difficult to neatly categorize, but easy to get into.  You won’t hear acoustic guitars, long solos or sad tunes.  You will hear catchy riffs played in loud bursts by a visually interesting foursome.

   When the sold out crowd took over singing part of a tune for the flu ridden singer, he interrupted the song and let everyone know how moved he was.  “Nobody has ever done that for us before.  I feel like crying.  You see I never had a dog or a little brother growing up.”

   After roughly ninety minutes, a great concert ended, but not our night.

   There are two bars within walking distance to St. Andrews that Little Brother and I had been to before and had a less than stellar time, Jacoby’s and Sweetwater Tavern.  We pride ourselves on being able to have fun in any shithole and decided to revisit both, to tidy up some unfinished business. 

   We started at Jacoby’s.  A few years ago, we were treated like intruders at some private club when we stopped in for beers.  We were not treated like that on this occasion, but it was crowded and loud and douchey.  We had one beer and decided to split.  Sometimes even the best boozers can’t beat a bad bar.

   Our previous trip to Sweetwater went like this.  Walk in the front door.  Look at room of  black faces staring at us.  Walk to the rear of the tavern to go out the back door.  Find that there is no back door.  Walk back past the still staring black faces.  Exit the front door.  If this strikes you as racist, fuck off.  Do you remember what happened to the guys from Animal House at the Dexter Lake Club?  Sometimes you just don’t belong.

   This trip was more friendly.  Yes, that means more diverse.  Again, if this is a problem for you, fuck off.

   We staked out a spot at the bar just inside the door and struck up a conversation with the couple next to us.  In short order, we found out that they were young (22) and they found out that we were old ( we did not cop to any specific age, but the bald heads and eye bags may have tipped them off).  It was as if the girl had discovered a rotary phone.  She was flabbergasted that we had just attended the EODM show (we should have been asleep by now), intrigued by our facial hair (I should have showed her my hairy chest, that would have really shocked her), and highly amused that I have been married to the same woman for almost thirty-five years (quaint).

   Naturally, we outlasted these young pups at the bar.  They were replaced next to us by a wise cracking fellow who wanted to talk about the football game playing out on the television in front of us.  He and Tony were trading barbs, most of it good natured.  When it came down to the final play of the game, a field goal attempt to determine the winner, Tony said it would sail wide right and our new friend said it would be a winner.  During the time out before the kick, a wager was made with a drink on the line.  When Tony proved right, and the kick not only missed but sailed wide right, our new buddy slunk away leaving his debt unpaid.  If your integrity can be bought for a measly five bucks, you are lacking.

   Alas, there were no more bars to avenge and no time left for avenging.  

   I write this shit blog eight days since the concert.  I did not catch the Jesse Hughes flu, but have wondered since then if it is in any way odd that I got a kick out of my encounter with the EODM front man.  It probably is odd.  But it may be even odder that I don’t give a damn.

Cheers!  Jim

NO GO

   I am not going to the Edsel Ford Class of 1975 High School Reunion.

   Not for the reasons usually associated with bagging a class reunion.

   I do not look significantly worse than I did in 1975.  I have aged horribly, but so has every other fifty-eight year old geezer I have laid baggy eyes on.  I have actually improved in a lot of physical respects, not a great accomplishment considering that my graduation photo is very Meat Loaf like (singer or dinner entree, your pick) .

   My personal life is not a mess either.  I have been married for thirty-four years to Andrea, a “fox” as we used to say back in the day.  We have three kids who have never been brought home in the back of a police car.

   While not rich, we are doing OK (high praise indeed).  Modest acquisitions, but using what we have to put two kids through college and working on our third.  We are happy to have a nice patio to have drinks on while playing games.  Simple.

   I did not become a writer (if you are this far into the story, you already know that).  I work with my younger brother and best friend, Tony, at the business my Dad started a long time ago.  Lots of ups and downs, but oddly proud to keep chugging along through tough economic times, helping others stay employed.

   So why not go?

   I hated high school.  I was shitty at it.  Consumed with angst, uncertainty, fear.  It and I were miserable.  Why would I want to re-live that period of time?

   Picturing my cocktail party topics of discussion:

   “Remember when I was too insecure to go on a date, so I got stoned and ate instead?

   “Remember when I was uncertain of who I was, so I said something hurtful about you to make me feel better?”

   “Remember when I mistook individuality for weirdness and ignored or belittled you?”

   Ticket sales for this event are moving slowly, as noted on the Facebook page devoted to our graduating class.  A post from the organizer of the reunion exhorts a group of fellow grads who have not yet bought tickets to do so.  The list is a rundown of twenty or so popular kids from our class.  

  What about the other ninety-five percent?  I get it, you can’t list everyone, and he probably chose people he hung with or wanted to see.  But it still evokes feelings of exclusion for those not listed.  That feeling, along with a host of other negatives possibly helped define four years spent at Edsel Ford.  

   It does for me.  

  If high school was the best four years of your life, good for you.  It wasn’t for me.  I will spend that Saturday night in August the way I have spent pretty much every Saturday for the past thirty-four years.  With my wife at my side, a drink in my hand, playing cards and enjoying a laugh.

Cheers!  Jim 

DRIFT AWAY

  After a rough day at work, there is nothing quite like a twenty-five minute commute/curse fest along the southbound Southfield Freeway.  At one point, Tony and I thought it would be a good idea to mount a video camera inside our vehicle to record what was said along the trip.  Since imitating various ethnic groups is a no-no in this politically correct era we find ourselves in, it is probably a good idea that we nixed that idea.

   Once we reach the sanctuary that is Tony’s house, the side door is magically opened by his wife, Beth.  Given our erratic schedule, how she knows when it’s time to open the door is anybody’s guess (perhaps depression gives off an odor).  And, if she fails to reach the door before we unlock and enter, Tony delights in giving her hell.  “Come on woman, your man is here.”  Like that.

   Tony usually hangs in the kitchen catching up with Beth, while I make my way down the hall to visit my Mom in her room.  She is always sitting in the chair next to her bed, close to the television (her vision makes it imperative to sit tight; either that or its a way to get closer to that handsome devil, WDIV’s Devin Scilian).  I make my way to a little cup of butterscotch hard candies before sitting on the edge of the bed closest to M’Lady.  Feet planted firmly on the ground, I fall back onto the bed and close my eyes.

   In this odd position, I catch up on the news of the day with the aforementioned Devin and Carmen Harlan.  In a few minutes, Tony wanders in and takes a position behind our Mom’s chair, or kneeling next to her.  Since there is no on/off button on opinions and ribald commentary, Joan gets to hear it all.  To her credit, or perhaps due to wearing her down, our Mom rarely reacts with surprise or disdain.  

   A couple of weeks ago, I offered to go one on one in a locked room with that cowardly piece of shit from Isis that had been identified through his beady, shifty rat-like eyes.  I believe my rant included plucking those eyes out of their socket.  Tony, a fan of the series Lockdown, wanted him put in the general population of a prison so that the inmates could make him their bitch.

   “Boys” my Mom said.  That’s about the most we get.

   Lest you think opinions are the only thing noxious about my visit, my position on the bed, coupled with the rapidity of my day’s food intake and a healthy dose of stress, cause me to pass incredible amounts of gas.  What better way to say hello than a twenty second fart five feet from where you will lay your head.  

   Sometimes the events of the day prove too much.  The warmness of the room and the presence of my Mom add to my comfort and I drift off.  In this gauzy sleep, I can hear comments like “Jimmy fell asleep fast” or “Is he sleeping with that butterscotch candy in his mouth?”  

   After a short respite, my Mom will put her warm and soft hand on mine and quietly say my name until I open my eyes.  I normally don’t react well when woken from a nap, but this is different.  It is often the first gentle moment of my day.

   I sit back up on the corner of the bed only a few feet from my Mom.  I struggle to my feet and kiss her on the forehead and let her know how much I love her.  Still sitting she puts her hand out for me to take.  Soft and warm.  I kiss her again.  There is a reluctance to let go.  From both of us.  My Mom tells me to be careful driving.  I assure her I will.  Still hand in hand.  Gradually, we let go.  I walk down the hall, out the side door and back into the cold. 

Cheers!  Jim

VITAL IDOL

   The Friday Night Bug Juice tour begins at 10 p.m....

   Unless Billy Idol is playing at The Fillmore downtown on a Friday night.  Then the tour starts at 7:30 p.m. when two work weary brothers pile into a filthy car for a dark and subdued trip into the belly of Detroit.

   Parking was no issue and set us back $10.  We opted not to hit one of the surrounding bars and went straight into The Fillmore for what was sure to be some great people watching.  Strangely, Tony and I were given our drinking wristbands without having to produce ID.  Out of respect, I guess.

   Once past security, we got in the queue for beers.  An extra large beer, Bud or Bud Light only, served in a flimsy plastic cup is $9.  Did I mention it was not particularly cold.  Once served, we walked up the stairs and hung out on the balcony overlooking the entrance.  It was a perfect perch to watch the freaks enter and get their drink on.  

   Young Brother and I had only been there a few minutes, when out of nowhere, a couple appeared at our side.  They were bombed, him more than her, and started talking with Tony and I like we were old friends.  They were from Up North, Manistee according to him, Elk Rapids according to her, and were staying downtown to see their favorite rocker, Mr. Billy Idol.  The camouflage trim on his shirt told me he was not bullshitting about his hometown.

   In twenty minutes, we learned that her goal was to sit on Billy’s lap at some point in the night, that he was working lots of OT and that was fine because every hour at work was an hour away from her, that her nipples were like gum drops, that they liked to camp in nearby Mesick, that they had recently had sex in the back of a car while a friend was driving, that the sex took so long that the driver asked when they might finish, and most disturbingly that they wanted to spend more time with Tony and I.

  

 Luckily, she had to find the ladies room (I guess there is no such thing as a tarts room), and that was our cue to split.  Later, Tony and I would try to figure out what it was that led these two to single us out for friendship at the crowded venue.  Still don’t have an answer for that one.

   Shortly after ditching our ribald new buddies, we made our way into the madness that is The Fillmore’s main floor general admission, the lights dimmed and the band took the stage. 

   Things started slowly for a variety of reasons:  Billy opened with a mid-tempo song from his new CD, the packed crowd was jammed into the stairs leaving no room to maneuver, security was intense and relentless and Tony and I could not find a little spot that we could call our own.

   After a couple of slow and somewhat mild tunes watched while being hassled and jostled, we sounded retreat and headed back to the bar to replenish and freshen our strategy.  

   “We might as well be in the parking lot listening to a Billy Idol CD.”  A spot on observation from Anthony.  We surveyed the room.  A decision to flank right was made.  Strangely, it was now easy to move and we found a niche to the right, close to the stage with a decent view of Billy.  The only real issue was the presence of the Lithuanian men’s basketball team in front of us.  These dudes had huge heads and swayed drunkenly back and forth.  If you went right when they went left, it was not so bad.

   While not perfect, we were home and could concentrate on drinking and watching the show.

   First, Billy looked great.  Of course he still has the cool hair and a ton of swagger.  He always gives you a good look at his shredded physique, either through an unbuttoned shirt or, during the hit songs, no shirt at all.   And as Billy says during the outro of Dancing With Myself, “I sweat, and I sweat, and I sweat.”  The effort he puts into singing and moving is significant and it shows.

   His band is tight and also gives you a lot to take in, especially long time lead guitarist Steve Stevens.  I told Tony that I thought he resembled Gary Oldman’s Dracula.  Tony agreed, though he felt Stevens was a bit more pale.  This guy has the rock look down pat with big hair, bigger guitar and the ever present cig.  

   The crowd was drunk and intense.  If you are the type that does not like to be touched or jostled, this was not the place for you.  It was a slightly older bunch, and there were more women than at most rock shows.  I know that the ladies liked the songs, but judging by their yells and gyrations, they liked the guy belting out the songs even more (even though my wife did not attend, I believe you could safely include her in the smitten with Billy camp; she certainly asked about him a lot).

   The pace of the show picked up about halfway through with Generation X song Ready, Steady, Go and Doors cover LA Woman leading the way.  Idol is no rookie.  He replaced the lyrics in LA Woman with calls of “Detroit Woman” or “Motor City Woman”.  Would you be surprised to know that the crowd, especially the female half, found this staple of any rock show delightful?

   After about ninety minutes of well paced, hit laden rock, Billy let the crowd know that the show was coming to an end with Rebel Yell, easily the best song of the night.  It brought the entire band to the front of the stage and Idol weaved in and out of them with a wild look on his face.  I swear, his deep set eyes actually glowed at some points in the performance.  

   The band split after that, the crowd went crazy (I did not see one lighter held high in the air...Sigh), and only Idol and Stevens returned.  

   “Show Detroit how a hit is played”, Billy demanded.  Stevens responded with the opening chords of White Wedding.  The two stood close together while the first two verses were played as a duo.  The rest of the band then took their places for the rocked out conclusion of their biggest hit.  

   A short drum solo morphed into show closer Mony Mony.  Of course the entire crowd joined in as the house lights came up.  Billy donned a guitar toward the end of this tune and hit various rock star poses.  The Fillmore lost it as the song crashed to an end.  Idol brought the entire band to the front of the stage and humorously introduced each member, before thanking Detroit for making him “so fucking happy” and running off.

   I am having a tough time thinking of a better rock front man than I saw last night.

   I am also having a tough time thinking of a better way to spend a Friday night.  Boozing, music, people watching, hanging with Tony.  Not bad.  Thanks, Billy.

Cheers!  Jim  

UNLOVED AND IGNORED: THE LIFE OF A COMPACT DISC

   I have a clothes rack with about forty t-shirts.  I routinely wear the same eight shirts, ignoring the other thirty-two. 

   It dawned on me the other day that I do the same thing with my CD collection.  Since I own more CD’s than t-shirts, my circle of choice is wider than eight and my unloved discs are more than thirty-two.  I purchased the dusty discs for a reason, usually a well researched reason, and I was actively ignoring them.

   I became a man on a mission.  I have gobs of alone time at work when driving or catching up on paperwork.  I decided to fill this time listening to the ignored portion of my collection.  Interesting or not, probably not, these are my findings:

Jack White, Lazaretto:  A present from my daughter, many highs, but too damn much country for my total liking.  I get it, you can do anything, so get rocking and toss in a hard blues tune every once in awhile.  Rating 7

The Go, The Go:  If you like solid, complete with catchy hooks and meaty guitar, this is a good choice. Forgettable vocals hurt the overall rating. While not life changing, it will never bore you and will always rock.  Rating 7

Mudhoney, Superfuzz Bigmuff:  Unless you are detoxing from heroin or contemplating suicide, avoid this.  I was wise enough to buy the special two disc version, doubling my cost and depression.  Rating 1

The Shams, Please Yourself:  I love rock with a dose of blues and this is The Shams.  No problem listening to this in its entirety, cuts a wide swath. A racy cover, should come in a brown paper bag.  Rating 7

New Bomb Turks, Switchblade Tongues and Butterknife Brains:  I wanted to love this.  The lead singer is channeling his inner Iggy, but the songs are not memorable.  Each rocks and for that I add a point.  Rating 5

Beck, Morning Phase:  Another gift from my daughter.  I listened to this on a dark, solo trip back from dropping my son off at CMU.  A ton of atmosphere.  Don’t play this at a party, but feel free to listen when you need a minute.  It’s not Odelay, and that’s all right.  Rating 7

Black Keys, Rubber Factory:  I wanted to like this, critics and fellow rock snobs said I should.  I couldn’t.  A certain sameness throughout.  A lot of middle and few highs.  Rating 5

Green Day, Insomniac:  I understand that real punks, whatever that means, shit on these guys for being too commercial.  To me that means that they write hooks and I am fine with that.  Rating 7

Dirtbombs, Dangerous Musical Noise:  So fuzzy, so deep in the garage, sung with great passion.  If you don’t like the Dirtbombs, then we can’t be friends. It is an indictment of the insane world in which we live, that these dudes are not stars.  Rating 9

The Hiss, Panic Movement:  Like The Go, this is straight ahead rock with hooks.  Nothing that you can’t live without, but an enjoyable forty minutes.  Rating 5

Rory Gallagher, Calling Card:  Perfect combination of blues and rock with a dose of Irish mixed in.  Tempted to take off a point, because Rory tried to pick up my wife at a pub one night while on tour, but I can’t, she's beautiful.  Rating 8

Bronx Tale Soundtrack, Various:  Reminds me so much of Ray and Max as I played this a lot when they were little.  Great mix from Dino to Wilson Pickett.  You cannot get bored listening to this.  Rating 8

Heartless Bastards, Stairs and Elevators:  The lead singer is old, I am old, old is tough.  I get it, but I don’t need to be pounded by this for forty minutes.  Some cool tunes, but overall depressing vibe.  Rating 4

Radiohead, The Bends:  I didn’t expect them to rock as much as they do.  This is an interesting mix of styles, with a lot of great highs and very little low.  Surprised me.  Rating 7

Supersuckers, Live at the Magic Bag:  Yes, they recorded their live CD in Ferndale, yes they poke fun at other rock bands and yes they never take themselves seriously.  Still, you can’t make it through this entire live show without your mind wandering.  Rating 5

Chesterfield Kings, Mind Bending Sounds:  I understand a nod to psychedelia, but an entire CD devoted to one riff?  I love me some Little Steven and he has his hands all over this, but I struggled to get to the last song.  Rating 2

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Take Them On:  When right, they are spot on.  There is a lot of right on this CD, but a certain sameness pervades and you get weary by the end.  Rating 5

The Maggots, Monkey Time:  The band name works against them (like the great Toilet Boys), but this is an enjoyable garage trip featuring farsifa, covers and frivolity.  Rating 7

Detroit Cobras, Mink/Rat/Rabbit:  Andrea and I saw them clear the Wyandotte Art Fair.  A festive mood went to shit when they hit the stage.  People picked up their folding chairs and left in droves.  Not easy to do on a drunk Saturday night in the summer.  This disc makes that even more difficult to understand.  It is fun and should have been perfect for that atmosphere.  Rating 7

Frank Black, Teenager of the Year:  Lots of short ideas, some good, many tedious.  I like The Pixies and feel sheepish for not liking this, but I don’t.  Rating 4

Dropkick Murphys, Do or Die:  When you start with a bagpipe call to arms and go hardcore punk front to back with a couple of short pauses for drunken sorrow, I am going to love you.  You need to own this.  Rating 10

Black Sabbath, Sabotage:  The front photo of the band is a bit unsettling and so is the music.  In a good way.  Of course there is a lot of sludge, it is Sabbath after all.  They mix it with some brief Spanish influenced guitar noodling and complex songs.  Heavy as hell.  Rating 8

Journey, Look into the Future:  Yes, I own a Journey CD.  This is before Steve Perry fucked up their vision of being a guitar driven prog rock band and turned them into schmaltz.  I saw them live a hundred years ago with my friend Rob (opening acts were Earl Slick Band and Wet Willie, quite the triple bill), and they tore the place down.  Lots of cool songs, harsh guitars and a Beatles cover.  Rating 7

Jethro Tull, Stand Up:  Early Tull.  A great variety of blues rock, some flute (of course) and great additional tracks (not often the case).  If you don’t know this album, it will surprise you.  Rating 7

The Woggles, Rock and Roll Backlash:  Got to know them from Underground Garage on satellite radio.  They are all things garage and mix clever covers with fun originals.  They sometimes wander into power pop, but they never forget that garage rock is home.  Rating 6

That was fun.  For me.  I have like a zillion more CD’s to listen to, but will keep future opinions to myself.  I promise. 

By the way, the eight t-shirts I routinely wear are Thin Lizzy, Foo Fighters, Tom’s Lounge, Downriver Rats, The Alley in Chicago, Frank Zappa, Dunleavy’s Bar and Ferndale High School.

Cheers!  Jim

YOUR CHOICE IS "CRYSTAL" CLEAR

  There may already be a review for Crystal Bar and Grill somewhere in this shady website, but I don’t care for two reasons.  One, I don’t feel like wading through the tripe to see if it exists.  Two, and more importantly,  when it was written, Anthony and I had a great go-to bar in Birmingham called Edison’s.  All other bars were compared to that, and none measured up.

   When Edison’s tearfully closed for remodeling over a year ago, Anthony and I became Friday night nomads, traveling from bar to bar in search of a good time.

   We tried the One Under Bar (young person douche factor off the charts), Dick O’Dows (Birmingham douche factor off the charts), Chatters (depressing) and Elie’s (one of us drunkenly and obviously stole the bar phone from its cradle making sure we can’t show our faces there until the statute of limitations kicks in).  

   Truthfully, things haven’t been that bad.  All of the aforementioned joints and some others that I failed to mention serve cold beer and have allowed us to live like teenagers for four hours a week.  Still, deciding on a place to hang has been a drag and you can only bag on your fellow patrons for so long.  

   We needed a live band, a drunken dance floor and an older crowd.

   We needed Crystal Bar and Grill.

   The trip to head back to Crystal came from my older son Max.  While he did confirm the three things boozing partner Tony and I look for in a bar, he also mentioned three other characteristics based on his visits:  crowded, hot, smelled of vomit.  Since none of those are deal breakers, the Friday Night Bug Juice crew made its way to Middlebelt Road in  Westland, south of Joy Road for a look see.

   As soon as I pulled into the jammed parking lot with no way out, I remembered being here.  I backed past other soon to be bummed revelers pulling in and made my way to the huge parking lot across the street for easy parking.  From there, you play a game of real life Frogger crossing icy Middlbelt Road, dodging cars instead of crocs.  

   There is no cover to get in and seemingly no door person making sure you are of age.  A quick scan of the crowd tells you why.  I don’t believe that there are any patrons south of thirty in this joint, and many over fifty.  This means that the lights are blessedly low, the music played is relatable and puckered lip selfies are rare.  It also means that you might have to move aside so a fellow boozer can use the hand rails to enter or exit the slightly raised dance floor.  

   The layout of Crystal has presented issues for the Bug Juice Two.  There are many tables and chairs at the rear of the bar which we never consider.  If you sit back there, you might as well be in your car in the parking lot listening to the oldies station.   Standing at the bar is never possible, as it is always jammed with patrons who have a “I never go home” look about them.  The raised area in front of the band and dance floor is a no-go because it is routinely filled with large party groups.

   Rule 37 in the Friday Night Bug Juice handbook is “overcome and adapt” (It’s not just a rule, it ‘s a way of life).  Tony and I have taken to standing toward the back of the band stand with the entire dance floor and bar spread out in front of us.  You do feel a bit obvious standing there...until the first beers are quaffed that is.  In a matter of minutes, any discomfort you may have experienced is washed away courtesy of our friends Miller and Labatt.

   The old adage that patience is a virtue certainly can be applied to fetching beers at Crystal.  Standing in the queue, being jostled while trying to catch the hard working barmaids attention to fork over $7.75 for two beers is the order of the day.  Two hard working waitresses continually patrol the floor.  Both are pretty as you might expect, but both seem genuinely nice which is a little unexpected.  They interact with the older crowd like friends.  One of the hardworking pair, Kristin, talked with Little Brother and I for quite awhile, considering the demands on her attention.  Not, “I want more tip money” stripper talking either.  Chummy.

  I tried to describe the patrons of Crystal to my wife, and after boring her for a few minutes she observed, “sounds like a downriver crowd.”

   What is a downriver crowd? It is drunk, oblivious to recent trends such as fitness or skin care, wears whatever the hell is handy, rides motorcycles in the dead of winter, dances with abandon and has no problem getting acquainted with two newcomers trying to shake off the effects of a long work week.

   Some Crystal encounters:

  The bar has security cameras outside chronicling the goings on in the parking lot and smoking areas.  This has allowed me to check out Tony when he steps outside to enjoy a Capone.  He takes on the pose of an old time movie star, leaning against the wall, chin tilted up, billowing smoke into the cold night air.  One night, I observed him talking to a big gal that followed him outside.  The conversation was a short one.  He came back in with a smirk on his face, informing me that the big gal thought we were cops, serious ones to boot.  When he answered with a snort and “fuck cops”, she replied that her husband was a cop.  Tony managed, “I ‘m sure he’s cool,”  before stubbing out his Capone and heading back inside.  

   On one trip, the FNBJ two managed to grab a table with a great view of the sweaty dance floor.  Tony had just left for a smoke, when the drunkest guy in the bar stumbled over and plopped himself down in Tony’s chair.  I told him that my brother would be back soon and that he would need to leave.  It made no dent.  He stared at me blankly, his huge cell phone lighting up his weasel face.  A slightly less drunk buddy of his came by and tried to reason with him.  No go.  Less drunk grabbed drunk’s cell phone and held it five feet in front of him, like a fishing lure.  It worked.  Drunk got up, glassy eyes fixed on the phone and followed it to an empty chair near the bar.  His mannequin eyes never left the phone to his friend holding it.  When drunk plopped into the chair, less drunk handed him back the phone.  I was rid of him, or so I thought... 

   Later that night, Tony was out having a Capone (are you detecting a trend here?), when drunk came back over to talk with me.  He was able to communicate by mumbling and pointing to photos on his phone/lure.  He showed me small images of his women (some had teeth) before proudly settling on a full screen shot of a custom car.  He gestured to the company logo on his shirt, then at the image on the phone as sounds came out of his hole.  I speak fluent drunk and understood that the company he works for customizes cars.  “Nice” was all I could manage.  This pleased him no end.  He started scrolling through more images of cars, while I looked around for Tony and wondered what else I could say besides “Nice” when shown the next photo.  Drunk came close.  He nodded at his phone.  It was a photo of his home computer with a gun and silencer posed casually in front of the keyboard.  “You want to buy a gun?”  That I understood.  “No, man.”  I said this clear and looked at him for a second before turning my back and checking out the band.  A line had been crossed.  It was no time for fucking around.  This time, he never came back.  

   I just finished proofreading this review (yes, I edit and proofread, this is the best I got smart ass), and am not sure if I have painted a positive review of the Crystal Bar and Grill.  My partner in immaturity and I both believe that it is our best destination since the demise of Edison’s.  If it’s good enough for us, it’s good enough.

Cheers!  Jim

PS  I would be remiss if I did not mention the classic rock stylings of The Clatter, a band we have seen rock the house on multiple occasions.  This three piece pays homage to the roots of rock, one hit wonders and Motown.  They put people on the dance floor.  Besides, the bass player/singer took a trip down memory lane with me between sets talking West Side Six bar and favorite sons White Wolf from 1975.  Later that night, I did the math.  I have been loving beer and live music for forty years and see no reason to stop now.