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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!

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 
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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
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