Friday Night Bug Juice

HEY BIG BROTHER

2012-01-25T16:27:00.000-05:00

While going through some old photos the other day, my wife Andrea found some we had taken at the Old Tiger Stadium. At the time, we had a camera that would shoot long photos, so that you could produce sweeping vistas. We did so at The Corner on the second to last game played on that hallowed ground.

It made me think of my older brother Mike.

Like many first borns, this guy is a high achiever. He is a much loved professor at Purdue University, published author and smartest guy I know (damn him). But more importantly to me, he is a great older brother who took interest in my growing up.

Just not at first. In my early years, I was way more interested in Mike than he was in me. He was the rebel of St. Francis Xavier, the captain of the football team, the guy who might graduate just because the nuns were sick of his bullshit. It sounded good to me.

Then he went away. Four years in the Air Force. When he returned, things were different between us. He acknowledged me and became a person I wanted to please. It was important that he like me, that I do things he thought were cool. The next years together were amongst my favorites.

When I was a ninth grader at Stout Junior High (it was so long ago that it was called junior high, not middle school and contained grades 7-9), Mike showed up for every football game I played. He always made sure I saw him in the crowd and supported me even when I played poorly (like when I was flagged for repeated unsportsmanlike and late hit penalties in one game, not my finest moment). Seeing him on the sidelines with my Mom and brother Tony always meant a great deal to me.

Mike also loved going to sporting events and always made sure to include Tony and I in the festivities. I recall going to a Red Wing game at the old Olympia and sticking around after the game to watch the players leave the dressing room. Mike was frantic, pushing me from player to player to get autographs. At the end of the day, his guidance and my willingness to push through any size crowd netted signatures from Gordie Howe, Alex Delvicchio, Roger Crozier, Hank Bassen, Gary Bergman and other Wing greats and not so greats.

My older brother also loved taking Tony and I to Big Time Wrestling at air conditioned Cobo Arena. One time, as the days leading up to a much anticipated cage match involving The Sheik drew close, a savage winter storm looked like it would keep the three brothers from attending. Unlike today’s excitement over a few flakes, this storm was real. Tony and I were bummed. We would not get a chance to see The Sheik slap the camel clutch on Big Tex Mckenzie. Mike wasn’t having it. He somehow persuaded my Mom to let us go (the same Mom who wouldn’t let me swim in the deep end of the pool until third grade), and off we went in his little VW Bug, shit windshield wipers and balky defroster at the ready. Somehow we got there on time, even though much of the crowd, some of the wrestlers and, most importantly, the cage did not. It turned out to be a great night, capped by the late arrival of the cage. I can’t recall who won the main event, but I will never forget our heroic journey to the match.

I literally cannot count the amount of times I walked into Tiger Stadium with Mike. I recall seeing the good and bad of the Tigers and Lions with an older brother who always loved the home team and stuck around to the bitter end. And remember, with the Lions and Tigers of the sixties and seventies, it typically ended bitterly.

But what Mike loves more than anything, what makes him crazier than anything is his beloved University of Michigan. I have no doubt that his love for Blue is the reason Tony and I still curse the television on Saturdays in the fall. I recall attending the great 1973 Michigan-Ohio State game featuring two undefeated teams and a shot at the national championship. Mike was wound up for this big game. I remember climbing the steps way up in the end zone to get a good look at what we were sure would be the winning Michigan field goal on the last play of the game. When Mike Lantry’s kick sailed wide, our pact as long suffering Michigan fans was sealed. From Harry Oliver to Kordell Stewart to follicle challenged Hillbilly Rich Rod (as Tony insists on calling him), our shared pain is a bond that can’t be broken.

The bond between brothers does not only involve watching sports, but playing them as well. Mike and I occasionally suited up for the same slow pitch softball team. One summer night at Ford Woods in Dearborn, our team was trouncing a hated rival (when you play against the thorny teams I played for, pretty much everybody you meet becomes a hated rival) when things began to fall apart. I was in left field, Mike was in right and good friend John Vellicky was on the mound. John plays a big role in this story, as he is one of the few people I know as volatile as I am when it comes to competition. The opposition started giving John shit from the bench when he walked the first batter of the last inning. As they got louder, John got wilder. Mix in an error or two, some boneheaded throwing decisions and you get a tie game with a runner on third and one out. The next batter hit a soft fly to Mike in right field. I love Mike, but his arm is infantile, and there was no way he was going to throw out the winning run tagging up from third. He never got a chance to try as the ball popped in and out of his glove while the winning run jogged home. Our team was totally deflated as we sat on the bench, heads down. John sat near me and said, quietly at first, “I know you want to yell at me, so go ahead.” I declined. A bit louder now. “No, go ahead and say it.” I declined again. “No, everybody’s pissed at me, so say it.” He got me on the third try. “All right, I’ll say it. You’re an asshole. You let those guys get to you and cost us the game. It’s your fault.” Being big in defeat is not my strong suit. For some reason, my unraveling was too much for Mike to bear, and he left the diamond cursing and sputtering. As he crossed the side street to his car, he started talking off parts of his uniform and tossing them to the ground. I saw a cap, jersey, stirrups and pants. When all was said and done, I the last I saw of him was his 135 pound ass cheeks framed by a ratty jockstrap as they got into his VW Bug for the long ride home.

It’s not just sports. Mike loves family and always wants the best for me. When I was enrolled at Eastern Michigan University, I did a speech about the role placement plays in a sibling’s success. As stated earlier, Mike is a typical high achieving first born (dick). Naturally, I asked him to send me a short video explaining how he felt being first born affected his success in life, so that I could use it as the centerpiece of my finals presentation. Forget what he said, though it was brilliant and on the money. In the video, he had placed a monitor casually behind him. Scrolling constantly across the monitor was the sentence, “Jim deserves an A in this class.” Everybody in that room, including my aged prof got a big bang out it, and I did get an A.

Did I mention that I lived in the apartment below Mike for years? Or that we worked together on a truck delivering furniture for awhile (nobody injured themselves more than Mike, almost death wish like) That he showed up early for my son’s graduation party and worked for hours helping set up (my hand to God, he hurt himself nailing up some posters...ahh just like the old days)? That he was in my wedding party?

In closing:

There once was a brother named Mike

Whose personality I tended to like

But when witnessing his rants

And the dispatching of pants

I put copying him forever on strike

Cheers! Jim

THE BIG FELLA

2012-01-18T21:27:00.000-05:00

I moved my oldest son Max out of my house and into his first “I’m paying the rent” apartment a couple of weeks ago. While it is cause for some celebration (lower food bills, more room in a tiny house, reduction in reality shows viewed), my overall feeling was one of sadness. I’m going to miss the big guy.

I think I can give you insight into Max with a trifecta of tales from his youth:

Library school for all of my children has been at the same facility in Dearborn. The children are expected to enter the classroom in a line with the other kids, marching and clapping to an appropriately upbeat tune. How my kids entered the room is a window into their personalities. Rachel marched tentatively in line, shyly clapping, reluctant but willing to give it a go. Jackson wildly clapped his hands, never glanced back, ready and able for whatever the world of library school offered. Max would not go. Period. When my Mom called me at work to let me know how things went (she was watching the kids while wife and I worked), it only took a second of her stammering for me to figure that things did not go swimmingly. She said that Max did not really object to leaving her and heading into the class, but he felt that the forced excitement and clapping was not something he wanted to be a part of. It took a week of explaining and my cutting out of work to attend the next session to convince the reluctant one to give it a try. He went, but always passed on the clapping and marching. It’s a theme in the kid’s life. What others do, peer pressure, never meant shit to this guy. In fact, I believe he goes purposely in the other direction whenever the situation arises. Some could see this as thorny. I see it as independence of thought.

Max was an indifferent ball player. All right, he was crap. One day, my Mom accompanied Andrea and I to the diamond to watch the kid play right field and walk or strikeout three times. It was a toasty day and about four innings in, my Mom had had enough of the excitement that a twelve year old baseball game provides, and decided to leave. Max was patrolling right field, probably counting dandelions, when he looked over and saw my Mom walking toward her car in the nearby parking lot. He shouted “Grandma” and tore from the field without looking back. While the coaches, players and fans looked on in bewilderment, Max ran up to my Mom and gave her a big hug and kiss. His trip back to his post in right field was not performed with nearly the same amount of hurry or passion. This guy has a big heart and loves his family and friends.

One night, when Max was still in middle school, I had a very disturbing dream. Not scary, disturbing. It was about my own mortality and left me crying in bed at three o’clock in the morning. When I tried to get some comfort from my partner in bed Andrea, she shook me off by wiggling her shoulders the way you would if an insect landed on your back (probably thought I had other intentions). I walked the house, still shaken and crying. I needed some human contact. Rachel and Max slept in separate rooms upstairs and I made my way toward their rooms. I sat on the edge of Ray’s bed and sobbed, hoping she would wake up and acknowledge my plight. She did and groaned in an annoyed way, “Daddy”, stretching out the word to let me know that what she really meant was “Daddy, what in the hell are you doing here and why are you a psycho?” Max was my last chance. I sat on the edge of his bed and he woke up, leaning on his elbow, looking at me with curiosity. “What’s wrong?” As I told him about my dream, he put his arm around my back and looked at me intently. He just listened. I told him a bout the dream, but more importantly I unloaded about how much I loved my family and how frightening I found my own mortality to be. I’m not sure he understood (it’s pretty heavy stuff for a teenager and it was pretty late at night), but he comforted me with a hug and allowed me to put my head on his shoulder and finish pouring out my heart. Your Dad appearing out of nowhere and crying on the edge of your bed should be pretty freaky, but not to the big guy. His compassion and listening belied his age and is a moment that I will never forget.

Finally, something happened to me a few years back that involves Max and gives me a lump in my throat every time I think of it. I drove to Mt. Pleasant after work one day to drop some things off to Max while he was a student at CMU. For a while, his emails and phone conversations made me think that he was going through a rough stretch living off campus and dealing with the pressures of college and being away from home. The items I was dropping off could have probably waited, but heading up seemed like a good idea. We met at his apartment, I dropped off my goodies and we headed out to dinner. We always dined at Qdobas, it was our thing. Max got the chicken nachos and I got the fajita. I moved the topics of conversation around a lot, hoping that whatever I felt might be bugging the big fella would come up. Finally, after not getting what I wanted, I went direct and asked what might be bugging him. He told me nothing specific was troubling him and I believed him. He was going through some tough times he explained, being broke and working while going to school was a grind, but he was all right. That shitty Qdoba grub never tasted better. I was satisfied that Max was telling the truth, that he was tough in spirit and that he had the moxie to get through whatever CMU could throw his way. I took him back to his apartment, gave him some love and whatever money I could muster and kissed him good bye. I drove out of the parking lot in front of his apartment and headed for the main drag. About fifty yards from his doorway, I looked back. Max was still standing in his doorway looking at me and waving good bye. But a strange thing happened. I did not see Max, the twenty year old college student. I saw Max, my ten year old son, my constant traveling companion, one of the loves of my life waving his hand at me. I cried all the way to Alma.

Cheers! Jim

PS Max stopped by to eat dinner and do some laundry last week. When he was done, he picked up his things and said he was heading home. I had to stop him and remind him that, no matter where he goes and who he goes with, this little yellow house in Allen Park will always be his home. After he left, I cried again. What the fuck is wrong with me?

WEDDING DAY

2011-12-25T15:54:00.000-05:00

I didn’t cry at my daughter Rachel’s wedding.

Everyone thought I would. I thought I would.

But I didn’t.

It was one of the happiest days of my life and not just because Rachel married Matt (the jury is still out on that one). I was happy because everyone I looked at and talked to was happy.

A few impressions from the day:

Most brides look beautiful and Rachel was certainly no exception. Her hair, gown and makeup enhanced all of her natural beauty. What makes Ray different is her inner beauty. Some people have a certain something inside them that is difficult to describe, but beautiful and easy to recognize. My daughter has that. She makes people feel like old friends, even if they met only a few minutes ago ( a trait she picked up from both of her grandmas, two women that could walk into a room of strangers and walk out with new friends). She actually listens to people and has a sincerity that is genuine and never forced (she picked that up from her Mom, another genuine person). Anybody can buy an expensive gown and spend a small fortune on their outer selves. No amount of money can make you a natural, a person people gravitate to, real in every sense of the word. My Rachel is that.

Matt looked pretty good. Guys don’t have inner beauty, or none that I can detect anyway.

I looked fucking great. I was fit as a fiddle from compulsive exercise and watching what I eat. I didn’t go cheap on my new suit, had it tailored nicely, and spiffed it up with some urban accessories purchased at K+G. When I see my multi peaked pocket square in the wedding photos, I get a chill. My head had a nice shine. I put a little concealer on my eye bags and red nose (if broads can put on a little make-up, why can’t I?). My ear and nose hairs were trimmed to a T. You don’t often hear me say this, but I looked good (or is it fucking great?).

Leading up to the wedding I had predicted that a huge pimple was going to blossom on my face, though I could not decide on which side of my nose it would live. I am old and should not have to worry about such things. But I do...for good reason. About two days before the big event, I felt a tingling on the right side of my snoot. Sure enough, a red bump. I could detect action beneath the surface as well, a sure sign that a real goose egg is on the way. The morning of the wedding, I got up early and checked the mirror. Major Zit! As I checked out the red devil, I pushed up on the center of my nose, as if I was going to imitate a pig. That relatively small pressure exploded my zit, the white prize hitting the mirror. The pimple had subsided, no blood or scab remained. It was a Wedding Day Miracle!

Two things made me nervous about the wedding. I have to go back in time to explain the first. When my nephew Terry got married, he asked me to be his best man. I was happy to accept and started thinking about the bachelor party almost immediately. What I failed to think about was the speech I would be asked to give at the reception. The one in front of the 200 or so people...all staring at me...at the fancy Detroit Athletic Club. I became obsessed. I thought about it and rehearsed it for at least six months leading up to Terry’s wedding. While swimming laps, while driving my car, while listening to my wife tell me about her day at work, pretty much all the time. Anyway, I killed. Because of that, people think that I can readily talk in front of big groups. That is why Andrea nominated me to give a welcoming speech at Ray and Matt’s wedding. I alternated between despair and rage leading up to that big day. I blew a head gasket in front of anybody who would listen. I also worked on the two minute talk forever. My goal was to be quick, get a laugh and not cry. Strangely, when it came my time to get in front of friends and family and open my mouth, I was not nervous at all. After my opening salvo drew a laugh, I felt even better. As I told Ray when it was over, it may not have been the best speech I could deliver, but it was the best I could do without sobbing.

The second aspect of the day that got me nervous was dancing and my inability to do so without looking like an utter asshole. When Andrea and I learned of the wedding, I contemplated taking dance lessons. I soon realized the folly of that and decided to ask my son Max to show me a few steps in the comfort of my own living room. Unable to master even the simplest line dance routines and hearing the derisive laughter of loved ones, I ditched that as well. Finally, I decided that hanging at the bar and watching others dance was my best plan of inaction (it’s the exact same plan I used while trolling the bars as a young man). It worked perfectly (at the wedding, not when I was single). I danced a slow song with my wife (“You’ve go tot start moving your feet”). I danced the father-daughter dance with Ray and we talked the entire time (Ray did not tell me to get my feet moving). It was one of my favorite parts of the evening, and the only time I felt like crying.

I loved watching others dance. The heat kicked up a notch when impromptu circles formed and people took turns strutting their moves. I believe I saw my little brother and best friend Rob engaged in a dance off, a contest certainly too close to call. My sisters Chris and Nancy appeared to be feeling no pain as they traipsed around the floor. When my niece Erin joined the group, arms gesticulating wildly above her head, she was overheard saying, “I can’t dance and I don’t care.” I love that kind of spirit ( I just can’t drink enough to reach that level of abandonment).

Two of my dearest friends, Rob and Stan, attended. I had such a good time drinking, talking and drinking with them that it made me wonder why I see them so infrequently. These are two good guys, battle tested friends that I will count as lifelong buddies. To have them be a part of this huge day meant a lot to me. I feel that I spent a lot of time hanging with these two turds, which brings me to my next point...

The night flies by and at the end of the party, you realize that you did not get a chance to talk with everyone for as long as you would have liked. I know I will miss a few folks, but I am specifically thinking about Kathy and Tom, Fran and Mike, Debbie and Peter, Kathy and Joe, Erica, Leslie and Phil, Lori and Dale. These are all quality people and folks you enjoy spending time with. If I had a do-over, I would try and get around a bit more, have a drink with each of these people and see if I could get to the point where we joined the impromptu dance circle (It’s a goal).

When the evening came to a close, I got the bright idea to invite everyone over to my house to continue the party. You see, there had not been enough drinking and carousing, it needed to go on a bit longer. About thirty people came back to our house and (of course) the garage. Champagne, wine and beer began flowing. Music blared. The White Rhino party bus parked awkwardly in the driveway. I saw crying, laughing, hugging and other forms of inebriated behavior. I was challenged by bridesmaid Kelly to see who had the bigger biceps (I did of course, but Kelly was no slouch). I later found that Rachel did not enjoy this after party. Apparently, being the sober bride and hanging with inebriated people for eight hours will do that to you.

At this point, a few words about my brother Tony and his wife Beth. Leading up to the wedding, when I confided in Tony that I was nervous about the speech/dancing/crying, he stated that “I’ve got your back.” He did, always has. This guy is loyal. His capacity for care, even when watered down with drink, is huge. When you combine that with he and Beth’s love of a good party, you will not be surprised to know that they were amongst the first to arrive at the ceremony and the last (along with Stan) to leave the after glow. These two love a good time, and bring a lot to the party. If a job existed that involved being invited to get-togethers to ramp up a good time, Tony and Beth would be at the top of their profession.

In closing, I cannot remember a better time. To share it with family, close friends and new friends will stay with me forever. I thought a lot about my mother in law Betty and wife’s cousin Doreen leading up to the big day. They passed away too early. Both of these great ladies loved to laugh and have a good time. They would have surely added a lot to the night. Those in attendance brought a lot of love to my world. I understand that a wedding does not solve family problems or cure physical ills. But it does make you feel good and sometimes feeling good is good enough.

Cheers! Jim

PS The next day, my son Jack had a tennis match on Grosse Isle. I take him to these matches, and while he plays, I go for a long run on the island. Taking the obsessive workout guy persona to the extreme, I decided that ignoring the long night, alcohol and emotion from the day before, and running as usual would be a good idea. Off I went, ready to prove to the world that a little thing like my daughter’s wedding could not keep me down. When I got to the point farthest away from the finish line, my legs turned to stone and I could barely move. I was on a path in the woods, in the cold, about two miles from my car, standing (barely) on non-functioning legs. I considered making a beeline to the nearby police station and asking the cops to taxi me back to the tennis club and the sanctuary of my car. I realized that the cops would only laugh at my predicament. I decided that, while running was out of the question, I might be able to walk back. I put my head down, concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and worked on ignoring my discomfort. It took a Herculean effort (in my mind anyway), but I made it, legs shaking. I told my wife this tale hoping for sympathy. I got scorn. Deserved.

DOWNRIVER PIT STOP

2011-12-10T14:02:00.000-05:00

I cheated on Tony last week.

The night before Thanksgiving, the much touted “BIGGEST BAR NIGHT OF THE YEAR” found all quiet on the Bug Juice front. Anthony and I figured it was best not to be bleary eyed and gassy on Thanksgiving, so we decided that the Wednesday before would be a good time to shut it down (we also decided against going out on the Friday after for reasons still not clear to me at this time).

I sat in our tiny kitchen Wednesday night and suggested to my hard working/hard cooking wife that getting out of the house, even for a little bit, would be a good idea. I suggested a coffee and pastry at City Brew in Allen Park. But Andrea, God bless her, had a little something harder than coffee in mind.

My son Max had been touting Downriver Pit Stop as a good spot to get a drink. His bar buddy, Natasha moved to this joint from Dunleavy’s and was now patrolling behind the bar with family members. Max also said he and friends were heading there on THE BIGGEST BAR NIGHT OF THE YEAR.

Andrea thought that this was a good recommendation and that we should call Max and let him know we would be stopping in at Downriver Pit Stop for a drink. I was not so sure. I liked the idea of getting a drink. I liked the idea of checking out Downriver Pit Stop. I wasn’t so keen on being there with with Max and his cronies. What would we talk about? They’re not interested in U-M football or 70’s nostalgia and I’m not interested in texting or television shows with zombies. In my mind, pick another bar.

So off we went to Downriver Pit Stop.

Pit Stop is easy to find on the southwest corner of Allen and Goddard Road in Taylor. Downriver-ites may remember this space as Gering’s, a long time local beer and burger joint. The bar does not look any different on the outside, but once inside my wife and I noticed a few changes.

While hard to pinpoint exactly, the interior had a generally cleaner and more spiffy appearance. The lighting appeared to be enhanced, but not to the point of being obnoxious (like a vampire, I crave dark). A long bar dominated one wall, a variety of booths and tables surrounding, pool table in the rear. There is a small dance floor in one corner with a tight area for band, DJ, or in tonight’s case, karaoke. Cozy.

Andrea and I immediately spotted Max with his friends Luke, Sheila and Jay sitting at a four person booth in the corner. We greeted the kids, saw that there was no place for us to sit either at their booth or nearby and told them that we would find a spot on the other side of the pub. Sitting in a tavern twenty yards away from my oldest son and not drinking with him felt strange.

The strangeness went away in a hurry. I would get some alone time with my beautiful wife, something I don’t get enough of (I must do better). I sometimes forget that she is a great audience for my humor (?) and that we can talk about lots of stuff besides the kids and home. Commenting on each karaoke performance was big fun and we marveled at their guts.

Pit Stop had two waitresses working the room and one stopped by immediately and took our drink order. It was a little tough to get her to stop by a second time and we resorted to asking her partner for help. After that it was smooth drinking. During the course of our stay, I had three beers and Wife had one plus a mixed drink. Including tips, this cost a measly $20 with a couple of singles left over.

For diversion and conversation, you can’t beat karaoke. There was a steady stream of singers with the emphasis on country. But, in the course of the night we heard Adele, No Doubt and The Allman Brothers. One long haired, scarf wearing dandy rocked the mic with Sweet’s Ballroom Blitz, complete with high pitched accents. Very brave.

Andrea noticed that the crowd was demonstratively supportive of all singers. They would high five them upon leaving the stage, call out personal congratulations and in the case of the Gwen Stefani impersonator, dance enthusiastically to their efforts. I, on the other hand, noticed that the crowd was pure downriver. Dressed casually, lots of bald heads and facial hair (mostly on the men), and loud.

Periodically, Max and Luke would stop by our booth, pull up a chair and talk (I like that the young ‘uns paid tribute to their elders by coming to our table). Max was keenly interested in knowing how much we liked his recommendation, as if he had a personal stake in the joint (probably his affection for Natasha). Luke talked Thanksgiving and his role in the cooking (who knew the kid specialized in deviled eggs?).

It is tough to recommend a place based on the activities of THE BIGGEST BAR NIGHT OF THE YEAR, but I have a good feeling about Downriver Pit Stop. If you like a neighborhood vibe, good prices and all things downriver, give it a try. As an aside, I understand that the food is good and a bit more ambitious than the norm.

Cheers! Jim

PS Andrea and I snuggled together on the same side of the booth, and after a couple of drinks, she affectionately rubbed my bald head. Eh tu, Tony ?

BACHELOR PARTY

2011-12-01T16:58:00.000-05:00

I took a couple of days off work in anticipation of my daughter Rachel’s wedding (more on that later). I enjoyed getting up early and not going to work. Funny how a day off can make coffee and peanut butter toast taste better.

Since my wife Andrea was staying up late taking care of wedding business and worrying about details, I let her sleep in during these days off, and took over crowbarring my son Jackson out of bed for a day of high school learning. Probably because it’s not my normal responsibility, I enjoyed prodding him, making his lunch and getting him to school.

One day, I prepared an inspirational note for him. I praised his hard work and diligence, told him that his good grades were the result of that effort and assured him that his future was limitless. I even drew a crude sketch of myself (the only kind I can make) with a speech bubble telling him that I love him. Tucking this note inside the once folded paper napkin in his lunch, I felt good and hoped for two results: One, it would make him feel appreciated and two, his buddies would see it and give him shit for it.

When Jack got home from school, I was outside raking leaves. I was anxious to see how the note hit him (I forgot a third result I wanted from the note, affirmation on what a great Dad I am). He greeted me briefly and made his way inside for the all important after school snack ( I can think of few things more necessary or enjoyable than an after school snack; I can’t recall exactly what I ate, but I do know it was eaten while watching The Three Stooges or Little Rascals).

Fifteen minutes later (the kid works fast), Jack came outside to help with the leaves. We worked side by side for the next hour, Jack giving me a class by class rundown of what happened during his school day. Still no mention of the note.

When the raking was completed, my son and I headed inside to get ready for the wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. Nothing. I could not take it any longer.

“Didn’t you like the note I put in your lunch today?”

“What note?”

“Are you kidding, the note I tucked into your napk...”

“What?”

“Oh shit, you didn’t use your napkin did you? You never use your napkin.”

I had made a crucial error, one that my wife would have never made. I tucked something I wanted the kid to see into his napkin. Like pinning a note you wanted me to see on a bottle of shampoo. Not going to happen.

What did happen, before Rachel’s wedding to Matt, was a small bachelor party. This party consisted of Matt (we had to invite him), Bug Juice partner Tony, son and groomsman Max, Max’s best friend and all around good guy Luke, plus myself. We decided to get things lubricated with a few beers in my garage. I have to admit, there was a whole lot less drinking at my house before we got a fancy patio installed and the garage gussied up. I sometimes wonder what effect this will have on my youngest child Jackson, witness to this increase in partying (“Jack, run in the house and get a couple of Mich Lights for Tony and Aunt Bessie”). He will either own a bar or become a minister. I’m leaning toward bar owner at this time.

After this pre bar drinking, Beth and Rachel took on designated driver duties and drove us to downtown Dearborn and Howell’s. There is no place better to get a night of drinking started than the Howeller. It’s cheap, pretensionless, dark and there is nothing to do there but drink and talk. So we drank and talked.

As soon as we sat down, an old fart at the table next to us asked us where we were from. I told him Dearborn and Allen Park.

“You guys ain’t shit.”

He proudly noted that he was from Southwest Detroit, like that meant something. I told him he wasn’t worth shit and a friendship was born. Because of my proximity to him and the alcohol going down, Uncle Wally and I became fast friends. He bragged that he was a dead ringer for George Carlin (definitely) and Willie Nelson (not so much). Tony told him he looked more like Richard Harris and this brought forth a fresh stream of obscenities. Before we left for the night, Uncle Wally asked Max if he wanted to dash outside and smoke a fatty with him. Max declined, either because I was present or because a grown man calling himself Uncle Wally wanted some alone time with him.

Ten minutes after we sat down, a table of pretty young things sitting next to us got up to leave (seems to happen to me a lot). On the way out, one of the dollies leaned into our group and told Max that he was sexy as hell. She said this to him with me sitting shoulder to shoulder. What has he got that I don’t? I mean besides clear skin, blue eyes not obscured by droopy lids and youth. Shit! Max chalked his attractiveness up to the Brett Michaels-like headband he was wearing, but I know better. He is sexy as hell!

Howell’s was just what the doctor ordered. The beer flowed, a few shots found their way to our table and Tony took the chalk from the community chalkboard and started writing “Matt Blows” on anything that didn’t move.

From Howell’s it was a short walk to The Post. This joint was younger, louder and more conducive to dancing. In short, it was more Max and Luke. This younger duo knew every song being played, danced at the table to most of them and accelerated the shot downing part of the program. We kept to ourselves at The Post, a result of the volume level. Since Tony and I carry more weight (I don’t have time to explain this, we just do), our stay at The Post was somewhat short and we decided to sashay further down Michigan Avenue to Silky Sullivan’s.

As soon as we hit Silky’s, I made a beeline for the head only to find the urinals and toilet filled with hurl. Because I was bursting and somewhat intoxicated, I whizzed anyway. The boys and I took a table right in front of the band and the dance floor. Had we known how shitty the band would be and how few people they would entice to dance, we may have chosen digs a bit further away.

Still, we made the best of it. We befriended the female lead singer who coughed like the hooker in Full Metal Jacket. In between hacks, she and the boys played some of the god awfulest covers of all time. A few songs came to a grinding halt in mid stream, others plodded along to their sad conclusion. So we drank. I witnessed more shots coming Matt’s way and started to see the lights go out in his eyes. As the sage older future father in law, I could have put a halt to this, but thought, “Fuck it.”

At night’s end, the call was made to Bess and Ray to pick up the sodden group. While waiting in the parking lot for our rides home, Matt and Luke decided to run around the corner in search of the hot dog vendor we saw over an hour ago. The only wieners these two came back with was...nah, too easy. Max also decided this would be a good time to get into it with a car leaving the parking lot. Their response was to swerve dangerously close to our little group. Nothing like a nice altercation to punctuate the evening.

Cheers! Jim

PS Ray texted Max the following day to inform him that, about five minutes from home, Matt stuck his head out of the car window and streaked the side panel. Her first order of business that day, which by the way was her birthday, was to clean her future hubby's barf off the vehicle.

Way to go Matt!

KEEFER'S BLUE LINE SALOON

2011-11-08T21:59:00.000-05:00

Lately, I have fancied myself as an advertising guru (anything to blur the reality of my real job). When I see one of the many crap commercials on television, I offer up my alternative commercial and it is always better (my opinion).

I think we can all agree that the advertising campaign for Olive Garden is one of the worst ever. The saccharine and wholesome nature of the ads are foreign to their core audience. Friday Night Bug Juice Advertising and Media Division proposes the following:

Cue a wintry night scene. The windshield wipers of the messy late model SUV struggle to keep the blowing snow from obstructing the driver’s vision. There is a relieved cheer from inside the vehicle when the neon Olive Garden sign is spotted in the distance. The vehicle pulls into a cleared parking spot close to the door. The four passengers, two white middle aged couples ranging from chubby to mildly obese, exit the car and make their way to the front door.

Cue the inside of the restaurant: Our four visitors are shown finishing their order just as an ethnic female server (any ethnicity will do) brings them unlimited salad and breadsticks. Some good natured laughter ensues as the four reach over their salads and put their hands on the bread basket at roughly the same time.

Cue later in the meal: The table is stacked messily with plates and bowls. The table cloth runs red with marinara. The laughter from the beginning of the meal has been replaced with the serious consideration of the four perusing the O Garden desert menu. At the same time, all four recite “Tiramisu”. For one split second, they look at each other in silence. Then, laughter replaces the silence and the four nod at each other in contented agreement.

Cue end of meal: The camera pans back, as the deserts are brought out to the four diners. You see the Olive Garden logo on the frosted glass of the entrance door. A hearty male voice intones, “Olive Garden...get your fat ass in here.” As the camera continues to pan outside to reveal a wintry outdoor view of the Olive Garden, a second female voice voice quietly states, “Mention ‘I got my fat ass in here’ to server and receive 10% off food portion of bill”.

End of commercial.

No amount of advertising from the Friday Night Bug Juice media gurus could save Keefers Blue Line Saloon in downtown Allen Park. Younger Brother pushed for this one, reasoning that we could not go to Edison’s every Friday. Besides, he continued, the Tigers were playing (I’m late on the review, kiss my ass) and a local sports tavern made sense. Finally, Tony pointed out that the proximity of Keefers to our homes meant that his wife Beth could drop us and pick us up, freeing me to drink without worrying about the prickly local gentry. I voiced some concern about the selection, but agreed to go (Keefers would have beer and televisions after all).

It was windy and rainy as Beth dropped us at the recently relocated Keefers. Not a big deal you say, drinking is an indoor sport you say. True, but baseball in Detroit is not. Before we could enjoy our first beer at Keefer’s we got the word. The much anticipated playoff tilt was rained out. Not the bar’s fault, but a bad start nonetheless.

When Anthony and I hashed out where to drink earlier in the week (yes, we do that), one of the issues I feared at Keefer’s was the possibility of seeing a neighbor. Bug Juice is all about hanging with my partner in crime and never involves small talk with others about local politics, high school football or the influx of minorities in our fair city (just wanted to see if you were paying attention). Sure enough, when we made our way through the sad Tiger fans to the bar, I saw the star pitcher from the girl’s softball team I coached back in the day. Bummer. She was, and probably still is, one of the nicest young ladies I know. But I didn’t want to hear what she had been up to and I couldn’t possibly make my pathetic existence interesting. So I hid from her.

We eventually made our way to the horseshoe shaped bar in the center of the room and made eye contact with the male bartenders (no good). For the next seven minutes we watched the three stooges behind the bar look busy without actually slinging much in the way of drinks. They seemed to struggle with the task of uncapping beer, probably a result of tired texting thumbs. With a sigh (ours), we finally got a pair of beers for a reasonable six bucks and change.

Tony and I clinked bottles, turned and faced the crowd. Less than one minute later I heard, “I fucked up.” I wasn’t having it. “Bug Juice means never having to say your sorry,” I countered.

During our first beers, we noticed a large wet spot on the cement floor near our perch. This surprised neither of us. Show me a bar floor without a mysterious wet spot and then watch my eyebrows arch. An obnoxious waitress appeared at our side, took in the wet spot and the two old dudes standing near the wet spot and bellowed, “Is that vomit?”

A couple of things. Vomit is never just a wet spot, it always has chunks. Next, if you are asking me to ID the spot, you must think I have intimate knowledge of its origin. Finally, if you are so troubled by the wet spot that you feel the need to holler, quit trying to figure out responsibility and move on to the “get on your hands and knees and mop” portion of your job.

Once the mystery spot had been erased, our next encounter involved keeping a very drunk young punk from crowding our hard won space at the bar. We heard Mr. Fauxhawk slur to his friend that he had found a spot to perch. The spot he was referencing was just that, a spot. No bigger than the dick in his pants. I watched him drag a bar stool through the thick crowd , ready to plant himself uncomfortably close to Our Kid.

After laboriously dragging the stool through the crowd, he was surprised to see his spot had disappeared and was replaced by a puffed up Tony. The two locked eyes.

“No thanks, I don’t need a stool, I’m happy standing.”

“Huh.”

Mr. Fauxhawk was drunk, could not reconcile the bar stool in his hand, the long gone spot at the bar and Tony. After looking from stool to bar to Tony, he glumly dragged the stool back through the crowd to roughly the same area he had started. When last seen, the young man was gesturing wildly to a friend, trying to make sense of what had happened. The friend had that look on his face that people get when someone much drunker than them is trying to explain something.

Keefers was off to a slow start. We talked about moving on, realized that we had no car, remembered that it was raining sideways, and decided to stick around. I moved away from the crowded bar (nows your chance young Fauxhawk) and let Tony have a go at getting the next round. It took a while, but I watched him order from five feet away and pay with a twenty. Shit for brains came back with change for a ten. I was just about ready to move forward and put my two cents in, but Anthony (already pissed) needed no help. The words “I gave you a twenty” had barely escaped when the mutt turned and produced the additional change. “That’s a my bad.” No argument, no checking the till, no moment of reflection. That tells me that he tried to rip us off, got caught, and gave in before things got shitty.

Keefers...Out!

We decided that walking in the wind and rain beat staying and hit the following Allen Park taverns:

Polo Lounge: We walked in, checked out the band playing in front of ten to twelve bored patrons and were just about to order when a fat boy appeared out of nowhere, stood uncomfortably close to Tony and I and announced “Five dollar cover per man.” When you have almost nobody drinking in your cavernous pub, and two high rollers like Anthony and myself take pity on your dump and agree to drink there, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth with that cover charge crap. I didn’t need any input from my partner on this one. I turned for the door and got ready to brave the elements once again. From behind I heard, “Wait a minute, what about three dollars.”

No Go at Polo.

Dunleavys: Always a treat. No pretension. No cover. No people either. Not this Friday night anyway. We drank there because we had to drink somewhere. The affable bartender felt bad about being out of pretzels, and went to two nearby gas stations before finding some for me. We couldn’t split after that kind of effort. We hung out, watched football, played Keno and laughed our ass off at the evening’s events.

B Boomers: No band this Friday. No patrons either. The barmaid was a dandy, friendly and fun. We had our final beers here, but called it an evening a bit earlier than usual. Beth picked us up and brought some gumdrops for me (She knows I love them and have one before we go out and a bunch after we get home; God bless her).

Little Brother felt bad about the evening. I understood, having had many of my own selections blow up (Flappers, Groove Lounge, Best Damn Sports Bar to name a few). But in the end, no matter where we drink, as long as we are together, it’s a good time.

Cheers! Jim

MAN'S BEST FRIEND?

2011-09-19T21:17:00.000-04:00

Now a few words about dogs and the assholes that own them:

I grow weary of the morons who walk around the neighborhood with a straining mutt in one hand and an old Krogers plastic bag in the other. When their dog graces your yard with its steaming pile of shit, they proudly pick it up in the wafer thin Kroger bag and act like they are the greatest neighbors in the world. For what, getting some of your mutt’s shit off my lawn. Because I guarantee that you didn’t get it all. At the very least there are still shit bits and shit juice remaining on my lawn. If you dog owners dispute that, then prove it is not so by bending down where you triumphantly cleaned up and put a blade of grass in your mouth. Hah! And what about your asshole dog pissing on my lawn. What good is your Kroger bag then. Let your dog shit and piss in your own yard.

I also want to kick the crotch of the dog owners who walk their beloved mutt around town on a leash, but don’t actually hold the leash. The dog walks scot free about twenty yards in front of the proud owner who just knows his dog is so well behaved that he couldn’t go dog and bite you or chase a petrified cat/squirrel up a tree. And, if this perfect dog happens to come toward you and you react with concern, the owner gets miffed and in a weary voice informs you, “He won’t bite,” like he and his dog talked things over prior to the walk. I don’t care how great you think your pooch is, keep it on a leash when you venture out into public.

I live in a regular suburban neighborhood, small fenced in backyards. I don’t really get having one dog in such an environment, but why multiple mutts? I had a neighbor, recently moved and fouling another community, who had four dogs penned in his thirty foot by fifty foot backyard. One dog is a menace to fresh air and quiet, but multiple mutts indicates a lack of consideration on the part of the owner.

Same neighborhood scenario. You let your dog out and he barks. Not a solo “Oh my God is that a squirrel running through my backyard” bark, but a series of “I am an asshole dog that doesn’t know any better” barks. We have a dog in the area that punctuates the quiet with a ten minute barrage so steady that you would swear he is using a metronome. If I didn’t hate him so damn much, I might admire his timing and stamina.

I understand that these may not be popular gripes, but I defy you to take umbrage with any of them. Go ahead.

Cheers! Jim

PS In all fairness, I must point out that I was bitten by a dog about three years ago. I was rollerblading in the street and passing by a house with four kids playing in the yard. As I passed, I heard one kid shout, “Spike”. I turned my head just in time to see “Spike” bolt through the open side door of the house and make a beeline for me. I am pretty decent on the rollerblades, but I was not getting away from this dark, growling bullet. Spike (yes, that was his real name, no changing the names to protect in this blog) missed me on his first pass. He deftly managed a tight arc in the street, came back and sunk his teeth into the my well toned calf. My legs flew out in front of me and I landed in the street on my tightly muscled back. Fortunately, Spike was content with one bite, and retreated back into the house. His concerned owner soon materialized and in a freaked out voice offered to give me a ride home. I was having none of that and told her I would blade home and be back in five minutes to figure out what to do.

By the time I got back, owner had printed a copy of Spike’s last visit to the vet in order to show me that all of his shots were up to date. She apologized, though I was in no mood to hear it. Off to the emergency room, where I was cleaned up, given a tetanus shot and a prescription for antibiotics. The doctor also told me that I had to keep tabs on Spike through his owner to make sure he did not show any signs of disease.

Aside from the physical scars, and the mental ones outlined above, I came out of it fine. Which is more than I can say for Spike. His owner sent me a check to reimburse for the medical expenses and inclosed a letter and documentation informing me that Spike had been put down shortly after his rendezvous with my leg.

Any mixed feelings for my role in Spike’s ultimate demise? No. Like Bin Laden, he deserved to go.

PS Part II This bitchfest does not include good friend Jim Thomas and his four legged buddy Jethro (Tony vouches for both, and that’s good enough for me).

BUMPERS

2011-09-15T20:46:00.000-04:00

The wedding shower for my daughter Rachel had gone beautifully (or so I was told, this having been the first wedding shower I attended). The canopy didn’t collapse, the sangria didn’t run out and when the neighbor’s dog barked, my brother emptied the water from his straw in the mutt’s face, rendering him mute. All in all, a great wedding shower held in my own backyard.

I do, however, have one complaint. The partygoers failed to observe ninety percent of the cleaning my wife and I did inside and outside of our house. Would it have killed one of those broads to notice that I vacuumed all the cobwebs from the garage rafters?

After the eating, drinking and customary cheating at shower games, the party began to wind down, leaving the usual suspects behind. There was my five man crew, future son in law Matt (that was tough to type), Tony and his wife Beth, and close family friends Kathy, Carly and Luke.

My two sons, Max and Jackson, got the idea to attach notes to some of the balloon strings and set them free. Max drew a picture of himself (the exact same image he has been drawing since middle school) and noted the occasion and date before setting his orange balloon free. Jackson, the internet junkie, asked the finder of his note to contact him on his YouTube page.

Tony reached out to mankind with the following balloon attached notes:

*I pissed on this note.

*You are a dick.

*I had sex with your wife.

He wrote a fourth note, “While you are reading this, I broke into your house” but decided against sending that one into the great beyond ( I have been racking my brain trying to figure out why that message didn’t make the cut).

Making the cut for the Bug Juice Two these last few weeks has been Bumpers Bar and Grill on Newburgh Road in Westland. Though some online reviews have complained that the place is hard to spot, we had no problem breezing into the large parking lot on the west side of Newburgh just south of Joy. Look for the large, red neon sign beckoning you inside.

The clever owners named this brick barn Bumpers because half of the place is taken up by a game room with three pool tables, two of which are actually level. Other diversions include the ever annoying air hockey and foosball. I would not have been surprised to see folded laundry on these largely ignored games.

Don’t let the name and the tables fool you. At its core, this is an old school rock bar. The non bumpers half of Bumpers is suitably dark, with a long slab formica bar along one wall, a hodgepodge of tables and chairs in the center of the room and a small dance floor in front of a raised band stand at the front.

My partner in crime and I made our way to the bar, grabbed a spot in front of a flat screen and ordered our usual Miller Light and Labatts, which set us back a very reasonable $5.50. When you consider that there is no cover and a live band, Bumpers scores high for those on a budget (everyone).

A quick clink of our bottles, a long pull and a moment to soak in the room. The crowd looked like they walked out of Grapes Of Wrath, only not so lean. The common denominator for this bunch was back fat. Still, Tony and I found the patrons to be friendly and struck up conversations during each visit, some of which even made sense.

Aside from drinking cheaply and gabbing, other diversions include listening to music ( I saw live bands on three separate occasions and can’t tell you one thing about any of them...shit, they may have been the same band all three times). People do dance, but not a lot and not to hook up. Watching the Tigers chase the pennant also grabs a lot of attention. And, don’t forget the insanely well lit game room.

It’s only fair to mention that the waitstaff is young, attractive and scantily clad (it’s only fair to mention it because my wife may have found out anyway). That is not as big a deal as you might think. Pretty much every bar we walk into has the young and attractive, it’s just that Bumpers amps it up with the scantily clad.

On our third visit, young Tony and I were pleased that Erica, the barmaid we had seen on the past two occasions, served our drinks without us moving our lips. It’s good to be a regular. We always received excellent service, a friendly smile and some amusing bar chit chat. Tony mentioned that she was also easy on the eyes, though I hadn’t noticed.

A strange punctuation on our last visit involved Erica. Closing time was closing in and Tony had just finished handing me my ass in the pool room. We stopped back at the bar for last call. We talked up Erica for a bit before she disappeared into a small room off the back of the bar. She emerged with a long haired twenty something and introduced us to her husband. I shook his hand before Tony and I disappeared into the night.

When I reflected on this the following morning, I was troubled. Did Erica introduce us to her hubby because she thought we were good guys who might enjoy a drink and conversation with her significant other? Or, did Erica introduce us to her hubby because she thought we were edging into some weird infatuated territory and needed to be put in our place?

Please be the former. We are not stalkers. We are two happily married guys whose biggest sins are being rakishly handsome and disarmingly witty. Damn these good looks! Damn this charm!

Anyways, if you are low on funds, enjoy old school rock and friendly patrons, definitely check out Bumpers. And for God’s sake, don’t stalk the bar staff!

Cheers! Jim

CAPPY

2011-08-23T21:15:00.000-04:00

For the past week, the national morning shows (and who can watch this crap...”Today Matt Lauer tries his hand at making Eggs Benedict”) have been crowing about the beauty of the Sleeping Bear Dunes area of Northern Michigan, labeling it the most beautiful natural vacation area in the country.

Having just spent a week vacationing in this area with family, I agree that it is exceptionally beautiful, though best in the country seems a stretch (aren’t Hawaii and Maine still part of the USA?).

My favorite memories of this vacation have little to do with the natural beauty of this National Park, but rather on a couple of activities that my family regularly participates in while at home.

In the first, after a day lethargically spent walking around Northport doing little more than shopping and eating, we decided that a rousing game of tennis was needed for physical stimulation. My wife Andrea, daughter Rachel, son Jackson and I piled into the car and headed for the Empire Michigan Municipal Tennis Courts. If you want to know how the locals can identify you as a visitor, it will not be by the copious amount of fudge you are consuming, but through the use of their tennis facilities.

You never need to worry about these courts being occupied. And, unlike the rest of rumpled Empire, the courts are well maintained ( we actually love the rumpledness of Empire and loathe the manicured/stuffy vibe of nearby Glen Arbor and Leland). The courts sit isolated down in a little bowl, surrounded by large pines and a couple of tidy baseball diamonds. You drive your car over a gravel road and park right next to the courts. When you turn off your motor, it is just you and whatever animals happen to be staring at you from the sky or woods. Quiet.

Until we started playing doubles that is. We changed partners every set, battled fiercely, and found it not surprising that the team my son Jackson played on won every time. When we play tennis at home the injury bug rears its ugly head on a regular basis. It’s almost always my brittle self, shoulder and forearm the focus of my crying ways. This evening it was Andrea’s turn, as a wicked forehand glanced off her racquet and into her eye, bringing her participation to a premature end. Unlike me, Andrea did not cry or whine (amateur).

I try and pack the car for every occasion and that evening was no different. Andrea found the cooler in the trunk and put ice to her eye to reduce the swelling. She also noticed that I had brought along water, beer, a bottle of wine, wine glasses (we aren’t swine, after all), folding chairs and Cappy. What is Cappy? He is not a what, but a who. Cappy is the bottle opener that we keep in our garage back home. The one with the peanut shaped head, happy painted face, jauntily angled cap, and magnetically attached guitar-shaped bottle opener. That I decided to pack this family famous bottle opener speaks volumes about our crew (we may need some help).

The kids and I volleyed for awhile after Andrea’s injury, but the evening heat and desire to get at the adult beverages had us soon calling it quits. Oh yeah, we were concerned about Andrea’s eye as well. I set up the folding chairs, broke out wine for Andrea and Rachel, beer for me and water for young Jack.

I’m not sure if it was the injury, atmosphere or vacation mood, but the wine began to flow. Initially, my wife voiced concern about drinking in a public park, but I quieted those concerns by pointing out our isolation and the fact that we were Up North, where pretty much anything booze related goes. Soon, Rachel started to assign a voice to dear Cappy, like that of a British man servant. Oddly, she had trouble conjuring up that voice unless she was looking directly at Cappy. The digital camera appeared and pictures of all were taken, including (especially) Cappy. Cappy on the tennis courts, Cappy drinking wine, Cappy in a grassy meadow, Cappy planking.

After killing the better part of the wine and a couple of beers, with the sun setting on another day in paradise, we decided to make the short trip back to our Empire home.

This is when my second favorite vacation memory took hold. We sat around the kitchen table, classic rock providing background from the living room and played cards for hours. Specifically, we played 31 (aka Scat, Tonk, Blitz or Ride The Bus).

Like playing tennis, playing cards is a regular home activity for Andrea, Jackson, Rachel and I. My mom, however, is not a regular during these home games. She is not always around when these impromptu games break out and she is sometimes reluctant to play due to difficulties seeing the cards ( my mom has macular degeneration, but never lets it define her life). It might take her a bit longer to make out the discard pile or the difference between clubs and spades, but we were all so delighted to have her playing that nobody gave a damn. Of course, we did take every opportunity to kid her about these delays (“Guess whose turn it is?” during a lull in the action).

We take 31 pretty seriously. A worn deck of cards and bag of tokens for the players is tossed on the table and God help you if you grab a token one of the others consider “theirs”. You will be mocked for knocking early, ridiculed for low scores and jeered for early exits. I know this because these are all sins that I regularly commit. I took one fact away from this vacation: I blow at 31. My mom, a rookie and a sight impaired rookie at that, regularly kicked my ass.

I can’t say that I recall who won the majority of the games, but I do recall a lot of laughing, out of tune singing, old stories and family memories. We snacked and drank a lot too.

Yes, Sleeping Bear Dunes is magnificent, and if you want to call it the most beautiful natural vacation area in the country, I’ll let you. But when the memories of the shifting sands fades, I’ll still remember partying after tennis, tossing cards and the laughing faces of family enjoying both. And Cappy!

Cheers! Jim

POISON

2011-08-15T13:42:00.000-04:00

While chatting with my daughter Rachel the other day, I casually mentioned that I had tickets to see Poison at Pine Knob ( always Pine Knob, never DTE). She didn’t even bother to cover the phone, but snickered as she informed her future hubby that I was excited to go to a Poison show. I could practically see her eyes rolling amid the derisive laughter (by the way, these two were on their way to see the Captain America movie, a flick inspired by a kid’s comic book...I win).

The point is, if you are going to see Poison in concert, expect to take a bit of shit from a large segment of the population. After all, they are a hair metal band with song titles like Unskinny Bop, I Want Action and Nothing But A Good Time. Their lead singer starred in a cheesy reality dating show that featured his charm, good looks and hair extensions. As a band, they preen, mug and prance. They offer no social or political insights and in no way are looking to solve the world’s problems.

Thank God!

It was a perfect night in late July as Tony and I headed north to Pine Knob. Your dynamic duo was joined for the evenings festivities, by little brother’s better half, Beth. Was I bugged to share Tony with Beth? Hell no. Was I bugged that my lady decided against joining? Hell no. For some time, I have understood that going to a rock concert is not Andrea’s idea of “Nothing But a Good Time”.

We had great seats to the show and VIP parking courtesy of Huntington Cleaners in Huntington Woods (the leaders in insurance and commercial cleaning of garments and draperies...I don’t think they would be bothered by this shameless plug, though they would probably be horrified by its placement amid this horseshit web site).

Beth looked very nice in her over the calf stretch pants and print top. Not sure if I ever saw her rocking the pig tails before, but it worked ( pulling out all the stops in a shameless attempt to get noticed by Bret Michaels, no doubt). Tony and I looked like tools in shorts and t-shirts.

We decided to bag the opening acts, a local band whose name eludes me and Warrant, performing without now biffed lead singer Jani Lane. We opted instead for the Pine Knob Starlite Club, where three cold ones will set you back $21. That did not prove to be much a deterrent, and in the blink of an eye three rounds had been consumed. At this point, my duties as designated driver and tightwad took over and the consumption of alcohol ceased. For me. Not for Beth and Tony.

We enjoyed the perfect summer night and classic rock tunes being spun. But what we really enjoyed was the people watching. Forget the guy-half of people watching. We all look the same, crappy. The ladies on the other hand are a delight. They were all dressed to impress (Bret that is, not us crappy looking dudes in the crowd). I saw lots of thirty and forty somethings in their whoriest best. These broads were Friday night partying on a Tuesday and loving it.

We could have hung there all night, but when the last slice of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” was served, we made our way down to our fabulous seats, seventh row on guitarist CC Deville’s side. In no time, the lights dimmed (and is there a better feeling in the world than the lights dimming at a rock show) and Poison took the stage. Bret looked great as expected in tight jeans and Poison tee. No surprise there. That the other boys in the band also looked fit was a bit of a surprise, pleasant at that.

The crowd was on its feet from the opening chords of “Look at What the Cat Dragged In” and never sat for a moment. They danced and sang along to Poison’s greatest hits and well selected covers “We’re An American Band” and “Your Mama Don’t Dance”. All four guys in the band took turns in the spotlight, though it was clearly Bret’s gig. He exhorted the crowd from one side to the other, from the runway above drummer Rikki Rockett to the front edge of the stage. Bret also worked in his trademark “awesome” about twenty times, paid homage to the servicemen admitted gratis to the show, and gave lots of love to “The Motor City”. These tricks of the trade worked every time.

This was a drunk crowd, but not drunk in a confrontational way. Drunk in a let’s hug, raise our lighters in the air and belt out the chorus of each song way. Poison was hosting a party, providing the soundtrack and daring you not to have fun.

After ninety minutes of party rock, and three or four shirt changes for Bret, Poison thanked the crowd one last time, promised to return next summer and left the nearly packed house grinning from ringing ear to ringing ear.

For most people this would have been enough. Beth and Tony are not most people. A return trip to the Starlite Club was in order. Drinks were ordered (water for me) and we stood about twenty feet in front of the DJ booth with the other Poison fans who refused to let the party end. A dance floor soon broke out around us. Tony and I would have looked like two lecherous douche bags were it not for the presence of Beth. She gave us a certain amount of credibility; one of us was able to have a relationship with a person of the opposite sex.

At this point, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Beth’s ability to be loved by all kinds of women. Strange broads asked her to take pictures, talked to her about her jewelry, hugged her and even got down on the dance floor and rubbed her calves. Seriously. She has a fairly outrageous figure, likes to party and is outgoing without being obnoxious. That she had such a good time was a huge part of the evenings revelry. Beth even mentioned that she could provide this same quality to Friday Night Bug Juice. Amid nervous laughter, Tony and I both said that this would not be necessary. We knew it was time to call it a night only when they told us to leave.

A perfect storm had been had: beautiful evening, great seats, people watching extraordinaire, Beth and Poison. I’m already looking forward to next summer (will work on getting my wife to attend).

Cheers! Jim

EDITORIAL...SERIOUSLY

2011-07-17T10:38:00.000-04:00

Scapegoat: A person or group made to bear the blame for others or to suffer in their place.

My wife and I have put two children through the Allen Park School system and have a third entering his sophomore year at the high school. The first two have further distinguished themselves by graduating college with honors in four years and being employed in the careers for which they studied. That these two careers are teaching and social work, two fields notoriously difficult to break into, is a third achievement. The youngest is progressing nicely and was invited to the honors assembly at the end of his freshman year.

How do we do it? Are we Mensa members? Are we at the top of our respective fields? Do we drive the kids within a whisper of a nervous breakdown? First, even though my wife is sharp, I drag our intelligence curve way down (have you read any of the crap on this web site?). As to our professional lives, my wife is a former postal carrier who left her job after years of physical demand and I am a salesman for a family owned furniture restoration company. You will not be reading about us in the Journal (that’s Wall Street Journal for my fellow average-ites ). Finally, while we do emphasize education, we recognize that family and fun are key ( we have a ping pong table in our garage after all).

I mention these scholastic achievements not to brag, though our three kids are pretty damn great, but to berate. If your child is not doing well in school, do not blame the city in which you live, the building in which they study or the teachers standing in front of them. Blame your lame ass self! It is your fault and nobody else!

This is where that scapegoat word comes in. Attacking teachers and identifying them as the reason why your dopey kid can’t sit still, read or graduate may make you feel better about yourself, but it does not get you any closer to putting a kid out in the world who can do more than text and chew gum at the same time.

When you place the blame on teachers, you are telling me that a relative stranger who is with your child a fraction of the time that you are, can influence them more than you can. If this is so, you had better fix things on the home front, and quit making the honorable profession of teaching your personal scapegoat.

Do not take solace in the sympathetic legislation put forth from Governor Snyder and his Republican ilk. They have just managed to piggyback public sentiment with their real desire to replace experienced, well paid teachers with inexperienced, cheaper ones. If this works, and the teachers and their union are gutted, keep your eyes out for the next profession in the Republican crosshairs.

If you are able to quit blaming others for the inadequacies of your parenting ( a tall order for the type of person blaming teachers) I think I can help ( God that felt good...finally an area that I can offer advice in; certainly writing, romance and skin care are out).

To begin, my wife Andrea and I refuse to accept less than excellence. Good enough is not good enough to us. We never turn up our nose at a B grade, but we always feel that the kids are better than that and can achieve higher. We also talk about school on a daily basis. When my youngest and I walk his paper route, I ask him to take me through his school day on an hourly basis. If you wait to start a dialogue with your student when there is trouble at school, it’s too late. Also, our three always understood that blaming teachers, other kids or difficulty of tests is not an option. Andrea and I have not always been thrilled with the teachers assigned to our kids, but we respected them and the position they held.

Those general philosophies were combined with other daily chores. Before they even attended school, we read to the kids every night before bed ( even now we reminisce about some of those Little Golden Books books like “We Help Daddy” or “The Very Best Home For Me”). Andrea and I also believed in routine, putting the kids to bed at about the same time each night ( their own beds), getting them up at the same time (reluctantly), eating a decent breakfast (do Honey Grahams count?) and doing their nightly homework ( is there anything worse than Sunday night homework?).

I must stop now as I pulled a muscle in my shoulder by patting myself on the back. Still, give personal responsibility a try. Don’t look to Governor Snyder, look in the mirror.

Cheers! Jim

PS Bar fodder to return when Tony returns from vacation.

BUG JUICE AT THE BAT

2011-06-20T21:26:00.000-04:00

BUG JUICE AT THE BAT

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Juicers that day

The decision was Dearborn, Not Edison’s that Friday

Tony thought Dearborn first, Jimmy thought the same

Stupidity on Friday is part of the game

The Well put us in deep despair. The rest

clearly to hope that we would see more than two sets of breasts

Neigh for it was a crowd of men, heavy in cologne at that

We called it even money now, Bug Juice screwed at bat

Optimism preceded The Well, even if it were fake

And the former was a lulu, the latter a realistic take.

So inside the cement bunker of The Well melancholy sat

So there seemed little chance of The Juicers standing pat

The boys had an idea to the wonderment of all

That The Well, the much despis-ed would not see last call

And when the cologne mist lifted, the men saw what occurred

There was Jimmy and Tony at Howell’s for their third

Then from a tattooed throat rose a drunken yell

It rumbled through Jim and Tony, it rattled the dell

And when responding to the beers, he offered the place we sat

No drunkard in the crowd could doubt Bug Juice at bat

Thirty eyes were on them as they left and hit the dirt

It was The Post Time, patrons in Affliction shirts

The shot girl came a callin’ tray at her hip

“Care to buy a shot?” came the query from her lip

And now the obvious answer came hurtling through the air

Even if we were to buy a shot, we would never be down there

So a “No” was given, off away she sped

“This ain’t my style” said Jim. “Let’s leave” Tony said

From the street, lack with people, upon Double Olive our score

Friday taking a beating like storm waves on a stern and distant shore

“Believe me! Believe me people!” shouted the Juicers making a stand

And it’s likely they a-missed Edison’s! with a cover band

With a frown of Christian charity, the Juicers visage shone

We stilled the rising tumult, the drinking must go on

They signaled the waitress, at once she knew

She did not ignore it, and came back with brew

“Fraud” cried the maddened two, and echo answered Fraud

But a fateful thought of Edison’s and The Juicers were awed

The people saw our faces stern and cold, our bellies strain

Why in God’s name would we go to Dearborn again

The beer wet on Juicers lips, it is now getting late

He pounds the cell phone, Bessie picks us up from our date

And now we hold our breath, and it’s time to go

And now the air is shattered, cause Dearborn doth blow

Oh somewhere in this favored land, The Mayor is shining bright

A cover band plays somewhere and somewhere hearts are light

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere women hang out

But there is no joy in Dearborn, Mighty Bug Juice has struck out

Cheers! Tony

GROOVE LOUNGE

2011-05-23T17:06:00.000-04:00

Tony and I go for a two mile walk four days a week during our lunch break because we don’t see enough of each other on the drive to and from work, forty hours a week at work, Friday nights, Michigan football games, various holidays and assorted weekend gatherings.

One of the favorite topics on these walks is Friday Night and the horseshit web site devoted to Friday Night (you probably feel it should be better than it is, given the amount of time spent talking about it).

On Monday: “ Last Friday at Edison’s was pretty damn great...I like being a regular at a bar, you just hold up one or two fingers and your beer arrives...Why would we go anywhere else?”

On Tuesday: “Christ, we haven’t actually reviewed a bar in months...Where should we go?..That damned web site.”

On Wednesday’s lunch break, we eat at Potbelly’s, pick the male and female douche of the week in Real Detroit Magazine, play two games of backgammon in a cutthroat race to one hundred and hustle back to work.

On Thursday: “We could go to The Well in Dearborn...How about Hamtramck?...I’ll check some web sites out tonight and see what I can find.”

On Friday: “This has been one tough week...If it wasn’t for the web site, I would go to Edison’s every week...Nobody reads the damn thing anyway, let’s go to Edison’s.”

So, after five months of not stepping foot into a new bar for the purpose of a review, Tony and I decided that this last Friday should see the two great adventurers adventuring. Based largely on the recommendation of Detroit Free Press writer Esa Esan, young brother and I decided to go back to “work” and visit/review the Groove Lounge in Southfield.

In her glowing recommendation, Esan noted that Groove lounge was catering to the over 30 crowd, was large, had a band and dance floor and a wood-fired pizza oven in the kitchen ( eating while on The Tour is strictly prohibited, though tearing through kitchen cupboards after closing time is encouraged). It sounded promising to our (hairy) ears, so we resisted the pull of Edison’s and set sail for Groove Lounge.

I had scouted the place earlier in the week, so we had no trouble finding the bright orange building on Franklin Road at Northwestern. Parking was easy enough in the large lot shared by a wedding hall and drug store. For those that believe in foreshadowing, the skies opened up and pissed on us as soon as we stepped out of the truck.

We hustled to the door at the side of the building and walked into a huge bar populated by about twenty people, none of whom appeared to be over thirty ( so much for catering to an older crowd) or interested in having a good time. Small cliques sat hunched over their drinks, paying no heed to the two crestfallen Irishmen entering the bar.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” I think Tony wanted to leave.

I’m the older brother, the one with the cool head and I insisted that we grab at least one quick beer at the nearly deserted long bar. There, we could rationally plot the inevitable next move.

Despite the absence of paying customers, the sloppy barmaid at the end of the bar placed us squarely in the pay me no nevermind club. Anthony and I grew more agitated by the second, and just as we were about to pull the plug sans beer, she bounced our way. Wait, false alarm! She held up one chubby finger, waltzed by and did some non-essential business at the opposite end of the bar. As strange as this may sound, I was now so pissed off that I couldn’t leave.

Finally, this disgrace to barmaids everywhere came by to take our order.

“What can I get you ?”

“ A Miller Light and a Labatts, please.

“Bottle or draft?”

“ Bottle.”

“We don’t have Labatts in a bottle.”

Tony leaned in.

“How about a Michelob Light in a bottle.”

A roll of heavily made up eyes.

“We don’t have Michelob Light in a bottle, how about Michelob Ultra?”

“No thanks, what else do you have in bottles?”

Literal sigh of disgust from Miss Congeniality.

“We’ve got everything in bottles.”

Since we were just informed that they didn’t have Labatts or Michelob Light in bottles, Tony and I looked at each other for a moment and said nothing.

Clearly disgusted at having to deal with us, she took a deep breath from inside her barrel chest, used her most “I am annoyed with the two dumb dicks in front of me” voice, and started what she felt would be a long recitation .

“I’ve got Bud, Bud Light...”

“Bud.” So much for the long recitation ( Tony is not typically a Bud Man, but he wanted to cut our losses and took one for the team).

I never expected that getting two beers in a nearly deserted bar would be such a pain in the ass, and I surely never expected to be treated with such disdain by someone paid to make drinks appear and be nice, or at worst, neutral.

There was a band playing breezy R+B, though nobody danced, or seemed to listen for that matter. The most dominant characteristic of this dump, after the crap attitude of the barmaid, was the heavy smell of campfire. That wood fired pizza oven ballyhooed in the Free Press article was toiling in the kitchen. In the open, no-walls-to-keep-the-stink off-you-kitchen. The smell of burning wood was so overriding that Tony was afraid it would kill his industrial strength cologne.

Thinking quickly, we guzzled our beers and began the fifteen minute trek to Edison’s to salvage the night. We did this in one of the heaviest downpours I have ever driven through. I had to drive slowly, so it gave Our Kid and I a chance to ruminate on Groove Lounge. Tony wanted to know how Free Press writer Esan could write the story. “We didn’t catch this place on a bad night, I bet it’s never crowded period, let alone with the over thirty crowd”. Maybe she wrote her piece from a press release or phone call, little brother. Not everyone goes into the field to get their stories, just us great ones.

Knowing the ever changing history of this establishment (It was Excalibur’s and Pi Lounge before it was Groove Lounge), my speculation centered on when this current edition would shut down (soon!) and what it would morph into (an upscale sports bar?). I decided that even if it turned into a urologist’s office, it would be a better place to visit.

I guess the bigger question centers around wether it is wise to leave the mother’s milk that is Edison’s and check out other bars for the purpose of reviewing. We feel it is. We won’t let the literal and attitudinal stink of Groove Lounge spoil the explorer inside.

Onward!

PS As an off the subject aside, I have been given the senior discount for coffee at McDonald’s three times in the past couple of weeks. Either there is a new directive under the Golden Arches to give anyone anywhere near senior citizen status the discount, or I have entered the fast lane of aging.

Cheers! Jim

Groove Lounge

28875 Franklin Road

Southfield 48034

248-208-7500

BLAH

2011-05-05T16:48:00.000-04:00

Have you ever felt not funny? Keep wise ass answers such as, “When have you ever been funny?” to yourself.

It will be better for my mental well being (and for the purposes of this blog) to believe that everybody has low spots in their lives. I am more interested in what puts you in those low spots and how you drag yourself out.

I have existed in one of those lulls for the past month or so, and as a guy who loves looking under the rocks of life, I have been examining what put me there and what can extract me.

As for the former, I am placing some of the blame on the weather. I never need to experience a Michigan winter or spring again. The never ending variety of cold stuff falling from the sky, smothering cloud cover, gray and sheer length of these two seasons is killing me. I take a daily med to prevent migraines (it’s called propranolol and has saved my life), that renders my hands and feet cold during the warmest days and freezing in winter and spring. Painful! I also love and miss outdoor activities such as swimming, tennis and drinking beer. I understand that you can perform these three sports indoors, but to enjoy them at their fullest means being outside. To give you an idea of the depths of my disgust for the Michigan weather, I have adopted Anna Maria Island in Florida as my fantasy home and have dreamed about relocating to this southern Xanadu (I fantasize about fishing, and I hate fishing).

Work has also been a pill. I understand that the country is in a recession, and that Michigan has been hit harder than most, but I am sick of cost cutting, watching pennies and the “I’m just glad to have a job” mantra. Like many companies, my place of employment has cut staff to a minimum. This means more and harder work for those still employed. Stress, both physical and mental, is the result. I am whipped at day’s end. My voice, mind and spirit are waning. I fall asleep on the sofa most evenings, though once in a while I have the wherewithal to actually get up and go to bed. Still, I’m just glad to have a job.

Finally, a cloud of sadness has settled over my extended family, a cloud as large and oppressive as any real cloud that we’ve experienced this never ending winter. My mom’s older sister Mary Lou died recently. It was rough on everybody, though the effect it had on my Mom bothered me most. Anxiety was not limited to my side of the street. My wife and her extended family have been dealing with issues related to age and health during this lengthy hibernation period. Like my feelings toward my mom, it has been most difficult watching the wear and tear on my Andrea. When the phone rings and your wife says ”Oh No” before she knows who is on the line, it’s a bad thing. In general, I have heard more about sickness, age and death in the last six months than in the rest of my life combined. A function of getting older with older friends and relatives, no doubt.

That is what put me in a mood. Now what will get me out?

The day before Easter, my oldest son Max pulled out some old family videos and we sat around looking at them. I watched images of my birthday in 1990, Easter 1991 and a vacation in Myrtle Beach in 1992.

This could go one of two ways. I could sink further into a funk looking at full heads of hair, vigorous parents and laughing families. Or, I could think about what made the people in those old videos so damn happy. I chose the latter.

Full head of hair Jim didn’t worry so much ( in all candor, I probably never had a full head of hair). He did not obsess about tomorrow. Young kids will do that to you, you’re only concerned about their next bowel movement or nap. Whatever the reason, it’s a good way to be. Living in the moment is proper, worrying about ten minutes from now is a waste of time. I also laughed a lot. We laughed at how the kids swam, how my mom and I walked (like two bears) and how my mom hated to have the camera pointed at her. Laugh more. In the old home videos, I was doing more stuff, going more places and interacting with more people. If there is ever a moment in your day when the question arises, “Should we go _______?”, the answer is always yes. You will either have a good time or it will bite and you will have a good story to tell. Example: This past Sunday, my wife Andrea wanted to go to the Women’s Expo in Novi with one of her girlfriends. Alas, none were available. Even though the Wings were on later that afternoon and a Women’s Expo seemed dreadful, I went. I had a good time too. Andrea and I laughed at the odd variety of booths (apparently chicks are interested in skin care, food, purses and clean carpets), talked adult talk and had a nice lunch. Any moment with your wife, even one spent at the Sweet Sass booth (“Sweet Sass is the new ketchup”) is better than sitting at home on your ass.

I’m not stupid, or not that stupid anyway. I understand that the video camera does not roll on an average Wednesday while you’re cleaning up the dinner dishes. It rolls on special occasions. But I stick by my three pronged plan of attack: Don’t worry, laugh and do stuff. These are my observations and solutions. Like plans to get fit, you will have to tailor your plan to match your own set of circumstances.

In a desperate attempt to get readers to react to some of the crap on our site, I am asking you what gets you down and how you get out. If you think I am a witless Mary Sunshine, I would like to hear that as well.

Cheers! Jim

IN THE BEGINNING...

2011-03-28T17:04:00.000-04:00

1998 HEADLINES:

*President Clinton “did not have sex with that woman” Monica Lewinsky, yet still manages to leave his semen on her XXL dress and plunges the country into a Puritanical witch hunt.

*Speaking of going down, Titanic is big at the box office and in the Oscars.

*Google is born. You will soon be able to find a web site written by two immature brothers who think that going to a bar on Friday nights is interesting to others.

*Sonny Bono, Wendy O Williams and Linda McCartney die (a tough year for shit singers).

*Tony and Jim go out drinking on Friday night for the first time.

We have not always been the smooth, debonair, bon vivants that currently haunt Edison’s in Birmingham on a weekly basis. No, the early Friday nights actually took place while the sun was up, ended before last call and featured blue balls.

In 1998, Tony and I decided that we needed something to celebrate the end of another week of mind numbing labor. We thought that a vigorous game of racquetball (that’s the blue ball reference) immediately following the closing bell would provide a nice punctuation mark. Once the sweat was showered away, drinking beer to replenish lost liquids was a natural. A couple of issues: It only took a few weeks of racquetball to realize that our uber competitive nature on the court would spell the end of our brotherly love off it. Also, getting home form the bars at eight o’clock meant boozy interacting with family before snoring on the sofa. Problems yes, but we liked the drinking too much to entirely scrap the concept.

We decided to ditch racquetball and take in a high school football game each Friday. It seemed like the perfect combination of sports, night time and the opportunity to continue boozing. And, unlike racquetball, we couldn’t see any way to fight with each other over a bunch of kids playing with a pigskin. Typically, we would leave right after dinner, have a drink or two at a local bar near whichever game we selected, watch the game and go back to the bar for a nightcap. We soon found ourselves leaving after the third quarter, then at the half and finally after deciding that it was to cold to sit outside watching a bunch of dopey kids play football. Tweaking Friday night was still needed.

“Hey Andrea... Tony and I are going to hang out at the bar Friday night. I’m going to pick him up at 9:30, stay out until closing time, come home reeking, forage around the kitchen like a bear, fall asleep on the sofa and be somewhat useless on Saturday.”

I get douche chills just writing that.

Amazingly, that was the shit I threw against the wall, and it stuck. Tony and I now had a standing date most Friday nights, not every Friday night, but most Friday nights. I still had to float out my plans on game day, gauge reactions and act accordingly. I took very little, if any flak, but this phase is still marked by uncertainty. During these formative years, Our Kid and I were primarily hanging at The All Around Bar in Taylor listening to the classic rock stylings of Razorback and watching Downriver’s great unwashed careen around the dance floor. Other favorite haunts at that time included J. Dubs, Double Olive and US 12. Strictly local.

Using the philosophy that if some is good, more is better, and through sheer repetition, Friday night eventually morphed into a given. It was no longer, “Are you and Tony going out tonight?”, but “Where are you and Tony going tonight?” During this golden era, Bug Juice spread its wings and visited Oakland County. There, we found Utopia, Walden and Xanadu in the original Rosie O’Grady’s in Ferndale. It was dark, cheap and a bit dirty just like the two brothers sitting at the bar each and every Friday. Presided over by Lauren and Mike, the dynamic duo of bartending, Rosie’s was the foundation. After consuming a few rounds with nothing else to do but bullshit with one another, Tony and I capped off the evening at nearby Boogie Fever. Boog’ was the flash and the ultimate people watching experience, a place where the nickname game took hold. The Pigeon Sisters, Spaghetti Man, Mountain Girl, Black Lalanne to name a few. Good Times!

But now the days grow short

I’m in the autumn of the year

And now I think of my life as vintage wine

From fine old kegs

From the brim to the dregs

And it poured sweet and clear

It was a very good year

In 2008, after being rebuffed by Real Detroit magazine, Tony and I decided to start committing our thoughts (?) to paper in the hopes that someone might notice them and get a laugh or two in the process. Friday Night Bug Juice is big time now. Blog links in the Downriver News Herald and Dearborn Press and Guide and thirty-five ravenous followers on Facebook. Women want to be with us, men want to be like us.

It may be a tad tougher getting off the sofa, take longer to trim the ear hairs and pull on the boots, but I still cherish each Friday night. The reason is simple really. It’s the company I keep!

Cheers! Jim

SPORT'S HAVEN LOUNGE

2011-03-11T17:02:00.000-05:00

The Sports Haven Lounge, located at the corner of Southfield and Outer Drive, is a long time Dearborn institution. If you are on old timer from the ‘hood ( hello Rob, Mallard and Nano), it will be forever known as Lem’s Lounge.

When it was Lem’s, it intrigued me for several reasons: Reason 1. The bar was close enough to ride my bike by when I was a youngster. Since I did not have to cross major streets, our paths would cross often. Reason 2. There is a door at the corner of the building at Southfield and Outer Drive. It is no longer used as a functioning door. Back in the day it would open. In my memory burn, I can picture looking in, but it always seemed too dark to see inside. This must be the genesis for my curiosity about drinking establishments. Reason 3. The name. If you want to name a cozy neighborhood bar, Lem’s Lounge is a winner. The name may have been changed to Sport’s Haven, but the feel of being a neighborhood bar has not.

Lately Sport’s Haven has been providing a bookend to my weekends. It started a couple of months ago. I had just arrived home, still standing on the landing when I heard Beth on the phone. Some work we were having done had just jumped up in price. I waited on the landing until she hung up. Her face was ashen, knowing that she had to deal with my excitable nature. I knew I was going to take the news badly and decide to take a walk. Muttering and gesturing wildly through the neighborhood, I found myself at Sport’s Haven.

I beer bellied up to the bar and ordered a Bud. This was a surprise. Not that I dealt with a problem with alcohol, but that I ordered a Bud. When I’m out with Jimmy, it is Labatt’s Blue. When I’m out with Bessie, it’s Michelob Light. After downing a Bud or two, I was starting to feel a bit better. I decided to call Bessie to see if she would join me. My thinking is that she is in every situation with me, and may need to unwind. Also, it was getting colder and I wanted a ride home.

She came up and had a few. We introduced ourselves to our new favorite barmaid at Sport’s Haven, Colleen, and had a great time gabbing. That night, she told us they were going to start opening on Sundays. This seemed like a bit of a predicament. We were hitting the 3 Nick’s Bar in Allen park on Sundays. The advantage of Sport’s Haven is that it is close and is in walking/staggering distance.

So, we decided to try out Sport’s Haven and have not been disappointed. As I wrote earlier, it is a great neighborhood bar. The inside is small and somewhat sheltered from the outside light. That is unless you are sitting at the last two barstools, which has morphed into our spot when available. I let Bessie sit by the small shaded window, so she can face me. I sit at the next barstool, obviously. I keep my sunglasses on and look her way. Looking cool and being a gentleman is always a good combo.

The waitstaff, particularly Colleen and Melissa, are very attentive. Rarely will a time go by that we have to inquire about our next round. Our drink of choice is the aforementioned Michelob Light, in a bucket. The bucket has four beers and will cost you nine dollars. Also, if you know anything about my wife, extra napkins will be required. She is a firm believer in extra napkins, no doubt due to her experience watching me eat and drink. After getting my beak wet with a beer, and making sure the local team is not on the tube, it is time for music. As written in a previous review, I love to monopolize the jukebox. My theory is that I want to play the songs I like, that the patrons will also like. Tooting my own horn, I have to say that I have been congratulated on more than one occasion for my selections. At Sport’s Haven, I have been dubbed Music Man. It is an awesome responsibility, but I am up to the task (I’d like to take a time out to give my brothers a shout out for being my college of musical knowledge).

Our stools are also located by the pool table. A game will set you back seventy-five cents. If the table is open, we will play. If not, we will become spectators, offering our opinions to nobody in particular.

This brings us around to the Friday night portion of the bookend. Lately, Jimmy and I have been making Sport’s Haven our last call. It is close to home, and we usually get in a game or two of pool. Sometimes the games go a bit longer and we are asked to leave so a tired barmaid can go home. So off we go, Jimmy dropping me off, me trying to push eggs and pizza on him, a bit of soft porn on HBO or Sports Center, then time to go home.

All in all, I give Sport’s Haven my highest marks for fulfilling it’s duty as a neighborhood bar.

Cheers! Tony

DRUNKEN PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENTS

2011-02-21T17:08:00.000-05:00

The first public service announcement I recall seeing came courtesy of one of my baseball heroes, Willie Mays. Though it was aimed at big city kids, Willie’s advice to stay away from blasting caps which might be lost at construction job sites lest you find yourself without fingers or hands, left a deep impression on me ( just how cavalier are these guys at construction sites in the 60’s, leaving blasting caps lying around like the butts of cigarettes). Though I never saw a blasting cap ( I did look), I treasure that early PSA and will continue to avoid the handling of blasting caps should I be lucky enough to ever find one.

In the great tradition of Willie Mays, here come PSA’s from two guys who should not give advice to anyone:

JIM’S PSA

I felt good about my new found maturity. The date was March 23, 1979, my twenty-second birthday. The past six celebrations of the day of my birth revolved around getting wasted with friends. Things were different now. I had a girlfriend, Andrea, and the revelry had matured. Dinner, a cocktail, romance, grown up stuff.

After respectably celebrating my birthday with Andrea in the manner mentioned above, I found myself back at my parent’s house about to go inside at a reasonable hour when I heard a shout from across the street. “Hey birthday boy, you want to go out for a drink.” It was my best friend Rob (I recall seeing his devil’s horns reflecting in the moonlight). I could have said I was tired and had to get up early for my job as a cub reporter at the Dearborn Times Herald. I could have asked for a rain check. I could have embraced my new grown up lifestyle and politely declined.

Instead, I found myself heading to the Gem Bar at midnight on a work night. In two short hours, I was stumbling uncontrollably around the bar parking lot, shocked at both the loss of my motor skills and the growing rips in the knees of my dress pants. My only memory inside the bar, the blowing out of fire from a burning shot of booze seconds before its draining. The perfect storm of birthday, Rob and the Gem Bar had crumbled my aforementioned “new found maturity”. I went from Andy Taylor to Otis Campbell in the blink of an eye.

I don’t recall getting home, hurling all over myself, my mom’s cleaning me up or her all night vigil to make sure I did not biff from excess. I do recall getting up for work, still drunk. I managed to make it into the Times-Herald office, mumble something about checking out a story at the police station and heading home to sleep it off. Easier said than done, as I was still drunk when my mom woke me a second time for a quitting time appearance back at the Times-Herald newsroom. Gosh, do you think they knew something was up?

I can tell you that in the thirty-one years since that birthday, I have not been fall down drunk. Call it fear of hurling ( it seems so primitive), dread of hangover or actual maturity, but the idea of getting dead drunk is repulsive to me. I still love Killians, a backyard party and the inside of a dark bar. But I know my limits and stay away from losing control to booze.

In summary, don’t pick up blasting caps and don’t over indulge in booze.

TONY’S PSA

My cautionary tale occurs during the Xmas break from high school in 1979. it was toward the end of our break and the fellow losers I hung out with were ready to drink.

On this particular evening, I scored a pint of Peppermint Schnapps. How did we score our drink at age sixteen when the drinking age was twenty-one? We used two methods. The first was to stand outside the store and ask people to buy for us. Back then, this was common but economically very dangerous. On several occasions, the people would take the money and skedaddle. What were we going to do, call the cops?

The other method was to get the local half wit, who was probably a molester, and ask him to buy. We had several local candidates. There was Dale, who took too many acid trips and paid the consequences. There was also Woodstock, who suffered the same fate as the aforementioned Dale. The biggest and best was Dougie Dog(g). He was a toothless half wit who lived near our junior high. His availability and willingness made him a favorite. I often wondered how many bodies were buried in his backyard. I also wondered why, like the priests I served under, was I not touched? Why was I not pretty enough? Were they not chubby chasers? No wonder my self esteem is shot.

Regardless of the method, I ended up with my pint of Peppermint Schnapps. On this night, we decided that Oakwood Hospital would be a good place to get our drink on. Oakwood was expanding. They had empty boxes from trailer trucks at the back of the parking lot. We would just hang out under the boxes doing our thang. This was not my favorite spot, but it would work.

Me and the boys started thundering down our drinks of choice. Somebody in our crew had sloe gin. Why not mix it up with Peppermint Schnapps? Yummy! After blowing down our alcohol, it was time to shift to the smoking part of the evening.

It was cold and we wanted to be warm. Sometime before this evening, one of the boys had found a warm place on the Oakwoods grounds. We found out that you could go into the Skillman wing, go straight to and up the elevators to the top floor. The top floor was a boiler room and typically empty. So, we blew down our hash. As you old timers will remember, weed would occasionally dry up and hash became a ready substitute.

After hacking our brains out, or more likely running out, it was time to go. Back down the elevators and into the night we went. This time the security guards woke up and followed us out on to Venice Street. Before catching up to us, they saw us throwing trash at the curb and on to the street. When they finally caught us, they asked our names. Being as blasted as I was, I kept yelling my name as if I were Alphonse Capone and how dare a rent-a-cop stop me. After gathering all our names, the lazy sods went to just one of our houses. That parent was to let the other parents know of our destructive ways.

The word did go around and the gig was up. Alphonse and his crew were screwed. When I got home my parents didn’t fuck with me. What fun is rousting a drunk? Wait until he’s sober or hung over and hit him between the eyes. Waking up the next morning, I knew it was coming, both the punishment and my stomach’s contents. Since I did not want to hurl in front of my parents, I had to improvise. I thought it was best to open my upstairs window and blow outside. What I did not take into consideration was the wind direction. The aluminum siding was streaked. The color was mostly red due to the sloe gin, but it did have a pleasant odor from the Peppermint Schnapps.

The moral of this story is, don’t mix your alcohols as you may never drink either again.

Also, avoid the Clap!

Cheers! Jim and Tony, or Tony and Jim

DUNLEAVY'S

2011-02-08T16:33:00.000-05:00

Before it was Dunleavy’s, it was O’Hannon’s. Before it was O’Hannon’s, it was Maury’s. When it was Maury’s it was the site of the third date with my wife, Andrea.

The first date was a trip to the racetrack (remember DRC you old timers), drinks at The Token Lounge and a late bite to eat at Denny’s. I was wearing powder blue double knit slacks and a shiny shirt with planets and stars on it. How this merited a second date, I’ll never know.

The second date came the next day, when I showcased my vast cultural side by taking Andrea to the Detroit Institute of Arts. I won her heart over a snack in the DIA cafeteria. Andrea dug into her cake, offered me none, and commented, “This cake is so rich.” I, the ever clever wordsmith replied, “Good, can I borrow two bucks from it.” This hack line is a moment that Andrea has never forgotten and one she often mentions to people who need an explanation as to why she is with me.

The following day, a rainy Monday, was Andrea’s day off. I called in sick (a great idea that I, and every other working stiff, should embrace more often) and we took in a matinee before heading to Maury’s in Allen Park to chat over a couple of beers. There were no horses racing or paintings to look at, just the two of us at an old formica table getting to know each other. Of course she was beautiful, still is, but what I remember best was how simple it was to talk to someone I was just getting to know. Andrea’s intelligence, humor and easy going nature made it seem like we had been friends forever, very intimate. It may have been a bit early for love, at least the type of love I have for her this day, but I understood that I had found something important inside that dark, old school tavern.

Segue: That same old formica table from thirty-two years ago still sits inside Dunleavy’s, though I can’t help but wonder why a plaque has not been erected to let others know that this was the site of our epic third date. Clearly an oversight on their part.

Dunleavy’s sits at the intersection of Allen Road and Southfield, sharing parking with Ram’s Horn and Voran Funeral Home. In theory, this means that you could pay your respects to the dearly departed at Vorans, drown your sorrows over a cold one at Dunleavy’s, and cure your late night munchies at Rams Horn without ever moving your car. Talk about one stop shopping!

Inside, Dunleavy’s is typical bar chic. Televisions and booths of varying sizes around the perimeter, banquet tables with stacking chairs in the middle and a long bar against the far wall. The decor is pure sports and booze. If it didn’t come to the bar free in a promotion, it didn’t get put up. Oh yeah, it’s still nice and dark inside this comfortable rectangle.

Dunleavy’s is pure neighborhood bar with zero pretension. The young waitstaff work hard, look good and are very friendly. I would be remiss if I did not mention the fine work of Natasha, a server who has befriended my son Max and his buddies Carly and Luke. If you sit in her section one time, you’ll have a friend at Dunleavy’s forever. Like the waitstaff, the patrons are pretensionless (I made that word up) and friendly. There are big groups of old folks, bowling teams, barely 21’s talking too loud, mourners spilling over from Vorans, and maybe a young couple getting to know one another. The tightness and volume of the room on a weekend night pretty much insures some interaction, in a good way.

There really isn’t much to do at Dunleavy’s. There is no pool table, no shuffleboard, no dance floor, DJ or band. It’s not a singles bar, though I would guess that drunken smash ups happen from time to time. It’s not strictly a sports bar, though the local teams are always on the screens. It’s not really a restaurant, even though the somewhat limited menu features a mean bar burger.

So why go to Dunleavy’s? Go because you want to get a beer or two and don’t have a lot to spend. A Miller Light and Blue will set you back a reasonable $5.50. Visit because you don’t feel like dressing to impress or posing for digital photos (if I see one more kid in Real Detroit looking phony tough for the cameras with their arms folded over their chests, fingers spread out 3-1-3 style, lips puckered, I will lose it). Walk in and be treated like a regular, even if it’s your first visit.

Or, maybe you’ll want to visit Dunleavy’s to sit across from a beautiful woman and get to know her better. It worked for me.

Cheers! Jim

Dunleavy's

6004 Allen Road

Allen Park

313-382-4545

AUNT MARY LOU

2011-01-25T21:15:00.000-05:00

If you name your child Mary Lou, you have pretty much mapped out what type of person you will get. A Mary Lou will be a bit of a hell raiser, quick with a quip, speak her mind and never be middle of the road (the same can be said for a Vinny, Lou, Patti spelled with an I and Wanda).

I have an Aunt Mary Lou. She is my mom’s older sister and has been part of my life since I can remember. She is in Applewood Nursing Center now, and struggling. It is tough for her and tough for everyone who cares for her, especially my Mom. Mary Lou is the last living member of my Mom’s family growing up, her parents and twin brother having died some time ago.

Aunt Mary Lou’s current difficulties belie the life she lead. Her legend has come to me through both direct observations and story. These are some of the stories that go into making a Mary Lou:

*As a young adult, Mary Lou would ride the train from Detroit to Chicago just to party with the World War II troops going between those two cities. To my knowledge, she did not have any other destination other than fun. Destination reached.

*In my earliest memories of Aunt Mary Lou, she is wearing loud print dresses and oversized earrings and necklaces, sporting what she always termed her “Italian hair-do” (long I sound on Italian, if you please). I can see her at family Christmas parties dancing into the kitchen using an empty holiday plate in one hand as a prop.

*When the after affects of surgery left Mary Lou with a severely enlarged arm, she did not hide it in embarrassment or get pissed if anyone noticed. Instead she laughingly referred to this enlargement as her “bionic arm” and hinted at its possible use as a weapon.

*Church at St. Francis Xavier in Ecorse was a big part of Mary Lou’s life. Though she could not drive ( thinking back, I never recall her driving and am not sure if she ever had a license), Mary Lou made it to church most Sundays with rides from my Mom or my sister Chris. On one particular Sunday, Chris picked her up and was stunned to see that Aunt Mary Lou’s carefully penciled in eyebrows were colored a shocking bright blue. Everyone was careful not to mention this change, though my brother Tony did secretly dub her “Aunt Mary Blue.”

*Aunt Mary Lou had a difficult time in church using her inside voice. Not a big deal unless she was commenting on something that did not suit her fancy. When a cell phone went off during mass, the only sound louder than the ringtone was Mary Lou’s admonishment that, “That is the rudest thing I ever heard.” When a churchgoer showed up in a tank top, Mary Lou loudly observed, “It looks like she is going to a weenie roast.”

*Upon seeing Aunt Mary Lou at a family function, my daughter Rachel asked, “How are you doing Aunt Mary Lou ?” Her reply, “Everyone I can sweetie, and the good ones twice.” Rachel has never forgotten this.

This is no eulogy, Mary Lou is alive and doing the best she can with the help of family and dedicated health care workers. The reason I write this somewhat rambling list of memories is threefold:

1. Lesson for all you youngsters: When you see an old timer with baggy eyes, loose neck skin and hair sprouting from their ears, chances are the person inside that wrinkled suit of skin has a past that could make your toes curl. Be careful what you say to that person, they may have enough vitality and memory left for one last ass kicking.

2. If you meet a person named Mary Lou (or Vinny, Lou, Patti with an I or Wanda), stick close. You’ll probably be in for a wild ride.

3. If you find the face looking back at you in the morning mirror aging, don’t despair. You still have a reflection, after all. And, no matter what name you were given at birth, if you live your life like a Mary Lou, chances are the people you bump into along the way will be better for the bumping. There will always be plenty of routine and mundane, and not enough Mary Lou.

Cheers! Jim

SNOW GO

2011-01-14T16:25:00.000-05:00

It was just our bad luck that Christmas and New Years Eve fell on consecutive Fridays and we had to waste two precious Bug Juice nights hanging with friends and family doing that wholesome holiday thing. A loving family reminiscing about Christmas past and eating home baked goodies or pathetic singles dancing badly to classic rock while over-indulging in expensive booze. A genuine puzzler.

After two G rated Fridays, Little Brother and I badly needed to get our drink on, more specifically get our drink on at Edison’s Bar in Birmingham. We like this joint a lot (it’s an older crowd, dark as hell, suitably desperate) and find that it is worth the ride.

But not worth the ride in a driving snowstorm, the only driving snowstorm in the past month. Look, we were going to go out, we’ve been out in worse ( I almost killed us swerving around a rogue possum a few years back during a blinding snowstorm in Melvindale). It’s just that Edison’s was out and we wanted Edison’s.

I was pissed, but Tony was pisseder. His time at home, between returning from work and being picked up for the evening’s revelry went something like this:

5 p.m.: Walk in the door cursing.

5:15 p.m.: Walk into the bathroom to take a shower streaming profanity.

5:30 p.m.: Go into kitchen, open pizza box, select two pieces of pizza by stabbing them through the heart with a kitchen knife (“I want this piece, and this piece”), put on a plate and retire to the dining room questioning the presence of God.

6 p.m.: Head upstairs to take a pre-booze nap mumbling ( I can’t confirm that the profanity continued through the nap, but I can’t say it didn’t).

It was no picnic at my house either, though I did manage to stop just short of selecting my pizza slices with a shiv. I only complained about everything until my wife and son were sick of seeing/hearing me. Next time I’m going to fall to the ground and kick my feet up and down and see how that works. What a dick!

In spite of the falling snow and slick conditions, we didn’t fully give up on trekking to Edison’s until we saw a couple of cars plow into the center wall of the Southfield Expressway. At that point, Downriver, and the shot swilling, foul mouthed, big gutted gargoyles that populate the area’s bars became reality. There would be guys too.

All three of the bars we hit are reviewed in greater detail somewhere on the vast wasteland that is our blog, but a quick peek at the three:

Cecil’s Da Bar: If “Da” is in the title of the bar, you pretty much know what’s inside. Plus size gals in Wings jerseys, guys with tattoos on their necks cursing the hockey game on TV, barmaids not working too hard, and two old farts getting lubricated at the bar for $3 a round. Our Kid and I left after a couple of beers. Sliding into a retaining wall seemed preferable to more of this shithole.

Marlowe’s Chill and Grill Sport’s Bar: A more civilized crowd, the chance of getting into a fight cut by fifty percent. Tony and I grabbed a good spot at the bar and settled down for the serious boozing portion of the evening. The service is great, easy to score beers though double the cost of Da Dump. We hung out, made a zillion side bets at Keno, watched the Wings win in a shootout, all in all a good time.

The Glass Mug: This hole in the strip mall wall has saved our bacon on many a Friday, but has ben failing as of late. It is now officially dead. Not many patrons, and those in attendance this snowy Friday needed a good delousing. Anthony and I amused ourselves playing pool. When I won the first game, Tony bellowed, “That’s eleven in a row.” I did have a good streak going, but have not played eleven games of pool in the last twenty years. He cooled off a bit after beating me the last two games (I let him win to keep peace in the family).

At any rate, we close this entry with another edition of Poetry Korner. This week’s theme is winter and all its horrors.

Neither rain nor sleet nor snow,

Will stop the boys from giving it a go,

Of the weather we have no fear,

Not with music, dancing, keno, and beer,

We will put the truck on autopilot,

Believe me these lads ain't no shrinking violet,

Out on a Friday when the degree is one,

Shivering, shaking still up for fun,

Old man winter your hurt may linger,

Our only response is our middle finger.

Anthony

“Missing Edison’s on a Snowy Evening” (apologies to Robert Frost)

What bar to visit, I think I know

It sits in Oakland County though

M-39, there’s no safety there

Blizzard Friday is just not fair

Our little truck must think it queer

To stay downriver drinking beer

Between Oakland and Wayne County line

Class distinctions, they’re not so fine

In the snow our truck did shake

To travel far a big mistake

The wretched sound from Da Bar

The yell of skids in rusted cars

Edison’s is lovely, dark, deep

But Winter’s wrath, from it’s doors did keep

We drank Downriver and now we sleep

Jim

Cheers!

DECEMBER 17, 2010

2010-12-27T18:45:00.000-05:00

I love nicknames. Not so much getting them ( I don’t really have one, unless douche-bag counts), as giving them.

My son Jackson has two paper routes that we hoof on Wednesday and Saturday. We have bestowed nicknames on most of the houses on the beat. These are usually based on the occupants themselves or a characteristic of the house. Therefore you have St. Pat, Wet Porch, Sad Dog, Nautical, Officer T, Johnny’s Mom, Porch, Mailbox, Spartan, Ramp, Nice House, Maverick, Seal Dog, Cop, Creep, Marine, Columns and “I Paid Ya”.

As you might expect, there are many nicknames on the Friday Night Bug Juice route. As Anthony and I have been enjoying Edison’s in Birmingham a lot lately, the following are the regulars we see most weeks, their nicknames and a short explanation of how the nickname was earned:

1986: Given to a mature woman whose dress, and more prominently, her hair are stuck in the year 1986. As an aside, this broad has tried to strike up a conversation with Little Bro and I on two occasions, only to walk away confused and irritated.

Howeena Stern: Simple, a female version of Howard Stern.

FOH: An acronym meaning Friend of Howeena, her sidekick.

The Mayor: An impeccably well groomed middle aged man of Hispanic or Italian decent (Tony believes he is Greek) who works the crowd like a seasoned politician. Of course he’s after love, but will settle for a shake of the hand and some polite conversation.

Bummo: This tall hipster is what one of the Marx Brothers would look like if he was a beach bum from Malibu. Tony and I are fascinated with him and have been using his nickname in historical references. “ A Bummo in every pot.” “All we have to fear is Bummo itself.” “Bummo defeats Truman.”

Scotty Too Hottie or STH: A hipper version of our cousin Scott. He sports shades inside, sings or plays percussion with the band of the day, and gets along with everyone. One evening Tony and I struck up a conversation with STH, heard the story of his life and toasted him. Upon leaving Edison’s and heading to a second bar for a nightcap, I noticed Tony looking out the passenger side window of the truck for quite some time. I stared straight ahead. “Hey Jimmy”. I turned to look at Tony and he was looking back at me wearing the freshly pilfered sunglasses of Scotty Too Hottie. I almost drove off the road laughing. As a postscript, I wore the shades for the entire summer before finally losing them.

Sagalaski: This blockhead is the spitting image of Steven Sagal with a Polish twist. My little brother believes that he purposely cultivates this look in hopes that some barfly will have a “Sagal fetish”. Sounds right to me.

Uncle Bernard: A fifty-ish nattily dressed black man that resembles the character on boxes of Uncle Ben’s Minute Rice. If you construe this nickname as racist, blame the Minute Rice people, not us. As an aside, this is one of the most dogged pick up artists ever seen. He cannot take no for an answer, and is creepy in his determination. Not a favorite.

Ted Dick: A combination of Ted Danson and Andy Dick. We tried Andy Danson, but Ted Dick just works better.

There are more nicknames and we add to the list every week. But this seems like a good place to stop. I am still hoping to get a nickname, but realize that they are acquired organically, and can’t be forced. Anyway, this is “Buck” Morrison signing off until next time.

Cheers! Jim

DECEMBER 3, 1010

2010-12-10T16:34:00.000-05:00

December 3, 2010 It’s not like Tony and I didn’t go out these last few weeks. We did. It’s just that my email got hacked and started sending out dick juice ads to everybody in my address book. This included a good friend of the female persuasion from my high school days, business contacts and my kid’s high school. In a panic, I cancelled my email account, not realizing that the web site was tied into it. What I don’t know about technology is a lot. With the knowledge of Matt and the patience of Yahoo, all is now well.

This past Friday found Our Kid and I trying for a Friday Night Bug Juice on the cheap. The past two non chronicled weeks (and didn’t you feel a nagging hole in your life not knowing what we were up to) found us at Edison’s in Birmingham and a four bar bonanza in Dearborn, two higher cost outings. We decided to hit Diamondback’s Saloon in Belleville and The Glass Mug in Taylor, reasoning that both would have good crowds and cheap suds.

The party bus, limousine, and cop car in the Diamondback parking lot hinted at the crowd size, and upon entering we had confirmation. The place was packed. It was three bucks a man to enter and three bucks total for the first round, so the hunt for cheap suds was likewise on point.

It was now up to us to have a good time.

No problem there. Derringer’s was rocking the house with what their web site terms “Country and American Rock and Roll”. Fruity, pasty English rock is not allowed. The guys playing instruments are faceless, the chick fronting the band is hot and endears herself to the crowd by wearing tight jeans and dancing amongst them from time to time. In between sets, hip hop replaces the band and gets no less a reaction from the dance hungry crowd. Why am I always surprised to see oversize belt buckles dancing to Lil’ Wayne ?

At one point, Tony and I looked out from the raised railing and watched a packed dance floor of one hundred cowfolk line dancing. I was fixated on one dude, standing 6’4” and tipping the scales at three bills, hat on backward, heavily tattooed, dancing by himself. He was totally relaxed, and looked great. As my wife always says, “Everybody loves a big guy that can dance.”

As I watched this fat ballerina, my wife’s words of wisdom echoed in my hairy ears and reminded me that I can’t dance for shit. Never could. Even when the ability to dance could tip the scales toward an evening (or fifteen minutes) of romance, I was reluctant to hit the floor. I either had to be extremely drunk or extremely desperate (both was the perfect storm) to shake my groove thing. I love music, even some dance music, but dancing is out of the question. Damn that fat bastard!

As a married man, you might think that this stiffness would no longer matter to me, but it does. For a couple of reasons. One, I think that chicks find a direct link between a guy’s ability to dance and his ability to perform in the bedroom. A dud on the floor equals dud ‘twixt the sheets. Sadly, I’ve got nothing in my arsenal to break that link.

Second, My daughter is getting married in less than a year, and it would be great not to have this dancing anxiety hanging over my head. I would like to have some confidence going into the reception. Is it too much to ask that my dancing be admired, or at least ignored, as opposed to pitied?

At first blush, I thought it might be a good idea to take dance lessons with Andrea. But then I thought, can rhythm be learned? Can thirty-five years of listening to Ramones, Rancid, New York Dolls and Oasis be trumped by two hours of New Country? My new wedding plan involves me drinking copious amounts of beer, crying like a baby for the father-daughter dance and otherwise avoiding the dance floor like any self respecting old white dude.

Back to Diamondbacks. After the first three dollar round, subsequent trips to the iced beer bucket were seven bucks. Like any drug dealer, they hook you on the cheap before you pay through the (red) nose. This place was becoming less cheap, and less crowded, so we decided to mosey on to The Glass Mug in Taylor.

The near empty parking lot should have been evidence enough that this was not going to be a raucous time at the Ol’ Mug. Have I mentioned that Tony and I are not the sharpest guys after midnight on Friday? I honestly believe that we were surprised by the lack of boozers in the joint. After checking out both patrons, we decided to play pool, a diversion we enjoyed the past week in Dearborn.

We played two games at The Mug and I won them both. When coupled with my three consecutive wins last week, you get a pissed off Tony. Why, a somewhat sodden little brother wanted to know. I reminded him that he was the designated drinker and I was the designated driver. Nipping outside for cig breaks during the game probably did not help his cause either. When both of us are sober (admittedly rare), he beats me every time.

Right after bouncer Sammie told us about his life as a Chaldean born in Australia who could speak sixteen languages (Bar Rule #11: Believe about 33% of what you hear in a bar, 16% if the information is slurred)), Tony and I decided to call it a night and head back to his house.

I could not leave until I drank three heaping cups of freshly brewed coffee laced with Tony’s secret sweet mixes, ate a slice of pizza, watched Sports Center and hugged my wandering mom.

When I woke the next morning, I checked in on my son Jackson who had been feeling a bit under the weather. He informed me that he had timed an early morning urine of mine, and I had streamed for forty-one seconds. I was very pleased.

Cheers! Jim

NOVEMBER 5, 2010

2010-11-20T15:28:00.000-05:00

If you’ve written as many reviews and blogs as Tony and I have over the past few years, and your legion on Facebook numbers a paltry twenty-six ( including a filthy stuffed lion named “Louie”), and nobody comments on any of the reviews except your sister Nancy, chances are you’re doing something wrong.

I think we can all agree that it can’t be the content, as the reviews and accompanying blogs are first rate slices of humor and pathos. And the web page itself is a thing of beauty due to the efforts of the mysterious Matt. Clearly it is time for a format change (think Penthouse deciding to separate themselves from the smut herd by showing bush).

Welcome to Friday Night Bug Juice Mach Two ! Tony and I will still be boozing and writing, but not within the confines of a review. This will be more stream of consciousness, more immediate, more intimate, more quick twitch, more everything. Fuck I don’t know, it’s just going to be different. Here comes the first one.

November 5, 2010 Andrea (frosting a cake): “Where are you guys headed tonight?”

Jim: “Pranks on the Marsh.”

Andrea (voice rising): “Isn’t that the place where the guy got shot?”

Jim: “Yeah.”

In retrospect, a nice shooting would have been preferable to the time we spent in Gibraltar. After driving for what seemed like forever, Tony and I arrived at the intersection of Jefferson and Van Horn to scope out two bars within a couple of miles of one another, Pranks on the Marsh and Buster’s Place. The first we came to was Buster’s Place. I called the day before to get the feel of the place and the dick who answered the phone bragged that they had the “best DJ in town”. I am the dick who believed him, not bothering to question why the “best DJ in town” would be spinning at this cement jail in the middle of nowhere. A quick trip through the parking lot revealed a mere handful of cars and a fat chick on her cell phone.

On to Pranks. A parking lot with even less cars and three shady looking dudes standing outside the entrance plotting evil (they may have just been smoking, but my wife’s remark about the recent shooting still reverberated in my hairy ears).

Back to Buster’s. We were not leaving deepest downriver without at least whetting our whistle. Once inside, we fought our way past both patrons and scored two beers for $3.50...total. The good ends right there. The aforementioned DJ of the year was trying to live up to his hype and was spinning like the place was full. “Don’t forget to tip those hard working ladies bringing you your drinks,” his voice boomed. He didn’t need to boom or use electronic amplification for that matter. He could have whispered and the whole joint would have heard.

“Fuck me,” Tony began. “ This is one and out. If they at least had a good looking waitstaff, I would be good for two beers.”

He was right of course. Back in the truck. Where to go? A number of bars were nominated before we landed on Club Charlies, inside the Holiday Inn at Northline and Reeck. Tony frequented the place in a previous life and said they have a band on weekends and a personable bartender. Of course, little brother was money as Fattrax was rocking (in a middle aged, classic rock way) the house and the bartender made us feel both welcome and quenched.

Club Charlies is nothing special. A band playing Grand Funk and Boston, small dance floor featuring downriver’s plumpest, cold beer and Keno for betting. Nothing special, but exactly what was needed. We settled in, relaxed and bullshitted about nothing for over an hour. In some ways, this kind of bar, with it’s limited visual and audio interests, is my favorite. Over the years, in places like this, I got to really know Tony and appreciate what a fine fellow he is. If you know him a little bit, you know he is funny. But if you spend more time with him, you will find out how smart, clever and interesting he really is. And no, I’m not looking at him through beer goggles.

We decided to finish the evening at nearby Glass Mug on Telegraph Road in Taylor. This unassuming shithole has saved our ass on may occasions. We have unsuccessfully chased a good party more than once, only to have the day saved by “The Mug” and its lack of pretension good time. No cover, a faceless DJ (not the best DJ, that honor as you may remember belongs to the hotshot at Buster’s), and a small dance floor that seems to be populated with energetic dancers of limited ability ( a great combo).

Tony and I took a spot standing at the rail overlooking the dance floor. Unlike Club Charlies, there would be less talking and more gawking at “The Mug”. A table of girls stationed right behind us would supply most of the evenings entertainment. They were bombed and hit the floor alone, in groups, with old farts at the bar, with bikers. Hell, they just hit the floor. What they lacked in style, they made up for in enthusiasm. Want to know what they looked like? Look up the word bawdy in the dictionary...

You are also treated well at The Glass Mug, all the way from the waitress to the shot girl to the smiling bouncer. Hell, if I was going to be thrown out of a pub on my ass, I’d want Sammie from “The Mug” to do the honors.

Closing time and an uneventful trip to Tony’s house. Some diet Dew, a slice of pizza, gummy candies, a hug and kiss from my sleepy Mom and a flavored coffee for the trip back home. That was a pretty good Friday.

Cheers! Jim

PS This review by itself does not seem all that different from past editions. The differences will, I believe, become more evident as time marches on. You will get a week by week look into the ruination of our livers, even if we decide to hit the same joint week after week after week after week after...

336 MAIN

2010-10-17T17:45:00.001-04:00

Cougar. One of the most trite and tired words in today’s lexicon (and I’m an expert on trite and tired). Also the word used in various reviews to describe 336 Main in Plymouth, drawing Tony and I to it’s doors this past Friday. Not that we are looking for Cougars, dear wives of infinite understanding. What we have been looking for more often are bars that cater to a slightly older demographic. Thus 336 Main in Plymouth.

As background, I felt great that night, it was easy to find the pub in the middle of Downtown Plymouth on S. Main Street north of Ann Arbor Trail, parking was a cinch on the street, lively crowd milling about, no cover to enter. All is well, or is it (cue erie organ music)?

Tony and I copped a table near the entrance and checked the place out. It was pleasant looking enough. Tables with a view of trendy Plymouth at the front, a long curved bar along one wall, bar height tables all around, pithy sayings printed on the wall (“I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day”--- Sinatra. That’s not really on the wall but it’s better than anything they got. The far end of this dimly lit room featured a small dance floor and live serenading along to pre recorded music ( I didn’t think Lady Gaga could get any better, but I was wrong). The downstairs also has a bar, and a more intimate club setting. Translation: it’s smaller.

Getting a drink was not tough, if you don’t mind knifing in between the patrons sitting at the bar busy being fascinated with one another. You might also score a pair of beers for $7 from one of the unfriendly waitresses, smiles and polite conversation extra.

Once we settled in, it became apparent that the cougar description was off. I did see people my own age. They were men. Men being tricked into giving up their tables by hordes of young chicks, or old men with pickle noses being pity air kissed on the cheek by young hotties rolling their eyes, or some baldy with loose neck skin...sorry, that was my own reflection in the bar mirror.

Here is where the review gets tricky. It’s confession time. One of the reasons I like to go to the bars on Friday nights is because it makes me feel young. While most guys my age are sleeping in front of Friday night television, I am getting bladdered at the pub with my best mate. It’s one of the reasons I work my ass off to stay in shape, why I continue to listen to new music, why I feel fortunate to live in an age where a bald head can be cool. I fear old age. I’m fighting to stay young...and I’m losing.

This fucking bar, with it’s twenty something girls in their uniforms of tight, just below the ass dresses, perilously high heels, ubiquitous cell phone/camera accessories and the drooling dolts who follow them around made me feel old. I watched them float from table to table posing for “candid” shots. I saw them hit the dance floor in huge groups pretending not to notice being noticed. I checked out their fancy drinks, served in oversize glasses. None of it meant a damned thing to me.

And, like an aging slugger who can no longer get around on a fastball, I wondered if I was near the end. Not THE END silly, but the end of Friday Night Bug Juice (who am I kidding, that is THE END). How long could I keep going out, before it was my pickle nose near the pity air kiss?

To his ever loving credit, Tony tried to pull me out of my doldrums. He cracked jokes, made wry comments about the patrons and critiqued the music selection. It helped, but I was fucking up a precious Friday night and we both knew it.

We closed the night at Glass Mug in Taylor, and that was somehow better. But really, it took me a few days and a lot of help to put 336 Main in perspective. Andrea, always the ying to my yang, helped me live in the moment and quit thinking so much. Jackson, who hears everything, worried that the web page might end. Tony didn’t rush, he waited for me.

Here’s what I came up with. I will never fuck up a Friday night, or any other night for that matter, worrying about how I fit in by age, social status or any other measuring stick. I have earned the bags under my eyes and the age spots on my head by surviving everything that’s come my way. And, if some snot nosed kid thinks I’m out of place let him get rude with me. “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win”---Gandhi. Put that pithy saying on your fucking wall.

As far as the actual review, go with whatever Little Brother says...

PS Tony’s take on 336 Main and the evening was supposed to go here. He informed me that he was having difficulty putting a review together to share with our vast audience. I was sorry to hear that, but understood and respected his decision. As far as the bar itself, I am certain that the basics are correct ( directions, parking, pricing, etc). As to wether or not it is a good destination, I will recuse myself from that opinion.

Cheers! Jim

336 Main

336 S. Main Street

Plymouth, Mi

734-454-6500

INCOMPLETE

DOUBLE OLIVE / SILKY'S BAR / CHELI'S / HOWELL'S

2010-10-06T20:37:00.000-04:00

Bessie owed us, and it was payback time. Payback for a time when Jimmy provided taxi service for the Queen and myself to a strip club. I do want to point out that it was taxi service only for James. He did not come in and enjoy the fruits of the strippers. If I did not know the virility and machismo of the man, I would have questions. Regrettably, he is a model husband, father and brother. I on the other hand am questionable as a husband, a black sheep as a brother, and no children have sprung from my loin. Thanks God your hand cannot get pregnant. Jim’s offer of the taxi service was much appreciated and needed to be reciprocated.

The night Beth provided the taxi service, Jimmy and I were headed to Dearborn. It was Homecoming and we were celebrating, as past T-Bird alums. In other words, become blocked, don’t have any interaction with women, be a wallflower and not get laid when going home. Ahhh youth!

This night started off at the Double Olive. During any other time of the year there is no cover. Figuring they have you by the short and curlies, they charged $5 per person. For the $5 we were greeted with a band led by a female playing outside. The song we entered to was a Pink Floyd number. Since this review was written too long after the fact, I do not recall the song. To be honest, if it were the next day, in my haze, I still would not remember. James and I have debated the merits of having a recording device for all of our bon mots. Think Michael Keaton in Night Moves. “Call Starkist”. We have not bought such a device, nor do I think we will, but it is a good idea. Anyways, after the Floyd jam, the band took a forty-five minute break. No shit, forty-five minutes. Luckily it was a pleasant evening, so we decided to hang outside in the patio area. Our other entertainment that night was a grown-up Michael Anthony Hall serving at the outside bar. Once M.A.H. was slow in getting our drinks. He said he was busy texting his woman. I guess he thought if pussy was involved, a couple playas like us would dig. We’re married Irishmen you fuck. Give us a drink.

The forty-five minute break allowed us to have a discussion that usually occurs on a Friday when we are seeing a band. It breaks down in three parts. The first part is trying to guess the next song the band is going to play. For your guess, you need to factor in the type of bar, the clientele of the bar, what the band looks like, and any song you may have previously heard. Safe guesses are as follows: Pour Some Sugar On Me, Crazy Bitch, Superstitious, You Shook Me, and Some Kind Of Wonderful. The second part of the discussion is the song you would play that the crowd would like, that you would like. When you are raised on a diet of Mott, Sex Pistols, Toilet Boys, New York Dolls, Nirvana, White Stripes, etc...or as I like to call it, music not to get laid by, picking out a song that fits that criteria is difficult. Not impossible, but difficult. The third part of the discussion is to pick out a song that will piss off the locals. My typical choices are Commando ( most often picked) or Jesus Christ Superstar. At this point, I encourage our dozen followers to come up with songs that fit all three criteria and submit them to this site. The winner will receive Rice-A-Roni “The San Francisco Treat”, a bottle of Hi Karate and a can of Turtle Wax.

Now back to the review. After this discussion, we decided to pony up and hit Silky Sullivan’s. That night, no cover was charged, and we were able to go inside with little fanfare. Much to Jimmy’s disgust, the tables were stacked with ash trays. Jimmy and I disagree about smoking in a boozer. I believe it is my God given right to have a cocktail in one hand and a fag in the other. He likes to come home and not smell of smoke. Whose side are you on? No contest, just asking. After blowing down a Capone or two, playing a couple of games of Keeno, and just generally not being over stimulated, it was time to pull up stakes again.

This time we decided to head to Cheli’s. We have never really had a good time at Cheli’s. Both times we were there, we had much difficulty in purchasing a drink. It was in staggering distance, so after $5 a man, in we went. I’ll say this, the best part of Cheli’s was playing dome hockey. Does that give you an idea of how our time at Cheli’s went? The only recourse we had at this time was to find another watering hole to end our evening.

Like the thunderbolt that hit Michael Corleone, it hit us. It was time to hit a long time Dearborn establishment, Howell’s. Or as we say Hoooooooowler’s. Now this was a nice topping to our sundae. No cover charge, easy to get a drink, and a jukebox. I love to monopolize the jukebox at a bar. This evening, there was no line to play, so off I went. I believe in starting off with a long song. Typically, I start off with Pusherman by Curtis. The second song is always Wonderwall by Oasis. This is a nod to my beautiful wife Elizabeth. It is the song that describes our relationship and was our wedding song. Many people may claim Wonderwall as their song. Fuck You. It is our song and we don’t want to share. Ah fuck it, you can share, I’m in a generous mood. After Wonderwall, the songs are usually a crapshoot, usually rock though I will throw in some R+B, Soul or Classic Country. I have to admit to being somewhat pussy whipped, so additional songs may be Bessie influenced ( All Day And All Of The Night by The Kinks, Woman by Wolfmother, Sunshine Of Your Love by Cream and Beth by Kiss, not one of my favs, but I know where my bread is buttered). I do like to check out the crowd when my music is playing. On more than one occasion, I have had drinks bought for me based on my selections. On the flip side, if people do not like my choices, it puts me in a funk. I know, I’m a forty-seven year old child. I’ve learned to deal with it, so should you.

Back to Howell’s. As my music was playing, at this point in the evening with many a beer under and above my belt, I was more than happy to tell anyone within listening distance how my choices kicked ass. My apologies to our neighbors. After more cocktails at Howell’s, it was time to call Bessie for pick up service. However, the entertainment portion of the evening was not over. As we were walking to our meeting place, my motor skills deteriorated rapidly. I shit you not, in all of my ten years on the Tour, of which three are documented, I have never barfed, passed out or fallen down. Tonight was a different story. Jimmy said it appeared that I was walking down a hill with my legs flailing. By the time I hit the curb on Monroe across from Silky’s, only an act of God could have stopped me from tumbling. BOOM, down I went. I hit the pavement with first my right hand or palm to be exact. The rest of the right side of my body hit next. To my credit, I was not down longer than two seconds. At the time, I popped up more embarrassed than hurt. The next couple of days I was more hurt than embarrassed. I must have had pavement embedded in my hand for a couple days, and a bruise on my thigh that lasted well over two weeks. In other words, Jimmy and I had a blast. See you next year T-Bird alums?

Cheers! Tony

Double Olive

22027 Michigan Avenue

Dearborn, Mi

313-359-5533

Silky's Martini + Music Cafe
21931 Michigan Avenue
Dearborn, Mi 48124
313-565-6278

Cheli's Chili Bar
21918 Michigan Avenue
Dearborn, Mi 48124
313-274-9700

Howell's Bar and Grill
1035 Mason Street
Dearborn, Mi 48124
313-565-6322

HOWELL'S BAR

2010-09-19T20:35:00.000-04:00

Have you ever read one of these lame reviews and wondered how Tony and I can have so much fun and still get home in one piece without any interference from the cozzers?

I sometimes wonder the same thing, and I am the designated driving half of the brothers.

In the early days of the Tour, Tony would start the evening behind the wheel and I would take over after the first bar visited. At this stage, I drive the entire evening, though Tony has many duties. He starts every Friday checking the brake lights, turn signals and headlights. He also selects the music we listen to on the way to the first pub.

About every other Friday I bemoan my designated driver status and claim that “I would love to go Chicago tonight,” a reference to the carefree ways of the Windy City where there is no driving and therefore no booze limit. Here in the Motor City, I grudgingly limit myself to an average of one beer per hour and try to stop drinking altogether somewhere around 12:30. Many times little brother will surprise me by coming back from the bar with his delicious brew and my boring bottle of water. What a beauty, a conscience even when bagged!

My biggest foe as DD is being plain old tired. It may come as a surprise that the end of the work week finds my flat ass dragging on the ground (nice visual). Combine that with a few beers and the fact that on a non-Tour night I am asleep on the couch by 10 o’clock, and you get a bleary eyed old dick at the wheel. To combat drowsiness, I hit sports talk radio to get pissed off, roll down the windows and drink a thermos of coffee brewed specially for the occasion by Miss Beth (beer, water, coffee, stale prostate...no wonder I’m pissing all night).

This routine works almost every time, though I have had a couple of moments that gave me pause. Recently, Tony and I partied at Edison’s in Birmingham and were having a blast. Out of nowhere, I felt like shit. My stomach churned, I felt drugged and needed to go home NOW. Tony understood and we made a silent trek back to Dearborn. Even in that condition, I was the logical choice to man the wheel. About five blocks from his house, my chin fell forward on my chest. Fortunately, Tony was on high alert and he jerked the steering wheel as we started to drift toward a row of parked cars. I jolted awake, scared out of my mind. I left my car at his house that night, and was escorted home by Lady Beth.

As a result of that near miss, I have been ordered by wife Andrea not to work out on Friday night and to spend a couple of hours sleeping on my beloved sofa prior to picking up Tony ( don’t snicker, we all take some marching orders from our ladies). I am also doubling my effort not to get caught up in the fun and mistakenly “go Chicago”.

I had no such concerns recently, as Beth was nice enough to chauffeur Tony and I into Downtown Dearborn for Dearborn Homecoming. It may be worth mentioning that our request that she wear a men’s suit, a spiffy cap and open the door for us upon arrival at the first bar was met with a smiling fuck off. Still, she did come through with the ride and for one night, there were no concerns about limits, cops or dozing.

Dearborn Homecoming is exactly what it sounds like, an invitation to Dearbornites past and present to gather at Ford Field and the bars that sit on Michigan Avenue, just south of Ford Field for the purpose of reminiscing. This weekend long event is a chance for grads of all the Dearborn high schools to get together, drink too much, lie, suck in their guts, stick out their tits and pretend that everything is just fucking great.

I’m never sure if I really want to see any of my fellow Edsel Ford graduates. My geek level peaked during those formative high school years. While I’m horrified at my reflection these days, it is a bit better (smaller, less pimply) than it was thirty-five years ago. Also, I am now able to (barely) carry on a conversation with a female without turning beet red or sprouting an erection.

From what I’ve been able to glean, little brother’s three year stint at EF was not a whole lot better than mine.

Still, it was Friday and the offer from Beth was on the table, so Tony and I made our way to the row of bars in Downtown Dearborn for boozing and, God forbid, a wrinkly face to face with an old high school chum.

At past Dearborn homecomings, we have made a game out of who will see the most classmates, each recognition being worth a point. A person we both know is designated the power ball and bonus points are given for finding him/her. I will end the gripping suspense and report that this year I won 2-0. Two meager sightings! Either our classmates are hiding from us (a possibility), we don't recognize their sagging faces (better possibility), or people our age don’t hit the bars any more (definite possibility).

Let me reduce the bars visited to a few candid shorts, before going more in depth on the best of the lot:

Double Olive: trendy, texting, mugging for the camera

Silky Sullivan’s: mixed crowd, trying hard to be hip, posing

Cheli’s: frat party, fitted caps, plastic cups

My favorite pub visited was easily Howell’s, a brick dump sitting on Mason Street, south off Michigan Avenue, west of Oakwood. It looks the same as it did when I first started drinking, thirty-five years ago. It just seems a bit shabbier sitting next to the shinier spots previously insulted.

Mention Howell’s, or The Howeller as many Dearbornites know it, and two things come to mind. Great burgers that take forever to prepare and the famous “Watch Your Step” sign just inside the back door. For a long time I have wondered if they meant literally watch your step, or the more ominous watch your step, as in behave once inside this bar. The step near the sign ain’t that big, so I’m still not sure.

A long bar along one wall, crappy tables and chairs opposite, a skinny aisle between the two. Appropriately dark. About ten cents spent on decorating (I assume the Bud mirrors and Lions schedules are free). Televisions dot the perimeter tuned to sports, but this does not have the feel of a sports bar. There is an internet juke box at the far wall, but this is not a rock bar. Men and women are present and they do mingle, but this is not a pick up bar. This is a place to eat and drink, real simple.

I’ve been in this joint many times, not just at Dearborn Homecoming, so I know the clientele that frequent Howell’s. Mostly, it is the disaffected few who don’t fit at the trendy places surrounding. Tony and I fit like a glove. Not a destination bar. Solid, like the brick it is made from. Dependable, don’t change what isn’t broken. Reasonable, as long as you “watch your step”.

Cheers! Jim

PS Tony told me I could/should write this: At evening’s end, Beth was called to complete her chauffeur duties and pick us up at a designated spot. I have seen Tony bagged to varying degrees on literally (not figuratively as so many idiots confuse) hundreds of Friday evenings. And on this Friday I had noticed that his nemesis, gin and tonic, made a devilish appearance. Still, as we made our way to meet Beth I was surprised to see Tony lurching madly forward, as if we were going down a steep hill with hurricane force winds at his back. I remember thinking that Charlie Chaplin made a movie where he battled high winds and that Little Bro was now channeling the great comic. I expressed my concern, but did nothing else to help. God forbid I put my arm around his shoulder, or take him by the hand, someone might think we are a couple (those who know us, are rolling their eyes as we are a couple in many ways). As we crossed Monroe, about ten feet from the curb, Tony hit the pavement. At least I think he did, as he was down for only a nanosecond. He was splayed on Monroe in a push up position, his hands bracing him from more serious damage. In the blink of an eye, he was up, moving forward to our meeting with his lady as if nothing had happened. Even in that drunken state, Our Kid knew that there is no shame in falling down, only in staying down. What a great boozer!

Howell's Bar

1035 Mason Street

Dearborn, Mi 48124

313-565-6322

THE BOWERY

2010-08-26T22:05:00.000-04:00

I am unsure if this review is Kosher. My name is Tony. I am the other half of the dynamic duo. This review did not happen with Jim, did not take place on Friday, and certainly was not in the Metro area. The action takes place with my lovely wife Beth (aka Bessie, Queen B or QB), on a Saturday night, and deep in the heart of Dixie. The bar is called The Bowery and is located in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

I will bore you with a little background. Beth and I have been to Myrtle Beach seven times in our ten year history. We were actually married in 2008 on the beach, by a Souther Baptist minister. His name escapes me, but the hair blowing out of his nose like a party favor does not (thanks Bob). On one of our earlier excursions, we discovered The Bowery. The hotel we stay at has a bar overlooking the beach. When we’ve had enough of the sand, sea, kids, and Rocky top sung at karaoke, we head to The Bowery for adult time.

On the night of this review, we are one day short of our second anniversary. Like most days on our vacation, it starts off with us waking up drunk, near drunk, or most certainly hung. Those who have seen me in the altogether know I mean hungover, as I am hung like a pimple. It will morph into hitting the beach, body surfing (I am the motherfucking King), her catching rays, me under the umbrella, sustenance to soak up the upcoming alcohol, the inevitable nap, getting up, getting ready and booking.

To get to The Bowery we can catch a bus that stops a few hotels down from ours. However, this night as we went to the stop, we were told the bus had already been by and would not be around for another half hour. This may not have been true, but drink was called for so we hoofed it on down. From our hotel it is about twenty sweat inducing blocks (forty blocks on the way back taking the staggering into consideration). By the time we reached The Bowery, I was drenched in sweat. The following parts of my anatomy were particularly hard hit: my head, my back and of course my nut sack. Predictably, my nut sack was hit hardest as it also has the displeasure of dealing with my chubby thighs rubbing against said sack.

Anyways, $3 a piece for cover later, we were through the door. I love this bar. This is truly a country bar filled with good old boys and gals looking for a boozy good time. By boozy, I mean beer. By beer, I mean they only serve two types of beer, no liquor, no wine, no spritzers, nothing else but a regular and a light beer. I am not even sure the make of the beer. It comes in a glass mug only. Each beer will set you back $2.50. After placing your order, A Bowery tradition takes place. The person who takes your order grabs a large, heavy cowbell attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling. The person then swings the chain, throwing the cowbell up towards the ceiling, making a loud crashing noise when it hits.

The music part of our evening was provided by the house band, The Headhunters. They played everything from Johnny Cash to Toby Keith. Impressively, while we were there, they never took a break. At one point, they played Hank Williams Jr.’s “Family Tradition”. They had the crowd, including me and Bessie, singing along like we meant every word. That night we did believe every word. This bar needs to be experienced to be believed. Like I said, it is not your typical suburban country bar. this is the real deal.

Cheers! Tony

PS Happy Second Anniversary, Beth

The Bowery

110 9th Avenue North

Myrtle Beach, South Carolina 29577

843-626-3445

NASHVILLE NORTH 2

2010-08-08T22:18:00.000-04:00

In the grand Irish traditions of drinking and rhyming, here is a double barreled review of Nashville North #2 in Warren.

Friday night and beers will be a fallin’

Warren’s Nashville North 2 is a callin’

Open the door, what did we see

Blue hair, flappers, and the smell of pee

Jimmy, let’s hit the truck and get a haulin’

-Anthony

There once was a bar called Nashville North 2

Whose insides were visited by the Bug Juice Review Crew

Wrinkles, Depends, a feisty old flapper

Old Spice, hair tonic, the stink of a crapper

The Crew’s two word review: It Blew!

-James

PS After peeling out of the Nashville North 2 parking lot, we landed at nearby McNeil’s Place to salvage the evening. And it did. Good band, cheap drinks and a frisky crowd. Toward evening’s end, we gave a business card to our waitress and asked her to check out the web site and our previous review of McNeil’s. She considered the card briefly and informed us that she had seen it before. It seems that some schmuck ( in a desperate attempt to get anybody to notice the sight) had mailed a copy of the review and a business card to the owner. The owner seemed most interested in the part of the review noting the service of his bar “left a bit to be desired.” He shared this critique with the young woman now standing in front of us. Instead of slapping faces or spitting in drinks, she smiled at us and good naturedly asked how we could say such a thing. Considering how attentive she had been, and how cool she was about the review, I wondered the same thing.

If that owner happens to see this review (I understand that Nashville North 2 and McNeil’s Place are owned by the same folks), I hope he gives our waitress a bump in pay and recognizes what a great representative he has for his roadhouse.

We will be back...to McNeil’s, not Nashville.

Cheers! Jim

Nashville North 2

13330 E. 10 Mile Road

Warren, Mi 48091

MARLOW'S CHILL AND GRILL SPORTS BAR

2010-07-26T19:09:00.000-04:00

These are some things that happened to my suburban, punk, white ass while I was working for my father’s company in a rough neighborhood of Detroit in the early to mid 70’s:

After ordering lunch at the McDonald’s at Wyoming and Fenkell, the smiling face behind the register informed me that my total was, “ $3.50, Whitey”. I paid.

While sitting in the parking lot of the local Burger King ( no wonder I was so fucking fat, I never packed), a couple of black dudes pulled in next to me and asked if I wanted to buy some blow. I was so intimidated, I wouldn’t have been able to answer what time it was, let alone broker a deal for some blow. It may have helped if I knew what blow was. After some stammering on my part, they roared away laughing, “Motherfucker don’t even know what blow is.” I wonder where those ambitious capitalists are today?

My father received a violation from the City of Detroit for trash in his alley...in the Wyoming-Fenkell neighborhood. Not ridiculous enough? Among his twenty or so employees, my dad selected his son and son’s best friend Rob to clean the fucking alley so he could avoid paying the paltry fine. I could understand why he selected me, I had been eating his food and beating off under his roof for sixteen years. But what had Rob done? Pure guilt by association, I’m afraid. Anyway, we found ourselves behind the shop picking up Andy Capp Pub Fries wrappers and empty cans of malt liquor ( I could have said trail mix wrappers and iced tea bottles, but come on). A couple of nice young men from the neighborhood stopped by to show us their firearms and suggest that we share the contents of our wallets with them. Pussy that I am, I turned over my wallet in one second. Rob, ever the hard case, paused and received a punch in the face for his bravado. He held out an additional four seconds. The cool kids with the guns then suggested that we turn our backs to them and place our hands against the wall. I’m not sure how long we stood like that, but I’m certain it was way longer than necessary. The cops did not give a shit about the robbery and we were never reimbursed for the money taken. I think the littering fine was forgiven.

Toward the end of my dad’s stay in Detroit, the alarm company had us on speed dial for break-ins at the shop. Many nights found us repairing a crinkled door jamb or boarding up a broken window, often with no protection or interest from the police. One summer night, the ride to the shop was different, marked by the circling of police helicopters in the area, shining lights, and actual cops at the shop. Lots of them. Crazily, Detroit’s finest let us in the building where they had trapped one of the intruders. They were frustrated at not being able to find him among the piles of furniture. One cop stepped forward with straining German Shepherds at the ready and gave the hiding robber three seconds to come out before the dogs located him. The threat must have been real, because the dude immediately came out from between two mattresses. He was greeted by a punch in the gut and pushed face down over a work table with a gun pointed at the back of his head. Who was with him and where the fuck were they? No answer. The cop with the dogs suggested some alone time in a small room with the dogs and the robber opened up. My dad and I were finally noticed and whisked outside. Maybe we shouldn’t have cheered.

There was lots of cheering Friday night as fellow cue ball Tony and I made our way to deepest Downriver and Marlow’s Chill and Grill Sports Bar on the east side of Telegraph Road south of West Road in Brownstown. There is ample parking in the lot which surrounds the bar, just ease in amongst the pick up trucks.

Back in the day, Little Brother and I had frequented this roadhouse when it was known as Harlan’s. It had a decidedly unfriendly vibe at that time, so unfriendly that it took only four or five visits for us to sour on the place. The new Marlow’s sign on the top of the building has a temporary look to it, but at least it doesn’t say Harlan’s.

There was no cover to enter and we were able to find a place at the horseshoe shaped bar in the center of the room and score two beers for a reasonable $6.25. Checking out the room didn’t take long, as there could not have been more than twenty patrons staring back at us. I was despondent, this had been a long drive and quite a commitment, and had the look of a bust ( a bust I had recommended earlier in the week). But Tony, who has been watching a lot of NCIS and CIS with our mom, quickly noted that there were a lot of waitresses and barmaids milling about. He reasoned that we were early for this joint and should cool it while the crowd caught up with the waitstaff.

Tony is one smart boozer, as long as you catch him before the gin and tonic demons set in. The crowd poured steadily in, a crowd much friendlier and ready to have a good time than the ones that stained the bar when it was known as Harlan’s. This group was definitely young, late twenties and early thirties dominated the room. But what really caught your eye (not mine, but yours), was the overwhelming amount of ladies populating the comfortable room. These were not your plus sized, tight jeaned, big haired, downriver dollies. These gals would be welcome in Ferndale, Royal Oak and even some areas of Northville (shout out to Fran and Mike in Northville).

Aside from the aforementioned horseshoe shaped bar in the center of the room, there is a small dance floor in one corner with a surrounding rail perfect for eyeballing. For such a young crowd, the floor did not get much of a workout during our visits. There is also a patio area with televisions and a lovely view of the parking lot. Tony enjoyed the loose smoking enforcement in this area and the smell of Capones soon filled the air.

Finally, a salute to the barmaids and waitstaff who seem to know you after the first round and never let you get thirsty. Once, after ordering at the bar, the barmaid had trouble getting to us and marched out from behind the bar to get around the crowd and get us our drinks. Hell yeah. Did I mention that they are hot and represent all ages and sizes?

Go to Marlow’s, enjoy great service, a friendly crowd and keep a lot of your hard earned money. Who knows, maybe they will replace the temporary sign with a more permanent fixture.

Cheers! Jim

Marlow’s Chill and Grill Sports Bar

23307 Telegraph Road

Brownstown, Mi 48134

734-362-0988

BRONX BAR

2010-06-06T10:37:00.002-04:00

Growing up, I didn’t show a lot of respect for the material things I was given by my parents, a truly horrible characteristic exhibited by a truly horrible teen. Perhaps my most horrible disrespect was that shown to the 1974 Ford Maverick I was given for transportation.

When my dad decided I should use this car, he was nice enough to send it to Earl Scheib (remember him?) for painting. I believe Earl charged $29.95 for his “efforts”. Almost no prep work, very little in the way of taping off, and a finished product that looked like it cost $29.95. Upon picking up my beige eyesore, Earl’s henchman informed me that the finish was fresh and the car should be parked for at least twenty-four hours to allow it to set.

That was a problem. I was driving a group of stoners to a Roxy Music concert that night, one advertised on the local radio station as being “just outside of Toledo”. The forty-five minute drive to Toledo would compromise the finish enough, but the two hour drive to Defiance College on the western edge of Ohio, where the concert actually was to take place, was pissing in the face of Earl Scheib’s craftsmanship.

I don’t remember much about the concert, but I vividly recall the condition of my freshly painted Maverick the next morning. Every stone, particle of dust and bug encountered going to and from Defiance College became a permanent part of the finish, creating an interesting texture.

Soon after ruining the exterior, I turned my attention to killing the interior, First to go was the bucket style passenger seat. The locking mechanism that prevented the seat from moving at will broke. Sometimes we would see how fast we could get each other moving to the windshield and back by hitting the brakes and then flooring it. But what we really liked to do was talk a novice into the fun seat, and listen to their cries of horror as the passenger seat rode crazily on the rails.

A short while later, the back of the seat snapped (possibly from the amusement park style sliding). We decided to take the seat out and replace it with a bean bag chair. The guy in the bean bag sat facing the back seat, a formation we were pleased to discover made passing weed from front to back a bit easier. Besides, we had a fucking bean bag in the car.

Overall, the condition of the interior of the Maverick eroded to a disgrace, even by teenage standards. Trash, hemp paraphernalia, dirty clothes and food bits fought for space and created an odor that defied description. Not that it came up often, but no member of the opposite sex would ever ride in that garbage can on wheels.

This sordid condition saved our asses one evening when we were driving around getting high and were pulled over by Dearborn’s finest. My friend Andy tossed a decent size bag of weed under my driver’s seat, employing the “better you than me” theory of evasive action. The cop never could locate the bag for three reasons: It was the 70’s and he didn’t care that much, the stink of the car made a prolonged search impossible, and the amount of trash swirling around the floor camouflaged the weed (it looked like just another sandwich bag with something green inside).

I don’t recall what finally killed “The Mav”, but I do know that it’s memory will live forever in my mind and that of my stoner friends (I’m talking to you Rob, Stan and Andy).

This past Friday, I drove my boring Taurus as Booze Boy Tony and I decided to move on to Detroit ( surprise!) and the Bronx Bar in the shadow of Wayne State University. This tiny brick building sits on the east side of Second Avenue south of Warren. Parking was a breeze on this one way street, as we landed about twenty yards from the front door facing Second.

Right or wrong, you may have noticed that Detroit makes Tony and I nervous. The Bronx, however, is in a busy area, lots of student housing and actual people walking the sidewalk. You might get fucked with here, but you might get fucked with at Gleason’s Bar in Taylor also (read the papers).

Once inside, wrap yourself in the extreme darkness and sidle up to the bar for your beers. Don’t bother waiting for a waitress, they don’t exist. Just a cook and bearded dude opening bottles behind the bar. Simple. You get a Miller Light and Labatts for $5, a bargain aimed at the fiscally challenged kids from Wayne State. I can’t imagine needing to go cheaper than that, but they do offer a Blatz for $2 ( you will, however, be channelling your inner Polack if you order that beer).

Little Brother and I grabbed a table near the open front door, providing fresh air and glimpses of street life on Second. The chairs are made more for balancing than sitting, as they are rickety as hell. The bar and grill fill one wall, a small pool table sits in the middle and is surrounded by chairs and tables. The real star of the place is the eclectic jukebox and long bench in front giving folks a comfy spot to study the far reaching musical menu. People regularly feed the juke and in turn it spits out Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, Rolling Stones. Not just Lay Lady Lay, Walk on The Wild Side or Start Me Up. I heard Ballad Of a Thin Man, a live version of Rock and Roll, and Happy. Very cool!

The crowd is more Wayne State than neighborhood (possibly a racist comment as I guess the sixty year old black dude and his wife could be students and the guys in wrinkled threads and cheap hats could be locals). There are ladies at the bar and I guess the Bohemians from Wayne State do hook up, but you better be able to pull it off through talking. There is no dance floor at The Bronx. This place is all about drinking, listening to music and talking (you might be surprised at how often Pete Townsend’s name comes up in conversation between Tony and I). You might not be surprised to know that the beer was going down cheap and easy.

Did I mention that there are no televisions? Good for them!

I have been loathe to use this word in reviews, but the Bronx Bar is chill. It’s midtown location and garage sale decor made Tony and I relax, enjoy the City and argue about the ultimate rock band (mine was The Who, but with Johnny Rotten singing instead of Roger; Tony inexplicably chose Jack White on guitar and Charlie Watts on drums; I still can’t get by it). Go to The Bronx, you’ll leave drunk with plenty of money left in your pocket.

Cheers!

Jim

Bronx Bar

4476 2nd Avenue

Detroit, Mi 48201

LONGSHOT'S BAR/PLYMOUTH ROADHOUSE

2010-05-24T21:31:00.004-04:00

He heard the voice easily above the murmur of the skimpy Friday night crowd, but chose to ignore it in hopes that it would go away.

“Dennis, come on God Dammit, help me get this roll of paper in the cash register.”

He heard it again, released his stare from the growing pool of water gathering at the base of the ice machine behind the bar, and looked at the pained face of Lori fumbling with the cash register on the formica countertop. He hated that she called him Dennis, preferring Scud, a nickname he gave himself after hearing it in a Megadeath song.

He walked slowly out from behind the bar and stood too close to Lori, almost rubbing against the fat tits spilling out of her stained tank top. He hated that this didn’t scare her, that she didn’t back up or break from what he thought was a menacing stare.

“The cash register is over here...” she said, stretching out the word here until it became a whine.

Dennis could see that she had tangled the roll of paper around the metal stem inside the machine and it was upside down to boot. He was shaking his head in exaggerated disgust when he noticed the two strangers leaning against the bar talking closely to one another. Didn’t recognize them, didn’t belong here. He pretended to be more interested in the problem at hand, slowing down the easy repair, taking time every few seconds to bitch at Lori for being a ”typical woman breaking stuff and needing a man to put it back together.”

Between tweaking the register and shaking his head at Lori, Dennis would sneak a peek at the two strangers, probably fags who wandered in to the wrong place, and he knew that they were pissed at being ignored. Lori saw them too, but when she started toward them, Dennis stopped her hissing, “I need you here, to help fix what you broke.” His voice stopped her in her tracks. That’s more like it Dennis thought.

Back to the register repair , Dennis working slowly, Lori watching. Dennis thinking of ways he could fuck up the night of the two assholes shifting from foot to foot waiting for their drinks. A filthy finger in the neck of their bottles, a shot of spit in a mixed drink, the dented metal bat hidden behind the bar . Lori wondering if she could increase her tips with her fat tits, or better yet, rip them off by short changing them.

One thing both were sure of, these two could never cause a problem in Longshot’s Bar in the heart of Redford.

The register was fixed, Dennis chided Lori again, more good naturedly this time as each considered how to fuck with the two strangers at the bar. Dennis absently stroked his straggly chin whiskers, Lori adjusted her tits.

Both were disappointed to see the empty space at the bar railing.

That was the fictional account of Longshot’s Bar in Redford. The following will be the factual, newspaper style account of that portion of the evening (remember, I am a trained journalist).

Longshot’s Bar is a disaster. The expectations of Friday Night Bug Juice during peak hours the night of a huge Red Wing playoff game were dashed in front of a gathering of fifteen (you couldn’t call a group that small a crowd). It may have been a mild spring evening outside, but it was stifling and smelly inside. Not cigs and stale beer smelly, dirty feet and butts smelly. The grimy bartender and the wench who walked the floor were interested in fixing a cash register, not serving beer. When they finally tired of the cash register, they continued ignoring us and instead turned their attention to the two huge bellies who had just waddled through the door. Though little brother and I were desperate for a beer, and the Red Wing game was in high gear, we put our money away and walked out the door. The Redford spring air never smelled sweeter, no better decision has ever been made.

Hey Longshot’s Bar...Fuck You!

What do two veterans of the Friday Night Bug Juice wars do when they strike out? They call on their vast knowledge of bars in the neighborhood, reviews from their prize winning website, and make a decision. On to Kicker’s Bar in Livonia ( see October 2008 review).

A funny thing happened on the way to Kicker’s...we stumbled into the Plymouth Roadhouse on the south side of Plymouth Road, east of Wayne. Never heard of the place, but there were cars in the lot and it got us drinking eight minutes quicker than Kicker’s. Made perfect sense.

Roadhouse is a neighborhood joint, easy to park and no cover to enter. It was appropriately dark and lined with televisions, many of the hi def, flat screen variety. Tony and I were stalking the bar, looking for a place to get a couple of beers when the young lady behind the bar motioned us over to an open area with a clear view of the Red Wing and Tiger games (bless her heart). $5.50 later, we were finally drinking.

This place has its act together in the broadcasting of sporting events. During intermission, they kick out the jams. But, when the playoff action begins, the music disappears and is replaced with the welcome cheerleading of Mickey Redmond (by the way, Mickey is on my Mt. Rushmore of local broadcasting along with Ernie Harwell, Budd Lynch and Lord Athol Layton).

Perhaps I failed to mention that both the young lady behind the bar and the waitress working the room were wearing bikinis. A couple of observations: Tony and I have always found that a bar with bikini staff means a leering crowd of guys and little in the way of ladies. It is no different at Plymouth Roadhouse, as there was exactly one woman among the forty or so Red Wing fans in attendance. Secondly, you better have a rocking body if you make a living wearing two square feet of fabric. These two fit that criteria, though the young lady behind the bar could have selected a better fitting bottom (I didn’t really notice, Tony mentioned that to me).

I have no idea what goes on at Roadhouse when there isn’t a big game to grab your attention. Maybe twenty-somethings dressed to impress sip martinis and prowl. But I doubt it. More likely, neighborhood types quaff a few, listen to tunes and have a low key good time. Nothing wrong with that.

We enjoyed our stay at Plymouth Roadhouse, possibly because the beer is cheap, it was brought to us at the end of a long, cold winter by two girls in bathing suits and the Wings raced past Phoenix 7-4. Or, maybe we had a good time because it wasn’t Longshot’s.

Cheers!

Jim

Longshot's Bar and Grill: 27189 Grand River Ave Redford, MI 48240

Plymouth Roadhouse: 34101 Plymouth Road Plymouth, MI 48150

McNEIL's PLACE

2010-05-13T19:11:00.002-04:00

Tony and I have been spending our lunch breaks for the past twenty years at the South Oakland YMCA. How we have managed to keep our bodies rounded over that time is anybody’s guess, though I imagine the fact that a good deal of our time at “The Y” is spent arguing about sports and music instead of sweating, may be a contributing factor.

These are some of the sights, sounds and smells from those lunch hours:

A nude person, more troll than man, doing leg lifts on the wood benches between the rows of lockers.
An increasingly senile long tenured member washing his wretchedly shit stained underwear out in the common sink. Yes, the same sink that unsuspecting others will brush their teeth and shave in later that day.
A man sitting in the lobby, with his shoes and socks off, cutting his toenails. For the record, the whereabouts of his yellowed nails did not seem to be much of a concern, either to him or the oblivious staff.
A boner.
An old guy in the open shower room, backing away from the shower head, putting one leg out in front of him, foot flat against the wall, making room to slide a long handled brush under his droopy balls and into his ass region. Though the sight was mostly grim, I did admire his agility.
A thirty something dandy, striding into the weight lifting area clad only in a Speedo. He went about his vigorous workout as if it were perfectly normal to be clad in a small piece of latex with your pathetic button pointing the way. My curiosity got the best of me and I asked him “What up?” He explained that he forgot his workout duds and still wanted to workout. Perfectly reasonable.
Vomit.
A trail of fresh shit leading the way into the men’s locker room, ending at a senile woman calling for assistance. Many members, Tony and I included, continued to dress for our workout while she was being attended to. I seem to recall some gagging from my brother.
A mentally challenged young adult on the walking track above the gym, covertly spitting at Tony and I as we played basketball. It wasn’t until the spit began to pool at my favorite spot near the three point line that we figured out what was going on. Our subsequent inspection revealed a bevy of spit pools. How he wasn’t dehydrated I’ll never know.
A man flossing his teeth in the common shower area. My sensibilities about what is gross have been somewhat dulled by “The Y”, but I’m pretty sure that fits the bill.
Nude people sitting on benches and chairs reading books or eating apples. No towels, just bare asses and hairy balls plopped where other bare asses and hairy balls previously plopped. Go home and read or eat!
Urine.

Fellow stumblebum Tony and I answered the Friday night call for sensory overload of a different persuasion by heading to McNeil’s Place in Warren. How did we hear of this roadhouse sitting on the east side of Schoenner Road just south of I-696? They don’t advertise or have a shit website like so many do (ahem). I saw this joint while driving by and liked it’s big parking lot, dirty white exterior, mismatched marquee letters trumpeting a live band and crappy surrounding neighborhood. You know you’ve been to a lot of dumps when this type of inspection leads you to recommend, and Tony to excitedly agree.

There was no cover to enter, a plus that lead me to believe that we would get socked by the beer pricing. A reasonable $6.25 for a Michelob Light and Miller Light calmed my jangled nerves. We found a nice tall table and two chairs against one wall, offering a commanding view of the stage, long bar opposite, mismatched tables and chairs throughout, televisions and Keno. The lighting was kind, my red nose muted.

Tony and I were anxious to hear Alibi 5 rock the house, having bet ahead of time and without seeing the band, what the opening salvo would be. I can’t recall what we guessed, but I know it wasn’t Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes. The song was a hair slow, the voice more than a hair thin, but we appreciated the effort. And judging by the dance floor, so did the crowd. A young woman, with stronger pipes but less personality, shared the lead vocals and sang on a wide variety of songs ranging from The Pretenders to Pat Benetar (that’s a joke, The Pretenders to Pat Benetar is not really a wide variety).

The crowd was exactly what I expected from the outside of the bar. Strictly neighborhood, a great mix of ages and split evenly between regular guys and girls. Tony pointed out that this bunch seemed comprised of groups of four or larger with a common denominator of loud. The dance floor was populated exclusively by the ladies, so we were spared both the stiff old white man’s dance and the overly aggressive young white man’s dance. I did not see much in the way of hooking up going on, not really that kind of place.

The service at McNeil’s left a bit to be desired. Our waitress always seemed to stop short of making it through the crowd to our table, forcing one of us to go to the long bar to re-up. Oddly, when ordering two beers, the barmaid asked me to point out who the second beer was for. I pointed to Tony holding the back wall up, he responded with the nod and wave and the two beers were mine. Was she just curious, or was there a reason?

As an interesting(?) aside, earlier, during my work week, I stopped in at 220 Restaurant above posh Edison’s Bar and picked up a fancy pack of matches that I would surprise Tony with during Bug Juice Friday (one of us likes to smoke Capone’s and is saving the proof of purchases to score a free hat). After a few beers, the time seemed right, so I proudly tossed the fancy matches on the table, only to have little brother trump me by producing identical matches from his pocket and tossing them on top of my pack. Prick!

Anyway, a good time can be had at McNeils’s. You won’t have to get gussied up, drop a ton of bank (as the kid’s like to say), or get hassled by walking testosterone. Judging this book by it’s seedy cover turned out to be a good thing.

Cheers!

Jim

McNeil's Place: 26700 Schoenherr Road Warren, MI 48089

ROCKSTARZ / PAPA JOE's

2009-11-01T13:47:00.003-05:00

This is not the blog portion of the review I had originally written. That one has been shit-canned by popular demand. I tried to write a serious piece about Halloween, weaving images of fall in with the day’s events and tying it all up in a metaphor about the onset of winter and the inevitability of death.

As my son Jackson would say, “An epic failure.”

When I finish writing a review, I take a day or two to polish it (surprise!). I then print the piece and give it to my wife and brother to look over and critique. I can never be in the same room with them when this reading takes place, but I am nearby and listen closely for some kind of reaction. If two of the people who love you most in life give you the verbal equivalent of a shrug of the shoulders, it may be time for a rewrite.

It’s happened before, though this was the first effort panned due to the pure inability of the writer. I wrote one blog about today’s difficult economic times and the small and not so small ways that my family’s life has been affected, a topic my wife was not anxious to see made public. I also began one review chronicling a bad trip taken in my party days, a topic my brother felt was too dark and would best be kept in the archives.

Still, the first take for this week’s review, (you know, the one I ditched due to my inabilities as a writer) is my first genuine “epic failure”. I have learned a valuable lesson from this mishap. A great man once mumbled, “A man’s got to know his limitations.” I know mine. Stick to party stories and dick jokes and leave the serious stuff for serious people.

Tony and I are always serious about Friday night drinking, so we headed to Rockstarz on the south side of Ford Road west of Wayne Road in Garden City. A couple of days earlier, when I informed my son Max that this was the choice, he recalled his night at the pub, wrinkled up his nose and expressed serious doubts about our selection. “It’s really young,” he offered, punching the word young. Young is nothing new for these fossils, so Tony and I fought a cold rain and found a parking lot on the west side of the building. Not a parking spot, a parking lot...and one with no exit. Backing out onto Ford Road through a clueless bunch of kids is a delight, so we decided to do it twice when the lot on the east side of the building was found to be similarly fucked.

We finally docked across the street and made our way in, no cover to enter. This place is listed as a Karaoke bar, but the sound we heard upon entering was so vile it could only be made by a professional. The DJ was spinning metal, but not Priest, Metallica, or Blue Cheer (you know, good metal). This was a drone of guitar and some asshole putting the mic deep into his sewer and growling, a real toe tapper. It went on forever, about the same amount of time it took to score a beer. I’m not a big fan of a guy behind the bar, much less a greaser ignoring my needs. After much thirsty frustration, I visited the beer tub lady near the front door, but could not get a Michelob Light for little bro, Bud products only. And as Tony soon found out, warm Bud products only. Yummy!

We groused about the service, the unending crap being spun by the DJ, the lack of karaoke at a karaoke bar, the warmness of the beer ( we never got around to noticing the age of the patrons). Still, we were in need so I convinced Tony to hang for a second drink while we figured out where to go. After ten additional minutes of no service, we cut our losses, saluted the bar with a middle finger (figuratively, we could get our asses kicked if we really did it) and decided to figure out our next move in the car. We wouldn’t get a beer there either, but the music would be better.

About a half mile west of Rockstarz, on the same side of Ford Road we had noticed Papa Joe’s Bar and Grill. Neither of us knew what to expect, but it was close, there were cars in the lot and we felt comfortable that it could not possibly be as annoying as our previous mistake. A large parking lot surrounded the bar, one that allowed you room to maneuver and exit, score one for Papa.

No cover to enter, a long bar staffed by an attentive young lady in a saucy Halloween costume, cold beer at a decent price ($6.25 for the pair). Papa’s saves the night! (that’s two exclamation marks in the last few paragraphs, this must be a forceful review!)

Tony and I like to stand while getting our drink on, but the long bar was bit too full. We scanned the place and noticed that it resembled an old Denny’s with a DJ booth and tiny dance floor hastily dropped along one wall, restaurant booths along another and round tables filling in the balance. We tried to stand near a round table in the middle of the bar, soon realized we looked like a couple of assholes and sat down. Secretly, I was relieved, my old bones settling in for a decent soak.

The crowd was a good blend of guys and gals, some in costumes and some dressed to be noticed. This place really did feature karaoke, the highlight of the evening an energetic version of “We Are Family” performed by a gal dressed like a sheriff, an outfit made believable by her broad shoulders and large mitts. The dance floor received a lot of attention, mostly the ladies dancing to both typical DJ stuff and karaoke. Ubiquitous (love that word) televisions and Keno fought the singers and dancers for attention, and lost.

There was nothing outstanding about Papa’s, but it was extremely comfy and soared when compared to Rockstarz. It made Tony and I wonder how many other good pubs are out there, that do not advertise in Real Detroit or online, where a good time can be had at an affordable price. We promise to perform our public service by constantly looking for such places and reporting them to you, our faithful reader (singular).

Cheers!
-Jim

P.S.: The following is the aforementioned blog dumped for its poor quality ( still hard to believe that some are rejected, eh?)

“A multi-colored carpet of leaves covering tall grass and damp sidewalks Wicker and cracked plastic lawn chairs randomly arranged around a front porch decorated orange and black from head to toe. Glasses of wine, bottles of beer, and pumpkin seeds to nibble on. Costumes, partial costumes and coats for the less adventurous. A full moon fighting clouds for notice. Worry about school, career and health set aside for laughing, stories of past Halloweens and reviews of the night’s trick or treaters.

Matt spent a bit on a Clint Eastwood hat, but saved bucks on a poncho by cutting a hole in the center of a six dollar towel and draping it over his shoulders. Max went way out, as a fan of this holiday should, and became a pirate, cheating only by placing his eye patch over trendy glasses. Jack was not sure if going out was in his future, teetering on the “too old to trick or treat” dilemma, before finally caving and dressing like the heavy from Scream. Rachel, always a dandy in hats, looked cute as a western sheriff. Luke visited and was complimented for his hippie wig, but criticized for polyester floral pants and vest. Andrea and I, the oldest of this crew, dressed to fight the elements, forgoing clever for warm.

As the dark took over and the revelers began to dwindle, excitement began to grow for the trip to Tony’s house for the traditional Halloween meal. To be fair, Tony’s involvement in the meal was largely inspirational, the nuts and bolts of the preparation provided by Beth and my Mom. A short drive later, we were seated around the dining room table, nibbling on salty stuff while the sloppy joe and Halloween soup (elbow noodles, stewing beef and ketchup added when in your bowl) were heated up.

My Mom held court about past trials of getting multiple kids ready to “go begging”. Rachel and Matt jokingly fought over the party they were obligated to attend once dinner had settled. Max proudly kept my Mom informed about his upcoming graduation from college and internship. Jack talked about his “job” delivering the News-Herald. Beth fussed over dinner, threatening five dollar pizzas for next year. Everyone argued about favorite candies, costumes, trick or treat etiquette. Sooner than I would like, the table was cleared, party goers said good-bye and heavy eyelids drooped. Kisses, hugs and Jack and Grandma touching fingers to transfer his energy to her, took place in a crowded kitchen.

It was cold, the trip back home largely quiet. Halloween was over, winter was on its way.”

Rockstarz: 33279 Ford Rd. Garden City, MI 48135

Papa Joe's: 34275 Ford Rd. Westland, MI 48185

PENALTY BOX

2009-10-14T13:44:00.002-04:00

Our homework assignment for this week is to tell a story that best describes the other bug juicer as a brother. As of this writing I am forty-six years old. Jimmy is six years my senior, but the next oldest sibling in our family. We have also been working side by side for almost twenty-eight years.

Not much has changed in our relationship lo these many years. I still look up to him and love hanging with the guy. This isn’t to say that we don’t have our moments. Many is the time people think or say that we agree with each other all the time. Spend five minutes with us and you will see, or most likely hear, that is untrue. There is nothing like having a verbal dustup over nothing. This is much to the chagrin of those around, specifically our better halves. However, if you are not one of us, and disagree with either of us, God help you. We will rip you apart like a pack of wild, starving dogs. He bleeds, I bleed. This is the cornerstone of our relationship. No matter what happens, I have his back and he has mine. I love the guy.

The story I chose goes back many, many years ago. Jimmy was a pimply teen and I was yet to become a pimply teen (morphing to a pimply adult, when the fuck does this end?) If you didn’t know me, you would think I am a normal, head on straight, strong willed person. Those who know me, or have a five second encounter with me, know better. I am, and always will be, a tightly wound obsessive cat, with many a mental deficiency.

One such deficiency in growing up was a fear of being alone. Jimmy and I shared an upstairs bedroom. My bed was at the head of the steps. His bed was across the room by the window (Side story: When Jimmy moved out I inherited the whole upstairs. I put my bed by the window. It was a perfect place to hang your head out to blow weed or barf after a night of drinking. One time I barfed a mixture of peppermint schnapps and sloe gin. It smelled pretty and made a picturesque streak on the aluminum siding.) Getting back, sometimes when we would shut the lights out, I would lay in bed and become frightened. Over what? Who the fuck knows? Mom and Dad were in the house, which should tell you it was awhile ago. Jimmy was less than ten feet away. I would still get scared. Those times I couldn’t control being chickenshit, I would ask Jimmy if I could come over and lay in his bed. He never, ever gave me any shit for coming over. He never mentioned it, he never teased me about it, and to this day, I don’t even know if he remembers. I do. It’s what my big brother is all about. He doesn’t make a big deal out of having my back. He just does. All the time.

-Anthony

After much bickering and name-calling (Tony wasn’t kidding, we loudly disagree on lots), the Tour decided that Penalty Box in Livonia was the place to be. It was easy to find, sitting on the south side of Plymouth Road between Inkster and Middlebelt in lovely Livonia. I seem to recall both of us voicing concern over the lack of cars in the parking lot surrounding this cinder block dump. Thirst and the kind of curiosity that makes you look at flattened squirrels led us to the front door.

There was no cover to enter Penalty Box (it’s hard not to type “The” in front of the name), and once inside, Tony reminded me that one internet description of the place crowed that Penalty Box featured, “the longest bar in Wayne County.” That is like me bragging that I have, “the softest nose hairs in Wayne County”. It may be true, but why the boast? Trust me, this tourist attraction is nothing more than a huge slab of 70’s mock walnut formica. As tempting as it may be to visit this slice of Americana, resist the urge.

No problem finding a choice spot at the bar and scoring two beers for $6.25. Once you get past the awesomeness of the bar itself, a dizzying tour of the inside reveals long banquet tables, taller counter tables and a small dance floor in front of the raised bandstand in the middle of the room. I’m still waiting for the first dancers to hit the floor, which leads us to the evening’s entertainment.

The best thing I could say about Sum Of Us, the band providing the torture that evening, is that they blended in perfectly with the bland formica bar. It would be the only blending done by this four piece. The chick drummer started each song with the same beat, speeding it up or down to fit (?) the song. The three old farts playing guitar and sharing the vocals were human Ambien. They played everything from The Eagles to Steely Dan with a mind numbing sameness (the Eagles to Steely Dan reference is a joke as these classic rock bands are remarkably similar in...oh fuck it). Did I mention that they placed a tip jar front and center? To the credit of the bored in attendance, it went ignored.

Which brings us to the crowd, if you can call thirty people a crowd. I seem to recall guys and girls, young and old, white and whiter. It was so quiet, that Tony and I had to practically whisper our stinging criticisms of the place. Purely a neighborhood joint, and certainly not a destination.

Testimony to our great boozing abilities, little brother and I still managed a good time betting on Keno, watching football and trying to guess what classic rock tune Sum Of Us was butchering. When it was time to leave, we gave the barmaid one of our cards, explained the web site and proclaimed that it was worth a look. She looked from the card to our faces, deadpanned “that’s what they all say” and tucked the card into her apron next to a stinky bar rag. Perfect!

Penalty Bar is no minor penalty, it is a major penalty for boring (you see, there is a penalty in hockey called boarding, the second so called joke I’ve had to explain in this review).

Cheers!
-Jim

Penalty Box: 28121 Plymouth Rd. Livonia, MI 48150

MOOSE MacGREGOR's

2009-09-28T13:41:00.002-04:00

I’m pretty sure that this comes across through the reviews, but Tony is my best friend as well as my brother. For the blog portion of the next two reviews, we have challenged each other to write a short something about the other guy. No rules or guidelines, just a short something. I have given this a lot of thought, and have selected a moment, but with the moment comes a revelation. It is impossible to pen a single moment that encompasses my brother, or my relationship to my brother. It is a body of work. A loving, funny, sometimes drunken body of work. But, given the challenge, here is my story:

I was struggling. A pain in my sides and discomfort south of the equator had been diagnosed as an infected prostate. I did not take this news well. No man wants to be told his prostate is swollen and boggy ( I guess tiny and tight are the optimum). My doctor stated that antibiotics should do the trick, but to expect discomfort and a test for prostate cancer when the symptoms disappeared. Controlled panic would be a good description of my state of mind.

During the middle of my med cycle, Tony and I made a trip to Bloomington, Indiana for a long planned Michigan football road trip. Of course, Tony knew of my issue and was predictably sympathetic. Once we arrived in the thriving metropolis that is Bloomington and settled into our room, we decided to party a bit and hit the tiny indoor pool. Bad idea. The alteration to my mind, my distance from home and pure fear put me over the edge and for the first time in my life, I experienced a panic attack.

My brother was witness to this, and his handling of that moment was so kind and loving, my concerns melted away by the second. He was calm, listened carefully to what I said, asked questions to keep me thinking, made observations that made a lot of sense, and in the end had me laughing about the “horse-apple” that my prostate had become. In some quarters, little brother has a reputation as a person interested primarily in fun, less serious or studious. The truth of the matter as I know it, is that he possesses a brilliant mind, and one of the most caring souls on the planet. When I needed him most, Tony came through.

His long term prescription was two days of alcohol and laughter, with a dash of pizza for breakfast mixed in, the perfect tonic to what ailed me. My prostate woes are behind me (pun intended), but I will never forget the compassionate care I received from Nurse Anthony during one of my darkest moments.

P.S.: It was a tossup between this tale and the moment when Tony celebrated his release from third grade by pulling the headgear off a nun.

No tossup this week in bar selection, as fellow rumpot Anthony and I decided to visit Moose MacGregor’s on Telegraph Road south of King in Brownstown. Look for their bright green sign in an otherwise dank section of Telegraph south of King Road and park in the huge lot on the north side of the bar.

Before moving on to the guts of the review, a personal note regarding the name of the city and the name of the bar: I hate them both.

The parking lot was full and we parked next to three broads arguing loudly, two good omens in the world of Bug Juice. Ever the gentlemen, we let the girls enter the club first and they breezed past the greeter, still arguing. Tony and I were stopped and asked to produce five bucks each to enter. Either he didn’t want to interrupt their intellectual debate, or the presence of tits negated their entry fee.

Once inside, finding a place to hang became our immediate challenge. The band dominates one wall, a long bar the opposite and the space in between is jammed with tables and a tiny dance floor, all of which were packed. I managed to grab the last spot at the far end of the bar, score two beers for $6.25 and move over to a sliver of an open area near the ignored video games.

I barely had a chance to complain about our point of view, when Tony noticed a free table to the side of the band with a perfect view of the proceedings. While I applaud his scouting, would it have killed him to give me a bit longer to bitch?

Rocking the house this evening was Sykofish ( a third name to add to the hated names list for Friday night). These guys took on Rob Zombie, Alice Cooper and Thin Lizzy, managed to be heavy and get bodies on the dance floor, no small feat. I would be negligent if I didn’t mention that the fellow spinning tunes between sets was at the top of his game, managing to pull out some lesser known White Stripes offerings to please rock snobs like Tony and myself.

The crowd was a pleasant surprise. There was a close split between guys and gals, a wide variety of ages and everyone dressed nattily. I am further pleased to report that the combination of rock bar and deep downriver setting equaled drunken behavior, lots of creative dance steps and zero pretension (someone may have feasted on an Appletini, but I didn’t see it).

The evening went swimmingly (great seat, good band, attentive waitress) until Tony decided to invite Tanqueray and Tonic to the party. Increased venom for the Tigers September swoon, more convoluted Keno bets and a desire to see new faces at a new bar soon followed (we finished the evening’s program at the Glass Mug and it didn’t disappoint).

Still, I feel good about recommending this joint, as the webmaster and technical brains behind this unholy trinity, Matt, feels my reviews tend to be negative. So fuck off, give Moose four solid bugs and look forward to Tony’s short tale about me leading off next week’s review.

Cheers!
-Jim

Moose MacGregor's: 21980 Telegraph Rd. Brownstown, MI 48183

BOOKIE's / CECIL's DA BAR

2009-09-14T13:35:00.002-04:00

While attending Wayne County Community College some thirty years ago, an intro psych class was released early by a teacher who realized we were wasting his time. It was a clear and cold December evening as I picked my way through my fellow classmates and headed across the partially frozen tundra to the parking lot thirty yards in the distance. Being in good shape (this was thirty years ago) and freezing my ass off, I decided to sprint the final distance to my car.

About ten yards into my sprint, my toe met a piece of frozen sod sticking up about two inches higher than the rest. I immediately started to pitch forward, lurching crazily, trying to catch my balance. This went on for twenty yards in distance and an eternity in time. Finally, when I realized that catching my balance was out of the question, I gave up all hope and leapt forward, a long haired (thirty years ago, remember?) Superman flying two feet off the ground.

Superman never had a landing like this. The books I held in my hand kept me from bracing, and I took it hard, bits of sod mingling with my fingers, pant legs pushed up to my knees, breathing labored. I was on the ground for less than a second and was back to running for my car like nothing happened. But something did happen, as evidenced by the snickering and mock concern I heard from my fellow classmates...the classmates I would be seeing for the next month.

The point is, bad stuff happens. Like it did a couple of Friday’s ago for fellow lush Tony and I as we headed to Bookies in Detroit. We are always a bit off our game going into the city, edgy at the thought of being accosted or having our car stolen. Let’s not get into the whole Detroit thing, we get up tight and that’s that. Anyway, after Tony mocked me for wanting to park in the street, we found a spot in the parking lot behind Bookie’s directly under the glare of the one working street light in the area. “Lots of light for the guys wanting to boost your truck,” I offered.

Once in the bar, Tony and I looked around at the twenty or so people on the main floor, and tried to figure where the people who belonged to the cars in the lot and the street were drinking. Over our first beers, we watched some beautiful patrons walk through the main floor, engage a Bookies rep, get on an elevator and disappear. We both knew that there was more to this joint than the lame first floor, there had to be additional floors of privileged fun.

After a bit of liquid courage, we got up and slowly made our way to the elevator. No Bookies rep. We pushed the up button and waited, wondering when someone would rush over and tell us we were not cool enough, or not invited enough, to head upstairs. Finally,the elevator door slid open and we entered a small cube filled with doctor’s office light. I morphed into a clear skeleton model, the veins in my body visible to anyone unlucky enough to look my way.

“The third floor button doesn’t work,” Tony noted, a bit of edge to his voice. “Hit the second,” I answered, desperate to get out of this shaft of light. The elevator jerked forward, and in seconds the doors slid open on the second floor. The harshness of the elevator announced our presence to the hipsters on the more intimate second floor, all of whom turned to look at the two old douche bags wearing thirty dollar jeans invading their world. I took in the crowd taking me in for a mere second and wheeled back into the elevator, wanting badly to escape attention. I’m not sure if Tony’s feet ever touched second floor carpet, but his frantic pushing of the first floor button told me he didn’t want to be there either.

Just as quickly as we headed up, we headed down, out the door, into our truck, on the expressway and back to downriver. After a brief argument over what happened, Anthony and I understood the situation for what it was, a moment so mortifying that mentioning it to our wives was out of the question.

After selecting the next, more comfortable watering hole, we began to speculate about the hip crowd’s reaction to our entrance/exit. We decided that they took turns putting napkins on their head to imitate our male pattern baldness, putting maraschino cherries on their nose to look like me, and walking out of the elevator on their knees to parody Tony.

This revelry made the trip to Taylor, and Cecil’s bar at the corner of Goddard and Pardee easy. Not easy is finding a parking spot in the small “L” shaped parking lot surrounding the gray brick bar. There is a large strip mall parking lot across the street for the overflow, but be careful crossing the bustling intersection.

There was no cover to enter (good), the atmosphere is dark (better) and the crowd was typically downriver comfortable (great). Once inside, Tony and I made our way to the bustling bar which dominates one entire wall and found it difficult to get a drink. Not only was it busy, but the broads behind the counter were more interested in trading insults and swiveling hips than taking orders. At one point, Tony leaned forward, elbows on the bar, head in hands looking like a forlorn kid who got stiffed by the ice cream man. This obvious dejection seemed to work, as our two beer order was finally filled for a reasonable $4.25.

Most of the karaoke I have heard is long bursts of caterwauling interrupted by surprisingly decent singing. Not at Cecil’s, where caterwauling is the order of the day. Maybe if some chick sang, a moment of sanity would have prevailed. Instead, we had to endure guys performing rap-rock (Korn and Limp Bizkit), pure rap (Snoop and Eminem) and metal (Rammstein and Ozzy). Everyone should experience a drunken kid screaming “Du...Du hasst...Du hasst mich” which translated means “You...You hate...You hate me.”

For some reason, possibly the alcohol or the night’s previous humiliation, Cecil’s was a lot of fun. Did I mention the dance floor in front of the performers? It was consistently bustling to both the karaoke and the intermittent DJ offerings. It did not have a hook-up feel, more friends acting crazy and dancing in groups.

The pool tables at the front of the bar and seating around the tables were also a beehive of activity. Though most of the playing appeared to be good natured, I saw a few bucks being passed around. Of course, there are multiple televisions and Keno for additional amusement.

Cecil’s is a good time. The drinks, while sometimes tough to get, are crazy cheap. There is plenty to keep you busy and a comfy crowd to get busy with. It surely beat the tension and perceived mocking of “The Bookie’s Situation”.

Cheers!
-Jim

Bookie's: 2208 Cass Ave. Detroit, MI 48201

Cecil's Da Bar: 22615 Goddard Rd. Taylor, MI 48180