Friday Night Bug Juice

MY LIFE AS A CATHOLIC

2013-04-19T16:55:00.001-04:00

I have had a long, strange trip with the Catholic Church. This is my timeline with humorous or insightful anecdotes (I hope):

Age 6-12 Inmate at St. Martha School in Dearborn. Offense: Youth and energy. Penalty: Six years of physical and mental abuse administered by Sister Victoria, Sister Amobolese and Sister Justa (whose self proclaimed mantra of “My name is Justa, so I must be just” was usually followed by a head shot). So many moments of danger, it is difficult to boil them down to a few:

My friend Danny Tarrant and I are selected to read two passages during an upcoming mass and are told to go to the church which adjoined the school and practice the readings in order to get used to the cavernous sound. Danny and I decide that this is the perfect opportunity to see what it is like to play catch with a beanbag from the balcony to the altar. The nun that allowed us to go the church unchaperoned, did so for one of two reasons: a momentary lapse of judgement, or the knowledge that if she crept into the church five minutes after Danny and I left the classroom she would catch us doing something stupid. No matter the reason, she did catch us with bean bag in mid flight. A beating ensues. No readings are read.

There is to be an after school sale of some kind and a drawing will be held to see which four children will be in charge of the sale. The names of all of my classmates are put into some type of vessel and selected at random by the nun. First name, “Tarrant”. Second name “Scala”. Third name “Kaczinowski”. Fourth name “Morrison”. My last name along with the last names of the three misfits I hung with. After taking a moment to understand the ramifications of this selection, the nun cries out, “It’s the devil’s doing,” and prepares to re-draw the names. One of the four, mumbles “What a gyp.” A beating ensues. No sale is presided over.

Lately, there has been a bit too much fun during lunch. A bunch of ten year olds who have just sat through religion and phonics for the past three hours are laughing and talking while eating warm bologna sandwiches. The lunch aide decides it is too much for her to handle and calls upon the reasonable, even handed assistance of the nun to remedy the situation. That the nun cannot take lunch with the rest of her coven and must spend it with the inmates will certainly have no bearing on her brand of justice. After lashing out at the class and reminding us that we are all horrible, the nun sits at her desk and begins to eat her nun food. A little boy forced to sit in the front of class because he can’t shut up or sit still is fiddling with the plastic spoon included in his lunch. A small piece of plastic breaks off the spoon. The boy, remembering a movie about knights storming a castle, puts the bit of spoon in the spoon and flexes the handle, mimicking the catapult from the movie. His finger slips accidently (?) and the spoon bit flies ten feet through the air and nestles in between the crusty nun lips sitting in front of him. The nun leaps to her feet, a swirl of black and white habit, jerks the paddle from her desk drawer and starts freewheeling through the class demanding to know who did it. Only one little boy knows what she is talking about. Sheer terror and survival instincts keep him from crying or otherwise incriminating himself (think of how the humans had to act during Invasion of the Body Snatchers to keep from being recognized). Beating avoided. Lunch eaten.

Post script to the last story: After forty six years of wondering why the nun could not pick me out as the guilty party, given my history of nonsense (nunsense?), proximity to her desk and possession of the partially broken plastic spoon, I have discovered the answer. Every kid in that room, though not guilty, understood that a beat down of some kind was possible. My beet red face on the verge of tears blended perfectly with the other thirty inmates. Like the t-shirt says “I Survived Catholic School”. Though I do sometimes wonder about the heavy set kid that the nun regularly referred to as a ”big blob of mechanism”. Or the kids who were too afraid to ask to leave class to go to the bathroom, pissed their pants or skirts, and were made to sit on the blower in front of their peers until dry. Or the quiet girl who was made to cry every day until one day she just stopped showing up for school. I wonder if those kids wear that stupid, fucking t-shirt.

Age 12-34: St. Martha closes. The melding of catholic school kids and public school kids is a shock to both. We can’t believe how much freedom we have, and our new public school buddies can’t believe how crazy we are.

Church and Catholicism goes from an everyday thing to a once a week thing. I go to church only as long as my Mom can force me. Once I become a surly teenager, attendance is spotty (like my skin). Once I move out of the house, getting up early on Sunday morning after spending Saturday night at Harpo’s is not an option. Once I get married and have children, I am too tired to get up early for Catholic shenanigans. I can no longer remember the Apostle’s Creed.

Age 34-45: Because of the obvious good my religious background had done for me, I convinced fellow Catholic slacker and wife Andrea that exposing (perhaps a poor choice of word) our two oldest children to Catholicism was a good idea.

The setting changes from St. Martha in Dearborn to St. Francis Xavier in Ecorse. My Mom is the head of catechism and my sister Chris a teacher. Both Rachel and Max struggle with the going, but do so largely because of their Grandma and Aunt. Max becomes an altar boy (the best one of all time if you listen to some in the parish; he would only work solo and managed to pull off pious without being weird).

I was around the parish quite a bit and was in a “joining” phase ( I became a member of the Knights of Columbus for about two weeks until I realized it was a scam to get me to buy life insurance; the old time Knight who contacted me was super pissed that I declined his offer to hear about all the great benefits of their plan; And, once I tried the vaunted K of C fish dinner and found it to be no better than Long John Silvers, I could find no reason to be a member and quit).

I ended up asking the Ushers Club if I could join their group. My vetting process lasted one minute, the amount of time it took me to mention that Joan Morrison was my Mom. When that sunk in, my fellow ushers mumbled an appreciative “Here, Here” and knuckled table tops to signal their approval. A short time later, I got my green jacket (dandier than the one given out by those pikers at The Masters), and became the youngest usher. Seriously.

I can say no bad about these men. They were old school all the way and loved their church. We held an Ushers Club pancake breakfast once a month and served up weak coffee, thin pancakes and fatty link sausage. Max always came with me on these Sunday mornings. He worked hard setting up tables and serving coffee. One of the old guard gave him a statue of The Virgin Mary as a reward (he still has it).

In the blink of an eye, Rachel and Max made their first communion and confirmation. Jackson was to follow.

Then, it all came unraveled. Priests all over the country were being outted for molesting children. The church hierarchy responded with denials and shifting priests for protection. The national headlines hit close to home when a beloved former priest at St. Francis was convicted of molestation. Understanding that there was no possible way to support this policy of denial with attendance or money, I quit the Catholic Church. My youngest son Jackson would not be raised in that faith.

Age 45-Present: After staying away from mass for over a decade, recent circumstances dictated that I take my Mom to church four times in the span of six or seven weeks. I took my job as chaperone seriously, and listened with rapt attention to the readings and sermon (the balance of the service consisted of the same rote prayers I had abandoned eleven years ago).

One gospel told the story of the Prodigal Son. This prick took his inheritance money before his dad was in the ground (can you do that?), left the drudgery of the farm life, and spent the entire wad on chicks and good times. When the money was gone, he came home to his dad and the good brother who stayed behind to work his ass off. When dad saw this “prodigal son”, he threw a big party and gave the little shit the best food and clothes available. The son who stayed behind and worked his ass off was miffed. When he expressed his displeasure, his dad responded, “this brother of yours was dead and is alive again, he is lost and is now found.”

Back home after mass, I recounted this gospel to Tony. Oddly enough, we did not see eye to eye on the message. Is forgiveness for any indiscretion possible or to be encouraged? A loud argument ensued, driving our Mom to her bedroom hands flailing in the air.

I began to think a lot about religion. There was something about the familiarity of the prayers, the message of the readings, even the parishioners sitting in the same spots every week that I found comforting. I wondered if keeping Jackson away from Catholicism was the right thing to do. Was a reconciliation on some level possible?

Then, I opened the Detroit Free press and read a story concerning Archbishop Allen Vigneron of Detroit. He stated that Catholics who believed in gay marriage should not bother taking communion. If you believe that all are equal in the eyes of Jesus, no matter their sexual persuasion, do not bother taking part in the essence of mass.

Thank you, Archbishop. I had always considered Jesus to be a pretty good guy. Problems with authority, all shredded up, handsome, cool beard, probably would have liked the Stone Roses if he was around today. Come to find out from Archbishop Vigneron that I was wrong. Jesus, it turns out, is narrow minded and not accepting of those who are different.

I had forgotten or ignored an important lesson culled during my fifty-six years of life as a Catholic . The people that you meet on the grass roots level, the old school ushers, selfless catechism teachers and church fair volunteers are basically good people that drive the machine. Their intentions are often pure. They work long hours for little or no pay. Their goal is to make the world, especially their little slice of it, the parish, better.

The real perversion, sexual and otherwise, grows as you move closer to the top. This all male club, wrapped in their bizarre trappings, preaching their antiquated, exclusionary and hateful message has no place in my world. Their goal is to exclude those that do not agree with their narrow views, to keep their secretive boys club alive and to push people back to a simple world that never really existed.

56-forever: I’m out.

Cheers! Jim

LOOK AWAY...I'M HIDEOUS

2012-11-06T17:16:00.000-05:00

Last Tuesday, while taking my early morning shower, I felt a twinge of pain on my nose. After drying, I cleared the steam off the bathroom mirror and carefully regarded my face ( no pleasant task).

To my dismay, I saw a red lump on the right side of my snoot. The area was painful to the touch. The spreading crimson swell told me that it would soon be painful to look at as well. My life was about to change as I welcomed a huge nose zit into the world.

The next forty-eight hours proved to be building days. I battled the bugger as best as possible with a Clearasil cream I found in the medicine chest. At that time, I could still look people in the face and forget about my budding buddy from time to time.

Thursday, however, brought me to full bloom. After getting the morning coffee started, I stumbled into the bathroom and looked in the mirror adjusting my eyes to the light. As it turned out, I did not need to worry about any adjustment. My nose, not the prettiest bump of skin on the best of days, featured a volcano-like tower on the right side, crimson with red hot magma.

With the work day one hour away, fucking with the pus filled devil would be a bad idea. I toyed with the notion of putting some concealer on the summit, but decided that keeping the area clean would be my best strategy. I would have to make it through the work day dealing with co-workers and new clients on a face to pimple-face basis.

“Hello, I’m Pimple form Guaranteed Furniture, here to look at your dining room table.”

When I arrived home Thursday evening after working out at the Y, where I had hoped that the strain of a vigorous bench press might cause the volcano to blow, I decided to take matters into my own hand. Literally.

Back to the bathroom, taking in the enemy under the harsh lights of the vanity, I primed the pump by pushing and prodding the area. This hurt like hell and made my eyes water. I am a warrior at heart, armed with the belief that something this painful must provide a burst of pus followed by relief, sleep and recovery. I would wake up in the morning with a bounce in my step and a flesh colored nose on my face.

No. No pus, no relief, no normalcy. No.

The result of all my pushing and pressure was increased size and redness. I was now the proud owner of one and one half noses, all red. Not exactly the result I was looking for. Oh yeah, my son Jackson also informed me that the magic Clearasil I had been using the last three days, was about two years past expiration and as useful as spreading semen on my nose (the semen crack is mine, not his).

Friday. One final work day spent avoiding people, looking the other way (like that would help), and making lame jokes about a teenage predicament in the center of a middle aged face.

The talk between co-worker and co-drinker Anthony and I was centered less on work and more on how the object centered on my face might affect Friday Night Bug Juice. I opined that an obstacle this hideous might keep me hunkered down at home; something that sciatic nerve damage, family obligations and common sense have not been able to accomplish. Little Brother went back four years to a Friday evening spent at an outdoor bar, a pimple on the center of his nose glistening in the setting summer sun marring his otherwise handsome countenance, as the reason I must go out this evening. I never really considered staying home, but his tale from long ago was so filled with angst that I could not bring myself to tell him about my prior decision.

After my evening shower, I consulted wife Andrea about how best to cover the mountain (Tony suggested a nose prosthetic like the rapper from Digital Underground). She was very helpful and picked the right shade of cover-up to go with my pasty Irish skin. I applied and blended to the best of my ability, then stood back and regarded my situation.

I had an angry mountain of nasty on the side of my nose covered with silly putty.

Thank God for alcohol and a dark basement bar. After a few moments with my friends Tony and Miller Light, I forgot about the pain, both mine from the zit and that which I inflicted on those unfortunate souls who noticed a red glow and followed the mysterious light to my face.

The following morning, I decided to wash the crap off my face and see where I stood. I took the top of my buddy clean off and watched in horror as blood dripped down my face. Now, my nose was both red and scabby. Hooray!

The following evening, a hot shower reopened the wound and I could not get the damn thing to coagulate. I resorted to putting a piece of paper towel on the wound, as if I had cut myself shaving. I fell asleep on the couch with the blood dotted paper towel stuck to my nose. What an asshole!

The final indignation came Monday morning as I reported to the dentist for a 9 am appointment. I’m not sure if you are aware of this, but the dentist trains a high powered light on the center of your face when doing his work. I can’t catch a break.

I have five days till Friday. I hope to have a nose left by then.

Cheers! Jim

POOR MOM

2012-09-21T16:24:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite moments on any Friday Night takes place Saturday morning.

With the boozing and carousing part of the evening over, we find ourselves back at Tony’s house, in the kitchen we both grew up in. The familiarity of the kitchen cupboards and counter tops is welcoming. A quick flick of the switch and the smell of coffee fills the room (Tony’s wife Beth handles the filling of water and grounds before we even arrive, bless her heart).

As anyone who has ever boozed and stayed out late knows, preparing something to eat to go with the coffee is also essential. Again, this is where Beth comes into play. Aside from readying the coffee, Beth also hides most of the munchies before our arrival. She will leave a couple of slices of leftover pizza and my precious jelly candies in plain sight. Chips, lunch meat, pastries and other items deemed too irresistible are stowed away. Only Beth and God know where.

While the coffee brews, Tony and I repair to the family room with a slice of microwaved pizza. I have occasionally passed on the pizza (I am not as bagged as Tony and can still realize that a wad of cheese at 2:30 am is a bad idea). Every time I pass, it pisses Anthony off. He has been known to cut off chunks of his pie, spear it with a sharp knife and wave it in my face. I usually give in, my love of pizza and fear of losing a nostril ruling the moment.

We always watch television while we eat. Sports Center on occasion. DVR episodes of Saturday Night Live here and there. But what we really enjoy are HBO soft core porn movies. Not the Real Sex series (Tonight on Real Sex, nude poetry readings, liquid latex parties and a visit with a plus size dominatrix). No, we prefer soft core porn. Tits, ass, grunting, moaning but no erections and cum shots. You know, classy.

Naturally, we like checking out the broads. But we really enjoy chirping about the movies themselves.

“I hate those big round fake jugs.”

“There is no way you could put it in so easy in that position.”

“It’s too well lit for that.”

“Why is she moaning during tit banging?”

“Look at the goofy look on his face.”

“That guy looks like Monty Hall.”

“I’d be done already.”

Last week, Tony and I were enjoying Bikini Girls From The Lost Planet while burning the roofs of our mouths on pizza. From the doorway behind us we heard , “When did you boys get in?”

We both turned around to see our dear Mother standing bleary eyed fifteen feet from the simulated banging and moaning. The shock of getting caught caused Tony to drop the remote, spilling the batteries and battery cover onto the floor. He scrambled to get the remote back together while I kept our Mom occupied with small talk.

“Jack’s got a tennis tournament tomorrow.”

“Oh God yeah...Oh God yeah”

“He’s been playing really well this year, undefeated so far.”

“Bring that big ass here.”

I kept one eye on Tony. He was making zero progress. I had no idea there were so many possible incorrect combinations for two batteries and a back cover. Just when I thought I would have to stage a pretend heart attack to divert my Mom’s attention, the couple on the screen fake came and the silliness of a porn plot took over.

With the crisis averted and our dear Mother back asleep, Tony concocted a flavored coffee for my short trip home to Allen Park. I called him to let him know I was home safe, he woke my Mom briefly to tell her that I got home safe and the countdown to next Friday began.

Cheers! Jim

TOUGH TOENAILS

2012-09-13T20:20:00.000-04:00

“I cut my toe nails every two to eight weeks.” Jerry Seinfeld.

It must have been nine weeks since I trimmed mine. So I decided, what better way to spend a summer evening than to sit on the patio with family (wife Andrea and son Max were with me) and trim my toenails in the backyard. In plain view of neighbors walking dogs, riding bikes or jogging for health.

After a a great deal of grunting and straining from bending in half to reach the damn things, I sat back and admired my handiwork.

Have you ever cleaned something like the garage or junk drawer and thought, “What the hell have I been waiting for?” And once you get past that bit of self loathing, a warm sense of satisfaction spreads through your body. You look at your neat new buddy and feel proud, almost happy that you waited so fucking long because the payoff is so great.

Yeah, it was like that.

Andrea and Max gave me shit for:

Cutting my toe nails in broad daylight.

Having the toenails of the hill people of Kentucky.

Not immediately cleaning up my droppings.

I did not care, I was loving my new pink buddies and tried to defend the indefensible.

During this spirited defense, I looked down and asked, “What the hell kind of bug is that?” What appeared to be a quarter inch long off white bug was making it’s way across our brick paved patio. It was moving in an unsteady back and forth pattern away from me.

Andrea got up to inspect. She studied the bug for a long time before straightening and crying out.

“That’s no bug. It’s an ant making a getaway with your toenail.”

Max and I scrambled to our feet and studied the little fella. One solitary ant was towing my grotesque nail across the peaks and valleys of our patio. He made good time across the tops of the bricks, but stalled in the routed areas between the bricks. But that son of a bitch never quit. He just tried different angles and kept moving.

Soon other ants joined in until eight toenails were moving across the patio (I say eight as my baby toes are so odd that they don’t really have a nail).

The ants dragged them until they came to their homes in between the bricks. Then they tugged the nails into their lair.

Lot’s of theories on why. I heard food, protection and insanity. My brother Tony later chalked it up to decoration, theorizing that my toenails were proudly being displayed on eight different ant living room walls.

Either way, aren’t you glad that I am a swine.

Cheers! Jim

TAKE THE DOUCHEBAG TEST (IT'S FUN!)

2012-08-18T15:58:00.000-04:00

YOU ARE A DOUCHEBAG IF:

You wear white sunglasses.

You use a bluetooth.

You call a situation or person retarded or gay.

You refer to anyone as “bro”.

The bass in your car rattles windows.

You talk loud in public on a cell phone.

You use a cell phone in any line.

You purse your lips and give the sideways peace sign in any photo.

You don’t keep your dog on a leash (“He doesn’t bite”).

You believe you are, or need to act like a Housewife of fill in the blank.

You are a bully.

You jog on a main street.

You call a cigar a “gar”.

You think money equals class.

You fuck with women or children.

You don’t start or stick with a sports category in Jeopardy.

You cut your grass before 10 am.

You call yourself a diva.

You have no concept on pushing a shopping cart in the store. Move!

You want a President you can share a beer with.

You don’t wear socks with slacks and loafers.

You have a barking dog that you allow to bark and bark and bark...

You wear a Detroit Tigers cap in any color besides the official color.

Unless you are elderly or physically unable, you don’t shovel your sidewalk.

You consider yourself a Gleek or you have downloaded any songs from Glee.

You have your pants hanging down purposely showing us your underwear (I bet you have skidmarks).

You question why Denard is the starting quarterback.

You park sideways, taking up two spots.

You ask for cover in a near empty bar.

You make lists about what constitutes a douchebag.

Cheers! Tony

With all due respect to Southern genius (oxymoron) Jeff Foxworthy:

Fashion Douchebags: If you are a guy wearing skinny jeans and your name isn’t Wolowitz...if you spend more than $50 bucks on a pair of jeans...If you shave your head while still having the option of growing hair...If you are wearing a t-shirt that references your dick, sex, big tits or balls...

Sports Douchebags: If you call a radio talk show and reference the call screener by name or use a nickname for one of the hosts...If you think you know more about the Tigers and their lineup than Jim Leyland, the same Jim Leyland who has been in pro ball since 1963 and lives with his players ten months a year...If you think that no athlete from the current generation compares to your generation...If you swear that you like both Michigan and Michigan State...If you root for Tiger Woods...

Today’s Generation Douchebags: If you think that being a DJ makes you a musician...If you think that each of your thoughts is so interesting that it must be tweeted or posted...If you love your phone...If you order Pabst Blue Ribbon so you can ask for a PBR and be cheap chic...If you buy something because a big assed megalomaniac with a first name that begins with a K endorses it...

Random Douchebags: If you think that it is solely the fault of Republicans, Democrats, Liberals, Conservatives, Rich or Poor...If you like Ted Nugent for any reason at all...if you think that your bumper sticker is hilarious...If you hear a story or anecdote and immediately feel the need to add one of your own that is sadder, cuter, happier, funnier...If the inside of your Christmas card includes more than your name and a short greeting...If you are standing where I like to stand at the pub...

Cheers! Jim

THE HIVES

2012-07-17T15:19:00.000-04:00

Getting amped for a rock and roll show in the middle of the week can be a tough sell. Especially one that is taking place at Clutch Cargo’s in Pontiac, a good forty-five minute drive from home.

But that was the task at hand for Anthony and I a couple of weeks ago when The Hives came to town toward the end of their North American tour.

Complicating matters somewhat was the baggage that each of us brought to the evening.

For Tony, it was his upcoming vacation. He and Miss Beth would be leaving to visit good friend and former Michigander Jim T (not sure if he wants his entire name mentioned in this ribald forum). Mind you, they were leaving five days from the show date, but those who know Tony and Beth understand that this is really not a long time for them to pack all of their gear and sharpen their vacation focus.

I had informed Tony earlier in the week that I had corralled my son Jackson as his replacement, in case the burden of getting ready for a week of debauchery proved too demanding and he did not wish to go. In fact, Jack had turned me down flat, citing his hate of all things rock and all things crowd. I did not let Tony in on that little secret. If he did not want to attend, I would fly solo.

The day before the show, Little Brother was still undecided. I told him in the parking lot at work that I could not wait for what was sure to be a fantastic evening of garage rock, Swedish style. I punctuated my love of the Hives with a Howlin’ Pelle (lead singer of the Hives) kick.

The next day, Tony told me he was in. Obviously, my kick had done the trick.

My baggage involved a rare headache. I used to suffer from migraines back in the day but have not had one in years due to the wonder drug Proprananol. The night of the concert came at the end of a stressful work day (is there any other kind?), coupled with unrelenting heat and humidity. I was not suffering from one of my debilitating migraines, but definitely felt pressure at the top of my bald dome.

Much to my surprise, Tony did not have his bag of tricks with him that evening. A bag that includes a veritable pharmacy, clothes for every occasion and weather situation, and random zit cover up. We instead stopped at the Sav-On Pharmacy in Birmingham and I purchased a bottle of Sav-On Aspirin. My Bro was appalled at my choice, calling it rot gut aspirin and making stomach growling sounds to indicate what he felt would be the result of my taking the off brand. I told him that I would accompany the aspirin with a healthy dose of booze and he seemed satisfied with my plan of attack.

Pontiac in general, and Clutch Cargos specifically, is a shithole.

Though you could shoot a cannon off in largely abandoned downtown Pontiac on a Wednesday evening and not hit a soul, I had a hard time parking my car. Finally, an old guy with eyebrows wilder than mine motioned me to a spot half in his lot and half on the sidewalk. I took it.

Clutch Cargos was smaller than I remembered. It was dingier than I remembered. It was more rickety than I remembered. In short, it was the perfect place to see a rock concert.

The horseshoe shaped balcony was roped off, not a great sign for The Hives. The crowd looked to be about five hundred. A lot of guys, a few alt rock chicks and strangely, a few families with very young children in tow.

After a pair of forgettable warm up bands ( I really have forgotten their names and see no reason to look it up), The Hives hit the stage looking fantastic. As any fan of the band knows, these guys always wear a uniform of sorts. On this tour, in support of the album Lex Hives (lex is latin for law, get it, the Hives are law), the band is sporting top hats and tails. Like professional wrestlers, these guys understand that image means a lot.

Also like professional wrestlers, The Hives have unique handles. The aforementioned Howlin’ Pelle on vocals, Chris Dangerous on drums, Dr. Matt Destruction on bass, Nicholaus Arson on lead and Vigilante Carlstroem on rhythm.

Final wrestling comparison, I promise. The Hives give you a lot to look at. Pelle is the ring leader. Constant motion, kicking, jumping off the stage to mingle with the crowd, standing on the bass drum, telling you how great The Hives are and how lucky you are to see them. Arson is second in command. Equal parts spitting and sweating, almost as much time spent in the crowd as on the stage. The rhythm section does not move as much, but anchor things with an upright ferocity. Finally, the big man, Vigilante. I have always maintained that people love a big man (John Candy, Chris Farley, Refrigerator Perry) and they really love a big man who gives it his all. People love Vigilante. He sweats, he sings back up with vigor and he leans against the wall when it all gets too much.

There is a lot of image, a lot to look at with The Hives.

But it wouldn’t mean shit if they weren’t such a great garage band.

What you won’t get at a Hives show: Self indulgent instrumental soloing, acoustic sets with the band sitting on stools, ignoring past hits for the new album.

What you will get: Seventeen songs running three to four minutes each, an electric onslaught played with insane vigor, a generous mix of old Hives and new Hives (they open with Come On and toss in Go Right Ahead toward the end, both from the new CD and both certain to remain in their set for years to come).

Are these guys great virtuosos? Probably not. But sometimes, effort and attitude conquer all. I saw Jeff Beck in concert back in the day. No doubt a better guitar technician than Arson. Yet I pick Arson. While Beck dripped contempt for the crowd, Arson jumped into the deep end and mixed it up. The Hives win!

Tony and I were content to stand stage right for the first quarter of the show, but found ourselves migrating toward the mosh pit center stage as the evening progressed. After mixing it up there for a bit, Tony marched to the front of the stage and I saw him hanging on to the barrier front row center for the second half of the show. As a member of the Friday Night Bug Juice press corps, he felt it was his duty to witness the evening within spitting distance of the band (literally).

When the concert ended, fueled by booze and punk rock, Tony began referring to himself as “The Baby Bull”. I understand that this continued throughout the night, including some rants aimed at his wife Beth, who was desperately clinging to sleep.

Tony felt that the show was top three all time. I can’t go quite that far, but his vantage point was a bit different than mine, which could account for some of the disparity.

I will say that each work week would be a hell of a lot better if it was interrupted with The Hives in concert.

Lex Hives!

Cheers! JIm

THE GRASS IS ALWAYS TALLER

2012-07-14T13:59:00.000-04:00

We had been talking about it twice a week for a couple of months.

The grass in the large lot next to the vacant house at the end of our block had grown to three feet in height. What had once been meticulously manicured now swayed in the breeze, housed rabbits and flourished in the summer heat.

My son Jackson and I walked past this lot twice weekly, pulling a little wagon filled with News Herald papers. I watched the growth and complained about the uncertainty of an unkempt empty house and adjoining second lot at the end of the block on which I live.

“This looks terrible,” I would complain. “If the house is vacant, why isn’t there a for sale sign and why doesn’t the realtor make it look better? Or why doesn’t the city do something about it, like cut the grass?”

“Why don’t we come down here and cut the grass?”

Leave it to a sixteen year old kid to go put up or shut up on his old man. He had heard me complain for years about people who wait for government to take care of issues that they could take care of themselves. As example, I had long ago added sweeping up the street in front of our corner house to our yard chores.

“If Allen Park can’t or won’t take care of the street, we will.” Sweeping up leaves and debris along our curb and into the street became part of our weekly ritual, like edging or mowing. In the end, I would always point out to my son the advantages to this extra care.

“Our little yellow brick house may not be much,” I would say, “but we make the most of it and I am proud to live here.” Trite, but true.

Now, the kid had taken my own words and thrown them in my face. He did this with no malice. He really wanted to make the street look better and was not daunted by the task at hand.

The task at hand would be big. This was a large extra lot and the height of the grass meant that it would need take more than the conventional lawn mower in my garage could provide. I had recently purchased a new weed whacker and that would help. Still, I went to ACO first thing on a toasty Sunday morning and went old school by purchasing a hand held scythe.

While I was out, my wife woke up the sleeping teen a good three hours before his normal breakfast foraging. When she told him that I was out getting supplies for the job he had suggested the day before, he got fired up. By the time I got back from ACO, Jack was dressed, fed (no quick feat), and ready to go.

We loaded up my car with the necessary gear and a lot of water, drove down to the end of the block and got ready to do battle. Before the cord on the mower could be pulled, a neighbor directly across the street came over.

“What are you doing?”

It seemed obvious to me, so I understood that this was not the literal what are you doing, but the bigger what are you doing. She seemed at least a little bit irritated by our presence.

I answered in the literal. “We are going to cut the grass in the lot.”

“We called the police yesterday and showed them that this lot needs cutting. They are going to get it taken care of,” she responded.

“Judging by how things get done in Allen Park, I don’t think we should wait. Jack and I are just going to do it.”

She turned around and headed back across the street to her house.

Once she had left, a car pulled to the curb with two of my favorite neighbors inside. They expressed surprise at our goal and I told them we did not want our neighborhood to look like the neglected ones in Detroit.

“We both grew up in Detroit,” he answered. Didn’t know how to reply to that. “Sorry” didn’t seem right. My response was to slip on the work gloves and mumble something about getting started.

No more neighbors. Time to get to work. We divided up the lawn in ten yard increments. I would swing the scythe into the tall grass and make it mower ready and Jack would follow behind with the mower. This proved to be much harder than imagined and the convicts in the movie Cool Hand Luke came readily to mind. “Taking it off over here boss,” I yelled into the morning air. Jack just stared, never having seen the movie.

By the time I finished the first ten yard swatch, I understood that this was going to be a bear. I also understood that our intentions had been seen and verbalized and that quitting was not an option. It is also not in my character to walk away from hard work because it is hard. This lot would not beat me or,as it turned out, The Kid.

I was pleased to see that Jackson shared my determination. After the second swatch was cut, with many more swatches swaying in the breeze, I suggested that my son take a little break. He bristled at this and fired up the mower. He would keep busy and match me sweat for sweat.

Like all good workers, we adapted to the task at hand. The hand scythe would not work. Each swing met with so much resistance that my shoulder was quickly dying (how did Paul Newman and George Kennedy do it?). I would use my new weed whacker to get the grass to mower height. This meant starting high on the grass stalks and working your way down. It also meant jamming and stalling the whacker about two thousand times. Sigh!

My wife Andrea stopped by and was surprised by our progress. We got a thumbs up at just the right time to keep us motivated.

It was hard work. But, three hours after we arrived, we had beaten the overgrown lot. It was not pretty. The grass did not have a fairway appearance and some grass clumps littered the lot. But the ugliness and neglect of the lot was gone. The house might remain vacant, but there was no reason to stare it it and wonder if it portended something worse, a neighborhood eroding.

I felt great and so did Jack. I was proud of my son. It was his idea and he had responded big time. He worked his ass off, matched his old man and made our block a better place to live.

Two interesting results of this grass cutting:

1. Jack and I noticed that the lot looked even better a week or so later, like someone had tweaked our efforts by recutting. We found out that this was exactly what had happened, as a neighbor living in the middle of our block had wheeled his mower to the end of the block and made the vacant house look even better. It remains tended to this day. I understand that the recent extreme heat is a factor, but I like to think it is the efforts of people that keep it so.

2. Everyone has an opinion on this, and have no problem sharing it. Some think it was a good thing, some think it was misguided and not needed, some think we did it only to be looked at and congratulated.

Well?

Cheers! Jim

NOT SO GRATE

2012-06-28T17:38:00.000-04:00

I am a fifty-five year old man that fancies himself a man’s man. I succeed at almost every aspect of manhood that was preached to me growing up:

1. I have chest hair and would never dream of shaving my pecs or gut. Guys are supposed to have hair on their upper torso. The only reason I trim the hair south of the equator is that I would not be able to locate my Braille dot if I didn’t ( the proverbial needle in a haystack).

2. I have facial hair. It’s gray and sometimes mixes in with my nose hair, but I have it.

3.I love sports. I watch Sports Center, subscribe to Sports Illustrated and The Sporting News, and can even speak NBA ( I once pointed out how much tougher hockey is than hoops to a group of black guys who had just finished playing a rousing pick up game at the Y; that did not go over well).

4. I love women. Looking at them, that is. My heart loves only one woman, but my eyes love all. I find something attractive about almost every female (it’s a gift). Before you get bunched about this, my wife likes to look at guys also. She admires Austin Jackson and Curtis Granderson. Wait a minute, I think I detect a trend...my wife likes Tiger center fielders.

5. I love being a man, strong and vigorous. I want to unscrew the reluctant bottle cap, sweat through my shirt, fart louder, shit bigger and generally stink.

My manly Achilles heel: The art of grilling. We men are supposed to be great at this. After all it involves making fire, burning flesh and providing great bounty for others.

Alas, I am an utter failure.

Not for a lack of trying. I have wheeled my charcoal grill out of the garage on many occasions. I always expect to hear rubber burning and see the rapidly disappearing tail lights of guests when my grill makes its appearance. I guess people will eat anything if you serve enough cold beer.

My big worry is that I will undercook something and friends and family will leave retching and clenching their ass cheeks together. As a result of this fear, I tend to cook the hell out of everything, rendering my grilled food dry and tasteless. In my world, dry and tasteless beats retching and clenching every time.

Where does it all go so very wrong?

Getting the fire started is no problem. I have two chimneys and put a couple of sheets of paper in the bottom and charcoal on top, put flame to paper and twenty minutes later perfect coals.

From this point forward: Epic Fail! I’ve turned burgers into hockey pucks, hot dogs into shriveled peckers and chicken into a call to Papa Romano’s.

So what to do when struggling with the basics of grilling? Buy an expensive rack of ribs and shoot for the moon.

I blame You Tube for the seed of this idea. I watched a bunch of videos from guys with deep voices and syrupy southern accents and names like Grill Guys and BBQ Kings. They made the preparation and grilling of pork look simple, resulting in fall off the bone perfection. They were loved and admired by all.

I wanted to be those guys.

My journey began at Sam’s Club on Saturday night. I looked over a puzzling array of meat, fat, blood and bone. Twenty minutes and $35 later I walked out with a mysterious package of pork spare ribs.

To get this gross wad of pork grill ready, you need to get at it way earlier in the day than hands want to touch blood and bone. Trimming fat and membrane leaves the kitchen looking like the cutting room floor of a Rob Zombie movie.

It was way more rib than I imagined and took up most of the grate room, leaving only enough space for a pan of mop sauce that one of the southern fried assholes from You Tube insisted needed to stay on the grates to help keep the ribs moist.

Thirty minutes and one beer later, I was ready to mop some of the sauce onto my ribs.

“That’s way more peppercorn than I remember putting into the mopping sauce, “ I said to my sons Max and Jack as we peered at the huge slabs of pork.

My heart sunk as I discovered that it wasn’t the delightful spunk of peppercorn that I was mopping on to my expensive ribs, but pieces of teflon coating that had peeled off the inside of the mopping pan.

I did what I always do during times of emergency.

“Jack, run inside and get Mom.”

God bless her, Andrea tried to make the best out of the situation. She blotted and washed. She clucked her tongue and said we were making a bigger deal out of this than needed. She tried to make us believe that teflon bits would soon be packaged as a spice and be recognized as just another pork condiment.

The boys and I were not having it. Max and Jack went to the internet, where the opinions ranged from harmless to death. I wanted to call Poison Control, but Max pointed out that this was only for those who were already poisoned, not for those who were only considering being poisoned.

This debate raged on for the next two and one half hours. I kept a brave face during this lively, beer fueled battle, keeping the coals stoked in an effort to provide even heat under the teflon infused ribs.

The timer said the ribs were done and it was put up or shut up time for Andrea, the spokesperson for new Teflon Bitz for Pork. Just to make sure they were ready, I poked the ribs with a meat thermometer.

Ribs that were supposed to register an internal temperature of 165 degrees failed to register the lowest temp on the gauge of 120.

To summarize: $35 spent, hours of time purchasing/studying/grilling, a family divided and the fucking things were inedible by everybody’s count, including Andrea’s.

We dined al fresco that day, ate Papa Ramono’s deep dish pizza and salad, along with homemade parmesan encrusted spuds and washed them down with Summer Shandy.

The topper, the desert if you will, was the good natured ribbing (pun intended) I took from my crew. In the end, they insisted that they wanted me to keep trying and would always be available when the grill was wheeled from the garage.

They either love me or the Summer Shandy.

Cheers! Jim

ELIE'S

2012-05-25T22:22:00.000-04:00

One Friday night a few weeks ago, as I was eating dinner, I noticed a pair of rogue potatoes sitting on top of the microwave oven in our kitchen.

To be fair, I had sort of noticed them sitting up there for at least a week; the top of the microwave oven being the spot where I drop wallet, keys and money after each work day. Notice them the same way you notice that your pants are getting a bit snug. Notice, but don’t think of why or do anything about it.

Maybe it was their deterioration, my eventual awareness or just a lull in the dinnertime conversation, but I finally broached the subject of the rogue potatoes.

“What’s with the potatoes?” I asked my wife Andrea nodding toward the top of the microwave oven.

She and my son Jackson turned toward the rotting pair.

Andrea, who hates if I say anything that can be remotely construed as criticizing her home (not my home or our home, but her home; believe me men of the world, we are barely accepted gas passing visitors), glanced at the spuds and turned to me in mock horror.

“Oh my God, I threw those potatoes out over a week ago. How could they be back, sitting in plain view on top of the microwave oven?” This was followed by a few notes of the opening theme to The Twilight Zone. She looked at me with mouth agape to hammer home her point:

If you see rotting potatoes and they bother you, throw them away instead of asking me about them or waiting for me to take care of them.

Though her message was subtle, I got it. I would handle them while Jack and I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner. When Wife left the area, I did toss out one of the offenders. However, I grabbed his partner in rot, alerted Jackson to follow me and stealthily crept into the master bedroom. I peeled (pun intended), back the covers and gently placed the remaining potato on Andrea’s pillow. I put back the covers, made a show of smoothing out the wrinkles and crept out of the room. Jack approved.

This took place on the Friday night before my birthday, meaning I would be out boozing with Anthony when the covers were peeled back and the horror of the Potato That Would Not Die was discovered.

Cue the dimly lit bedroom, shortly after midnight, a yawning Andrea weary from a day of husband and son, takes back the covers on her side of the bed. She sees the brown demon on her pillow, cries out in horror and reflectively jumps away from the bed.

Cue a husband arriving home after last call on what was now his birthday, a dish of ice cream in hand, ready to hit the sofa and check out Sports Center. This is what I found staring me in the eye from the comfort of my sofa.

If I tell you that this portrait in potato is dead on, believe it. From the ever present Who t-shirt to the skin hooded eyes to the outdated mustache, it’s all there. There is even a mark on the top right hand side of the spud which corresponds to the mole I have on the top right side of my head (this will turn out to be a lot less funny if the spot on my head turns out to be cancerous and I begin to rot like the spud).

And speaking of two rotting spuds that don’t belong, Tony and I have been frequenting Elie’s in downtown Birmingham lately.

We found this little joint sheerly out of desperation, our beloved Edison’s having fallen short the past few weeks. After a disappointing night at Edison’s, it was either Elie’s, The Corner in The Townsend Hotel or go home early. Going home early...out of the question, narrowing our choice to Elie’s or The Corner. In my mind, the only place in the Detroit area deserving the moniker “The Corner” was at Michigan and Trumbull and was also known as Tiger Stadium. On to Elie’s.

For a tavern in downtown Birmingham on Pierce Street just south of Maple, this little pub is surprisingly user friendly. Plenty of street or deck parking (a warning about the deck parking: it is sometimes attendant-less and you will have to pay the fee with a credit card). The front of the building is typical bar. Tables and chairs strewn about, a window view of the goings on in trendy Birmingham, and a place to stand against the wall facing the wooden bar.

The back of the space is more restaurant than pub. The only patron I have seen in this area during our late night crawls is former Piston Rick Mahorn. For all I know, it is forbidden to sit back there, but who in their right mind would say anything to #44. His head is the size of a fucking stove. Tony and I spent about an hour watching him out of the corner of our eye, reminiscing about what a hard ass he and the rest of The Bad Boys were. We talked about going over or buying him a drink, but chickened out in the end (we were afraid he might not like white people).

There is really nothing to do in Elie’s except drink, listen to a surprisingly good soundtrack and be seen.

First, the drinking. No cover charge. Two beers will set you back a modest $8.50, reasonable in this high price district. It can be a chore getting a drink as nobody works the floor, meaning you have to split the crowd standing at the bar and get the hardworking bartender’s attention. It can be done, but you will piss somebody off. Good, it’s fun pissing off the privileged.

Next, the music. It is played at a level that promotes conversation. It is also surprisingly varied and appealing to a rock snob like myself. I heard the Dead Kennedys “Let’s Kill the Landlord”. In Birmingham. Surprising. There is no dance floor and therefore no dancing (though I would like to see someone try to get their groove on to the Dead Kennedy’s).

Finally, the crowd. It is exactly what you might expect in Birmingham, and includes some of the same faces seen at Edison’s. The first night that we drank at Elie’s, a patron from Edison’s that Tony dubbed Sir Ian Gere, a facial mash-up of Sir Ian McKellan and Richard Gere, welcomed us by saying, “What took you so long?”

Indeed.

We like the place in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that we so obviously do not fit in. Apparently, there is an aura one has when downriver is your home. You have non-meticulously groomed facial hair. You sport t-shirts, jeans priced under $40, and plunk hats on your balding domes. You treat those working the bar with respect and tip accordingly. You do not sport a faux-hawk, wear too tight Affliction shirts or treat the people serving you like servants.

This is not to say that Tony and I have not enjoyed checking out the haughty in Elie’s. We do. But we have had a few odd glances and one memorable run in with two broads that ended with them calling us fucking smart asses. I sensed that they were used to guys slobbering all over them and got pissy when Tony and I made it obvious we weren’t having it.

We like checking out the crowd. We also like that we are different, better. Downriver.

Go to Elie’s for a reasonable boozing, good tunes and great people watching. Just don’t be a douche.

PREDICTION...PAIN

2012-04-23T21:51:00.000-04:00

I have written nothing for almost three months. There have been times where I have not felt funny, periods of melancholy (my forties), and weeks where I am too tuckered from work for the discipline of writing. So what is behind this latest dry spell?

I have been feeling like shit since February 10. I know this exact date because I obsessively write down everything I eat and my every physical activity in little spiral notebooks. On that particular Friday, I was dog tired from a tough week at work, but looking forward to a few drinks with Anthony. I made myself go to the gym to lift weights, reasoning that once there I would be up for the challenge. I also feel better about drinking when I have counterbalanced the poison with physical exertion. On that day, my little journal indicates that I experienced post workout tightness in my back.

No big deal. Anyone who has worked out has felt twinges. You just kick back and go into rest and recovery mode.

Not this genius. The next day featured one of the only shovelable winter snows, and I shoveled. I also went back to the gym, lifted weights, and punctuated the lifting by running three tenths of a mile in between each set, for a total of 2.1 miles of running. I probably felt guilty about the previous night’s boozing.

I took Sunday off, but Monday found me walking two miles with Tony and back in the gym for more lifting. This is where my health really went south. By the time I got home from the Y, I was in trouble. General pain in my lower back was interrupted by shooting pain in my left hip and down my left leg. Often times this pain would settle into my left shin and stay put for hours in what can best be described as a continual cramp. Relief and sleep were an impossibility.

The next day at work found me in agony. I took some aspirin, bought some Icy Hot and applied it liberally to my back, ass cheeks and leg. My first application came outside my car in the parking lot of the Rite Aid at 11 Mile and Middlebelt. I was in so much pain that I did not care if anyone saw my white winter flesh during this early morning rubbing (I also wondered what would happen if you got Icy Hot on your dick, by accident of course). Nothing helped, though I did find some relief in the sitting position. Standing for over twenty seconds was impossible.

During the work day, I received a call from a business associate who offered me four prime seats for the Red Wings game that night. Anybody with a grain of good sense would have politely declined. The walk from parking lot to arena, the up and down of any sporting event and the cramped nature of seating would be a killer to someone in my situation.

So off to the game I went with wife Andrea, son Jackson and partner in booze Anthony. In my defense, the seats were third row behind the net and the Wings would break the record for consecutive home wins in a season that night. At one point, I got up to use the head and remembered how much Jack loved Dippin’ Dots ( I guess something about taking a leak reminded me of those tiny dots). I purchased the Dots and made my way back to the seats. The game was in full swing and it was then that I was reminded of the Red Wing policy of not letting fans back into their seats until there is a stoppage in play. I stood at the top of the steps while the Wings cycled the puck endlessly in what must have been the longest period of time in between whistles all year. I almost cried. Sincerely. When the action finally stopped and I was able to sit down, I found myself short of breath and sweating profusely.

Oh yeah, Jack loved his Dippin’ Dots.

The next month was a blur of pain, Icy Hot, over the counter meds of all shapes and sizes, sleepless nights and bitching. Lots of bitching (what a lucky gal my wife is).

This was no normal back pain and I took to the internet to self diagnose. I have done this before and have always managed to find something terminal to explain away my symptoms (runny nose=brain tumor). This one was not difficult to figure. I was experiencing classic sciatic nerve issues. It would take four to six weeks to run its course and I would just have to lay low and deal.

My idea of laying low and dealing is probably a bit different than yours. Mine involves an incredible lack of patience and worry that anything wrong is life threatening. Two weeks into this four to six week recovery time I paid a panic visit to the Docs. Five minutes and $30 later (lighter), my self diagnosis of sciatic nerve issues was confirmed.

The entire month of March was a blur of pain. Some in my hip, some in my lower leg, some in my foot. Pain bad enough to cause me to sit during inspections at client’s homes and shelf all physical activity except for limited walking.

I never missed a day of work. I also never missed a Friday Night Bug Juice session. My ability to work through pain, belief in accountability and sheer will power pulled me through. One of my employers recognized this dedication to craft. Thank you Anthony, co-everything at FNBJ.

When April began, I was feeling less pain and was able to stand for longer periods of time. I started increasing my physical activities by lifting light weights, walking longer and riding my bike. For one week, things improved.

Then, on 4-2-12, I began to experience pain in my right forearm, extending into my hand. My skin felt sensitive to touch and cold.

It was not the first time I experienced these symptoms. About five years ago, I had shingles on my right forearm. It hit me while I was moving son Maxwell into his dorm freshman year at CMU. The pain was tremendous and dominated the entire right side of my upper torso. Since that time, even though the nasty scabs have gone away, I periodically get pain in the area that lasts for a week or two.

This one was more extreme. My skin hurt. It went from the tips of my fingers, up my arm, into my shoulder and under my arm. I could not decide if this was shingle pain or somehow connected to my sciatic issues ( I also spent the better part of two weeks feeling around my armpit for lumps; I hope I remembered to wash my hands) .

I was, however, sure of the following:

Nobody could understand my pain.

Nobody ever experienced such intense pain over such a long period.

I would never get better.

I was turning flabbier by the minute.

Whatever I had was mis-diagnosed by both Doc and me, and was life threatening.

Gradually, the pain in my right side ebbed and so did my complaining. I believe the pain ebbed at a greater rate than the bitching, but check with my wife for confirmation. I have a hunch she’ll be glad to tell you.

I am feeling better now and have read my little journal for hints about what went wrong and what I can do in the future to keep these issues from coming back. A reasonable person might cut back on workouts, listen to their body for clues, quit being a douche.

Nobody ever called me reasonable. I am amping up the workouts, ignoring my body clues and will always be a douche.

I am also going to write more of this tripe.

Cheers! Jim

PS After reading about all this physical activity, you would think I would be fit as a fiddle instead of shaped like one.

GYM/JIM NUDE

2012-02-18T15:00:00.000-05:00

This one comes from the Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction department here at Friday Night Bug Juice Inc.

The setting is Stout Junior High School in Dearborn, Michigan. The time is 1972-1975. The steel door leading from the boy’s shower room to the pool opens and into the pool area parades a group of sixty young teen boys totally nude. Dicks and balls of all shapes and sizes bounce into place around the heavily chlorinated pool. Watching the parade of pubes is gym teacher Rick Haas.

Is this the start of something perverted? Some adult endorsed ritual of humiliation , degradation and eroticism?

Yes...and no.

This is the gym class I grew up with in the mid-seventies at my junior high in middle class Michigan. For some reason, never made clear to me and never questioned by my parents, we were required to perform the swimming portion of our gym class nude. As mentioned in previous blogs, I don’t do nude very well. I am hung (lower case letters) like a fat, mayonnaise skinned Irishman. When you combine my natural limitations with cold air, cold water and fear, you have a walking, barely bouncing afterthought.

We were all given specific areas to stand around the pool, because as everyone knows, any physical activity should get started with calisthenics.

“All right men, “ barks big Rick Haas, “let’s get started with twenty jumping jacks.”

“Now hit your backs, it’s time for leg lifts, four counts. Count one, lift legs off the ground pushed together, count two spread legs wide, count three legs still off the ground but back together, count four back to the ground. Let’s do twenty.”

“Very good. Now get in the push up position. I want good push ups, chest all the way to the pool deck. No cheating, no girlie push ups. Ten good ones on my go.”

Are you fucking kidding me. Use your imagination. Sixty dicks flopping around during jumping jacks, sixty assholes spread open for leg lifts, sixty units brushing the germ ridden pool deck for push ups.

I only wish that this was the end of the weirdness and perversion.

Once calisthenics were completed it was time for fun and games.

One popular game was Bean-O. In this game, all sixty kids were required to jam into the shallow end of the pool. Six volleyballs were introduced into this cramped area. The goal of the game is to hit someone, anyone as hard as you could with the ball. No teams, no scoring, only pain.

A few points of interest surrounding this “game”:

If somebody was about to hit you and you thought going under water could save your ass, the guy just followed you around until you had to surface for air and then nailed you.

Once, a ball skimmed out onto the pool deck and some poor bastard left the water to get it. He quickly became the object of many throws and painfully discovered that leaving the waist deep water left his junk as an inviting target. Nobody ever went on the deck to grab an errant ball after that.

One time a ball came to me and I turned to hit the guy standing next to me, who happened to be preoccupied with an enemy in the opposite direction. Just before I rallied the ball off his unsuspecting dome, I noticed it was Paul, a good friend of mine. I held off hitting him and fired it at some other sap. The whistle blew and I was beckoned from the pool. “Morrison,” Haas barked, “why didn’t you hit him.” No answer. “It’s time for an El Supremo.” I cringed. An El Supremo was the administration of a whack to your bare, wet ass using the top wood bar of a track hurdle. There were two, two inch round holes drilled about six inches from each other on this wood bar. A well placed whack from Haas left you with a white circle on each otherwise crimson ass cheek, what our gym teacher hilariously referred to as “headlights”.

The other game we played was known as water polo, though I can assure you that it bore no resemblance to the water polo you see played during the Olympics.

In this game, the sixty nude boys were split up into two teams, with one team lined up at the deep end of the pool and the other lined up at the shallow end. One volleyball was thrown into the middle of the pool. The goal was to put the ball in the trough at the other guy’s end of the pool.

That’s it. No more rules.

Anything and everything was allowed and encouraged. If someone had the ball and you could force them under water until lack of air made them capitulate, do it. If you wanted to punch someone on the side of the head to encourage them to give up the ball, do it. If you wanted to gang up four or five deep on a guys back until he broke down, do it.

My brother Tony has informed me that his tour of duty at Stout, some six years later featured much of the same nude weirdness. Ripping the title from the headlines of the day, a game popular during his tenure was called “Vietnam”. In this contest, teams of three were instructed to swim or tread water as quietly as possible from one end of the pool to the other, like soldiers trying to get through water undetected by the enemy. The three man team that made the most noise received some type of corporal punishment, simulating the punishment a noisy soldier might expect in the actual Vietnam War ( I suspect the losing soldier got worse than a whack, but even Haas had his limits). I guess if you lost a relative or loved one in Vietnam and were troubled by it, too fucking bad.

Aside from these three fun games, kids would randomly get selected to jump off the diving board with their hands held tight to their sides. Haas would then throw a volleyball at your defenseless body. If you kept your hands at your sides and accepted the inevitable welt of ball on wet skin, game over. If you cringed, turned away or otherwise defended yourself, you got a whack. I knocked a ball away one time and was rewarded with a whack administered by Haas using a plastic whiffle ball bat. Better than an El Supremo.

This stuff really happened.

Fuck you Rick Haas!

Cheers! Jim

TIDBITS FROM A TINY MIND

2012-02-07T16:52:00.000-05:00

Outta My Mind on a Snowy Morning:

I have had peanut butter toast for breakfast every day for the past four years. Literally.

I don’t understand why hockey is not more popular with the masses. It is fast; you can beat the snot out of an opponent, sit for five minutes and be forgiven; sticks are carried and used alternately for scoring and whacking; the games last a tidy two and one half hours and are not ruined by repeated time outs; ties are dramatically ended; the players are largely classy and approachable. Why don’t more people love this game?

These are the titles of some Frank Zappa songs: Sofa No.1, Evelyn-A Modified Dog, What’s The Ugliest Part of Your Body, Who Needs The Peace Corps, Weasels Ripped My Flesh, Didja Get Any Onya, Adventures of Greggary Peccarry, Why Does it Hurt When I Pee, Watermelon in Easter Hay, He Used to Cut The Grass, The Illinois Enema Bandit, Titties and Beer, Penguin in Bondage, Don’t You Ever Wash That Thing, Theme From Burnt Weeny Sandwich.

The best cowbell song of all time is Whisky Train by Procol Harum.

Watching parades and fireworks in person is iffy; watching them on television is horseshit.

I have never sent a text. I’m proud of that.

My job occasionally takes me to some pretty rough neighborhoods in Detroit. I always drive away thinking how difficult it is to not be able to drive away. What if you lived there? Had to walk home from school amongst trash, crime, loose dogs and indifference? What message would you get?

One of my favorite moments in any week is lunch on Saturday. I am not eating at my desk or on the move. No Lean Cuisine meatloaf or pizza. Saturday means a carefully prepared sandwich, diet soda and a fresh Sports Illustrated.

Why do so many people, especially Republicans fear marijuana? Do they think that, if people want pot, keeping it illegal will stop them from scoring? Do they think it is worse for the user than what’s legally bought at party stores on every street corner in the country? I have seen many drunk and stoned people. The drunks are way more dangerous and difficult to be around. Oh yeah, the latest survey on legalizing pot in Michigan shows 57% of Democrats in favor, and only 29% of Republicans. Like I needed another reason to heap scorn upon the Republican party.

My son was watching a reality show that featured Alaskan State Troopers and it grabbed my interest, though probably not in the manner it was intended. I was troubled by the way these cops used the smallest reason to pull people over for what they termed “a fishing expedition”. Rear Bumper hanging a few inches low equals cop looking under your seat for a reason to take you in. I saw one wilderness trooper confront two guys fishing. The fishermen had all of their licenses in order, were doing nothing but fishing in a remote wilderness area, but the cop asked to look through their coolers anyway. He had them open up a small box in the cooler and found some pot, allowing him to write them a ticket. In case you’re thinking they deserved this trouble, remember that the end does not justify the means. Not in my world. Maybe concentrate more on people who actually cause harm and less on two guys smoking a fatty while fishing. What a waste of taxpayer money.

The next time you are awake Monday through Friday at 6:20 am, think of me. I’ll be taking a shit. Being insanely regular is one of the joys in my life.

I am not sure why so many revere Muhammad Ali. Do a tiny bit of research. You’ll discover a man who openly cheated on his wife, spoke out against white people and integration, believed that women were second class citizens, used race to his athletic advantage and turned talking shit into an art form.

I am done with Betty White.

Just so you don’t think I loathe Republicans only, I present Wayne County Executive and Democrat Bob Ficano, the embodiment of all things scuzzy. His hit list of sleeze includes: Huge war chest of funds raised largely through strong arming and political kickbacks, more appointees than the Governor, crazy severance packages for the appointees, paying more than half of his appointees over $100,000 annually. But what grinds me the most is his belief that you and I are either so stupid or so lazy as to not call him out for the $200,000 severance package he was willing to give Turkia Mullin. He claims he gave her that generous severance package based on what her predecessor received and pulled it when he found out that wasn’t the case. It had nothing to do with the shitstorm resulting from the severance pay becoming public knowledge. That’s not even a good lie. The entire system is broke and needs a giant enema.

By the way, the above nugget is a prime indicator of the importance of newspapers and journalism.

Bands I have seen advertised as playing in the Detroit area include: Cold Man Young, Kommie Kilpatrick, Betty Cooper, and my personal favorite Douche and The Bags.

Jack and I were driving down the road and the Ford 250 in front of us featured the following: Fake bull balls hanging down from the bumper hitch, a sticker on one side of the window claiming “Horny Hunter” and a sticker on the opposite side with the phrase “Hick Life”. The Stars and Bars decal must be on order.

When I walk in the door from work, I am like a kid after school. Ravenous. Eating all the wrong things. If only the Three Stooges or Little Rascals were on.

The perfect halftime act for The Super Bowl is Chris Rock. He can tone it down and still be hilarious. Beats lip synched choreographed old crap every time.

Black Sabbath and Bad Company are the only two bands I can think of that have an album where the artist, name of the album and track on the album are the same (Black Sabbath by Black Sabbath on the album Black Sabbath- if you get my drift) .Can you think of any others?

I was watching Cool Hand Luke the other day and was initially outraged that Paul Newman did not win the Academy Award for his performance. Until I looked up that year’s nominees and winner. In 1967, Newman was nominated along with Warren Beatty for Bonnie and Clyde, Dustin Hoffman for The Graduate and Spencer Tracy for Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner with the statue going to Rod Steiger for In the Heat of the Night. Heavy hitters, all.

Before I forget, Michigan Attorney General Bill Schuette can kiss my ass.

Cheers! Jim

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