Friday Night Bug Juice

EXTRA NECK SKIN

2020-04-23T22:25:00.000-04:00

I can’t recall the last time I wrote something for enjoyment. While I’m not sure why that is, I’m fairly certain that it’s not good.

Once in awhile, I look back over my bar reviews from Friday Night Bug Juice (give it a try, it’s not all shit). My brother Tony and I tore it up every Friday night for at least ten years. We put on a front and said our purpose was to get content for our website. Bullshit. We did it because it was fun. Boozing, laughing and the danger that goes with hanging out at a bar until closing time.

I should feel bad about that. Wasting money, dive bar riff-raff, driving impaired or worse. I do feel bad. But not for those reasons. I feel bad because I cannot recall the last time Tony and I boozed it up at some neighborhood shithole.

I still see Tony almost every day, we work together. We laugh and enjoy each other’s company. I’m lucky to have a brother that is my best friend. But I miss him dearly. We need to get dirty again.

The questions are can we and will we?

Cheers! Jim

TAYLOR AC (ATHLETIC CLUB?)

2018-01-07T10:59:00.000-05:00

Ever since my twenty-first birthday, I have been a firm believer that making a big deal out of your birthday is for kids. If you are seven, it is understandable to want to be the center of attention for the great achievement of being born on a specific day. Once you start shaving, get over it.

That is one reason why I met my son Max’s third, thirty year old birthday celebration with bridled (as opposed to unbridled) enthusiasm. We had already enjoyed a family celebration on Sunday. On Tuesday, his real birthday, he went out with besties Luke and Carly for a special dinner at Ford’s Garage. As Friday dawned, it was time for the real debauchery with a wider circle of friends and family at Taylor AC bar located in deepest Taylor.

Before I could whet my whistle at Max III, I had hurdles to overcome. Work, and the possibility that a work related emergency could arise, needed to be conquered. No problem there. In fact, I was able to get out of work about two hours early and face my second hurdle, a five hour round trip drive to Mt. Pleasant and Central Michigan University to pick up young scholar Jackson. The previous days serious snow was over, but winter spit on me the entire trip. The solo trip to get The Kid was dreadful, the trip back with my opinionated son much more entertaining.

We arrived home in Allen Park at 7:30. Plenty of time to jam some pizza in our faces before the 9 pm tip off at Taylor AC. As my brother Tony likes to preach, you should always lay down a base before serious boozing. Tony would also refer to the pizza being wolfed down as an appropriate “spackle” for what was to come.

I jammed son Jackson, wife Andrea, sage/brother Tony and his wife Beth into my car for the longest short trip of my life. I am a good driver. Period. To be subject to second guessing and carping about lane selection, car temperature and fan direction is way out of line. As is my style, I quietly endured and soon arrived at Taylor AC bar on the south side of Ecorse Road just west of Beech Daly. It is easy to spot this well lit dive and parking is a breeze on either side of the building.

As soon as we opened the door, I saw the birthday boy, three days removed, presiding over a bunch of small tables pushed together to make one long banquet fiesta. I immediately recognized Carly and Luke, two exceptionally nice kids and big fans of a good time. I then met Charley, Carly’s guy who sat to my immediate right (this becomes important later in the blog). There were others of course and I was properly introduced but I cannot recall names. Relax, they don’t recall mine either.

I knew things would kick up a notch when Andrea’s youngest brother Bill and his very significant other Wendy soon arrived. That they arrived bearing a gift for Max was not surprising. That the bottle of Deep Eddy Lemon Vodka was sealed at night’s end, surprising.

I took in Taylor AC. A deep joint, larger inside than the outer cement rectangle indicates. A kitchen and dart board immediately inside the front door, long bar to the right and a sea of tables to the left. There was a jukebox in the middle of these tables, a steady stream of amateur disc jockeys feeding the glowing monster. I heard country, classic rock, R and B and some surprisingly great stuff ( those selected by Tony and I). I was informed by Jackson that the juke would not allow you to select rap. If attempted, your money is spit back, your photo is quickly taken and posted above the bar so that you will be remembered as a deviant for time immemorial.

The crowd is a monochromatic white, any diversity comes from age. Serious boozers from twenty one to me are welcome. Don’t bother dressing to impress, unless you want to be singled out as an outsider.

Once seated, I ordered a half pitcher of Sam Adams to start. It had been a tough week of work capped by a long ride in difficult conditions to pick up my boy. I was ready to have some fun, secure in the knowledge that Andrea would handle the drive home duties.

This assumption was dashed twenty minutes after arriving.

By the time I finished my first glass of beer, Andrea had wolfed down her second Captain and Coke and was gesturing for her third. When she yelled across the table to Bill that she was drinking what their late/beloved Aunt Shirley liked to drink and that they made them strong at the Taylor AC, I knew that my dream of joining those drinking unfettered was over.

I had become the designated driver and would sit on the sidelines watching others sip and slip into oblivion. Taylor AC is just that kind of bar, much like the old Gem Bar in Dearborn. Our waitress Amanda, a fellow Allen Parker, made sure that the table was always oiled and did it in a saucy style. This crew did not need much help going over the top, but whatever assistance was needed, Amanda provided it.

I watched. As the boozing progressed, little pieces of the party moved around the bar and mixed with the regulars. Lots of laughing, voices getting louder and louder. The smokers beefed about going outside to puff, but stayed out longer and longer. The odor of what was being smoked seemed to change as the night went on.

You know it’s a good time when you are surprised by Last Call. The birthday boy sat pretty much in the same spot the entire night, like a king on his throne as Bill suggested. When someone noted that it was a good turnout and what a shame it was that Max’s sister Rachel and hubby Matt could not make it because they were sick, I saw some tears on my son’s face. To say he and Ray are tight is an understatement. Even without the drinking, Max would have been emotional. That is who he is and one of the biggest reasons I love that kid. Tony and I tried to help by acknowledging that this kind of feeling sneaks up on us also, especially when it comes to our Mom. Gas on the fire. Max, still quietly wiping away tears said, “Oh Grandma” and trailed off. I put my arm on the big man’s shoulder, while he quietly repeated “I can’t...I can’t...”

Looks like I was wrong about multiple birthday celebrations. Nothing wrong with celebrating life and having as much fun as possible. Doing so at the Taylor AC: recommended.

Cheers! Jim

Epilogue: Whilst at the bar, I was experiencing an inner ear issue. I could not get too aggressive. Digging in your ear is frowned upon, even in Taylor. The next day, I asked Andrea to look in my ear and see what was up. I had no doubt that she would rise to this occasion. She loves this kind of grossness. Armed with a flashlight, tweezers and Kleenex, Andrea informed me to sit on the sofa, nasty ear facing her. A sound of excitement. Fumbling for the tweezers. “Hold still”. Seconds later, Andrea presented me with a hard, bronze wax disc with a couple of rogue hairs jutting wildly from side to side. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to Charley, who sat to my immediate right (see), and any other unfortunate reveler who had the misfortune of seeing inside the hairy mess that was/is my right ear.

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A SORDID STORY

2015-12-10T17:27:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*No memory of Rod Stewart and Faces. None.

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

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

I have no idea how I survived.

Cheers! Jim

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

CURMUDGEON NEWS

2015-11-24T20:30:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers, Jim!

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

DEATH FROM DEATH METAL?

2015-09-20T12:47:00.001-04:00

I should have known better.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then they were gone.

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

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

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

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

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

Did anything else good happen that night?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers! Jim

NO GO

2015-03-22T14:03:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why not go?

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

Picturing my cocktail party topics of discussion:

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

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

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

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

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

It does for me.

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

Cheers! Jim

DRIFT AWAY

2015-03-15T19:57:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers! Jim

VITAL IDOL

2015-02-07T13:10:00.004-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers! Jim

UNLOVED AND IGNORED: THE LIFE OF A COMPACT DISC

2015-02-01T15:38:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers! Jim

YOUR CHOICE IS "CRYSTAL" CLEAR

2015-01-28T18:42:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

We needed Crystal Bar and Grill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some Crystal encounters:

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

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

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

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

Cheers! Jim

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

BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY

2015-01-07T05:35:00.000-05:00

One reason that I prefer reading an actual newspaper over on line editions is the portability of the newspaper in relation to the bathroom. At my place of business, there is a pipe that comes down from the ceiling directly behind and attached to the urinal at head height. It is the perfect place to tuck in the sports page, giving you a way to enjoy sports and void your bladder at the same time.

Each day my brother tucks in the Free Press sports page open to page two.

For months I have been fascinated and amused by the ad which appeared in the lower left hand corner of this page. It featured The Men’s Medical Clinic and gives you a blow by blow (as it were) account of how they can eliminate erectile dysfunction and premature ejaculation. This is what I love about the ad in no particular order:

*They boast an all male staff. How this is an enticement to arousal or privacy, I cannot fathom. I always picture a gruff guy behind the counter with a sly, “I can get hard and you can’t” grin on his mug checking you in.

*The boast of the clinic is the use of a special pill that will give a dead man an erection that will continue after his ejaculation...long after his ejaculation...45, 60 or 90 minutes after his ejaculation. This insures that even after you have orgasmed, you can keep working until your partner has caught up. The Clinic pills you up on your initial visit to make sure that you can deliver while on site. In my mind, the waiting room is filled with guys who have popped their cork and are now sitting around with a variety of bulges in their pants, watching Sports Center and waiting 45, 60 or 90 minutes for their boners to subside before heading to Tim Horton’s for a coffee.

*Who wants to stay hard for ninety minutes? Most of us have had a snack and a nap by that time.

*I am also concerned with what stimuli you are given to get things going. Again, I see the gruff guy behind the counter spreading out a perverse kaleidoscope of dog eared smut for your on site test. “We got Barely Legal, Shaved, Whiptail...”

*I would not touch the door knobs or pens in this joint either. If you happen to drop something on the floor, leave it.

*The location is in one of those large, multi-office medical clinics. The suite next door houses Novi Mental Health Specialists ( looked it up on line, not through a personal visit, in case you are wondering). I envision a very delicate consultation between the Novi mental health specialist and a troubled patient. “Yes, I understand that your mother was overbearing and your issues with intimacy may stem...” Through the wafer thin walls come the sounds of The Men’s Medical Clinic “curing” another patient, bringing the mental health evaluation to an abrupt end.

Recently, The Men’s Clinic ad has disappeared from the lower left hand corner of page two of the Free Press sports section. Either erectile dysfunction and premature ejaculation have been cured (doubtful as I am certain that I would have seen the banner headlines), or their contract with the Free Press has run it’s course.

I miss it.

If you want to feel truly young, forget visiting The Men’s Clinic and stop in at the Sportsmen’ Den in Riverview. Located at the Riverview Highlands golf course on Sibley between Allen and Fort, you will swear you have stumbled into a cast wrap up party for Cocoon II (thanks to Tony for that one liner). At age fifty-seven, with a face that screams sixty-seven, I can confidently state that I am often the youngest guy in the joint.

I have visited this pub on a number of occasions; only once with partner in liver damage Tony. This seems to be a go-to spot for wife Andrea and I when in the mood for drink and entertainment. On the one occasion I visited with Tony, a female member of the age spot brigade asked if he was with the band, an honest mistake given Tony’s bon vivant appearance. He autographed her napkin, accepted a free drink and we moved on (kidding).

There is no cover to get into the Sportsmen’s. You simply park in the gigantic lot, walk down a short hall toward the sound of The Tender Years Band and find a spot at the large bar or one of the many tables that surround the bar. You will want to get as close to the band as possible, because what happens on the large dance floor in front of the band is a hoot.

The boys in Tender Years play at a comfy volume, allowing for talk and the real purpose for the geriatric crowd making this place home: pick ups. Seriously. Every time I leave Andrea alone to take a leak, I come back to see a guy asking her to dance or see a grin on her face followed by a story about some guy asking her to dance. I have never had to get shitty with any of the fellows, as it is for the most part a chill bar.

I say for the most part because we did witness a great dustup one evening. An older lady was walking off the dance floor (I will never refer to anyone in this story as older again, just assume that they are), when she was stopped by a woman sitting at a table on the aisle. The women at the table told her in a voice plenty loud for all to hear that she should never whisper sweet nothings in her man’s ear or there would be consequences. I could not hear the dancing lady’s rebuttal, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an apology because the lady at the table stood up and took this argument to a new level poking her finger into the dancing lady’s bulging tummy and asking, “Why would he want to dance with someone as fat as you anyway?”

I congratulate both ladies for shedding forty years off their lives, and reverting back to junior high behavior. I might also mention that the guy they were sparring over was a faux cowboy with little to offer from a looks standpoint. Perhaps he was known to be a frequent visitor to The Mens Clinic.

Did I mention that the pizza at Sportsmen’s is pretty good, that getting a drink is easy and not a strain on the wallet? That Tender Years is a pretty decent cover band ( songs include All Day and Some of the Night, You Can Leave Your Toupee On and I Saw her Leaning There).

Go to Sportsmen’s, eat some pizza, drink your drink, watch or partake in the shenanigans on the dance floor and feel young again (comparatively).

Cheers, Jim

SPORTS VENUE BAR

2014-10-07T20:36:00.001-04:00

In my ridiculous job, I find myself in many unsavory situations. Last week was one of those times. I found myself in the basement of an old church that had been drenched during the Great Rain of ’14. My assignment was to look at moving a wad of ancient furniture around this disgusting lower level so that tile and carpet could be replaced (and if that’s not an advertisement to get your college degree, I don’t know what is...Jackson).

I was shown around by a crusty church watchdog who could not wait to get out of the lower level and all of its yech. He told me to lock up behind myself and then high tailed it (old fart style) up the steps and out the door.

I worked as fast as I could, touched as little as I could and was ready to high tail it (middle aged style) up the steps and out the door.

But first, urination.

I had noticed a small men’s room next to the stage in the social hall. I walked in, flicked on the light and was pleased by it’s cleanliness. It looked like every school bathroom ever seen. Green tile floor, textured brick walls, two urinals that reached down to the floor and a toilet behind gray door. I moved over to the urinal and considered what a good idea it was to have one that went all the way down to the floor and ended with a foot in diameter porcelain circle that you straddle while pissing. Every men’s room that has the abrupt mid-air ending urinal features a disgusting testimony to man’s poor aim on the floor.

When the first drop of my whizz hit the bottom of the urinal, a huge and hairy centipede appeared from under the porcelain rim of the previously praised piss catching circle.

“Shit”.

My word echoed around the room as I involuntarily stepped back and regarded my enemy. He was big, but I was bigger. He had a million hairy legs, but I stood firm on dry tile. He had places to hide, but I had a powerful coffee induced stream at the ready (yes, it’s still strong in my late 50’s).

I would win and I would make him pay for scaring me.

I focused on him and let fly. The stream sent him scrambling to the bottom of the basin where he sought relief under the rim. He went right rim, so I leaned to the left and fired under the rim. When he scrambled to the rim on the opposite side, I leaned opposite and strafed. After a few seconds of this cat and mouse game, he tried to go up and out. Now I was mad. I hit him hard and he tumbled to the bottom and quit moving. The last fifteen seconds were piling on and purely personal.

I zipped up and walked away. The Urinal War had ended and I was victorious.

A few days ago, I found myself back in this disgusting basement, working with our moving crew explaining what the program was for the day.

Once again, my visit ended in a need to relieve. As I walked back toward the men’s room, I thought of those old horror films from the 50’s and 60’s where an outside source like atomic waste would wash over an innocent bystander such as a spider and turn the spider into a huge beast that would terrify the surrounding area and baffle the clueless authorities. What if my urine had the same effect on the centipede? What might I find when I flicked on the light? Would a twenty foot centipede be waiting to hold me down and get his revenge by drowning me in his disgusting liquid waste?

I could have gone to the safety of a nearby McDonalds, but that would be chicken shit. I went in, flicked on the light and looked immediately to the urinal on the right. My urinal. He was there, looking like a lost eyebrow on the stark white porcelain. He fidgeted slightly, a proud warrior. He hadn’t changed in size, though he somehow looked different. More erect, squarer through the shoulder perhaps.

I stood, hand on light switch for a brief second. I nodded, turned off the light and moved on to the bland safety of a fast food bathroom.

Partner in Bug Juice and younger brother Anthony and I were certainly not bugged to be going to Sports Venue Bar on Middlebelt Road in lovely Garden City.

We were tipped to the joint by my son Max. He had spent the previous week at this place with his drinking mates, Carly and Luke. I asked him to give me the lowdown on SVB over dinner one night. As Max is a slave to organization and thoroughness, I was not surprised to see him grab a piece of paper so that he could give me the layout of the bar while describing it in vivid detail. The key, according to young Max, is that Sports Venue is two bars in one, one side for sports and one for dancing.

One aspect left off his drawing was a picture of a red car flying up and down Middlebelt Road in a desperate search for the bar and the amber gold waiting inside. I went three miles past, before turning around and whizzing by it again in the opposite direction (yes, I am well aware that I used the word “whizzing”). After a great amount of cursing and one last illegal U-turn, we pulled into the crowded lot. For the record, SVB is on the west side of Middlebelt, north of Ford Road and is somewhat difficult to see.

Once inside, my partner in booze and I made our way to the long bar which dominates the “sports” portion of the bar. Our usual Miller Light and Labatt set us back a paltry $5.50. It was doled out by one of a handful of servers, all of whom featured dick and balls. Why a sports bar is not staffed by women is a mystery to this grizzled bar veteran. The guys were attentive and did fine, but again, the dick and ball thing is not great.

The sports side of SVB featured multiple televisions, keno and a handful of games for the more adventurous. A variety of tables and chairs were scattered in front of the bar, all of them with a fine view of the flatscreens. Even though sports is the name of the game in this area, the mix of men and women was decent. This did not appear to be a hooking up area, and that worked fine for those in attendance.

As Max noted via illustration, what makes SVB different, is the adjoining “dance” portion of the bar. It is easily seen (good) and heard (not so good), through decorative holes in the wall. A small dance floor saw sporadic and spasmodic action. The tables around the floor and DJ were crowded with the curious and the horny.

Tony and I were content to stand at the long bar on the sports side. Serious boozing ensued, with Tony going smorgasbord: Labatt, Corona, Rolling Rock, Coors, Buckhorn, Weidemann, Red Cap, Keystone, Old Milwaukee, Hamms, Black Label (some of these were real choices, some not; you figure out which is which).

Just as we were considering a move to the dance side of the equation, the door swung open and the Mod Squad of Dive Bars entered: Max, Luke and Miss Carly.

Tony and I were delighted to see this next generation and called them over immediately. I had to hug my big man, daring anybody to have a problem. Nobody cared, or noticed for that matter. Relax, Jim.

These three know the right way to behave at a bar. They don’t treat the staff like servants, tip well and have fun, but not “look at me” fun. This trio can hang with the Bug Juice Two any time (even if Luke orders his Corona with a shot of grenadine poured right into the bottle).

When the youngsters made noise about grabbing a table on the dance side, Tony slammed the brakes on that idea, informing them that they were going to hang at the bar with their elders until we were ready to split.

We split before closing, but not before enjoying our visit to Sports Venue Bar in general and hanging with the kids in particular. I don’t see myself retiring from visiting bars any time soon, but I feel comfortable knowing that when I do, three pretty cool kids are ready to pick up the slack.

Cheers! Jim

HONORARY ZULU

2014-07-05T10:03:00.000-04:00

I recall standing up after taking a long slurp at the drinking fountain in fourth grade at St. Martha School in Dearborn and locking eyes with Sister Justa. She waddled toward me with menace in mind and took in my red face, sweat plastered hair and untucked shirt before pointing at me with a crooked finger and bellowing, “You Zulu”.

I took it as a compliment then. I take it as a compliment today ( ten minutes before being labeled a Zulu, Phil Smith got in my way during recess and I threw him to the pebbly pavement. He got up crying with little stones imbedded in his palm. Much later in life, he asked his mail carrier, my wife Andrea, out on a date. She declined and went out with me instead. Maybe if I don’t take away a piece of his swagger in fourth grade, Andrea’s decision is different).

I thought of this after biking past the packed baseball diamonds and parking lots of St. Francis Cabrini yesterday. They were packed with kids in full uniforms carrying fancy travel bags filled with metal bats and new mitts. Adult umpires barked out the balls and strikes while row after row of moms and dads sat at the edge of their seats watching and yelling.

FACT: Me and my crew from the mid sixties to early seventies would have kicked the crap out of the kids of today on any baseball diamond, football field or basketball court.

Robert Summers, Jeffrey Hoover, Marv Raupp, Pat Lafferty, James Morrison.

This is a partial roll call of ill tempered, highly skilled, max effort guys that dotted the sports landscape of West Dearborn from 1965 through 1975.

Bragging by a sad old man you say. Hell no, I say.

We played our games at 10 am or 1 pm. We got to the games by foot or bike. My Dad was at work, my Mom was occupied with other kids and her home. They never saw me play. Nobody’s parents ever saw them play. So no kid ever heard his dad yell, “you’re still uppercutting at the baseball.” As far as umps went, they were slightly older than us and feared. A kid giving them shit was unheard of (your retribution might arrive later in the day at Ten Eyck pool).

Your team might have a matching jersey and cap, rarely pants and socks. You wore tennis shoes and caught with last years mitt. The bat was wood and cherished. If it broke, you taped/bolted/screwed it in place until it was kindling. The ball was dirty and sometimes heavy from absorbing the elements.

No wise parents, no adult umpires, crap gear, tattered uniforms.

Than why was my crew so much better than todays?

Pretty easy answer actually.

Because the hour I spent on the diamond playing a sanctioned baseball game was probably the sixtieth hour I spent playing baseball that week.

Nobody out yet, bounce the ball off the side of the house and play catch. Two guys out, play wall ball or curb ball. Three guys, play pickle. Four guys means home run derby or 500. Six guys or more means a regular game, pitcher’s hand or pitcher’s mound (if I have to explain the difference between the two, then you are too young or a twerp).

When you played with your friends all day, you got fifty at bats and the ball is constantly hit at you. If you are playing with your chums and there are no adults around, you are going to take a ton of crap for bad plays, so you don’t make bad plays. Lack of adult supervision is also how I learned how to curse like a champ, a skill I retain to this day.

I wouldn’t term this friendly competition either. If you and I are playing curb ball, I skin my knees on the street trying to beat you. If you win, I don’t say good game, I say let’s play again (I’m guessing this would happen, never got beat playing curb ball so I don’t know for sure).

At night, I listen to Ernie and Ray Lane call the Tigers games. I am not busy with Xbox or practicing jazz flute. I listen and learn.

Drive around today. Do any kids play pickle or wall ball or 500? Are any baseball diamonds buzzing with kids unless it’s a league game?

This is why the old Chestnut Street gang dominates the action against the pasty faced kids of today. It’s not even close. And when the game is over, we don’t expect Mom snacks or participation ribbons. We are going home to play with our army men while we listen to the Tigers beat the Kansas City A’s.

Cheers! Jim

PS Don’t let the wrinkly skin fool you, I’m still a Zulu.

A BIG NIGHT FOR THE BIG FELLA

2014-06-11T18:56:00.000-04:00

Most of my memorable moments as a parent have arrived unannounced.

With Rachel, it involved arriving early for her softball games, sitting alongside a dusty diamond and talking about nothing while seeing who could toss the most pebbles into an empty cup (Hey Rachel, I let you win).

With Maxwell, it was the St. Francis Ushers Pancake Breakfast. We would arrive hours early for twenty minutes of set-up, then walk around the building exploring and laughing about the horrible chow we were about to serve.

With Jackson, it was walking the paper route with our trusty and rusty wagon. We would invent nicknames for all of our customers and I would get a class by class rundown of the day’s school activities. I would always speculate about what my cut of the collection would be. Never got a dime.

Having gone through two high school cap and gown ceremonies with oldsters Rachel and Max, I was not anticipating a precious moment at young Jackson’s graduation from Allen Park High School. Did I mention that the event took place on a muggy Friday after a rough week at work? That it was at the ancient and cavernous Allen Park Civic Auditorium? That our seats were at the rear of the hall where people on the stage could only be seen on grainy big screens? That fresh air inside the auditorium was at a premium? That my wife made me wear long pants when all the other dads were showing off their skinny legs and knobby knees?

I have always found the cap and gown ceremony to be a pretentious exercise in tedium. A parade of tired speeches, out of tune singing and instrument playing and an endless roll call of unfamiliar names. And the payoff? Seeing your mile away kid walk across a stage to accept a piece of paper (not even the actual diploma).

I fought sleep waiting for the program to begin. In my haze, I heard Max ask, “What’s wrong with Daddy?” I put on my big boy Daddy pants. “Nothing, just a little tired,” I replied, straightening up in my seat.

Finally the band struck up the entrance march (not easy to differentiate from the warming up). We stood to watch the students march in. They flew down the aisle two by two, a blur of bouncing hair and smiling faces. I caught sight of Jackson. He was beaming, long hair curling out from under his cap, face ringed with an orange tinted scruffy beard.

This ten second burst of energy was followed by ninety minutes of sweaty hell. There were monotone speeches from various Allen Park dignitaries (“Please welcome the Parks and Recreation Supervisor to tell you why a proud graduate never litters”). There was the whitest chorus of all time, using their best American idol voices on a sappy tune.

And finally, the roll call of graduates. Rachel tortured me during this endless procession by pointing out the current graduate’s name in the program and Jack’s faraway name. Glacial.

Finally, the roll hit the M’s. We inched forward in a ridiculous effort to reduce the chasm between our seats and the stage. I caught sight of my man entering from stage right. He was impressive in size and stature, a brilliant smile dominating his face.

“Jackson Patrick Morrison.” A beautiful Irish name for a beautiful Irish lad.

We saluted Jack with a synchronized shout of “Louie”, an homage to his night time buddy and alter ego. Jack claimed he did not hear us, but it does not matter. Louie was properly recognized.

Finally, the program came to a conclusion and the proud graduates flew down the aisle and into the real world.

The lawn of the Civic Center was a madhouse. The Class of 2014 mingled with parents, family, friends and teachers posing for informal photos or hugging and kissing.

It took a while to locate Jackson, but when we did, he was hanging with his crew. It is difficult for an old fart like me to understand, but Jack and his posse bonded over video games. They would hang at a friend’s house, play video games until the sun came up, eat tons of food and give each other shit. You could not, however, neatly define these guys by their love of Grand Theft Auto. They are tennis captains, hockey captains, workout warriors and talented students. A good bunch of guys.

I got a kick out of watching these big fellas hug and put their arms around each other without an ounce of self consciousness.

There was one glaring omission from the evenings proceedings, Grandma. The heat and the difficulty of getting around made taking my Mom to the auditorium seem like a bad idea. Before arriving, we had discussed stopping over unannounced after the ceremony to visit. But the evening had gone long and we considered a visit the following day instead.

Jack would not hear of it. Andrea, Ray and Max echoed his sentiments. I figured that even though the hour was late, there was a decent chance my Mom would be awake watching her beloved Tigers.

Let’s go.

But first, Jack had to go back inside, get his actual diploma and go back to his buddy’s house to pick up the car.

The four remaining adults decided that this would be the perfect opportunity to stop in at The Sports Haven bar for a quick beer. After all, the pub is close to my Mom’s, we had time to kill and we were hot and thirsty. Don’t judge.

Jack went his way and we went ours, arriving at the equally muggy Sports Haven in Dearborn. We ordered tall summer shandys all around and commandeered a table at the rear of the bar. We drank, laughed and talked about the ceremony. Somewhere in there, Max complained about the heat. Finally it dawned on us to call Jack and tell him to meet us at the bar, so that we could arrive at Grandma’s together.

A couple of minutes later, Jack called to tell us he was on his way. A couple of gulps later, I went out in the parking lot to greet him and walk him into the Haven. I saw him approach, directed him toward a vacant spot and watched as he got out of the car, resplendent in his green gown. The kid stopped, wrestling to get his cap atop his flowing locks. He was going to make an entrance.

I walked in first, followed by my boy. The sodden faces at the bar turned to face us and a rousing round of applause welcomed Jackson to the pub. Jack sat with us at the rear of the bar while we saluted him with the last of our shandys.

Before we could finish, the waitress stopped by and told us that Jack would have to leave, as it was after nine and he was underage. My boy graduates high school and an hour later gets the boot from a bar for the first time, and we are there to witness both. I get misty thinking about it.

Two minutes later, our merry caravan arrived at my Mom’s. I had my key out, ready to make a surprise entrance at the side door. Locked from the inside. We would have to call and possibly wake younger brother Tony and wife Beth. I knew from previous Facebook postings that the two had indulged in some driveway drinking that night.

After a couple of short rings, a surprised, but happy Beth answered the phone and announced that she would be right down to let us in. Tony and Beth may have been sleeping, they surely had been drinking, but they were delighted to greet us, camera at the ready.

The real prize came when my Mom walked in, wrapped in her comfy robe, her voice cracking with pleasure at seeing the graduate. Jack tightly hugged his Grandma, towering over her, holding on a long time. There were seven of us cramped in that muggy kitchen. It made me think of a chaotic scene in the rear of Holy Cross Hungarian Church some thirty-three years earlier when Andrea took pity on me and agreed to be my wife. Chaos can be fun.

As they have done ever since Jackson was a little boy, my Mom and he said good-bye by touching index fingers so my Mom could “steal” some youthful energy from Jack. It’s not stealing if the young man with the youthful energy wants you to have it.

The evening wound down with a late dinner at Applebee’s. I was wedged in a

booth between Ray and Andrea, looking across the table at Max and Jack. I thought about the evening and the scene that had unfolded in the kitchen, thankful for the love of family and memorable moments that sneak up without warning.

Cheers! Jim

FOR SALE: INDULGENCE

2014-05-25T21:00:00.003-04:00

If you look in today’s Free Press (for the dozen or so of you who still actually purchase a paper), you will see an article entitled “Up North cottage market heats up.”

This article is accompanied by photos of cottages in northern Michigan that are for sale. There is a nice Houghton Lake starter cottage for $339,000, an affordable cottage in Traverse City listed at $842,000 and a second home on Lake Charlevoix for a mere $1,595,000.

Before going any further, allow me to state my credentials. I am a northern Michigan veteran. My parents had a second home on a working farm in Mesick for many years, I have regularly vacationed in the beautiful north with my family and consider myself knowledgeable about all things Michigan.

These “cottages” listed for sale in the Free Press are so anti northern Michigan as to be sickening. The people I knew that live up north and the ones I have met vacationing there, are generally a down to earth lot that understand their role in the beauty of their surroundings. It is to be a small cog in the world, not to dominate it.

That some rich swine from Oakland County got together with their asshole designers and constructed a monstrosity is wrong. Just because you can do something does not mean that you should.

The Lake Charlevoix cottage in particular is sickening. It blocks the lake view of any poor sod who happens to live anywhere behind them. If you happen to be boating on the lake, you will be confronted with this silly mansion, instead of admiring the natural beauty of the shoreline. It absolutely flies in the face of everything around it, and goes against the first rule of decent design in that it does not fit.

It am also troubled by the huge footprint a house of this size leaves on the land and its resources. The energy used to heat and provide air conditioning for the pampered twits that spend the odd weekend roughing it in the woods, must be considerable. Perhaps a more modest cottage, built with modern energy saving materials, would satisfy their up north needs. Remember, your purpose is to re-connect with the world around you and not use it up.

When I look at these photos, I am reminded of a confrontation my daughter Rachel and son Jackson witnessed at the IGA in Empire. A fudgie was complaining loudly about the lack of a brand name cheese available.

“I can’t use Spartan cheese. I need a name brand.”

“Spartan is a name brand.”

“It’s not my name brand.”

Back home you get your cheese, up north you get Spartan brand. Back home, you can try and dominate the world, up north just blend in for Christ sake.

I suggest that anyone considering building a cottage in northern Michigan take a look at some of the older houses in the area and emulate those. By all means, update and modernize. But don’t build something obscene just because you can. Try to let the world know how successful you are without fouling the environment for others.

Oh, what’s the use!

Cheers, Jim

PS “Oh what’s the use” is what I mutter almost every day while reading the Free Press, my catch phrase if you will (think of it as “Dyn-o-mite” or “I’m so confused”).

JIM THROWS A FIT

2014-04-20T14:05:00.005-04:00

I wasn’t in the best of moods.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning, after the shittiest of shitty winters, and instead of hanging out at my house sipping coffee with my wife, I was heading into work to see a troublesome client and work through a mound of papers.

When I reached Birmingham on Southfield Road, I was overwhelmed by the amount of exercise buffs out and about.

The most bountiful and easiest to notice group is the Birmingham Mom Brigade. These are 35-45 year olds wearing the uniform of the day: brightly trimmed running shoes, footies just above the shoe top, skin tight black yoga pants, a sweat wicking shirt in a color to match the trim of the shoe and a light black track jacket adorned with the brand name of the shoe being worn.

This mom is running with perfect form. Her hair is tied into some sort of ponytail, swinging back and forth like a manic metronome. A trace of her ear buds can be seen. Sweating will not be allowed. Pushing a stroller of single or double width or leading a dog or dogs on a leash is welcome. If a PTA meeting materialized at the next street corner, she would be good to go without so much as a snicker about her appearance from one of her neighbors.

The next category of exercisers irritating me was the men. These 45-55 year old Country Club Members have short hair, freshly shaved Saturday morning faces and matching nylon track suits. Forget about the splashes of color, this event is black suit only. Again, the form is perfect. The pace may be quicker, the hair might get slightly matted with perspiration (not sweat, for God sake), but being disheveled is frowned upon.

Why are the men exercisers slightly older than their female counterparts? I believe the 35-45 year old men are busy working Saturdays, pushing useless piles of paper around and trying to figure new ways of bilking without making anything or providing a service. It must takes a good ten years of showing the CEO what a hard charger you are to earn a better quality of paper for your business card and get Saturdays off. Meanwhile, the wives of these useless piles of shit are stay at home types working to instill intolerant conservative views in little Kyle and Bree.

The third group is a bit harder to describe. They are the men and women in the Hard Core Bicycle Platoon. Like football players, it is hard to actually see these pedaling fools. Their skin tight tops are adorned with Italian tire companies, the ass of their pants is lumpy with prostate padding, their heads are crowned with tapered aerodynamic helmets, sunglasses hide the eyes.

Make no mistake about it, these people own the road. It does not matter if it is a side street or busy thoroughfare, if the light is red or green, this is their time and their world. Stay the fuck out of the way. These saddle riding dim bulbs also wear the wrist bands telling the world that Lance did nothing wrong.

As I watched these three groups bustle about the streets of Birmingham, my desire to point my car onto the sidewalk and send them scattering like well coiffed bowling pins was great. I figured that talking to the police about my actions would only slow my return home, so I resisted the urge.

Once home, I noticed that the Downriver Exerciser was out also, but in a much different manner.

Downriver is fatter, both sexes. We struggle more with our form: heads wag, tongues loll, sweat pours. We look rattier: shoes are unkempt, shorts are the no-brand Target variety, a hoodie is the top of the day. Also, there are just less of us out and about. We nod or stop to talk along the route, exercise being more of an opportunity to get out of the house and bullshit with neighbors than a manic activity to stay thin.

The urge to drive a car into the Downriver Exerciser is almost nil.

Later, I will explain the differences inside a Birmingham house and one Downriver. Should be an explosive expose’.

Cheers! Jim

WALKING THROUGH THE STREETS TO SOHO IN THE RAIN

2014-01-28T20:45:00.002-05:00

At the outset, the goal of this ridiculous web site was to illuminate and educate weary bar patrons. To take you on a drunken journey to various pubs in the metro Detroit area and let you know what is good and what is horse-shit in the ever changing world of bar boozing. Things were going along pretty well.

Then Tony and I met Edison’s.

It was everything we loved in a bar. It was age appropriate, and because oldsters drank there, it was dark (muting both the lights and my eye bags, yes please). They featured a live band, either classic rock or classic R+B, so there was dancing, old- person-trying-to-hook-up dancing.

And possibly most important, we were regulars. Not just ordinary regulars. We were regulars a bit rougher around the edges than the balance of the Birmingham crowd, a difference we played to and relished. Our presence at the round bar in the center of the room automatically brought forth a Labatt’s and Miller Light.

One night after walking in and accepting our beers, we noticed a small group of women standing in our customary spot. When they noticed us looking their way, they beckoned us over. Unusual. We warily approached and before we could say anything, the one who became known to us as O Oyl, because of her uncanny resemblance to Popeye’s girlfriend, said, “We were saving this spot until you guys showed up.”

Respect.

Toward the middle of December, Tony and I found that Edison’s had stopped listing upcoming bands. I felt that something was up, but Tony shakily thought otherwise (classic denial). I was dispatched to Edison’s during the work week to see what was going on in person. The restaurant upstairs was being set up when I busted in and asked to see the manager.

“What’s going on with Edison’s?”

“They’re closing.”

“You mean like closing for remodeling.”

“No, I mean like closing.”

“You mean like closing, but re-opening in a little while.”

“No I mean like closing, closing. Like not open for business closing.”

Thanks, I needed that.

The only way to break tragic news like this is to be direct.

“It’s official, Edison’s is closed.”

Since that day, Tony and I have become orphans, two fun loving Friday night boozers with no place to call home. Or as my younger brother has so eloquently put it, “two apes flinging feces at each other trying to figure out where to go.”

Friday night in early January found us trying to recapture pre-Edison’s good times by hitting downtown Ferndale. The game plan was to lubricate at Danny’s Irish Pub on the east side of Woodward before catching the freak show at Boogie Fever on the west side.

A cold rain greeted us that night, turning piles of snow into a gray-slushy nightmare. The east side of Woodward in Ferndale was a tangle of poorly parked cars, honking horns and the possibility of distant street parking.

“It was never like this at Edison’s.”

If the evening was to be saved, we would have to quit referencing past glories and adapt.

“Fuck this. We know we can park in the big lot on the west side of Woodward. Let’s get drinking at Boog .”

Better.

We readily found a place to park on the west side. The walk to Boogie Fever was horrible, a sideways rain soaking our bald heads and cheap jeans. The entrance had moved. We fast walked about searching for an opening in the wall that would get us out of the monsoon before being rescued by a heavy set black man wearing a huge Russian fur hat, hugging the wall and smoking (D’Ivan as Tony dubbed him).

Once inside, the bouncer stopped us from reaching into our pockets. There was no cover tonight.

Uh-oh.

The cavernous Boogie Fever of our past, the one with the raised dance floor littered with assholes trying to recapture their glory days was gone. It was cut in half, huge slabs of unpainted dry wall ringed with a few bar height tables and chairs, a cold cement dance floor for a few sad dancers. All that remained from bygone days was the shit music of the disco era.

We grabbed beers and took in the scene. I believe Anthony counted twenty-six patrons. Included in this mob were D’Ivan (in from the rain), a hippie chick with her belly tumbling over her jeans and Un-Foxy Brown, a sassy black dancer getting her solo groove on (it might be a slow bar night, but it will not stop Our Kid from doling out names; the barmaid was dubbed Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle; early on, she bowed her head and kissed a two dollar tip we left).

That we had a few beers here should be chalked up to fear of going back out into the cold downpour and uncertainty of where to go next. I recalled that there was a club called Orchid right around the corner. We summoned the courage to move on, fought a losing battle to stay dry on Woodward , and made our way to Orchid.

We opened up the large chrome front door. A deafening beat and a huge black bouncer channeling his best Ving Rhames greeted us. “Five dollars to get in, one dollar coat check.” I turned to get Tony’s reaction. A grimace. I pointed out ten people inside the club wearing coats as if the coat check was the most heinous element of this shithole. The bouncer got Vinger. “Coat check one dollar.” My wise younger brother was already showing his ass, heading back out the door.

Tony and I had been in tough spots before, but it had been a long time since we did not have a “go to” bar to fall back on. A decision was needed before the rain made us prunier. We decided to walk further west on Nine Mile to Rosie O’Grady’s. Not the Rosie’s that we loved back in the day; the new, corporate, chain style Rosie’s.

A funny thing happened on the way to Rosie’s. We saw the welcoming lights of Soho, a gay pub that we had briefly last called many years ago. The glass windows facing Nine Mile showed a pool table, an L shaped bar with an opening just right for two brothers and a table full of tough looking broads drinking long necks (how’s that for a stereotype right out the gate).

We made our way to the bar, got two beers for a reasonable seven bucks and took in the crowd. Almost instantly, the young lady to my left introduced herself. I said hello and introduced, “my younger brother Tony.” Why “younger brother Tony” and not just “Tony”? Did I want to make certain that she knew we were brothers and not romantic. I hope not. It would be at least slightly homophobic and besides, I could do worse than Tony. He’s handsome, funny, intelligent. Not sure where I’m going with this...

We made some small talk with the young lady, before she leaned in conspiratorially.

“Do you two know this is a gay bar?”

Tony and I feigned horror, wondered out loud if we were going to be singled out as breeders, or shown the door. The young lady found us less hilarious than we found us, and turned her attention back to the friends she came in with.

Tony and I turned our attention to two of our favorite pastimes in any bar: the pool table and the juke box.

The two couples playing pool were horrible, missing easy shot after easy shot, our quarters gathered dust on the rail.

We moved on to the juke box. Let’s see: Morrissey, The Smiths, Queen (welcome to stereotype #2). My brother likes to refer to himself as a jukebox bully and has no problem feeding the machine. He gets to hear his tunes, and more importantly he gets to make others hear them. He is good at setting a mood and managed to find a lot of great songs (would have been a lot better if the sound system was more than half assed).

After drinking and straining to listen to music, it was finally our turn to play. That Tony and I ran the table for a long time is not a big deal in Soho. What is a big deal is how friendly the place is. In most bars, Tony and I hang together and rarely mingle. Not in Soho. We bar chatted a lot; balancing pool playing and talking music, sports and headlines. Some breezy stuff and some not so breezy, a good mix ( one of our opponents was waxing nostalgic about the good old days when driving drunk was not a big deal, my kind of guy).

I was hot that night, making many improbable shots. There was no gamesmanship, no bitter comments or sideways glances. Just a couple of high fives, shoulder rubbing, furtive glances ( wanted to see if you were paying attention).

What is Soho all about? I saw pool playing, hand holding, laughing, toasting, kissing and felt a welcoming vibe. The same shit you see at any cool bar.

I guess the girl standing next to me earlier in the evening was right, Soho is a gay bar. All I know is that when things looked dodgy for two bar orphans, Soho welcomed us with open arms and showed us a good time.

Cheers! Jim

PS To Phil Robertson of Duck Dynasty, Dave Agema of the Republican National Committee, Rush Limbaugh Asshole Hall of Fame and other anti-gay small minded pencil dicks: Fuck you.

WILD TALES: A SIXTH GRADE REVIEW

2013-11-30T11:19:00.001-05:00

Understanding that my writing skills are equivalent to a typical sixth grader, I am using a time honored grade school outline for the following book report.

II Basic Theme: Graham Nash is a good guy.

III Target Audience: Old white people.

IV Author Information: Graham Nash was born in a poor area of northern England in 1942 to parents who were an odd lot (whose aren’t), he loved music and art from an early age, started played skiffle and primitive rock while in middle school, was a founding member of the Hollies (Bus Stop, Carrie Anne, King Midas in Reverse), loved America and became an American citizen, joined the supergroup Crosby, Stills, Nash and (sometimes) Young, did tons of blow, smoked tons of weed, shagged lots of birds, raised a family in Hawaii, started a second life as a photographer, activist and artist before writing this book.

V The Protagonist: The hero and main character of the book is Graham Nash. He is a good man. His background was modest, his curiosity and balls were not. The people in the section of England where he grew up tended to stay put and lead a life of quiet resignation. Nash did not settle for that. He loved singing and harmonizing and was never afraid to try something new. This talent and curiosity culminated in receiving the Order of the British Empire from the Queen. His shortcomings are difficult to discern; he is the author after all. I would say that his songs tend to be more simple musically and lyrically than the others in his supergroup. Even that “shortcoming” could be considered a strength as his most popular tunes “Our House”, “Teach Your Children” and “Just A Song Before I Go” stand out amongst the angst and politicism of his comrades.

VI The Antagonist: The villain in the book ( if there is one), is the best friend of the author, David Crosby. Nash is a star in England and visiting America in the late 60’s when they meet. Croz (as he is called) turns him on to weed, shows him that his songs with The Hollies are kid stuff, introduces him to his first profound love in Joni Mitchell and makes millions of fans and dollars with him in CSN. None of that is bad. What is bad is that Crosby morphs into a freebasing, violent, jailbird covered in sores and killing his liver. “Long Time Gone “ is a great song, but not great enough to atone for all the hurt this guy put his friends and family through.

VII One Other Character: The most interesting side character in the book is Neil Young. He is an asshole. He does not play well with others. Nash once sent a heart- felt email to Young pouring out his feelings about the fractured relations within the band in hopes of reconciliation. Young’s brief reply was, “What a load of shit.” Please don’t make this brevity out to be cool. It’s an example (one of millions) of his interest in Neil Young only. What a pain. Oh yeah, his guitar solos are often pointless and too fucking long (my opinion, not Graham’s).

VIII The Conflict: Everyone is familiar with the Behind the Music series. This is not much different, just bigger names (John Lennon, Mama Cass Elliott, David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Neil Young, Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell) and bigger places (Woodstock, Buckingham Palace, Fillmore East, Berlin Wall, White House). Nash comes from less than humble beginnings (outdoor plumbing), becomes obsessed with music (stalking the Everly Brothers), earns his professional chops (Hollies), becomes a mega star (CSNY), falls apart (ego and drugs), makes a comeback (family and activism), lives happily ever after (full head of hair).

IX Recommendation: Confession: I am a music snob. If I don’t like it, its probably not worth a damn. I used to turn up my nose at CSNY. Nash got the brunt of my disrespect. Stills and Young were guitar gods, Crosby was a bad ass who almost cut his hair. Nash was the Brit along for the ride. Wrong on all counts. Separately, they are tremendous. Together, legendary. Their songwriting talent and harmonizing is undeniable. Nash is at least one fourth of this. His writing, singing and personality go a long way in making CSNY a supergroup and not just a cash grab. The book is an easy read. Of course, the stories about Woodstock and Crosby are great. You will also find stories like Nash turning down Cass Elliot’s sexual advances interesting as well. What I found most profound was the process that allowed a skinny kid from humble beginnings to become a household name, fuck up along the way and come out the other side with his life intact. Good man, good read.

X Conclusion: Dig this and ponder how two guys as obviously baked as Nash and Crosby could sound so fucking good.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4r_HWWQyCs

Cheers! Jim

THURSTON AND LOVEY VS NORTON AND TRIXIE

2013-08-02T17:05:00.000-04:00

Bigot: A person intolerantly devoted to his own opinions and prejudices; especially one who treats members of a specific group with hatred or intolerance.

I am a bigot.

I am intolerant and prejudiced and feel a great deal of hatred toward the wealthy.

I mention this because I have recently returned from a family vacation Up North. We rented a house in Northport, at the tip of the Leelanau Peninsula. It was not the first time we rented a vacation spot in that area, having rented in Empire two of the last three years. It was not even the first time we have spent time in Northport, having walked their shops and parks during vacations past.

This time was different and I am fairly certain that it was the Peninsula in general and Northport specifically that changed. This area has always straddled the line between courting regular families and wealthy ones. Glen Arbor and Leland have always leaned wealthy, Empire and Northport more middle class. I am sorry to report that we have lost Northport.

Welcome to Birmingham North.

This is how I know we have lost Northport:

The easiest way to spot these wealthy vacationers is their uniform. The foundation is the leather tie shoe worn sans socks, known as the topsider ( I had to google “boating shoe” to discover this term). Next comes the solid earth tone bermuda shorts worn crisply with belt. The top is a polo shirt tucked into the shorts, possibly worn in conjunction with a crested solid color sweater. This goes for both sexes.

Identifying the rich horde through their actions is almost as easy as using their plumage.

I take you to Fisher’s Happy Hour Tavern, just outside Northport. When you walk into this crowded eatery, there is a narrow porch running the width of the dining room where you wait for your table. The hostess is replaced by a dry erase board, where you are instructed to write down your name and the amount of people in your party. As the parties are called, the waitress quickly erases the name from the board and moves on.

Because it is crowded and because a dry erase board is by nature messy, the board itself gets smeared. Patrons will sometimes police the board, completing half hearted erasures or writing in partially erased letters. I was not surprised to see my wife Andrea take her turn at tidying the board, as this kind of messiness and her love of penmanship made fussing with the board irresistible.

My son Jackson and I were sitting in a cramped two person booth watching the wealthy bossing around the waitstaff. I had just completed instructing him to “never take any crap from someone because they have money” when the fat fuck in the booth next to me bellowed out “Why did you erase our name?” I was shocked to see that this was directed at Andrea, but she was more than up for it.

“I didn’t erase your name.” Very controlled.

“Well, it’s not up there.”

“The waitress is erasing names.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but our name isn’t up there anymore.”

I had more than enough of his bullshit.

“She said she didn’t erase your name, now look elsewhere.”

If I had more time, I might have sprinkled in some cursing or got more puffy, but Mr. Rich got the idea and waddled into the dining room for answers. When he came out, he stopped briefly and apologized. It wasn’t exactly a Good Will Hunting showdown, but it felt good.

Once inside the dining area, we watched a large table of wealthies acting poorly. Included in this behavior were two men talking about a “piece of ass” in front of their spouses, a whining/juice spilling child old enough to know better playing on the floor and a table full of adults old enough to know better excusing her poor behavior until her Mom got up and left in a huff.

Later in the week, after daughter Rachel had joined the vacation revelry, Jackson and I decided to go for a ride around the peninsula while the ladies shopped. My son is a quality, but novice driver, and I worried about him pulling into the busy Suttons Bay traffic. He saw his opening and started out into M-22. The asshole behind him did the same thing at the same time and instead of letting The Kid ease out in front of him and be cool, he bum rushed our car and laid on the horn. Jackson was a bit rattled, but I calmed him and told him he had done nothing wrong, that the guy in the little red BMW was at fault.

As we progressed through the bustling downtown, I heard a honk from behind and looked in my side view mirror in time to see this little shit pointing to his head and acting tough. Fuck that. I started to unbuckle and open the passenger side door until I heard a horrified Jackson say “Daddy, don’t”. I was pleased to see the turd behind us react to my displeasure by taking evasive action and jetting down a side street. Jack then reminded me that the first rule of stopping road rage is to stay in your car. Good tip!

The remainder of our time in Northport was spent quietly. I say quietly because not one person we came in contact with engaged us in conversation. And, previous evidence aside, we are a very friendly family. Really.

I might also point out that visions of grandeur in previously sleepy Northport has meant that the “downtown” area is always busy. This means that driving, parking and getting a bite to eat are a chore.

I compare Northport with two days spent in the sleepy, possibly stoned town of Empire. I fucking love Empire. It is rumpled, tie-dyed, impaired, casual, sandy, talkative, dread locked. The uniform of the day is a wet bathing suit, flip-flops and a t-shirt. I have lots of all of those items, and consider myself pretty sharp in this milieu.

We ate a late lunch at the appropriately named Friendly’s and were served by the most mild mannered waitress of all time. She was young, wore dreads and could not have been more laid back. After each of our beer and food choices, she would quietly comment “nice” or “good choice” or “perfect”. It was the type of comment one might make if one had recently hit a fatty and someone was talking food. Just guessing.

Once we left Friendly’s, it was on to Tiffany’s for an ice cream. The floor inside had almost as much sand as the beach, it was manned by three kids who looked like they were here on a break from skateboarding, and the ice cream was fantastic and piled high. A quick note about daughter Rachel and Tiffany’s: When we first walked in, Ray said she was too full from lunch for ice cream. We walked two blocks in five minutes before she proclaimed she was now ready and sauntered back for a cup of Eskimo Kiss. That’s my girl!

During our walk, we stopped and looked at a home with a variety of gnomes and college football memorabilia dotting the landscape. The homeowner and her friend chatted us up instantly, talking football rivalries, bar food and all things Empire. We continued our walk and looked at the two houses we rented in years gone by, the vacant lot home to a score of Empire cats, and the hippie pad on Front Street selling homemade granola (I have a feeling you better be settled in when you nibble on that granola).

While piling back into the car for the ride back to Northport, we decided as a family that we could not possibly say good-bye to all that the Leelanau Peninsula has to offer. We would, however, say good-bye to the uppity, self important, loathsome rich pricks in the cities to the north and stick with our people in Empire.

Cheers! Jim

BROWN FURY

2013-07-11T17:44:00.000-04:00

I had just completed a long Monday evening bike ride through the mean streets of Allen Park and Southgate and was putting my bike away in the garage. As can sometimes happen, the path leading to the back of the garage was crowded with chairs, rakes and games. I remedied this situation by picking up a patio chair and hurling it across the ping pong table to the opposite side of the garage where it came to rest on a surprised lawn mower.

I wasn’t mad at the chair. I was mad at the world because of my upcoming colonoscopy. The chair was just handy.

I had been dodging this appointment for six years, since the age of fifty. That is the magic number deemed by doctors when people should take a harsh laxative, shit their brains out, see a doctor, have a pipe blow air into their asshole and search for bad stuff (what else would you expect to find back there anyway?).

It all began with a trip to my family physician for my yearly physical, a misnomer since it had been two years since I had gone. After fondling my balls and sticking a finger (fingers?) up my arse, I was proclaimed to be in good condition. Better than two years ago, if you believe the numbers. But this was not good enough for Dr. Dziobak. I was ignoring my colonoscopy.

After his lecture and a tsk-tsk from the receptionist, I arrived home to find that my wife was in lock step with the two health care professionals. Were these three in cahoots?

I cursed up a storm, but promised to call Dr. Puccio the following day to set up my appointment. Based on what I knew about the health care industry, I was expecting to hear that the earliest appointment would be in the fall. But the tricky bastards at Oakwood Hospital informed me that I could make an appointment for the middle of next week. I have been lying for fifty-six years and consider myself highly skilled, but I could not come up with one reason why I shouldn’t take the 7 am appointment for Wednesday of the following week.

For the next few days, I was an utter asshole to live with (more so than usual, a Herculean task). I did not need a colonoscopy because:

I have no symptoms of colon cancer.

My family has no history of colon cancer.

I live a healthy life.

I am insanely regular.

I have never received anesthesia and have a heart murmur, so something bad might happen.

The doctor might nick something during the procedure and I will leave with a bag attached to my body (how could I go out boozing with such an attachment? Who am I kidding, I’d decorate the bag and go).

In five years, colonoscopies would go the way of tonsil removals; it is a gimmick to make money for the health industry.

I wore down Andrea throughout the week, and a couple of times she told me to “cancel the damn appointment”. But, I didn’t and the Tuesday before the Wednesday appointment arrived. I would go to work that day and endure all of the usual bullshit on a diet of green Jello and Gator-Aide. Yummy!

I hustled through the work day so that I could get home and begin the laxative drink- fest. The ride home was spent listening to loud music and getting my mind right, a warrior going to battle. Andrea was outside working in the yard when I exited my vehicle.

“Let’s do this.” (I now recognize the eye rolling theatrics of such a remark).

Looking in the fridge, I was shocked to see the size of the laxative jug, bigger than the gallon of milk it sat next to. I was to drink eight ounces every fifteen minutes. I regarded the label. Thank God it was lemon flavored.

I decided to log (pun intended) my drinking and shitting times on a sheet (pun intended) of paper. For the next five hours, I would chug each disgusting oily/salty high powered laxative dose in two or three gulps. Lemon, no. Lemon Pledge, maybe.

I regarded the enormous jug warily. The thought of emptying it was daunting. Then something on the label caught my eye. If, during the process, my waste turned into clear water, I could stop drinking the noxious liquid. Hope.

WARNING: GRAPHIC BOWEL MOVEMENT DESCRIPTION TO FOLLOW

My first sit down contained a degree of solidity. The remaining bouts were pure, evil liquid. The force of the expelling is startling. If you have ever used a garden hose with an adjustable nozzle, and opened the nozzle completely so that the water rushes out in its widest stream, you have some idea of what my Tuesday afternoon was all about. During this time, I read a Sports Illustrated cover to cover, including an article on conservation.

Sadly, clear liquid never shot out of my ass. It always maintained a certain sewer water quality forcing me to finish all of the laxative in the jug-o-fun.

Thirteen shits later, the jug and I were both empty. I threw away my Sports Illustrated, asked Andrea to hit the sofa I had been resting on with a mega dose of Fabreeze and fell asleep.

GRAPHIC SHIT RENDERING OVER: WEAK STOMACHS MAY CONTINUE READING

Wednesday morning: No eating, no drinking, no daily med. Once in my tastefully decorated private room complete with cable television and remote, I was instructed to strip to my socks and put on the open assed hospital gown. I declined the use of the television (first time I ever said no to the remote). I also declined polite conversation with my wife and stared straight ahead.

It was not easy to be this way, as everyone I came in contact with was professional and pleasant. Almost too pleasant. I could hear the workaday chit chat between nurses and doctors, songs being idly sung by those walking from room to room. Business as usual, a Wednesday. Didn’t they know I was tight as hell?

Yes, they knew. Each of them reminded me that yesterday was the tough part and that today was going to be a breeze. Everyone introduced themselves, explained what they were doing and spoke highly of Dr. Puccio. Relaxing was not an option, but I did not feel worse, and that made me feel better.

In a short period of time, they came to wheel me into the operating room. It was dark and cold in the room. I was instructed to lie on my side and open up the back of my gown by the only young and attractive nurse I would see all morning ( I personally debunked the “older guys are hot” theory for her). I saw Dr. Puccio walk into the room with a styrofoam cup of coffee and was told by the anesthesiologist that he would begin administering the anesthesia. For the briefest second a chill surge traveled up my arm.

I woke up in my private room. One minute or one day could have passed for all I knew. A nurse that I had not met earlier was by my side asking how I felt. Taking a moment to consider, I replied that I felt great. She asked if I wanted something to eat and drink. I settled on black coffee and four Lorna Doones. Fucking Lorna Doones rule!

Soon, Dr. Puccio entered the room. For the first time I noticed how young and handsome he was. Probably rich as hell too. Dick! He told me that everything went well, looked fine and that there were no polyps that needed removal. My hero!

Two hours after I left home scared as hell, I was back in the cozy confines of my kitchen with Andrea making me breakfast. My relief and happiness was deep.

A week later while watching television with my wife, a public service announcement blasting my arguments against the colonoscopy was aired. Andrea’s relief and happiness was deep.

Cheers, Jim

PS On the bright side, it did open up a whole avenue of crap talk for a week!

INFLUENCE

2013-06-19T17:34:00.000-04:00

DWAYNE

Last night was not the first time Dwayne had been on the wrong side of the law. In his neighborhood, if you didn’t take, you were a punk. Dwayne was no punk. He had been stealing and selling, little and big since grade school.

He took some shit from his Mom. What else could you expect from a woman who went to church not once, but twice a week, giving away paper money she really didn’t have. Still, she was the only person Dwayne cared about. She knew he was dirty. He knew that she knew he was dirty. The paper money they both knew Dwayne put in her oversized purse every week kept their mouths shut. It wasn’t perfect. It was how they lived.

Last night was different. Dwayne had walked by the well kept bungalow almost every day for two weeks, never stopping, never calling attention. Just a kid on the way to the bus stop. A kid who watched a heavy set woman in hospital gear get into her shit car every afternoon at 4:30. Knowing that winter darkness sets in about one hour later, Dwayne made plans to get into her house through the rickety bedroom window off the back yard.

Didn’t matter that Christmas was right around the corner, business was business. It would be easy.

It was easy. In a matter of minutes, he found himself in the dimly lit back bedroom, getting the feel of the house. When he felt comfortable and no dog was tearing up his ass, he flicked on the bedroom light. The wigs lining the dresser top directly in front of Dwayne scared the shit out of him. He was surprised by the high pitched gasp that escaped.

“ Fuck me.”

Sitting in the middle of the dresser, nestled amongst the wigs, was a highly polished wood box emblazoned with “Jesus Saves...Save for Jesus.” Dwayne didn’t know this woman, but he knew her. She believed that there was no need to hide money because Jesus would take care of her. Just like my Mom, he thought as he caught sight of himself in the dresser mirror.

He licked his lips and looked around the room, saw the crucifix with the wilted palms hanging over the bed. “Like my Mom”. This time aloud.

Dwayne turned back to the dresser and opened the glossy box. Paper money, not a lot, but enough. He grabbed the cash, fanned out the bills and nodded appreciatively at the wise face of Benjamin Franklin peering out from among the Washingtons and Lincolns.

He spent the rest of the evening and the gray early morning that followed, driving around by himself, sipping beer, smoking one cigarette after another. He never got drunk, never counted the money, never enjoyed himself either and was surprised when he saw the sky lightening.

Jelly Donut. He pulled into the parking lot, looked around, poured out the rest of his warm beer, and went inside for a coffee, three sugar, two cream.

It took him two tries to understand what he owed the woman behind the counter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his earnings, more than a little pissed at having to ask “What” twice.

When Dwayne left, walking around the working stiff waiting in line wearing a nylon Flanagan Moving jacket, he didn’t notice Ben Franklin looking wisely up at him from the worn tan and brown speckled tile floor.

JIM

Jim regarded his shabby work coat and frowned. Working the day before Christmas, no Christmas bonus (for me anyway), nothing in the house for breakfast, he found himself in line at the local donut shop.

Jelly Donut. Not Tim Horton’s or Dunkin Donut. Jelly Donut.

He shifted from foot to foot, checking out the worn formica and the coffee skinned couple taking orders (probably from India, damn heathens don’t even know that tomorrow is Christmas), and felt his mood darken.

The fat pink sweat pants in front of him was taking forever putting together her dozen donuts (after the fourth donut, while the tears streaked her round cheeks, what difference would it really make).

He resisted the urge to yell “Hurry the fuck up”, but needed to let out some anger the way a child lets air out of a balloon. Jim lowered his head and almost inaudibly said, “Hurry the fuck...”

Looking at him from the worn tan and brown speckled tile floor was the wise face of Benjamin Franklin.

“Up” he finished, bending over and pocketing the bill.

My Christmas bonus found me, Jim thought. He started to recall a short story by O Henry, but the details of the plot were long washed away by drink. Jim knew it had something to do with making sacrifices so that others could have a happy holiday. Not this guy, he thought, stuffing Franklin into the pocket of his nasty work coat.

It was almost time to place his order. Pink sweat pants was pointing out donut eleven or twelve, he had lost count in the excitement. Jim surveyed the room, surprised to hear his ragged breathing. There was pink pants, a young mom and her two kids sitting quietly at the counter, an old man with a red pickle of a nose stirring a steady stream of sugar into his coffee, a young couple not dressed for the cold talking intimately and waiting patiently, and a sharp nosed businessman standing a little too close checking out the greasy donuts in the glass case.

“Did anyone drop some money on the floor?”

Who the hell said that, Jim thought. Was it me? It couldn’t be. Why would I? It’s mine, I found it. Finders keepers (he heard that one in a sing song tone). Everyone turned and was looking at him.

It was me.

CLARK

Clark was not happy about being in Jelly Donut. He had pulled his Audi off the freeway because he was nervous about the morning audit and needed a jelly donut to calm his nerves. He did not want it from Jelly Donut, but there was not a lot to pick from in this part of town. So Clark stood impatiently in line behind a man about his age wearing a frayed nylon work jacket. He looked at his overcoat and wondered what made him a success and this working class stiff a loser.

About my age, a little taller, a lot thicker, he thought, instinctively sucking in his gut. Clark took in the worn boots, dark jeans and nylon jacket. Was that beer? He shifted a bit closer to the man to get a whiff, being careful not to get too close. You know how short tempered these people are he thought. Besides, I haven’t done anything physical in years and I am not about to start by rolling around in Jelly Donut.

Yes, it was beer. At 7:30 in the morning.

Clark’s attention was diverted by a black man walking away from the counter. Their eyes locked for one second. “Fuck you Whitey.” Clark never saw the man’s lips move, but he heard what he heard. He looked away, studying the “to go” menu intently. When he was sure the spade (his late father’s word) was gone, he looked back at nylon jacket.

Clark was surprised by the swiftness of nylon jacket’s next move. He bent down with the ease of an athlete and picked up a bill from the floor. Now it was Clark’s turn to move. Sliding forward as if to inspect the greasy offerings in the glass counter, he shifted his eyes just in time to see Ben Franklin’s face being pushed into nylon jacket’s pocket.

Clark was instantly irritated. That’s my money. Clark felt that all money should be his money. He felt particularly strong about this Ben Franklin, sure that nylon jacket would piss it away on beer or weed or pussy. It’s not that I need the money, he thought fingering the wallet in his breast pocket, it’s just that I know what to do with it.

He watched nylon jacket scour the room. What the hell was this fool doing? He wouldn’t, would he?

“I did, oh my God I did.” Clark moved toward nylon jacket patting both his pants and coat pockets. “I dropped a $100 bill, must have happened when I was looking for change to get a newspaper, please tell me that you have it.” Nylon jacket had turned to face him, only two feet away now, taking him in, hoping for any sign of bullshit, any reason to kick the shit out of this bloated suit.

Clark waited an eternity. Nylon jacket looked around the quiet room, the gloomy headlines from news radio the only sound. Every face was turned toward the odd couple. Nobody moved, nobody protested. Clark was practiced at waiting to get his way. Eventually nylon coat produced the now limp bill from his pocket and looked Clark in the eyes.

Is he moving closer to me?

“Thanks, man, you saved my ass,” Clark said hoping that “man” and “ass” would allow nylon jacket to relate to him. He saw instantly that it failed, felt that everyone in the room hated him, felt the urge to get the money and flee. “Can I offer you a reward?” he asked knowing that there was no way nylon jacket could take it.

“No”.

Clark took the money. “Thank you, thank you so much” Backing toward the door now, like a thief making his getaway. “Merry Christmas”.

At the door now, his silver Audi twenty yards away.

“You forgot your fucking paper.”

He was out.

DWAYNE

Dwayne didn’t think things could get any worse.

Inexplicably lose a Ben Franklin of his hard earned money: Check.

Be woken up at the crack of dawn by his Mother demanding he attend Christmas Mass: Check.

Be informed that he would not be attending Mass dressed like a “hoodlum”: Check.

And now that all of the praying, endless singing and thunderous sermonizing had ended, Dwayne was informed that he would be attending a luncheon for “those less fortunate” at the Parish Center.

Dwayne had already put more money than he would have liked into the green felt lined basket passed around during services. What more would be required at the luncheon?

“Who’s less fortunate than we are? This lunch better be something special”, Dwayne grumbled to his Mom during the short walk across the church parking lot to the Center.

“Coffee and pound cake,” his Mom answered holding her hat to her head in the strong winter winds.

“That ain’t no...”

He stopped when he noticed the look his Mom was giving, the same one she had been using on him for twenty-two years. The one that said, “ I will put up with only so much bullshit.”

His Mom was pleased that the look still worked. Dwayne allowed a small smile.

“That’s better son,” she offered. “We’re going to get something to eat and see about helping others less fortunate than ourselves.”

Dwayne put his arm tightly around his Mom’s rounded shoulders and pretended to help with the chore of keeping hat on head. His mom laughed and playfully pushed his hands away.

Once inside the Parish Center, Dwayne helped his mom find two seats next to her church friends and went to get coffee and cake. He shook hands and chatted with two of the ushers and was almost back to the table when he caught sight of the blonde tipped wig talking with his Mother.

It had to be her. Too late to walk away. Too late to do anything but set the coffee and cake down and act like nothing was the matter.

‘Cause nothing was the matter, Dwayne reasoned.

“Selma, Mrs. Givens, I mean, this is my son, Dwayne.”

She took Dwayne in, made no effort to hide her up and down once over. “I think we’ve met.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Dwayne began, “I’m sure I would have remembered.” He forced a smile.

Dwayne’s mom laughed a little too loud. Ms. Selma Givens did not. She continued looking Dwayne over. Like I’m in a police lineup Dwayne thought holding her stare.

“ Maybe you’re right, but you do look familiar,” a long finger bobbing up and down in the air between them. Quiet for a moment. “Well, I better make the rounds. I’ll see you before you leave. Nice meeting you Dwayne.”

He was shaken up, even more so when his Mom whispered to him that poor Mrs. Givens house had been broken into. While she was at work no less. Took all of her church money. From her Jesus Saves box.

Mother and Son looked at each other a beat longer than usual before Dwayne turned his attention to the pound cake.

“Not as good as yours.”

Dwayne spent the next twenty minutes avoiding Ms. Selma Givens and keeping tabs on her at the same time. He thought he saw her checking him out on a couple of occasions, but was not sure.

When his Mom was finally ready to go, it was Dwayne who delayed. The church coffee and Ms. Selma Givens had unnerved him. He would need relief before the ten minute drive home.

The piss took forever. And, as Dwayne washed his hands and regarded himself in the mirror, he knew that Ms. Selma Givens would be waiting on him.

He was right. She was talking intimately with his Mom. Both ladies turned their heads his way. Dwayne walked right over, nothing wrong.

“You do look familiar Dwayne. I live at Ogden and Pence. You work that way? Catch the Ogden Street bus?”

“No Ma’am. I don’t get to the east side much, I’m...”

“Dwayne doesn’t have a steady job,” his mom interrupted. “He does this and that to make ends meet, ain’t that right Dwayne?”

Mother and Son looking at each other.

“That’s right Mama, I do this and that to help make ends meet.”

“Dwayne.”

He turned to face Ms. Selma Givens.

“Dwayne, I supervise the afternoon shift at Centennial Rehab. Been there for fifteen years and got a little pull. If a strong young man such as yourself was interested, I could probably get you a job working afternoons. Hard work. But you get treated fair, get a paycheck every two weeks.”

It was the last thing that Dwayne wanted. Working with a bunch of old people, facing Selma Givens every day. A list of all the reasons a steady job was bullshit began to pile up in his head. He was still compiling his list when he felt the tug of his mother at his sleeve.

“Dwayne, Ms. Givens is talking to you.”

He looked not at Ms. Givens, but at his Mom and answered.

“Thank you Ms. Givens. It might be nice to have steady work for a change. I’ll stop in early next week and look you up. ”

Ms. Givens said no more, nodded her head slightly and walked away.

The ride home was quiet. Dwayne saw his Mom glance his way on more than one occasion, heard a sound die on her lips a couple of times.

When they entered their home, Dwayne announced that he was tired and was going to lie down before dinner.

As he started to walk away, he heard his Mother say, “It was a nice service, wasn’t it son?”

Dwayne turned and faced his Mom.

“Yes it was.”

JIM

Christmas morning for Jim and his girlfriend of two years Patricia got underway at one in the afternoon. They both looked like early morning, hair piled on top of tired faces, rumpled sweat pants and t-shirts under old fashioned terry robes. Jim carried a large mug of coffee into the living room, Patricia sipped at the remains of her bed side Coke Zero.

Jim reached behind the artificial Christmas tree and produced a poorly wrapped gift box and held it out in front of him. Patricia feigned surprise and theatrically asked, “For me?”

“It ain’t much babe, but I saw you checking it out the other day at the mall, and I thought it might help keep you warm while you’re standing on the corner turning tricks.”

“You are so fucking funny”, scrunching up her face and taking the box from his hands.

Patricia tore the paper from the box like a little kid, opened the top, and took in a deep breath. She held out a matching beret, scarf and mittens. Green, with orange and white trim, small shamrocks here and there.

“I love it.”

“It’ll go good with your red dyed hair.”

“I’m wearing it tonight, when we go over to your Mom’s for dinner. Let her know she’s not the only Irish woman in this world.”

Patricia modeled the outfit for Jim. It really did look good on her. He could not understand how a woman could match him drink for drink, go straight from snoring to the living room, plop a beret on her head and look so damn fine.

“I wish I could have afforded more,” Jim started, “but you know how tight the Flanagan’s are. The Scots are supposed to be the cheap bastards, but the Irish can’t be far behind.”

Patricia was barely listening. She was busy checking herself out in the large hall mirror, turning her head from side to side, pulling in her cheeks slightly.

“If I hadn’t had a moment of conscience yesterday, I could have bought you that cameo you were eyeing. I let a hundred bucks slip through my hands,” Jim said his voice trailing off. “Still not sure how that happened...”

Patricia was back in the living room now.

“You did get a bonus didn’t you. What pub did you blow it at? Or did it go to that no good brother of yours? Wait, I’ll bet you spent it on an expensive gift for your Mom. Fucking cliched Irish Momma’s boy.”

Jim stood and took Patricia by the shoulders, guiding her gently onto the sofa. He recounted the scene at Jelly Donut from yesterday morning. His voice was monotone, no drama, a man reciting facts. He looked out the window at the gray afternoon all the while, looking back at Patricia only when he was finished.

She said nothing, gave no clue as to her thoughts.

Looking back out the window now.

“I’m not sure the money even belonged to the suit behind me. I hoped I would give it to the Mom with the two kids at the counter. I could see her hugging me, feel the slaps on the back and the looks of admiration from everyone around, including Mr. Suit. I just knew the money wasn’t mine. That if I took it, I would spend it on some bullshit that I thought would make me happy, but would make me more drunk, more ashamed, more useless.”

Patricia was on her feet now, the suddenness of her rising causing a sofa cushion to fall to the floor.

“What is wrong with you. Getting shystered by some fat ass businessman. That money was yours, not his. Not the bitch with the two kids she can’t support. Yours. Mine. Ours. What is wrong with you anyway? Do you like being poor? Don’t I deserve the cameo?”

Pulling off the beret, scarf and mittens.

“You used to be fun. The booze never made you sad. It made you flirt with my girlfriends or threaten any guy who looked my way. Now you’re so damn quiet. What’s there to think about so much? Asshole.”

The beret, scarf and mittens were in the air now, missing their intended target still sitting on the sofa, and landing in and around the small artificial Christmas tree. Jim turned to look at where they landed, then back to Patricia.

“Patricia, you may throw like a girl, but you are no lady.”

She turned, marched loudly into the bedroom, emerged after making a tremendous amount of racket, screeched “Merry Fucking Christmas” and slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind her.

Jim remained on the sofa, said nothing and did not move for ten minutes. When he did finally move, it was to carefully remove Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks from his record collection. He and Van locked eyes for a solid minute, before the album was carefully pulled from the jacket. Jim dropped the needle with the touch of a surgeon before falling into the crook of the worn sofa.

After listening to both sides (“I kissed you on the lips once more, and we said goodbye just adoring the night time, yeah that’s the right time, to feel the way young lover’s do”) he stood and gathered up the beret, scarf and mittens from around and on the artificial tree, straightened out the box and gift wrapped them to the best of his limited ability.

He showered, shaved and slipped on his sports coat for the ten minute walk to his Mom’s house for dinner, the gift wrapped box under his arm. Half way there, he bound up the steps of St. Martha’s knowing that the doors would be open for some service or another. He walked inside, paused briefly to take in the familiar smell, and placed the box under the huge Christmas tree in the back of church.

The outside of the box simply said, “For anybody who needs warmth.”

Without being noticed, without a word to anyone, Jim was back outside thinking only of dinner with his Mom in the house he grew up in.

CLARK

It had been a typical Christmas for Clark and his family. His two children and wife cooed appropriately over gifts, watched television together and ate dinner talking about past holidays before retiring to their rooms tired from a day of too much.

As Christmas started to fade along with the winter’s sunlight, Clark appeared in the family room to let his wife know that he was going to his Mom’s for a visit. She offered to go with, both laughed at the lameness of the attempt, and then turned her attention back to the computer and after holiday savings. “Be careful,” she offered.

Twenty minutes and two neighborhoods later, Clark pulled into the driveway of the modest bungalow he had grown up in, pleased to see no other cars, no family or friends to complicate the visit. He pushed open the the dented steel entry door, unlocked of course, and walked all the way to the back of the house, before he heard the familiar voice coming from the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas, who is it?”

“It’s me Mom, don’t you ever lock that front door? Do you know what kind of people live in this neighborhood?”

“Clark?”

His Mom came shuffling quickly into the hall. She had always moved fast, and at eighty two years of age, she still did. Her arms reached up and around his neck and she hugged him tighter than he thought possible.

“I knew you would make it.” Clark was delighted to be smothered in his Mother’s love, but the thought that others, his brothers and sister no doubt, had speculated on whether he would even stop by gnawed at him.

“Of course, I made it.” Irritated.

His Mom pushed him slightly away. “Oh Clark, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“I know you didn’t Mom.” He could not bear to upset her, never could. “I came here to take the only woman in my life to Christoff’s for lemon meringue pie, like always.”

“I’ll get my coat.”

“Wait a minute, what do you say to me every Christmas when I offer to take you to Christoff’s?”

Clark’s Mom, already flying toward the hall coat closet, stopped on a dime and turned around and said, “Let’s go to Christoff’s, I’m sure they’re open, those Greeks don’t give a damn that it’s Christmas.”

Satisfied by this response, Clark helped his Mom on with her coat, made a big show out of locking the front door, walked arm in arm with her to the Audi and drove five minutes to Christoff’s.

It was open, of course. The lemon meringue pie was nearly flavorless, of course. Clark’s Mom went down her motherly checklist of topics, of course.

The wife and kids are fine, I am not working too many hours, I am watching my weight, this lemon meringue pie is not helping, I am stopping to enjoy the little things.

“Like eating lemon meringue pie with my best girl.”

Mother and Son sat at the brightly lit booth long after the pie disappeared and the crew began cleaning up around them. “I guess even the Greeks close shop some time,” Clark offered. He helped his Mom on with her coat and they walked slowly to the counter. When they got to the register, he looked down at this Mom, still clutching tightly to his arm.

“You never walk this slow, Mom.” Nothing. “I need my arm Mom. I have to pay.” She squeezed his arm fiercely before letting go.

Clark opened his wallet, saw a couple of ones, a five and the learned face of Ben Franklin staring at him. The ones and five would not clear the bill, Clark fingered the Franklin, looked at his Mother. He flipped the wallet to the credit cards and pulled out his American Express.

“This younger generation and their credit cards,” his Mom said to the cashier and got a knowing nod in return.

“C’mon Mom,” hugging her, noticing how small she was. Clark motioned to the large glass windows and said quietly, “It’s starting to snow, and these nice people want to go home.”

His voice trailed off, as the three looked at the huge flakes floating lazily by the bright neon Christoff’s sign.

“I almost forgot the tip.” He made his way back to the booth, produced his leather wallet and left Ben Franklin on the black and white formica tabletop, face down.

Mother and son listened to Christmas music and talked about nothing on the way home. Once there, Clark made a big deal out of demonstrating the lock on the front door, about lecturing his Mom to always lock up. He made their good-bye kiss a quick one, could feel the tightness in his throat that he always felt when saying good bye to his Mom.

“Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you.”

The drive home would be difficult, and take twice as long as the drive there. Wet conditions inside and outside the car were to blame.

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