The Barn Door & Diet cokes –

Chaz's viewpoint - Donna loves diet cokes. It might be her favorite drink Now, most of you are in shock, since there is no alcohol in a diet coke, so why would Donna drink it. Well, in our circle, actually among the “WE” of Chris, Shaun, Donna, and I, Diet Cokes have another meaning. It started many moons ago on the trip to Wheatland…

We were on our way in the first of several motor homes that we have used to go to Wheatland. We (Chris, Shaun, Donna and I) started out fairly early on Thursday, about noon or so. Our plan was to go camp in Farmer Bill’s field, so we could get in line early.

For those that don’t know, Wheatland officially opens its gates at noon and its first come first served to get a camp site. Thus there is a general mad rush as people try to get in the same locations and generally we do. It used to be that we would get up there Thursday night; pull up on the shoulder of the road; and spend the night either in a friend’s motor home or in the front sleep of the car. As more and more people started doing this, problems arose. Starfish began arriving.

For those that might be confused right now, starfishes have no brain and mainly just eat and sh*t. This applies to a lot of humanity, so I call them starfish. It’s better than calling them stupid as over the years they have learned the “stupid” is not a compliment.

So starfish began arriving and being starfish they started doing stupid things. Now, this is a regular public dirt road with families living on it and locals trying to live their lives. Of course, that doesn’t matter to the starfish. They began playing music really, really loud, since everyone loves the music they listen too. They walk up and down the road screaming and yelling at each other. While I understand that they have to do this to penetrate the mass of fat they call a head, it does annoy other people. What probably made the sheriff dept take action was they started a bonfire in the middle of the road. Once again the starfish ruined for everyone else, so now there is no parking on the road.

{Note - The county sheriffs are pretty cool. They generally let us line up after the school buses go through on Friday morning. They realize that this event brings a lot of money into the area economy, so try to make it as pleasurable as they can while controlling the starfish}

Anyways back to the diet coke story, we now camp in a farmer’s field. We like to get there early to get a good spot in line and catch up with our Wheatland friends. We had left the Detroit area about 11 or so and the gang minus me (driving) was drinking heavily. It is about a 3 hour drive and we were about 45 minutes out from Farmer Bill’s field, when Donna decided that she could no longer hold the beer. Yes, the pee-pee dance was in full effect. While we do have a bathroom in the motor home, on the trip up it is usually blocked in by “stuff”. Since our various suggestions of relief – open the door and hang on, use a bottle, etc was met with the “you such an ass” look, I began looking for a place to stop.

Of course, we were between cities, so there wasn’t much going on in the way of places with restrooms. I did find this nice area with a good stand of pine trees, but she refused my offers to pull over. As we crest a hill, we see buildings that might be a gas station. I point this out and Donna begins urging me to go faster, go faster. As we get closer, I realize that it was an old gas station that has been converted to a party store. Well, they might let her use their bathroom, so I start to slow down and Donna’s prayers were answered. Off to the side and a little behind was “The Barn Door”. We had found a bar. We were happy. Happy!Happy!Joy!Joy!

I pull in and back the motor home in. Donna felt I was doing it just to cause her more discomfort. While this is partially true, I mainly do this as pulling out after a couple of beers is easier than backing out. As we are rolling to a stop, Donna leaps from the motor home and runs into the bar. You know, people run funny when they are trying to keep their knees together. We get stopped and Shaun/Chris & I get out and head into the bar. Being gentlemen we hold the door open for Donna. See, besides being funny looking, running with your knees together is also very slow. As Donna disappears into the ladies room, affectingly called the “cowgirls room” in this fine establishment, she says “Order me a diet coke” and she is gone.

The three of us looked at each other as we tried to comprehend that request. Diet coke. At Wheatland. It did not compute. We get to the bar and order some of their finest beer – Natural light on draft. I still don’t know what to get Donna. I can’t get my mouth to say the words. They just won’t come out. I don’t know what to do and then it hits me. Donna is speaking in femalize. She knows that she can’t order more beer because she has already had 10 or 12. If she orders more, it would be un-lady-like, so she is letting me find a way to take responsibility for her inebriation. Not a problem, I can do that. Once I realized what she wanted, I took action. No more beer for my lady. It was time for the something feminine. Something sweet, yet highly potent. I ordered her a White Russian. White Russian = Kalula, Vodka, and Cream. It was waiting for her when she came out.

Donna gets up on the bar stool, looks around, stares at the drink, and says “this doesn’t look like a diet coke.” We, including the bartender who I tipped well, agreed that she wasn’t seeing things too clearly and it was indeed a diet coke. Donna took a small sip. Donna drained most of the glass. Donna smacked her lips and declared that was the best dam diet coke she had ever had. For the rest of the afternoon, Chris/Shaun/I ordered beer and Donna ordered “diet cokes”. Thus proving, I know what my lady wants, even is she doesn’t.

Beware of the Brownies!

Chaz’s viewpoint – Donna and I go to a music festival in Remus, MI every year, called Wheatland. This is the 32nd year it has been held and this year (2005) will make Donna’s 26th year attending without missing one and my 12th. If you like music, it’s a great event. Here is the link to the website – www.wheatlandmusic.org

Now, I like all music, but for listening pleasure I like heavy rock. If it’s just me, then I will have on Ozzy or Metallic or Pantera. Yet, I also enjoy Wheatland even though it does have a diverse line up, it does tend to folk style music. During Wheatland, 40,000 people arrive and camp on about 160 acres, but the organizers do a great job of handling the people. There is a lot of drinking/partying going on, but no one is overly obnoxious. It’s like a 60’s Woodstock, but more controlled. Also like Woodstock there is a lot of herb being smoked, but it is generally ignored by the staff as long as it’s not obvious.

My drug of choice is beer, but if herb is yours, I don’t have an issue with it. My second or third Wheatland, Donna and I were wandering around listening to impromptu bands; people watching; and generally having a good time. We stopped at a campsite and listened for a little bit. While there, I was offered some brownies, so I had one, a rather large one. As I am eating it, Donna is looked at me with wonder on her face. After I finish (note the AFTER part of that) Donna asks me, did I really want to do that? I ask her what she meant. She explains that these were “special” brownies and I might not have wanted to eat one, especially a large one. I had heard of such things, but did not make the connection. Of course, it would have been nice to have a warning before I consumed it. When I mentioned this to her, Donna basically said you’re a grown up, so she thought I knew what I was doing.

Remember this was only our 2nd year together, so we were still in the first stages of learning about each other, so she didn’t realize that while I know everything and am usually right, everything doesn’t encompass herbs, either the smoking kind or the cooking kind. Well, I thought other people do this and survive, so it shouldn’t be a big deal to me and it wasn’t..initially.

Its getting dark and we go to the main stage to listen to the music. There are three stages, plus a dance stage in various places. Seating is where ever you can put your chairs/blankets. We are sitting there listening to the music, drinking beer, enjoying the night and I realize that I am starting to get buzzed. The brownie has arrived! It’s not a big deal. Sort of like a beer buzz. Time passes. The Buzz continues to escalate. I am having trouble focusing, people are slurring their words, the music is getting loud, but I can handle it. There is a time warp as I look up in the sky and realize the stars are trying to talk to me. Dam, why didn’t I learn more Morse code? If I knew more than SOS, I am sure the stars will tell the answers to all of life’s mysteries. After 42 seconds, or maybe minutes, since I was having trouble with reality at the point, pass while I am try to contemplating the stars, it happens…

BANG!
BANG!
BOOOM!
This loud noise is coming from the stage. The speakers are vibrating with power and overloading my brain. This act is way too loud and noisy, I can’t handle it. I lean over to Donna and tell her that it’s too intense, I have to leave. She looks dumbfounded.

I explain that yes, me the person that likes to listen to heavy metal; the person that jumps into mosh pits; the person that likes to play music so loud it makes his ears bleed can’t handle it. The act is just too wild. The flaying on stage and the loudness is just too much. Please take me back to the campsite. Please!

Donna, being the loving person she is, stands up and helps me to feet and begins to take me to the campsite. As we are leaving, one of our friends ask where we are going. Donna replies, “I have to take Chaz back to the campsite.” Of course, they enquire why. Donna explains, “He can’t take the noise any more, because …...the clogging is too intense!”

That’s right ladies and gentlemen; I could not handle the clogging, which is basically folk music tap dancing. So if you ever come to Wheatland –

Beware of the brownies!

Strip Clubs!!

Chaz's viewpoint - I was working for a company that was doing a project on HVAC and I was teamed up with this technician, Steve, who lived in the bayou of Louisiana. He would fly up to Detroit every other week or so to help prepare for the project. The project was actually going to take place in Atlanta and we would be there for 4 weeks testing HVAC units. On his first trip up to Detroit, I found out this guy was addicted to strip clubs. He insisted on going to them whenever he got a chance. My personal opinion on strip clubs is that while I like looking at the woman, but I hate paying $6 for a beer more, so unless it is a special occasion, I don’t go. Every time he flew back to Louisiana, he insisted that we leave earlier enough, so he could spend a couple hrs at the strip clubs by Detroit Metro.

Anyways, the project was to test the HVAC systems for a telephone company in Atlanta. This is rather critical for them since phone equipment generate a lot of heat, so require a lot of cooling. We are scheduled to begin April, but this makes to much common sense. I mean why would you check the cooling systems in the spring when they are starting to run? It would be a much better test to check them in, let’s say, January. The morons..oops, clients felt that it would be safer to check them while they weren’t operational and since they were paying, it meant we were inspecting cooling equipment in January.

Steve and I coordinate our flights and arrive in Atlanta close to the same time, get the rental car and head to hotel. We check in and grab a bit to eat in the restaurant. As we are sitting there, Steve pulls out this ½ inch thick stack of papers and hands it too me. It contains an Internet search of all strip clubs in a 50 mile radius of Atlanta. There were literally hundreds. Steve is like - let’s go to the closet one. I hand him the car keys and said have fun. I didn’t want the expense, plus there was a new software program that I was still working on, so I didn’t have time.

Over the next couple of weeks, I find out a few things about Steve. First, he is not comfortable in a big city and refused to drive. Second, he is a racist. He never did anything overt, but the long days of working together, it was easy to tell. As long as he did his job, didn’t become obnoxious about it, and didn’t offend anyone working with us, then his opinion is his opinion.

Two weeks into the job, an ice storm hits Atlanta. Now for someone that lives in Michigan, this is nothing, maybe a ½ inch of ice. For Atlanta it was as if the new ice age was upon us. Everything shuts down. I talk to my boss and the client and am able to convince them that it is not fiscally responsible for us to stay as we are not getting any good readings. Yeah, we can go home. I work with the airlines and manage to get flights for Steve and I back to our respective states that day. Mine left in about 3 hrs and Steve’s left in about 5. We pack up and head to the airport. Now while we were packing, Steve had jumped on the Internet and found a strip club that was about a mile away from where we were to return the car.

For the next half hour while we drove, I had to listen to him beg and plead to go to this strip club. I finally gave in and headed toward it. Steve was so excited that he was paying much attention to the neighborhood we were entering. I have a pretty high survival instinct, so I did. To a Detroit paramedic (me), it was not that bad, especially in the day time, so I continued onward. This was around 1 or 2 on a Wednesday afternoon. We arrive at this red lipstick colored building. I would like to call it a shack, but it was medium sized building, so I am not sure if qualifies. We get out of the car and go to enter. A few things that made me concerned: First, two rather large bouncers. While this is probably normal for a weekend night, but this was a Wednesday afternoon. Next was the metal detector that we had to go through. The third concern was the intensive pat down/frisk that done? I felt I should have tipped the guy, but since I do like my head attached to my neck, I didn’t. These things are not normal in strip clubs I have frequented.

We get allowed in and we are in a little foyer with a door that opens into the actual strip club. I ask Steve if he wants to continue. He is like a kid in a candy store. With his eyes gleaming, he says yes. Now in hindsight, I imagine that all the security precaution made Steve think this was some special place, possibly a brothel. I actually hope he wasn’t thinking that way cause if he was his dreams were shattered when we went through the 2nd door.


We enter the dimly lit club and make our way to a rickety table near the front stage. A waitress takes our order and leaves. As my eyes adjust, it becomes apparent that we are the only Caucasians in the place. This doesn’t bother me and from the area of Atlanta we were in, I expected it. Watching Steve’s face as this bit of reality dawns on him was funny. He takes a swig of his beer and focuses on the main stage. There is an African-American woman dancing. He gets a frown on his face and starts to look around. He glances to the left. Yep, all African-American people. He glances to the right. Shit, nothing but African-American people there too. He turns around and looks at the bar. He face falls because it also only has African-American people there too. As I have to work with him for at least a couple of more weeks, I couldn’t really laugh at him, but it was difficult not too.

Now, one of the rules of strip clubs is that if you make contact with one of the girls who are wandering around, they will come over and leech money… I mean talk to you. Of course you have to buy a $6 glass of water that they call wine to keep them there longer than a moment. They also do this if you don’t look at them, but not as much. Previously, Steve would always try to attract attention, but here he just stared straight ahead and drank quickly. Another rule of strip clubs is to drink slowly as it is usually $6 a beer. I have seen Steve nurse a single beer for over an hour. This day he was half way done with it before I had more than two drinks out of mine.

I am looking around. People watching as I usually do when I hear - Psst..Psst! It was Steve trying to get my attention. Now most people are along the walls or at the bar. We are the only ones at a table. There is no one within 15 ft of us and the music is quite loud, so I am wondering why he is being all secretive. Steve leans forward and discretely points at the main dancer – What’s wrong with her? Is that small pox
I look closely at the dancer for the first time. I see what he is looking at and why it might be concern. However, it wasn’t small pox. It was gunshot wound scars. She had 4 or 5 bullet scars in her leg and lower back. My first thought was that is unusual, but it was quickly overridden by the thought probably not around here. My second thought was wow my first stripper with gunshot wounds. Cool. As I explained what they were to Steve and how it probably occurred – drive by with automatic since the scars started low and went up and to the left, Steve’s eyes got even wider, which I didn’t think was possible.

Steve took another drink and said lets go. Being the nice person that I am, I reminded him that this was the only strip club we had gone to, so didn’t he want to stay. He didn’t. I pointed out the time. He would be sitting at the airport for at least 3 hrs. Wouldn’t he rather sit here and enjoy the atmosphere. For some reason, he didn’t want to do that either. I took another 10 minutes to drink my beer. All the while, savoring the payback of all the other times he made me go to clubs and waste my time. We left and flew out.

A month or so later, we finished up the last two weeks of the project. The funny thing was Steve never asked to go to strip club with me again. Actually, guess I should be grateful to him. Without his pleading, I never would have seen the battle scarred stripper.

The Demise of "Charlies Too" – Brooke’s first dance

Chaz’s viewpoint – We have an annual summer party and over the years this has stretched from a Saturday party to a Friday night thru Sunday afternoon party. No complaints from Donna and I as we love company. Anyways, this Friday night party was my first as the pig was done the day before, so I could attend with no repercussions the next day. We walked down to “Charlies Too”.

Now, “Charlies Too” was the favorite dive for the Friday night party, mainly because it was 3 blocks to the west and one block north of our house, so we could walk and everyone could drink. As long as they could walk on the way home, a few times it was a close call, but everyone did manage it. Charlies Too was a typical dive. It had a U-shaped bar, some wobbly tables, two pool tables, & a juke box that mainly played classic rock. It had that distinctive dive smell – cigarette smoke & grease and there were a lot people with mullets. Besides the ability to be walked to, the other real attraction was the bar maids. If you ignored the 4 inch fake finger nails, inflatable breasts, and an occasional missing tooth, then they were pretty in a trailer park sorta way.

Now I know that as Shaun reads this, he is howling in protest about Celeste. The first time we went in, which was in 96 or so, the bar maid was Celeste and she is worthy of howling about. Celeste had a very well defined stomach which was accented by a nice belly button piercing. I think Shaun still has wet dreams about her even though we only saw her twice after the first time.

Well, this Friday’s group included me, Chris, Donna, Brooke (daughter), and Jann (Donna’s best friend). If I remember correctly Shaun was dating someone at the time and had a curfew or something like that. We had tapped the keg earlier in the evening and it was about 11 or so. I think. I really don’t know what time it was, but we decided it was time for Charlies too. We filled up our cups and started walking. Now, most of the walk was fine. Though crossing Merriman (fairly busy, 2 lanes each direction with a turn lane) and not spilling any beer was challenging, but I think we were all professional enough to do it. We leave our cups outside, open the door and enter.

As with most of my stories, here is where things get a bit fuzzy. There were three bar maids, one for the floor & two behind the bar. I recall that they were fairly pretty. I do know I was wondering if their pants were painted on or not, and one was falling out of her top. The place was fairly busy and the bar maids were hopping. They were also killing the profit margin. They were giving out free drinks and mixed drinks were mainly liquor. Bonus for us! As the night went on, the more free stuff and the more liquor in the drinks. Here is some of what I remember –

I was watching the one of the barmaids who was further down the bar. She was facing away from me, but it was apparent she was unbuttoning her pants. Needless to say this interested me, so I pointed Donna toward her so she could also see. The rest were not in the position to see. Donna looks and then looks at me quizzically. I shrug my shoulders and go back to watching. Yes, she was unbuttoning her pants. She then pulled them down a bit. This was quite interesting to watch as they were so tight it took her about a minute to get them down an inch or so. She then began pointing to her groin and talking to the guys at that side of the bar. The guys in the general vicinity almost broke their necks trying to look over the bar at her. They stare for a few moments, then she turns and starts buttoning up. Well, she is now facing me and sees that I very curious, so she stops buttoning up and comes over to our side of the bar. She leans forward and says that she is wearing her special underwear and would we like to see. Donna and I both say “Yes”, at the same time while nodding our heads vigorously.

The bar maid wiggles the pants back down and shows us her thongs. In the appropriate "V" area, the thong has “Joe’s Place” written. Well, while the view was pretty, Donna & I were both a little stumped at the laughter. I look at the bar maid with a questioning look. She points to her rather filled t-shirt that says “Eat at Joes”. This gets the required laughs from Donna and me. It is also the first time that we have been flashed at the same time, not including “Gentlemen’s Clubs”.

A little later, a song comes on the juke box. I don’t remember what it was, but it apparently kicked off the “Coyote Ugly” gene in the bar maids as they got up and began dancing on the bar. I am not joking they were up and gyrating. They were sorta bent over as there really wasn’t much space between the bar and the ceiling, but it was still interesting to watch. After about 45 seconds, there is a commotion a few seats down. It’s Brooke. She has decided that they, the bar maids, aren’t doing it right or don’t have the ass to do it right. “It” being gyrating on the bar. Personally, I didn’t know here was a right or wrong way, I just like to watch. So up she goes. With Chris’s help she is on the bar and showing them how it’s done. She was correct. She could bar dance better than those two. Donna watch for about 5 seconds and decide this was not a mother-daughter bonding moment, so she put her head in arms and stared at the top of the bar.

Side note - I think Brooke had two unfair advantages. First, Brooke is short, so she didn’t have to be bent over, which allowed more mobility. Second, she has inherited the Boozenny butt (Boozenny being from Donna's Mom side); albeit currently smaller, it is the same as and gyrates nicely as Donna’s does! {For Family Members – Sorry about the visual}

Well, the dancing was done. It was getting closer to closing time and someone (Chris) decides its time to do shots. I think that this is mandatory. If you are in the bar later than 1 a.m., someone needs to insist upon doing shots. In our group, that person is normally Chris. Also in our group this is a bad idea because it brings out the Kleptomaniac in my wife. There is something about shot glasses that makes her want to steal them. I have offered to buy them when this urge hits, but she says it’s not the same.

So we do the shots. I have no real memory of this, but since we now own five shot glasses from Charlies Too and there were five of us. It is a logical conclusion. I do remember that after we left, I found one in my pants pocket. Jann pulled one of them out of her cleavage. I am not sure why she didn’t put all five there as there was enough to hold them, but she didn’t. I am not sure where the others were hidden and am pretty sure I don’t want to know.

Not sure if the stolen shot glasses brought financial ruin or if the entire bar maid staff were humiliated by Brooke’s dancing and refused to work anymore, but alas that was the last night of Charlies Too. They put up a close sign and never opened back up. Two years later, it was demolished and a Walgreens put up in its place. This ends the tale of Demise of Charlies Too.

Pig roasting – Seven years of stupidity

Chaz’s viewpoint – We have an annual summer party, this year will be our 10th. The party started out as an all day event on a Saturday. Due to the imbibing, many people stayed the night Saturday, and the party just continued on Sunday. For many years, I would roast a full pig, which required putting the pig on at about 2 or 3 in the a.m. Well after the first couple of parties, a few friends started showing up Friday night to assist in the “roasting”. Just my opinion, but I think it was the beer, not any desire to help me. I think this is pretty accurate, since they typically just stood there and watched. Whatever, their reason, the party began to start Friday evening.

While I am definitely biased, I feel that our parties go over pretty well. We have a lot of good conversation, volleyball, good food, & good beer, plus we generally have a good turn out. Usually we have approx. 50-60 people with 4-8 spending the night Friday and 12-15 spending Saturday night. The record was set in 2002 with 101 people coming with 14 people spending Friday night and 38 people spending Saturday night.

Now I enjoyed these parties, but usually not until about 6 or 7 p.m. on Saturday. This was due to the work I had to roast the pig. I would get the roaster the weekend before and set it up, so that was no big deal. The Friday of the party, I would take the day and finish setting up tent, chairs, table, etc. I would drive to a pig farm outside of Canton and pick the pig up. I tried to get there as close to closing (5:00) as I could so we didn’t have to worry a lot about keep it cold. I would pack the pig in ice and head home. I would leave it in the garage and go get the 1st ½ keg. We usually go through two. I come home and various people usually Chris and Shaun (Imagine that!) would show up and we would tap the keg.

I know I have a long night ahead, so I don’t drink much. Chris & Shaun usually do and usually around 11 p.m. they want to go to the bar. For a lot of years, they walked to a “Charlies too”, usually with my wife in tow. Alas, we took Brooke (our daughter) & Jan (Donna’s best friend) there before one of the parties and they ended up having to close it down. That is definitely another story, if I can figure out how to do it without incriminating anyone. Anyways, they usually leave either walking or with a DD, designated driver, and I stick around.

It’s not like I am lonely or being idle. Usually my Dad arrives about that time from Virginia, so we play catch up. I also have to get the pig ready. Now due to the usual amount of people, we get a fairly large pig, roughly 150 pounds. Unfortunately, this means that it won’t fit in the pig roaster without some.. ah..modifications. Basically, I have to cut off its head and part is legs. Now I could have the pig farm do this, but why waste the $25 they would charge me. Its not like I have anything else to do, so out comes the hacksaw and I begin. It takes me a good 20 minutes and two beers to accomplish this, but it’s done. I’ve saved some money, and I get to work off some testosterone.

Around 1 a.m. I get the coals going. A little after 2, the drunks..I mean the Shaun/Chris/Donna shows up. I sit around the next half hour and listen to their stories and philosophies, which are usually quite incoherent, but still humorous. When I get told for the third time - “I love you, Man!!” and its Shaun, not Donna, I figure its time to put the pig on. This timing mechanism as served me well over the years.

For those of you who have never done or seen this done, it is quite a sight. First you have this iron pig roaster, which is a wee bit warm, roughly 300-325 degrees. Next you have a 150 pound, 3 ½ foot long headless pig. Take one fairly sober person (me) and two very drunk people, Shaun & Chris, {Note; Donna has enough common sense to either go inside or stay quite.} and try to combine the headless pig with very hot roaster. Trust me, comedy ensues. I am sure that we would make the Three Stooges laugh, though I usually cry. At least so far we haven’t been seriously burnt.

The pig is on, so I check everything, add coals/set the vents and off to bed for 2 hrs. After 2 hrs, I get up check everything, add coals/set the vents and off to bed for 1 hr. Repeat every hr until 8 a.m. Around that time, Donna usually begins checking and allows me to sleep until about 11 or so. This is not a good sleep as I have vivid flash backs to the time Donna & my mom where “checking” the pig and the grease caught on fire. Since most of the roaster is coated in grease, it also caught on fire. The screams woke me. I rushed outside in time to stop them from spraying with water (my mom not Donna). I shut the lid and let the flames die out. All was well, but the memory lingers on.

Anyways, after the mainly sleepless night, I get up around 11, check the pig, and begin getting the rest of the party ready. I go get ice, get the remaining keg, grab a bite to eat and set up the cutting table. The party starts around noon, but most people start rolling in around 1 or 2 with the most people there from around 3 to 6. The pig is done around 1. I put on my rubber apron, don my rubber gloves, pick up my hopefully sharp knives and begin.

Carve & Shred.
Carve & Shred.
Carve & Shred.

For about 4 hrs I carve and shred very hot, very greasy pork. Since I have to start carving the pig at 1, I tend to miss most of the people. Actually, they would stop the carving table and talk for a few moments, grab some fresh off the bone pork, but I wasn’t really able to enjoy their company. After the meat was cut and shredded, I would clean up with Donna’s help; shut down the roaster, i.e. close the vents; and go take a long shower. By this time it’s around 6 or 6:30. Did you notice that most people are there from 3 to 6? Basically, I am so busy working that I miss most of my own party. It was worth it as everyone had fun, people loved the roasted pork, and I would eventually get to sit down and mingle. This was standard procedure for the first 7 yrs.

The 7th year was the year of enlightenment. It was around 7 or so in the evening on that the Saturday of the party. I was finally relaxing and enjoy the company, when my mom came up to me and we had the following conversation –
Mom – You sure work hard.

Me – yeah, but it’s worth it.

Mom – I know that you are pretty smart. {My chest swelled with pride} So I am sure that there is a reason for this, but I have to ask anyways. You usually have Friday off anyways, right?

Me – Uh, right.

Mom – and you have the roaster the weekend before, right?

Me – Yeah.

Mom – Then why don’t you roast the pig Thursday night, cut it up Friday, and just reheat it on Saturday? It will keep in the fridge and you can get a good night sleep, plus you can enjoy your party.

Stunned silence as I try to comprehend this radical notion

Mom – Well?

I think furiously for the reason and give the perfectly logical and correct one – “I don’t know. I guess I never thought of it.”

Mom as she is walking away - Well, you might want to do that next year.

Me – Dooooh!

I just wish she had mentioned this 5 years ago!

Thus the pork is now done the night before, but the pre-party part continues. However for the last two years I have been able to attend, so those stories will soon be written.

I'm not robber!!

Chaz’s viewpoint – Donna & I were wandering the streets of Pontiac. It has a nice 4-5 block downtown area with a lot of interesting bars to visit. We had visited a few and were running out of cash, so we began looking for an ATM. We asked around and found that the nearest one was two blocks off the main strip in the Pontiac Osteopathic Hospital. The person also said to be careful as the neighbor is a bit seedy there.

Well, we wander over the two blocks to the hospital. The person was right. It does get seedier. A couple of street lights are out, so it’s darker, and there were a lot of people milling around the emergency room entrance. However, if anyone has ever been around Detroit Receiving on a Saturday night, this was a picnic. We go up to the main entrance and are pleasantly surprised as we can see the ATM through the door. Soon we will have money to begin bar hopping again. We walk up the steps and I open the door. Well, I tried to open the door; I actually almost dislocated my shoulder as the door was locked.

I start to whimper sadly as thoughts of the beer I would be unable to buy floated through my mind. As I started to turn and go away, a security guard appeared. Yes, there is a God!

I yell through the glass that we want to use the ATM. The guard says that the entrance is closed and we have to go to the emergency room. I ask if there is an ATM there. The guard says no. I ask if we can get to that ATM, the one 10 feet from the door we are yelling through, from the emergency room. The guard says no. God is such a tease!

I explain again that we just want to get some money from the A T M. The guard looks us over and decides that we are harmless, so he lets us in. Thank you God! There are benefits to being short, fat, and old. Uh..I mean small of stature, well fed, and distinguished looking. We get out some cash and head back outside. The guard locks the door behind us.

As we walk down the steps a man shuffles up to us. He is very scruffy looking with a general “homeless” air about him. Donna has a look of concern on her face. This must have been apparent to the guy as the first thing he says is –

“Hi, I’m Leon and I’m not a robber”

He then goes into his spiel about needing money to get a bus to Toledo and can we spare any change. Now, since he was polite and tried to allay my wife’s fears by stating he was not a robber, I was inclined to give him something, but all I had was twenty’s from the ATM. I said “Sorry, but we don’t have any change” and walked away. Donna gripped my arm tight as we walked the two blocks back to the lighted, busy downtown area. Once we get to the corner, she looks at me and says “Hi, I’m Leon and I’m not a robber” and begins laughing, partially from relief, but mainly from the absurdity of it.

You have to admire a great opening statement!

The Hope Orchestra

Chaz's viewpoint - I had won tickets to see someone at the 7th house in Pontiac. I can’t remember who the main act was, but it’s not essential to the story, so onward. Donna and I went. It was spring time and the night was fairly warm. We grabbed a bite to eat at the Bo’s Brewery, and then headed to the 7th house. The opening band, The Hope Orchestra, was great. We really enjoyed them. We even had the chance to attend one of thier Cd release parties. They play a sorta bluesy folk music.

As we are sitting there, I notice this rather large, mean looking man dressed in black with biker boots, flat top hair cut, and cut off t-shirt. I am thinking some type of skin head. He is slowly working his way to the stage. His body is bouncing in time with the music, like he is in a mosh pit of one. He stops just off to the side of the stage. I am becoming concerned as he definitely doesn’t belong here and I am not sure what to do, or if I could do anything, if he became violent. I looked around and made sure were the exit where and waited. I also notice that there are several bouncers around, so that makes me feel slightly better, until I realize that they don’t see this guy or don’t care.

I am sitting there contemplating what to do, when the guy rushes the stage. I grab Donna’s arm and start to get out of my seat. I should mention that we are right in front of the stage, so bodies could easily land on us. The guy is now next to the very pretty singer. He reaches down and picks up an item. He turns around with his back to the audience. I settle back down as I realize that the singer is not freaking out, so he must be part of the act. When the guy turns around he has a violin tucked under his chin and begins jamming on it. Man, he could rock on that violin. It was great to watch. Later, he got out a penny whistle and played that just as well.

Guess you can’t judge a book by its cover.

The Beginning of “We”

As more stories are posted, you will see a trend that “we” will usually include Donna, myself, Chris, and Shaun, or some combination thereof. This is the story of our first outing together and explains how we met.

Donna and I are easy to explain as we are married. Chris is also as simple, since he & I have know each other since the 5th grade when he “narc’ed” on me to the vice principal. Since I try to be fair and honest, I will interrupt myself just as Chris would do at this point.

Chris (whining) – “He was shooting me with darts.” {Straight pins with paper feathers shot out of a home made hand sized blow gun}.

Which I was, but that is beside the point. Chris broke the rules of playground. The great part from my perspective was Chris was also busted and yelled at by the Vice principal too. Karma is sweet!

Anyways, I won 4 tickets to see “Better than Ezra” at St. Andrews theater and invited Chris and his wife to go. It really wasn’t something that Chris’s wife was interested in & they couldn’t find a babysitter, so she wasn't going. Thus, I had an extra ticket. I was unable to find just one person that wanted to go. I then remembered Shaun.

Shaun is the son of our close friends, Viv & Alan. Viv & Alan are retired a British couples that are a blast. There will be more stories involving them later. Anyways, Donna & I had met Shaun at Viv & Alan’s house a couple of times when they had parties. I figured that he was around our age, so might like the band, plus he was single. I called introduced myself, explained the situation, and he agreed to go.

I picked Shaun up and was going to drive him home after the concert. Chris met us at our house and we drove into the city in one car. We were there early, so we stopped and had a few beers. Donna had brought a flask, so we decided to fill it up and sneak it in. We went into a liquor store down the block and purchased some Rum, tequila, and Jagermiester. Note the Jager was purely Chris’s idea. I think we filled the flask with the jager and put the pints of tequila and rum in our pants/coats. As we walked back to St. Andrews to get in line, we accidentally stepped in front of a taxi. The taxi stopped, but the driver began cussing us out in a foreign language as he drove off. Shaun being the refined gentleman he is, yelled “This is America. Speak English, you dam foreigner!” Since Shaun is a British citizen, not American, the rest of us found this quite funny.

We get in line and slowly begin to move it St. Andrews. As we get near the front, we see that they are checking for alcohol. Momentary panic sets in, but I realize that we are the oldest people here, so decide to chance it. Sure enough, they look at us “old folks” and just wave us through.

Now, before I go further, I just want to clarify a few things. First, Donna was driving home, since I planned on drinking. Second, I was working swing shifts, so didn’t have to work the next day. I think this was a Wednesday night. Due to these to factors, I was drinking heavily. This should put the rest of the story in the proper light.

The evening is a bit fuzzy, but this is what I do remember....

1. St. Andrews is a great venue. No seating, just an open floor with a stage, plus a balcony going around the perimeter.

2. Beer was expensive, but that is why we brought the flask and pints. Planning ahead pays off!

3. Music was great.

4. People watching was better.

5. The mosh pit was the best I had been in. Yes, I went into the Pit. I love mosh pits, but I was a good husband. I asked my wife if she minded me going. She said no. Then I asked her if she want to go also. She said “No, F*CKING Way!” I handed her my glasses. She made sure she had the medical insurance cards, gave me a kiss, and said had fun. I asked Shaun and Chris if they wanted to go. They looked at me as if I had grown a second head and vehemently shook their heads no. Bunch of wussy’s. It was fun. I think. I was very sore the next day and had a few bruises, so I am pretty sure I had fun.

6. Someone lost the flask. No one remembers who had it, but they all blame me. I think it’s a conspiracy.

7. Leaving the concert, I felt great. I was long gone out of the “Buzz Zone” and into the “Obnoxious, Moronic Zone”. I remember leaping up and slamming my fist into a street sign, while screaming “Yeaaaahhh!” Not sure why I did this, but I trust myself, so I had to have a good reason at the time. According to the rest of the group it did have a good outcome. Apparently there were a couple of homeless guys coming over to bum for money. After my little outburst, they decided to cross the street and beg there.

8. We were downtown Detroit. I had been a paramedic in Detroit for several years, so I knew my way around, at least when I was sober. Donna kept asking me how to get to I-94. I am not sure why she did this as I kept answering any question with “left, go left” and hitting my head on the window.

That’s all I remember about the night. My wife being the good soul she was drove Shaun home as I couldn’t. She basically had about 2 hrs sleep that night and had to go to work the next morning. Thank God, she is from good Ukraine stock. Chris drove home as he also had to work the next day. He had stopped drinking early, which was good as he was pulled over twice by cops for a burnt out headlight. All in all we had a good time. We also found all four of us like to bar & dives, people watching, and exploring. Thus the four musketeers began their adventures!

Aretha Franklin, or Donna’s glimpse of fame.

Chaz’s viewpoint - It was a lovely night in Detroit. We had gone to the Gem Theater to see a play with family and friends. For more details about the background see the post from July 11th, 2005 “Shaun – The Whitest Caucasian”.

As we are sitting on the patio, we recognize one of the actors and buy him a beer. During the conversation, he mentions that Aretha Franklin is here for the benefit. This information causes Donna to act as if she just sat on a tack. She straightens up in the chair; her head begins swiveling around like a set of windshield wipers- left/right, left/right, left/right, left/right. “Really” she says and after the actor confirms it, she says “I must see her”. Thus our goal for the night was changed from drinking to “find Aretha”.

This seemed like an easy enough goal. After all Aretha is rather large woman who dresses extravagantly and would be hard to miss. After looking around the patio and not seeing her, we move our way into the Gem. Due to the benefit, the place was packed and movement in any direction made you feel like a salmon heading up stream. We made it to the first inside bar. Yes, first inside bar. A main attraction of the Gem is that they have a bar on the patio, a bar in the entrance, a bar in the Century Theater, a bar in the gem theater, a bar in the Century Grille, and a bar in the lower level. We like a place with a lot of bars.

We purchased a drink and moved to an out of the way corner that we could survey the room. A few false ID’s later, we realized that there were a lot of rather large woman who dressed extravagantly at this event. We decided to move into the Century Grille. There was a nice jazz trio playing and the place was even more packed. We were looking for a table, but it was apparent that it was not going to happen.

We had wander to the back of the bar and were standing listening to the music for a few moments. As we turned to go back out, someone said, “Excuse me.” Looking to our left was a circular table for 8, which had two older ladies sitting at it. These were African-American dressed to the hilt. Actually they were more conservative than a lot of people there, but they definitely were showing their finest. A stand out in my mind was one was wearing all purple with at purple hat. Anyways, one of the said, “If we were looking for a seat, we could share their table.” Of course we agreed, sat down, and introduced ourselves.

I wish I could remember the conversation exactly, but this was many beers ago. The overall jest was they were there for the benefit, their son was part of management, and they like jazz. We talked for 10-15 minutes with these charming ladies. Well, the jazz trio stopped and people began to leave. One of the ladies said the benefit was beginning and we should be going. The other replied, “Yes, since Aretha is going, we should too.”

Donna’s face light up like a kid’s on Christmas morning - “Aretha, Aretha Franklin, was in here!” One of ladies said “Yes, she was sitting at that table” and pointed to a table that was three tables away. Donna gave a small cry of despair devastated and began her windshield impersonation again, trying to see Aretha in the throng of people. She was to be disappointed. Aretha was three tables away and Donna missed her. The best she could see was a rather large, extravagantly dressed, back of someone that could have been Aretha. Alas, that "back" to be her only glimpse of fame.

Even though this was many years ago, if you ever want to see Donna pout, just mention the Gem Theater and Aretha together, and your wish will come true!

Shaun – The Whitest Caucasian

Chaz’s viewpoint - It was a lovely night in Detroit. We had had gone to the Gem Theater and saw Jeff Daniel’s “Escanaba in the moonlight” with family and friends. Just a quick editorial – this play is will crack a few ribs from laughter. It is hilarious.

Anyways, the show was over, but the night was young, so we (Donna, I, Shaun, and his girlfriend at the time) decided to stay. We sat out on the patio and had another beer or two or three. It was a lovely display of symbolism for Detroit. We were sitting out side this beautifully designed, immaculate building with most patrons appearing well off and enjoying life. While across the street and two buildings down, there is a building that looks condemned with boarded up windows, trash all around, and a homeless man in the doorway. Ohh well, I digress.

As we are sitting on the patio, we realize that although the play was over the Gem was still hopping. I asked the waiter what was going on and was informed that there was a benefit for a local Jazz artist who had cancer. This sounded fun, so we decided to check it out. Alas, it was fun and provided a few stories, so here we go.

I had been drinking a lot of Bass Ale, actually a hellava lot of Bass. I was definitely in the “Buzz Zone”. The Buzz Zone is where you can still stand, walk, and talk straight, but life is good, everything is warm & fuzzy, and everyone is a friend. Due to the mass quantities of Bass, my kidneys were working overtime. I worked my way down the steps and got in line. While waiting in line, I began a conversation with the gentleman next to me. Now, I don’t really remember what we said, but the line was fairly long, so we talked for a couple of minutes. We each did our business and left. I wandered back to the patio, found the rest of the group, and went inside to continue my consumption of Bass.

Anyways, my kidneys continued to work and I had to make another trip to the bathroom. This time Shaun decided to come along. As we began our descent down the stairs, I noticed a gentleman coming up the stairs that looked familiar. Now I was on the far side of the Buzz Zone. I was in the area of the zone where synapses attempt to fire but don’t always spark; eyesight is narrowly focused; feet and hands don’t always follow directions; and the voice raises several volumes. In layman’s terms, I was getting “hammered”. Well, this gentleman was very familiar, but I could not place him. I was staring at him rather intently as we slowly came towards each other. Luckily for me, he was sober, or at least not as far gone as me, as he recognized me.

Apparently, I didn’t have my poker face on as he knew I was trying to figure out why I knew him. As we drew to within a few steps of each other, he says “bathroom”. This one word opens my mind to the memories and all is clear. This was the gentleman from my earlier trip to the bathroom. Relief flooded me as this mystery of life was solved. I looked at him, did this little acknowledgement gesture with my hand, and said “thanks”.

Well, I had forgotten about Shaun. I try to do this on occasion, but so far have always failed.

Some more background – this was a predominately African-American event. Our group of four probably made up the majority of Caucasians attending this event, beside the wait staff. The gentleman from the bathroom was African-American. Shaun is British and very Caucasian, hence the title of the story.

Well, Shaun had seen this exchange between me and the gentlemen. I don’t know what he was thinking. Actually, I am of the opinion that he wasn’t thinking at all. So after seeing this exchange, Shaun raises his fist in the traditional black power salute and loudly proclaims “Hey, My Bruuttther”. There became a zone of silence around us as everyone in a 10 foot radius briefly stopped and stared. My brain went blank as I tried to figure out why he did what he did and failed. The gentleman on his way up being a true gentleman shook his head, said “hello”, and continued up the stairs. Being the true friend that I am, I continued on to the bathroom.

Since we couldn’t talk in the bathroom due to Shaun’s "rules" of the urinal, I waited until we were back to the table before asking politely and softly, “What the hell were you doing?” As indicated by his behavior, Shaun was also in the far end of the zone. Shaun had no real answer, except it seemed like a good ideas at the time. Thus, he has earned the whitest Caucasian.

Tales from the Urinal - The Conversation

Chaz’s viewpoint – It had been a couple of months since we had been out, but schedules & finances finally aligned, and off we went. “We” consisted of Donna, Shaun, Chris, and me. We ended up at the Yacht club in Plymouth. Now, this is not our normal trip as is not a small dive. It is a rather large dive. The waitresses wear bikinis or lingerie, so we mainly go for the scenery, and occasionally, well once, for the band.

We are sitting there catching up, drinking, and watching the waitresses flirt for bigger tips. Most everything was good, except our waitress was a little “blonder” than the normal waitress found here. She was having a hard time remembering to stop by and see if we need anything else. As we sit there waiting for her to come by and get us some refills, Shaun decides to go to the bathroom. A minute or two later, Chris decides to go find our waitress and get us some beer.

Shaun comes back and he is a bit pale. He leans over the table and asks us, “Do I look gay?” We reply with a resounding “Yes”. I mean what else would you expect friends to say? Shaun says, “No, seriously. Would you take me for a homosexual?” We said, “Maybe, but we don’t know as we don’t look at people and wonder if they are gay, unless it is very obvious, like flaming.” At this point, Chris comes back to the table, says our beers will be here in a moment, and sits down. Shaun begins to tell his tale…

“I think this guy just tried to pick me up in bathroom. I am standing at the urinal doing my thing when some guy comes and starts using the urinal next to me. The guy then starts talking about how this is nice, it’s been a long time, and how we should do this more often. I was scared. I finished pissing and go the hell out of there. I don’t mind gay guys, but it is really weird to be hit upon.”

At that point, Chris sets down his beer, looks at Shaun, and starts laughing so hard he almost snorts his beer.

“That gay guy was me, you asshole”

Chris begins his tale…

“I had to piss, so I went to the john. Shaun was there, so I talked about how it’s nice to get out again as it had been awhile and how we should do this more often. Shaun finished and left. I was wondering why he didn’t say anything.”

The lesson learned here is that Shaun has very strict rules regarding public bathrooms. You stare straight ahead and down. You never talk to any one and if anyone talks to you they must want your body.

Tales from the Urinal - The Interrogation

Chaz’s viewpoint - It was a nice evening and we had been out visiting new bars. “We” consisting of Chris, Shaun, and I. As we worked our way around the metro area, we came across the “Hurry on Inn”. Remembering my experience with our first visit to the “Hurry on Inn”, I wanted to share the experience with Shaun and Chris, so we stopped.

This time the “Hurry on Inn” was dead, at least the patrons looked as if they should have been dead. There was the bartender and 3 gentlemen at one end of the bar. Of course, all conversation stopped as we walked in and they stared at us like were where aliens from another planet. Of course, we probably were alien, at least in this environment. I mean we did have all of our own teeth, plus we were wearing those new fangled shirts that buttoned up the front and it wasn’t even Sunday.

Now these gentlemen were the type you would expect at a local neighborhood bar. They were on the downhill side of life, a bit dusty, and smoking non filtered cigarettes that caused a wet hacking cough every few puffs. The bartender was a just female version of the men, except she had a bit of class, i.e. she smoked filters.

We sat down at middle of the bar and looked at the bartender and men. They looked back. No one spoke. It was like the world championship stare off’s. Who would break first, us or them? Us or Them? It was us. Well, actually me. In my defense, this was toward the end of a night of drinking. The bladder just couldn’t take it any longer, so I broke eye contact and told Chris/Shaun to order me a draft while I went to the bathroom. Having won the stare off and shown us who was the boss, the bartender came down and asked, ever so eloquently, “Whatcha want?”

I paused long enough to look over the variety of choices. It was a dilemma. What should I order as the options were staggering? There was BOTH Bud and Miller Lite. I took the coward’s way out. I told Chris to order me what ever he was having. As I walked bathroom, I thought about how clever I as to avoid making such a difficult decision. I mean really, how could one chose from such delicious brews?

As I opened the bathroom door, my smugness went away. Actually, it ran a way whimpering. Cramped would be an understatement to the size of the bathroom. I squeezed in and went to the urinal. Now the urinal was pretty unique. It was a trough type with continuous running water. While that is commonplace, it was the size that wasn’t. The urinal as about 2 feet long, which was good enough for one person, but two people would make it real right. Well, when you have to go, you have to go, so I began.

To my surprise, the door opens and in comes one of the men from the bar. Now, I expected him to go into the stall due to the space issues. Nope, that was my first mistake. Actually, that was my second mistake. My first one was to have located my self at the end of the urinal furthest from the door. This allowed the bar patron to block me in as he joined me at the urinal. Now that he had me cornered so to speak, the Interrogation began…BP is bar patron, Me is myself of course.

BP: “So where you from?”
Me, a bit startled, but trying to be polite: “Over by Westland”
BP: “Why didya come in here?”
Me, still trying to be polite: “Oh, we were driving by and thought we would see what it’s like.”
BP: “This a good bar. I been coming here since I got home from The War.”

(I meant to ask if he meant the Civil or revolutionary, but figured he might have a stroke, so didn’t)

BP: “Yep, I got home and wanted a drink, so my momma brought me here. I like it. It’s a good place. Momma always said it was good place and she was right. Never had any trouble here. Now next door. That’s at rough place. Momma always told me it was and it really is. Why I went in there once and a fight broke out. Never went back, but momma sure was right. That’s a rough place.

BP stopped for moment to catch his breath. I think he was also looking for his oxygen bottle, but he could have been looking for his friendly pink elephants. I am pretty sure that he saw and conversed with them a lot. The Interrogation began again.

BP: Whatcha’s name?
Me (no longer polite): Dave.
BP: Ya married?
Me: No
BP: Ya go to school ‘round here?
Me: No
BP: Well, school here is okay, though I only went to the 10th, then I went to “The War”. Kids nowadays just don’t larn nothing. Lazy is what they are. School’in was important when I was a boy. Now, they hang out on the corner. Sassin’ people as they walk by. Its not right. Someone should tan their hide.”

Now, I was done and had been for a minute or so. I had shaked, tucked, and zipped back up, but I was stuck. The old man was literally blocking the door. I could have been a jerk and pushed the guy out of the way, but he would have broken a hip and made me feel bad, so I stayed.

BP: “I wus taught to respect my elders. My momma wuld a whupped me, had I not. Momma always said respect the old folks. I do too. I respect them as they didn’t always have it good. I always had work, so it was hardship. Momma was always right. Momma said this wus a good bar.”

By this time, I realized I was trapped by Warrendale’s version of Forrest Gump. Momma always said “life was like a box of chocolate. Sometimes you got the cherry and sometimes you got the nut in the bathroom.” I decided to take action.

Me: “Uhh, excuse me.”
BP: “ Huh”
Me (pointing to my zipper): “Umm, I am done. Can I get by to wash my hands?”
BP: “Oh sure”

So BP opens the door to the hallway and walks out. I think that I am rid of him. Sometimes I think too much. He stands there, holding the door open, and begins to question me while I wash my hands.

BP: “Ya going to stick around fur a while?”
Me: “ Don’t know”
BP: “ Wull, ya shuld as this is a good bar. Momma says so and its true.
Me: “Thanks, I will remember that”
BP: “Yep, a good bar. Next door isn’t a good bar.”

I squeeze by him, walk rapidly back to the bar, and sit down. Shaun asks me what happened as the old man is just standing there grinning at me. I begin to relate my tale and as I get to the end, I realize that the funniest/weirdest thing is the old man never went to the bathroom. He didn’t even pretend to. He just stood there gathering information.

Take this as a lesson. Learn from my mistake. When you are in a small dank bathroom, remember positioning is everything. If you don’t plan ahead, you too can be trapped and interrogated by an old man.