The Arab, The Jew, & the Black man

Chaz's point of view - This one takes place in our favorite American Irish bar, Tipperary’s. Now, Tipperary’s is a good bar, but in a bad location. There have been multiple shootings at both ends of the street it resides on, but it is worth the risk. It has nothing, but the Irish diet of beer, whiskey and music. Nothing else. No real food, no munchies, nothing. The beers are expensive - $6 for everything and they only accept cash, but the people make up for it as they are friendly, chatty, usually hilarious, and worth watching.

On this particular day, it was just Donna and I. It was fairly early on a Sunday around 7 p.m. I think we were coming back from the parent’s house and decided to stop. The bar was dead. There was one other person, plus the bartender. We ordered our Guinness and began enjoying the music. While the music was taped, not live, it was definitely Irish and stuff we hadn’t heard before, so all was good. The other person left about 5 minutes after we got there, so it was just us making small talk with the bartender.

We were about half way done with our first Guinness when in walked this Middle Eastern man. He waved to the bartender and comes up to us. He is standing between us; clasps us on the shoulders; and says “Have you ever heard the joke – An Arab, a Jew, and a Black man walks into a bar..?” Our faces must have shown our confusion as he says “Well, you have now as we are here!” He then sits a couple of stools down from us and orders a beer. The door opens again and in comes this Caucasian man. He says “Hi, I am XXXX(his name was Jewish).” He goes sits down next to the first one. About a minute goes by and the door opens again. As you might have guessed, in comes an African American man. He just smiles and sits down in the last stool available which is next to us.

Well, Donna and I realized that this was going to be great people watching moment, so we ordered another round of beers and began to listen. Over the next couple of hours we learned the following – Note: I am not naming names as I feel being in a bar means you are anonymous. Thus, they will be referred to as they were introduced to us, i.e. the Arab, the Jew, and the Black man.

The Arab owned several of the local strip, err excuse me, “Gentlemen” clubs in the area.

The Jew was a Michigan politician.

The Black man worked with the politician.

All three had been friends for years.

They go on a yearly trip to Aruba.

Owning a “Gentlemen’s” club allows you to take a “party bus” full of “dancers” on a road trip at little or no cost, especially when one “dancers” will be selected for an expense paid trip to Aruba. I think it was to be a working trip though.

The Jew doesn’t get any sex when the three of them go to Aruba because he insists upon bringing his wife.

The Black man was called “The Reverend” and he looked like a good fire & brimstone preacher – tall, lean, grey hair, and that deep Barry White voice. However, he really wasn’t a Reverend. It seems that the Jew was doing a speech and dinner at a catholic nursing home. Dinner time arrived. Yet, the priest wasn’t there to say grace and how can you can’t have dinner if you don’t have grace. So they waited and waited and waited. After about 30 minutes, the Jew was very hungry, so he stood up and talked to the nursing home director. The Jew explained that his friend, the Black Man, was an ordained minister, so if the director didn’t mind, he could say grace. The director faced with a hungry politician and about a hundred hungry senior citizens decided that it was okay for a minister to say grace in a catholic building. The Jew then went to the Black man; explained that he was now an ordained minister; and he had to say grace. The Black man took this in stride as he knew how politicians worked. The Black man stood up and gave a heartfelt grace. Thus, he earned the nickname of “The Reverend”.

There were a few of other tales, but this is a family blog, so we will leave those out.

A couple of hours later, after we exchanged several rounds of drinks, we all parted company. The Arab, the Jew, and the Black man were on their way to one of the Arab’s clubs and we were on the way home. As much as I wanted to continue the party with them, Donna felt it was time to go home. My offers to drop her off, so I could meet them at the club were ignored. So ends the story of the Arab, the Jew & the Black man.

It’s my Job!!

Chaz’s point of view – Oh no, it’s another “The Drooling Moose” story. This one starts out innocently enough. I wanted to party. It was a Friday night and I had been home from work for a couple hours when the urge hit me. I was in a drinking mood, but wanted company. Donna readily agreed, but she also wanted to drink, so who was to be DD. Luckily, Brooke, our daughter was home. She wasn’t old enough to drink, but was old enough to drive us. She was 18 or 19 at the time. Well, that was three people, but I wanted more company. Shaun was tied down with his girl friend at the time and Chris was busy with his real family, so I had to find others. I called a friend of our, Teresa, to see if she was available.

Teresa was still at work, just hanging out, talking with the person that had to be there until 10. It was now about 8:30. I asked her to leave, but she said she had to stay as Steve, the person actually working, was going to go get a tattoo and she was to be moral support. Teresa explained that Steve was going to have a Suzki symbol tattooed on his entire back. Yes, he wanted a motorcycle emblem permanently engraved on his back. Although it’s probably apparent, I have to mention that Steve was young. Real young!

I asked to speak with Steve and began trying to talk him into coming drinking with us instead of getting a tattoo. He was pretty wishy-washy, but I finally asked him –

“What would his boyfriend think having to see that every time they had sex?”

This convinced him that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. By the way, Steve was/is heterosexual; I was just messing with him. I think he wasn’t gay. He had a lot of girlfriends, but he also painted his toenails, so I am not sure. He might not have known himself. Anyways, Steve decides to go out with us, but he was in a dilemma as he had to man the phone on the company help desk until 10. I told him to go ahead and log out for two reasons – one, I was the boss and could do so & two, I was on call and would get paged, if any one called. So, Teresa and he were on their way to “The Drooling Moose”.

Brooke, Donna and I get in the car and head that way also. We arrive and I continue my drinking spree. After about 20 minutes or so, Teresa calls and I talk her through finding the bar. We spend the next two or three hours talking, listening to the band, and drinking a lot of alcohol. Well, Brooke was drinking pop and rest of us was doing beer. I made sure I drank Brooke’s share. Toward the end of the night, the conversation moved to how most computer geek’s party hard and drank a lot. This discussion went on for awhile. Forgive me for not remembering the particulars, but alcohol does kill memory cells. Now, what was I typing, hmmmm.

Oh, the conversation was about partying hard. Now, it came to pass that the Fates decide this was a moment to teach Brooke a life lesson. I was to be the messenger of that lesson.

As one grows older and experiences life to its fullest, one comes to realize that there are some things one shouldn’t do. Things like –

Don’t screw with IRS!

Don’t call a cop an asshole to their face!

Don’t dress up in a pink ballet dress to go to a bikers bar! Well, maybe not everyone experiences that, but you shouldn’t do it. Trust me on that one.

And another important one is...

Don’t dare a drunk to do something, unless you really want it to happen!

See at her age, I am sure that college had provided her with many examples of drunken stupidity. What Brooke didn’t realize was that even older people, i.e. parents, also lose IQ points when drinking. This naivety caused her to jokingly ask me (the drunken one) to stand up and yell at the top of my lungs “I party like it’s my job!” I stared at her for a few moments with a puzzled look on my face. I am sure she thought I was wondering why she would think I would do something that dumb.

In reality, I was trying to figure out what she said. My brain had slowed to the point where I was processing one word at time and then putting them into something that resembled a sentence. Finally, the light bulb went off and so did I. I stood up in the middle of the crowded bar; screamed “I party like it’s my job”; sat back down; and had a drink of my beer. For some reason, we left shortly after I did that. Not sure why, but I think it was because Brooke was having a hot flash. At least her face was awful red.

Even now, a few years later, Brooke still doesn’t ask me to do anything when I have been drinking. She’s a smart girl!

Who’s your Daddy!!

Chaz’s point of view –“The Drooling Moose” in Plymouth is the setting for the next slice from our history. Well, it is not really “The Drooling Moose”. I think the real name is the Lower Town Grille, but we call it “The Drooling Moose”. This is due to the Huge Moose head that is hanging on the wall. Now a lot of bars have one of these, but this one actually moves. It nods up and down, plus it has a lot of stuff hanging it from it. Stuff like a Gumby doll, Mardi gras beads, a plastic Irish hat. It is a lot cooler than it sounds as all the walls are covered in “stuff” like that. Part of the charm is that by time you have looked at all the walls, you have drunk enough that you have forgotten what you first looked at, so you get to start all over.

Besides the Moose head, I like the rather large Pike they have on the wall. Not only is it a pretty fish, but the kewpie doll stuffed in its mouth adds just the right touch of class. By the way, the only reason I remember the pike is Donna and I stopped in there recently.

One night, we (Shaun/Chris and I) ended up there. Not sure were Donna was, but seem to recall she was out of town. There was a decent blues band playing. The bar was crowded. I decide to try a new type of vodka, called Zodiac. I order all of us a shot and it was pretty good. What I really liked was it came in a cool bottle. It had the various zodiac signs on it and the back had “Cancer” with a decent saying. As I said, I liked it and I thought Donna would too, so I decided to buy it for her. Well, the bottle was still half full and the waitress said it had to be emptied before she could give it to us.

Anyways, I am DD, so I am not drinking…much. This is rather unfortunate for Chris and Shaun as I decide that they need to finish the bottle, so I can take it home. At the time, I am sure they thought it was great idea. It was the next morning that made them regret their decision. Just like in the Western movies, I told the waitress to “leave the bottle”. It was actually fun saying that!

We three are sitting there. I am sure we were having deep conversations about world politics (Breasts) or physics (Butts) or sports (legs). I kept Chris’s and Shaun’s shot glasses filled with vodka, plus they were drinking beer. Every now and then, I would do a toast and make them do a shot of vodka, while I did a shot of beer. I was DD, remember. As the night went on, the conversation became deeper as the vodka became less.

I need to explain a few things for those that might not know us. First there is a picture of us under the story, The Beginning of “We”. Now Chris and I are in our mid thirty’s and Shaun is in his forty’s. However, Shaun does appear a lot younger and is quite proud of the fact. Actually, Chris and Shaun both appear to be young and both get carded a lot. I, on the other hand, appear older than I am. While I would like to think it has to do with my maturity and wisdom, it probably has to do with my grey hair that my lovely wife has given me, but I digress. Also, Shaun is the only one that is single. Chris and I are both married. No, not to each other, we do have wives. Anyways, most of the vodka was gone; the night was getting late; and Shaun was lamenting about how he could not get a date.

Sheep, yes! Dates, no! {I will explain this comment in another story}

While Shaun was whining, a vision of beauty came sauntering up to our table. Lo and behold, she was 5’ 5” with long red hair, green eyes, creamy white skin, and ruby red lips. Oh, sorry, fantasy slipped into reality there for a moment. She was actually a very pretty lady and about 5’ 5”, but she had short brown hair and that’s about all I remember of her features, except she had a pretty smile. Her name was Jean (Note: names changed to protect those that can’t remember) and she was a school teacher for the Plymouth Canton school district.

Jean talked for a few moments about the band. I responded as I had seen them one before. She then started talking about how she loved to dance and that this particular song was a good one to dance too. I just agree, thinking that Shaun is a dweeb for not asking her to dance. Finally her hints become so obvious that Shaun realizes, “Hey, I might get close to the female sex”. Shaun looks at her, takes a drink of liquid courage, and asks her if she would like to dance. Jean looks over at him; scans him up and down; says “No, I don’t want to dance with you. I want to dance with your son”; and points at me.

The local richter scales registered a 1.3 as Shaun jaw hit the floor. Chris snorted his vodka. My chest swelled with justified ego! I looked at Jean and replied that, while I was pleased by her request, I only danced with my wife. While this is not technically true, I didn’t want to tell her the truth. The truth was I was no where close to drunk enough to dance, which is the only way this dwarf dances.

After Jean had left, I turned to Shaun and said “Daddy”! Shaun was so pleased with this that he indicated I was his number one child by waving one finger at me. Chris began figuring out how old Shaun must look to be my dad, but kept running out of fingers. I would let him take his shoes off to help. I decided it was time to take my “daddy” home, so I grabbed the well earned vodka bottle and herded Shaun/Chris to the car.

Now, just to be fair, I told Shaun I was writing this and gave him the basic rundown of what I was going to say. About half way through the story, Shaun stopped and insisted that she was referrnig to Chris as the son, not me . In my opinion, this is just Shaun ‘s way of trying to make the trauma less painful. One day, I am sure that therapy will help him accept the truth, not matter how painful it may be.