roadhouse


So I get this e-vite form my mom… She’s won a drawing for a party of 25 (drinks and food) at the Stratford Inn Bar & Grill.

The 1970’s era, Ramada-ish complex sits across eight lanes of interstate from the Chrysler plant in the far flung, working-class suburb-city called Fenton.

“How” exactly she wound up in the drawing for a free party at the rowdy hotel roadhouse bar – umm… well… I’m not terribly sure. She knows someone in one of the bands that plays there often… or something…. – that and her food writer press credentials has enabled her to meet all sorts of people. (I stopped asking “how in the hell did you…?” – sometime in my 20’s.)

Lots of TVs… The smell of tobacco,… stale beer…. woofy bubbas… super slutty girls.

Funny… I always thought “biker and trucker drag” was the plumage of butch fags and bears – the likes of which you can see any night at our watering hole, JJ’s.

Not so… “Real Men” – have the same tragic, awkwardly seductive, fashion sense.

Really – the only difference I could resolve between this place and the bars we like to go to lays in probability:

A wink at the urinals at JJ’s will probably* get you a phone number.
A wink at the urinals at The Strafford will probably* get you a bloodied nose.

*probably – because there’s always exceptions…. This isn’t the place to recount my reckless, sexually predatory 20’s….

So… I’m not going to dig for the details as to how this party came about for my mom – and in exchange – I expect not to be quizzed later (because I know she’ll eventually read this) – as to how I know what the inside of a Stratford Inn’s hotel room looks like.

huh…these posts have been on a sexy bent for a while… must be Spring… ah yes.. Spring… when a young middle-aged boy’s thoughts turn to love… which is really a romantic way for saying our species is programed to feel frisky around this time of year… hey! You don’t have to be in the business of procreation to … shut up jim, you’re babbling… quit while you’re ahead.