Tag Archives: bar


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.

time share daddy


Chad’s shift ran a tad long so given the choice between hanging out a my clients and making up things to do to burn billable hours and going over to JJ’s for Happy Hour.. I chose the later.

Since de-booze-hounding, it only takes two or three beers to put a smile on my face and grey-wash the CONSTANT running worry-wart dialogue that seems to plague my mind.

The early happy hour crowd on Fridays is mostly the “old-timers”. It’s entirely more fun to sit around and shoot the shit with guys pushing 60 rather than ones my own age. I suspect it’s a sexual-predatory thing. It’s not like these gents are genitally dead or anything… it’s more like they’ve hit that age where they’re like “Sure – I’ll doink you… all ya’ gotta do is ask.. otherwise, let’s sit here and have a conversation.”

It just seems less tedious than the constant posturing and cruise-mode that folks my age and younger tend to default to. (it could very well be an unintentional, social-physiological phenomena).

But alas – I speak in generalities… which – tend to be dismissive.

Kiwi’s hubby woofer was tending bar and his out of town guest, Ed from California.

From what I can gather, Ed is Woofer’s “time-share-daddy”. They visit a couple of times a year. I’m not entirely sure how this works into Woofer and Matt’s relationship dynamic – nor do I need to understand. I’m the guy with two life-mates – so I tend to arbitrarily accept anyone’s arrangement .

We’ve met before. Once you get through the initial “I’m not into the leather daddy / daddy boy scene” – Ed loosens his posture and is a good conversationalist.

We yapped about Eicher homes, his loathing of American Airlines and his sweet n’ salty impressions of drewbearsf.

I asked him if I could take his picture for this blog-thing I don’t have that Drew may see.