Mulligan's Pub: Homecoming, Against Me!, and fighter-pilot lingo

Mulligan's Pub is located at 1518 Wealthy St.
Grand Rapids, Michigan 

When I say nothing, I say everything.

Yes, I stole that from Jack White’s ‘Lazaretto’, but during my latest late-night excursion to a watering hole, the line really stuck.

On Thursday, I took a trip back to my old college stomping grounds and visited Mulligan’s Pub in Grand Rapids’ historic/crappy-brick-roads/I-hope-I-don’t-get-mugged Eastown. Located here.

To set the scene, Mulligan’s is a bar's bar.

You know that bar to take a date, or impress your boss, or is the basis for a 1980s sitcom. Yeah, this is not that place.

But I don’t know if the word ‘dive bar’ should be applied here either. Maybe ‘punk rock’ would best suit it for a description. But not ‘kill the government’ punk, but more ‘yeah, this is us and we don’t give afuck’ punk. Even though at least three Against Me songs played on the jukebox last night, so I guess both applied. 

I took a seat at the uniquely horseshoe-shaped bar and ordered a Guinness.

Admittedly, Mulligan’s beer selection is what you would call Fourth Division in the Beer Capital that is Grand Rapids (I’m sure there is some legal thing about me being able to call GR ‘Beer City U.S.A’—and who wants to get into that).

To my left was a couple in their 50s, the dude was an aging hippy who had hair that was just a bit longer than his wife/partner/companion, hell  I don't know. It’s my blog, I’ll be the one to decide their relationship with each other. Either way, they had long enough hair that combined it would be a good four yards. (Which is more than what the Lions get--right? Yeah, I watch the Premier League, I don't know the NFL).

To my right were two business types that looked like they had no business at Mulligan’s. After I got out of work, I made a point to take off my polo shirt so I was just wearing my Logan’s Alley t-shirt (again, Punk bar, wearing a t-shirt from another bar was the most Punk thing I could think of on the fly at 11 p.m.) 

But these two were in dress paints and dress shirts, much to the dismay of our bartender, who gave them some rather cold looks as they were ordering PBRs.

But then again, maybe being formal and an informal place is the most Punk thing one can do—to hell if know, I went to private school my entire life, I already lost out in the whole ‘try to look oppressed’ look.

While sipping on my Guinness and watching the rerun of the Tigers game, a young woman was sitting at my 1 o’clock (if you read my blog, I expect you to know fighter pilot lingo. If you don’t, Wikipedia). She was sipping on a cocktail and seemed to catch my eye.

But there is a problem—the dude sitting to her left. But it just wasn’t some regular dude.

After observing how the two were reacting, I could not get a grasp what was the relationship between the two of them. Yes, you could say that about the hippie couple next to me as well, but I have a vested interest in this.

I had hard time grasping just exactly who the guy was. Boyfriend? Friend that’s a boy? Cliche enthusiastic gay friend that is part of the group?

My gut instinct was the third option, but I felt the answer was so obvious, it must be wrong. Oh God, it’s the ACT all over again. (Curse you Xavier Admissions Department). 

Judging from the dude’s cocktail and how he was not making any over-the-top moves on her that most guys make at a bar once it’s past 12:30 a.m., I was thinking that he was not interested in her….Or, he was just really smooth, and I am out of my league on this one.

So I kept to myself, glancing at the Tigers game and David Letterman--it’s amazing that you can follow a talk show without the sound, but yet I still picked up on what him and Jerry Seinfeld were talking about. Now that’s talent.

I switched to Bell Two Hearted Ale for my second and third beers, still keeping tabs on the group sitting at 1 o’clock. I resolved to myself that when the guy had to go to the bathroom, I would see if there was on opportunity. The bladder-everybody’s eternal weakness.

But the damned-est thing occurred—the dude didn’t get up. At all. While she had to get up during the evening, the guy managed to stay glued to his seat.

Eventually, another two came up to them, and it seemed obvious that these two were a couple.

At this point, I was ready to give up on the situation and look for people that I know. It’s Thursday before Aquinas’ Homecoming, I knew it was a long shot, but I wouldn’t put it above any Saint to visit Eastown’s favorite dive bar for a Thursday night nightcap. (I mean, I am, I can't be the unusual--right?)

However it was not meant to be, damn all of us getting older and getting real jobs (stay tuned for updates from yours truly and his future career options—developments coming soon).

Against Me’s ‘Sink Florida Sink’ and ‘High Pressure Low’ played back-to-back on the jukebox. Jesus, I need to find the person playing the tunes. Use all your senses, Meloy.

I decided it was time to call it a night, so I asked for my tab and threw in a towel, and a $5 tip for the ‘average’ service at the bar.

During my walk back down the old-brick streets, I started thinking, ‘what did I do wrong’. Like a quarterback who looks at his iPad after he threw an interception.

Cross-bar talking is really difficult at Mulligans with horseshoe-shaped bar; you are a good 15-feet from the person you are sitting across from. And given Mulligan’s acoustics, you are better using sign language to communicate than speaking. (Note to self: learn sign language).

Maybe it was best that I didn’t say anything. I did have a good time enjoying the music and trying to decipher whatever the hell they are putting on Comedy Central once the Colbert Report is over. 

Mulligan’s has four televisions—all of which are on different channels.

It would have been an up-hill battle from the start, and with a poor scouting report it would have been a losing battle. Reconnaissance, important in war, important in social settings.

But seriously, what was the dude’s relationship to the chick, damit I’ll never find out. This a worse cliffhanger than ‘Dance of Dragons’.

But perhaps by not doing anything, it is still doing something. I’m not the kind of person who goes charging into things like the light-infantry division at the end of Gallipoli. Sometimes just sitting in your trench and letting things unfold is the best option.

All too often, people try to force things that are simply not there. For reasons unknown to them. (Like Cristiano Ronaldo every time he touches the ball).

Part of letting things run their course and waiting for the right moment means that you are going to have nights where nothing happens.

You’re not going to score on every shot, not going to hit a home run everything. We just can’t all be Jon Snow---who still knows nothing. (Damn you forever Jon Snow for killing Ygritte, may the Others take you).

Maybe, by doing nothing, it could lead to anything. 

Logan's Alley: Sleeping on couches, Notre Dame and Ron Weasley

Logan's Alley is located at 916 Michigan St. NE
in Grand Rapids, Michigan

OK, I’m cheating on this one.

Well, cheating rules established by myself. So more like a breakaway from tradition.

This past week I have been in working/living limbo between my hometown of Jackson (see details in prior post), and my beloved second home of Grand Rapids.

With all the late night drives and crashing on apartment floors, thanks James!, I have been stopping by Logan’s Alley on Michigan St. for my post-work beer. (Because going from talking to high school football coaches to bed without alcohol is just not doable).

I was at Logan’s on three separate occasions last week. There are some weeks where I believe I have graced the establishment six days in one week—trust me, it is meant to sound as depressing as it reads.

But if you pay a visit to the local favorite, located here, you will see why this is the tavern capital of Grand Rapids’ Eastside—sorry Mulligans. (Mulligans—how is that not a post yet).

On the three occasions that I went by myself, again that is part of the theme of the blog, not a reflection on my social skills, I was reminded what makes Logan’s, Logan’s.

When I walk into the place, the friendly bar staff asks if they want my ‘list’ or they just already have out for me.

The ‘list’ is the list of 189 bottled beers plus 21 rotating taps that craft beer lovers such as myself go through as part of the ‘Round of the World’ club. I have already made a lap and got my shirt. Another case where mankind will almost do anything for a t-shirt. (Seriously, we should offer a free t-shirt to whoever cures cancers, then we’ll get some progress).

Outside the list, the kitchen is open till 2 a.m. and serves some phenomenal food. Great for a high school sports reporter who is wide awake at 1 a.m. and does not want to even look at a McDonald's.

But what puts Logan’s above the rest when it comes to bar is the ‘home’ feeling the regulars put on the place. To quote the great 1980s television show Cheers (props to TV Land for educating in the one subject that matters—pop culture), “everybody does know your name”. And usually, they will put up with your shit.

I was introduced to the bar by my college friends, and since then I have gotten to know the regulars.

Which I guess by definition means I’m a regular…making this post a ‘homer’ post…but I digress.

Not that I’m afraid of being called a homer. My MLive duties have led some guy in the Flint area to insist that I am a Carrolton homer—note to self, find Carrolton, Michigan on a map. (Located somewhere here, I guess)

But even those I introduce to the establishment for the first time admit that the place is solid. The bar usually cranks out good tunes. Any place that can pump out Led Zeppelin and Beastie Boys back-to-back is doing something right.

The staff great with making suggestions for beer and food, and will normally be your guide to the ‘beer novices’.

Saturday was especially nice. The Irish were playing Purdue, and it was the perfect setting to watch football. Have the game on for people who are invested, but turn off the sound so that people who don’t care aren’t interfered with. Everybody wins.

One of the biggest things that has always troubled me when it comes to social circles, and way I consider myself a nerd, is why sports people and non-sports people can’t socialize together.

Or as I explained to my roommate once. Sports junkies are the biggest nerds. Obsessing over stuff they can’t do in real life, arguing about numbers and a series of events that both parties agreed happened—but neither will agree as what they mean.

In truth the difference between Dungeons and Dragons and Fantasy Football is really thin. Although, I am confident that Aaron Rodgers could throw for 450 yards and slay a Level 39 Paladin at the same time. Because Aaron Rodgers is a winner—and you are not (well, not on Aaron Rodgers’ level anyway).

But at Logan’s, all are welcome. Everybody from the white-collar guy looking for a good Bloody Mary to the ‘woo’ girls who were looking for a bar that is less ‘douche-y’ than whatever downtown piece of crap they left. The place serves everything to everyone, and with operation hours that are 7 a.m. – 2 a.m., you have plenty of opportunity to stop by.

During my visit during the Irish game, I had a nice discussion with a ex-soldier in the 82^nd Airborne Division. He was drinking an Octoberfest from Bell’s and was talking to be about attending Aquinas in the future. Another Saint, our strength is growing, soon none shall oppose us.

Eventually we were talking about where our families came from and what we wanted to do with our lives and thought on—Touchdown Irish—time for high fives!!!

The rest of my time consisted of talking to bartenders about where I’ll be working in the future and how come I wasn’t in town for four months.

I was both flattered that they missed me, and then became worried that my local bartender missed me. But then I ordered another Murphy’s Stout, and the worries went away—always remember your roots.

Following Notre Dame’s win. Which by the way, 3-0, No. 9 in the new Associated Press poll, you have to believe people, there is still room on the bandwagon. I was finishing up my tab. During my short visit, I covered everything from how the Tigers were going to do, to which Harry Potter book was the best, to who will sit on the Iron Throne.

The (obvious) answer to these questions are: American League Championship Series, Prisoner of Azkaban and read the damn books people.

After a few handshakes and hugs I headed for the door and had a long drive back to South Central Michigan.

During my drive, I reflected on what makes Logan’s my go-to bar. Then it hit me, is it possible for you to perceive a bar after your own personality?

The people that makes Logan’s great are easy-going, interested in different facets and life, and most importantly—just don’t give a fu** what you do are what you think. You’re just welcome.

That’s the aura the place gives off. That’s why people go there. Is it a little too much like a security blanket—maybe.

But in a world where we are sometimes forced to be things we are not, it is nice to be yourself. Whatever that may be.

People go to Logan’s to be what they perceive as ‘normal’, to be how they want to be.  So maybe it’s not that people model their behavior to the bar.

Maybe the bar just reveals who people are supposed to be in the first place?                                   

Eh, that’s a lot of philosophy. It could just be the meat loaf.

Probably the meat loaf, and the satisfaction one gets when the bartender gives you a beer and tell you why Ron and Hermione was a terrible ending.

Fu**ing Ronald Weasley, really?

God save the local taverns. 

Grand River Brewery: Arsenal, factories and Republicans

Grand River Brewery is located at 117 W. Louis Glick Hwy. in
Jackson, Michigan. 

Sometimes, it’s nice to go back to your roots.

After my three-month loan in Ann Arbor of covering all sorts of fun things: fires, hit-and-runs, drownings and general public discontent and looting (Man, Art Fair was one hell of a week), I had the opportunity to be in Jackson for a couple of week before returning to Grand Rapids, my official/unofficial second home.

I had a few afternoon appointments and found myself in downtown Jackson for lunch. Finally. Time for another tavern experience.

Admittedly, I was pretty sure I was in for a dull affair, all the elements of running into interesting things were working against me. I was in Jackson (I love my hometown—but, yeah) and it was in the middle of the day, not exactly considered a good ‘bar’ time. (But then again, refer to the prior sentence. Did I mention I love Jackson?).  

I was able to stop by Grand River Brewery, located here. Grand River is one of the brighter spots in the Jackson dining and drinking scene. The place is considered the centerpiece of the recent revival of downtown that has been happening since 2009, also known as right after I left for college. (Let’s hear it for the post-industrial steel town now giving a damn as soon as my friends and I leave!!!).

The place was pretty empty, a couple of business types enjoying lunch and a few folks at the bar. I got up to the bar and ordered a Jackson Brown and started watching the Arsenal game. Side note: four other people were also watching the game. Soccer-it's growing, and you can't deny that. 

The place is your standard brewery that has been popping up across Michigan as part of the craft beer revival scene in the state. Old-timey pictures of the original Jackson-area brewers, a stage with equipment for what appeared to be a folk-rock band that would performing that night and plenty of seating spaces besides the bar.

All and all it was a quiet affair and---holy hell it’s Terri Lynn Land.

A few feet to my left was Terri Lynn Land, the Republican candidate for U.S. Senate.

Republican candidate Terri Lynn Land made a stop during my
visit. 

Land was with her road crew and her campaign bus parked right in front of the brewery. Being the political geek that I am I went up to shake her hand and snapped a picture of the campaign bus. Land was touring the place with the brewery’s owner, going over the day to day operations of Grand River.

Turns out Land is a pale ale fan. Odd, I pegged her for a stout drinker. You never can tell.  

I really found it bizarre that Land was in Jackson and happened to be at t
he place I happened to pick for lunch. First off, what are the odds. Second, candidates for statewide office don’t really campaign in Jackson, there is no real need to.

Generally, Jackson has four types of politicians you can vote for: Conservative Republicans, wannabe Libertarian Republicans who overuse American flags and misinterpret the Constitution in their pamphlets, mainstream Republicans that you went to school with their kids and Democrats who in all practical purposes are really Republicans. Generally, I think some of us are still pissed about the Civil War. And Lyndon Johnson killed the factories--don't ask why. 

Jackson invented not liking Democrats.
Everybody else are just posers. 

The city took a turn for the worst in the 1970s when the loss of Detroit hegemonic domination led to the inevitable collapses of all the towns that supported the Big Three. People not from the Eastside of the state reading this will not understand when reading it. But for those from places like Jackson, Dearborn, Flint, Saginaw and Bay City. Growing up we thought it was normal to see a run-down factory in the background (it completes the rustic look)

.

As far as I can see, campaigning Under the Oaks is really a waste of time and resources (insert your favorite Congress joke here).

Land shook hands with the staff and some restaurants, being the savvy reporter I was, I didn’t have a notepad or recorder on me, but I did have a mouthful of burger. So all hopes of a surprise interview were squashed--but squashed by excellent burger.

In my meager defense, I highly doubt Land’s road posse would let me pull of an interview.

After my brush with political stardom, I capped off my burger and ordering the Jackson Cream Ale (most of the beer selection are ‘Jackson themed’, named things like Cascades Stout, Under the Oaks IPA and Foundry Porter, it’s a little corny, but as a history nerd I appreciated it.

The place was pretty empty, but a good chunk of the staff was there, getting ready for the late lunch/evening shift. I was able to strike up a short, rather awkward, conversation with a young lady sitting next to me.

She said she was from the area, but I didn’t really know her so I can’t validate that statement (again, Jackson) and works at the Brewery. I asked her what her favorite beer was, and she didn’t have one. 

OK, if you work at a brewery, and you don’t have a favorite beer-shame on you. But if someone asks you, lie. This is an instant where making up a story works; customer service 101, it’s not that hard.

She explained that she was more of a wine drinker. Grand River does have an impressive wine selection, attributed to the many wineries in Southern Michigan. So she gets a pass.

I paid my tab for the burger and two beers and headed out the door. It was rather odd to exit a bar with the sun being out.

After getting in my car and pulling away and I had a thought. Statewide political candidates campaigning in Jackson, places to get craft beer, and now they are actually paving the roads.

Where was this Jackson when I lived here?

I then saw a guy with no shirt, a large beer gut and way too short shorts riding a bike down Cooper St. Ah, good to see some things will never change.