Putt Putt's Bar: The Westside, Sons of Anarchy and punting

Putt Putt's Bar is located at 1148 W. Fulton St.
Grand Rapids, MI

Looking to expand my drinking spots, my latest Barstool Banter piece took me out to Grand Rapids’ Westside.

As a proud Aquinas alum, I have pretty much have spent my entire time in GR on the eastside of the Grand River. Mainly because, that’s where everything was.

School, library, stores, bars, parks, just about everything worth a damn to a college kid was on the Eastside, so why venture out.

What I got from locals who lived in GR their entire lives—on the Eastside—the Westside was dirty, cheap and rundown (Hey, that sounds like Jackson!, I might actually like it).

So last night, I visited one of the ‘main’ bars on the city’s Westside—Putt Putt’s Bar, located here.

Right off the bat, the place was carrying a good vibe. The bar had a sign that read: Putt Putt’s Bar – You’re only a stranger once.

That’s a good sign. (But a terrible pun on my part).

I walked in and took a seat at the bar. The layout is a long bar with a seating area in front of the bar that has about seven tables. To the bar goer’s far left is a gaming area with the some arcade games and the bar classic, Golden Tee (but no Jim Nance commentary, for shame).

I ordered and New Holland Ichabod Ale (Halloween is coming up after all) and took note of the scene around me. To might right was a group of five or so people sitting at the corner of the bar, all of them seem to be in a group together.

(By the by, for a pretty decent review of Pumpkin-flavored beers, go here). Can’t review it all, so I give credit to people who do it better than me.)

The group were sipping on an assortment of craft beers and watching Sons of Anarchy together.

From what I could gather from my first, and in all likelihood only, viewing of Sons of Anarchy, the show is about a bunch of bikers who show up at random people houses and either beat the shit out of them or have an emotional heart-to-heart conversation with them (a pretty significant gap between the two if you ask me).

This episode was more of the beat the crap out of someone episodes, something over the leader being disrespected or slandered so something, to hell if I know.

Wait? Leader. The show is called ‘Sons of Anarchy’ and they have leaders? Hypocrisy, hypocrisy, I say unto thee (This is while I’ll never get a gig writing TV Shows). How could a group of anarchists have a leader, I thought the whole point of anarchy was that there is no social order or structure.

See, another reason why the film ‘The Purge’ is the dumbest thing to happen since the Series of Unfortunate Events movie--I will never forgive you Jim Carey, spit on your grave.

Confusion of how the whole anarchist bikers works aside, who I guess need some semblance of order and civilization, I mean, they need the gas stations to work to fuel their rides, right? But it was still pretty cool that the bar let them watch their show, and judging from the bartenders, it’s a regular occurrence.

It was roughly 11:30 p.m. on a Tuesday, so it really wasn’t much of rush hour. So it was good time to cater to the regulars, and for yours truly to catch a glimpse of what was the bar’s ‘real’ essence.

Behind me there was a group of six people at a table sharing two pitchers of PBR. There were four dudes and two chicks in the group (Good odds for any Spartan).

I finished my Ichabod and ordered a New Holland Sundog, while the group behind me stepped up to the bar thought it was time for shots of Jägermeister—alright, now it’s a party.

The group stumbled back to its table, and keeping dibs on them was my entertainment for the rest of the night. (Again, doesn’t take much to entertain, you just need to put in a little effort—or lower expectations, your call.)

It looked like one of the guys and one of the girls made up a couple, with the other four just being friends.

But the guy who was sitting directly behind me was having none of that, and he hooked his arm around the girl to his left shoulder. It took her a while for her to notice, but then she slipped it off.

Incomplete pass (Yes, I know I’m a jerk, you should know this by now from reading this).

It was a couple of minutes before the dude tried wrapping his arm around the girls waste, but the girl got up to put  on her sweatshirt.

Alright, the dude is facing third-and-long, I’m invested now. But not too invested to the point where I look like a creep (again, trying to be the casual observer).

All was quiet on the Western Front for another good 15-20 minutes until I suddenly hear out of nowhere, the girl in question shouting ‘you’re drunk’ to the guy in question.

First off, this is a bar, so I think that’s a safe assumption to make.

It turns out the guy was trying to hold her hand, but didn’t go out the way had wanted to.

Fourth-and-long, punt buddy, punt!! No, I did not say this out loud. But I, and the bartender, were having a chuckle about it.

It was about 1 a.m., and most everybody at the bar was heading for the door. The Sons of Anarchy crowd already left to do whatever S.O.A. fans do after they watch their show—I don’t want to imagine.

But I’ll be damned if I was going to leave before the group behind me got up, this was getting good.

People watching—almost better than Netflix at times, almost.

The group behind me was getting up and putting on their coats, with the couple in the group doing their mandatory make-out session—I’m not outright against P.D.A, but anything over 10 seconds is just odd.

The guy in question was going in for a hug with the girl in question (good, he’s punting, smart call) AND HE PULLS A FAKE AND GOES IN FOR A KISS, AND THE HAND COMES UP. (Mandatory Notre Dame-LSU 2007 Sugar Bowl clip here. 

Denied. I felt bad for him.

But really, where were his other two friends at the table on this. Offensive coordinators failed him. At this point I was playing Jon Gruden Monday Nigh Football in my head (you have to admit, I already have the hair).

The girl and the couple left for the door, leaving the other three to finish up their drinks. One of the friends told the guy in question ‘come’on, bro’.

‘Come’on’, dude where were you (this is all going in my head, I should reiterate that I’m not saying anything at this time). When drinking with friends, you have two responsibilities. Either get into stupid shit with your friend, or make sure your friend doesn’t do stupid shit on their own.

Jon Gruden impersonation: “Definitely on the quarterback for calling an audible in that situation, but where’s the coordinators giving him the proper instruction?”

I was finishing off my Sundog and bidding farewell to the very nice bar staff. There were a little cold at first time me—again, outsider—but they seemed pretty nice. Like the sign says, ‘You’re a stranger only once.’

As I was about to walk around the bar, three young women came up to the rail and ordered drinks.

Oh.... maybe I should stay.

I just paid my tab, so I was very confident that ordering another drink would border between the ‘trying-to-hard obvious’ and ‘way-over-the-top obvious’.

But then two rather large gentlemen in Grand Valley State basketball t-shirts walked.

Ah, the biggest downside to the Westside, it is not that far from Grand Valley, meaning a whole new kind of competition if you are Aquinas College folk.

Part of me felt like hanging in there, but that nagging voice in the back of my mind was begging me to punt.

I can see why the dude in question went for it, it definitely works from time to time.

But there is a time and a place (and again, friends failed emphatically with providing assistance).

Come’on, it’s supposed to be You’llNever Walk Alone.

In the end, I opted for the punt, and headed for the door.

There is a time and a place for going for it. It wasn’t there, and it wasn’t then.

Take notes Charlie Weis. And you too Jim Carry….asshole. 

Farah's Bar: Alternative Rock, bacon cheeseburgers and serenity

Farah's Bar is located at 710 Michigan St. NE
in Grand Rapids, Michigan

Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to speak with you again.

Opening a post with a Simon and Garfunkel song; here we go.

After my last two trips to the pub, which involved either way too much bros fighting or way too much bros arguing about which party to go
—you should start to see a pattern of things I hate—I headed to Farah’s Bar located here. 

Farah’s is another tavern that’s a part of Grand Rapids’ Michigan St. corridor. And as I visited the bar, the place was just what the opening line implied, dark and pretty quiet---it was awesome.

Granted, it was not off to a great start.

When I walked in around 11:30 p.m. after my latest round of high school sports reporting, there were some really large gentlemen that were standing up and having the shoving, shouting contest that can only be described as the ‘Bro Down’.

I thought about doing the classic walk in/walk out loop, but no. I’m a reporter damit, I’m here to report, and drink, and maybe play pool (God, I have a great life), and maybe meet people to prove to my mom that I actually do interact with other people (she’s worried about me).

I grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a Sam Adams’ Oktoberfest from one of the two, rather cute, bartenders—a while back I made a point never to pursue a bartender while she was working—it just does not go well for anyone, ever.

I never been at Farah’s before, so I was not so sure what kind of food they served or how cool are the cooks with making something past midnight. I asked one of the bartenders if I could order a cheeseburger at the late hour. She said I could and asked if I wanted bacon on it—alright, now we’re talking.

There were about six other people at the bar area that sits roughly 14 (I have not taken up the habit of counting the seating area of bars—yet). In the seating area behind me there were a few groups of five or so, one of them were taking turns playing Golden Tee. (Two Golden Tee references in three weeks, didn’t see that coming).

While munching on my burger I was glancing at Sports Center showing the highlights from the American and National League Championships Series. In truth, I do not care much for baseball. I like it when the Tigers win, and I will go to a game if asked, but outside of glancing at the bottom line, I really don’t follow the sport much. (I'll wait patiently for Homeland Security to take me away for questioning.)

But the bar was playing some really good Alternative Rock on the jukebox, including a very catchy acoustic version of Cage the Elephant’s ‘Take It or Leave It’, along with some other pretty solid songs for a bar.

A situation never really presented itself for me to talk to anybody, as eventually the group at the end of the bar dispersed and we replaced with a two couples that were sharing some sort of cocktail or something.

At the pool table there were four gentlemen shooting a few games, but they appeared to be all in the same group, so I wasn’t in much of a mood to insert myself into their game.

Man, I was really having a hard time being interactive. In fairness, I had a long day that involved breakfast with my grandparents and taking my mom to seeing The Judge for her birthday ,(highly recommend The Judge—although I was a little disappointed that at the climax Robert Downing Jr. just didn’t stand up and say ‘screw this court, I’m Ironman’…oh, spoilers). Maybe they’ll save that for the sequel.

But the real reason why I was not in the mood to talking to people—other than my overall awkwardness--was that I really didn’t need to talk to anyone to enjoy my experience at the bar.

Farah’s makes a pretty good burger—a must for a good bar—and the scene was pretty solid. Much unlike its neighbor.

I ordered a short Fat Tire for my second beer, as a 30 for 30 documentary on some baseball catcher who had some sort of psychological problem with throwing the ball from behind the plate to the pitcher’s mound—again baseball, I struggle to stay invested. (Yes, I realize I write about sports for a living, but we all have our favorites, and baseball is not mine).

It was just past 1 a.m., so the two bartenders were beginning to close up shop (maybe I should revisit my whole fraternization with the bartender policy, perhaps putting in a caveat on if there is nobody around). 

The far end of the bar a group were ordering shots of Jamison and I was starting to finish my beer.

I realized how much effort it takes to talk to people you don’t know. When I’m out on my journalistic duties, I have the fallback of my company’s name and my occupation to warrant talking to someone. 

But striking up a conversation with someone that isn’t directly next you, that’s a whole new ballgame.

Still, I found Farah’s to be a rather enjoyable place to grab a drink and quick bite to eat. The bar is plenty spacious to bring over a group of people, and the beer selection on tap is pretty solid.

I settled my tab and left a pretty good tip (again, cute bar staff, I’ll decided latter if that was sexist on my part—I’m going to give it a tentative no).

I headed for the door and noticed that the same group of guys were now hugging it out—the power of the bar ladies and gentlemen.

Overall, my trip to Farah’s was a pretty quiet not. Not a whole lot of memorable incidents, but that can be appreciated from time to time.

A lot of great bars are just quiet places where you can sit and think (and drink), and my trip to Farah’s proved that it could be one of those places. And a friendly staff and decent food is always a plus.

Maybe there is something to being a borderline introvert, it doesn’t take much to make us happy.

Just a quiet place to sit, something good to drink, and decent burger.

Wow, it really doesn’t make much to make me happy. Simon and Garfunkel were on to something.

Or they were just on drugs……it was probably the drugs. 

Eastown Sports Bar: Pool, guns and nostalgia

Eastown Sports Bar is located a 1520 Wealthy St. SE in
Grand Rapids, Michigan

With my current position as a high school sports reporter, the idea of going to bed before midnight borders on the impossible.

It’s a job where I am up to 2 a.m. on Friday nights (Saturday doesn’t start until my head hits a pillow damit), and I’m usually still up at 1 a.m. on a Saturday.

So after a full day of golfing and eat baby back ribs at Chili’s (mmm…ribs), it was roughly 10 p.m., and I felt it was time for a night cap.

So I headed on over to Eastown Sports Bar, located here.

Eastown Sports Bar is part of the patchwork-punk scene that is Eastown. Eastown is one of the more memorable and nifty areas in GR. With the crooked, brick streets and the locals that take pride in their ‘off beat’ community. A visit to the neighborhood is quite a treat.

When you really think about, Eastown almost seems an odd place to have a sports bar. I really isn’t much of a ‘sporty’ spot in town. It is made up of more of the art and farmer’s market type crowd.

Genuine sports bars are full of TVs with the volumes on high and most of the people more focused on the game than what they are drinking. By definition, Eastown Sports Bar is a terrible sports bar.

It was Saturday night, so the place was packed. I was hoping to make my way to the bar to order a beer and catch a glance at one of the TVs to get a glimpse of all the college football scores from the day.

Looking to watch sports at a place that has ‘sports bar’ in its name; I really don’t ask for a lot.

To my dismay, all of the seats at the bar were taken, and I was forced to order a Sam Adams while standing.

It was there that I ran into my college housemate Sam (Hi, Sam! –I need to come up with a trinket to give to people I know that run into me during by Barstool Banter excursions. Putting that on the ‘to do’ list).

Sam was able to give me the low down on Notre Dame’s lackluster 50-43 win over North Carolina, seems like the Irish needs to sharper up the defense before playing No. 1 Florida State. (I believe that we willwin).

Sam and his friends were heading out the door getting ready to go to a party, and that seemed to be the purpose of Eastown Sports Bar that night.

ESB, I hope you like abbreviations, because I’m using that for the rest of the post—deal with it, seems to be the ‘launching point’ for other places to go.

When I was able to secure a seat at the bar, most of the conversation around me revolved around groups of people trying to figure out where the stragglers in their group were and where they were going to next. Usually, the next stop was either Mulligan’s or some house party a couple blocks away.

I decided to take my Sam Adams and head over to the game room where ESB has two excellent pool tables.

Saturday night is free pool night at ESB, and being a self-proclaimed pool hall junkie, I had to shoot a few games. (Future idea, start a blog on going to pool halls—my ‘to do’ list is getting pretty long from this one post).

I wrote my name on the chalkboard by one of the tables and preceded to whoop up on some guy wearing U-M and wanted to show off for his girlfriend. (I can be a really asshole at times, but Paul Newman told me to never lay off on a pool table. And I always listen to Paul Newman).

He then asked me to give up the table so he and his honey could just play with themselves, so I put up the cue stick for the night and went back to the bar.

When I was at Aquinas, ESB would be a place for my friends and I to hang out and shoot pool. We would order a pitcher of PBR and some chicken wings and start having as much fun as what a cheap college budget could afford us.

I was pretty sure I did see some people that I kind of knew (again, not counting you, Sam), but I had a full day and was not in a social mood.

The bar was starting to clear out, and I was able to grab a seat and start watching College Football Live—I think I was the only person at the bar who had the audacity to want to watch sports at Eastown Sports Bar.

When I think of the word ‘sports bar’, I think of a bunch a guys sitting around watching football drinking Budweiser, PBR and Sam Adams (usually all at the same time).

But the scene at ESB was more of college-aged bros and chicks drinking Bud Light and ordering shots of Fireball, Jaeger Bombs and some kind of clear-color shot that I associate with White-Privilege kids. (God, I hate using that term, but where there is a 22-year old guy in an American Eagle t-shirt who was complaining on how his parents won’t let him use the family cabin up North to have some friends over for a week, I think the term can be used justly).

Eventually, it was just me with a few guys to my right at the corner of the bar. Two of the group of three were former service members (mandatory link to Wounded Warriors Project here, seriously, God save those who fight for the Republic), but two of them were talking about how it was crap that they could not carry a gun at the bar. Oh boy.

The law in Michigan is that you may not have a firearm in any establishment where more than 50 percent of is sale is alcohol. **I am not a legal expert, this is just what I heard. If you use this blog as grounds for a legal argument, I openly question your thinking.**

Now, I’m a pro-gun rights conservative (within reason). But to me, not being allowed to carry a gun in a bar seems like a good idea. I don’t know—but count me as one of those ‘big government cronies’ that thinks it is a bad idea to have guns at a place where people go to internationally kill brain cells.

One of them took out his CWW permit (that’s carry a concealed weapon permit for the non-gun folks) and rattled off all the places where he can’t carry a gun. This Orwellian-nightmare lists includes: schools, churches, bars, high school football games, you know—all the places you think, man, I really wish that angry guy who is following the ref to the parking lot a high school football game had a gun.

I ordered a Bell’s Two Hearted Ale and then took another walk through the game room.

Besides the pool tables and dart boards and floor level, the room also features a second floor where karaoke was happening (I don’t know why) and some really comfortable couches. A 30-year-old-something woman was doing a very terrible rendition of Lorde’ Royals, so I retreated back to the bar to finish my beer.

Back at the bar, I was able to grab a seat and catch highlights of the AP Top 25 teams from Saturday’s action. Finally, a chance to watch sports at a sports bar—I like to think that I don’t ask for much.

Next to me I struck up a conversation with a young woman who turned out to be a server at the bar on her off night. She said that the place is usually filled with regulars on weeknights, and that Saturday was a bad night to gauge ESB’s true scene.

The rest of the bar was full of college-aged guys with their girlfriends (good Lord, I’m getting old), and some middle-age women who were just downing shots of Tequila like nobody’s business. (So much so, that it is fair to say that nobody wanted their business).

It was a rather full day for me, so I asked for my tab and headed out the door.

When I started this blog, I did not think it would turn into some weekly obligation (I could offer a low-brow Catholic joke here, but I’m already concerned about how many years of purgatory I’m already destined to serve), but this past week, people were asking about the next post. So I was afraid that my trip to ESB was more of a choir than anything else.

But then, I thought about it more.

Truth be told, I did not have a great time at the bar, pool table aside. But I was starting to ponder why as I was settling my tab.

I thought about my college years and the trips to ESB. Ordering PBR and making fun of shitty music and thinking our lives were difficult because we have a 15-page paper due on Friday (how did we ever survive with such life dilemmas threatening our very existence?)

But the people at the bar—more or less—acted like people in school. Always looking to going to the next party. Ordering a lot of cheap beer and shots, because they do not know when they will be able drink with their friends again before exam season starts. (Although my friends in college were champs, and we drank in spite of--or because of--exam season.)

Could it be that I simply outgrew the bar, and that I changed so much that I just can’t have a good time drinking PRB and listening to someone singing Nickelback? (God, Nickelback jokes—I’m disappointed in myself for bringing that up, but it happened, and I’m not happy about it.)

In fairness, the bar has always stayed the same. It’s ‘staging point’ for another party or another bar. It could be that I have outgrown the college party scene and I like my drinking established more relaxed, quiet, a place where people can talk.

Or, I was just tired after 18 holes of golf and irritated because so many people were blocking my view of the TV and just wanted to read the damn bottom line. Hell, I am getting old….crap.

Eastown Sports Bar is a fun place to go with a group of friends, with a giant Jenga set, pool tables and beer pong table. (Did I mention this was a ‘college-type’ bar?)

But in terms of a sports bar, Eastown Sports Bar is a dismal failure. There really isn’t a good spot to just sit and watch the game on a Saturday night—which by the by, is a night were sports are on TV. 

But in terms of a bar, ESB is a nice spot, if you’re in the right mood.

It just turns out that tired sports reporter looking for a place to watch sports is not the correct mood for Eastown Sports Bar---who knew?

I walked out the door and headed home. ESPN radio was on and ran through all the Big Ten scores from the day.

Finally, sports. I should really looking going to more places where I can just sit back and watch sports and drink. If only more of those places existed. I should go there. 

Birch Lodge: Pac 12 football, Fireball and Jim Nantz

Birch Lodge is located at 732 Michigan
St. in Grand Rapids, Michigan

Help, I’m in a strange place and there are people around me.

This moment of panic happened during the fourth time a large group of people huddled around the bar—and my seat—asking the bartender to pour seven shot of Fireball. Yes, seven, you read that correctly.

My latest trip took me to Birch Lodge, located here. Now, I have been to Birch before—once, I think—I recalled it was a pretty tame bar where not a lot happened.

Well, either I went on a bizarre night, or I just suck when it comes to perceiving things (I’ll let you, the reader, decide that one).

I rolled into the bar sometime around 11:30 and took a seat at the bar and ordered a Bell’s Two Hearted Ale. The place was pretty busy, but not too terribly packed. Didn’t seem like the place where things would go down—oh, if I only knew.

I was drinking my beer and taking note of the scene around me. The bar was decorated with red lights and on the back of the wall there were some cool hunting trophies, including antlers from a stag and what looked like a genuine British Lee-Enfield (thank God for Call of Duty, play a couple of hours and you become a WWII weapons expert—although I preferred the American M1 Garand, bolt-action rifles are for people who just are asking to be shot).

To the far-left corner of the bar there was a pair of guys who were really getting into Golden Tee. Now I remember Golden Tee, the great bar video game where you roll a white ball to simulate a golf swing on the screen.

Back in the 1990s and early 2000s it was a pretty basic game. I think there were three courses and the controls were pretty straightforward—or should I say straight back and straight forward. Anyways, today’s ‘modern’ Golden Tee features things like back spin, interactive standings with other players from around the country and…..am I hearing Jim Nantz’s voice?

Jim Nantz does Golden Tee commentary.

How’d they swing that--does he have an entire room Golden Teem games in his mansion?

I was picturing the sight of Jim Nantz obsessing over Golden Tee at 2 a.m. with his wife telling him to go to sleep, when all the sudden, ‘Hey man, excuse me, are you Dan Meloy, from Jackson?’ Oh God, here we go.

For the strangest reason, I had a feeling this would not be good. I am surprised with the amount of people who read this blog (seriously, thanks guys), but I would say I am a far cry from people pointing me out. (I like to think I’m in the ‘receiving one vote’ column in the internet blogger Top 25 poll).

The guy that pointed me out was a very tall man rocking a NAIA basketball hoodie—NAIA, small-school pride for life. He then asked his question again, “Hey do you know (name withheld).”

The name was one of several that I still remember from high school but rarely do I ever see/talk to.

I did eventually see her with her group of friends.

We both said hello, and I asked if she came to Birch often. She replied yes and then went back to her table of friends with their Bud Light and Fireball. (I've been told I need to stop judging people by what they drink, something about how it would make me more likable).

It was the typical, ‘I acknowledge that I once knew you and you are here conversation’. This is why I’m a fan of the head nod. The head nod is the best, ‘hey I know you, but we both recognize that we really don’t have a need to talk to each other’ motion. God save the head nod.

With the brief high school reunion over---is that coming up? Did I get invited? Do my classmates know if am still dwelling on this earth?

(No seriously, my dad didn’t get invited to his reunion because his classmates think he is no longer on this Earth. We both had a great laugh about it—because we are terrible people—but my mother was not amused).

I ordered a Poet from New Holland for my second beer. I wouldn’t say Birch Lodge has a fantastic tap section, but if you are at the bar you can catch a glimpse of its admirable bottle section.

I turned my attention to the Oregon-Arizona football game, a game the Wildcats managed to pull out. Seriously, Pac 12 football is fun to watch. There are four plays a minute, and the kids run faster. 

Better than the Big Ten crap we have to deal with in the Midwest.

It then struck me that I was the only ‘individual’ at the bar. Everybody else was in a group of at least three or more. (You could expect a ‘Three’s Company joke here, but I guess I didn’t watch TV Land at the right moment to get acclimated with that one. Too much MASH, I guess).

I don’t mind my small piece of solitude at the bar. Hell, it’s why this blog exist, but to reiterate the first sentence, “Help, a lot of people that I don’t know are around me.”

I started to take note of who is sitting in groups and who is not, with the bar's loud music on the jukebox, it was hard to catch tidbits of conversation around me.

Usually for my bizarre entertainment, there is at least one couple at the corner of the bar that I can judge from how much the girl is texting on her phone and not paying attention and how much they guy is checking out the bartender when his girlfriend isn’t looking (Yes, I know I’m a terrible person). But that wasn’t on tap for night.

A few seats from me were a group of young women at the bar drinking a variety of Founder’s selections. At the other end of the bar were a group of large men who were getting a little ‘shovey’.

I was catching glimpses of the girls’ conversation, trying to make the night a little more interesting, now we got some shouting from the end of the bar.

One of the girls was talking about her—and now we have two bros fighting and rolling on the floor. 

Excellent.

Everybody in the bar stood up, one of the rather menacing members of the bar staff sprang into action; breaking up the fight. Really the fight was short, resembling more of a ‘bro down’, just will less bro-ing out afterwards.

Most people in the bar were shocked at what was happened, saying that fights rarely happen at Birch Lodge. I recall I was chuckling a little, I was three beers in and haven’t eaten in a while. And to me, the idea of a bar fight is just laughable.

You are going to a place where your senses and thinking ability will already be hindered, and now you want to start physical combat with a stranger.

Yes, I know drinking means less thinking, but come ‘on. Keep some of your senses.

Judging from what the regulars in the crowd were saying, fights never happen at Birch, and I am prone to believe them. All the more comical that it happened on the day I happened to visit. (Maybe I just make people more aggressive, hell if I know).

I finished my Blue Moon and watched the final seconds tick down from Arizona’s win over Oregon. Good for Rich Rodriguez, I wonder if Michigan will take him back.

Overall, my experience from Birch was…..memorable. Probably not the best place for the lone individual looking to get a drink—or I might have just showed up on a bad night.

I wasn’t in the mood for food--I settled with the Michigan St. favorite ‘post-bar Checkers’ instead--so I can’t offer a review of the food menu.

The place seems like on most occasions to be a tame, relaxed bar. But I just happened to go on the night where people were taking just way too much Fireball and showing too much machismo.

It was a strange night, and a strange trip, but that’s what I like about people. People are strange, that’s what makes them interesting.

Dealing with strange makes for interesting nights. 

Well, at least more interesting than what Jim Nantz is doing.