Popination Conglomeration
A series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: Joe’s Friendly Tavern (the beach side).
Eat at Joe’s
Last week, for the whole week, I had the very great pleasure of visiting my partner’s dad and his wife in northern Michigan. His place is extraordinary—it boasts a huge green backyard full of critters like smol frogs and bumblebees and chickadees and whatever that little sparrow-sized bright yellow bird is (I’m refusing to do any research on these essays, remember—only what I know in my admittedly large ‘brain attic’ allowed). Orioles? Is that them?
Just past Dad-in-Law’s land is a beautiful walk, past a small rundown vineyard, a home sauna, a hand-built cedar meditation hut which is a spiritual sanctuary of sorts for D-i-L, and down an eerily symmetrical grove of dried out pines that are very even and very very tall. I guess the story goes that this spooky grove was supposed to be a Christmas tree orchard, but that somebody planted the wrong kind of pine, and so that explains the meticulous evenness and also the towering height of these trees. When I went down there this past week, some kind of black-barked deciduous tree had sprouted only one or two tall contenders among the repeating yet moodily Fangorn-like pines, one of which craned tall, right in the middle of the walking path, amidst a narrow band of grass that painted a bright green stripe across the brown needle-strewn path. It was…a little spooky. A lot spooky, actually—the measured and unnaturally bright swath across the brown expanse was witchy and weird. As was the wide field past the grove and past the border of the land we were not trespassers on, of little saplings spaced out and protected by ghostly white plastic sleeves. My older stepkid was weirded out too, declaring the saplings hadn’t gotten any bigger in the two years since they visited there last.
During the few times when my partner and I got a moment to get away from all the familial shenanigans, we’d venture down into town and spend some basking and adulting time at the beachy side of a twin-split pub called:
Joe’s Friendly Tavern
(Hey, finally! Another actual tavern in my popinations; the term does refer specifically to taverns, after all. Neat.)
Joe’s Friendly, the original dark cavernlike dive bar, has apparently been around for a long time, and rumor has it it’s got the old guy regulars and the dark interior and the coolth and the old smelly decor that you’d expect from an old Michigan dive. I did mean to visit this side of Joe’s during my visit, I really did, but they’d opened up a twin tavern, attached but separate, with a limited menu and a big outdoor seating area with beach umbrellas and cornhole, as well as an airy and open outdoor bar and warehouse-like indoor seating, albeit with wide open windows. During a summer vacation? I couldn’t resist.
This beach vibe and the open yard was why we stayed on the sunny side of Joe’s and didn’t venture into the cavern next door, not one time that we patronized them. Which was a few times, even though we were only there a week. But it was a good place to hang out and debrief and chat, and to (in a controlled manner) bask in the sun. I found that I was enjoying being outside in the sun a lot more during that trip than I ever normally do, from hiking and visiting the beach, to just spending most of the day on D-i-L’s spectacular deck. Partner and I relished a new tradition each morning there that we dubbed the “Tour de Deck,” where we’d stream the Tour de France on his computer under the patio umbrella and over our coffee. A lovely way to spend a week of mornings, methinks. But I digress.
I of course love my IPAs, just not hazy or citrusy ones, and I found a tasty one to my palate called the Glen Lake IPA, at Joe’s, and enjoyed it each time we went. It reminded me a little bit of Handsome Paul from Well80, but just a little more bitter. Speaking of: Partner found a porter he loved, toasty & delish, very like a Scottish ale but just a little lighter. I don’t remember the name of the porter, I’m afraid. But that’s pretty unusual—it’s rare for him to enjoy beer; it’s not normally a beverage to his taste. But this porter was the exception, and was indeed yummy (I tasted it once) and we had good chats there over our pints not only with each other but with the colorful characters we encountered on our visits.
Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood🎶
We met and chatted with a few of the bartenders, but one of them (I didn’t catch her name) seemed to be especially interested in all the array of patrons that would come through, it being a popular summer spot in a touristy resort town of sorts. Turns out she’s a nursing student a few towns down, and brightens her grueling toil by asking customers if they’re from out of town, from where, what they’re doing there, and the like. I bet she gets some great stories to take back with her to her (no doubt equally grueling) school life. We told her a little about ourselves, and she in turn recounted the drowning that had shut down the beach the week before, so close by it was within walking distance. Apparently it was an out-of-towner who couldn’t swim, and decided to go out onto the lake on a motorized board, without a life jacket. Yeesh. Tragic, but. Yeah. Sounds like a series of bad decisions were made. Anyway. We wanted to hear more, but were interrupted by the entrance into the tavern, an absolute legend.
George!!!
How does one describe the icon that is George? On first glance, you notice the clichéd, stereotypical things: shambling, sunburned, looks older than he probably is, slurs his speech, grimy tshirt and jeans, seems constantly intoxicated…yadda yadda. But those things are boring and to be honest, not really fair.
Turns out George is a native to this little town, not something you see every day. His familiar banter with Joe’s Friendly Bartender Woman was obviously rich and traditional in its familiarity. She wasn’t icked out by his playful inquiries as to when she got off work, nor were his intentions anything untoward, only joyful. Apparently, this colorful character that is George is a legend around Joe’s, coming in when they open, ordering his coffee and his couple of Coors Lights to go, and often staying until they close. A fixture. A genial, friendly, jovial conversationalist and I am so glad we met him.
Later, when we were going to pick up D-i-L from the nearby beach, whom did we see, perched on the stone wall and sipping his Coors to go, smoking a cigarette, but George himself! He recognized us immediately, and we exchanged further pleasantries. He recommended another dive bar in town, and unfortunately we never ended up going over to that one—I would certainly have loved to try a place George recommended. Alas, it was not to be on this trip, and we didn’t see George again that week.
My partner mused, “I bet he has so many interesting stories. I wish we could hear them.” But, again alas, we concluded that even if we’d seen him again on our trip, he probably didn’t have the wherewithal or capacity to recount said stories. This is why I’ve become such a personal essay and memoir writer:* though I don’t tend to see it that way, my life’s stories are actually pretty interesting (so saith other people besides me), and so I’m starting to be fixin’ to learn to foist tales of my life upon readers, so that my life isn’t only my own. It’s not that I foresee becoming a George, but it’s very easy for me to go full stop omphaloskepsis, which would deny anyone the potential delight of hearing about all this amazing nonsense I’ve managed to get up to throughout my now-half-century of life.
*Well, this, among other things, like: writing my book-length memoir to form a revolution. And to save lives. And to tear down the oppressive structures of today’s academia. And to process emotional abuse and gaslighting. And…
🎶On the Sunny Side of the Bar
I forgot to tell you! In the beachy side of Joe’s Friendly, there sits, pushed against the far wall, a cracked and painted old upright piano. It’s painted white with little curlicues of burgundy and green vines across it. The keys are yellowed and it looks like it’s barely standing on its rickety legs. Is it tuned? Doubtful.
Each time this old upright piano was played whilst I was there, it was plinked on by a schlubby or otherwise painfully normal-looking man, from whom something strange, quiet, and tender emerged. Just for a moment. Till he remembered he was in public.