WanderingWilbo: Wilbo meets some Product of Society and the Metal Militia at the Jug, last call, the Jug, Fruitport, Michigan. I almost become a legend.

Sorry, I'm wrong already. The Metal Militia I'm talking about is spelled Metal Mulisha. I was wrong pretty much from the time I parked my car and went into the Brown Jug looking for some closing time slice of life. Oh, I got the slice of life and I almost got sliced and lost my life. I had forgotten there's no such a thing as an unescorted female at the Little Brown Jug. Yep, the Brown Jug of Fruitport Michigan stands beneath the smiling yellow water tower of this town on Norris Creek and eastern Spring Lake. I have a feeling the smiley face on that tower beams down on the mortals who bring their evenings to the Jug, snickers a bit, but still sends them cool and life-restoring water. How fast the patrons of the Little Brown Jug recharge the aquifer.

I had to wait to park my car because three trucks with monster tires were maneuvering out of the gravel lot of the Jug. Michigan has banned smoking inside bars, except Casino bars, and that forces all the boys and girls out on the sidewalk to light them up. It's made me into a healthier Wilbo. You can tell a lot about a woman by the way she allows a man to light her cigarette. I noticed her right away, Virginia Slim in her hand, lipstick freshly red, meaning she wasn't packing her own that night. I had my lighter out and ready to flick. Even if one doesn't smoke, it's smart to add a lighter to ones night out kit, in the same packet as family planning and a dose of fast-acting Cialis. I like it best when a woman draws my hand and lighter closer with her forefinger and then cups her hands around the flame. Miss D bent over a little bit and she was dressed for that being important, and made me light her cig so that the first half-inch took fire. Some girls pull out their lighter so quickly and fire it up so fast, I wonder if they trained as gunslingers. These girls take fulfillment into their own hands and don't wait upon male fickleness for pleasure. Translation: Check the toy chest if you have a chance. Three men fired up their bikes right loudly, roar of the pipes knocking words of conversation into Kent County, and that got Miss D's attention.

"I love that sound!"

"Do you ride?"

"I paid on a bike for six-months for my ex-husband. Well, we're not actually divorced yet. He knocked up my 18 year old sister".

"Well, you can't blame him for picking such good genetics".

"Yep, we keep it in the family, don't we? I guess he just thought I was too old."

"You look all of twenty-four."

"That's 'bout right".

And then she turned her attention to the biker man in the Harley leathers, who was talking about waiting for the rain to clear that morning so he could go ride his motorcycle. I mumbled, "Go girl, seek happy days and happy nights", and went through the double glass doors. When I looked back, Miss D. was already sitting on the picnic table, alone, perched on the edge and pensive looking.

Youth is wasted on the young?

Ordinarily, I don't bother chicks making a bee line to the loo but she bumped right into me as I was admiring the Walls of Sound built by Product of Society, speakers cooling from the sonic heat before roadies could touch them.

"Wow, some women really know how to dress for success!" She was wearing a clingy crepe one piece shimmy that revealed the story of her body art, a nice green icon southwest of her left shoulder.

"Only for Product of Society! Only for Product of Society! Only for Product of Society!" "I'm a GROUPIE!" she declared with a scream.

Right then, a rocker chick moshed into her, a body collision that would make a Sumo Wrestler or Frank Cannon proud. I could now make my way into the main part of the bar because, luscious as she looked, she was blocking my ingress.

Another rocker chick was departing the bar with a pair of tall, icy Jacks and Coke, perfect for a tall and slightly icy woman with long blond hair and a willowy body. She bumped my shoulder. Not a drop of Jacked-Up Coke spilled.

"Two handed drinking?"

"Last call for alcohol".

I saw a man chatting up two women by the end of the bar and I thought I would share the Wilbo word with them. She had a pink purse on the bar lacquer bartop and a fresh tall icy glass of blue UV Vodka. She wore a sweet fuschia blouse and had jet black hair worn shoulder length, cut shaggy in style of Joan Jett's. Often, you skip, "My boyfriend is the drummer" by asking her first, "So, which musician is your man?"

"That's a sweet purse, and it matches your outfit so well". To comment upon her blouse directly would be tackier than my tacky talk already. She picked up the purse and held it against her right elbow, "You're right. You have a good eye!"

"I can't explain the drink. It's neon blue. Doesn't match."

"Good eye again!" She picks up the drink and thrusts it between her girlfriend's love pillows and explains, "It's her drink. See, it matches her blue outfit perfectly!" Her blond girlfriend takes her drink and draws a long cool pull from it. Woman in blue returns to her conversation with her visitor, "You really have lovely eyes", she offers as a compliment to her visitor.

The bartender sets down a tall, cool drink of clear liquid. Miss Fuschia holds it up against her blouse, "See, it's clear. It goes with everything".

Miss Fuschia continues, "That's my neighbor. She lives upstairs."

"Kinda like Upstairs, Downstairs?"

"If that show from Masterpiece Theater suddenly mashed up with a porn flick".

"That's funny. Girlfriend, you have game".

"Game? I have game? You mean like Monopoly?"

I smile at her, amused.

"Oh, you mean like Twister. Yeah, I have that kind of game!"

She turns to her friend and says, "Yeah, I'm a real barrel of giggles, sweet pea".

When she turned back, she disappeared into her self, getting lost in thought. I had a fun little chat, wished I could tune into tonight's episode of Upstairs Downstairs, starring Mr. Pretty Eyes, but thought it was best to give her the gift of missing me, if she even thought of me again.

I guess the Little Brown Jug has a carry-out license for a guy in a flaming tee shirt had just taken possession of a case of Natural Light presented to him on the bar top. I saw two blonds with salon coiffures close by him, but not looking all that connected to him. So I was about to discover the depth of my misread. He was, in one street argot, the AMOG. The Alpha Male on Guard. He wasn't planning on drinking that case of Natural Light alone.

I was standing at the corner of the bar closest to the bathrooms and door, looking for another conversation and the speakers still weren't cool enough to pick up and carry out to an awaiting bus. Product of Society maintains a bus for driving fans to their gigs, kind of a post-modern church bus picking up parishioners for a Heavy Metal church. One of the blonds had taken to digging in her purse a foot away from me, and it was structured like a Coach purse, but pattern in black and white had skulls scratched into the black background with a nail. So I had to ask. It was a genuine question.

"Is that really a Coach Purse"? I like Coach Purses. I try to buy a wife one a year until she divorces me and starts buying herself Dooney and Bourke with the alimony payments.

"Good eye!" She's standing face-to-face with me. "It's Metal Mulisha".

"Where do you buy that!"

"From the website".

"Not at Macy's?"

"The website".

"Any one can buy a Coach Purse. The real rocker chicks buy from the website".

She gets up even closer and she offers me her hand, old school, because a gentleman of old school never shakes a woman's hand until she offers it to him. Her hand is strong, grip almost too firm, and her palm and fingers feels slightly rough. Her gaze is direct and very pleasing to me. The firm handshake says salesperson. The roughness says do-it-yourself grrl. The smarts suggests Skilled Trades Journeywoman.

"That's a really firm handshake. Very strong".

She takes my right hand in a hand shake again. "You have the smoothest softest hands I've ever held in mine. How did you get those soft hands?"

And she's right. My hands are amazingly soft and have distinct advantages that are beyond my control and ken. Even when I am sawing and splitting oak logs into firewood, my hands do not callous. She is still holding my hand firmly, still keeping me in her gaze. I'm enjoying this, so I run my left forefinger from her elbow up to her shoulder, not once but three times, and not rapidly and frenetically, but slowly pausing between runs. Her fabric is silky to the touch and she smiles a bit more.

"Yeah! That's right! Run your dirty hands all over her. Feel her up". Have you ever seen the film I Am Legend with Will Smith? Dash Mihok plays an alpha male infected with Krippen Virus and the virologist Will Smith traps his woman for research, played by Joanna Numata. Alpha Male pursues his true love to the sunlit door and roars his angry call at the Lieutenant Colonel. It sounded just like that. I'm no Robert Neville, so for me, it's senseless to put on a front. One fist to my chest and I really am legend. And let's be frank. I like it when a man is forthright, powerful and defends his upstairs downstairs arrangement. I was just surprised how calm I felt upon his challenge, not even feeling a drop of endorphin or adrenaline in my blood veins.

Hands up slightly in a subtle gesture of pacifist surrender, "I'm walking towards the door". He was three feet away and not lunging towards me, so it was a simple show of dominance.

"That's right asshole mother-fucker. You're walking towards the door".

"I'm walking towards the door."

The second blond has dealt with this behavior before, and like a rodeo clown trying to protect a fallen bull rider, she starts nudging him towards the far wall, arms and hands up, wiggling her fingers in his vision like a sorceress casting a spell. I wasn't the fallen bull rider. She was protecting him. If he landed a blow on me, we were both subject to a portrait in Busted Magazine and a courtesy ride from the finest of Fruitport. I have wondered this morning what it would be like to share a holding pen with my brave and protective of his women acquaintance. I would go for the ride too because the officers in Muskegon make no distinction between puncher and punch target and judges apply the "it takes two to tangle" principle. The second blond didn't want a perfectly good upstairs downstairs morning screwed up by decking the punk-arse Wilbo for no really good reason. I have no idea where Miss Mulisha wandered off to, but it's unlikely we'll be shaking hands again any time soon.

I often wonder what would have happened had I been bold and stupid enough to stand my ground? I have this fantasy that begins with my car parked for a quick getaway, which it wasn't. I say, "you ready?" and we just dash out to my waiting Dodge Avenger and try to give the pursuing motorcycles the slip. I'll see her when she embarks on a new life and starts attending Chamber of Commerce meetings. She's got a businesswoman's handshake, after all.

So I did make my way to the door, seeing Miss D walking in alone from another smoke break. I didn't say hello.

It took a lot of maneuvering to get my Dodge Avenger out of the Jug's tight and tiny lot. A tall man with long black hair was watching the cars and as I went on by, he was talking on a cell phone. I wondered. Too many people have unusually good access to motor vehicle records. Anyone who gets a query run will discover, that plate is registered in the name of Alamo Rent-A-Car.

Metal Mulisha brand clothing. On the arms of rocker chicks in small, intense clubs everywhere. Just don't call it a Coach handbag. Women who like Metal Mulisha handbags like to accessorize, and that usually includes a man or two with a two wheel ride.
http://www.metalmulisha.com/

Metal Mulisha Bags are to die for. Just try purse snatching one of these. Easy way to qualify for a Darwin Award.
http://www.metalmulisha.com/shop/clothing/maidens-axs/bags/

Product of Society has a set of speakers that remind me of Ronnie Specter's Wall of Sound.
http://www.posmusic.net/tag/muskegon-band/

Little Brown Jug, serving the Fruitport Michigan community for forty years. Come in for some Speacials.
http://www.freewebs.com/littlebrownjug/

Phil Spector invented the Wall of Sound. The Wall of Sound is a product of society.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phil_Spector

Bikers don't just leave the Little Brown Jug in Fruitport, Michigan. They blast off as their pipes roar:
http://www.muskegonbiker.com/

Cialis is Tadalafil. Tada! La Fill.
http://www.cialis.com/

Hi! I'm Frank Cannon, retired LAPD and a private eye who charges the rich richly so he can run down cases for the poor. Harbinger of Leverage. Right now, Wilbo looks a little like Frank Cannon, tipping scales at his doctor's office at 230 pounds.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannon_(TV_series)

Wilbo needs some Leverage.
http://www.tnt.tv/series/leverage/

Women go berserk for Dooney and Bourke. Which she carries to work. The Metal Mulisha bag is for the rock club.

http://www.dooney.com/

I almost became Legend

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Am_Legend_(film)