By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Keegan Hamilton and Francisco Alvarado
By Jake Rossen
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Chris Joseph
By Michael E. Miller
The sign outside MJ's Rock 'n' Roll Clubhouse reads "Eat, Drink, Remember." Which didn't make much sense to me, since the second item generally precludes the third. But when I entered the red-lit joint with the black-and-white tiled arch and the posters of Elvis and some dude on stage was belting out the King's "Believe Me" (and to be fair, a pretty good rendition) to a prerecorded track, I had a head-slapping moment: So that's what the sign meant. It's that kinda rock 'n' roll the sort that is practically wholesome.
Offering the musical equivalent of comfort food (and wouldn't you know it there's even meatloaf on the menu!), the old Mexican restaurant Jalapeños had been converted into a shrine to Baby Boomer nostalgia including a cardboard cutout of Marilyn Monroe at the corner of the bar.
Friend Emily was coming straight from school to meet up, so it was too late to enact Plan B. I grabbed a stool at the crowded bar encircled by retro album covers (yes, real ones a little worn at the corners) and claimed my space in front of Elton John. While I waited for my beer, I looked for answers.
"Is it always karaoke on Thursdays?" I asked a guy leaning against the wall, thinking that maybe this was an earlier event that had gone long.
"It's not karaoke it's a contest," he said. Evidently, I had stumbled into MJ's version of American Idol, the final night of a seven-week competition resulting in a $1,000 prize, and the guy's niece was a contestant. Fifteen-year-old Kimberly had sung "Son of a Preacher Man," and she had high hopes.
"She was phenomenal," one of the judges Mr. Dirden, a middle school music teacher told me with a grin that looked like it was made of golden Chiclets. His brain-shaped Afro had a little gray streak serving as a cleft between the two hemispheres.
"Got any favorites?" I asked, seeing if I could get him to tip his hand.
Mr. Dirden swallowed hard.
"Daniel set the bar pretty high," he said, touching my arm to suggest this information was confidential. "I think we like him the best."
"You wore that to work?" I asked in disbelief, sizing up her short black jumper with the crisp white shirt beneath it, which she'd paired with slutty net stockings and sneakers.
In the time it took her to smoke a cigarette outside, she'd already acquired a stocking stalker.
"Oh, God," Em said, turning away as he approached.
The guy's cologne preceded him, making me gasp.
"Love your stockings," Mr. Stench said.
"Yeah, got it," she said without turning around to face the guy.
Instead, Emily extracted a large ceramic bowl from her purse, evidently just to look busy.
"Is that a bowl?" a six-foot blond asked as she walked up to join us, apparently just as surprised as I was to see my friend pull something like that out of her purse. The blond introduced herself as Leah, a contestant in the competition.
"Feeling confident?" I asked about her chances.
"I'm going last," she said ruefully.
I tried to reassure her "best is for last," but she wasn't buying it. The purple rim on the inside of her lips hinted that she'd been looking for courage in other ways.
"Drink more wine and just have fun," I said as the first contestant began the contest's second round with "All That Jazz."
After her third glass of wine, Leah began to lighten up. By the time two other contestants had finished a country song and an R&B song (alas, no rock), Leah shared that she was a chef on a yacht her hubby captained.
"Once you ascertain the tastes and dining style that people like, to be given carte blanche is so liberating. You can do whatever you want on someone else's budget," she explained.
"I've been singing since I was young, but it doesn't pay as much as chefing," she explained.
Leah left us to check out her competition in the other room, and during the versions of Melissa Etheridge's "I'm the Only One" and Judy Garland's "Over the Rainbow," I talked to the girl who'd sung "All That Jazz." Her facial piercing actually fit in with the retro décor. The stud above her lip was called a "Marilyn," since its placement resembled the star's famous mole.
Introducing herself as Shannon, a 25-year-old who'd moved down from Philadelphia to sell swing sets, she confided about her job, "It's the best form of birth control ever doses of other people's children."
Well, whatever works for her. But I knew firsthand that there are far less painful ways of preventing pregnancy.
When I met Jane, the owner who put the J in MJ's, I figured I'd get the scoop on the newly opened joint. All three owners (Maggie representing the M and Nancy the n in Rock 'n' Roll) were Boomers who still hold day jobs at the Broward School Board.