At the beginning of February, the city was overrun by rabid sports fans. I went downtown about 9 days before the big foosball game. Streets were barricaded and blocked off. Downtown Detroit had a different type of buzz. Metro Detroiters were excited because so many people would be in town. Here in the Midwest, we suffer from big big city envy. As a community, we got to “floss” a bit.

I stayed away from the festivities, the day of the game. No tickets, no invitations and no desire to buy $10 dollar mixed drinks and $7 dollar beers.

I ventured outside of Midtown twice last week. It was pretty scary. I have become far too territorial. I went to a new club downtown to a birthday party for a 40-something lawyer. I crashed the party. I knew the host and the bartenders. My plan was to make a few new friends. There are typically 3 women to every man, at the clubs downtown. It’s about 6:1 in the burbs.

As anticipated, the party was my version of heaven. Unfortunately, the men and women were not making nice. The women looked a little uptight. No one was buying them drinks!

The men were standing around in groups of 3 & 4 chatting and drinking cognac and imported beer. The women were seated at tables and the bar. The Queen of Midtown accompanied me to the soiree. The Queen had no prior engagements that evening and was gracious enough to accommodate me. We sat at a table, had some drinks and danced whenever the DJ played something old school.

Within an hour, a 30-something barely clothed woman came and sat with The Queen and I. Within 90 minutes, two more 30-something almost naked women sat down with me and the Queen. The trio stared me and The Queen in the mouth, for the remainder of the evening.

I had been to the club for a business meeting, about 3 days after the Super Bowl. There were a handful of people in the bar, eating and drinking, before the Red Wings game. I was making nice with the bartender, while waiting for a business associate. Mrs. Bartender had alerted me to the upcoming party.

When my associate arrived at the bar, Mrs. Bartender began haranguing him about his friend who was having the birthday party. Mrs. Bartender was not used to this new alien occupational force: black metrosexuals. Her husband and his/her friends worked construction, drank heavily, smoked big joints, played video games and boogered one another in the privacy of their basements. The black guys she encountered, at other downtown bars, in the past, always harassed/propositioned her because she has a big butt and an engaging smile. She resembles Pink with acne.

Mrs. Bartender did not get black guys that didn’t flirt with her or make indecent proposals. She wasn’t sure what the problem was but was sure she didn’t like it.

The Saturday of the birthday party, Mrs. Bartender remembered me from earlier in the week and hooked J. Paul up in a ghetto fabulous manner; serving me drinks at half price. A cocktail in the upscale clubs of Downtown Detroit are typically $10-$12 dollars per drink. The Queen and I had 3 rounds before she had had enough of the scantily clad 30-something women sitting at our table looking as though in need of a brutal all-nighter.

The 30-somethings looked downright envious of me and The Queen. It was obvious to the casual onlooker that she and I were having a great time. The 30-somethings watched us very closely. I wanted to attend to them but it was just not a good idea. I was in the presence of The Queen of Midtown and would not be forgiven for attending to common nearly naked wenches.

We left the club and went to one of the casinos to throw the rest of our money away.

The next weekend, when The Queen and I got together, I asked her if she had had a good time at the birthday party. The Queen frowned. I stayed after her to tell me what was on her mind. I had personally had a good time. In my mind, cheap drinks and a table full of women hungry for attention could only get better if the 5 of us had gone somewhere we could all be naked and at least 2 of them would pass out from heavy drinking!

I pressed the Queen for an answer. She blurted out: “What’s up with this metrosexual crowd? They don’t even act like they like women!” My head began reeling. I had an epiphany. The Queen was right! I went over the evening in my mind. It occurred to me that I encounter this scenario at every 40-something soiree that I attend in Downtown Detroit. The 40-something “metrosexuals” are very blasé when it comes to women. Most are not married, dress very sharp and always have fresh hair cuts.

This “metrosexual” thing seems to have reached epidemic proportions. It’s been about 2 years, since I was introduced to the term. A lot of Gen X men seem to have bought into this lifestyle to the detriment of GenX & GenWHY(???) women. The straight (pardon my pun) talk I’ve been getting from women reveals that there is no workable solution. The men are the product of the single parent household and too much cable TV.

The only thing I can suggest is: if you are headed to Dtownn send me an email. All the bars in Midtown are real basic. You will find my 30-something drunk rough necks; Todd and Buffy having a drink before the play; lots of Gen Y women in very tight clothing, doing the “Hustle” and waiting on someone to buy them drinks; a few Dragon Ladies looking to take advantage of some buffed young thug; Lisa, my psychiatrist, who also happens to be the greatest/finest bartender of all time, and yours truly, J. Paul Ghetto Esquire.

Until then.