Saturday Night, 5:30pm-2:00am.

Milwaukee has always been producing beer, shit beer and tasty beer: Schlitz, Pabst, Miller, Leiniekugel’s, Sprecher, Lakefront, Blatz, beer, beer, beer. Most Milwaukee residents drink it fairly regularly or not at all. One can not purchase alcohol after 9pm so if one runs out, one goes to the bar and spends double or triple the money one would spend drinking at home. I often used to pontificate that Miller controlled Milwaukee's econonmy. Drinking is a past time in most places but in Milwaukee it’s extra prevalent. My resolve is always to drink less; I have too much to do.

So, Saturday night.

Stop One: Foundation’s Back Booth. Foundation is a staple bar in Riverwest. It used to be the punk rock bar, but it now attracts more of a mixed crowd on weekend nights. It's the most affordable and tolerable bar I know of, so I frequent it more than I'd like to. Our first discussion revolved around the definitions of Third Base and a Home Run. Everyone agreed that a Home Run equates to penetration but I asked, “What about lesbians? Does that mean they’ve only hit a ‘home run’ if they fuck one another with strap-on dildos?" I was thinking that our definition shouldn’t be heterosexist. Someone said for the lesbians it could be finger penetration, whatever, but it had to be penetration. I accepted the theory, unconvinced, for sake of letting the discussion finally die. But I got them back when I brought up the business practices at Point’s East Pub. The bar disallows the carrying out of leftover chicken wings bought and paid for. I think that's fucking ridiculous. If you pay for something you shouldn't be barred from taking what you haven't used home; you shouldn't have to sneak it out. Myself and one other person argued the policy was bullshit but we were outnumbered; we just "agreed to disagree."

Beer: Pabst.

Stop Two: A friend’s co worker’s graduation party on the East Side. I latched on to the 31 year old woman who is part Chippewa Indian and who has just completed her BA to avoid potential tension at the other side of the table; fortunately, we had topics in common to discuss: school and NYC. She was actually impressed that I was starting work towards my Ph.D, which was a nice change of pace, since most (not all) of my friends and acquaintances say very little if not nothing and then change the subject when I mention it. The food needed flavor--salt!--but it was free and pretty healthy. The “moon bounce” contraption, a huge children’s tent rented for the occasion, provided me the opportunity to revisit my ten-year-old self. I crawled into the little entrance hole amidst my friend and five or so teenagers. It was like a padded, contained mosh pit, with our limbs flailing around, me having a really hard time holding my balance, colliding into two the teens and knocking them over and landing atop of them, ending up with a scratched up ankle. If I hadn’t just relieved myself I certainly would have peed, everywhere.

Beer: Lakefront Pilsner.



Stop 3:

Circle A to see a band play. Circle A is this teeny, tiny bar located desolate Weil Street, also in Riverwest. It's as affordable as the Foundation, but not quite as popular. While there, one gets feels the comfort one would experience while hanging out in a friend’s living room combined with the fear of potentially being robbed either within the bar (which happened a few weeks back when five thugs charged in with guns) or while walking to one’s vehicle or bicycle. An older (40+) tattooed woman I’ve seen linked up to all of the rockabilly boys on Myspace was sitting next to me. No judgment really intended, but damn, I hope I'm not still traveling the bar circuit regularly when I hit 40. I want a house, or at least larger-sized apartment in a pretty neighborhood if I’m back in NYC, a pug dog, and a cat, preferably the one I have now but that‘s wishful thinking, and maybe a steady man. Sure I’ll socialize, and I'll still see live music, but hopefully not in the same old places.

Beer: Leinenkugel’s

Stop 4:

The Palm, the south side bar mentioned two entries previous. Two lady friends yelled my name loudly when I walked in, which was pleasurable, since I like them and all. Something about the Palm always makes me wish I'd gone home instead. It's odd, because I enjoy the bar, and the company, and the beer selection--everything. Maybe it's because the bar is so far from home; I know I can't really indulge. Conversation there centered on some bands, Lucero, Drive by Truckers, and a hawk--maybe the same hawk!--that is making bold appearances in both the ghetto and at the yuppie family beach. Anolder gentlemen was lurking and staring. When he sat down, there was nothing we could do because he was the bar owner’s father. He leaned back in his chair and swished his wine around, thinking he was a big shot, and maybe he was, back in his day, but not now. He asked our male companion how he was able “control” 2 women like us. We laughed in his face.

When we managed to escape the hard up geezer and exit the bar, one of the players in the Racine drama from last weekend walked up. We hugged, due to awkwardness, I think, because we don’t really know each other. He asked jokingly if things would “be ok” and I started in, asking why he doesn’t seem to party with his wife. This was his second weekend night out at all hours with his buddies. “Well she‘s at home with the kids,” he explained.
Ah.

Beer: Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale.

Stop 5: My retardo friend‘s porch in the semi-ghetto. As I pulled up in front of his house I felt uneasy because I could not see him on the porch, so I called. He was hidden back there, hidden away from the view of thugs. Good positioning. We talked, belched, farted, fidgeted and discussed “devils,“ his term for the ladies who make his head crazy, peoples‘ beeswax that I can not repeat here, and I learned that he is entering a jalapeno eating contest the next day. He can do twenty in a minute (and as it turns out, he won!).

Beer: Blatz.



On Sunday I walked around, well sat, really, in a mixed-use beer hangover haze. Predictably, my resolve needs a little work.

Sometimes I leave Milwaukee behind for a night and travel southbound to socialize with my friends who live in Racine, most of whom I met when I was just about to turn eighteen years old. We’re grown up punks now, with grown up responsibilities and problems, with a bit a of teenage drama thrown in the mix every now and then. A very unique and much loved character who now teaches in Vegas (and who also plays in a half-assed punk rock band) was in town to visit his family, so a soiree was thrown in his honor at a local bar.

Before reporting the night’s events, however, it is important for the reader to have some background information:

[Racine--the city itself--is pretty much a hole--an affordable, clique-y hole. 6 packs of beer are about a dollar cheaper than they are in Milwaukee, and a Stoli raspberry at Coasters hovers right around the $3.00 mark. My friends’ mortgages hover right around my rent price. They have yards and washer/dryers and dogs. I have two rooms and claustrophobia. Everyone goes to the same two or three bars every weekend, and you can predict who is going to walk into the door, who is going to flirt with other peoples’ girlfriends, who is going to get into a fight, and who just might take his dick out.

Racine men can be excruciatingly macho and possessive, but they can also be cute and lovable. They talk with this lingo that‘s so endearing, speaking of addys and grills and scooping one up. Some are tattooed, some are not, some work construction, some work desk jobs. They get pissed if you insult their honor or that of a friend, which can be both wonderful and terrible. Some tell the funniest, crassest, most un-PC jokes I’ve ever heard and I usually laugh, but sometimes I protest, and then I get called a “feminazi.” They can regale one for hours with tales of bar brawls, about picking gravel out of their faces and shins. Some are friends, some are married, some have kids, some are single. The ones I might wish to molest do not randomly put out and those who might wish to sleep with me are those with whom I can’t hold a conversation.

Many Racine women share the trait of loyalty along with their men. They can be gossipy, but they will confront anyone who shit-talks their girlfriends. They also stand by their men even when they are behaving like drunken immature assholes. They don’t squirm when confronted with blood, broken teeth, or publicly exposes penises. They work their asses off, and drink and cuss and cook and teach and design and take care of their themselves, their children and nieces and nephews. They are creative and they go see music because they are interested in it, not because their boyfriends are in the band or make them tag along. They can get loud, but also be soft. These are my girls, but then there are the Others. The Others practice abhorrent behavior. They are manipulative shrews who nag and nit pick their men and hit them on the head with hammers and blatantly hit on their man’s friends. They are psycho for attention and they usually aren’t even that attractive.]

Now back to the story:

The one who is good until the whiskey hits stood outside the bar as we approached. He greeted me with a big bear hug; in return, I bit him. With him was the one whose pheromones provoke mine, and the ridiculousness began. I was supposed to act like my calm, articulate self instead of my crazy, gregarious self, but who was I kidding?? I was in Racine.

Soon after entering and greeting our illustrious friend, I remembered that the bar actually has the game Buck Hunter, so I squealed and clapped and yelled for someone to play along with me. The guy I still sometimes refer to as Ceiling Fan Boy, who is currently rocking what someone termed a “punk Amish” look (Mohawk plus beard) took me up on the challenge. We shot in the Midwest region, and he won by only 300 points. Someone told us to get out of the way because the band was starting, but no band’s gonna come between me and shooting Buck. When we finished the game, I headed to the front room to scan for new arrivals. Among them was a racist I hate because he treated my good friend like dirt for too long, along with his Jennio-plump girlfriend. Trailing him was someone who used to be more well-liked but who is in sad shape right now.

Several years back, two of my male cohorts and myself had a joke: when they visited Milwaukee, I was to “supply” them with some crack rock. Upon seeing me this evening, one of those two men asked the question I’d heard multiple times in the past: “Where’s my crack?” The only problem was that this time, if I’d actually had any of the godforsaken shit (I saw a man wandering in the midst of Capitol Drive traffic
toking on a crack cigarette the following day), this old friend would have gladly taken it from me…no joke about it. He’s all about it these days, and he never had any money so he is just a big mooch. The way he greeted our visiting friend, in fact, was to demand a sip of his beer. No hello, just, “Let me get a sip of your beer.”

The crack may have taken its toll on that friend, but the disappointment of seeing him mooching and lethargic was cancelled out by the arrival of the self-professed Chocolate Lover. Our bug-eyed-black friend used to twirl me around like a pinwheel as a greeting, but this time only our visitor received a spin--they took it outside and watching the embrace made me smile.



The bar with the bands and the music was loud, so it was hard to chat with the one who was visiting and his fiancée, a woman who rocks the Betty Page look and is working towards her Ph.D. I suggested we move the party to Ceiling Fan Boy’s house. I had to get permission from some of the wives first and they acquiesced, going against their instinct. Somehow, I had forgotten that the later it gets and the more alcohol is consumed, the more obnoxious the behavior can become, even though we are all adults. It’s something about being all together and feeling like it’s back in the day, but it’s not.

The drama hit immediately upon arrival at the house, in the rain. The Jack Daniels is not an excuse but it’s also to blame. It’s not my place to broadcast others’ business, but let’s just say that a few of the aforementioned predications manifested themselves that evening.

As I got reamed out by the wives for keeping up for keeping them up so late and my comments about being drunken were interpreted as “do you wanna fuck?” (well yes but a meaningful conversation or a night spent listening to records would also suffice) and the stereo got louder and the fight began, I still wasn’t ready to leave, because I kept waiting for the camaraderie I so love. For some reason, I pictured us all sitting around and having hilarious and civil drunken conversations. Alas, for some people it was too late for civil conversations.

Shortly after the fighting was over and we returned Little Torta's house, the scene was a bit tense until the one who provokes my crazy self arrived and initiated some conversation about the events of the evening. At that moment, I saw a caring, loyal person instead of just eye candy, and the anxiety of being attracted to someone I barely know instantly dissipated, and boy did I feel relief. Moments like these make me realize how there are so many people I don't know as well as I'd like to, and it's because most of my time spent with said people is at a bar.

I believe that these Racine men want to behave like grown men all of the time. I don't think they are happy to revert back to old patterns. I certainly would prefer not to behave like a fucking spastic so often, considering that I possess smarts I can display instead. A happy medium exists somewhere I think; it’s all about drinking at home and not at bars, and cutting one’s self off before boorish behavior sets in--for all people, men, women, everyone. Sleep is good too, and maybe eating some soup.

The next morning it was blazingly sunny, windy and humid, the worst condition for putting on a spare while grappling with a hangover. Thankfully, Little Torta's man, my favorite roughneck, is handy with such things. He put that spare on in a matter of minutes while hardly complaining at all. I got to spend the rest of the afternoon at the Racine mall, waiting for the tire to be replaced and sixty more dollars to be taken out of my already dwindling checking account.

When I turned thirty, I said no more bullshit. That was an unrealistic statement. Being in one’s thirties means less bullshit. You’re still going to fuck uptimes, act in a way you wish you didn’t, your insecurities showing through. What’s important is that you fuck up less and self-reflect more, and I think my boys are doing that--some of them have been for some time--and that makes me proud. I’ve gone back to visit my Racine buddies even while living in Chicago and NYC. Some of them can’t understand why, but it’s about the camaraderie and freedom to be myself that I can’t find as consistently anywhere else.

4:00pm. Shut down the computer. Thank God another boring fucking day of editing real estate ads is complete. Go to the freezer to retrieve the frozen eye compress. Lie down on the futon to let the eyes rest and tear up, as the dryness always overwhelms. Shove numerous potato chips into my mouth. Jaunt quickly to the library to renew my card, then sprint back home after browsing through a Chicago fashion magazine due to the lentils. I was wondering what took so long; the binge potato chip eating must have spurred the lentils on.

Around 5:30 I picked up E. and we made our way to Big Bay Beach to swim. It was partially cloudy and only about 78 degrees. Big Bay and Atwater Beaches are beautiful and unique. To reach both, one must descend down the steep sloping hills that are covered in field greens that are patrolled by show off goldfinches, swallows, timid rabbits, moles, mice and flying grasshoppers.

E.’s friend N. pulled up behind us as we were exiting my banged up Cavalier. We were going to feast on spinach pies, olives and strawberries before jumping into the waves of Lake Michigan. Floating alongside the concrete pier upon which we made ourselves comfortable was a 10-12 ft long sturdy tree branch that E. later managed to use a makeshift floatation device. The waves were quite grand, but the water was chilly. I managed to wade around for about a half an hour, feeling pleasantly uninhibited while wearing my plain, two piece Old Navy suit. I romped like a child, not wanting to completely submerge myself because I was not going home to stay afterwards. I sat down on the edge of the beach and let the waves roll over me, which resulted in a pile of rocky sand landing in my bottoms. Since we were the only three at the beach, I simply removed them and quickly put them back on so that the sand could escape.

After conversing for awhile about random subjects like Liberace, Jesus Christ Superstar, Dan Savage’s column about fucking horses and fucking men, we had to leave so that we could attend the vigil for Cindy Sheehan/against the war. I really think that Sheehan is behaving like a bit of a martyr and I can’t help but wonder what her stance was when the war began, but President Bush is certainly making an ass of himself by refusing to speak to her because as was reported on the Jon Stewart show, he has to live his life (on vacation, at the dude ranch).



Nearly 1,000 people lined up along Lincoln Memorial Drive. The lit candles made for a lovely sight, and many drivers honked in alignment with those holding them. E. and I found her friend and his friend, 2 union organizers/writers. I felt silly without a candle, so E. set off to find me one, only to run into her blunt, sassy father and our friend T., with whom I’d recently had a spat. Since we’d recently had a dumb drunken blowout and are both quite caustic at times, it felt both logical and ironic to first see him at a peace rally. I got to hold his candle.

Any type of activist work should always be followed by a leisurely activity like consuming alcoholic beverages at a favored bar, so E., T, her friend and I drove southbound to Bayview’s the Palm. We blared FEAR’s “Let’s Have a War” (it’s on the Repo Man soundtrack; I have never owned any FEAR records and never will because, as the person behind a Repo Man soundtrack review at http://starling.rinet.ru/music/temp/repoman.html so aptly put it, “Punk does not equal asshole, which was these overrated rednecks' fatal mistake”) while driving over the Hoan Bridge at 60 mph with the windows rolled down with a view of the moon glinting on the lake. E.'s friend requested it. I couldn’t help but momentarily regress back to being 19 and standing in some Racine Punk’s dank, dark basement, tentatively swilling Busch light from a can, and in that moment, I didn't dislike FEAR so much.

The Palm is my adult bar. It's fairly quiet and some sort of old time soul type music is usually playing. The bar also features one of the most impressive selections of booze and beer I’ve ever seen, including some pricey Belgian ales. They also carry Point in case any shitty beer snobs happen to be visit the bar, as well as great specials, like this Trois Poistelles (?!?!?!) beer. Its label looked like one should imbibe it while waiting to be chained or perhaps de-chained from some witchy lair. On the back label, it showed pictures of two different shapes of glasses, one wide and short and one taller and narrower, similar to a Weisse beer glass. The latter picture had a red x marked over it. Upon noticing it, I had to let out a now seldom emitted HAAAA! Apparently, it is only proper to drink the beverage in a certain type of glass. To make such a subtle demand on the beer’s packaging seemed very odd, yet the HAAAA! came out, followed by a fit of more normal laughter. Thankfully the rest of the table found it amusing as well. I meant to take the bottle home with me to use as another makeshift vase, but E. tore at the label just like I do (I was sipping Ace Pear Cider all night). I'll just have to return later in the week and buy my own bottle.

Conversation was interesting as usual, too many being had at once, really. We scorned George Bush, there was some labor talk, cats and devils were mentioned, I made a pun out of E.’s friend’s “checkered past” and the fact that he smokes “Checkers” cigarettes, said friend made a witty comment about peggedpantmotherfuckers, I boasted about my grocery store score--a 12 pack of Scott bath tissue purchased at $4.70 instead of its normal $9.35 full price, E., T., and her friend discussed the logistics of a drinking contest, and it went on until about midnight.

Back at home, alone, I downed some water and ate some buttered saltines(I prefer cheese but had none) to soak up the cider, and sunk into on the futon instead of the bed, desiring closer proximity to the a/c. My cat curled up in my arms and it was good night.

Last Saturday at six o’clock was the final Last Call at the National Liquor Bar. Located on Milwaukee’s south side near 27th Street, it closed down after 66 years to make way for a Walgreens parking lot. This coming Saturday, the store’s insides and its huge vintage neon sign will be auctioned off.

People could be seen spilling out from the establishment onto the street from several blocks away. A disheveled man stood next to the door, singing and playing his guitar, and a hotdog vendor doled out dogs and Italian sausages to those who needed something to soak up the liquor.

Inside, people were packed in on all four sides of the huge bar, which also works as an actual liquor store. They even sold meat and offered breakfast. People were shouting. People were raucous. My two female friends and I were greeted by a twenty something man with a chin piercing whose face was grimy with sweat. He requested to see our IDs. We acquiesced, not seeing a reason not to, but then he admitted he was just fooling with us. He laughed uproariously at his own joke and hollered that he should’ve asked for a cover charge. We shot him various unimpressed looks and moved on.

The majority of those drinking at the bar were south side, working class Milwaukeeians, many of them aged sixty or older. They grasped tightly their plastic cups of Busch beer. All attendees stood in close proximity to one another, buttocks brushed up against backs. A group of men who passed myself and my friends remarked that there were so many “strangers” in the bar but at least “there were some cute girls.”




When I walked in, an older, squat gentleman wearing a baseball cap sitting at one of the few tables beside me began conversing with me about my tattoos. He wondered if there was an additional tattoo hidden under my shirt, on my cleavage. He showed me the panther tattoo he’d gotten for seven dollars in 1945, on State Street, right downtown. A little while later, an even older, tinier gentleman in a very bright green print shirt ambled over to me. He looked sad, his eyes watery, but that could‘ve just been a reaction to the smoke wafting around the joint. He mentioned that this was his place to drink. Then he commented he was too broke to buy last another beer. I brightly exclaimed that he should certainly be able to find someone he knew to buy him a beer, feeling certain that someone would spare this character fifty cents on such a day. He ambled off, saying such people would know him if they saw him, instead of the other way around, that he would know who would buy him a round if he saw them.

One man who wore his Lee jeans hitched up too high was also memorable due to his annoying manner. He kept exclaiming that he’d hand over fiver hundred dollars to whichever one of us ladies could manage to convince his pastor friend to get tattooed. Ah ha ha! Pastor friend! Tattoo!! Ar har har. While he was bellowing in our ears, another guy positioned on the other side of us began yelling out the name Miriam. Then he kissed my friend.

The customer who was the most intriguing was none of these men. She was a circa 70-year-old little lady sitting at the bar with the huge beehive hairdo. She had such toned skinny tan arms for an old lady. Her glasses were those 1970s oversized deals that covered half of her cheeks. Her attire was a splendid combination of short, loose, light blue jean shorts, a fetching black strapless top--but not a tube top--,and a sleeveless black leather vest. She was talking away, enjoying herself, sad too at the end, near the last call. She emulated sassy badassness, and she displayed it when one of my friends began chatting with her about their similar bracelets. “Mine are cooler,” the lady told my friend with a laugh.

We left after all the beer was gone, sucked out of the tappers, not a drop left (The bar had knocked prices to what they were in 1982, so beer cost $.50.) If you wanted a shot, you took what was left. Our group received Southern Comfort and Grand Marnier. Before we saw anyone begin spilling salty, sweaty tears into their cracked and crinkled cups, we left. Well, we sat outside until the owner came out and yelled at everyone to clean up their beer cans and vacate the premises. Then the police showed up.