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.