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.