Amy, your friendly neighborhood managing editor, likes dogs, coffee and sleeping in late. A native of Detroit and the daughter of a meat magnate, she moved to Milwaukee last summer and has spent most of her time here taking walks, riding bikes, and falling in love with everything. She no longer consumes the animal products that paid for her college education.
I don't know how or why it happens, but every year it's like the flip of a switch: someone or something reminds me that basketball exists. And that I love it. And that the Pistons fucking rule.
This year I was standing in the dark cavern of the Echo Base warehouse, beholding my spring bike strewn about the shop in pieces (soon to be resurrected as less of a death trap), when my phone rang. It was Fernando, a friend from Ann Arbor, one member of a small pod of Michiganeers-cum-Milwaukeeans I associate with here.
"You watching the Pistons game tonight?"
"What game?" I asked, completely unprepared for the flush of basketball fever that was about to bring me to my knees.
"I thought you were a Pistons fan? It's a pretty important game in the series."
An hour later, I was sitting at the bar in the dark cavern of Major Goolsbys, sharing a pitcher of Spotted Cow, stupid with the thrill of an imminent victory over the Sixers – a total about-face from my everyday life and identity. Damn.
Days later, my best friend from home called from Baltimore, where he works as a homesick public radio producer. Our lives run on crossed threads, even at great distances – we've only ever been at great distances, in fact, since we graduated from high school six years ago.
"I don't know what to do tonight," he said. "I feel like drinking a little too much and being drunk a little too early."
"That's all I've been doing," I said, "all week. Because of the playoffs."
"The playoffs?" he said. "Is there a game tonight?"
It's some sort of tic in the expatriate Detroiter subconscious. When you miss the city you come from – not just because you don’t live there, but because you know it’s never going to be the city you wish it could be, because every time you go back it’s a little stranger, a little more fantastical – you let yourself believe in anything that makes you feel a part of it again. If it’s the NBA – so be it.
When the playoffs are over – or when the Pistons are out of the series – I’ll stop going to the bar straight from work and I won’t drink so much Spotted Cow. I probably won’t return to Major Goolsby’s, maybe not even next year – who knows where my Michigan crew will roll then, or if any of them will even live here anymore.
I’ll think about 2005, when I was lonely, tired and frustrated in Turkey’s southeastern desert, when I got a text message about the Spurs’ victory over the Pistons and broke down crying in the middle of the market. I’ll think about 2006, when we lost to the Heat and impenetrable, infuriating Shaquille O’Neal, and I mourned quietly in my parents’ chilly basement in the suburbs, watching him say, in an interview with a bimbo sportscasterette, that he was looking forward to the day his kids could look up to him and say, “Daddy was a bad motha-shut-yo-mouth.”
I’ll think about the 2004 championship, drinking Heineken in a friend’s parked car all night to celebrate, sneaking into the strip mall where we worked and smoking cigarettes in the women’s bathroom. And how the playoffs made all of the hard-knock, tough-love men I worked with at the guitar store come together in the cause of something great and powerful, and how when we closed up for the night they would all join forces to sneak me into the sleazy bar across the highway so I could watch the game. We all embraced when it was over, in triumph when we won and in comfort when we lost. By the time we won the playoffs, I’d been initiated into a brotherhood, and I spent my whole summer cavorting with them, going to see their loud cover bands play in backyards, drinking whiskey by bonfires, cruising the empty highways of Detroit too late at night. Basketball made it all possible.
I’m ready for this summer to really get moving. I think it’s going to be amazing. But the first glimmer of enchantment and magic, for my whole adult life, has been the playoffs. This year has been no different, even though watching the playoffs from Milwaukee isn’t the same at all.
(When not hunkered down at M.G.s with my ragtag roundtable of kids from the mitten state, I’ve somehow managed to wander into a great deal of art openings, and it’s been very exciting: Dwellephant’s cupcake show at Eat Cake was delightful, even amidst torrential downpours; Jeff Kenney -- who plied me with chardonnay -- and Neil Rongstad showed standout work at a lovely new show at the Katie Gingrass Gallery and down the street, Hot Pop blew my damned mind. This store is straight outta Tokyo, or at least the most painfully cool neighborhoods of New York City, and totally defies description: deck art, graphic novels, urban fashion, sneakers, movies, really crazy toys and a gallery full of edgy, colorful artwork from Milwaukee and Chicago. It’s worth a visit or ten. Tonight I’ll be at the grand opening of The Armoury – and maybe The Blatz Building?
If you’re an ex-member of Michigan, or if you really love Detroit basketball, and you want to join our team of ne’er-do-wells, boozers and burger lovers for a game or two, leave a comment. I’ll be in touch.)
This is the best time of year. The best. Someone I used to know called it "that summer feeling." It's not summer yet, not by a longshot -- there aren't even leaves on the trees -- but you can FEEL it coming. You can smell meat grilling and grass getting heavy, see hot sun on bare shoulders. You can let yourself wear shoes without socks or leave your sweater in the car.
It's enough to make you delirious. Every little beautiful thing becomes monumental.
Walking to the Public Market for lunch. Buying flowers. The trains passing, the bells on the drawbridges ringing as the bridges raise for cargo boats. Driving with the window down and turning up the radio a little louder. The wind sucks a yellow curtain through an open window and it blows out there all day like a greeting to the passengers on the Amtrak.
The barista you love surprises you by knowing your name! Isn't that something!
The egg salad sandwich you order for lunch (from What's Fresh, perhaps) is delicious! God almighty!
The moon is out and it illuminates the hem of the clouds! It's a miracle!
Walking north in Riverwest a few days ago, I hallucinated the lake on the horizon. It was early morning, the sun was fresh and every blue thing in eyeshot (in this case, a far-off warehouse) took on a grandeur that could only be explained as lake-ness. Perhaps I'm disoriented, I thought. Maybe I'm headed east. Perhaps the lake has always been in this direction.
Of course, feeling like a gleeful tourist in my own life really calls into question the stability of any relationship I have with my emotional world. If all it takes to turn around the bone-dry melancholy of the late winter is a warm breeze, a little luck and a lot of sunshine, how did I understand anything that happened between January and March in a genuine way? Is it possible that this sense I have of majesty, affirmation and the fundamental rightness of the universe, despite all reports that would lead me to believe otherwise, is just a whim? A function -- nay, side-effect -- of some fairly routine meteorological phenomena?
Probably. But I don't care.
Tonight my inside man at the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra (to protect his professional integrity, I won't say who, though you can probably guess) wrangled me a fabulous seat for Music Director Designate Edo De Waart's debut engagement, conducting Gustav Holst's The Planets. Due to some serious dawdling on my part, I missed my hand-off and was provided with further instructions to look for my ticket in the grating under the first tree to the left of the stage door.
Surreptitiously I snapped up the goods (the triumphant absurdity! picking up a ticket to THE SYMPHONY off of THE GROUND, like some lucky accident!) and hustled into the Marcus Center, feeling windswept, sweaty and a little conspicuous in beat-up black boots and big fur-hooded vest in a cocktail-hour, nice-cologne kind of crowd.
But none of it mattered once I climbed over some well-dressed knees and took a seat. This was the first time I had ever been in Uihlein Hall. It reminded me of my family's synagogue.
I noticed my heart racing. I was strangely exhilarated.
"This afternoon, Edo de Waart conducted the Milwaukee Symphony for the first time," said Concertmaster Frank Almond, "for an audience of 2000 screaming children."
Graciously, Maestro de Waart agreed to return for the night. When he took the stage, the crowd stood and cheered for him.
And then, with little ado, the driving rhythm of the first movement, "Mars, Bringer of War," the wood of the bows tapping the strings in urgent 5/4 time, the melody swelling.
I realized I've been seeking this out: an opportunity to get away from myself, to lose myself in something huge and furious and far removed from all of the petty winter fretting I've been doing - what am I thinking, what am I doing, what do I look like, what does that one cute boy think of me, why isn't anyone calling me, what smart book should I be reading, etcetera into tiresome infinity.
The Symphony was captivating. Rapturous. It was huge and furious. When I left I was walking on air. I walked home through a warm, cloudy night, the half-moon swathing the Blatz building in creamy light.
It's little wonder that love gets in the air like this in the springtime. What must life be like in Southern California in the spring? In bleak Nevada? In the canyons of the great Southwest or the swampy heat of Alabama? Is love EVER in the air? Or is it like a page on which everything is highlighted -- does the constant presence of nice weather nullify its power?
I couldn't live like that. I need the punch to the soul that spring brings. I need to be jarred by it: reminded, revitalized and reawakened to tremendous possibilities.
I've been to the Old German Beer Hall (once on my birthday, for shots on skis and that hammer/stump game; again, days later, after the Scarring Party show at Turner Hall with Brent Gohde and Matt Wild, where I ran into a bunch of guys I sort of knew in college) and I've seen bar time at the County Clare, BBC, Roots, the Riverhorse and Walter's. On St. Patrick’s Day I drank gin and tonics with some financiers at the Hi-Hat and lost my wallet not once but twice – first at the Landmark, then at the Nomad (I got it back the first time, but lightning never strikes the same place. Milwaukee bartenders and bouncers, beware; that pretty girl with the dubious Michigan driver’s license is SO not for real.) I've sidled up at Foundation with Captain Rick and Eddie Kilowatt and I've hunkered down at The Social , Coppola zinfandel precariously in hand, to get the inside story on Milwaukee film culture (and other less serious subjects) from scenesters like Andrew Swant and Bobby Ciraldo of Special Entertainment and Milwaukee's own Mark Metcalf, who told me how he drove from Ann Arbor to Detroit in 1967 to see the riots -- while he was on mescaline.
Seeing shows
I’ve been spending a lot of time at the Echo Base Collective down in the factory district, which on the basis of my three visits I've inferred is ALWAYS a good time, regardless of whether it is packed with hundreds of people watching an Israeli punk band light themselves on fire or attended by two dozen high school kids watching their friends jump up and down on a beat-up crash cymbal. Dave Casillo (the brains AND the brawn behind the organization) brings in shit-crazy local and underground bands (think Geocash, We’rewolves, Cougar Den) and some folksy, understated operations (like the soft-psychedelia of Minneapolis’ Daughters of the Sun). He also fixes up bikes for kids. This was the first place I thought to seek shelter during that terrible Friday snowstorm when my car was buried in high, desperate drifts, and I was comforted with beers, a puppy, terrific music and a couch on which to crash.
There’s also been the typical noise issuing forth from the Bermuda Triangle of the Pabst/Riverside/Turner – the aforementioned Scarring Party CD release show at Turner Hall, the champagne-brunch-appropriate Pink Martini at the Pabst two days later, Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks (that was the show where PR maven Cecilia Hrobsky crab-walked across the floor of the Cudahy Pub to score a tote bag) – and just last night, Swedish pop crooner Jens Lekman with his honey-voiced tales of love, woe, excitement and incredible beauty.
Hiding away
I house-sat in Wauwatosa and stayed in all weekend playing waltzes on my accordion, drinking tea and cuddling with an elderly schnauzer, leaving only for a well-documented trip to Rooter’s with Matt Wild, Chinese take-out on the East Side and a little accordion/marimba jam with Alex Cain of The Candliers at his parents’ house.
A long-lost friend came to Milwaukee and I shared the town with him, of course the Art Museum (and the long-awaited Infinity Room), the lake, the parks, the buildings I like to see, the food I like to eat, the walks I take every day. We had a picnic in my living room that night, with French bread, garlic and good olive oil, apple slices and rioja, and we talked about the lives we live now, the lives we used to live, and our current orientation to the rest of the universe. He’s returned to his faith after a long, searching absence, and in the morning he woke me up early and we walked to the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist for daily mass. When it was over, the sun was bright, the bells were ringing, the day was fresh and we chased geese in the square.
I guess what I’m saying, here, all in all, is that this month has been fleet, but fuller than just about any time in my life I can imagine, which is why, dear and patient reader, I haven’t been blogging. And there has been time apart, whole days given over to rest and reconsideration, more than I have allowed myself to have in a very long time. I guess what I’m saying is that time might be flying, but that gives us all the more reason to get everything we can out of every second – and that the more we fill our days with, the more our days give us, and the more time expands for us.
That’s esoteric, and I don’t mean it to be, but here at the outside of March, about to give way to frantic, troubling April, I’m feeling as though I’ve earned the right to be obtuse.
Check back often next month. I’ll be blogging more – and dancing more and doing more and loving more and giving more and having more as a consequence. I hope the same will hold for you, too.
Maybe it was my visit to the cellar bar at Roots this week (where I’m told the chef is perfecting his own recipes for corned beef, rye bread and sauerkraut), or maybe it was my dad’s sheepish confession to me last weekend that he loves to Google his own name, but I was reminded recently that my dad – a corned beef producer and wholesaler whose secret recipes have made him famous among foodies nation-wide – has a video on YouTube.
Meet my dad. And learn something about how corned beef is made, in the meantime. Think of it as an early St. Patrick’s Day offering. Those squeamish about raw beef brisket might not want to press play.
My brother Sean and his wife Janel are having a baby girl, probably some time in the next week, so I’ve been talking to my family a lot more than usual as I call in daily for updates on Janel’s health, well-being and cervical dilation (she’s been at two centimeters for more than two weeks now). When I asked my dad if he was excited about grandchild number EIGHT, he said he would be, if Sean and Janel lived a little closer.
This is funny, because they live less than an hour’s drive from my dad’s house. When I asked dad how he was going to feel when I had kids of my own, he said it didn’t matter because he’d be dead by then –which pretty much sums up my dad’s attitude about life. It’s a joyous sort of grumpiness that he abides by most of the time, and I love it about him, except when his grumpiness pisses me off.
Finally, I'd like to contribute something to Matt's weekend music report. While he was crying into his ice-cream over a Sonic the Hedgehog medley, I was at a tiki bar (Foundation) dancing like a maniac to the unbridled soul commotion of Iowa City's Diplomats of Solid Sound. Then I saw The Chain open for Jail. Then I went home and slept like a baby.
But wait! Sunday night continued to bring the noise! VITAL sponsored The Black Lips at Turner Hall, who brought along with them the fabulous Mr. Quintron. Mr. Quintron plays several interesting instruments he built himself, including a Hammon organ/Fender Rhodes synthesizer combo. His lovely wife Miss Pussycat shrieks along with him, plays the maracas and puts on puppet shows.
After her production, a little cautionary tale about a hexing art gallery owner who turns one of her patrons into a marble statue, in which Santa Claus saves the day with an AK-47, The Black Lips – known in some circles for their really raucous antics – barely registered as more than four smart chords and some spitting. Jeff and I retired to a cabaret table near the back, which means we almost missed it when our friend Jared got up on the stage, spun around like an airplane, and then jumped right back off again, into the crowd, inciting a wave of other stage-divers to take their chances, which resulted in tough guards tackling frenzied concert-goers.
It was a hard-won moment of pure rock clarity in a minefield of tight pants, PBR and sloppy haircuts.
And this weekend there’s more where that came from: a whole slate of insanity AND a taco bar at the Echo Base Collective, Maps & Atlases at the Cactus Club, The Trusty Knife (also at the Cactus Club), of course the Get Down, Vijay Iyer at Alverno’s Pitman Theater. Even CHUBBY FREAKING CHECKER is in town. And Matt is taking me to see more cover bands at Rooter's. I am a fool.
I’m tired just thinking about it. But also thrilled! BRING IT, WEEKEND!
Oh, yeah. Every Tuesday. Come ON! What was I THINKING?! I can't play this game. It's Thursday night. Tomorrow is Friday. Fail, fail, fail.
Jesus, what happened to this week? I had every expectation that this was going to be one of those breezy, pretty weeks, that I'd just sleep a lot and stroll into the office whenever I felt like it and spend a lot of time at my desk poking at various flabby spots on the internet and then go home early and drink juice and take a nap.
It did NOT happen like that. This week opened up like a big ol' jaw and swallowed me whole.
On Tuesday (remember Tuesday, when I was supposed to be blogging? Preferably whilst drinking juice?) I stopped in at the 88.9 RadioMilwaukee anniversary fête at Palms Bistro. I met the fine gentlemen of Great Lakes Distillery -- at the wizened age of 1, now Wisconsin's oldest distillery, our first since prohibition -- and sampled their very nice gin, which is made with sweet basil and Wisconsin ginseng, two botanicals that have never been found in gin -- before now. It was delicious -- sweet and spicy -- and I am not just saying that in hopes that they will write in and say, "oh hey Amy, we love your blog and we know you're a lush; here's a bottle of gin for you."
But some friends & former coworkers (including my esteemed colleague Mr. John Eding) thought it might be nice to catch up over some more banal libations, so we skipped over to Landmark Lanes, everyone's favorite palace of trash, for $2 beer night. (Yes, friends who are not from Milwaukee and do not understand, you are correct in interpreting that special to mean $2 for a pint of any beer at all.) Before I knew it, it was bedtime.
On Wednesday, when I should have been blogging my apologies for missing my self-imposed Tuesday blog parade (Matt Wild, am I driving you crazy!?), I was at the ever-grand Turner Hall Ballroom, PBR Tall Boy in hand, working the sponsorship table for the Sia show, wondering why no one was dancing to opening phenom Har Mar Superstar, who you just have to see to believe. I didn't really know what to expect from the night at all. Sia seemed nice enough, a cute Australian with a pretty voice and credentials -- former singer for Zero 7, spots on the soundtracks for Garden State and Six Feet Under -- that had me looking forward to sort of ambient, possibly production-heavy, likely sort of humdrum pop finery. All I knew about Har Mar was that he is frequently booed offstage, and that it was possible he would show up in a cape and a g-string.
But he was great, exactly the kind of kitsch that I fall for -- a genuinely incredible, Prince-esque R&B voice, a tight back-up band (with a bass player in a Storm Trooper costume), lots of dancing in the aisles (and on the cabaret tables, to the evident chagrin of unsuspecting audience members), plenty of groovy beats. At the end of the set, the other VITAL staffers and I decided we'd had enough -- something had to be done about the total lack of booty-shaking, which Har Mar kept saying was making him feel really awkward. So we stormed the stage. And we danced. And other people decided to dance, too.
And Sia -- well, Sia was pretty incredible herself. Besides being possibly the most adorable person I have ever seen on stage (and it was an adorable stage, with giant neon flowers, stuffed animals strewn hither and yon, a band dressed in white), she sang beautiful songs with striking power, palpable exuberance and rare talent. It was captivating! I was so impressed. I stayed for the whole show and cheered for the encore, despite repeated warnings to my cohorts that I'd probably leave before the end of the set (to go home at watch Project Runway, but I didn't tell anyone that part).
And so here it is Thursday. And all I have to give you is this recipe, and a glimmer of the undying, eternal love I have for Mark Bittman. I hope you actually try it. I think I will. We are hours away from the end of awful February, and we will have very little need for winter tomato soup before too long. Hang in there.
Amy, your friendly neighborhood managing editor, likes dogs, coffee and sleeping in late. A native of Detroit and the daughter of a meat magnate, she moved to Milwaukee last summer and has spent most of her time here taking walks, riding bikes, and falling in love with everything. She no longer consumes the animal products that paid for her college education.
