Locust Street, in list form

>>I’ve been lying on my back for months, immovable and still while the rest of the city celebrates birthdays and weddings, new love and obscure anniversaries. It’s that off-kilter time of year when the promise of summer seems more like a threat than a gift, when a girl you’ve been talking to at a backyard campfire suddenly says, “Why do you have to be so depressing?” and 20 minutes later you’re watching Oh, God! alone in your underwear. You know, the one with John Denver.

It’s also the time of year when a solid-gold idea for your next column – crashing the big NRA conference back in May – yields nothing more than a quick brush-off and a contentious parking ticket. Bewildered, broke and desperate for a new subject, you do the only thing your mortally wounded checking account will allow – you hop on your bike and head off to the annual Locust Street Festival.

Death and taxes are cited as the only things of which one can truly be certain. To this list I’d like to add four more. The first – the perplexing continued career of Ted Danson – should be painfully self-evident. The last three deal with the Locust Street Festival, and the three things you’re sure to see a shitload of when you attend:• Dreadlocks• Dogs• Babies

What is it about this annual block party that brings these things out in spades? Why must we feel the need to flaunt our pets, children and suspect hairstyles in front of a drunken horde of Riverwesterners? Why do some people still think drum circles are a good idea? These are the questions I ponder as I sit on the curb in front of Linneman’s with my friend Eva, three cocktails and two cups of beer already in my system. Questions aside, the weather is perfect, the music surprisingly tolerable and the crowd reassuring in its lack of uniformity. It’s this last fact that seems to separate the Locust Street Festival from Milwaukee’s other summer hootenannies. In light of the recent upswing in Riverwest crime, it’s especially encouraging to see such a diverse group of people coming together under the shared interests of shuffling around aimlessly for hours and getting drunk outdoors.

Our first hour or two consists of procuring some beer, walking 20 feet and sitting on the nearest unoccupied curb. People watching is certainly the most thrilling aspect of any block party, and Locust Street is no different. Among the highlights:• An elderly man walking his dog (of course), playing a trumpet and wearing a Public Enemy t-shirt• A semi-clothed, dreadlocked couple with one baby each strapped to their chests (super bonus points!)• A guy on stilts (what is it about stilts and unicycles that angers me so? Is it the irritating Renaissance Faire quality of the whole spectacle?  Or the fact that I’m 99 percent sure that this guy introduces himself by saying, “Hi! I’m the guy on stilts?” )

Another given at this particular shindig is the staggering number of random house parties – complete with forgotten friends and half-barrels – one can find on the many Riverwest side streets. Away from the palm readers, bake sales and the guy on stilts (why God, why?), these are the places where you can get your serious block party-drink on.

The next few hours pass in an undistinguished blur; nevertheless, a few highlights manage to pull away from the din:• Seeing Trolley perform an incredible, life-affirming set across the street from the Riverwest Commons• Briefly joining a hastily assembled posse on the lookout for some hooligans who spray-painted a young girl bright green• Accosting perfect strangers and enlightening them on the beauty of Milwaukee summers, the Riverwest neighborhood and the musical oeuvre of Freddy “Boom Boom” Cannon

My alcohol intake accelerates as the day wears on, my demeanor becoming shrill and caustic. On one hand, I begin to madly hope that my drunkenness somehow has the power to inspire, the power to create, the power to save. Yes, maybe this is the true stuff of community: cheap beer and barely controlled ranting. On the other hand, I start to fear that we’ve all become too old for this, too old for reckless house parties and lighting cigarettes off stovetops. Maybe we’ve pushed ourselves as far as we can go; maybe when we wake up in the morning we’ll finally have to own up to our actions, own up to our age. It’s ridiculous thoughts like these that trudge through my mind as the day finally comes to a close. Inexplicably abandoning my bike on a friend’s darkened porch, I begin the long walk home, each labored step a study in passive denial.  VS

Matt Wild is ¼ of the rock and roll band Holy Mary Motor Club.