Nothing Happens in Milwaukee

Milwaukee is world-famous for three things: beer, Harley Davidson, and Jeffrey Dahmer. Well, the breweries have moved to St. Louis and most people don’t give a shit about Harleys (me included), but the legend of Dahmer lives on.

It’s kind of sad that a city that contains such exceedingly kind and polite people will hereafter be known for one deranged lunatic.  Well, actually, that’s not true. There was more than one. Before there was Jeffrey Dahmer, there was Ed Gein, who was not from Milwaukee, but lived in the country only about an hour’s drive away. Ed Gein was the inspiration for the movie “Psycho”, and it was impossible to grow up in Milwaukee without having your parents scare the living daylights out of you with cracks about how “Ed Gein was gonna get you” if you didn’t behave.

I remember when the news broke about Jeffrey Dahmer. I was spending the summer in Boulder, Colorado, and everyone in the rooming house was gathered in horror around the TeeVee set, listening to the heinous details as they became known.

My first thought was: “Oh, fer Chrissake! Not again!” Why couldn’t my city ever be normal? Why did it always have to be known for the most utterly fucked-up things?

For me, Milwaukee will always be the place I escaped from. It’s not a horrible city; it’s actually quite pleasant, except for the terrible winters. But growing up in the suburbs of Milwaukee, I was bored and frustrated. I couldn’t wait to get out and see what the rest of the world was like… provided I didn’t run into any serial killers.

In October, I went back to Milwaukee under sad circumstances: the funeral of my dear Uncle Bobby. Cesar and I had booked a hotel room just two blocks from where he had lived. We arrived at midnight to black, bitter cold and empty streets.

No traffic, no people… just whirlwinds of dead leaves blowing in the wind. This had once been Uncle Bobby’s neighborhood; now it was just another deserted street. Nothing underscored the emptiness I felt like the howling wind and those cyclones of sad, dead leaves spiraling down the vacant sidewalks.

I expected to experience only two emotions on this trip: sadness, or complete and utter boredom.

The next morning, we left the hotel to try to find some breakfast. Again, it was bitter cold — the kind of cold that grabs the breath right out of your lungs. The streets, once again, were completely deserted. We were admiring a beautiful church…

…when suddenly we came upon a completely green man! Wearing nothing in this insane cold but a ripped shirt and shorts, walking down the streets tan ancho, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

We were extremely confused.

Of course! It had been Halloween the night before! I’d been so focused on the funeral that I’d forgotten that it was Halloween. This guy had obviously had fun… and he was obviously still going. He generously posed for another picture before continuing on his way — probably to the next keg party.

This green guy definitely cheered us up. A few blocks later, we came across the first people we’d seen on the street that day: a group of anti-abortion protesters, picketing outside a clinic. From my spot across the street, I took a picture.

One of these protesters — the one in between Mr. “Peace Love Life” and Mrs. Religion with the rosary beads — wasn’t so happy about being photographed and flipped me the bird. I didn’t understand why. Wasn’t the whole point of standing out there with signs, praying and chanting like lunatics, to get people’s attention? What the hell was he doing there if he didn’t want people to look and take pictures?

Besides, didn’t he realize that by flipping The Finger, he was severely confusing the message of his fellow demonstrators? “Peace, Love, Life, FUCK YOU” is downright contradictory, methinks. On the other hand, his behavior didn’t really surprise me. Generally speaking, anti-abortion protesters aren’t known for being the “sharpest knives in the drawer”. They’re just one step above — or is it below? — the anti-health-care protesters. Actually, I guess they’re nearly the same, for one important reason: they tend to be armed.

I couldn’t help thinking that a guy like that better represents the argument for abortion than against it. I mean, honestly: would you want a guy like that for a son? Or for yo’ baby-daddy? Sheesh!

We finally got to the restaurant, and it was hard to believe that the people inside the restaurant shared the same DNA as the surly, cerebrally-challenged protesters just blocks away. Could it be possible that they didn’t? Come to think of it, they did stand much more erect. And instead of jabbing their middle fingers into the air, they clearly displayed opposable thumbs… and utilized them most dexterously, I might add.

The waiters and waitresses, all students at U.W.M., were all fabulously dolled up for Halloween. This Halloween thing was making the trip a lot more bearable.

On the way back from the restaurant, we witnessed some of the post-Halloween devastation.

The violently half-open sofa-bed, the empty case of Bud, and the smashed pumpkin all said the same thing: last night’s party KICKED ASS!

The abandoned sofa theme was in full swing on this block. To me, these sofas accurately represented the depressed state of the city of Milwaukee, with more furniture on the street than people.

We came upon a record store that’s been there as long as I can remember: Flipville Records.

We walked in, and were immediately confronted with the sight of endless stacks of junk piled to the ceiling, tiny TeeVees showing classic programs embedded in the junk… and an unsmiling, fifty-ish year old man with long, white hair and a beard that had been left to grow completely wild.

We were a little nervous — after all, we were in Milwaukee, the Cuckoo Capitol of the United States of Psycho —  but decided to look around anyway. Unsurprisingly, the wild-haired proprietor declined to be photographed, but he was kind enough to let me take pictures of the shop. It had a quite a few vinyl gems. Cesar bought an album of Bela Lugosi doing dramatic readings as Dracula, for which the proprietor gave him a discount, which was nice of him.

We left Flipville and continued our walk, popping off a few shots of important Milwaukee landmarks like the Oriental Theater, where I spent every weekend of my high school years watching “art” movies… and once even spotted Brian Ritchie of The Violent Femmes(!) Wow! My first celebrity sighting!

Next to the Oriental is the best bowling in town, Landmark Lanes. If you grow up in Milwaukee, bowling is culturally mandatory. It’s one of the few sports I enjoy… perhaps because you do it while drinking beer. A lot of beer.

It doesn’t look like much now. But when I was growing up, this lone city block containing the Oriental theater, the sadly vanished Oriental pharmacy with its wonderful lunch counter, Landmark Lanes and, across the street, Von Trier’s tavern, was the most happening place in Milwaukee.

Continuing along the deserted streets, we soon came to the hippest grocery store in town: Koppa’s Fulbeli Deli. We needed some food for the hotel room, so we went in.

What a surprise awaited us! In recent years, the owner’s son took over the store. The highly imaginative Junior Koppa put a unique spin on your neighborhood grocery store… starting with the authentic taxidermied animals amidst the merchandise.

Or the cozy, improvised living room just in front of the deli counter, where you can kick back and relax while reading one of the books conveniently provided on the shelves.

Or the other “living room”, where you can play vintage Atari for free!

There were such exciting entertainment choices in Koppas that I almost forgot why we went there. Oh yeah: food. Typical Milwaukee foods offered at Koppa’s: German bratwurst and sweaty bags of cheese curds. I haven’t eaten either in years. Decidedly un-Mediterranean, they’re definitely not the healthiest foods, but they bring back delicious memories. Just looking at these photos makes me feel constipated.

We left Koppa’s to check out The Exclusive Company, one of the few surviving independent record stores in Milwaukee.

We enjoyed the announcement they’d posted on the entrance, offering a “Dead Rock Star Discount”.

When we left the record store, we saw a new group of protesters, in nearly the same spot where the anti-abortion protesters had been.

What was it with the protesters today? These ones were protesting against the war. However, in contrast to the anti-abortion sourpuss, these people were happy to be photographed.

I admired the dedication of these people, standing out there on street corners, holding signs in the air and freezing their asses off on a day where they could be perfectly comfortable chilling out at home.

I especially admired this guy.

He said he was an “errant Jesuit” who’d lived in Honduras for 19 years, serving the people there. I told him that I’d learned Spanish from Honduran, Salvadoran and Guatemalan refugees in Texas and California. “God bless you,” he said. I offered to buy him some hot coffee or tea from the Starbucks that was right there, but he refused. “We’re packing up and going home soon,” he said, so I wished him luck and bade him farewell.

A couple minutes later, we were back in our hotel room with a lot of things to talk about — all of which had happened over the past three hours.

Who ever said nothing ever happens in Milwaukee?