the men behind the podium.

Meet the candidates for Mayor of Madison, 2011

As a student and a member of a demographic that is typically ignorant to local politics, I am well aware that not many of us want to take the time to follow this election, to learn about candidates for positions whose purpose we are only vaguely aware of, or to listen to dry rhetoric about policies we do not understand or care about. My conversations with and observations of the candidates throughout this campaign have looked at each of them from a more personal perspective, rather than reiterate their positions on policy.  I have been getting to know the candidates over drinks and jokes, pulling them out from behind the podium and into an atmosphere that we can better relate to.


I have been working officially with Nick Hart for Mayor as Senior Writer to the campaign since the campaign began in December. I interviewed Nick Hart and campaign manager Stefan Davis last fall, following their announcement of the candidacy

Just as Nick Hart's personality and interests, and his unique position as a comic, were what attracted me to him as a candidate, I believe that the personalities and personal interests of all of the candidates are a forgotten element that those in my forgotten demographic might find more entertaining than the dry rhetoric and policy that has had us nodding off these past eight weeks..

City engineer John Blotz, who has since dropped out of the race, joined the Hart camp for drinks one Sunday morning, and perennial candidate Dennis de Nure granted me a bit of his afternoon to talk about his history and his dreams at the Argus. Former Mayor Paul Soglin's campaign manager has been very kind in every email she has sent, assuring me that they have only to “go over the schedule”, and eventually we will have a chance to talk.

Mayor Dave Cieslewicz's campaign manager has been kind, as well, whenever I call her, although rather forgetful whenever she promises to call me back. I understand her difficulties in scheduling, however; after all, as she said, “Being the Mayor comes first, of course.”

With just days left before the primary, I have yet to be granted the promised interviews with Soglin or Cieslewicz, but I did attend every debate and follow every poll in this election, and I had the privilege of being personally invited to guest lectures by Soglin and Cieslewicz at the University of Wisconsin.

Nick Hart

Nick Hart

“It's an idea; it's not the best idea, but... ideas grow... We're just putting it out there,” Nick Hart told me of his proposal to legalize and produce hemp and cannabis within the city of Madison in our first interview.  He and campaign manager and fellow comedian, Stefan Davis, sat in the Argus Underground with me in October before the night's show with the Isthmians of Comedy.

Nick announced his intentions to run for Mayor of Madison on August 11^th during a regular appearance at the Big Deuce Open Mic at the Comedy Club on State. He is a local stand-up comic who is running “to keep the others' campaigns honest”, to “challenge the status quo” of municipal politics, and to get more people involved in the election. He continues to point out that only about 12 percent of eligible voters cast their votes for municipal politics, and he acknowledges that he is in a unique position to entice a whole new demographic of voters-- Madison's "bar crowd"-- to get involved with this election.

Nick called his campaign a “civic experiment”, one that allows all of us involved and all of those looking in to get a glimpse into the business of politics in this city. I have watched the campaign struggle to be heard through the rhetoric of the so-called frontrunners, disappointed each morning to read yet another news article about the race that features Soglin and Cieslewicz, bored to tears at debates when not a single candidate engages Nick's platform ideas. I have watched the interest of our target demographic wax and wane throughout the campaign, enthusiastic when they are able to drink with and shake the hand of the candidate, but uninterested when asked to join us on the ground.

Nick hopes to capture about 5 percent of the vote in next week's primary election. He wants to make an impact, “create waves in the stagnant pond” of Madison's politics, and show those who expect just business as usual that Madison's students and barflies are, indeed, paying attention, and that they need to pay attention to us, as well.

John Blotz

I find it important to take note of former candidate John Blotz, although he officially dropped out of the race on January 28. He stated his reasons for ending his campaign to be a lack of resources for being “competitive in the primary” since Soglin had entered the race to challenge Mayor Dave. After sharing Sunday morning Bloody Marys with John just days before, I was personally saddened to watch him remove his voice from the race. His calls for “honesty, integrity, and transparency in our city government” had finally gotten him into the headlines in the Daily Cardinal and gotten mention in the Isthmus and The Daily Page, and he was beginning to emerge as the only candidate with the ability to challenge Mayor Dave's politics.

John Blotz

That Sunday morning, John joined the Hart camp for Bloodys at our favorite dive to unwind from an awkward and dull taping for WYOU's “Meet the Candidates” feature. Before coming to the taping, he had dealt with a series of misfortunes involving plumbing, pets, and his young children at home, while his wife was away at work.

Like John, his wife is an employee of the City of Madison, a position subject to the whims of politics and public funding. John had recently learned that his position as Construction Management Supervisor had not been included in the upcoming budget. After the end of this quarter, he will be out of a job. Though there is no evidence of causation, he made the correlation quite clear between this development and the opinions he has been voicing in recent months against the Mayor's cronyism and favoritism in hiring practices.

“My wife is worried,” John told us.

Government positions are usually secure jobs, “if you can keep your mouth shut”, he said, and they were both aware that the challenges he was making to Mayor Dave in the campaign might leave a sour impression on the administration and put his wife's job at risk as well.

Dennis de Nure

Dennis de Nure

“I am not a serious candidate,” Dennis de Nure stated at the first Mayoral debate, and everyone in the room probably breathed a sigh of relief that he had spoken the line we had all been thinking. He has been running for various offices in the city since 1987, never intending to win. De Nure runs in order to gain a platform for presenting himself as an entrepreneur, rather than a public servant.

This time around, he is presenting the Museum Mile, a series of museums in Madison's downtown that would celebrate Madison's and Wisconsin's history and culture, that he has put the past five years into planning and promoting. He can steer a conversation to this topic like the best of politicians, and he will keep an audience intrigued and entertained, if a bit confused or annoyed.

When I asked Dennis what drives him in his passion for the project, I was surprised by his answer. He had told me earlier that he had studied Social Work, that he was a “natural loner”, that his favorite hobby was reading; and I could see that he was capable of the kind of focus and passion that such a project needed behind it. I expected him to tell me about his love of the city, about his investment in its culture, about a need to remember our history.

Instead, he replied, “Poverty, mostly.”

He was ready to sell his idea and get out of poverty. Dennis has been living at Coventry Group Home, and he relies on coveted library time for computer and internet use. With his limited resources, he is taking all of the opportunities he can get to share his idea with someone who might want to run with it.

Dennis was quick to remind me that Paul Soglin had promised to be one of those people. During the first debate, Soglin expressed an interest in parts of the Museum Mile concept in his closing statement, and promised if elected to hire Dennis to help implement the idea.

Paul Soglin

Paul Soglin and Dave Cieslewicz were invited to speak to a UW urban planning class during the week before the primaries, the theme of the week being “City Visions”.

Hart Camp Treasurer Matt Baier, Nick Hart, Paul Soglin

Soglin approached the talk as a professor would, in a black sweater and slacks and a white collar. He stood comfortably behind the podium with a piece of chalk in his right hand as he spoke. He looked more like a professor this morning than like a politician, and he spoke to the class this way as well. He engaged the students, asking questions and occasionally making jokes-- although at some points when he made the class chuckle, I was unsure whether he was aware of his wit, due the complete lack of expression in his face.

On the board, Soglin wrote a list of the day's themes: land use, transportation, taxation policy. He said these three elements are “intertwined in the control of an urban environment”, and he tied them into each of his topics.

Acknowledging its importance to the lessons of the class and to any city looking toward further development, Soglin asked the question, “Is it inevitable that the urban environment creates slums [and] ghettos? ...Is it inevitable that the solution to that is gentrification?”

His answer was, of course, “no”; but I was not convinced that his vision for a developing Madison is any different from Mayor Dave's value-added, gentrified downtown. He repeated his oft-mentioned statistic that poverty in Madison's public schools is on the rise; 48 percent of students come from households whose income is below the poverty line. He also reiterated the points he made in the debates, that there is nothing that could have “a more profound effect on the quality of life in your city as improving the quality of your schools”.

Soglin did not mention what the Mayor's office might do to improve the quality of Madison's schools and, subsequently, retain higher-income taxpayers and improve the quality of life in his city. But he did say, “There has to be the will and the commitment to fight for the community by its citizens. There is nothing government can do to supplant that.”

Dave Cieslewicz

Mayor Dave and Me

Dave approached the lecture a little more formally at first, though the atmosphere did lighten as students warmed up to him during the Q&A period. He looked more like a politician than a professor in his suit and tie, likely because he was right in the middle of a work day and not because he simply prefers this getup.

He also focused on land use and transportation and talked about the importance of community involvement in city development. He led us through a PowerPoint slideshow of the houses of generations of his family in Milwaukee to demonstrate the changes in urban development and culture over the decades.

He looked at the shift from densely-populated urban neighborhoods to sprawling suburban subdivisions, favoring the urban and criticizing state-led transit development and city zoning codes for encouraging sprawl. The pictures he showed us of the homes of his great-grandparents and grandparents were of two-story homes with porches in dense neighborhoods with sidewalks and residential streets that could “function well for all forms of transportation”-- bicycles, pedestrians, cars, buses. Nostalgically, he described to us the environment where neighbors could interact with each other and oversee the safety of the neighborhood from their front porches, and everyone could buy their groceries at a corner market down the street. He contrasted this to the house he grew up in across a state highway from a mini-mall, and the suburban house in which his parents still reside.

I was able to steal a few minutes with Dave after the lecture, and I asked him for his take on the recent debate about the proposed development of a four-story apartment building on Mifflin Street. He was surprised and impressed when I told him about the “Save Mifflin” Facebook event created by students in opposition to the development.

“It's good to see them get involved,” he told me.

He hasn't seen this kind of reaction from students before regarding city planning, and he seemed genuinely intrigued and sympathetic to their grievances. Mifflin Street is just the sort of city neighborhood he had described with admiration in his lecture; though, as he pointed out, “Its buildings are not all that well-maintained,” and the neighborhood could use plenty of renovations.

I regret not having the opportunity to talk with Dave more, because he is a truly nice guy to talk to. He is a great conversationalist, friendly and respectful and interested in the conversation. After I explained to him the students' reaction to Mifflin Street, he asked me, “What do you think about it?”, and I believe he really cared.

I am not so naïve as to think that his conversational skills are not a result of years of practice as a politician and a businessman. Nonetheless, I am impressed with his demeanor and his respect for everyone he talks to. He may not be very available to his constituents, but he is certainly approachable when one has the chance.

During Soglin's lecture, one student raised his hand and asked, “Where do you start when there's not [the will of] a community to begin with?”

Soglin replied with a simple and optimistic, “There always is.”

However, this very issue is at the heart of the problem with municipal politics. It is this lack of commitment to our community that keeps an overwhelming majority of Madison's voters from paying attention to local elections. It is this lack of care that has Nick Hart disillusioned with the dreams he had for this Mayoral race. It is this lack of involvement by the diverse community that has kept Madison's local politics stagnant despite the progressive claims of the city.

the hart compound.

Scenes from Campaign HQ

"She called me an asshole for no reason, then offered to make up for it by baking me a dozen cookies. I said, 'Make it three dozen and deliver them to my house before five p.m. tomorrow, and we'll have a deal.' I told her to ring the bell three times, leave the cookies at the door, and leave, and she fucking did it. She broke the deal, though; she only rang once. So fuck her, dude. Don't call her again.”

This is why I love this house. The chocolate chip cookies come with a story. And they are the only food in the house besides the PBR and Jameson, so once they run out, these boys are going to have to find someone else to fuck with, I guess.

I am watching Nick Hart and Stefan Davis write an email response to a series of questions from the Isthmus about Nick Hart for Mayor. We are all drunk on PBR and whiskey. Nick leaves town with his brother tomorrow afternoon, so this needs to be done now, they believe. Good plan, I think.

Stefan is at his MacBook, recording. Nick is standing and pacing, dictating in the dark living room. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is paused on the TV screen. I am in the kitchen cooking rice and beans. The dog Echo is curled on the chair. Adam Hart is on his computer across the room.

“This campaign thing is getting serious,” Stefan says.

“You're right,” Nick replies. “It's getting serious,” and makes a show of grabbing his whiskey drink from the coffee table and taking a drink. Ice rattles. He scans the silent room over the top of his glass.

Stefan recites the first question. “Why are you running?”

“I am running for Mayor--” Nick begins.

“We are running for Mayor.”

“We are running for Mayor,” Nick continues, “Because we want to finger the status quo.”

I am far too drunk to consider the implications of this statement. I dish out four plates of rice and beans and pour some coffee.

Nick takes another drink and says, “This is for a good cause.”

“Which is...?” I ask.

“To be named at a later date.”

Stefan, Nick, and I are working and watching a movie in the living room, and Adam appears in the doorway from his bedroom and says, “I've been trashing pop music on YouTube. People think I hate Asians now. I don't know how I got that rap.”

I'm not always sure how I end up here each night-- can't usually recall the reason or the drive through town. My memory fades back in about the time I walk into the kitchen, hit the bowl, dish up some munchies, and pour a glass of water. But it's never a decision I regret, and each night here makes me want to be around for the next.

It started as a professional relationship, really, but quickly became blurred when Nick Hart said, “Have you ever used a vaporizer? 'Cause we just got one.” Getting fucked up at three a.m. on three bags of weed vapor will inevitably blur labels like “Journalist”, “Comedian”, and “Mayoral Candidate”.

As Stefan Davis dropped me at home that night, he said, “Just so you know, everything is on the record; Nick and I agreed to that.”

“Thanks for the permission,” I replied. “But nothing is ever off the record. I'm here to tell your story.”

“What the hell is she doing hanging around with guys like us?” Stefan asked Nick when he got home.

“Dude, she's an artist.”

It is an Editorial itch that drives me to the Hart Compound, a compelling inner voice that says Oh, it's going to be good here. It's movie Sundays with day beers; it's a drive to Perkins at five a.m.; it's waking up Nick Hart to hand him a bowl while he half-sleeps naked in bed; it's Stefan presenting the candidate with a Mayoral pie at seven a.m. to celebrate a successful start to campaign season; it's the coziest and friendliest little dog who is madly in love with Nick and Adam Hart; it's Nick and Adam wrestling like kids on the couch calling each other faggots to point out the absurdity of the beliefs of the people they grew up around in South Carolina. It's a household where they know what it means to be a Gonzo asshole, and they love it.

I arrived in town after a trying Thanksgiving weekend and texted Nick.

“What are you up to tonight, Nick Hart? I want to find you and take shots of Wild Turkey whiskey. I need a Gonzo shot in the arm after four days of family in Central Wisco.”

And he indulged me. We met at the Argus and ordered the shots from his campaign manager, bartender, fellow comedian, friend, and roommate.

As Stefan set three shots in front of us he said, “This won't end well.”

I raised my glass to meet theirs and said, “It's not supposed to.”

My neuroses fit in well in this household, and I like that.

“She's pretty quiet tonight,” Stefan worries.

“She's just recording,” Nick assures him.

The Hart Compound is filled with those moments that make the writer and the comedians alike exclaim, “Write that down!”, that these moments are shared and remembered.

Nick has been surviving on comedy and unemployment for 18 months now, and the unemployment is about to be cut off. We can't picture him with a job, and it actually makes me kind of angry with the world that such a man will have to work like a sucker to make a living. Such a man ought to be able to survive in life by sharing his art with the world.

“I'm kind of hoping that this mayor thing will work out,” Nick says in response to our concerns about his job search.

The Hart Compound is a place in such juxtaposition to the Real World that anyone who enters can't help but realize that such hope can make things happen in the world. Each moment in the Hart Compound is one moment farther down the rabbit hole, one step closer to the artists' life, further from the reality we are trying desperately to fend off. Nick's seemingly naïve belief that things in life will simply fall into place becomes more and more plausible as I watch life fall into place around everyone who enters the Compound with an open mind.

“I am a firm believer in 'If you act like big shit, they will treat you like big shit',” the candidate explains simply.

barfly shots.

scenes captured downtown sometime after sober

Country USA (or CUSA, as the kids are calling it these days)

My weekend was Country USA Friday night followed by family pictures in the country town of Redgranite on Saturday morning. In order to deal with both, my goal was to become rowdy enough to get arrested at Country USA and miss family pictures for being in jail overnight.

A country music festival in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, is close to the last place I ever want to find myself on a Friday night. Redgranite, Wisconsin, however, is the last. So I chose the less offensive of the two and hitched a ride in my friend's suburban to CUSA. I put on a sundress and moccasins, hoping I wouldn't be mistaken for an actual country music fan.

It was my sister, the quintessential small-town girl-- Lutheran, an elementary school teacher, with a good Christian boy on her arm and a head start on her 401(k)-- who had begged me to join her. She went with a group of friends from high school to Country USA every year, and she loved to play the part-- lacy cowgirl hat, short jean skirt, and faux snakeskin boots. She lured me there this year with the promise of free admission and cheap beer. The opportunity to encourage my sister to break the law by sneaking me in without paying was too good to pass up.

We met her in an empty parking lot a few miles from the festival grounds, where she pulled out a ziplock bag filled with CUSA wristbands of all colors from the past seven years. Of course, they rotated colors with each year, but they chose from a small spectrum, apparently. She dug in to find bands that matched this year's color for my driver and me, sliced the sides, and slipped them onto our wrists. She super-glued them back together, so they looked as if they were snapped on as they should be. She accidentally glued my driver's wristband to his skin, but he's a tough construction worker from central Wisconsin, so he didn't even wince when she tore it away without warning.

I left my laptop and my journal in the car-- no sense in risking everything I've written at the hands of rowdy hicks. I tossed a hat and a sweater in my bag, packed a bowl, and tucked the pipe in the side pocket. Surely taking weed into a hick party was a good way to be arrested quickly. Hicks hate hippies.

We left the Suburban in the empty lot-- we'd have to pay for parking if we took it in-- and packed into my sister's tiny Saturn, a comical position for my driver, who was almost six and a half feet tall. We drove in to the campsite without a hitch, although my sister freaked out when the “guard” at the gates requested to see the snapped sides of our wristbands.

“What if they noticed the glue?” she asked later. “Then they wouldn't have let us in,” I answered. “Shit.” They hadn't even checked our bags, or the trunk. These hicks were probably all armed with shotguns, maybe compound bows; and they were never going to find my pot with such lax security.

We drove along the dirt road toward my sister's campsite, a slow drive with the hordes of drunks that occasionally swayed out in front of the car to mosey along aimlessly from campsite to campsite. I caught glimpses of Confederate flags, pickup trucks, and camouflage as we passed the other sites. I was in deep now.

We finally pulled in alongside her RV, and greeted the dudes lounging in lawn chairs next to it. Each was at least three-hundred pounds; one had a 36-ounce Country USA 2010 plastic travel mug full of Busch Light, and the other had a cowboy hat tilted to cover his eyes as he tried to nap in the chair.

“I have NEVER drank at 8 a.m. before,” he said to my sister. “And now I'm feeling it. I've got to be done for the night.” It was six o'clock in the evening.

“You just have to keep drinking to avoid the hangover,” I said to him. “You don't feel it until you stop.” I headed straight for the RV from the car, to the liquor cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of Captain Morgan. This place reminded me of high school.

I poured drinks for myself, my driver, and the hungover fat guy. “Are ya sure you don't want a little more rum in there?” my driver asked, pointing at my cup.

“Right now, I really need the caffeine from the Coke,” I answered, but took a small pull from the bottle to satisfy him before I set it down.

My sister ducked into the RV for the hors d'voures she had prepared for the weekend, and came out with an empty Tupperware dish in hand. The fat guys had eaten it all. “That was the second batch I made this week!” she scolded them.

“It's alright,” I said. “The coolers are still full of beer; we've got plenty of sustenance.”

My driver nodded as he sipped his Captain and Coke. “While you're over there, grab me one o' them Busch Lights, will ya?”

My sister obliged and took a Miller Light for herself, and we settled into our lawn chairs to down these first drinks. Soon the rest of the crew came wandering back from swimming in a nearby lake, a few girls my sister had gone to high school with and some guys I vaguely recognized as graduating a few years behind me. I carried my half-empty drink to the table and topped it off with Captain. Drunk and giddy high school acquaintances could not be tolerated on one weak drink and some caffeine.

The girls put on cut-off jeans over their wet suits and patted their hair dry with towels from the RV, while the guys started to stack cups on the table for a game of beer pong.

Two nineteen-year old girls I didn't recognize at all stepped behind the RV in their bathing suits and ran bottled water through their hair to wash out the muck of the lake.

“Let us know if you need any help over there, girls!” my driver shouted to them. He was at least twenty years older than the rest of us, but his wife was a nagging bitch who had stopped speaking to him two weeks before when he was at the bars until 2 am without calling her after work. She had been sleeping on the couch and had left town for the weekend to stay at her sister's place farther north. He was a decent guy who would likely never touch these girls, but he was ready to drink some cheap beer and enjoy whatever show was going to be put on for him tonight.

The girls giggled in that virginal, nineteen-year-old tone that says I'm not gonna say no, but I shouldn't say yes.

Someone turned on a portable radio and tuned it to the local country music station. Between cheap and shallow songs was live coverage of the festival we were at, radio DJs encouraging everyone listening to “come on out” to the Copenhagen tent, etc. Between this hawking, they played commercials. Once everyone was gathered near the beer pong table, I walked over and tuned the radio until I heard Pink Floyd. I sat back down. No one seemed to notice. One of the nineteen-year-old girls was calling for a partner, and she grabbed my driver's hand and dragged him to the table.

I was ready to wander. I could see a game of beer pong any day of the week in Madison; I wanted to go find some freaks. I knew they were out there. I stole my sister's giant plastic novelty mug and filled it with three cans of beer. I screwed on the top and tried a sip through the thick plastic straw. This was going to be a classy night. I told my sister I was leaving to wander and to let my driver know. He was busy in his third game of the beer-pong tournament, easily crushing these kids with years of drinking under his belt and not a bit of help from the drunken giggling girl at his side. My sister glanced over at him and rolled her eyes.

“How are you guys getting home?”

I shrugged and waved a hand at her. “Looks like he's winning, so we should be alright.” I smiled and patted her on the shoulder as she shook her head and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

As I left the campsite, James, my sister's boyfriend, called to me “Where you headed?”

“Out to wander! I want to find some freaks to write about!”

He glanced to the beer pong tournament, then to the sleeping fat guys, and back to me. He scrambled out of his chair and followed me as I hit the dirt road. A simple country boy, but he was quite a few degrees above most of them in intelligence. And he was a former Marine, once a personal guard to George W Bush; he would be good to have around if any of the hicks got out of hand.

I started to count the Confederate flags as we walked. Four in the first six campsites we passed. Also, fourteen American flags, three American-flag T-shirts, and one American-flag bandana.

As we rounded the corner to the next dirt path lined with campsites, I heard “Incoming!” and turned to see a jello shot in a plastic cup flying my way. I caught it and looked farther back, to the guy sitting on the tailgate of his truck who had tossed it to me.

“Jello shots!” he shouted, and tossed one to James.

“Thanks!” I shouted back, removed the lid of the cup, slid my pinky around the edge, toasted James, and sucked the jello out. It was a huge shot, about 4 ounces, so I was prepared for it to hit me pretty hard. But it just tasted like blue jello. For those people who want to drink but don't like to taste their liquor-- for the girls. It was a lot of blue jello to consume without the burn of cheap vodka to cut through the sweetness, and it made no dent toward my drunkenness. I was never going to get arrested this sober.

Down this path, I counted twelve more Confederate flags and thirteen American flags, and walked past an old man sporting a yellow thong and an American-flag bandana. I shivered and held in my chuckle until we had passed him. Curly gray chest hair, scraggly beard, and burnt-out drunken eyes. This was the kind of man who gives drugs a bad rap, the kind of man Squares picture when they hear the word “hippie”: old, worn, burnt-out from decades of uneducated experimentation. The kind of drug user that existed before the internet.

I was surprised when I saw hot tubs-- multiple people had brought hot tubs and set them into makeshift decks at their campsites, and the bot tubs were now filled with groups of middle-aged country folks. Smart people, drinking and relaxing and keeping away from the chaos and filth all around them.

People who believe in Hell are the freakiest kind of sinners. The fear of God forces them to repress all desires throughout most of the year, only to break free and let them fly out in chaotic bursts of lewd drunkenness on special events like this, where it is “allowed”. They could walk around in thongs and bathing suits, drink shots from strangers, and hit on passersby-- all the things they would never be allowed to do come Monday. All of these, in their minds, were grouped with sexual harassment, racist insults, and drunken violence; so, unfortunately, these came out in the chaotic burst as well, making these parties a slimy stew of dark desires and despicable sin.

“Show us your boobs for a beer!” came another shout as we ambled down the path. It was a general call to all passersby; a group of younger girls in bathing suits walking the opposite direction giggled and waved at the campsite as they passed by. I checked my mug; it was getting light, so I decided to investigate the offer.

Six guys of various ages were gathered around a wooden sign hand-painted with the words “Boob-o-meter”. Below the title were pairs of circles cut out of the wood, gradually growing in size along the plank. I approached, and one of the younger guys grinned at me.

“The bigger the boobs, the bigger the beer, sweetheart. Wanna show us what you got?”

I smiled back at him, then glanced back to where I'd left James. He had turned away and started to chat with a random camper down the path.  Nice, decent Christian boy, sister.

“What's the deal?” I asked.

Another of the guys set three plastic cups on the top of the Boob-o-meter plank, three sizes, growing larger along with the cut-out circles below. The bigger the boobs, the bigger the beer. I looked down at my own chest; I didn't even need a bra with this sundress. This would probably not refill my mug. I laughed and approached the larger end of the sign as another guy poured beer into the cups.

“What do you think?” I said, stepping side to side along the holes.

The guys shrugged and grinned. I don't think too many women were actually taking advantage of their deal, so they were pretty intrigued. I paused in front of the largest beer and raised an eyebrow at the old guy standing behind it.

I glanced back again and saw a golf cart coming down the path, carrying four festival guards and a city cop. I pointed them out to the guys.

“Damn,” I said. “I probably shouldn't do this in front of the cops!” I giggled with the most modesty I could fake to convince them of my innocence. “I'll have to catch you on my way back through.” I smiled and shrugged at their protests and drunken reassurances.

I was interested in getting arrested that night, but I definitely didn't want to show these bastards my tits. As I turned to leave and the guys turned back to their campsite, I grabbed the largest cup of beer from the sign and popped the lid of my mug. I filled the mug with the beer as I caught up with James down the path.

“That's a big beer,” he said skeptically, and we both laughed. “I'm a good negotiator,” I replied.

Around the next corner, a group had set up a full-service bar under a tent that spanned four campsites and were handing out free tequila shots. The sign posted next to their tent read “Tequila makes her clothes fall off”, which, I later learned, is the title of a Joe Nichols song. This country music artist also sings a song called “If Nobody Believed in You”, which includes the line “What if God quit tryin'?” Classy, freaky sinners. James and I drank free tequila shots, and I was asked but not required to make my clothes fall off, and we kept walking.

The sun was just starting to go down, and the music was going to start soon, so we started to make our way back to my sister's campsite. The beer-pong tournament was finished; my sister was wiping the splashed beer from the table, and most of the crew around had dispersed to other campsites or toward the main stage. The nineteen-year-old chick was passed out in her bathing suit in the RV. My driver was drunk now and singing along with the country music on the radio.

“Gettin' ready for Toby Keith!” he said, pointing a stern finger at me as I approached.

I fucking hate Toby Keith, who was headlining that night; but the driver and I hadn't partied together in months, and he was having a good time, so I was willing to put up with the soulless, corporate-cock-sucking singer for one night. I had weed, and tequila always mollified me.

The four of us headed toward the main festival gate with a can of beer each. We'd have to finish them before reaching the gate or they would be dumped out, my sister warned us. I grabbed an extra to tuck under my dress as we went in. If they saw me with it , maybe they would at least kick me out before the show started. My driver finished his beer as we passed another golf cart of cops, and he leaned over to say hello to one of them, patted him on the back and asked how his night was going. As we walked away, I asked how he knew the guy.

“I don't,” he answered. “I just wanted to toss my empty can in the back of their rig.”

As we entered the festival grounds, he actually did know one of the gatekeepers who was snapping on our second set of wristbands, ever the small-town man. As they caught up on the twenty years since high school, my sister and I were able to walk in with our half-full cans of beer unmolested. I didn't even bother hiding the second one, and no one stopped us. I resigned myself to watching Toby Keith play.

The roped-off area for the audience around the main stage was already full by the time we arrived, and the crowd had spilled out to the sides. Festival guards were patrolling the area, pushing the crowd to condense toward the ropes to keep us from spilling out and overwhelming the festival grounds. Why it was important to keep the crowd that was here for the show from blocking the cotton candy tent, I'm not sure, but we stepped to the side and crammed in next to the ropes with the rest of the latecomers.

I'll admit that, as the string of opening musicians played through the first hour and a half, I threw an arm around my sister and side-stepped, line-danced and maybe even do-se-do'ed a step or two, toasting my driver with my giant travel mug of beer. And I thought I was prepared to keep dancing even for Toby Keith, feeling drunk and high enough to swallow my rage. But while the rest of the crowd cheered as he came on stage in a Ford pick-up truck in front of a giant American flag singing the words “We'll put a boot in your ass; it's the Amuurican way!”, tears welled in my eyes and I stopped dancing. Jesus Christ! Fucking freaky fucked-up sinners.

At midnight, a torrential downpour struck the state of Wisconsin, and we were all instantly soaked. Summer rain, though, you can survive, especially with enough alcohol to numb your senses; so we stayed until the end of the show. Toby Keith had fireworks shooting up from the stage behind him, and the sky was streaked with lightening above us, and the crowd went wild as thunder clapped and added unplanned intensity to the stage show. The jumbo screens were streaked with the rain, and water flew from the hair of dancers crammed in next to me, and pooled into mud at our feet.

My sister stayed sober somehow and insisted on driving us home, dashing my last hope of getting arrested that night. As we pulled out of the campground in her Saturn, my driver rolled his window down and stuck his head out in the rain, letting the downpour splash in at me in the seat behind him. As we drove past the other soaked concert-goers heading to their campsites, he wiggled his fingers in the air, dancing as best he could in the tiny car, and sang.

"Hey!” he pointed back at me in the rear-view mirror. “Thanks for coming out tonight.  Even though your mother is gonna be pissed to see you hungover in her pictures tomorrow.”


"No worries,"  I replied, watching the hordes of soaked drunks in bikinis and cowboy boots stumble across our path.  "Hey, I could've been in Redgranite tonight."

the evangelist.

I was writing a lovely piece about my night in the city when I was interrupted, approached by a young and friendly-looking Evangelist.  I was compelled to indulge him.

I was waiting at a bench to have dinner with friends, and he apparently found me vulnerable and sell-able and approached.

"Do you have the Son?"  he asked, rather than greeting me.

"Um, I don't think I do,"  I answered.  No idea what he was talking about.  I glanced west toward the sunset, then questioningly back at him.

"The Son," he repeated.  "Do you know Jesus Christ?"

Oh!  "Well, I know of him," I answered.  "I was raised in a Christian family."  Thinking that if I answered, yes, I do know this Jesus, this guy would not need to keep talking.  I was wrong.

I enjoyed chatting with him from a philosophical point of view, but I quite resented his salesman attitude, trying to determine why I had "left the faith" and to rope me back in.  Pretty annoying.  Also, he wasn't actually as friendly as he put on in conversation.  When I warmly said goodbye--it was nice meeting you--and have a good night, he simply walked the other way without a word, presumably to find another lone and lost soul.

I am upset with myself for not being more assertive; I told him I was finished talking shortly after I told him that, no, I, in fact, do not "have the Son", but allowed him to continue the conversation after that.  I didn't mind talking; I don't know why I feel I have to give these people a chance, but I always listen to what they have to say.  But he was quite disrespectful of my time and initial assertion that I was finished talking, and it makes me feel a little weak that I allowed him to have my time.  I could never go buy a car alone.  Well, he didn't sell me on Christ or sin or anything like that; my atheism is steady.  It's my cajones that need some work; I need to develop the asshole in me that would allow me to call this guy a jerk and then walk away.

As usual, I won't delve into the utter ignorance and fallacies of the beliefs of yet another aggressively faithful character to cross my path.  But I will say that he was quite ignorant and/or disrespectful of the fact that I was kindly acknowledging, accepting, and allowing to exist the beliefs that he held so dear, while he was not doing that for my own.

Also, he told me he thought I was pretentious to think I don't need a Savior, as if I'm not a Sinner like everyone else.  That was pretty damn rude.

to the dudes who invaded my bench space while I waited for a cab at 1am yesterday:

It was nice to meet you and to hear your stories, however incoherent at the time.  I am sorry that I have to treat every drunk guy who approaches me assertively when I am alone at night as if he's a total creep, but c'est la vie.  Most are.  Good luck with the wedding on Sunday, and the marriage that follows.  Best wishes for sharing  your art with the world.  Thanks for dropping in to this artists' life.

---the Editor

squares and rockstars.

"We're not EXACTLY rockstars," the Taxman said as we headed to the hot tub early Sunday morning.  Someone had said "It's great to be rockstars," partying all night, and the neighbor's hot tub open to us at all hours.  This assertion by the Taxman sums up my evening with the Squares.

Well, there was sex, drugs, and rock and roll that night, for sure.  There was dirty dancing and hookups in dark corners; wine, beer, jello shots, and weed; two live bands playing great music we could dance to.  Partying followed by great food with friends followed by naked hot tub.

In a way, I guess, one could call it a good night:  no one went home mad, no one cried, no one had any sex they don't remember, there was no mess left anywhere, and nothing was broken or lost.  I imagine this is how the Squares see it.  "We partied an appropriate amount."  The Taxman's calculation.

We had one bottle of wine between four women.  One refrigerator of bottled beer for seventy-five people that ran out after we each had three.  Maybe four people smoking weed and only one guy with a pipe.  Not a single person smoking cigarettes.  No one drinking jello shots but the groupies because they tasted too much like vodka.  The lights were on in the house all night.  The house was ninety degrees, and the only two people I knew there (and the only ones not busy grinding with someone they wanted to hook up with) kept stepping outside for relief from the heat.  Even during the best songs!

The room was full of private-school music majors who had nothing in mind but who they would fuck that night, where, and when.  They weren't used to "outsiders" playing at their house parties, and they gave little energy to the band.  The music they talked about amongst themselves was their upcoming end-of-year recitals.  This crowd reminded me of a pianist chick who, when asked to step in for the keyboard part during my friends' band practice one time, responded, "I'm classically trained, and I don't want to damage my form." Musicians; but students, not rockstars.

Mistakes were made.  I didn't order any drinks at dinner before the show.  No one warned us, the "outsiders", that when these kids party they pre-game to shit-faced ahead of time, so the house doesn't supply a keg.  Just a few beers to keep everyone going until the hook-up hour.  The girls and I went with the practical choice of buying only one bottle of wine, assuming only we would drink it and beer would be abundant; we didn't prepare for the possibility of sharing or having no beer.  We stopped drinking early on so we could all drive home, but didn't resume the drinking once we were home, and we ate a bunch of food.  We spent a lot of time eating and chatting as the sun started to come up, and by the time we made it to the hot tub it was practically daylight, and we were all practically sober.

We were only in the hot tub for forty-five minutes, not enough time for it to warm up completely, so it was lukewarm the whole time.  The band members brought their girlfriends along, so no sexiness in the hot tub at all.  Though, when the Taxman had uncharacteristically called for naked hot tub and a late night, sexiness is certainly what he had been hoping for.

"I've never been to the hot tub with the Editor and not the Doctor before.  This should be interesting."

Well, Taxman, you have nothing but fantasies.  Any hope for achieving those you dashed yourself in your own mind before we could even get started:  "We're not EXACTLY rockstars."  You need to expect your dreams to come true and make something happen.  It was not interesting, not like you imagined.  It was far too real; lukewarm water and pale white bodies we could see with sober eyes in the morning sun.

Rockstars are meant to be seen in dim light through a smoky haze.  Never after dawn, and never sober.  They have groupies on their laps at 3am, not girlfriends-- unless their girlfriends have groupies, too.  Rockstars don't take a break for fresh air during the good songs.  Rockstars have the ability to see their dreams as possibilities and make them reality.  Squares can drink all night, dance to rock and roll, make great music, stay up until 5am, and get naked in their neighbor's hot tub.  Without the anger and the crying and the hazy sex and the mess and the broken shit and the extra booze-- without the passion-- they're just... Not exactly rockstars.

frenchie freedom weekend. part two: the life.

(Read Part One)


So, this is our weekend, the story of me and the Doctor, Frenchie, The Lately, Freedom, Wisconsin, and how we wound up sharing this artists' life non-stop for the last eight weeks.


I have to sometimes launch straight into a list of the shit that existed on a weekend like this, just so that I can remember to include it all.  It is less than eloquent for the Editor to post a bit of writing direct from her stream of conscious, but this is the only way I can truly share the events of this weekend.

Sam, the Doctor, and I met up with a friend who fell for Frenchie like the rest of us simply through our stories.  The four of us met Frenchie at the bus in Madison at 2pm on Friday; we all skipped class or work to get the weekend started.  We packed into our car and drove the two hours to Freedom, where we met up with the entourage of artists bred in the neighborhood where Sam and the Doctor grew up.  In the house at one time were this initial crew of me, the Doctor, Sam, and the French girl; the sage and original rockstar who sired Sam and his family of musicians, the chick who had sex with the Doctor and me and stole Sam's songs, her boyfriend, the Taxman, and a badass sax player we grew up with.

After greetings and dropping off our bags at Sam's, we headed across the court, where the rest of our family was frying fish, because it was Friday in Wisconsin.  The entourage hung out here for a bit to get drunk, then made its way en masse to the Colonial House for an after-hours jam session.  Jamming at the Colonial House with a host of other characters, all of whom I don't know, maybe fifteen of us in all, some of us just there to listen.  Valentine sang some French things along with the sax player's improv lyrics to the tune of "Sweet Home Alabama".  Alabama, France.  Sam serenaded us all and made us long to never leave this old basement and this hodge-podge of musicians.

Saturday morning.  The crew at Sam's house headed to Appleton to start recording.  The Doctor and I stayed in most of the day to argue over some spousal bullshit, but resolved to cut it out at about four o'clock and headed to the studio, where our forced smiles soon turned genuine as we shared Kerrigan Bros wine with the band and Frenchie.  Frenchie immediately changed into the Doctor's morph suit when we arrived and looked mysterious and ridiculous for the rest of the day.

Sam writes and sings the songs for The Lately, and the music we heard that day was awesome.  And the producer worked with a touch of genius and played badass mandolin for the album.

From the studio we headed to Freedom to watch the sage play a show.  A cover band at a small-town Wisconsin bar is always a fucking great night.  Frenchie turned to me and said, "I am probably the only French person here."  I laughed and said, "Yes, of course you are."  "That is soooo cool."  French-accent.  She got quite drunk as everyone bought her drinks with the hopes of getting to know her a little better, and she'd had no dinner.  She danced sexy and French in a black dress, put her arms around me for the slow songs, and kissed me on the lips with no warning.  So French.  The band introduced her to the crowd as "all the way from France", and she was glowing.  She got too drunk and headed to the bathroom, put her fingers in her throat, and puked.  Someone told me she was missing, and I headed to the bathroom to ensure she was alright.  She was puking and women were lining up to use the bathroom, so we headed outside, behind the building.  She handled herself well while drunk and puking, a touch of French class in the back alley of a Freedom bar.  A cop was called to the bar to break up a hick fight, and he saw her sitting there and said, "Looks like she's pretty sick" and went inside.  I led her away from the building then, and the Doctor soon got worried, found us, and took us back home, where we filmed her for an hour being wasted and singing "Shoestains".

Soon, the rest of the crew made it back home to meet us, and we all changed into our bathing suits and headed across the court to sit in Sam's neighbor's hot tub, by this time a Freedom party weekend tradition.  Traditionally, however, we go naked.  This weekend, we started in our suits, maybe because Frenchie was technically a 'stranger'?  The Doctor was the first to remove his shorts and the only one naked for a while.  Then Valentine started to tease me and remove the tie on my bikini.  Then she kissed me.  Wanted to show me what "French kiss" means.  It was wonderful; it's exactly what you imagine.  So, through flirting and teasing, we took off our suits, and the boys quickly followed.  We were in the hot tub until 6am, drinking wine, kissing, melting, and recovering from the previous18 hours of drinking.

Sunday was Daylight Savings, so we lost an hour somewhere (try to explain that to the French one, and you'll quickly realize how absurd it is).  Slept two hours and headed back to Appleton for a bit more recording.  The Doctor and I headed back to Madison around noon, stopping at a small-town Wisconsin diner for day-after brunch:  French toast, burgers, and cheesecurds.  French toast, along with a host of other so-named crap, is not French.

Sunday night, when Sam and Valentine came back to Madison, was chill times at our house.  We enjoyed Frenchie's company, even sober, ensuring the beginnings of a solid friendship.

Monday, the Doctor, Sam, Valentine, and I ate Indian food for lunch, wandered around the zoo to enjoy the beautiful day, and went shopping at the Dig n Save.  We continued the bender mildly that night with wine, American Honey Whiskey, and PBR.  Valentine had a new cute hat from the Dig n Save that I wore all night, and before she left our house she cried, "I'm not leaving that hat!", tackled me onto our bed, said "I'll trade it for a kiss", French-kissed me, and fled.

I had to work the next day, and she caught a bus back to Chicago.  We have talked to her via Facebook and Skype each day since; she's coming back to Madison next week to celebrate Sam's birthday.  She wants to live in the US, and our current plan is to find someone to marry her in a ceremony performed by the Doctor, so she can stay and work and gain citizenship after two years.  (Yeah, apparently that's really how it works.)

We don't know yet how this story will play out, but Frenchie will be in America for another two months.  It's only been seven days.- 3/18/10