Chapter Three: The Pace of Walking (2013)

Summerfest 2013 (cont.) 07/05/13 (Friday.)

I wonder if the opposite sex can sense just how desperate and lonely I am, just by looking at me.

I’m sure writing like this in public isn’t helping things.

It’s probably 83 degrees Fahrenheit today here in Milwaukee. Humid, but a nice breeze is keeping it from sweltering.

I thought, on the way down here, that the word of the day is, “SKIN.”

Coventry Jones and an analysis of walking….The pace of walking.

Firstly, I saw Coventry Jones at Oakland Gyros around 12:45 AM early Wednesday morning. I happened to be securing my dinner after a long day of helping friends move to Chicago.

(Side note #1: Had to switch spots because I was afraid the bees would sting me. The festival is crowded today, and finding a spot to sit down and write getting more and more difficult. Whatever.)

(Side note #2: I’m already on beer #2. Slammed a Guinness on the 1.72 mile walk down here from my apartment. This one’s a Black IPA.)

#3: A small crowd has gathered to my left, surrounding a bunch of black kids playing drums on 5 gallon buckets.

The sun is directly overhead as it’s 4:30 and I’m facing due west. The giant freeway overpass won’t block it for another two hours, at least.

Someone just threw a cob of corn away in the garbage can to my left.

A couple just walked past me, holding hands.

(They couldn’t have been a day past 12.)

How cute.

How gross.

A couple in their mid-40’s just walked past me, going in the opposite direction, also holding hands. In both of their free hands were matching bottles of Miller Lite.

I know.

How cute.

How gross.

The black kids are still drumming.

The two ladies to my left are drinking Coors Light.

The Asian guy points East, and a black couple wait in line for the photo booth.

A group of Hispanic teenagers all have tattoos on their arms.

The white guy is wearing a camouflage hat, and his shirt, a picture of the American flag.

A white lady with a green visor is walking slowly, smoking a cigarette.

This reminds me. Coventry Jones and walking paces.

(Jesus Christ.)

1. Stroller pace

2. Stroller pace with other kids

3. Stroller pace with other families

4. Eating while walking pace

5. Trying to cut across pace

6. Trying to find your drunk friends pace

7. Drunk, trying to find your drunk friends pace

8. Woozy pace

9. I have to go to the bathroom pace

10. Looking at the food choices pace

11. Drunk, with food, trying to find a place to sit pace

12. Side note: Glory be. There are some extremely attractive females here at this festival. Oh my fucking god.

13. Pushing a stroller while child is crying it’s time to go home pace.

14. The drunk, smoking a cigarette, texting on the cellular device pace.

15. The, I work on the ground’s crew, I still have another 2.5 days of walking in the godforsaken sun pace.

16. The I’m late for work pace

Side note: Even the tough guy with all the tattoos has one that says, “Love.”

Side note: Just finished a plate of food, not to mention 3 beers. Cigarette cravings are totally absent from my day. Thank fucking god!

17. The wife beater, sunburnt farmer’s tan guy with frosted jean shorts walking really fast outside the festival for unknown reasons pace.

18. The I don’t care pace

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Last day of Summerfest

It’s around 4PM. Tail end of a long holiday weekend. Most folks go back to work tomorrow.

I’m sorry.

That sucks.

(Lucky me, I have the next 6 weeks off.)

This last guy looked angry. Fists clenched.

Some teenager with an exposed belly just walked to a group of other teens. Her dude was smoking a clove cigarette, of course.

Shirt #1: Keep Calm and Chive On

Reminder: this writer lives in Wisconsin.

The acoustic guitar couple just packed up their stuff and fled.

Two young girls sat down to my right, to take a rest…..to smoke a cigarette.

She just said, “He’s like a fucking beacon.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about.

(Beacon….not bacon, asshole.)

T-Shirt #2: Keep Calm and Forever Sanctify

(No joke.)

Couple of older ladies to my left, communicating with men on the other side of the bushes, trying to get in to see The Eagles.

“Hi, we’re Joe Walsh’s daughters….no, sisters….daughters.”

Gentleman with a 4 year old sat down to my right….to rest….to smoke a cigarette.

This question needs to be asked. Where do all these people get all the money to pay for all these goddamn tattoos?

Seriously. Maybe the economy tanked because people spent all their cash on tattoos.

Two middle aged white men, both wearing tourquoise shirts (tucked in, with beer belly overhang reigning supreme) walked past me, chatting about the Green Bay Packers.

(It’s July. Go figure.)

The vans that roll past with tinted windows house the bands who play throughout the festival. I can see the sunglasses and beards, but little else.

(All I want to do is flip them off.)

T-Shirt #3: Keep Calm and Chive On

(On a different person; female this time.)

Jesus Christ

T-Shirt #4: Keep Calm and Smile On

(Oh, how zany, Summerfest!)

T-Shirt #5: Cornstar

(Fucking Iowans)

It takes a certain kind of guy to wear a visor. It’s not a hat. It’s not a cowboy hat. It’s a visor.

(Visor = asshole, right?)

Except for me.

Every once in a while, to protect my precious forehead from a vicious beating of the sun, I wear a visor.

I’m certainly not an asshole, though. (Not even close.)

Don’t look at me, bro…..I’ll stare straight through your soul.

I think these people are standing in line because they don’t know what else to do with themselves.

(And the lady with the missing teeth smiled.)

Chapter One: Who Are These People Floating in my Dreams? (2009)

Upon entrance to Summerfest (June 30, 2009) I rolled up to Milwaukee faves “The Championship.” They played a really nice tune actually, with minimalist jam-outs and a lovely build…. they climaxed with a moving crescendo….(subsequently lost momentum with a slow/boring follow up tune…)

(Welcome to Summerfest…)

“The world’s largest music fesitival.”

A few moments ago, a beautiful girl rolled up next to me…..I causally took a glance….Uh huh……(as beautiful as my instincts suggested.)

She stayed next to me for a few minutes, then rolled up to a seat in front of me, allowing her left hand to linger in plain view…..making herself apparent, that she was alone….(and not married)

I could have struck up a conversation with her…(but I didn’t)

I can already tell she’s not, “The One”…..way too normal.

Other observations….

Some are running too hot: (teenage boy, shirt off, walking fast/angry/tough, like he had a score to settle.

Some are running too cold: (Mostly older women, bundled up for the chilly evening lake breeze…..me? My ragged blue cardigan and pants….(call me what you want))

As I walk through the throngs of strangers, I try to make eye contact with as many as possible. I see plenty of smiles….also, plenty of sad eyes….

Groups of boys: someone alwAys leads and, tonight especially, someone feels left out but is too afraid to say anything about it. (Donny, please.)

Groups of girls: leaders, followers, drama circles, fake “happy to see you’s,” and suffering for fashion….doing whatever it takes to look hot! (Wearing heels to the festival?)

(And then there are the couples…)

Some wear matching pain on their faces.

Some (very few) match with happy eyes and happy smiles…..(matching wisdom) in tune and in love….

I see a few young lovers….kind of boring. Falling happens to almost everyone….staying? Staying love?…..a 50 something couple ….still sexy. Still holding hands, still close with back rubs and smiles….That’s rare….let me tell you…very, very rare….

How many 50-year-olds do you see making out in public?

(Bike rallies not included.)

This afternoon, local television newscaster Mike Miller is fronting his band here at the classic rock stage. The are called, Piles of Rhythm. (“Ride Sally Ride” covers and shit…)

Mike Miller can sing, but when he talks to the crowd, he sounds more like a southern blues man “in a hurry,” rather than the ultra-serious, professional newscaster he plays on T.V.

Just so you know, there is a Cheap Trick tribute act named Cheap Rick. (Yes, I thought this was worthy of being noted.)

Next band….cover band…..middle aged men.

Drummer is playing on a full electric kit because he is old and his back probably hurts.

Keys……..jean shorts…..Arthur Gee is the man’s name….old collared shirt, untucked, with faded purple/white stripes. (It’s his gig shirt….)

Bass and guitar (lead)…..they look like brothers….(siblings)…..both wearing Harley shirts….this is, after all, the Harley Davidson stage.

Front man? Large dude….black beater with a brown vest…..(the gun show is pasty white.)

They covered the Tom Petty tune about rolling a joint…..this next tune?…..Supertramp?

*Crazy Ray is sitting in the front row.

Sometimes I see other couples and I crave to be with a girlfriend (or something like that). Other times, I see couples and I’m thankful to be alone. (Very thankful….)

(Have you ever seen anyone wearing a Tom Petty shirt? He’s playing tonight and I have yet to see one.)

A man in a hurry just dropped his cellphone as he walked past me. I feigned a pained look of sympathy.

In frowns and look downs….stare at the ground….(because you should be ashamed of yourself….)

In shared laughs, harmonies, and “this band sucks”…..(why would you possibly cover a Phil Collins tune?)

In fried food and fried dreams….we have now completed the first part of summer!

I’m sorry, but…..(suffering will ensue…suffering will ensue)

With arms locked in teenage love, and never too fat to be exposing mid-riffs.

(Oh, you’re so quiet tonight…)

(Keep walking, children….we keep walking.)

The older I get, the more I know who you are….(or who you might be.)

(Oh, hell no! You don’t know me!)

Oh yes I do, child….oh yes I do.

Trust me….

Trust them…. (the aged)

Enjoy it…..(for as long as it lasts.)

“20 is the worst…..being 20 sucks…” (Overheard some kid saying this.)

This is true…..with hopping and yelling and the spirit of dumb youth. (Scream child….scream.) while you can…..while you can.

Just paid $3.00 for a handwriting analysis….the Russian lady took one look at Joe and said I was optimistic because the general sway of my signature goes up, and that I’m good at math, because the “J” looks like a two….

She also asked if I was a musician and if I was going on stage…. “in a dream” I said….

And as I fall asleep, the faces flash.

How many faces did I see today?

Thousands?

Thousands.

Who are these people floating in my dreams?

---

400 m.p.h. on Autopilot: (An Ode to My Family)

Christmas 2011:

Swear to god, on the entire flight from Milwaukee to Los Angeles, I didn’t notice a single cloud in the sky! Not even a fair weather cumulus!

A Christmas miracle?

After departing Billy Mitchell International, I traced I-94 West from my window seat:

North of the interstate, hazy shades of white and grey, while life to the south held on to its drab, brown-green fall-decay.

We blew past Madison’s isthmus in about 15 minutes.

Beautiful.

I’ll be honest. The lack of snow in Milwaukee this year has been fine by me.
To hell with a white Christmas!

You see, non-northerners,
excessive snow in December makes an already-too-long winter ETERNALLY-too-long.

The rest of the flight went by quickly, despite some minor adversity:

Yes, a three-year-old kept kicking my seat.
Yes, the same three-year-old had a one-year-old brother.
Yes, they both cried for the entire last hour of the flight.

No, this didn’t bother me.

Not one bit.

The attractive woman with noticeable dandruff flakes?
Now, THAT bothered me for some reason.

What an attractive woman!
What a damn shame.

My point is this:

Those weren’t my babies crying on the airplane.
If those were my babies, these documented observations would be totally different, obviously.

You see, dear reader, as a fifth grade public school teacher,
my tolerance level for just about anything a child does on an airplane is unbelievably high.

Cry away, child; kick that seat!

Honestly, I just don’t care.

Do I have to change your diapers?

Nope.

Am I responsible for cooling your jets?

Absolutely not.

Do I have to teach either of you how to add and subtract?

Sorry!

These kids won’t bother me,
because they’re not mine, and I’M ON VACATION!

The $13.00 Wi-Fi charge?

That bothered me more than anything.

My Netflix movie cut out every ten minutes, forcing a complete (and slow) reload.

(First world problems, I know.)

With my eyes forced back out the window, I noticed more:

After Madison’s isthmus, Iowa and Nebraska took over.

Endless miles of flat, fertile earth,
with human engineered roads outlining human engineered crops.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the Rockies popped up.

Trust me, dear reader, their majestic beauty pales in comparison to their sheer enormity.

After the mountain show, winter-bleached canyons dominated the landscape,
with endless expanses of desert burnt reds contrasting with abstract grays and whites.

(Words do me no justice here.)

I noticed the magnitude of Las Vegas upon first glance,
but then marveled at how quickly the vastness of the desert swallowed Vegas whole.

(The desert eats pieces of shit like Vegas for breakfast.)

During another reload of the Pearl Jam documentary,
I scanned the airspace around the Las Vegas airport:

I expected to see dozens of approaching and departing airplanes,
(many of them from Japan?)
but I only saw one, and I had no idea what country it was from.

Earlier in the journey, two other airborne vessels with filthy exhaust trails caught my eye:

When I see another jet midair, inevitably, my thoughts drift to both sets of pilots reading their newspapers and drinking coffee, while the rest of us, oblivious to their coffee preferences,
cruise along at 400 miles per hour on auto pilot.

And then there’s the gradual 45 minute descent into Southern California:

(Along with a descent into present tense, apparently.)

California mountains signal the end of the perpetual desert,
and then, like a phoenix rising from the ashes,
ENDLESS SPRAWL!

The limitless expanses of Southern California’s suburban sprawl are so incredibly beautiful to me!
(That’s right, I said beautiful.)

12 million souls in the greater Los Angeles area alone.
22 million in the entire Southern California mega-region.

22 million!

For a frame of reference, the greater Milwaukee area houses about a million souls.

One million! . . . . (And that includes Hales Corners!)

When I fly over Southern California’s vastness,
I am awestruck at how well this giant machine operates.

Relatively speaking, when we take into consideration the actual number of inhabitants,
it’s a minor miracle more shit doesn’t go wrong on a daily basis!

The vast, vast majority of people here enjoy consistent, safe shelter,
easy access to food, water, and electricity,
and, lest we forget, unlimited access to the wondrous luxury of modern indoor plumbing units.

There are (relatively) very few major malfunctions, car accidents, crimes, or suicides.

Very few earthquakes.

The vast majority of people here travel through their daily lives unscathed,
with their millions upon millions of basic needs satisfied every minute of the day,
every hour of the night.

Daily.

Annually.

It’s all so beautiful to me.

Most of the 22 million people here abide by the laws,
they almost always stop at red lights,
and, generally, most folks do in fact yield appropriately
(even if they don’t use their turn signals).

To me, Southern California is a gorgeous, well-choreographed dance of human spirits, who,
for the most part, have no idea how to drive in snow.

Let’s drape Southern California with a routine Wisconsin snowfall:

Let’s just say three to four inches of heavy, wet snow during a random Wednesday evening commute.

I can only imagine what would happen.

(Honestly, I can’t imagine.)

So, these kids behind me are still kicking my seat, and they’re still crying,
and I still don’t care because instead of worrying about where they’re going to middle school, I’m gazing happily out the window.

By my calculations, by the time we land, we”ll have passed over thousands of neighborhoods,
with millions upon millions of American souls totally unaware of our passing existence, all positioned neatly inside symmetrical street grids, with scatterings of sports complexes and commercial real-estate,
parking lots and freeway pipelines, cemeteries and golf courses.

And then the much less beautiful LAX warehouses take over.

The hydraulic grind of the landing gear tells us we’re close:

Wheels touch down.
Reverse thrust.

“Welcome to Los Angeles.”

(And back to storytelling in past tense, apparently.)

I’m here because my younger brother and his wife recently delivered their first baby:

Laguna Niguel.
Immediate family only.
Catholic Baptism.
Fun!

I’m certainly not Catholic anymore, but, yes, it was fun because not only do I love everyone in my immediate family, but I love who they married. My immediate family was,
is, and always will be awesome because THAT’S WHO WE ARE!

After checking in with everyone back at the Cal Mar Hotel in Santa Monica,
I decided to walk three blocks to the Pacific Ocean to catch some solitude and the sunset.

Temperatures were in the mid-70’s,
and, coming from the dead of winter in Milwaukee, every degree felt absolutely wonderful!

I noticed a ton of people were out and about, and, luckily, I scored a bench on a bluff overlooking Santa Monica’s massive beach. To my right, the hills of Malibu, and to my left, a smoggy marine layer developed above the pier’s famous ferris wheel.

I noticed three different groups of people playing volleyball next to the ocean.
Not one group playing volleyball . . . Three!
Not three people playing volleyball.
Three full groups playing volleyball on Christmas-fucking-Eve!

I also noticed hundreds of folks running,
walking,
skateboarding,
and riding their bicycles.

This is Christmas in Los Angeles:
Tis’ the season to do whatever you would normally do on a beautiful sun-drenched day.

It certainly didn’t look or feel like Christmas to me.

You see, dear reader, I was born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Nobody is riding their bike for pleasure,
or setting up an outdoor volleyball match on Christmas Eve.

In Wisconsin, we bunker down:

We gather inside small rooms to eat, drink, and be merry.
We gather inside small rooms to watch the Green Bay Packers!

I admit it.
I enjoyed watching the sun set over the mighty Pacific.

I took a ton of pictures,
and the solar radiation felt great on my pale Midwestern face,
but nothing there on Santa Monica’s beach felt like Christmas to me.

After the giant star buried itself below the Pacific horizon,
I hightailed it back to the Cal-Mar Hotel,
the only place in Southern California that felt like Christmas to me.

THE END

Hello.

Suppose you are reading this.

Suppose you’re an everyday person, just like me.

I blog because I want to be heard, like all humans want to be heard.

It’s not because I’m self-absorbed, or obsessed with attention.

It’s because I’m human, and since you’re human, that means, no matter what, we have things in common.

Bright thoughts. Selfless actions.

Dark periods. Selfish actions.

Laughs.

sobs.

Shit.
blood.

Direct Eye contact.
Avoiding eye contact.

Wandering
Rutted.

Comfort Shame.

ALL OF IT.

It’s all beautiful, don’t you agree?

Love,

bellykingbelly

P.S. I LOVE YOU (unless you’re a mean spirited, condescending asshole who is only interested in exploitation and hell bent on greedy territorial pissings.)