4th of July, 2007

by G. Sax

I’ve been fortunate enough to spend the Independence Day holiday in many great cities in the U.S. An evening on The Mall in Washington, DC. Wrigley Field and a dozen fireworks displays from a vantage point on high in Chicago. A little patch of green in Surprise, Arizona. A farm in Estelline, South Dakota. Friends in town for a holiday visit in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Baseball games in Sacramento and San Francisco, California. Even dirty little Vallejo evokes a charming memory of a shabby parade.

There have also been several in Minnesota, including about a half dozen at Langford Park in St. Paul’s St. Anthony Park neighborhood. That’s where I went last year for a dash of nostalgia. But I didn’t really feel like I reached back far enough.

For the first 5–8 years of my knowing life, I spent the 4th on Norton Street, at Marydale Park, and in the surrounding neighborhoods of St. Paul’s North End. That’s all the bigger my world was.

I remember holding ladyfingers as they popped, running from the unpredictability of jumping jacks and bottle rockets, sticking firecrackers in dog poop. I remember the big fireworks displays they used to do off of Mackubin Street by Loeb Lake. I remember when my mom’s boyfriend threw an M-80 in the dirty little pond just to the south of the lake and how exciting that watery explosion was. I remember drinking too much New Coke. I remember throwing a firecracker under a moving cop car. I remember when my full bag of fireworks went up in a fireball from an errant ash. I remember it all fondly.

Today, CarlyGirl and I ate a simple meal at a Minnetonka Perkin’s, took a few funny pictures at Midway Stadium, looked at some homes for sale, and then went to Norton Street and Marydale Park. We walked the length of Norton, lingering at 1165. We walked all the way around Loeb, watching a pops band while eating snowcones. We watched a volleyball tournament that seemed to pit Hmong vs. Rice Streeters on two different courts. We finished our day by 4 p.m., but I caught up on 30 years.

Milwaukee, “Drunkest City”

by G. Sax

Ah, beautiful city by Lake Michigan. Oh, undrinkable Miller Lite. Oh, historic Pabst. Oh, forgotten Blatz. Oh, sweet, sweet tastes from a Lakefront Brewery that’s really on a river.

Milwaukee was recently ranked by Forbes.com as “America’s Drunkest City” on a list of 35 major metropolitan areas ranked for their drinking habits.

The numbers were pulled together from the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to rank cities in five areas: state laws, number of drinkers, number of heavy drinkers, number of binge drinkers, and alcoholism.

Minneapolis-St. Paul ranked second. Not bad. Columbus, Ohio; Boston; Austin, Texas; Chicago; Cleveland; Pittsburgh; Philadelphia; Providence. All pretty drunk.

One dude celebrating his birthday at G-Daddy’s BBC in Milwaukee was quoted as saying, “I have had people stay with me from London and Chicago, and they can’t get over how much we drink…I guess we do.”

He guesses? There’s a bar on just about every corner in Milwaukee and often one in the middle of the block. I’ve been to a lot of them. I’ve been in various states of disarray inside and outside of them. To be fair, the scene isn’t much different in Madison, Fon du Lac, Eau Claire, or La Crosse.

Officials at “Visit Milwaukee,” the area’s convention and visitors bureau, contended that the city had come a long way in ridding itself of its beer-guzzling image. “Milwaukeeans have plenty of other ways to entertain themselves without drinking alcohol,” said a spokesman for the group. “We’ve gone from Brew City to new city,” he said.

In a related statement, former Milwaukee resident and frequent visitor to the Cream City, G. Sax, had this to say: “Bullshit. Can someone get me a Sprecher please?”

Bellhorn

by G. Sax

In the morning after a too-late night of darts and beer, my buddy John and I meandered our way to the local library and a greasy fork of a place with characters from hobo paintings lining the breakfast bar, smoke pouring from orifices and teeth grinning brown. Such was my gentle reminder of why I love being in Chicago.

The day’s agenda called for a trip to Wrigley. Cubs ball, day game. The Cubs looked like the Cubs (bad, if you don’t follow baseball), and the Houston Astros looked like a team that should be in the playoff chase. Some cool things worth noting: The Cubs are a pretty foul team (it’s worth saying several times).

• Sammy Sosa has a little spot worn out in the grass where he likes to stand in right field.
• Todd Hundley sucks (that one’s for Jen).
• They teach their young how to heckle early in Chicago. A ten-year-old boy back and to the right of me was heard yelling, “How ’bout another error, Bellllllhorrrrrn!” at the hapless Cubs 2B that looked lost and confused from the first crack of the bat.
• The Cubs play with bats made of pegboard and rubber. There can be no other excuse for the sickening sounds we heard from on high.

Chicago’s still Chicago, three years after my last visit. Thanks to John, Jennifer, Drew, and all the Polish people for showing me a good time. And even you, Bellhorn. Ya bum.