Milwaukee's Best

Last August, or was it September? (This must have been a good one) I was invited to join some family members in Wisconsin over the weekend for Milwaukee’s famous Irish Fest. This festival has apparently been an annual tradition in my family for years, although 2010 was the first I’d ever heard of it. Since I have been getting older, I’ve tried to spend more time with my extended family whenever the opportunity has presented itself. So when my Aunt Peg called, (without a doubt, everyone should have an Aunt as cool as her) I jumped at the chance to reserve a room for the event.

On Saturday after I got home from work, the Robertson sisters met me at my apartment and I packed a cooler and a change of clothes and we headed off to Milwaukee. Let me preface the remainder of the story by explaining that I am a proud Chicagoan since February of 2007, and on occasion I travel to not-so distant locales with a chip on my shoulder. Furthermore, I do not shy away from the chance to broadcast to the unsuspecting citizen where I come from and what I stand for, especially after a few adult beverages. This was my first trip to Milwaukee and as with any initial touchdown in a new environment, I was unsure of what to expect, especially when dealing with our northern neighbors in the vast expanse of Wisconsin.

Upon our arrival at the Doubletree Milwaukee, we were greeted by a warm cookie and light rain. My family was already at the Summerfest Grounds, where the Irish Fest had been in full swing since noon. Luckily, the fun was just about to begin. After making the rounds of warm hellos and introductions, we made our way to one of the numerous beer tents to toast the warm weather and camaraderie we were about to enjoy. As the rain abated, and our thirst for Guinness increased, our party made our way through the festival like we were in a great drunken conga line, dancing through the lines for food, drink and the wonderfully overpriced trinkets and treasures.

The festival reached its climax as Gaelic Storm took the stage. Their thunderous drum introduction opened their set to rousing and explosive applause from their audience. People danced on tables, sang loudly and out of tune and threw their arms around strangers. It finally hit me, “these cheeseheads are alright!” With a newfound sense of appreciation for the Wisconsinites, I took it upon myself to engage some of my newfound Irish brethren. I pointed to an older man, in full kilt and regalia, obviously intoxicated and dancing with a middle-aged woman. The girls laughed as we watched them grind sloppily and off-beat to the rumbling music.

After watching him basically fall on top of his dancing partner, we laughed again as two young men, also in kilts came to his rescue. The girls were smitten and introduced themselves to the lads, who explained they were the grandchildren of the gentleman we had been laughing at, and informed us that he was in fact, the last of a line of Irish royalty, which was somehow currently based in Wisconsin? (Here is where I begin losing respect again.) All pre-conceived notions aside, I decided we had to meet this man. I introduced the Robertson’s as well as my cousin Kiley. We all shook hands and enjoyed the formal introduction of Lord Michael. We toasted him at the tops of our lungs and took pleasure in his accent and good humor.

Sarah asked the three royals what they typically wore underneath their kilts, and while one of the gentlemen explained that it was tradition to wear nothing underneath, Lord Michael in his state of inebriated glee, lifted his kilt like a Shanghai hooker, revealing to his delight, and my horror, that the tradition holds true. Unfortunately, this was photographically documented as Sarah, ever ready with her trusty camera, was quick on the draw. He laughed and thankfully deleted the evidence, and as the fest came to a close, we decided it was time to bid our new friends, “adieu.”

As the wildest night of the Irish Fest came to a close, our plans were little more than to board the free shuttle back to our hotel, possibly have a nightcap at the hotel bar, and perhaps indulge in a slice of warm, greasy, pizza. Little did we know how incredibly wrong that notion could have been. 

Now, I am a man who stands by his principles, however fruitless or trivial they may seem. And whatever ambitions I may have about attempting to change it, I am not exactly the most patient person. This trait is usually only multiplied when I have imbibed my share of “adult beverages.” So, when I was presented with the impossibly annoying woman that preceded us in the line for the shuttle, it was really only a matter of time until I lost my cool.

I don’t remember her name, which is probably for the best considering I think she is actually a close personal friend of my Aunt’s, and thankfully, I haven’t had to stomach her presence since that day. What began as friendly conversation became an inquisition to the four of us as we waited impatiently for the throngs of fest-goers to board the increasingly infrequent shuttles. “How old are you?? Twenty-Six!! My god you are sooo young!” “What a baby! Hey Shelia, (not her real name) can you believe how YOUNG they are?!?” “Where are you from?? This is your first time at Irish Fest??? I’VE been here a hundred times!!” As her drunken rant reached its apex, I finally excused myself from the queue, with a succinct confession, “Oh my God, I do not give a shit!” After which I beckoned my party with a quick “C’mon, we’re walking.”

My Aunt saw us leave the line and asked where we were going. I told her we were walking back to the hotel, which I knew as it came out of my mouth was only a half-truth. We were going to a bar. And not just any bar, but the Holy Grail of Wisconsin dives. As we traversed through the underbelly of Milwaukee, the girls became concerned. I may have been too, if not for the generous helpings of stout I had just consumed. I insisted that I knew of a shortcut and that we would be back in no time. I think they were on to me, as they continually asked me if I knew where I was going.  As we rounded a corner in a dark section of the city, I spied a sign illuminated by a lonely street light. My cousin pleaded again, “where are we going??” I pointed to the sign and replied simply, “there.”

When we walked into Just Art’s, I knew we were in for a hell of a night. We cheered at the sight of another Guinness sign, and hurrying upstairs past a balcony of patrons, we hadn’t even realized until almost too late that we were entering an apartment and not the establishment itself. After realizing our mistake, we took our thirst and our gung-ho attitude back down and inside to the main bar. We were greeted by the proprietor and namesake, Art. He looked like anything but art and as we approached the bar, I noticed a bulging growth underneath his too-tight tank top. (Think of the Gold’s Gym stringer) I swear that as he spoke to us, the bulge protruding from his portly abdomen was throbbing like it had a pulse…

Art turned out to be one of the friendliest people I have ever met, although his skills on the tap left something to be desired. He looked like an identical twin of Ernest Hemingway, and after teaching us a dice game, he was able to direct us back toward our hotel. We stayed for a pitcher, and enjoyed some interesting conversation, including a woman asking the girls if any of them had “roofied” her drink while she had been in the ladies room, and overhearing another female exclaim to resounding applause, “Hey Art! Get me a beer to wash down my whiskey! I’m drinkin’ for two!!” Ahh, the classy ladies of Wisconsin… We decided our attendance was best served elsewhere, and regaled the bar, (at Kiley’s behest) with a stirring performance of “Bear Down” to the Packer-fan laden bar and departed.

We were rolling now, on a mission to make it back before last-call at the hotel bar. We had been bombarded with concerned text messages and phone calls from Aunt Peg, while Aunt Liz, (that’s Kiley’s mom to you lay-persons) who had departed the fest earlier, had sent us a number of text messages urging us to bring her something to eat. At around this point, Kiley received a text that simply read, “Me order food now.” I knew I had a responsibility as the leader of this little band of travelers, to make sure we got what was coming due to us in the grand city of Milwaukee.

We crossed a bridge heading back towards the touristy part of downtown Milwaukee when Kiley voiced her concerns about crossing bridges that are built to rise for ships. I stood still to illustrate to her that there was absolutely no valid worry, especially this late at night. Not two seconds after the words left my mouth, and an alarm began to sound as the red lights began blinking and the bridge began to rise. The four of us scampered off to the other side, and after a brief ninja fight involving some construction horses, we decided our brush with death warranted another drink.

Yet again, we rounded a corner and the girls noticed a stream of lights coming from a nearby storefront. We heard the thumping beat of techno music and we all knew, without a word that we were heading into this bar. The bar was in fact, a popular sushi restaurant. We were greeted by the friendly and well-dressed barkeep, and aside from a young couple, enjoying a romantic evening of disco lights and techno music, noticed that we were the only customers in this fine establishment. I introduced our group to Peter, the bartender. After some short conversation, I determined that he was in fact, Chinese, and stood my height. The fact that I have a good friend named Peter who is also Chinese and taller than most white people prompted me to yell the only words of Chinese I know, “Xiong-Mao” which I most certainly was mis-pronouncing to a very confused Peter, who was very understanding when I tried to explain that this meant “China Panda,” which may or may not be entirely false.

We ordered vodka on the rocks. Mistake. We danced and sang next to the couple enjoying their date. Mistake. We accepted a free shot from Peter which was green and glowed in the dark. Mistake. At this point, we had done all the damage we could manage on the streets of Milwaukee, although we didn’t know it. My phone rang and it was Peg again. Last call was in a half hour. We hurriedly made our way down the home stretch, stopping only once to sing an R. Kelly song to some Milwaukeeans. As we strode proudly, into the hotel bar, I knew that this night would live in infamy for the remainder of my adult life. We had done what no one else had dared to do, gone where no other Chicagoans dared to go, and lived to have a night cap at the hotel bar.

Our party closed out that evening and retired to our hotel room where Kiley met us with leftover pizza that Aunt Liz had ordered. I awoke with a medium-high hangover and stepped in a slice of the pizza that I hadn’t remembered we had enjoyed. In short, I felt like a champion. As my hangover progressed, we made it into the car and our miserable lives were spared by our arrival at the Brat Stop, a magical oasis located just north of the Wisconsin border off of I-94. Thinking back on our night in Milwaukee now, I have learned a few things. One is to give a visiting city the benefit of the doubt, Milwaukee turned out to be a great town. Another is to find the positives in a negative situation, namely, the fact that if that annoying woman hadn’t pissed me off, we wouldn’t have had such a great story to tell. And finally, I’ve learned that sometimes you just have to trust your luck and get lost in unfamiliar territory. (I could go on to self-inflate my ego further, with claims of how I am always right, and a great leader, and generally one of the most entertaining people to be around, but those statements, however true they may be, pale in comparison to the length of this story, which has only furthered my narcissistic exhibition.)

To Lord Michael, Milwaukee, and you, I offer a sincere and heartfelt, “Slainte!”