Harley Davidson Country

"The only thing better than a six gallon tank is a six gallon bladder."

State: Wisconsin
Capital: Madison
Population: 5,601,640
Biggest City: Milwaukee
State Bird: Robin
State Drink: Corona – without lime and rimmed with the salt of a pilfered Shure microphone.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a nest of the Catholic Knights – "a non-governmental organization made up of fifteen Roman Catholic fraternal societies from 27 countries – on six continents" (vik-a-pedia). In the words of an "ex-communicated" (in the loosest sense) Catholic, also known as me, "a very stern looking office building with uge red letters spelling "Catholic Knights" is two blocks from our hotel – to remind us that we are in fact living in sin." The mispronunciation of huge was a direct result of my regression into childhood days of Mass, Communion, and Joan of Arc-like saintly dreams.

On Thursday August 14th I exchanged my Chicago, bottles of Goose Island, and nights of Xanax currency for that of a four star hotel, 6-pack of Sierra Nevada, and Middle America. We crossed into Harley Davidson country around 4:00PM, and headed for a $300/night hotel on Wisconsin Avenue, held in between the capable linked hands of a homeless preacher and teenage pregnancy. My kleptomaniac tendencies returned once I spotted the Aveda brand bottles scattering the counter. I managed to stuff them into the crevices of my already over-packed suitcase. However, the bottle of Figi water still remains with the $6 price tag around its neck. I finished my first night in Milwaukee scantily clad in a white Ambassador Hotel robe, drinking beer from a champagne glass on the sofa, with my bare legs thrown over the side, staring blankly out an eighth story window at fifteen crimson letters. After a sponge bath in luxury I was ready for our plunge into the belly of America, to heed the call of my roots, for a night of white trash fun.

We sardine-packed the car to drive the 45-minute journey into the gut of America, riding the waves of stomach acid, and traversing the folds of the small intestine we arrived at our GPS navigated destination – the debris of luxury. The distance between shopping plazas lengthened and the trees grew above us; their branches transmitted pulses of warning to the locked doors of our car. The man behind the wheel put "the pedal to the metal," as they say, and laughed; the barriers of prudence flying past the open windows at 55mph. As we crossed the last threshold of civilization, into a bar that breaks through the Webster definition of dive, the sun-burnt savages looked up from their pints and stared hard with their ears pricked at the click of my heels. Sat upon their folding chairs, with stomachs pushed close against the long wooden tables, they hunched over plates munching BBQ ribs and mashed potatoes. My hip brushed against a man eating like he had prison experience, elbows drawn in close, a low head hovered over his grub.

It became apparent that the cigarette ban had not reached (town name withheld to preserve my junk e-mail level). The evidence was in the air, clung to the thick cloud of smoke gasping for breathe. We shook the heavy stares from our shoulders and saddled up to the bar. I spun around in my stool and faced the crowd. The car lot was filled with an array of classic cars shining their hoods, flashing their headlights, tires rotating in pride; all furious attempts to snatch the attention of the women perched against the walls. A 1964 Mustang switched on his windshield wipers at my open legs, my elbows pressed against my knees, and the resulting view into the gap between my breasts.

A single ray of sunlight penetrated through the dense cloud - a bartender with shiny black hair, XL red hoops, and a rainbow belt cuddling an ass to make any woman envious. She politely offered us her services of drink. One fourth of our group leaned over the gummy bar in an unsuccessful effort to grope. A cigarette stuck to his lip with the adhesive of saliva, he reached over the bar. One tanned hand swatted his groping away, while the other brushed the hair from her eyes. The wounded male limped back to his stool.

Four cell phones lay alongside the bottles of beer with no reception. My to-the-left friend whispered a suspicious "what are the odds?" into my ear. I knew that we had found ourselves in the location of a past alien landing, the extraterrestrial visitors scared away by the locals. In a choreographed movement the four of us twisted our bar stools and looked across the dance floor. Foreheads reddened by the heat and the pale residue of a day in sunglasses glared back. We huddled in close from fear of the hanging baseball jerseys, big-screen televisions, ponytails, and orange legs. A toothless man spat into his plastic cup and smiled, "Why now you folks are in the Midwest."

The time of the DJ moved over us. A second round of drinks passed, and a musical change of body language. There was air guitar, head banging, and Kid Rock, lovingly – or not so – called Kid Cock. Before the liquor could settle we were four on the dance floor giving the Midwest X-rated. With the condensation cooling and sweat dripping, the disapproving nods and hollers of the horny called. The group's girls lifted their shirts above the ribs and the boys cradled the damp skin of hip bones. When "Play that funky music, white boy" came sliding across the dance floor the heels fell off and the hair pinned back. The alpha male of the pack stepped forward and the line dancing began. I exhibited amateur skills, but with liquid courage pumping through my arteries my feet fumbled with ease through the steps.

Shouts of last call and a decrease in the tempo signaled the undesired end of our night. We made our exit through the now open double doors, to the soundtrack of singing cicadas and gusts of night air. I adjusted the lighting of my half-slit eyes, turned to capture one last shot of our night, and branded it into my temporarily impaired memory for later recall on lonely nights.

The moral of today's story: when I fastened my seatbelt and scrunched into the economical, eco-friendly four-door, leaning a head of sweaty curls against a shoulder, I knew I was more at home within the uncultured walls of barbarians than in my hometown Denver Lodo bars.

P.S. I roll with two photographers for the next week. Photos with the look of professional are soon to make their appearance.