Milwaukee, The Cactus Club
I like Milwaukee. It was a nice drive from Chicago, - I drove up with Andy and Mike and Kiernan, who were in town from New York for a couple of days - and the neighborhood we drove through when we left the freeway was absolutely charming. I was charmed! I don't know if I saw a single chain store, but there were lots of stores and the place looked like it was doing alright, no boarded up storefronts or anything, and well it was coming up to Christmas so things were kinda sparkly but all the shops and restaurant looked like they'd been there, and been doing alright, since 1940! Well, maybe 1950 or '60 but they were unique! They weren't chains! And the neighborhood went on and on! I felt like I was in a wax museum! I know people in Seattle who'd shit in their goofy polyester pants if they saw such a place! It was very quaint, and the nieghborhood housing the Cactus was nice, too. It had this sort of All in the Family feel to it, and there's a certain charm in that.

We ate dinner at this little Italian place down the street. I don't remember much of the place, I was distracted for some reason, what was I thinking? I dunno. Maybe I was dreaming about a future in Milwaukee, with lots of beer and lots of white people. But I ordered something that had to do with sausage - I think it was the Italian sausage sandwich - and do you know, this place makes their fucking sausage sandwich with this big fat pancake of sausage. It made me sick! I couldn't finish it! I love sausage, I really do, but it was sick! What the fuck? And Mike ordered some sort of sausage something-or-other, and they brought him two of these goddamn pancakes! And he ate them!

So that set the stage. Our show was funny - it was a nice little club, yes it was a little club, and the band room out back was nice and little, too. It was a late, sleepy night, just Silkworm and Sixto played, but Brad from .22 came along for the ride and Kiernan and Mike and I rode back with him in the rental car. What else happened? Oh, there were assholes at the club, dart-playing assholes. Damn them! I wanted to shit on their shoes! But I chickened out.

I hardly even remember the show. I remember, after we got back to Chicago, hauling Sixto's gear up five flights of treacherously steep stairs, while they drove around looking for a parking place, the lazy bastards. But I slept well that night! Let me tell you! I slept!

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