Rockin' to New Politics at Summerfest

Photo from New Politic's website

Looking at the Summerfest schedule, there's always bands you know and bands you don't know. Yesterday
we attended the show of a band we don't know and, damn, was it fun!

Entering the midgate for our first Summerfest experience of 2013, my wife and I veered left. The first stage that we encountered live music at was the U.S. Cellular Connection Stage. There, the band Tristen was just finishing their last song.

As they played their last note and pleaded fans to come meet them at the "merch" tent, the skies opened up and it poured buckets of rain. We faded back to the beer stand and took cover under a small umbrella and a  tiny overhang.

As we sipped our beer and looked out at the downpour, we spied a hundred or so young fans rush the U.S. Cellular Stage to get a good view for the next band. I fumbled with my phone to find out who the next band was.

"Hmm. New Politics. Never heard of 'em," I thought. "But they sure have a committed group of young fans to stand in the rain like that."

When the rain lightened up, we wandered the over to the new Johnson Controls World Sound Stage. There was nice rain protection at this stage, but frankly, it was crowded and African drum music just wasn't cutting it for me. After a few minutes, I said to my wife, "Let's go find out what's so good about New Politics that would make all those kids wait in the pouring rain."

Once we made it to the furthest bench away from the stage, we sensed it immediately: NEW POLITICS

Kay rocks in the rain
to New Politics

ROCKED! Oh man, they rocked hard. We were old enough to be most of these kids' parents, but that didn't prevent us from moving up one bench at a time to get a better view throughout the next rockin' hour.

We had never heard any of these songs before, but by show's end our voices were hoarse from singalongs and our arms were tired from the waving, clapping and one-armed alligator chomping. This 3-piece band out of Denmark really knows how to put on a show, and within their act, I could sense the influence of so many bands before them: U2, The Cult, Nirvana and rap music in general are all part of their eclectic swirl of rhythm, melody and presence.

When the show was over and we were exchanging our "Wow. Can you believe how good that was?!" commentaries, we encountered a fellow much older than us in a rain poncho. This man, I'd put him in his mid 60s, said to us, "Those kids sure know how to rock!" and we did a fist bump.

That, my friends, is precisely why I love Summerfest.

Check out this song from New Politics. If I understand correctly from the lead singer, it is currently #5 on the Alternative Singles chart. I haven't looked it up to see if it was true or not, but the video sure is cool!

The Exploding Toilet Story

Please note: Read no further if you still wish to respect me in the morning. Thank you. 

The day started well enough. Lake Michigan was like glass as we glided over its smooth surface aboard the Lake Express high-speed ferry. I was on my way to a business meeting near Grand Rapids, Michigan, departing Milwaukee on the 6 a.m.

The ferry ported and when I disembarked I had a little less than 2 hours until my meeting--more than enough time to make way towards a Muskegon area Starbucks, enjoy a cup of coffee, check some emails and properly prepare for a meeting of an undetermined length, if you know what I mean. (Long distance runners, you KNOW what I mean.)

Starbucks found, I paid no attention to the municipal utility vehicles parked in the street out front as I pulled into the parking lot. I parked my rental, grabbed my briefcase and made a beeline for the Men's room. Within, I set my briefcase in the corner furthest from the commode and prepared to answer Mother Nature's call.

No sooner had I relinquished control of those physiological faculties that separate adult humans from infants, I felt water on my backside. My first thought was that this toilet must have an automatic flush and somehow I had triggered it.

"Oh oh," I thought. "Let's hope it's nothing too, um, violent."

Five seconds after that thought, water sprung forth by the gallon between my legs and shot across to the opposite side of the restroom wall. I'm not sure if I was ejected from the pot or instinctively tightened my muscles and popped off of it, but a second later, I stood in the corner of the room, pants at ankle level, protecting my briefcase from the muddy spray bursting forth.

It was happening: the American business traveler's worst nightmare.

I watched in horror as the raging beast continued to blast excrement against the walls and floors. In fact, with such great force that even the ceiling became moistened. I was trapped in perpetuity in a 6' x 6' tiled room that was raining organic waste collected from the fine folks of Fruitport Township, Michigan.

When you're stuck in that position, you can never be quite certain how much time is passing. After what I'm guessing was most of two minutes, Ol' Faithful had finally subsided. Now to collect myself and figure out what to do. Some details are better left unwritten, but there was still a working sink and soap dispenser, so that seemed a good place to start.

I cleaned up the best I could and returned my trousers to their upright position causing a sensation that I hope never to feel again: sewage water drenched pants and shirt against my bare legs and back.

I knew the path from the restroom door was short, and there was only one table nearby. My goal was to get outside as deftly as possible, but also grab the attention of an employee and let them know that we had a situation here.

As luck would have it, the table nearest the door was hosting a meeting of three employees. I darted past and asked "You guys work here?" One fellow said "Yes," and I summoned him to join me outside.

He gave me a look that I'll remember for the rest of my life. It was one of those "What kind of a nut is this?" looks.

As I explained what had happened to me "in there," he continued to look at me with doubting suspicion, but he did ask what he could do to help.

I said, "Well, I came here to get a coffee. How 'bout we start with that?"

"Certainly," he said and went in to retrieve my drink.

I can only imagine what he said to the other employees in those ensuing moments. I bet they still talk about it today! (Remember that one time when a customer was trapped in a poop fountain in our restroom? Ha ha ha!)

A moment after he returned with my coffee, another employee popped out of the door and said, "It happened in the Women's room, too! And now the water is running into the restaurant from underneath the door!"

Thank you, women's restroom plumbing situation, for verifying that my story was true and proving that I wasn't just some clod who plugged the Men's room toilet and made of a mess of myself in effort to get a free coffee.

Now fully realizing the situation, the Starbucks team was nothing but commendable. They pointed across the parking lot to a shopping mall where I could buy some new clothes. If I did so, I could return with the receipt and they would fully reimburse me. As I put my stuff into the car and headed over to Younkers, I could see the manager head over to the utility workers in the street to find out just what the heck was going on.

Over at Younkers I explained the situation after I picked out some new under garments, a shirt and slacks. The lady who helped me was great, too. She cleared my items of pins and stickers and hung them on a rack where she expertly steamed them. When I walked out, I looked like a million bucks. Well, a million and $71 actually, because $71 was the price of my new threads.

Back at Starbucks they promptly reimbursed me and we had a bit of a chuckle over it. The manager said the utility worker said, "Gee, I've never heard of that happening before!" In addition to buying my new clothes, they gave me a few coupons for free coffees.

That was really great of Starbucks. It really wasn't their fault, but they went out of the way to help a traveling customer trapped in a most unfortunate situation. The Younkers attendant, too, was wonderful.

So how's that for an traveler's story? My new clothes are nice, but I'd prefer never to have had to buy them in that manner!

Related: I wrote the above a few days ago, but today I received a call from Fruitport Township's Utilities Manager expressing his sincere apologies for the unfortunate incident. He said that the next time I'm in Fruitport, I should give him a ring and lunch is on Fruitport. That's very nice.

Related II: No major harm was done and looking back at this nearly 2-week old story, I find it pretty darn funny. What would you do in the same situation?

Nothing Like a Tall Cool Glass of Wing Sauce

Nearly every morning, on my way to work, I drive past this sign in front of Milwaukee's Harley Davidson Museum. The sign does its job well: it advertises a product, event or service and attracts potential customers. And me, being a lover of things both spicy and brewed, found this particular advertisement of interest.

Sriracha (aka "Rooster sauce")?  Check. I love that fiery red flame-thrower of a condiment. Known to make even a old shoe with cheese on it palatable. (For more on Rooster Sauce, visit The Oatmeal's hilarious blog.)

Stout? Not only my alma mater (as in UW-Stout), but one of my favorite combinations of barley, water, hops and yeast.

Mix 'em together and it's got to be a pretty tasty concoction, no?

So one night after work, I visited the bar and with intrigue, I ordered a Sriracha Stout.

The bartender looks at me and says "Do you want a dozen or half-dozen?"

"Whoa there Mr. Bartender," I say. "I appreciate your assessment of my ability to hold my beer, but I've got an automobile to drive home!"

In reply, he says "That's a wing sauce, sir. You ordered a condiment. Our Sriracha Stout wing sauce was the winner in this year's WingFest." (Judge's Choice: http://wing-fest.com/)

Duh. Do I feel stupid. But it's not my fault, right? I mean, you can see the sign -- does it say anything about wings?!

So I ordered a Booyah by Milwaukee Brewing Co. and was left only to ponder how delicious a Sriracha Stout would be.

...

Related: One of my beer-brewing friends, get on this, will ya? ;)

Chordie Amore

As a basement singer/guitar player, besides my guitar and voice, one other resource has become vital to my basement jam sesssions: Chordie, as in http://www.Chordie.com/ -- guitar tabs, guitar chords and lyrics.

One of my favorite things about Chordie versus any other tab/lyrics site is randomness. They allow users to make their own collection of songbooks. Those songbooks, should the user choose, are available to be used and perused by the general public. That's what I do during my basement sessions: click on the 'Public songbooks' and experiment away with songs from a multitude of generations.

For example, writing this, I just emerged from the basement where I toyed around with the following songs:

"Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers


"Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls


"Drift Away" by Dobie Gray


"That's Amore" by Dean Martin


Maybe "Ain't No Sunshine" and "Drift Away" overlap in style a little bit, but "Name" and "That's Amore" ... not so much.

The fun I have poking around Chordie also highlights one of my biggest playing/practicing bad habits: not sticking to and learning one song thoroughly from end to end. I bore quickly and Chordie makes it possible for me to find a new song.

If you're a player, check out Chordie and have some fun.

These Are Some Stellar Raisins

Has it really been nearly two years since Death of a Salesman at the Milwaukee Repertory Theater? After attending that production I wrote a blog titled Death of a Theater Phobia. My blog described how I had soured on live theater after attending a number of performances that had me checking my watch and counting the minutes until the show was over (I'm blaming musicals), but Salessman was so expertly acted and riveting that I had no idea how long I sat in the theater. It could have been 20 minutes or 200 -- time stood still as I watched the ticking human time bomb, Willy Loman.

Last night my wife and I went to see the iconic Raisin in the Sun at the Quadracci Powerhouse. It was equally powerful.

Going in, I had no idea what the play was about. As the day of the show grew nearer, I resisted temptation to read a synopsis of the story, and when I navigated to the Milwaukee Repertory Theater's website to check the exact showtime, I guided my eyes only to the schedule to avoid seeing too much of the story.

It's rather embarrassing that I was so naive of a story that has been played out in countless American theaters and silver screens -- the latter starring Oscar winner Sidney Portier as irascible dreamer Walter Lee Younger.

But my persistence to remain ignorant paid off. Walking into the Powerhouse, neither my wife nor I had a clue of what about we were about to see. We were about to be blown away.

The play was two hours and 55 minutes long with an intermission about halfway through. Much like Salesman, time flew by. The moments before intermission reached a crescendo and when the houselights were turned on, my eyes were watery from emotion and all I could do was look over at my wife and say, "Wow."

After a short break we settled back into our seats for the second half. The next hour and 15 minutes went by in a blink. I was riveted. My heart pounded as the story came to its emotional climax when Walter finally becomes the man that his mother always believed was within him.

And speaking of mother, Lena Younger played by Greta Oglesby was a showstopper. She was amazing. When the show ended and the players came out to take their bows, I could hardly wait until Ms. Oglesby appeared. I was already standing and clapping enthusiastically when she did, but how does one show the love when everyone else is clapping and standing too?

When I was 6 or 7, my Grandpa Collins taught me to take my two pinky fingers and curl over my tongue and blow. When done correctly, it makes a piercing noise like the whistle atop the ill-fated locomotive Old 97. To experienced theatergoers, us whistle blowers are probably as uncouth and annoying as the guys who always yell "IN THE HOLE!" during televised golf tournaments.

No matter.

When Greta appeared, I inhaled deeply, properly placed my pinkies between my curled-lip covered teeth and exhaled with great force. I may have been in the second row from the back, but I'm quite certain Ms. Oglesby could feel the love, as my siren whistle took the curls right out of the lady's hair in front of me.

Ms. Oglesby's performance was worth every decibel. The whole casts' was.

Raisin in the Sun runs through April 14th. I highly suggest you go. It's a wonderful performance. Just hopefully you're not sitting in front of some obnoxious whistle-blower at show's end. ;)

Crazy St. Patrick's Day Fact

Back in the early 80s, a song hit the northern Wisconsin album rock airwaves (WAPL - The Rockin' Apple!) that I really enjoyed. It was simple hard rock with a captivating lead guitar riff.

Twenty-plus years later, that riff has remained stuck in my head even though I had not heard it in at least two decades. Thank goodness for the Internet, as I was easily able to navigate my browser to rediscover this rockin' metal track.

Here it is, "Say What You Will" by Fastway starring "Fast" Eddie Clark Clarke on guitar and Dave King on vocals:



Unfortunately the original music video for the song is not available for embedding, but if you wish to see it, it's viewable on myspace (that's right, myspace!).

You might be wondering, "Okay, Mike. That's a swell Hair Metal riff, but where are you goin' with this?"

Fair question.

Many years later in my life I took a liking to Celtic rock music -- the Pogues being the Godfather of the style, but a nod to the late, great Thin Lizzy must be given too. Others that received popular acclaim include Flogging Molly, The Tossers, Dropkick Murphys, The Young Dubliners, Black 47, The Killdares, The Drovers and Jackdaw, and Seven Nations (Scottish). Of those, I've been a particularly fond of the Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly.

In fact, I have been listening to Flogging Molly since their second album "Drunken Lullabys" was released in 2002, but nearly the whole time I was completely unaware  that there was something that should have sounded familiar to me. That thing was Flogging Molly's lead singer's voice. That voice belongs to Dave King -- the former lead singer of Fastway 20 years earlier!

Now, in the spirit of St. Patrick's Day, enjoy this great Irish drinking song starring Dave King on lead vocals and rhythm guitar. And, as evidenced by his middle finger at the 21st second of the video, the Rock and Roll spirit is still alive in Mr. King!

Jury Tales - Part Three - Unlucky #13

A well-dressed jury

If you've read my earlier post, Jury Tales - Part Two - Give a Little, you know that I went into jury duty with the expectation that my contribution would be little more than showing up. After all, my last jury service only required me to sit and read magazines all day--never once was my name called over the PA to report.

This time was different. This time I was selected from the general pool to a subset of 30 potential jurors. As we stood on our selection  numbers (I was 23, Jordan!), we entered the courtroom in the order that we were selected. The judge gave us instructions to, in numerical order, give our name, marital status, children (if any), occupation, spouse's occupation, and some other stuff.

We were given a brief on the trial that was to be presented to us if were one of the 13 selected from the pool of 30.

First the prosecuting attorney's turn.

Second, the defense's.

I could tell by some of the questions and jurors' answers that the pool was rapidly dwindling down to roughly 20 potential candidates. In some cases people were just too kooky to serve or, in others, too close to law enforcement (i.e. married to an officer, etc.).

I thought for sure I was going to add my name to the list of discarded candidates when I raised my hand to the defense attorney's question, "Does anybody here think that my client is guilty of something?"

I was one of about 4 or 5 that raised my hand. When asked why I raised my hand, I replied, "You've listed a significant number of serious charges against the individual. Surely he committed some sort of grave offense or he would not be here."

Actually, that's not totally true. A fellow juror said that, but that was my thought exactly and I really replied, "What he said."

After the Q & A, we were asked to return to the jury room. It was a little like being in the "stew room" on Top Chef, with all of us wondering who would be selected to serve.

The Bailiff retrieved us back into the courtroom. The judge instructed us "Please stand when I say your name."

This had me wondering: was he going to say 13 or 17 names? If 13, those called would serve. If 17, those not called would serve.

From the lowest juror number to the highest, he began saying names, "Dennis, Sue, Marvin, Marrietta, David, Matt, ..."

The whole time I am counting on my fingers. He says juror 12's name and the next word out of his mouth is "and..."

And. That means the names called are the jury. Those not called are going home.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The moment seems to stop and my heart is pounding. The last juror called was still in the upper 10s, meaning there were at least 10 of us to select from. What are the odds? One in ten? I'd take those odds.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

"...the 13th juror is Mike Collins."

It's me. I'm number 13. A whole range of questions comes in to my mind. What about work? Will we be sequestered? How long will this take? Days or weeks? What is about to happen? For a moment I feel like Peeta Mellark must have felt when he was selected as Tribute to participate in the 74th annual Hunger Games.

All I'll say at this point is what followed was a few of the most emotionally draining days of my life. I may post more about my service, but never fully about the case--that would take way too long.

Selected. Me. Unlucky #13.