The bustling season has settled into a soft couch with a fuzzy throw at my house, and she has substituted Pandora Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Station for National Public Radio. There are no terrible voiced prophets spewing frogs of doom, warning about the lack of brakes on the truck they are driving, gas pedal down, to the fiscal cliff.
I fell asleep early last night, exhausted from work and saturated with elaborate election speculation by talking heads on TV. But around 11 the ping of my cellphone woke me as my son texted one word: OBAMA.
The other day my daughter, her dear friend, and the dear friend’s adorable baby, my pretend grandbaby, were in the kitchen talking and laughing. Buddha Baby grew restless so I handed him a whisk and metal bowl. Happy beyond expectation, he played for a very long time. No colorful expensive plastic products were involved, and I thought about all the time, energy, and money I had spent as a young mother obtaining stuff I believed would make my babies smarter and happier.
Last night I had the pleasure of being kicked out of a bar for the first time. I guess at 62, it’s about time. But then, I’ve never much enjoyed bars or confrontation. It’s no surprise it took this long.
The bar in question was Serb Hall’s, one of the biggest bars around. I’d gone to meet a friend for a fish fry. If you’re not a local reader, fish fries are a pragmatic Milwaukee sacrament started during Prohibition, when all the bars needed to find new ways to make money. The tradition is honored to this day, only with large quantities of beer and other adult beverages.
(Serb Hall is another Milwaukee institution, the site of weddings and union gatherings, presidential visits, and more. A vast building, it also holds a bowling alley and promises “extraordinary hospitality.”)
I didn’t know at the time that this wasn’t any random gathering. Most of the others in the group of ten, people I didn’t know, were union supporters and activists, and they were there to show support for the handful of union staff left in the organization. The idea was to go, ask to be seated at the server’s tables, enjoy dinner, and leave a generous tip. You can read the backstory here.
But it was not to be. The host announced that we couldn’t be seated, as the waitress already had a table of 15 (people I later learned were doing the same thing we were, supporting union employees). That made sense to me, although my daughter, a waitress, informs me that she’d be delighted to be given two big parties. We were offered other waitstaff’s tables in the largely empty room but declined.
At which point the bartender, also a union employee, came up with a quick-minded pragmatic solution. “If you eat at the bar, I can write your tickets. You’d have to do the buffet: I can’t serve tables while bartending.” So we all said yes--good idea, paid our money, and started heading toward the buffet.
One or two of us actually made it. The food looked lackluster and smelled worse, but that seemed beside the point.
The rest of us were stopped before we made it to the dining room. The manager, sitting bulldoggedly at the bar between us and the buffet line, started yelling at the bartender and the one union waitress serving in the adjacent room, who, although we'd requested her, had just been "cut" (sent home early for lack of work in restaurant parlance).
In the past, it was just, ‘We're going to rebuild this road.' Now we're trying to pull in the ideas of, while we're doing this, can we lessen the stormwater impact? Can we improve bicycle, pedestrian, physically disabled accommodations? LaCrosse city planner Larry Kirsch