Winter, you can kiss my pasty ass!

bike in the snow

No, that’s not my bike – frozen, buried, forgotten.

My bike is named Silvie.

Silvie is currently nestled in the teeny hall of my apartment, buried beneath itchy coats, scarves and mittens, and tragically forgotten through the winter that won’t quit.

I’m sure some of you, especially my dad, are snickering right now. I’m the girl that never had seasons growing up and loves snow, right?

I no longer love snow…I loathe it.

I want vivacious colors to make my eyes sore, I want pungent grass to make my nose itch, I want zealous sunshine to make my skin drunk, no…intoxicated.

I don’t want white, I want green. I don’t want decay, I want bloom. I don’t want chapped, I want sweaty.

Winter, you can kiss my pasty ass!

So, anyways. This is Silvie and I when we were happy…

milwaukee art museum

It was summer in the fine city of Milwaukee, the year I first moved here. Without batting an eye, I gleefully traded in my clunky car Booger for sleek and sexy Silvie.

That’s the Milwaukee Art Museum, gorgeously designed by the great Santiago Calatrava, cascading behind me.

Of course, strangled by Winter’s crone hands, the museum looks quite different now…

milwaukee art museum in winter

So, back to the frozen, buried, forgotten bike I mentioned before I went off on my cabin fever tangent.

This bike is stationed right outside my apartment. And strangely, it’s been sitting there since last summer.

I know this, because I like to park my bike there when I’m on the run. Unfortunately, my prime parking was always commandeered by this asshole bike with the lame basket.

Well, well, well…look at the asshole now. Actually, I feel kind of bad for the asshole.

Not only is he on his way to becoming a snowball, a career he certainly never intended to have, he has turned into a tourist attraction.

Now that he is one with the snow, people stop and take pictures of him every day, spotlighting his public abandonment and emasculating him even more than that frou-frou basket.

Although Silvie has been neglected for months, she knows I still love her, that I yearn to frolic with her on the city streets, narrowly escaping death through the treachery of downtown commuting.

She knows.

So, my question for all of you is…what the hell happened to the owner of that bike?! I’ve been mulling over many theories lately, but I’m interested in what you have to say.

Humor me…I’m bored as shit.

(Please pardon my unladylike language throughout this post. The Winter Blues have spoken.)

Beggars and Champagne

Milwaukee seagulls

Once upon a time, there was a magical land far, far away named Milwaukee. It was a land filled with beggars and champagne…

…at least in my eyes, the starry eyes of a non-native.

Before I moved here I led a previous life in Dallas, and a previous-previous life in SoCal. At a young age, Wayne’s World taught me that Milwaukee was Algonquin for “The Good Land”.

Hey, I thought it must be an alright place if Alice Cooper and the Native Americans said so.

Other than that, people told me it was a land of cheese and beer. Seriously, this is all I once knew.

When I first met my Milwaukeean paramour in Dallas, we interrogated each other – as we all do during the dating phase – and naturally we confessed our first dreadful jobs.

Quite casually, he said, “I used to be a beggar.”

Red flag!

“A beggar?” I asked, batting my eyelashes and trying my darnedest to stay open-minded, because man oh man was I smitten!

“You know…at the grocery store.”

Light bulb.

“Oh, a BAGger! You bagged groceries.”

Phew!

“That’s what I said.”

No you didn’t.

It turns out the letter “a” is pronounced a little differently in the Midwest.

We had a good laugh over that…obviously. And, me and my far-from-bumming beau got hitched and moved to Milwaukee, the good land.

*Read the rest of the story over at OnMilwaukee.com (I was invited to write a “Readers Blog” at On Milwaukee, so it would be awesome if you guys could stop by their place…I promise there are more laughs with this kooky tale.)

Come on, babe. Why don’t we paint the town?

And, all that jazz.

I’m not a musical theater buff in any shape or form. Harboring cheesy dance moves and peppy tunes that get eternally stuck in my head, I usually steer clear. However, there are exceptions.

I appreciate the dark and gritty, R-rated types…specifically Chicago, my all-time favorite. Give me glamorous femmes fatales and the unmatched genius of Bob Fosse any day.

Somehow I missed the boat, and have never danced to “All That Jazz”. Now you might be thinking…big whoop! But, it’s kind of against nature for a jazz dancer.

See, I was too curvy for tutus, too skeptical for interpretive dance—you know the kind where you’re supposed to actually be the tree—and too demure to crunk.

Jazz dancing has always been the right fit for me, a chance to sass and captivate. I could pretend to be back in the 1920s, a spunky cabaret dancer teasing the crowd and having a ball.

Recently, opportunity came knocking on my door.

Last Friday, RunUp 2012: The Roaring Twenties, a 1920s themed fashion show, gala, and costume party benefitting Froedtert and The Medical College of Wisconsin Cancer Unit, commenced at the Historic Pritzlaff Building here in Milwaukee.

Guess who finally got to perform “All That Jazz”?

A good friend of mine, Hannah (the striking blonde who looks like Roxy Hart’s twin) was choreographing, and offered up the gig to a select few—the Jazz hands experts. The four of us would serve as back-up dancers to Bjorn Nasett, a legendary entertainer making a comeback.

Last year I hung up my performance shoes. Enthusiastically, I took them down, tossed some fishnets on, and got my shimmying self back on the stage.

And, it was grand.

Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com
Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com
Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com

Sometimes I teeter on dualistic, an all or nothing kind of gal. This unexpected return to the spotlight taught me to rethink my stubborn ways, to be open to the right kind of opportunities.

Of all the times I’ve performed, I’ve only been paid once. Some years ago an envelope bulging with cash was hastily thrust into my hands before a ballet class, and it was weird.

Dancers don’t do it for money. The ones who do get paid earn peanuts.

As much effort as it takes, dancing for joy and pleasure has always made sense to me. It’s a special art I’ve known intimately all my life. It’s an honor to take people away, to make them smile, to encourage them to let go and have fun.

What happens on the stage is beneficial to everyone—the performers, the spectators, the choreographers and directors. To escape the grind for the sake of feeling good is a necessary perk of life.

In the words of Billy Flynn: “This trial…the whole world…it’s all…show business.”

If I can get my hands on some video footage of our performance, I will most certainly post. Until then, here’s a fun poll…I’ll reveal the correct answer at the end of next week.