Of labor unions and fetish gear

By Matt Wild

A man wearing an American flag headband tears past me on his bicycle, narrowly avoiding a collision forceful enough to rearrange our collective bone structures. He turns back to look at me, a strange grin on his face, a psychotic glint in his eyes. “Wake up, kid. Wake up!”

It’s 11 a.m. and I’m stumbling east along Wisconsin Avenue, hung over and slowly following the annual Labor Fest parade to the Summerfest grounds. I’m here to find out why so many perfectly sane people have decided to get out of bed on this cold, wet morning and gleefully march through the streets of downtown Milwaukee. Hordes of union-types carry banners denoting their affiliations (Sheet Metal Workers, Bricklayers Union). Small children hold signs saying “Don’t Roll Back Workers’ Rights!” A WTMJ news chopper hovers overhead like a threat. I try to snap a few pictures, but a hay-bailer driven by a bunch of iron workers nearly plows me over, my second near-miss of the day. Collecting my wits, I decide to heed the biker’s advice: Wake up. Ask questions.

“Immigration reform” are the words I hear most often when pressing people on their reasons for marching, as well as a laundry list of candidates to be supported: Doyle, Kohl, Falk, et al. Amidst the admittedly left-leaning crowd I manage to spot a small group of Mark Green supporters, huddled tight against the inclement weather. Quietly sidling up I politely try to strike up a conversation. Would they like to answer a few questions? Nothing. What are their reasons for being here today? No answer. What are Mark Green’s views on unions? On immigration? A few evil glares, some hushed mumblings (I distinctly hear “Don’t even look at him.” ), but still nothing. Have you guys seen any of Green’s TV commercials, and if so, how long can you make it before you start laughing?

Sensing a potentially ugly scene, I decide to ditch the weasely bastards and head for the festival grounds. Inside, the mood is somewhat muted, the light drizzle from the morning having turned into a fairly steady downpour. While signs screaming “Safety on the Job!” and “Protect Immigrant Workers Now!” abound, the event itself is disturbingly similar to Summerfest: eight dollar cups of beer and cover bands playing “Love Shack.” Barbara Lawton is giving a speech on the Miller Oasis stage, her words echoing off a sea of wet, empty bleachers. A grizzled-looking man suddenly approaches, a despairing look on his face. “You see this crowd? This represents every progressive in the state. It’s no wonder we always lose.” Surely it’s just the weather, I remark. If it wasn’t such a miserable day, maybe then…but no, he’s already gone. An unidentified woman takes Lawton’s place on stage and begins making an impassioned speech in Spanish. I ask another woman nearby to translate for me, but she doesn’t speak any…

“ENGLISH! DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. ENGLISH!?! Take another picture of me and I’ll…”

There’s a drunken lunatic screaming in my face, my digital camera held hostage in his meaty hands. It’s four days later and I’m at a well-known East side establishment that, for the sake of privacy and decorum, shall remain nameless (it was Vitucci’s), accompanied by a good friend who, for the same aforementioned reasons, shall also remain nameless (it was Brent Gohde). We’ve just come from the one-year birthday party for M-80 and now, less than two hours later, I’m about to get my ass handed to me by a missing link who thinks I’ve been taking pictures of him (don’t ask).

After somehow negotiating the release of my camera, I head over to the Mantra Lounge for – bear with me here – the FingerFuk Fetish Soirée. A great title notwithstanding, the event itself is more or less what you’d expect: some out-of-town bondage/dominatrix professionals, a gaggle of moon-faced spectators too cheap to go to a strip club and a whole lot of tedium. The show by Nu Ethix Suspensions is at least somewhat interesting, especially if you happen to be 15-years old and have never seen a Hellraiser movie before. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against the performers (or Mantra, despite a 10-dollar cover). They’re all providing a service, and they’re all providing it reasonably well, but honestly, these things are about as kinky and dangerous as a typical episode of Becker.

At some point I manage to con my way onto the main stage, a Billy Idol look-alike being paddled on my left, a goth-lite chick being tattooed on my right. Why do people do this? Why not just stay at home and catch a few reruns of Family Ties? First Labor Fest and now the FingerFuk (had to say it once more). What possesses people to do these things?

“Someone’s gotta do these things!”

Flash back four hours to M-80: Eric Von Munz is waving his arms around the gallery, motioning toward paintings, photographs, sculptures. “Someone’s gotta do this…why not us?” He’s not just talking about art, he’s talking about everything: the things that get us out of bed, the things that occupy and validate our time. It’s a pitch-perfect Friday night in Milwaukee and I suddenly realize just how valuable it all is: the people we know, the places we live, the things we can do with a day. VS