2008
Paint the Town
By Burt Wardall What if a pair of terrorist revolutionaries lived among us? These days we tend to picture terrorists as olive-skinned men who speak in broken English. But what if terrorists looked and sounded just like us? What would they do? How would they act? How would they live in today’s society? Rex Winsome’s Paint the Town provides a glimpse into just that. Paint the Town is a tale of young revolutionary couple Big Red (Winsome) and his girlfriend Nadia (Kate Pleuss), who live in a cardboard shack in a long-forgotten corridor of a subway system. They have isolated themselves from the norms of society and live by their own rules. They rob and steal for the majority of their sustenance. Nadia’s mother was also a terrorist once, but has since changed her name, married and lives a “normal” life. Red – clearly severely disturbed – believes it’s Nadia’s birthright to continue the life her mother forsook. Nadia’s half-brother Arthur (Jason Hames) has chosen a different path in life, following his father’s footsteps to become a doctor. Nadia and Arthur still maintain a close relationship, but obviously Arthur doesn’t understand or approve of his sister’s lifestyle, nor does he care for Red. Red thinks he’s “saving” Nadia from her perfect little family – so he sets out to eliminate them, creating explosive devices both deceptive – one is designed to look like a present – and elaborate. Red may be a horrible murderer, but he is passionate about his craft. Winsome conveys Red’s despicable personality so skillfully that you’d probably hate him just as much if he were a bank teller rather than a killer. He’s highly intelligent – but he’s annoying. He’s condescending. And his always-calm demeanor makes you want to smack him! You can just tell that his character gets a perverse pleasure from flustering his verbal opponents while he remains stoic and composed. Paint the Town is satisfying, disturbing and highly entertaining. Its glimpse into a world of terror – devoid of emotion – chills, even when we feel, somehow, a little sympathetic toward Nadia, even though she is every bit the monster that Red is, or distressed for Arthur when he loses it. A quote on the back of the program reads: “If all society is a sculpture, then a revolutionary has to be an artist.” Nadia’s final scene takes this quote to grotesque proportions. And that’s a good thing. VS
Jul 17th, 2008 by Vital Archives
Freedom Fighters
I’m glad I held off visiting Gilbert & George. The perfect moment to see it at the Milwaukee Art Museum arrived on a splendid July 3. Driving south on Lincoln Memorial Drive, I noticed how every inch of green space was packed with folks waiting for the Big Bang. Words flooded my mind as I cruised past at reasonable 25 miles per: campers, families, balloons, flags, barbeques … “good” words for the day before our day of Independence. George Carlin died in June, and the New York Times wrote a strange obituary, referencing – without listing – the seven forbidden words made famous by the man who took the cause for freedom of speech all the way to the Supreme Court. I found them via a Yahoo search: s**t, p**s, f**k, c**t, c**ksucker, motherf**ker, and t*ts. Bleep, bleep. What nonsense! Carlin added a few more before he expired. What a freedom fighter. I hope he died happy. So here I am outside of the bright yellow portal to the show, wondering if what’s on the other side in the Baker/Rowland galleries will be worth the visit or just another freak show designed to rouse the apathetic. A sign outside the portal cautions that parents with kids better check out the content before entering. “Brace Yourself” is part of the show’s public relations spin. I’m in. My first impression? BIG! But at this point I’m a blind person feeling the trunk of an elephant. My second impression? Why have I let myself get sucked into this s**t? A feeling creeps over me, a feeling akin to waiting for a cold speculum to be introduced into my c**t during a series of gynecological examinations. “This won’t hurt a bit,” the doctor lies. A half dozen other gawkers meander around the galleries, necks craned upward. The place is dead silent. The word “awestruck” comes to mind. I do a quickie tour, buy a catalog, and then settle down to consider what’s in my face – and I do mean in my face. My nose has been rubbed in something nasty and the sting of something – soap? – tingles my mouth. It’s oddly refreshing. What’s this? The title says Dusty Corners No. 13. It’s a 16-panel piece centered with four mirror images of black and white photographs of G&G. The boys (the year is 1975) are conservatively clad in impeccable suits. Their demeanor is oddly Victorian and the effect is that of a “memorial.” Nothing about it is big, bold or brassy. It whispers innocence. The twelve panels surrounding them suggest either the beginning of a long journey or memories of a journey already lost in time. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous. Sublime. This would be the one I’d like to take home. The gift shop has a smaller version for sale, but no, it won’t do. Only this one will do. The Penis, a 1978 work bordered on the bottom edge with a graffiti-like drawing of a c**k spurting j*zz reminds me that t*ts […]
Jul 9th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Ah, Wilderness!
Largely considered to be one of Eugene O’Neil’s lesser works, Ah, Wilderness! is nonetheless fascinating. From its outdoor theater in Spring Green, Wisconsin, the American Players Theatre offers an idyllic production of O’Neil’s pseudo-biographical comedy. The story follows a day in the life of a wealthy family in Connecticut on the Fourth of July, 1906. It’s strange to see O’Neil’s only comedy for a host of reasons: considering O’Neil’s intense dramas like Strange Interlude and The Iceman Cometh, it’s unusual to hear him go about the business of setting up punch lines. Also, since it’s pseudo-autobiographical, Ah, Wilderness! is oddly similar to his pseudo-autobiographical drama A Long Day’s Journey Into Night. Whereas Ah, Wilderness! presents a sanitized, overly romanticized vision of O’Neil’s family life, Long Day’s Journey is arguably one of O’Neil’s darkest dramas. And there’s an unshakeable tension in the comedy that feels a lot like hanging out with a passive-aggressive family during a holiday. O’Neil seems obsessed with showing the world a vision of his childhood in a happy, presentable format. There’s a pervasive sense that O’Neil (and by extension the whole cast) is afraid that something less than pleasant may surface to mar the cheerful cosmetic happiness of it all. But bizarre tensions aside, APT’s production of Wilderness is remarkably well put together. Stage veteran Henry Woronicz plays family patriarch Nat Miller, owner of the Evening Globe newspaper, who has raised several children with his wife Essie (the ever-appealing Tracy Michelle Arnold). At the center of the play is a precocious Miller by the name of Richard. Presumably the Eugene O’Neil analogue in this play, Richard (Steve Haggard) is a strong-willed intellectual who is taken with Muriel McComber (Kelsey Brennan). Their strong but young love is tested when Richard’s notes to Muriel are discovered by her parents, who have forbid her to see him. Distraught, Richard goes to a disreputable bar with his friend Wint (Kevin Pitman), and as anyone could probably guess, shenanigans ensue. This is O’Neil, though, and not a more established comic playwright like Neil Simon, so the shenanigans in question have a dark edge that never really manages to be that funny. If anything, it’s all quite uncomfortable. Thankfully, it is all entertainingly uncomfortable. Stellar performances by the entire cast ensure that the play is at its best, despite a less-than-impressive script. Tiffany Scott is particularly memorable as Richard’s little sister Mildred, and Sara Day puts in a captivating performance as Nat’s unmarried sister Lily. The biggest standout performance in a supporting role here has got to be Ken Albers as Essie’s perpetually drunk brother Sid. Albers has a charisma that only comes from a long life on the stage. It’s a pleasure to see him in a role where he is able to capitalize on that charisma. While the sappy, wistuful ending leaves all kinds of things to be desired, it is nonetheless a satisfying evening of theater, all things considered. The American Players Theatre’s production of Ah, Wilderness! runs through October […]
Jul 7th, 2008 by Russ Bickerstaff
The Making of a King
Taking place in two separate feature-length parts, William Shakespeare’s Henry IV rarely appears in its entirety. This is a lamentable situation, as Shakespeare’s style of storytelling benefits a great deal from a longer, more involved plot structure than a single feature-length play will allow for. In its entirety Henry IV forms the middle half of a four-part series that begins with Richard II and ends with Henry V. Milwaukee Shakespeare closes out its four-year production of the series this coming February with its staging of Henry IV, while this summer, the American Players Theatre in Spring Green launches its abbreviated production of Henry IV. The play is largely focused on Part One, with a heavily edited version of Part Two to round out a single two-hour presentation. While it’s a pretty fair substitute for anyone who might not have caught Shakespeare’s classic in its entirety with Milwaukee Shakespeare these past two years, the APT’s truncated Henry IV isn’t the breathtaking tale of power and intrigue that it could have been. James Ridge puts in an admirable performance in the title role, carrying a weary restlessness with him. Ridge musters a commanding stage presence, but the rest of the events of this particular adaptation fail to harness his energy to power a coherent stage dynamic. Fusing the two scripts together seems to have killed some of the intensity of Shakespeare’s pacing, and Ridge’s performance, which would’ve been brilliant in a more balanced production, can’t help but flounder a bit here. APT Core Acting Company member Matt Schwader plays the king’s son Prince Hal. Though Schwader has more than ample charisma in the role of the young prince who carouses with thieves and bandits, the finer ends of his performance lack the finesse needed to show the full intensity of Hal’s transformation into Henry V at the end of the play, and Without the full benefit of all the events leading to that end, Schwader isn’t given enough room to develop. Brian Mani puts in the single most memorable performance of the production as Hal’s ally Sir John Falstaff. Though he’s largely comic relief, Falstaff is one of the most enduring characters in the series, and the opportunity to play Falstaff gives Mani an perfect spotlight in the production. He takes full advantage. Mani, who performed the title role in APT’s Timon of Athens last year, is a gifted actor and here we see him elevating the ends of an otherwise largely uninspired production of Henry IV. Mani, Schwader, Ridge and many others hold things together, but the underlying problem here is the script, which fails to bring coherence or power to let the drama stand alone. One of the major consumer-level criticisms of Shakespeare’s histories is that they are long and boring. APT had the opportunity to fuse two of the histories into a package that would be much more attractive to unfamiliar audiences, but their adaptation fails to do this, settling for an adaptation of the two-part script that is […]
Jul 7th, 2008 by Russ Bickerstaff
Dead Man’s Carnival
Photos by Kat Berger + Lynn Allen (Black Sheep Photography) The circus has a long, romantic history in Wisconsin. The seven dashing Ringling brothers held their first circus in Baraboo in 1884, and the town remained their headquarters and wintering grounds until 1917. The site is now the Circus World Museum. Fast forward to 2008: the circus arts are dead, replaced with Nintendo Wii and flat screen TVs. Right? Wrong! Who is carrying on this ancient art? Bing! You win a cigar, kiddo. It’s Dead Man’s Carnival, a daring and different group of performers who shake together the old and the new, ultimately rendering classic Americana: a beautiful jazz siren with a nose ring, throwing flames. “A lot of these skits are a hundred years old,” says member Gypsy Geoff. “We just put our own spin on it.” A LIGHT BULB FOR ZERO THE CLOWN Gene – Zero the Clown – stands on the stage, wrapped in heavy chains. Erik Bang approaches with a wicked-looking tazer and applies it to the metal links. Gene thrashes, and Erik sticks a light bulb in his mouth. It lights up, and the audience cheers. Gene does fire performance, juggling, and comedy sketches with lots of costume changes. He was influenced by groups he saw at Burning Man Festival that mixed traditional sideshow fare with modern influences. These small circus groups have been popping up all over the country and Gene wanted to do something similar in Milwaukee. As he became involved with fire performance troupe Arson Etiquette and local juggling groups, he started to network with other performers. Last summer, Gene and his friend Ryan Aschebrook started booking sexy circus shows at Club ? called “Karnal:Ville.” The saucy show mixed traditional circus acts with sex toys and burlesque. The group gained a following, mostly because they were offering something different to do on a Saturday night. After a few shows, Aschebrook moved on. The group changed their name to Dead Man’s Carnival and Gene took on much of the scheduling and stage managing for the group. I ask him what the appeal of the circus is for him. He wears a suit coat over a gray button-up shirt; his clothes and posture give him the character of a magician. “It’s a medium that pursues a mixture of arts you wouldn’t necessarily get in another framework. It’s very flexible for doing everything your heart desires. That and the stripes. The striped clothing appeals to me.” He also cites the audience reaction as one of his favorite parts of performance – and there is a reaction. At a recent show I witnessed laughter, cheering, wolf-whistling, hooting, eyes covered in pain and even a few protests and disgusted mutterings. Gene (Zero the Clown) THE SURREAL YARD SALE In May, two of the carnival’s performers, Pinky and Erik Bang, had a rummage sale. It wasn’t your typical knickknacks, toasters and old dishes. The spread included juggling pins, swords for swallowing, eccentric suits, a bucket of raccoon bones […]
Jul 1st, 2008 by Tea Krulos
Earlimart
Must a band be loud to be heard? Or exceedingly different to be noticed? Must the middle ground be mediocre? L.A. duo Earlimart’s sixth full-length release, Hymn and Her, a string of twelve easy and modest indie rock songs, has the answer: it’s lovely, for once, not to have to stare directly into the sun of a band’s persona. In fact, lack of personality creates an odd wall of detachment. The lyrics are introspective, but in a distanced philosophical sense, not a messy emotional one. “We’re much more than that/But for now it’s a deathtrap,” bassist Ariana Murray sings of allowing a rocky relationship to breathe on “Before it Gets Better.” It’s wise and cool-headed; the band values breakups and let downs as occasions for personal rediscovery. Thematically, returning “home” is the heart of the disc. The tambourine-pulsed “Logically Follow” is a favorite and the second of three tracks where Murray’s earthy vocals aren’t just harmony. Earlimart’s other half, guitarist Aaron Espinoza, leads the rest, despite a tendency to sound a little sloppy (“For the Birds”) or too much like Elliott Smith (“God Loves You the Best”). But really, that’s nitpicking. The production is subtle and elegant, with piano, organ, and viola intensifying interest and structure throughout. Hymn and Her is ideal for a leisurely, windows-down summer drive, but as the price of gas rises (and given the likely advice of introverts Espinoza and Murray), this release is better suited for winding down with a drink on your living room sofa.
Jul 1st, 2008 by Amber Herzog
Icy Demons
By Kyle Shaffer An open-door policy in a musical project seems is an obvious catalyst for experimentation. But when that collective implements an initiation process – involving alter egos – all your circuit-bent guitar pedals and Godspeed You Black Emperor! albums may not prepare you for what you’re about to experience. That’s the idea behind Icy Demons’ latest, Miami Ice, as the group challenges listeners to journey into poppy experimentalism as opposed to experimental pop. Chris Powell (aka PowPow) and Griffin Rodriguez (aka Blue Hawaii) are the group’s founders, though no one really appears to be at the wheel of the project. A slew of guest artists, including Tortoise guitarist Jeff Parker, make up the supporting cast on this trippy, unpredictable release. Icy Demons hit their stride amidst quirky, repetitive melodies a la Broken Social Scene on “Spywatchers” and “1850,” making use of everything from cello riffs to vintage keyboard sounds. And while the title track hints at pop immediacy, the songs keep shifting in the neo-prog/jazz of opener “Buffalo Bill” and the lounge room sway of “Summer Samba”. Were it not for the spacey time shifts and alien synth lines, Miami Ice might almost sound terrestrial. But this album may as well be the soundtrack to a robot-only sex party or Martians shooting up heroin. There’s certainly something to be said for the ingenuity and left-field antics that run amok on this release – it just may not be translatable in any earthly tongue.
Jul 1st, 2008 by Vital Archives
Mavericks and leaders
There are only three paths in life for a free spirit: lazy dreamer, maverick and leader. Of course there’s a fourth option, and one that many attempt – some to the end of their days – avoidance of embracing one’s true nature. The strongest of these reassure themselves that they’re “doing the right thing” by attaining middle management status so their kids can have the opportunities they didn’t (though I believe this is a myth, and that foregoing your own fulfillment sets a terrible example). Others spend their lives bouncing from job to job, looking for that magical situation in which they can finally be happy. But for those who recognize their own nature and acknowledge its calling, none of the choices are easy (assuming the absence of a trust fund). Lazy dreamer is the most attractive option for the young. Life is simple: when you have ten bucks, you get three beers at your corner bar. You might have a guitar, or a cat, or a collection of first edition Raymond Carver hardbacks – things you cherish not for their material value, but because they’re special to you. You’re probably satisfactorily under-employed somewhere that offers a flexible schedule. Your friends are artists and activists, and collectively you reinforce each others’ belief in simple pleasures and the evils of material enslavement. It’s a good life for awhile, and some folks keep with it all of their days. For others, there comes a time – typically in one’s late 20s or early 30s – when la vie bohème loses its charm. You may want to set up house with your baby, you might be tired of being broke all the time or perhaps you’re simply sick of hearing that you’re a chronic fuck-up. At this disheartening fork in the road, there are two paths: the aforementioned denial of your nature (at least temporarily) or the reinvention of yourself as a maverick. Mavericks are the mythic darlings of American culture. They work tirelessly in pursuit of their personal goals while bowing to no man; they are the innovators, the self-made millionaires, the rock stars. They don’t punch a time clock. For hard-working free spirits, this is probably the best life imaginable. It’s helpful to have an in-demand business skill you can hone into a personal empire, but even if you don’t you can dedicate yourself to becoming a skilled artisan and make a nice living while maintaining your independence. One thing not taught in maverick school, though, is the catch: the successful ones will find themselves at another fork in the road, and they’ll have to make a choice: to stay free and accept the limits of the one-man band, or to build something larger than one person can achieve. It’s the very definition of irony. While mavericks enjoy (immensely, really) widespread fraternity with other mavericks, with the people for whom they provide services and with any envious joe they find on a barstool at 5:30 on a Friday night with their […]
Jul 1st, 2008 by Jon Anne Willow
Fire in the Disco
Photos by Brian Jacobson + Eric Walton “Everyone calls me a magician. I don’t mind it so much, but – at least get it right.” If you’ve lived through a summer in Milwaukee and you’re not a total shut-in, you’ve probably seen Marcus Monroe – he’s hard to miss on his eight-foot unicycle, juggling knives taped to torches (the “knorch,” Marcus’ own invention) with a firecracker strapped to a helmet on his head. The extreme juggler and performance artist has been a fixture on the local festival circuit since he was a teenager. In 2004, Marcus moved to New York City to start his career as an entertainer and it’s been nothing but rock star success ever since – taking the stage at all hours of the night at NYC “playgrounds for billionaires,” opening for Cake and Talib Kweli, traveling the world with a knock-off Louis Vutton bag of juggling clubs and living with two other jugglers in a “fun house” apartment in the big city. But he’s more than just a certified phenom with a pretty face: the magnetic Marcus Monroe, a 23-year-old Milwaukee native, wants you to experience juggling like you have never experienced it before. He wants to make it fresh. He wants to make it hot. He wants to change it – forever. As a kid, Marcus “was kind of the goofy juggler,” he says. “But I wanted to appeal to a mass market. I wanted to start a new style of juggling … not the traditional sequined vest, crazy, ridiculous suits, colorful ties. I realized that there are no rules. I’m my own boss. I started dressing the way I would want to see a juggler dress. I wore what Justin Timberlake was wearing. I watched pop concerts to see what Usher was wearing and asked, how can this work on me? “I looked good. And the juggling was good.” JUGGLE FEVER When he was nine, Marcus saw one of his schoolmates juggle in a talent show – “just three balls, very poorly when I think about it,” he says. “But it was so inspiring to think about, someone that young … just a kid … juggling.” He spent that whole summer with his father learning the skill. “It took me so long, but my dad and I were so into it. I surrounded myself with everything juggling. I went to juggling clubs at UWM, started going to conventions, buying books on juggling, performing, videos – I didn’t care about school. I wanted to focus on juggling and performing.” His first performance – in overalls and a polka dot shirt, juggling to “Closer to Free” by the BoDeans on a boom box – was in fifth grade at the school talent show. Less than a year later, he was juggling at block parties, birthday parties, fairs and festivals. In high school he got a gig at Park Bar opening for bands, juggling fire, knives and glow-in-the-dark hoops. It attracted him a gathering of fans from […]
Jul 1st, 2008 by Amy Elliott
The Black Ghosts
In my lifelong predilection to condense a review to one word, this one would garner more of an escape of breath: “Eh.” Honestly, there just isn’t enough originality (or for that matter, anything compelling) within these 11 tracks to elicits more than that. Their moniker itself is groan-worthy: how many bands do we need with the “Black” adjective or “Ghost” subject, really? Oh, and their aim is to haunt and disquiet the listener with gothic eeriness. Whatever you say, guvnor. Obviously, these two Brits know what to do with the equipment. They’ve studied their Beck, Madonna, and early ‘90s Madchester scene. There are beats galore, with the requisite samples and sonic candy thrown in right where they should be. The tracklisting is near-perfect, with the moodier numbers spacing the upbeat disco and the (all too few!) fat-bottomed jams, which are without a doubt the highlight of the recording. Both “Until It Comes Again” and “Something New” are truly funky, with basslines that make me salivate. “Full Moon” features the collection’s best production, with acoustic guitars and strings that build to a nice crescendo. Unfortunately, the vocals never go anywhere: they don’t lie inside the instruments, nor illuminate the forgettable melodies. Although I’ve been highly critical of the templated songwriting and aesthetic, this is not a bad disc – I’ll just listen to my Codebreaker over it any day.
Jul 1st, 2008 by Troy Butero
Into Arcadia
Horace Walpole, the 18th century English writer/historian/politician, oh-so-properly pointed out that “this world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.” Walpole had a point, as those who are bound by the heart are usually more prone to the pathos that life dishes out. Milwaukee’s Into Arcadia have transformed their fair share of dark days into earnestly exuberant songs, rooted in tragedy, yet propelled by a sound that is anything but dreary. Their five-song EP Maps for Children, according to Otto Ohlsson (vox, guitar), was based on his childhood experiences growing up in Manchester, England. The title, Ohlsson explains, comes from “the struggle between childhood’s innocence and the corrupting nature of coming of age;” Ohlsson added that the band doesn’t plan to dwell on this theme for the duration of their musical careers, and that he believes that their next writing ventures will be “more upbeat … more dance-y.” Whatever direction the future holds for Into Arcadia, their debut EP is a pretty study in absolution from past wrongs, with beautiful driving guitars from Ohlsson and Kenny Buesing solidified by Wes Falk’s bass and Zac Weiland’s percussion. Joy Division, Doves, The Fall and early Coldplay are all familiar sounds for Maps for Children. “Time is no best friend of mine,” Ohlsson sings on “Distance Equals Time,” guitars chiming and percussion punching the wall of lyrics built to give the songs strength, even in their vulnerability. What would Walpole say about what the world holds for those who think and feel after hearing this record?
Jul 1st, 2008 by Erin Wolf
On Assignment
Or: Getting entertained to death in Branson, MO Yakov Smirnoff – of early ‘80s “In Soviet Union, car drives YOU!” fame – is currently fighting a losing battle against a mob of bloodthirsty, dancing pirates. Overwhelmed, he swings a plastic sword wildly through the air as he’s driven ever closer to the edge of the stage. “Oh no!” he cries. “I think we’re in for an adventure!” I’m sitting in the Yakov Smirnoff Theater in Branson, Missouri. Hundreds of semi-conscious senior citizens with pants up to their necks fill the seats around me, applauding every Russian themed dance number and crusty joke about the differences between men and women (men and toilet seats: when will they ever learn?). I’m applauding along with them, and it isn’t until the show’s climax – in which Smirnoff serenades and subsequently waltzes with the Statue of Liberty – that the big question finally hits me: What the hell am I doing here? Yakov Smirnoff: He’s not dead yet The armadillo, the mayor, and the ghost Branson sits astride the shores of Lake Taneycomo in the middle of the Ozarks, 40 miles north of the Arkansas border. A self-described “Family-Friendly Las Vegas,” it’s home to a ridiculous number of theaters and attractions that cater almost exclusively to the geriatric set: Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede, Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Theater, The Roy Rogers-Dale Evans Museum. Andy Williams, Bobby Vinton and the surviving members of Bill Haley’s Comets are among Branson’s red-hot celebrity fixtures, along with Mel Tillis, Ann-Margaret, and yes, Yakov “What a country!” Smirnoff. In addition to these highlights, Branson also contains plenty of standard tourist-trap fare: Hollywood wax museums, haunted houses, miles and miles of biblical-themed motels. To make a useful local comparison, Branson is a lot like Wisconsin Dells, only with fewer water parks and more theaters owned by the Oak Ridge Boys. For reasons unclear, I’ve been sent to Branson to cover its annual Summertime in the Ozarks Festival. Accompanied once again by VITAL’s own Amy Elliott, my assignment is open-ended and my angle unclear: should I write about how ridiculous this place will almost surely be? Should I look for something deeper, a hidden side to Branson rarely seen or discussed? Should I just say “fuck it” and check out the Red Skelton tribute show? In the end, I manage to come up with a half-baked notion that no matter what, I should attempt to shield our adventures with the least amount of protective irony as possible; I want to be truly entertained. And in a town that counts Tony Orlando as one of its main selling points, that’s a tall order. We arrive on a Thursday morning, bleary and caffeine-shaky from a grueling 10-hour drive through the night. After grabbing a quick breakfast at the Farmhouse Café (I order a cheese omelet, which arrives – topped as promised – with two melted Kraft Singles) and checking into our rooms at the brand-new Hilton Convention Center (an elderly doorman claims some […]
Jul 1st, 2008 by Matt Wild
