Dem Bones
The Flip Side of Life
I’m wondering what would be revealed if the small town where I spent (until 1951) the first fifteen years of my life, had its skin peeled off? When I speak of “skin,” I’m talking about churches, schools, farms, and various other signifiers of the good life in rural America. Until we moved to Kansas City at the beginning of the Civil Rights era, I had not a clue that the world wasn’t populated by people like me: fair of skin and blue of eye. Yes, I’d sat through many a news reel at the town’s lone Rialto Theater, where I saw images of “Japs” float by during WWII. Some of those news reels spilled over into the cartoons too…caricatures of foreigners not to be trusted by the likes of Bugs Bunny. Cartoonist Al Capp kept us laughing on Sundays, though little did I suspect that his take on cigar-chomping capitalists, was anything but fun. It was years before I realized Al was an activist in disguise. During WWII, a Jewish family moved to our town to open a butcher shop. “They’re selling horsemeat,” floats through my head to this day. There was a German family who immigrated (foreigners!) to our space and opened a bakery, and although there were numerous Germans, Irish, and Swedes populating the valley, it was those Germans recently arrived who got the shaft. In 1912, the town became the site of the axe murder of eight sleeping on a quiet Sunday. The local paper covered it in gruesome detail, and the event gained national notoriety. It’s informative to flip through the pages of a reproduction of the various Axe Murder issues. The case was never solved, but the suspects were always described as “dark of skin.” During a class reunion, I remarked about this to a local woman, who shot back, “We still have a law on our books which states “all blacks are to be out of town by sundown.” It’s doubtful that her smug statement was true (at least in the 70s & 80s), and well, when she died of a heart attack a few days following the reunion, I can’t say I was among the mourners She also told me that she locked the doors to her home each and every night, because “foreigners” might cause trouble. Yesterday I visited an installation (at inova/Kenilworth’s current exhibit). Standing in front of the superb photographs by Kevin Miyazaki, photographs detailing the internment camp in the United States where his father and his father’s family were sent during WWII, I recalled the news reels at the Rialto. There I sat with my popcorn, a uniformed kid soaking up the undercurrent of racist thinking Anyone who thinks that racism isn’t thriving in America is either a fool or is brain dead. Peel back the skin and take a good look. As we near the election, I find myself fretting that perhaps I’m casting my vote for Obama simply because he’s black. Am I the only person wrestling […]
Oct 20th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Chocolate & Wurst
You know things are bad when a small bank coyly titled “Main Street” collapses. It’s almost as if that maudlin flick A Wonderful Life is suddenly and forever no longer available for viewing. You know things are bad when Laura Bush starts shopping for a new house in Big D, perhaps figuring the old shack in Crawford just won’t do. Crawford has gone steadily downhill with the decline of George W. No longer is it filled with SUV’s yearning to draw ever nearer the sacred ranch, and all but two shops hawking Bush trash are closed. Crawford had its 15 minutes of fame. A great article in the New Yorker magazine took a poke at the photo op moments of Bush whacking Texas brush in the heat of August, suggesting that no one in their right mind hacks brush in Texas in August. Except Bush who looks like he’s aged one hundred years since taking office. You know things are bad when McCain chastises his crowds and suddenly begins describing Obama as a nice guy, a fine man, and whoa! Not an Arab, but a genuine American. You know things are bad when Palin sinks deeper into TrooperGate and Bill Clinton zips his lips, and GM’s Janesville plant is set to close. You know things are good when you run across a grizzled ‘Nam vet who owns the Chocolate Tree on Old World Third St. He and the wife have put four daughters through college on the earnings from hawking sweets. They’re currently looking for a larger venue, a place where trucks can load and unload without getting ticketed while trying to run a business. Folks come in to his store complaining about their financial losses and leave with a bag of treats which allegedly gives them comfort. Usingers is north a few buildings, and things seem to be humming there as well. For them, the wurst has always been good.
Oct 16th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Astronaut Artist
My son was about six or seven when Alan Bean blasted off in November 1969, piloting the lunar module of Apollo 12: Destination, moon. Bean became the fourth person to trod there. At age 76, he’s alive and well, and recently had an exhibit of his artworks at the Lyndon Baines Johnson Library and Museum in Austin, Texas. Last year I gave my son a signed print of one of Bean’s original moon-related paintings. The originals are going for great big bucks these days…. astronomical, you could say. He left NASA in 1981, figuring his talents were best put to use as a serious painter. An article at www.msnbc.com described his work as “Monet-like,” but that is a bit of a stretch, and could be applied to any and all artists who sway toward impressionism. While the paintings certainly aren’t hyper-realistic, they do speak of a place we will never visit, at least not me. I’ve looked into the depths of Monet’s Lily Pond painting many times at the Chicago Institute of Art, and while it’s worlds away from the moon, perhaps there is a connection, if only through the “remembering” of a specific place in a specific time. Coincidentally, I think Bean was in a group of astronauts who were touring Peru in the early 70s. I happened to also be in Lima, Peru at the time, dining in a splendid restaurant, when the astronauts and their wives strolled in for dinner. Naturally, I got their autographs, but when my son left for college, the treasure was thrown out. I admit I was the thrower. Anyway, the astronauts’ wives were true to their Texas roots when they entered the eatery. The weather was warm (actually Lima is dry as a dessert), but in they came, wearing mink stoles, their hair piled high, looking every bit like tourists, albeit celebrity tourists. At that moment, I was thrilled to be an American. A few weeks later in my Peruvian adventure, I took a train to Machu Pichu and spent a memorable overnight in a spider-trap of a hotel room. The return flight home was equally memorable, punctuated with an earthquake that rippled the runway as the plane lifted skyward. Two weeks later, Lima was devastated by a really big one. I have to chuckle when I think about Bean blasting to the moon and living to paint his memories. The space age seems light-years away. As we prepare to blast off and elect a new President, I’m almost wishing I was on the moon, viewing earth from a safer place.
Oct 13th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary & Thyme
I didn’t watch the second Presidential debate. McCain vs. Obama. Obama vs. McCain. I turned off the latest television report on the bailout fiasco, and tuned instead to the 1967 flick, The Graduate, which was airing on TCM. A few years ago, my son told me it was the movie that defined his era. In many ways, it defines our current crisis. Plastics, son, plastics is where it is. What would you prefer with your bourbon, Benjamin? A splash of Wealth, or a spritz of Idealism? Where are those kids of forty years ago who marched to their own drum? My old friend, so much has changed, and yet nothing has. Obama vs. McCain vs. Obama. William Ayers, Charles Keating, Rev. Wright. War in the middle east. Plastics, son, plastics is where it is. Cancelled credit cards. Cut your hair; get a job. Or is it, your jobs are gone, let your hair grow? The Russian stock market tanks, banks close, savings evaporate. Is the party over, or is it just beginning? Sell the McMansion (but who will buy?), dump the Porsche, scuttle the vacation. We’re all going to be picking lettuce in Salinas, though those who have been picking it for years will leave us in the dust. They know the drill. Heating bills are projected to rise at least 18% this winter, so turn down the heat and stop worrying about the possibility that the Hoan will be torn down to clear up space for more development. The Park East project is dead. Retail sales are headed south. Restaurants are closing. Rome burns while politicians pose for photos. A young UW-Milwaukee student is murdered while trying to sell his car. Here’s to you Mrs. Robinson. Plastics, son, plastics is where it is.
Oct 9th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
BAAAAAAA!
The American taxpayers are about to be shorn. I’m not entirely unacquainted with the shearing of sheep, having observed the process on my aunt’s sheep ranch in South Dakota, a long time ago, in the days before our government began substituting citizens for sheep. There are a few basic rules for a good shearing: citizens are to have no water for 24 hours prior to shearing; no food for 12 hours prior, and they must be absolutely dry for optimum results. A good shearer knows his/her stuff, having learned the trade on Wall Street and in the hallowed halls of Washington, D.C. A good shearer knows how to get the citizens up and down the chute as fast as possible. This reduces stress on both the shearer and those being shorn. Some citizens show up wearing barrels. They’ve already been shorn by prior administrations and, having lost everything, are not good candidates. While shearing, a good shearer minimizes cuts, as this reduces the quality of what is shorn from the citizens. However, it’s not usually a problem as most citizens have been bled dry by increased taxation and decreased representation. It’s important that the citizens do not discharge their waste on the shearing shed floor, as it screws up the product. Equally important, is keeping the citizens under control. Citizens who stand around wondering what’s going on are not citizens appropriate for shearing. Shearing is highly competitive; in fact, it is a global sport of sorts. Following the shearing in which citizens are fleeced, everyone involved (except the citizens) get to share in a lavish feed, including lamb chops and rack ‘o lamb. Note: Citizens do not want to be wrestled around on a full stomach, just so you know.
Oct 8th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Flat Broke and Burned Out
Instead of watching the first presidential debate, I opted to hop into bed with a copy of Yukio Mishima’s Spring Snow, the first in his “The Sea of Fertility” cycle of four novels. It takes place in 1912 Tokyo and is basically a tale about two cultures: the traditional vs. the non-traditional. The author is on the side of the traditional, and if you’ve followed his career, he ended his life decades ago by using a traditional samurai sword. A few months ago, I purchased the DVD, Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters, a great film. And thus was I swept away. Spring Snow is a bit like observing a perfect Japanese scroll painting. The language paints a watercolor scene, lusciously so, but as I read on, I kept thinking how the main character (militant and steeped in tradition) reminded me of John McCain who seems positively determined to stick with the old at all costs. I’ve had it with politics in the past week. Did I miss something by not watching the debate? No, it was reported in minute detail in all of the media outlets. The press tried to pump it up, but frankly, we’ve heard it all by now, and there was nothing to pump in Oxford, Mississippi. Today brought nothing new about Sarah Palin, just a suggestion that she “step aside.” Please God, no more theatrics. I’ve had enough for a political lifetime. I say this even though I don’t believe in God, but I’ve been driven to the wall. November 4 is beginning to seem centuries away and I smell something rotten in Denmark, to wit, the smell emanating from Bill Clinton, ostensibly a devoted Democrat, who oddly has recently been heaping praise on McCain. Is Bill plotting Hillary’s comeback? Or hedging his career bets just in case McCain wins? The more Clinton chatters, the longer and rounder his nose gets. Do any of you readers really believe the average American will ever see any of the monies they’ve lost during the ongoing financial debacle? The United States is allegedly flat broke. Who’s going to pay for all of the campaign promises? Print more money, print more money, print more money.
Oct 6th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Inside McCain’s brain
Hope burns eternal, and in an effort to be unbiased in this election year, I picked up the October Atlantic and began reading a lengthy page 40 feature titled “The Wars of John McCain.” The cover featured a headshot of the Senator from Arizona. Something in his eyes looked “sincere,” but I grew up during World War II, and always was a sucker for a man in uniform. Any man in uniform, though as I recall, I tended to favor celluloid pilots in flight jackets as I recall. So on I read. The text (interspersed with lively photos) seemed to be mostly focused on why McCain supports various wars, including the one in ‘Nam. He thinks that one could have been won, if only the troops had more support, both there and here. He also believes our current war (the one in the Middle East) could be won. If only … Midway through the article, I began to feel for McCain, if only because he seems almost schizophrenic, or at least, greatly confused. At this stage he’s pretty old (my age) to be trying to remember what confused him. Everyday I get more pissed over his choice of Sara Palin as a running mate, though likely it’s because other possible choices recognized the sinking ship and ran for cover, leaving him to fly (almost) solo with the embarrassment from Alaska, where by the way, a huge rally was staged to protest her ideas. I went to Maureen Dowd’s site, a site recommended by fellow blogger Bobrow, and at least had a moment of hilarious respite from the depressing Atlantic article. For the past year, I’ve been writing a weekly column for my old hometown Iowa newspaper, which has been publishing for 150 years. I fear the 1,000 readers (mostly Republican) aren’t quite adjusted to my column. A few weeks ago, I addressed Cindy McCain’s hideously expensive ensemble, trotted out at the Republican National Convention, and asked why her advisors allowed her to trot forth in rich rags when most readers are down to their last barrel. Incoming! Along came an email from a Lieutenant in the United States Air Force. He wasn’t exactly nasty (the volley was signed “Very Respectfully Yours”), but he took strong issue with what he perceived to be an endorsement for the Dems, nevermind that the column included fashionista references to Jackie-O, Bess Truman, Nancy Reagan and Rosalind Carter. I ended the column by saying “considering the number of service people who return from the disastrous middle east war, minus arms and legs, Cindy’s frock seemed of no consequence.” He still didn’t get it, and asked me, “Have you ever even been to Iraq?” And then, “have you ever been thanked by an Iraqi kid who you gave candy to?” Very Respectfully Yours, Dem Bones
Sep 29th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Totally unexpected
Urban Outfitters on floor one of the artsy Kenilworth building has the right idea when it comes to marketing. Check out the street art Mao stencils on the exterior of north face, then walk a few steps west and consider Amy M. Scokza’s cut paper display in the window. A few more steps and you can stroll the modernist alley, perhaps the most beautifully designed space in Milwaukee. Keep heading south and you’ll connect with the Oak Leaf trail below.
Sep 26th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Moose lodge
This has been a strange year. I’ve started writing a weekly column (City Mouse) for my old Iowa hometown newspaper, The Villisca Review. I grew up there in a berg (population now 1,000) nestled between two branches of the Nodaway River, in the valley known as Nodaway. The paper has been publishing for 150 years, believe it or not Ripley. Once upon a time I asked the editor (back in the 40s) if I could write for the Review. When I couldn’t spell Omaha, he told me to come back later. I’m back. The current editor is a woman who publishes it all out of her home. Mostly what she gets to print are 4-H ribbon winners, basketball and football stuff, and happenings in small town U.S.A. They still print who visited who, which I admit, is sweet and endearing. This week I added a second article to my contributions, a review of a book of superb black and white photographs about Iowa musicians. I found it online and ordered a copy from the Chicago distributor. Anyway, the photographer who produced the beauties is Sandra Dyas, who teaches photography at Cornell College in Mt. Vernon, Iowa. Included with the book is a great CD of tunes by mostly Iowa musicians, including Greg Brown, whose name I’ve seen on the Shank Hall marquee near where I live. Turns out that Ms. Dyas is a longtime friend of Julie Lindemann and Johnnie Shimon, and she’s coming to M’waukee to see their show before it closes at MAM. The Review has only one other columnist, a former Villiscan who is also a former farm lobbyist, now living in Virginia. He describes himself as a staunch Republican. Most of the town is made up of staunch Republicans. Which is why I may be in deep doo-doo. Initially, I began writing my column as a way to connect memories of the small town with my life in Milwaukee, but eventually that well begins to run dry. Now that the election is nearing, I decided to step forward with some thoughts about one Mr. Obama. I should add here that prior to moving to Kansas City (when I was 15, around the time of the Civil Rights movement), I actually thought everyone in the world was fair of skin and blue of eye. Just like me and most of Villisca’s residents. Fortunately, my editor is all for freedom of expression. This can’t be easy, as anything she prints is open to attack the moment she steps out and faces her readers in the town square. But she’s given me the go ahead. The other columnist, the staunch Republican, takes issue with my stance and lately has started sending me a volley of emails calling my writing “crap, left-wing, hippie” etc. Yesterday I blocked any future emails from him. He was particularly pissed over a piece I wrote about Cindy McCain’s $300,000 ensemble, and demanded that I verify where I got the “factoid,” never mind that it […]
Sep 26th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Humping for Obama
Saturday, September 13: I’ve just returned from the afternoon opening of Obama’s campaign headquarters at 534 West National Avenue in Walker’s Point. It was a homecoming of sorts as I used to live in a funky building adjacent to La Perla at 5th & National and later, worked at Art Muscle Magazine at 10th & National, west of the headquarters. Those were they days my friend, when artists partied hard in Frank Ford’s infamous StudioGalactica, and if not there, equally hard at Carrie Scoczek’s apartment/studio on south 5th. Walker’s Point Center for the Arts was in the space now occupied by La Perla, but it’s still around, currently in a historic building due west, and here and there upstart galleries struggle to hang on. The best part of the opening was being in Nick Topping’s former digs, and if Topping was among the living, he’d likely be thrilled at the turnout. He was a socialist/activist, and his store was plastered with socialist posters. It was a hangout for all kinds of people. If history has it right, it was Topping who brought the Beatles to Milwaukee. The young volunteers circulating in the crowded space had never heard of Topping, but I got at least one of them to write down his name and see if she could round up information about him and put it on the walls, along with sign-up sheets for the many items needed to keep the place running. “Everything we have so far has been donated,” a sweating volunteer said. A lady sat at a table selling Obama stuff, and I went home with a big round “Fist Bump” button dangling from my purse. It was hot and stuffy inside the space and folks were congregating on the sidewalk fronting the building. Mountains of food arrived in huge containers steaming forth smells of beans and rice, along with platters of chips and salsa, and bottled water. A band kicked in later as an assortment of local politicians filtering forth. Kent Mueller, former proprietor of KMArt, dropped in for a plate of food and some conversation about the way back in Walker’s Point. He lives in the neighborhood in a historic home, and is certainly part of the local scene. I remarked that a sheet taped to the wall indicated the headquarters is seeking artists to paint portraits of Obama, so if any of you readers so desire, they can be dropped off at 534 W. National. The walls could use something more than sign-up sheets, and certainly artists could do worse than portray the next president of the United States. There was quite a bit of buzz in the crowd about how tight the race is going to be in Wisconsin, and I overheard snippets about Palin, snippets about Bill supporting Obama, and snippets about “McSame.” From one of the sign-up sheets, it looked like there is a need for volunteers to carry the message forward. EDIT: Sunday, September 21: I’m back for Barack Quite a […]
Sep 22nd, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Mad for Donald Man
I’m in love with Mad Men. It’s my era, the age of nipped in waists, crinoline petticoats and Merry Widow waist-cinchers, and well, yes, rubber girdles that steamed up at the drive-in movies. These were actually pure rubber and they came packaged in long tubes of silver and (I think) pink. Getting out of them was akin to wrestling with a window shade that wouldn’t roll up properly. If you lost control, you could strangle in the thing. Fashions aside, I don’t recall ever having sex in an office, though I too slaved as a secretary, accounts payable person, and switchboard operator. It wasn’t easy walking to work in high heels, pounding forward in the Missouri heat (ice in winter), up the concrete hill, dressed to kill. My job in accounts payable (for a major corporation specializing in baked goods), meant I often opened letters of complaint from persons who found a rat turd or a fingernail, or worse, in their particular slice of bread from the ovens of Patterson Bakeries. My switchboard job involved riding the bus from Detroit to the burbs of all-Polish Hamtramck, where I smiled sweetly for my car dealership boss at Shore Chevrolet. He personified jerkiness, though I never actually saw him having sex in the office, and he didn’t drink, at least not so you’d notice. In those dim days, I paid a babysitter 50 cents per hour to take care of my little girl. The sitter rode the bus in from the dismal bowels of distressed Detroit. Always on time, she never missed a day of sitting, and even dusted my small apartment window sills which were eternally black from the stuff Detroit belched forth. Later on, I lived in a bona-fide housing project where the trashy neighbors let their kid crap on my doorstep, and threatened to slit my throat if I objected. Believe me, I couldn’t make this stuff up. My life back then, except for two shirt-waist dresses that I alternated wearing, wasn’t at all like the fashionable lives of the denizens of Mad Men. Where the guys in this television fluff find enough energy to be constantly performing in the sack, and/or pouring endless streams of booze into crystal glasses, is beyond me. But I love the cast, one and all. The bitchy red-headed head-secretary, Peggy the Catholic mouse and her frumpy family, and all the others sashaying about in tight skirts and tighter sweaters. The retro sets are amazing, almost like I remember things, except for the over-the-top sex and what seems like a bunch of people forever sworn to drink till they drop. In one recent segment, there was actual attention paid to ART, specifically a Mark Rothko painting hanging in the office of the aging boss, who is some kind of great actor. The Milwaukee Art Museum has a Rothko, just in case you don’t know what I’m talking about.
Sep 19th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Run Dick Run
Jane: Run Dick Run. Dick: I’m running. Jane: It’s hot! Dick: Arizona isn’t Alaska. Jane: Look Dick Look! Naked people hiding in the sage brush! Dick: Where? Jane: Over there stupid. Dick: No one important. Job seekers I guess. Jane: Run Dick Run. Dick: There’s a big line of soldiers up ahead. Jane: Their arms & legs are missing. Dick: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Jane: Look Dick! A money tree. Let’s rest in the shade. Dick: This is my very favorite tree. I come here a lot. Jane: You do? Dick: There’s Cheney on the top branch holding onto to Dubya. Jane: Who are those two chaps approaching with an axe? Dick: Woodchoppers. Look Jane! They’re chopping my tree down. Jane: Run Dick run!
Sep 15th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
