I'm sorry to disappoint, but I am not afraid

I really don't like to disappoint people, but I often do these days.

You see, I know a lot of people who live outside the city of Milwaukee — family, friends, coworkers — and, when I tell them where my husband and I bought our house, it's obvious what they are thinking.

Aren't you afraid?

Some people actually ask the question, in one form or another: Don't you worry about break-ins? Aren't you concerned about your daughter walking to school? What if your car is stolen?

Crime, apparently, was supposed to scare us away from Riverwest. (For those of you who aren't familiar with the neighborhood, we're located southwest of the intersection of Capitol Drive and Humboldt Boulevard. For those of you who do know the neighborhood, we're at Keefe Avenue and Bremen Street.)

But there's often a deeper meaning behind the questions, revealed in my personal favorite: Who will your girls date?

I've been in Milwaukee long enough to know what many people really want to ask: Aren't you afraid of the blacks (and/or the Latinos)?

In a word, the answer is "no."

Pricks come in all shapes, sizes and colors

I fear very little, not even "the criminal element," whatever its skin color. I suspect my lack of fear stems from growing up with my old man.

My father was a prick. He was an alcoholic who failed at court-ordered rehab more than once. He was a wife beater and whore. He drove drunk. He refused to pay taxes. After my mom divorced him, he was a deadbeat dad. He stole. He was lewd. He lied. He kicked our dog.

In short, he was a bully and a criminal.

And he was as white as white comes, living in the predominantly white rural Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

I remember him once telling me to stay away from "the injuns." (In the U.P., the largest minority is Native.) When he told me why, with alcoholism topping the list, it occurred to me that he was really describing himself. I have yet to meet a Native — the term preferred by the Natives I've met, when tribe isn't known — as big a prick as my father was, drunk or sober.

In fact, the person I feared most as a child was my father.

Desperate people do desperate things

As I grew, I started putting the pieces of my father together. His formative years were pretty rough on him, I learned, and he did his best with the tools he was given by his family.

Alcohol was his therapy. Anger was his release.

Living in the U.P. didn't help. Jobs are scarce in the U.P., with high-paying jobs rare, and men who cannot provide adequately for their families often feel useless and frustrated. Alcohol is the preferred way to self-medicate in the U.P., and frustrated men make for violent drunks. (Obviously, this can apply to women, as well; I happen to know more men who suffer the affliction.)

It can become a vicious cycle, when children are involved. My brothers both started out down the wrong path when they were young; they both have juvenile records, thankfully for nonviolent offenses.

It's a cycle I recognize in Milwaukee, concentrated because there are so many more people living here.

I checked out the 2003 study titled "The Two Milwaukees: Separate and Unequal," by Marc V. Levine, professor and director of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Center for Economic Development. Levine found that unemployment among blacks in Milwaukee was 16 percent in 2000 — 17.9 among black men. Ouch.

The U.P. is no stranger to double-digit unemployment rates, either. Three of the rural counties in Michigan finished 1999 with unemployment rates of more than 10 percent for the year. Monthly unemployment rates were nearly 20 percent in winter months, when farming, logging and mining operations came to a halt.

That means, speaking in terribly simplistic terms, that roughly one of every 10 working adults I knew growing up was unemployed at any point of the year — two of every 10 in wintertime. And that's just those who filed for unemployment benefits. Many adults I knew in the U.P. didn't bother; they worked under the table or went into an illegal trade.

My old man had a reason for being a prick. Not an excuse, but a reason.

Home bittersweet home

I know what you're thinking: If life is miserable because of unemployment to the point that you're self-medicating, why not move?

I know that answer, too, although I don't necessarily agree with it. Again being overly simplistic: Home is where the heart is.

My father knew that he could survive in the U.P., no matter how tough the going got. He knew how to lie, cheat and steal his way through lean times and, more importantly, how to stay one step ahead of the authorities. And he had friends and family in the U.P. who enabled him.

Milwaukee has neighborhoods with very similar vibes to them. Even with all hope gone of good factory jobs returning to the city, Milwaukee is still home to those who once worked in the city's factories.

And I will not discount the fact that, like Michigan, Wisconsin does provide for its poor with relatively generous social welfare programs. I am, after all, a welfare child, with six years of Aid to Families with Dependent Children benefits on my resume.

I couldn't have survived my father without it.

Survive my father I did, as did my brothers. And, despite the facts and figures that tell us we, too, should be pricks, we are not. (One of us has his moments, but he's still falling short of our father's standards.)

In summary: My father, someone I least expected to be a prick, was indeed a prick. My brothers, who statistically speaking should be pricks, are not pricks. Hmmm ...

I have to give credit where credit is due. My father taught me that it's wise to judge everyone individually. If you don't, the pricks will blindside you — you could wind up married to one! — and you'll miss the chance to get to know the genuinely good people all around you.

Think about it: I could have decided early in life to write off (white) men because of my father's behavior, but then I would have missed out on 19 years of marriage to my wonderful hubby. And who knows what might have happened to my brothers ...

You have nothing to fear but fear itself

Once I shed the fear of my father by getting to know him, I had no fear of people left in me. Fear has been replaced by curiosity and an insatiable sense of adventure.

Instead of waiting to be attacked by the pricks of the world, I make it a practice to seek out the good people — including those who, statistically speaking, should be pricks but are not. I enjoy finding gems in the rough, so to speak :)

Yes, someone has broken into our garage here in Riverwest. But our neighbor interrupted the thief, and our daughter was able to recover half the stolen stuff a ways down the alley. If we had never moved to Riverwest, we would still own a men's mountain bike, but we wouldn't know our neighbor is utterly trustworthy, either.

Yes, my daughter was once accosted walking home from school, back when we lived on the East Side. But a group of complete strangers came to her aid, defending her from a man easily twice her size. Had we never moved to Milwaukee, she wouldn't have gone through the trauma, but she wouldn't know the kindness of strangers, either.

And, yes, my daughter has dated the son of a confessed Latin King with a felony criminal record. But no harm has come to her; in fact, I suspect she is safer in his house than in ours! If we hadn't enrolled her in Milwaukee Public Schools, she never would have met the boy, but she wouldn't have seen first-hand how far an apple can fall from its tree, either.

If, in the course of my adventures in our new neighborhood, I do run into more genuine pricks, I'm not going to give them any ground in my life. There isn't room; there are too many good people hanging out around me :)

Oh, and no, our cars have not been stolen. Sorry to disappoint!

Do NOT attemp this with manicured nails

I remember singing along to "I'm a Woman" by Peggy Lee as a child: "I can bring home the bacon (and) fry it up in a pan ..." I suppose I owe her a li'l credit for the fact that I grew into a feminist in theory, if not in practice.

I readily admit that (a) I don't bring home enough bacon to feed my family without the hubby's help and (b) I'm not much interested in frying what little bacon I do bring home — or cooking anything, really, unless it's pre-prepared. (I guess I would qualify as a poor starving feminist, if I were on my own ;))

And, no, I cannot do everything a man can do even better than he can do it — unless I have the proper tools, that is. Take, for example, changing a flat tire.

Yes, I can change my own flat tire. I just did tonight. Tire irons and car jacks are our friends, ladies — never mind diamonds. And, with grease under my fingernails as I type, I'm proud to tell you that I needed no help with the tire ... until it came time to pay for the replacement :)

Hey, look out for that curb!

My hubby cringes every time he looks at or thinks about my car. See, I consider my car nothing more than one of many tools I own, albeit a pretty expensive one. It gets me from Point A to Point B without having to wait at a bus stop. Love it!

And I use it like my hubby uses his wrenches: I beat on it. I brake too hard, corner too quickly, go to the carwash too infrequently, and generally drive too fast. (I can't remember, in fact, the last time I drove the speed limit ;)) Things break on my car. Often.

My car, the tool, allows me to feel free, strong and independent, at least while I'm driving. But I have this strange weakness: Curbs kick my ass. (In my defense, I learned to drive in a part of the country where curbs didn't exist.) Tonight, I hit one on the way home. Don't ask how; I won't tell.

I couldn't pull over right away, as I was in a merge lane, heading northwest on Main Street out of Waukesha onto Bluemound Road toward Brookfield. Many of you know that stupid lane, I'm sure; it's the one that looks like a freeway entrance ramp but acts like a parking lane.

Anyway, after the blow-out, I had to pull off the main road onto the frontage road, where I could safely change the tire. I correctly guessed I would shred the tire, but I've always figured it's better to be safe and get off a major road than to try saving a tire that may not be salvageable. (Yes, this is experience talking: This was my fourth curb-induced flat tire. Again, don't ask!)

And then I acted out a porn scene: I got dirty after getting on my hands and knees.

Learn from my mistakes — or face the laughs

I'm a bit rusty, so it took me about 45 minutes to change the tire. Yes, I know: Guys — and some women, I'm sure — can do it faster. But I got it done.

This might be a good time for a PSA: Gals, don't make the same mistakes I've made — at least not while there are guys watching!

Tonight, the plastic thingy that pretends to be a hubcab proved too much for me. See, I didn't pull out my owner's manual right away. (I know what you're thinking: That's a man mistake. But I figured that if I was going to do a job a man usually does, I should do it like a man would do it: without ever cracking the instructions :))

I didn't realize the plastic thingy has attached lug-nut covers that screw off just like the nuts themselves. I quickly tired of wrestling with the stupid thing and ripped it off, breaking three of the nut covers off. Oops. Gentle with tools I am not! (My hubby will undoubtedly cringe when reading this ... perhaps for more than one reason ;))

The next step went well — this time. Once upon a time, I foolishly jacked up the car before trying to loosen the lug nuts. Guess what? The tire spins when you do that. Who knew? Now I know to loosen them while the car is still solidly on the ground.

A trick for you tiny folks: Most of those lug nuts are applied with machinery. They're on too tight for anyone — man or woman — to loosen with a simple arm twist. Attach the tire iron to one of the screws so that the handle is roughly parallel to the ground. Then stand on the iron and gently bounce to loosen the nut, being careful to brace yourself in case you slip off. (Oh, and remember that it's lefty loosey, righty tighty :))

Once those lug nuts are loose, you can jack up the car. It's really quite easy: You put the jack under the car in a spot where the frame is solid and straight and turn the li'l handle. Of course, finding a spot where the frame is solid and straight is the trick here ... I'll explain in a bit.

Once the tire clears the ground you can remove the lug nuts totally (if you haven't already) and pull the tire off. This part usually stumps me.

See, on older or well-used cars, the tires often rust in place. Pulling won't break them free. Kicking them won't break them loose. Lying under the car — a serious no-no! — and kicking them from behind won't budge them, especially when the car and the ground are both frozen in mid-winter. Trust me on this one.

I once walked to a corner repair shop and asked to borrow a sledge hammer so I could loosen a damn flat tire. The guy refused to give me one but was kind enough to walk back with me and use the sledge hammer himself. I was pleased it took him three swings.

Tonight, the tire came right off, lickety split. I was pumped! But ... then ... the bloody car slid backward off the jack, in slow motion. And I was powerless to stop it. Aaarg! (Remember that bit about finding a spot where the frame is straight? Oh, and the part about how dangerous it is to crawl under a car elevated on a jack???)

I'm fine. I think the car is OK. The pavement has a couple gouges in it.

I started over with the jack. Jack is my friend. Jack takes freakin' forever to go from six inches of elevation to flat and then back to six inches of elevation. But he does the heavy lifting, so I can't complain. Much.

Read the instructions!

I finally decided to get out the owner's manual at this point. See, I pulled the space-saver spare tire from the trunk and then realized I had no idea which side should face inward toward the car. And those space-savers look quite a bit different than the real things. Ummm ... ?

I read every part of the manual regarding tires, and guess what? There is no instruction regarding what direction to turn the tire before putting it on. (However, the manual does tell you how to find a secure spot for the jack, surprise, surprise.) I'm writing Chevy!

In the meantime, I figured it out by checking the curve of the lug nut holes and comparing it to the real tire ... You'll see what I mean when you get to that point.

Buttoning up is pretty easy. Put the lug nuts on finger-tight before lowering the car to the ground, for obvious reasons. Then tighten them the same way you loosened them, with the tire iron acting as your lever and your weight as your strength. Remember to tighten in a star-shaped pattern: This ensures the tire is mounted flat, not tight on one side and loose on another.

Fortunately, I didn't have far to travel on my spare. Tires Plus was less than a mile down the road. Figures!

The guys at Tires Plus were great. They didn't say anything about the heap of trash on my car floor, the freshly spilled yogurt on my steering wheel, or the plastic hubcab I destroyed.

And, with perfect businessman demeanor, the guy who gave me my bill offered me the phone when I told him that, ah, I was at my daily limit on my debit card and couldn't pay myself ... so I'd need to call my hubby and ask to use his debit card.

I swear, though, that he was laughing as I left the building, after almost forgetting my keys. Oh, yeah, folks: You need your keys to start your car ... ;)

In total, the experience took an hour and a half of my life. The good news is that there was no bacon waiting for me to fry it when I got home ... 'cause it simply would have been too much for me!

Pop goes my cherry, at the ripe age of 37

First, get your mind out of the gutter: I have three teenage daughters, you can see from my profile, so I lost that cherry ages ago :)

I finally got drunk for the first time the other night, during my first-ever male revue.

Yes, I ended a run of sobriety that lasted 37 years, four months and seven days surrounded by nearly naked men, after more than 19 years of seeing only one man naked.

What can I say? When I make up my mind to do something, I do it right!

Unfortunately, my oldest is disappointed in me for drinking — "Mom, how could you, after all these years?!?" — and believes I "cheated" on her pops by checking out other guys.

Ummm ... Who's the grown-up here, missy?

Irresponsible me

It's been a long summer. We bought a house; my oldest moved out with her boyfriend; my middle one started college; and my baby started high school.

So, when the gals at the office suggested a Girls Night Out at the Airport Lounge strip club in Milwaukee — where they host a male revue every Saturday night in the basement, aka the Cockpit — I jumped on it. (The idea, I mean ;))

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not at all straight-laced. I grew up in da U.P. (the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, for those not native to the area), where drinking is a sport, lifestyle and food alternative. My folks, no matter how poor we were, always had a fridge stocked with beer.

And, at the risk of sounding like a cliche, I have to say it: I have many friends who drink. I've spent a lot of time in bars, good, bad and ugly. I'm a top pick when it comes to selecting a designated driver.

The hubby and I have also been to more heavy metal and hard rock concerts than the average joe: We tried counting one night, and we got up to about 100. As you can imagine, I am no stranger to lewd and/or drunken behavior.

While I may sometimes act the part, I have never been drunk, stoned, high or otherwise inebriated myself. Oops! Addendum: Until this past weekend.

And, somehow, I managed to miss out on all the bachelorette parties involving sweaty, beefy, nearly naked men. How, given what a fan I am of the opposite sex, I'm not sure ...

No ding-dongs sighted

My oldest couldn't bring herself to say the word "penis" — or any of its common nicknames — in front of me and her dad, so she opted for "ding-dong." (Yes, she is straight-laced. When you have somewhat wild parents spawned by insane relatives, you have to rebel by going clean ;))

No, I didn't see any.

I did see butt cheeks, though. And six-pack abs. And thighs. And delts. And pecs.

Up really, really close. In live and living color. (Yes, I'd go back — in a heartbeat!!!)

And, I have to say, it was a pretty pleasant "first" experience.

The crowd was small — maybe three or four dozen women, by the end of the night — and the room intimate. The men danced on a slightly elevated stage that was shaped, as one of my coworkers pointed out, like a pair of balls. (For my daughter's sake, I won't clarify what kind of balls ;)) Two circles, really, each with a stripper pole in the center.

A bar ran round the two circles, so we were sitting about a foot away from the stage. And the men.

It's not a place to go if you're seriously shy. The guys are more than willing to jump over the bar to sit in your lap or stand over you while gyrating — in some cases, uninvited.

But I can honestly say I wasn't uncomfortable.

It helped that my girlfriend Ann bought me four Bailey's Irish Creams ...

But I was having fun even before I started drinking. Everyone was laughing at what was clearly a stage show. The actors engaged the audience, yes, but there was no real intimacy. No eye contact. No personal conversation. No groping — by the guys, anyway ;)

And Ann, a veteran of the strip-club scene, was a blast. She'd never been to a male revue, either, despite her numerous to strip clubs with her guy friends. Let's just say that she smoked many a cigarette by evening's end ...

(Yes, watching my coworkers was a blast, as well. However, I don't have their permission to blog about them, so I'm going to stick to Ann and me :))

Our only disappointment was the fact that we had a woman waiting on us. Where was our sweaty, beefy, nearly naked male waiter?

Boys, feel free to apply for the job ;)

No thinking allowed

Here's the part where I get serious, so stop reading if you're not interested.

In all honesty, I probably won't go back anytime soon. Here's the problem with being sober: You observe, and you think.

At least one of those strippers, Ann pointed out, was young enough to be dating my daughter. Ewww! Thank you, Ann, for pointing out that I'm a dirty old woman. (I already knew it, of course ;))

Not that big a deal, the feminist in me argues. And I agree.

But another used his Marine uniform as his costume. Yes, I checked: It was a real Marine uniform, which he wore while in service not so long ago. I started to think about why he was on that stage, and ... well, that's a buzz kill.

Ann reminded me that a lot of strippers choose their jobs, freely and willingly. She knows women (and now men) who enjoy the exhibitionism, the control, the attention ...

But what about those who don't enjoy it? Who see it as a means to an end: a decent paycheck earned with few job skills. Who are driven to it by demons from past — or present — lives?

Exploitation is exploitation, whether the exploited is male or female, the exploiter male or ... me.

That's where the Bailey's helped. I stopped thinking and started giggling about half way through the show. Phew!

But, I have to admit: Just as some strippers like the control they feel on stage, I dislike the lack of control I felt while sloshed.

Certainly, I couldn't have gotten home on my own. I was too drunk to drive, and I spent all my money in singles, so a taxi was out of the question. (Ann called her boyfriend to pick us up, and we could have called my hubby; no worries. But that's not the point ... ) I couldn't even buckle my seat belt once I was in the car, for Pete's sake! (I swear it was broken :))

I used to worry I would misbehave if drunk. I didn't. I was too giggly to be turned on by the show — sorry, guys! — and too enamored by Ann to wander off on my own. And, frankly, I didn't go to the show looking to get ding-dong. I went to hang out with the gals, not cheat on my babies' daddy.

This all makes me wonder about folks who use being drunk as an excuse for bad behavior. I still knew right from wrong... and, even with my inhibitions lowered and temptation waving its ding-dong a foot from my face, I did right.

Sorta right.

Or horribly, horribly wrong, if you ask my oldest ;)

My 19th anniversary gift: a washer, dryer and house

We used to joke that we would buy a house just in time for our oldest daughter's high-school graduation (which would make it her graduation gift, of course :)). We missed the mark by a little more than a year (making the house our middle daughter's high-school graduation gift :)).

We will close on our first-ever house July 19, 2008, the date of our 19th wedding anniversary. We are, in a word, thrilled.

I figure, roughly speaking, that I will have made 988 trips to the laundry mat since I married. (I calculated this number by figuring I averaged one trip per week; sometimes I went more, sometimes less, of course.) Oh, and for the last 10 years, we've lived on the second floor.

Imagine: 988 trips to the laundry mat, half of them involving a treck down and up stairs with your arms full of laundry ... laundry for five people.

Now, to blow your mind: We've spent roughly $15,000 in quarters doing our laundry. (I started out doing laundry for slightly less than $10 a trip; I'm up to more than $20 now. I split the difference, figuring $15 spent each of the 988 trips.)

After we close on the house, we're heading straight to an appliance store and buying a washer and dryer. As in, the ink won't be dry on the mortgage paperwork when we hit the showroom floor. Needless to say, I'm ecstatic! I'll be sending out "birth" announcements for the newest members of our family, Mr. Tony Micelli ("Who's the Boss?") and Ms. Alice Nelson-Franklin ("The Brady Bunch"). (Yes, I'm naming my washer and dryer after famous TV maids; they will make my life that much easier ;))

Bittersweet move

As thrilled as I am to be getting my own washer and dryer, I'm saddened by our impending move. You see, we've been East Siders for eight years now — the whole of our time as city of Milwaukee residents. We literally live half a block south of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Union.

We moved here deliberately in search of "college town" atmosphere. See, our fondest memories take place on the campus of Michigan State University, where we spent our early married years while I earned my journalism degree. We loved the youthful energy, intellectual and political aura, and racial, religious and socioeconomic diversity of the MSU campus.

When we moved to the East Side, we got all that and more. An August 2007 article in Milwaukee Magazine, "High Anxiety," described the East Side as well as any publication I can remember:

"The neighborhood is like a faculty lounge for the professional class, a sanctuary for the elite who are too urbane to move to the suburbs. ... The neighborhood has Milwaukee's greatest concentration of architects, intellectuals, wealth and cultural ambition.

"Lake Park is just 500 yards to the east of Downer Avenue. Newberry Boulevard to the north, a regal extension of Lake Park, gracefully trolls three-fourths of a mile to Riverside Park and the Milwaukee River. The parks and boulevard were products of the 'City Beautiful' movement at the turn of the century. The neighborhood narrows and flows south onto Lincoln Memorial Drive, a two-mile glide to Downtown along the lake, passing the Milwaukee Yacht Club, marina, beautiful beaches, the lagoon and the Milwaukee Art Museum. Bluffs rise on the west; the lake glows on the east.

"There may be no better five-minute drive to Downtown in any city in America."

Amen!

The article goes on to point out that the East Side also offers some interesting shops and services, such as the Downer and Oriental movie theaters. And, while we have a high concentration of wealthy professionals and intellectuals, we also live among poor students, artists and party animals.

Unfortunately, this diversity of neighbors and wealth of natural beauty come at a price — a price we can't afford, if we're to own in this lifetime. See, we're not wealthy; I'm a small-town journalist, and the hubby started out as a laborer in factories, working his way up into a white-collar career in geeky information systems.

We finally qualify for a mortgage, but certainly not an East Side mortgage.

The house in which we live, one of the stately East Side duplexes, is assessed at $360,500. Granted, it's an income property, but still! Built in 1915, it's got the original wiring, plumbing and windows; first-generation fuse boxes and gas furnaces; and an asbestos roof that slopes at rough 60 degrees and leaks like a sieve into my kitchen.

One of the few single-family homes on our block is selling for, oh, $284,900; a house on the block to the south is selling for $314,900.

We can't even imagine. My husband's father bought an entire dairy farm — about 250 acres, cows and farm buildings — in northern Wisconsin for $32,000. Granted, that was 20 years ago, and the farm was in foreclosure ... but you get my point. We simply can't imagine — or afford — a $300,000 mortgage!

So my family and I are moving to Riverwest, into an 85-year-old bungalow on a comparatively quiet block.

No settling here!

At this point, I must clarify: We will be settling in, but we are not settling. We love Riverwest, which is rich with artists, environmentalists and hippies. It's also more diverse than the East Side because it's not "isolated" the way the East Side is, with the river cutting it off from the rest of the city. Riverwest bumps right up against the Brewers Hill and Harambee neighborhoods, and people from all backgrounds flow in and out freely.

I think the Riverwest 'hood might actually suit us better than the East Side does; we sometimes feel like students who accidentally wandered into the "faculty lounge for the professional class" :)

Of course, only time will tell. What we know for sure is that our house is perfect for us — and we're knocking more than $100,000 off that unimaginable $300,000 mortgage.

Yes, I know: We're still spending a lot of money for a house. Indeed, I suppose, we are. But we know, from living in my current home, what we're getting.

Houses in Milwaukee's old neighborhoods are security in building form. They are built with old-world construction: solid block or stone basements; wall studs set every foot and original hand-laid plaster walls; brick wet walls; and hardwood floors, doors and door frames.

Our current house has a built-in hutch, brick fireplace, window bay, two built-in window seats and a pantry the size of a walk-in closet.

In my eight years in my current house, I've never been afraid during a storm. Yes, the walls creak and the windows rattle in strong winds, but I know they won't give in to the pressure. This house has withstood Mother Nature's fury for 93 years, and it's hardly worse for the wear. (The roof leakage is due to age, not damage.)

In some ways, in fact, I think it's gotten ... more secure. It's earned its stripes. All of our doors still open and close without sticking or rubbing against the frame; they aren't the least bit out of alignment. How many modern houses will still have perfectly aligned, original doors in 93 years? Not many, I'm sure.

Oh, and because Milwaukee buries its main power lines, we rarely have an outage. We're safe from flooding because the river is below steep banks, and the lake is at the bottom of the bluff.

During bad weather, I long to be in my living room, curled up on my sofa, safe from harm.

I have no doubt our new house will give me the same level of comfort and security.

It's a feeling for which my hubby and I will gladly pay a lot. Now we just have to figure out how to wrap it in a bow...

From the grounds of Summerfest, things old and new, leased and blue

I know what you're thinking: Not another blogger giving her two cents on Summerfest! Ugggh.

You're right: I'm not another blogger bragging up or bashing Summerfest. This is simply an invitation to those who make a yearly pilgrimage to Milwaukee for "the world's largest music festival": Stick around and check out what's new in Milwaukee!

You see, one of the reasons I love this city is its vitality. Every single day, I see something new in Milwaukee. She has an ever-changing landscape, one that seems to belie her characterization as a rust-belt city suffering from the decline of manufacturing.

Lakefront improvements

Let's start by heading east from the Henry W. Maier Festival Grounds, lovingly known as the Summerfest Grounds. Yes, I know that Lake Michigan lies east of the grounds — but so, too, does Lakeshore State Park. (Note: This photo is not mine; it is property of the state Department of Natural Resources.)

The DNR says "Lakeshore State Park provides a unique urban oasis with recreational opportunities and amenities geared to the urban population." And I have to agree. The Friends of Lakeshore Park group points out that "the park, formerly known as Harbor Island, is the only urban state park in Wisconsin."

The park was finished last year, so perhaps you've already checked it out. If not, however, it's certainly a sight — or site :) — to see. You can get to it from the south, near the Marcus Ampitheater, and from the north end of Summerfest Grounds, via a bridge.

Museums galore

The new Discovery World Museum is quite the sight to see, as well. I'm not suggesting you go inside right now; simply take a look at it. Interesting architecture; cool "lawn ornaments." (You'll have to visit the site to see them :)) You can't really miss it; it's immediately north of summerfest grounds and is quite eye-catching.

It's so eye-catching, in fact, that my daughter noticed it makes a cameo in the music video for the song "When You Look Me in the Eyes" by the Jonas Brothers. They were filmed on our snow-covered Lake Michigan shoreline, you see toward the end of the video, and you can just make out the museum in the background.

Now, let's continue north on Lincoln Memorial Drive. I'm going to assume you've seen the many pictures of the Milwaukee Art Museum's Quadracci Pavilion and Cudahy Gardens. But have you seen them in person? The fountains in the garden area delight young and old. (My cousin helped install the lighting, btw, that makes the fountains dazzle at night.)

A bit farther up the road and you can check out, this time on the west side, the Villa Terrace Decorative Arts Museum's Renaissance Gardens, which climb the bluff and make an excellent setting for weddings. You just might stumble on a wedding party during your visit, so be careful: The bug might be contagious.

Beach bums welcome

Let's stop at the Alterra at the Lake coffee shop on the west side of the road, at 1701 N. Lincoln Memorial, at this point. It's housed in the former historic Milwaukee River flushing station. The Cream City brick building, owned by the Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District, still houses the water wheel and pump room equipment. (The Allis-Chalmers pump was designed to pull more than 500 million gallons of water per day from the lake through a 2,500-foot underground tunnel to flush the lower Milwaukee River of excessive pollution and waste.) Stop in, check out the $1.2 million-plus rehab job, and maybe get some coffee. I'm taking you for a journey, and you may need fuel ...

I'd like to suggest you continue north on Lincoln Memorial. Bradford Beach, which I readily admit was falling into disrepair due to Milwaukee County budgeting woes, has been given a new lease on life. Thanks to donations by Miller Brewing Co. ($500,000 over five years for beach and facility improvements) and Milwaukee businessman Sheldon Lubar and his wife Marianne ($65,000 for lifeguards), I suspect the beach is going to be quite crowded this summer.

Thanks to both — especially to the Lubars, for serving as the catalyst for change!

A whole new riverbank

OK, so you've seen what's new along the lake. I'd like to suggest you head a west to the Milwaukee River. I'm recommending North Commerce Street, starting just east of the Pick 'n Save at North and Humboldt avenues. (This used to be a Jewel-Osco store.)

(Note: You can get from the lakefront to the river via North Avenue; I've included the map to help.)

If you've ever been in this part of Brewers Hill before, you'll immediately notice the difference. There are new condominiums lining both sides of the river, along Commerce on the river's west bank and Water Street along its east bank. In my opinion, the Commerce Street development is more amazing; the condos are two rows deep along stretches of the rather short road.

If you'd like to see the other side of the river, however, it's easy: Commerce ends at Pleasant Street. Turn left and you'll soon come to Water Street. Condos — and condos in the making — can be found both north and south of Pleasant on Water Street.

Frankly, this is the most amazing part of the city to me right now. When we moved to the city eight years ago, the intersection of Humboldt and Water was — in a word — depressing. Buildings were run down; windows were broken or boarded; lots were vacant. Decline permeated the air. It never would have occurred to me to tour Commerce for fun; it was an abandoned industrial strip, littered and forlorn.

Today, the condos start in the neighborhood of $200,000. The Edge condos under construction at 1890 Commerce St., for example, are priced at $180,000 for a one-bedroom unit to more than $300,000 for a penthouse.

While I am not a big fan of condo living, I can see why people are willing to pay those prices. The Milwaukee River through Brewers Hill has been "rediscovered," its banks cleaned up and landscaped, providing some of the most unique "yards" to be found in the city.

This concludes your tour for today — things old and new, leased and blue. Just some of the many reasons I love this city ... If you visit, let me know; I'd love to know what you think!