Wisconsin is in the news.
Those people are tough.
They shoulder history well.
Wisconsin is to the midwest as Denmark is to Scandinavia. I love my homestate and the country of my homesteading ancestor’s origin. Blood type D (for dairy), full fat and unpasteurized, is on a click track through my heart.
ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! DIGRESSION AHEAD!
Spaulding Gray could make anyone seem fascinating. The aura of Mr. Gray’s fascination backdropped the intriguing bits – from magnificently microscopic to monstrously magnificent – of anyman’s or anywoman’s psyche. Seeing Mr. Grey live in DC, a while back now, he interviewed an audience member who claimed he did not dream. Is that possible? I do not know, but would argue no. Not dreaming sounds incredibly uncomfortable. Where would all that brain activity GO? How would the interior knots untangle? You know the line, “That’s what she (or he) said.”. And we used to add, back when I was sophomoric and, tragically, it does not seem like only yesterday, “in bed” to our cookie fortunes. When I stop dreaming, in bed or out, that’s when I’ll stop loving Madison, Wisconsin, that’s what I say. God forbid I ever stop dreaming. Mickey’s Tavern is dreamy. Should you, or anyone else, or the universe, have need to deliver bad news to me, put me on a flight to Mickey’s please. Call ahead with my order and I will see you at a table near the bar lit to reflect a person’s subconscious. Give it to me there, where any news, good, bad, dreadful or magnificent, will sink down slowly into a dreamy haze of collective unconscious. Morsty and Joanie and Teddy and I ate happily at Mickey’s last summer. The details of the meal are there, in my memory, and they surface, but only during REM. Memories may not be recalled on command, but they are there. I did the research. Once imbedded they may never be expunged.