29 Words For Dipping Sauce

Welcome to winter in the Midwest, where breakfast starts at beer o'clock sharp, women aren't afraid to show a little skin, late-night snacks do not fuck around, and (at the risk of burying the lede) this man is straight.

Let that sink in: this man... is straight.

All due respect, but with that haircut he could be wearing Austin Scarlett as a hat and look less gay. Yet, according to all my sources [my brother and my girlfriend, respectively], he is married and may or may not be something of "a playboy."

Mmm-hmm. Me too.

Regardless, I had to share that with you because laughing at that photo accounted for a startlingly large portion of my trip. Back to what matters: visiting the fam and the friends and the apple of my eye in the sun-drenched Midwest.

This is a good place. It's a place of values. Of substance. It's a place I will always call home. It's also a place that gets a bit nippy from time to time. Unfortunately, as I currently live in California (where inclement weather requires a two thirds majority vote in the state senate), I was without my usual Wisconsin winter outfit for this trip.

No matter. The secret is to layer. Then layer again. Now once more. Good... there you go. Now, isn't that more comfortable? And for you ladies out there, no more worrying about those unsightly panty lines.

ABOVE: An unidentifiable woman, or, possibly,
man, stands in front of an unidentifiable
part of some Midwestern state.

Of course, some of the more enterprising locals have found a way around spending all that time and money purchasing goose down mittens and flannel-lined jeans and fleece-insulated parkas; oh yes... there are other ways to add layers.

To illustrate the point, let us go out for brunch with Brother Andrew and his lovely fiancee Sommer. After studying the menu, Sommer opts for a modest bagel and lox platter. According to its description, the platter includes a side salad. It is about $7. Also, it is the size and shape of a fucking river barge. Look at this thing. Sommer seems unfazed as the table groans under weight of the healthy, healthy vegetables. Forty-five minutes and two hernias later, we asked our waitress for a doggie bag and an industrial-grade wheelbarrow to cart home the leftovers.

I could wax interminably about the spectacular portions and magical golden-colored awesomeness of Midwestern foodstuffs, but the good people of Palomino's went ahead and neatly summed it up for me.

Besides, there are other ways to stay toasty. In case you can't tell, that bloody contains not only the standard fare but also mushrooms and a booze-soaked brussel sprout. And taking into account how desperately I craved another round, it may or may not have contained actual mammal blood.

Then there's our ubiquitous and foamy friend, barley juice. Smooth, delicious, and handy for beer-battering anything within arm's distance and sticking it in a deep fryer. But despite the fact that at least two respectable breweries are visible from any vantage point in the greater Milwaukee area, including bomb shelters, I think it's best to leave your liver in the hands of professionals.

Shitcanned? Good. Time to unwind. You've been working hard.

Me? I like to take the edge off in the private 16-foot pool then hit the jacuzzi. Then repeat for 21 straight hours.

Go to Sybaris. Let no one talk you out of it. I won't get into details for fear of retaliation at the hands of the Fair Briana, but having that special someone with you is advisable. I took a lot of grief from certain interested parties, but when it's 10 below outside and you're wearing white robes and doing regrettable sultan impersonations, you'll thank me.* Also, it was our birthday. So there's that.

Time for some exercise. Limber up and head to Koz's for some miniature bowling. As I have an obligation to my New England roots (not to mention Audio Aaron), I should point out that this is not duckpin bowling. However, the object of the game remains the same. Namely, drink several pitchers of lukewarm domestic beer and invent elaborate strike celebrations. Amanda Joy's apparently requires rolling up one of her sleeves and dancing right in the face of the competition. Well played. Good times had by all, including the manual pinsetters. This vocation almost certainly requires a working knowledge of gravity bongs and quaaludes.

Next and final stop: Wolski's, provided you can (A) find the place and (B) not wrap your car around a telephone poll locating a parking spot. Holy shit their website is easily the lamest thing I've ever seen.** They get everything else right, though. You know a bar believes in a stiff pour when, in their dart room, there are holes in the wall at least 6 feet from the nearest dart board. Throw in a (gasp) cigarette machine and some bawdy video poker, and next thing you know it's closing time.

And time to go home. But I'd be remiss if I didn't share the comment card from my dad's room at Red Roof Inn. Perhaps Nellie should revisit her cutesy signature.

Non sequitor there. Sorry.

Okay, I'm done.

*You're welcome in advance.
**And I used to work on MDA telethons.***
***I'm going to hell.