Ten Replies to My City Being Called Lazy

(This will be posted by Milwaukee's Shepherd Express sooner or later. I couldn't wait.)

As you might know, Milwaukee was once slandered by Homer Simpson in an episode about America’s most overweight city. If it’s any consolation, Homer is not always an accurate source of facts, and as for me, my intent is not to taunt; I’m here to commiserate. In an article posted on 24/7 Wall St. titled “The Laziest City in Each State,” my home of Fond du Lac was pegged with that dubious distinction.  

The study was posted a while back, on November 20^th, and I meant to write this rebuttal sooner, but you know... Naps. 

Thankfully, all those naps have at last unclouded my mind, and I’m determined to defend my city. I’m pretty jacked for a counterattack, and the best part is, 24/7 Wall St. will never see it coming since they assume I’m too much of a deadbeat to fight back.

     

It’s a shame how people can get skewered by judgments just because internet lists are so addictive. But, on the other hand: Revenge. So, let’s all judge the foibles of those mudslinging list-makers who supposedly know everything about the stock market and which cities are lazy. (‘Cause those two areas of expertise are basically the same, right?!) Here’s a list composed by a shockingly motivated man from Fond du Lac:

"TRTMCBCL"

(^ I used this catchy abbreviation 'cause I didn't wanna go through the hassle of typing the entire title all over again, you know?!^)

10.) The population of the city of Fond du Lac is about 43,000, but the article claims our population is 101,577—which more closely resembles the number of people living in Fond du Lac County. Cities and counties are by no means one and the same, so their tally is off by nearly 60,000. Nobody likes being slandered in light of shoddy research and poor focus. They ought to be ashamed of themselves at 247Walleyes.com. 

9.) The notion that it took four authors to write this one article is pretty ironic. I’ll bet the quartet was formed after the first writer said, “Oh man, this is too much work.” So instead of overachieving and devoting extra time to exposing American laziness in ten-thousand words, the workload got divided by both the Mason-Dixon Line and the Mighty Mississippi, until each writer only had to do a brief summary of like 12-and-a-half states. That’s lazy!

8.) My birthplace is deemed “the least active in a particularly active state.” What a joke. That’s like being called the least-talented member of the Jackson-5. Even if we’re not getting much hype, we’re content to spin, grin, and pluck our bass while the intense spotlight consumes Michael. That’s what being from a middling Midwest city is all about.

7.) The study reports that our adults feel unhealthy 2.9 days every month. Fools! Those are just hangover days. And frankly, I’m pleasantly surprised to see our hangover totals are kind of low. Looks like I don’t know as many alcoholics as I thought I did! We should get a keg to celebrate.

6.) Most Fond du Lac residents are active. Many have gym memberships. Others hunt and fish. Some prefer volleyball. Personally, when my workday is done, I’ve been known to rock the Shake Weight. Speaking as a casual fan of exercise, I am so comfortable admitting that I pumped the Shake Weight a handful of times last week in spite of the putdowns I might receive for endorsing a product so readily associated with masturbation. (Notice I didn’t call it something crude like “jacking off” or "punching the clown." Because contrary to the bad press, I assure you, I am not a boorish slob.) 

5.) OK, the name of the site is 24/7 Wall St. That suggests they’re focused on Wall Street 24 hours a day, seven days a week, leaving no time whatsoever to do a credible account of another subject such as the laziest city in each state. These go-getters were so constantly immersed in Wall St. that they couldn’t spare a minute to double-check our population on Wikipedia.

4.) Even if there’s a modicum of truth in these accusations, indolence is not the worst flaw. It’s certainly not the most dangerous. Our city’s rates of theft and murder aren’t very high, and maybe that’s because laziness helps reduce crime. It’s really easy for cops to chase down and arrest a perpetrator whose “getaway car” is a Rascal Scooter.

3.) FdL county’s villages and towns went unscathed despite the fact that their populations were added to that of our city’s. By that logic, an out-of-shape person from Brandon is making the city of Fond du Lac look bad even though these areas are separated by 18 miles. I’m not saying it’s right to dump on the likes of Mount Calvary, Campbellsport, or Calumet, but there is some kind of sloth-taxation-without-representation sham happening here.

2.) The article claims that “Populations with higher levels of education are often more physically active.” Accordingly, it seems the most glaring factor in FdL’s lethargy is its low percentage of residents who possess a bachelor’s degree. At this point, I feel like we’re being called both lazy and stupid by self-righteous New Yorkers we’ve never met. If I wasn’t so bogged down with Golden Girls reruns, I’d ride east fifteen-hundred miles on a mountain bike to tell the staff at 24/7 they’ve besmirched the wrong city. (Plus I could bring along some of the classics from my own personal library. You know, to burn for campfires at night.) Until then, I’ll get the word out from my laptop. With help from the true giant of social media. Myspace.

1.) Finally, our obesity rate (or “fat stat,” to the layperson) is slightly higher than the state average. I’m 5’8”, 142 lbs. Built like a hairy ninth-grader, I’m clearly not part of the problem, but I can help. Running from a mob of fatsos I’ve angered with fat jokes is a fine way to burn calories. And when I reach total exhaustion after three-quarters of a mile, I’ll face that mob and announce, “Wait a second, don't you see? We’re being active, guys! We did it!” Then we’ll all bask in the love that was so sorely lacking in “The Laziest City in Each State.”

     

Hopefully I’ve convinced some Milwaukee readers that our cities can bond over the unfair criticism we’ve received. Although in Milwaukee’s case, getting roasted by one of Homer’s zingers might actually be an honor. Unlike having some Wolf of Wall Street dudes call you lazy when they’re too careless to make sure they got their facts right.

In your face, 247Walleyes.com.

Ghosts vs. Lowlifes

vs.

My outlook on ghosts has transformed over the years. As a child, predictably, the notion of ghosts made shivers jolt through my spine. Then as a teenager and into my early 20s, regrettably, I honed a smartass callousness toward ghosts. In one instance, at the reputedly spooked residence of a friend, I paced up and down a hallway taunting the specters. I trash talked to thin air, wanting to provoke a reaction. Sure enough, as I pivoted back toward my scowling friend seated on a dryer shaking his head no, I felt a sudden tug beneath my ankle. I looked down. On that shoe, my laces had been forcibly untied. Later I was told the laces burst open like a flourish of silly string.

In the interest of reiteration, I was 20 and passing through a callous smartass phase, especially when it came to ghosts, and so I laughed dismissively. Undoing my shoelaces seemed petty and underwhelming, as though I was dealing with the spirit of a second-rate junior high bully. All spite, no smite. Pathetic. I knelt down and retied with ridiculous pride. The knots would not be coming loose anytime soon and I felt perfectly fine.

“What's next?” I scoffed. “'Kick Me' sign? Does the ghost scratch out noogies?”

I acted like the snotty naysayer who becomes the second murder victim in a horror movie, the one who makes people shrug and quip, “He had it coming.”

The friend in question had testified accounts of antique dolls somehow relocating on their own, unfounded murmurs from the closet, and most chillingly, waking up next to a disembodied scream in the pitch black of night. Now, I can't confirm the veracity of his accounts. Still, maybe the “ghost and noogies” routine was ever so slightly insensitive.

Thankfully, I'm the type who likes to endure long enough to look back and realize how much of an asshole or coward I could be—having that cathartic moment of smacking oneself above the brow, head swinging like a quick pendulum, sighing miserably but smiling and saying, “Now I get it... Maybe I won't regress this time!” 

With that in mind, I want to atone for my derision of the paranormal, and to those who have been terrified by it. Part of my mindset regarding ghosts was valid, but it was too extreme. It's sane to fear the paranormal, but one has to do so with relativity.

Ghosts are undoubtedly freaky. But the truth is they're not as scary as mortal, breathing, flesh-and-blood lowlifes. Because over 99% of the time, the worst and freakiest atrocities on this planet are committed by somebody with a pulse. Paranormal activity horrifies because it's inexplicable more so than because it's dangerous. When the intent is to inflict harm, being dead is a serious drawback.

Consider some examples: A serial killer who has the advantage of being alive is a greater threat than one who died decades ago. If I was forced to have a sleepover at a notoriously haunted site like the Villisca Axe Murder House, I'd be most worried about packing enough underwear to withstand eight or nine crappings, not realistically getting brained by a floating lumberjack tool. Trust me, an axe-wielding sociopath prowling around any place that has no history of hauntings whatsoever is a lot more perilous than Ol' Ghosty McMurderaxe on his own spooky turf—scowling at people, slamming a door or two, and maybe swaying a chandelier a few times.

Furthermore, there's no reason to fear the tortured spirit of a woman from the 1920s hanged in your attic more so than you should fear a crack-incensed psycho knifing you at the intersection of wrong place and wrong time. Nights of fitful sleep caused by the moans of some phantom flapper who 86'd herself actually make for intriguing, nonviolent stories to tell coworkers, friends, and family. That's preferable to calling home in the second scenario and having to say those three dreaded words: “Daddy got stabbed.”

Perhaps I'm teetering on “too cavalier” again, but the YouTube classic “Real Scary Ghost Pictures” suggests that someday a ghost might startle any one of us with a photobomb. Whereas the nightly news may report terrorists reaping devastation with regular bombs—the kind that blow up and make loud noises. With all due respect to paranormal entities, terrorists with bombs are scarier.

It can be unnerving to sprout goosebumps as you wonder how that antique doll in the living room could have turned its head to face you while your back was turned. But moments of fright like that are not as bad as mass shooters, suicide bombers, stranglers, satanic slashers, child abusers, sex offenders, sadistic religious extremists, thieves, burglars, wife beaters, Grand Theft Auto copycats, coke dealers, fat and rude customers at Taco Bell, homophobic carnies, misogynists running for president, or Dallas Cowboys defensive lineman Greg Hardy, among other lowlifes.

If you're petrified of ghosts, I hope that helps.

Ultimately, the most harmful thing an apparition can do to the living has got to be inciting cardiac arrest. On rare occasions, someone who supposedly spots a ghost will have a heart attack. Imagine that, being so filled with spite or unrest as a fraction of your mortal self that you'd be willing to frighten a fragile human being to death. It's sad, and I feel sorry for all involved.

In the end, ghosts are but a grim, anguished reminder not to live a disgruntled life in vain if you can help it. I'm not claiming there's a heaven, but I've also never heard of a happy ghost.

Happy or not, though, you've got to admit they're still a helluva lot better than evil dictators or the Kardashians.  

Draw.                                                             

Discussing Doey Style

There are some appealing attractions in Fond du Lac. My hometown has a pretty formidable trio of houses. The Galloway House is a historically preserved mansion and village with mannequins of blacksmiths and butter churners no one is allowed to touch. The lighthouse serves as a quaint, locally iconic beacon at the south end of Lake Winnebago. The Octagon House was once used as a safe haven along the Underground Railroad. All three garner press on occasion, but I'm here to risk my integrity by cutting the ribbon at the unveiling of another tourist attraction. It's not a house, it's a garage door. And as you might have guessed, the garage door in question showcases two deer doin' it on a log.

Now, I've never had contact with the people who live at this residence. Maybe someday, but for the time being, the power of the myth seems unbeatable. Someone asked the question, “What aesthetic is this garage door missing?” (which is an awfully rare question, by the way) with the answer: “A silhouette of deer banging... Of course!” It's not uncommon for Wisconsinites to be fond of deer, but this furry couple is obviously coital. These Fond du Lac natives sure put the “graphic” in “National Geographic”!

But I admire their gumption, as well as their willingness to be different—even if that means some parents are going to frown and hurry their kids past the garage door where the owners were only trying to hand out candy on Halloween.

Big deal. Adults will frown at anything for any reason these days.

One way or the other, we can all learn from moxie of this magnitude. If you find it weird or offensive, you're entitled to that, but I'm honestly just glad this mural exists somewhere in the world—let alone in my hometown! For good or ill, those deer are in essence belting out Bonnie Raitt to the whole neighborhood: “Let's give 'em somethin' to talk about...”

On that note, I think some readers are adult enough to discuss the matter in a mature manner. As for me, I can at least discuss it somehow. For instance, does the mural have a title? Suggestions I've heard range from “Doey Style” to “Rammin' Bambi” to “The Buck Comes Here.” Either they're all legit or else I've just accidentally signed up for a class that teaches cretins how to be more sensitive about provocative garage doors.

Maybe the artist conceived the mural from a more appreciative and serious perspective. This could be the work of a visionary brandishing his or her masterpiece to the mail carrier.

“Note how the doe welcomes the buck even though his front hooves cannot reach her hips, and behold the way the space between them suggests the security of a womb. Tell me our neighbors had the right to boycott our presence at last summer's block party and I shall call you a tyrant.

“And how dare the commoners call it 'Doey Style,'” they might add in a cavalier tone. “Its proper title is 'Velvet Conquest of the Ruminant Mammals.'”

Hell, it might be art. Genuine, heartfelt art. Who knows anymore? And who ever thought they had the right to judge art in the first place? Especially garage art in Fond du Lac. 

For the sake of discussion, though, and let's be super serious, do you think there are other wild animals depicted inside the house? And if so, what are they doing? Judging by the garage door, I'd say having sex has got to be deemed a real possibility. Maybe what's on display in the living room lends the garage door a PG-13 rating by contrast. Maybe the residents are into taxidermy, and they arrange various creatures of the forest in poses of three-dimensional passion. Even I'd have to question the merit of installations like “Muskrat Love,” “Raccoon Swoon,” and “Badger Vadger.” I'm no lawyer, but a lurid enterprise like that might be “Bearly Legal.”

This is all speculation, mind you, courtesy of a guy who thinks too much mostly because he doesn't want to pay a cable bill.

Still, "Doey Style" has left an indelible mark on my hometown experience. Whether it's a tribute to forest animals getting their re-population on (or at least having a good time while failing to do so), or it was conceived for the sake of shock value--and with the realization that perhaps I'm being a jerk here--I'm grateful for this mural. As far as our landmarks go, I'd argue it's got more character than the lighthouse. 

But how does it rank beside our roving landmark, the badass black truck covered in KISS decals? We'll tackle that monumental topic another time. It should be one helluva showdown. KISS may have aspired to rock and roll all night, but those deer are clearly partying everyday. 

Lucky Ones from New Orleans

^ Willy and Swinkle in New Orleans, summer 2005. ^ 

Silver guy in the middle? 

Surprisingly, not me. 

We were discussing one of the worst natural disasters in American history when a funny topic arose. A thousand miles south of Fond du Lac, Swinkle was reminiscing into his phone outside of a restaurant in New Orleans.

“Willy had ordered a hammock that was supposed to be delivered on the day Katrina hit.”

“I paid for it!” Willy said.

“It was a standalone hammock, meant to replace his bed,” Swinkle said in his thoughtful drawl. “He couldn't get in touch with the company for the longest time. Then we found out a month or two afterward that the company that took forever to ship it to him was actually in New Orleans. So he was never going to get his money back.”

“Think about that,” Willy said. “It was taking them a while even though we were in the same city. And when I was supposed to finally get it, a hurricane took them out... as well as the post office, the mayor's office, and any chance of me getting my hammock.”

Ten years after Hurricane Katrina—settled with a wife, two kids, and a steady job, Willy has never realized his dream of sleeping in a hammock every night. Later in our talk it was reiterated that there are probably worse fates.

###

We did the interview a half-hour later than planned. My iPhone couldn't directly record the call with Swinkle because I guess that's illegal. Willy had arrived at my apartment on time but forgot to bring his digital recorder. My backup plan was a Microcassette relic with playback that made me sound like a demon on Quaaludes. Willy called an audible and we drove to his house for his Zoom Mic, then to his mom and dad's, where his sister joined us in an upstairs bedroom. When we belatedly got through to Swinkle at 8:30, I felt a tinge of pressure to prove I was truly a pro.

“Uh... So, Swinkle, you were born in the south. Right?”

“Yeah, in New Orleans.”

I nailed it! Swinkle elaborated.

“As a kid, I took stuff like Mardis Gras for granted, but you also knew it was kind of a magical place in the deep south, not like anywhere else you'd ever been.”

In the fall of 2001, Swinkle was lured upstream of the Mississippi River by recurrent wanderlust, a love of music, and a mutual friend of Willy's who played drums in their rock band Reveal. Willy and I had been pals going back to the X-Men battles of our youth, and so I was introduced to Swinkle shortly after he arrived in Wisconsin. We have been triangulated ever since.

Treasured memories, enduring kinships, and some good tunes notwithstanding, the band ran its course, and on a much heavier note, Swinkle's father passed away in August of 2004, prompting his return to the bayou to be with family.

Willy relocated in June of 2005 with no way of knowing his timing was to be as bad as that of a certain hammock vendor. I asked him why he made that move when he was 22.

“Because there was somebody who could set up a living situation ahead of me,” Willy said. “And the main reason I moved there wasn't necessarily New Orleans. It was to get out of Fond du Lac. It wasn't exactly like running away. It was more, 'If I'm going to understand where I'm from, I have to understand what it's like to not be here.'”

Swinkle summarized how they spent their summer.

“I was working for AmeriCorps by day, and I'd lined up Willy with a job working for a contractor,” he said, referring to Ronnie, a born-again survivor of '80s decadence who had composed a dozen or so odes to God. “And we were recording crappy Christian music at night.”

(As a side-note, I visited them that summer, weeks before Katrina, and witnessed a jam session in Ronnie's garage. A Ronnie line the three of us have been known to quote can be found in his critique of the material world: “I don't drink my coffee in a fancy can/ You know that I'm a simple man!”)

“It was his goal and he wanted help with it,” Willy explained. “And it just made sense for us to keep playing music.”

Amen. The time had come for me to ask about that despicable wet thing.

“Initially, how serious did you take the warnings about the tropical storm that became Katrina?”

“I'd heard mention of it a day before we left,” Swinkle said. “The truth is, you get so many hurricane warnings per season, and over 90% of the time, it comes to the fruition of a bad rainstorm. Rarely did we ever really get hit.”

A number of false alarms had contributed to what Willy called “desensitization.” We believe this to be a product of human nature.

“What was the definitive moment that made you realize the best plan was to get out of the city?”

“When Mayor (Ray) Nagin made a televised press conference, live, seriously urging people to leave,” Swinkle said. “I had been working in gardens until four or five when my boss told me the news. I got a ride home and told Willy we probably had to get out of town.”

Evacuation was the plan, but there was a daunting obstacle: Neither man had access to a car. Weeks after it had made the trek from Wisconsin to Louisiana with his belongings in tow, Willy sold his 1990 Ford Escort. Swinkle's ride was being repaired at the shop; he had borrowed his ex-girlfriend's car to get to work that Saturday morning. She had since reclaimed it and fled the city. His plight seemed compounded by the fact that he'd also lost his cellphone.

Swinkle recalled: “Willy started gathering valuables, clothes, stuff we wanted to bring along and preserve. And I was on the computer, trying to find any kind of a rental, flight, bus, or shuttle.”

They were focused but perhaps overmatched. Mercy interceded in the form of a gracious ex.

“Luckily,” Swinkle went on, “My ex-girlfriend, who had my phone, called Willy. I'd left my phone in her car. She'd been on the road for about three hours, and was only about 15 miles out of town because traffic was so bad. She turned around and came to return the phone so I could have it, and she ended up helping us because we didn't have any other options.”

They packed into her sedan a military Duffel bag full of clothes, two acoustic guitars, some recording equipment, and most legendarily, nine lighters. Anything they couldn't stow on a plane was to be destroyed.

“I had just inherited my late father's furniture. His couches, his records. I had that material connection with my dad,” Swinkle said. “I thought, 'I can take care of his stuff now.' Then it's gone.”

Katrina would deprive Willy of a brand-new mandolin. “She was a good girl,” he eulogized. When asked if he had christened her with a name, he deadpanned, “Amanda Lynn.”

There was no use pining over possessions as they drove to the airport where Swinkle had made reservations for a rental car. They waited in line for over two hours. Swinkle noted that “people were definitely frustrated and a little freaked out, but they were civil at that point.” When at long last the trio got to the counter, their fortune waned.

“Because my ex was not yet 25 and paying for it, they couldn't release a car to us.”

What a hassle. “Big Easy,” my ass. Furthering her sterling reputation, Swinkle's ex agreed to let the guys tag along on her journey three states east to Albany, Georgia, where she had family. Willy and Swinkle crashed on the couches of total strangers in the wee hours of Sunday, August 28^th, 2005. Later that morning, they emptied their funds for plane tickets. In a deluge of nasty rain that foretold Katrina, the pilot of a "small puddle-jumper” worked up the nerve to fly them to Atlanta. It was the last flight the plane was to hazard that day. From Atlanta they were flown to Milwaukee's Mitchell Airport. Willy's family was there to drive them home to Fond du Lac.

That night and Monday morning, we gathered around the TV watching the news, sipping coffee, somber and shocked. This was more than a “bad rainstorm.” Katrina was the malevolent payback for all those false alarms. With winds upwards of 175 miles per hour, Katrina was a rare and ferocious category 5 hurricane. Exterior levees had been built to withstand the magnitude of a category 3. Interior floodwalls like that of the 17^th Street Canal were undermined by faulty engineering. The death toll exceeded a thousand in New Orleans alone. Overall damage to property is a scarcely comprehensible figure: $108 billion. New Orleans' burden was exacerbated by its geography; the city exist in a bowl with elevation dipping seven-to-ten feet below sea level. Flooding continued after the storm had passed. When the levees failed, the effects were catastrophic. By Tuesday, over three-quarters of the city was submerged. The Upper and Lower 9^th Wards were especially decimated.

We watched images of desperate souls on rooftops or floating on mattresses from our living rooms. We saw the Superdome embroiled in a doomsday struggle from far, far away. I didn't say the obvious to my friends. “That could have been you.”

“We weren't the only people who wanted to evacuate but had very little means to do so,” Swinkle said.

“We're very lucky,” Willy agreed.

In a town of about 43,000 at the foot of Lake Winnebago, they roomed together in a spare bedroom at Willy's sister's house. Within two weeks, they realized they couldn't return to New Orleans anytime soon. They got day jobs. Swinkle in particular began to loathe the news reports, the inevitable inquiries. People called them the lucky ones even though they had lost everything. I had to wonder if there was more to the story than luck.

“Do you think you benefited from divine intervention or simply good fortune?”

Willy's answer was immediate.

“Before we had any knowledge of the hurricane, I remember stressing out. Thinking about how I wasn't going to be able to continue at that pace, as far as bills and income were coming along. It was a mountain of obstacles to overcome. And I had a moment of asking for divine intervention, getting on my knees and praying to God, saying that I can't do this without some help, and I will do whatever it takes.

“When I look at all the circumstances, I can't help but feel a little bit of hair standing up on end,” he continued. “I specifically asked for help. Then Swinkle left his phone in her car—and that helped us. My last paycheck, all my money, was almost the exact amount that I needed for a plane ticket. We got the last flight... I asked for divine intervention, and I think I got it.”

As a brief editorial, an answered prayer like that could speak volumes about the madness of the world in which we live. I don't think faith or science will ever solve the ongoing mystery and it's hard to be at peace with that.

I questioned Swinkle about the city's efforts to revitalize.

“Being part of the rebuilding with AmeriCorps, I respect the resilience. The resilience resulted in a tighter sense of community. Not only that, but the huge outpouring of support nationally... We had college groups, church groups every week. Buses full of people taking weeks off their lives to come down and help us rebuild, and they didn't get a dime.”

“The worst nature sometimes brings out the best in people,” I said.

We were on our way to an optimistic conclusion. From Fond du Lac, Willy had his faith intact and I had an upbeat ending to an otherwise morose tale. (Maybe I could mix in a few more jokes! I thought selfishly.) Swinkle believed New Orleans was toughened and united by hardship... But he also had something to add.

“Well, initially, Nick, it was horrible. You know, with the Superdome. One of the girls I worked with had to identify her boyfriend-of-four-years' body after he was murdered, shot point blank in the back of the head. The military and police that were established were gone. Anybody in a position of authority had bailed. The building just got taken over. So, this girl came back from the coroner's office with a dry face and told me exactly what it was like to identify her boyfriend's body, but she couldn't open up about the Superdome. Ever.”

We were left with sunken hearts and I was all out of questions. There were no jokes to lighten the mood as we changed the subject and said our goodbyes.

But it struck me as a fine encapsulation of the human condition and empathy. At the end of retelling their adventure, even the lucky ones had to dwell on the sadness.