Summerfest

I spent this past holiday weekend back on the east side of my home state--in Milwaukee, to be precise. The initial reason for the trip was a surprise birthday party for a friend (which was easy to keep a surprise, since the guest of honor's birthday is nearly two months from now). Since we were going to be in Milwaukee anyway, however, we decided to head to Summerfest.

My last trip to Summerfest was probably 16 or 17 years ago. I used to go with my parents nearly every year, and I remember us always leaving by 8:00 or 9:00 p.m., when the rowdy teenagers and drunken 20-somethings started pouring in. I never made it to Summerfest as a rowdy teenager or a drunken 20-something, so I almost feel cheated out of what is apparently the most popular and prominent Summerfest experience. The last time I went I was ten years too young; this year I felt ten years too old. We still stayed until near closing time to catch the Moby show, however, precariously crowding atop a picnic table alongside several thousand other picnic table dancers in the dark. At 21, I probably could have done that without worrying about the safety of the whole scenario, but if common sense and old age go hand in hand, so be it.

As with Grand Old Day and other big summer parties in my own neighborhood, Summerfest offers a wide range of calorie-rich and artery-clogging food choices. (There's even a handy Summerfest food pyramid to help you plan out your recommended allowances of important food groups such as Fried Cheese, Beer & Liquor, and Foods on a Stick.) Likewise, as with all other crowded public events, Summerfest offers some prime opportunities for people watching (i.e., ruthless critiquing of questionable wardrobe choices). The real draw of Summerfest, however, is supposed to be the entertainment. The spin doctors in charge of the event call it "the World's largest music festival." At nearly any point throughout the day, you can choose from a variety of acts performing on one of ten different stages and pavilions on the festival grounds. Multiply the number of performers each day by the eleven days of the festival and I suppose it's feasible there's some validity to the "World's largest" claim.

Still, despite this long list of entertainment choices, we repeatedly found ourselves with free time to kill and no option that sounded appealing to fill it. It was during these times that we visited the Children's Stage, and it was at the Children's Stage that we witnessed what was by far the most memorable performance of the day--a local magician's "Wonders of Magic" show. I'm not going to mention his name, because I wouldn't want my critique of his show to turn up the next time he Googles himself. It's best not to provoke a grudge from a man who travels with a large set of swords and can make women disappear. Therefore I'll just call him Bob.

I'm not arguing that Bob is skilled in presenting illusions and sleight of hand trickery. If you're impressed by that sort of thing, Bob won't disappoint. A big part of magic, however, is the showmanship, and despite Bob's best efforts, his showmanship reeked of low budget campiness. Maybe my expectations are unrealistic, but I find it hard to take someone seriously when he's wearing red pleather oxfords and an ill-fitting sequined blazer and using props seemingly constructed in his own backyard from plywood and tempra paint. To make matters worse, the humor he attempted to inject into his act was culled straight from the Benny Hill Show playbook. I don't know where he found his two not-quite-lovely young assistants, but I couldn't help wondering if their friends and family members know they get paid to be chased around a stage in high heels, holding their cheeks in mock distress (ala Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone), or if they've told their loved ones that they do something a bit less embarrassing for a living... like perhaps jumping out of birthday cakes in fringed pasties or scraping gum off the seats at Miller Park.

Bob's assistants made several wardrobe changes, and I think at least half of them came from the "Slutty Girls' Halloween Costumes" catalog (a mailing list Bob's undoubtedly been on for years). For one trick, the leggy blond assistant squeezed herself into an outfit very much like this one (warning: probably not a "work-safe" link), and when she turned to exit the stage, I seriously saw an exposed butt crease. On the Children's Stage. Call me a prude, but that's just not right. I suppose she was just blending in with the hundreds of female Summerfest patrons who felt an 80-degree day meant open license to let their breasts spill freely out of skimpy summer tanks and halters, but I still think a little modesty is not a bad idea.

We left the show about halfway through. Maybe the cheese factor was just a little too much; maybe we were worried our 23-year-old male companion was getting overstimulated; maybe we just knew that it wasn't going to get any better than frontal and posterior cleavage in the same three-minute time span. We headed off to another stage to see Lucinda Williams do her thing. We may have been hundreds of feet from the stage, but I'm pretty sure she was fully clothed. Guess she didn't get the memo.