Campfire Tales

Late to the camping party since returning from out West, we've got some catching up to do. First camping trip of the season with our peeps, hanging out at the campfire talking about nothing. It's a Seinfeld episode, hours long discussions about nothing, doing nothing, solving nothing. Endless sagas of graphic bodily ailments, RV repairs, drink concoctions, the Cubs and hitches…carrier, bumper, triple ball, adjustable aluminum, ultra tow, no-sway, haul master, gooseneck, are your eyes glazing over yet?  Merely scratching the surface of this madness, it is the topic of conversation that never dies. Weeks, even months may pass but sitting around that campfire triggers a switch, the guys somehow cannot absorb enough information about hitches, there is absolutely nothing hitch-related they don't already know. They are becoming their fathers…and the local hitch salesman. The ladies crack open a bottle of whiskey.  

Steamy Sunday on the bike, heat radiating from the blacktop. The only thing keeping us from death by Wisconsin humidity is the slight breeze generated as we ride. Spotted Cow is our only motivation today. Cows and beer rule. Some days are meant for deep thoughts, others are not.

July is Paul's birthday month, it's all about Paul and his favorite things for a month, or until he can't take it anymore. Supper Clubs are his passion, he's an old guy who loves braunschweiger, the correlation makes perfect sense. Silver hairs know what I'm talking about, most GenXers don't.  No complicated handshake, no secret society or goofy headgear,  picture a 1950ish restaurant version of a dive bar complete with dusty dark plywood panelling, a mammoth sneeze-shielded salad bar with about a zillion versions of Jello fluff and macaroni salad, huge vats of sour cream, real butter and salad dressings on steroids. Maple Tree Supper Club in Madison did not disappoint. A bulging banquet of steaming hot entrees stacked precariously shoots out from the kitchen faster than a speeding bullet, the waitress more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound balancing a massive tray of edible menageries in one hand, cocktails from the bar in the other. We all stare in awe, we have just witnessed an Olympic Gold Medal performance.

Years before Ponderosa Steakhouses or Old Country Buffets were even imagined, Paul and I would dine at our local Supper Clubs, The Morocco, Swiss Valley Chalet, The Chateau. We especially enjoyed The Timbers, a fine "upscale" dining establishment featuring an enormous white organ engulfing the bustling dining room. A flamboyant Liberace wannabe, candelabra in hand, emerges from a misty hazed platform decked out in an appropriately gawdy sequined  pantsuit that could light up Times Square. The dawn of tribute bands can be attributed directly to Wisconsin Supper Clubs, with Timber's Liberace leading the pack. The charm and resilience of small town USA is alive and well with a little help from Liberace and a couple of antacids.