Simmertime

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I was tuned in to the first night of the Republican National Convention last Monday, because I can be so much the glutton for punishment And I think the only thing that could top Melania Trump’s outright lifting of huge chunks of words from the 2008 speech by first lady Michelle Obama (of all people), would be for Don the Con to break out the Gettysburg Address during his acceptance harangue and claim it as his own, what the fock.

Or maybe he can crib from FDR’s first inaugural address, such as: More important, a host of unemployed citizens face the grim problem of existence, and an equally great number toil with little return. Only a foolish optimist can deny the dark realities of the moment.

Or this: Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort… Recognition of the falsity of material wealth as the standard of success goes hand in hand with the abandonment of the false belief that public office and high political position are to be valued only by the standards of pride of place and personal profit; and there must be an end to a conduct in banking and in business which too often has given to a sacred trust the likeness of callous and selfish wrongdoing. 

Cripes, a Trump victory in November—talk about a day which would live in infamy, ain’a?

Anyways, I can’t whip out a regular essay this week ’cause it’s simmertime and the livin’ is queasy ’round our town, I kid you not. I sit and sweat inside my dinky apartment with no air conditioner and the only way I can tell I haven’t died and gone to hell is ’cause I’m not having my ears reamed out by a max-vol endless loop of Tony Orlando & Dawn: Greatest Hits, to boot.

And every time I do choose to step outdoors, lo, these days, I get nervous, jumpy, you could say disoriented, ’cause all of a sudden I don't know if I’m within the friendly confines of the greatest city in the upper Midwest anymore. No, sir. Seems more like I involuntarily stepped in some kind of deleteriously delirious transport machine and got shanghaied direct to New focking Delhi, where when the thermometer dips to 120 degrees above freezing, the people call up UNICEF to hurry up and airdrop emergency sweaters and hand-muffs, for christ sakes.

You know what? It’s too pissing hot to groan and moan even for a guy like me, a guy who practically, but not quite, makes a living at it. But you got to stay positive, so I hear. After all, we still do live in the greatest city in the upper Midwest—even if it feels like it got relocated to Missis-focking-sippi.

And hey, let’s not forget, especially you kids, that Beer Town also happens to be one of the largest cities in southeast Wisconsin. But in these cotton-focking-picking hot summer months, this town becomes the largest city in the whole wide world whilst we embrace and celebrate peoples all manner of stripe, custom, color, costume, vernacular, talent and what have you, with our vibrant chain of ethnic fest pageants played against a lazy yet restricted lakefront, or something like that. I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty that you could sneeze, blow your nose-snot on your sleeve and if it’s summertime, somebody will throw a festival about it, and that’s got to count for something, ain’a?

Speaking of festivals, don’t forget about the Festa Italiana going on down there by the Summerfest grounds this weekend. (Or as some wags would describe it, not unlike the way I have many, many times, the “Let’s See How Many Over-the-Hill Guys Named Johnny We Can Get to Sing ‘New York, New York’ Fest.”) They’ll have everything molto bene you could possibly want down there. History? Fashion? You want fashion history? Hey, if you ever wondered where the leisure suit went after it died, you come to Festa, so forget about it.

And so in closing, allow me to remind you’s once more of the “Artie Turns 30” shebang sponsored by Milwaukee Irish Fest over by the Lakefront Brewery on Thursday, July the 28th, 6-9 p.m., with music provided by the mighty Brewhaus Polka Kings. The fine details can be gleaned from the big honking ad found on page 29 of this week’s fine Shepherd issue.

And again, thanks to my inspirational pen pal Ingrid Mae, for her wonderfully kind and generous support always. It is so much appreciated, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.