wiscompton pride.

I have lived in Chicago for four years now. It's hard to believe. I was born and raised in a small village in southwestern Wisconsin called Argyle, population 789 (now 823 some ten years later). I went to a small school shared with kindergarten through 12th grade. I had the same teachers from preschool up until high school. If I was to return tomorrow, I would be recognized by the greater majority of the town. My mom's still there, but I haven't returned in over a year.

After high school, I relocated to serve my next 5 summers working for Tommy Bartlett in Wisconsin Dells. I lived in a trailer park in the parking lot of Robot World. It was a bit of a culture shock and wakeup call, working with kids who weren't farmers, especially of the European descent. I went to college for 3 semesters in the farmy/small University of Wisconsin River Falls which was cool since it was 5 hours away from Argyle, and 30 minutes from Minneapolis, but wound up getting claustrophobic with the 3,000 student population and transferred halfway into my sophomore year to Oshkosh, WI. Ended up sticking around for 3 years there, made a few friends and found myself with journalism and music working for the school paper and radio station. Kinda figured out my adult youthful self in a way, at least with my passion for music journalism and tattoos.

Post graduation, made the trek to Chicago. I love it here. I don't see myself ever returning to Wisconsin, yet even with my 'ohmygod that was my life' kinda reflection, I'm proud to be a Wiscomptonite. Sure, I encountered a lotta weird ass shit that prob isn't normal to other people, but you know what, they make really good stories and I love flipping through my old photo books. I'm proud to be from Wisconsin, my memories (good and bad), but I also am proud to have moved away on my own discretion, to have escaped, I guess you could say. That is why I got a tattoo of the outline of the dairy state on the inside of my upper right arm. It's a part of me. But it's also a reminder that I can do whatever the fuck I want if I just fucking do it. That being said, I recorded a few trivial rambles of my youth below and stereotypes of what it was/is like back there. I am def glad, though, that growing up in suburbia was not my story, because that would just have been super boring and lame.

1. Homemade welfare shoes.  In those extra frigid, slushy snowy winters, my holey rubber wal-mart boots just weren't up to par for walking the half mile to school in the mornings. We weren't the type of family to waste and throw out said holey boots to purchase a $16  replaceable warm pair, however, instead we had a very McGyver like and resourceful grandmother who was quick to cover our feet with empty plastic bread bags and twistie ties. That wasn't embarassing slipping off in front of the 3rd (through 6th) grade class, nope, not at all.

2. Make yer own meds. I have a disgusting allergic reaction to any sort of insect bite. Not to the point where it requires emergency room medical attention or anything, but I'll swell up 3-5 times the normal bitten victim and turn a rosy salmon. It's really attractive (any of you who attended the lake house in Portage this summer know EXACTLY what i'm talking about). Well, instead of shelling out the 6 bones on hydrocortisone cream, we'd just mix some good ole arm & hammer baking soda with some water into a white paste and slather it all over. My aunt julie was maybe the one exception in our family who would shell out the 89 cents per bottle for some of that pink calamine or whatever the crap it was called pepto bismol bug lotion. Kids with mullets covered in white and pink splotches, itching like crazy. Yep.

3. Lice. Oh. My. God. I'm pretty sure it wasn't normal to have a regular Nix shampoo session every year, but for me and my cousins it was a regular event. 'Oh shit, time to clean all the furniture!' My mom would plastic bag the shitty sinking sofa and the springy floral arm chair and pick at my head for hours with this eye stinging shampoo shit. I was never embarassed (the first 3 or 4 times) cuz all my creepy cousins would rock the same skull cap, but I'll never forget that day in 4th grade when the nurse caught the creepy crawlies on my scalp and the class watched me get sent home. One little rudeass fourth grade bitch even made up a song about it, "LICE, STRIPES, FRUIT LICE GUM!" cuz that shitty tattoo rainbow gum was popular. Whore. I am proudly a 17 year going strong lice survivor. And people wonder why I hate on bugs.

4. Homemade haircuts. Who needs to go to the salon when there are flowbees? I actually was never the victim of that vaccuum infomercial device (although some of my cousins were). Nope, instead I got the fashion mullet. The spikey top, curly sideburns and curled out straight mullet at the bottom. It was my mother's haircut. She thought it was cute we had the same 'do. My second grade picture still haunts me to this day. Every kind of personal homegrown mullet, I've rocked it. Surely.

5. Animals. Farming. Hunting. Everyone in my family was either a hunter, farmer or a combination of the two. (at least if you were male, the women were appropriately the homemaker/kitchen type). I've had enough animal wildlife horror stories to release a novel, but here are a few highlights.

• A) Witnessing chicken butcher fest at age 8, being instructed to pick up chx who ran 100 yards sans cranium. Leaning into pick up said headless fowl only to have foghorn leap up from the dead, spray blood all over my face and run an additional 30 feet (to the howling amusement of my uncle/grandfather.
• B) You've all heard the Missy story before, but I'll tell it again anyway because half of you don't believe me. My aunt really loves animals. So much so that she scooped up a fawn alongside the highway when she and my uncle discovered the mother doe dead beside it. Named fawn Missy. Adopted as pet. Lived in concrete doublewide in Avoca, Wisconsin. Fed baby Missy goat milk from a bottle. Missy let you pet her. She also let me and four other dirty cousins cuddle with her on the living room floor in sleeping bags. I awoke, clutching Missy's cold, stiff backleg in a spooning position. Missy was dead. We all poked her. My aunt cried. At least they didn't hunt her, though.
• C) High School it was completely socially acceptable for kids to drive their trucks to school and leave dead deer carcasses in the back of their pick-ups to show off at recess. One kid I worked with at Pizza Hut took it too far, though, and drug the deer in the back of our kitchen. My manager was not pleased. I wasn't really surprised, though. Deer hunting is a really big deal in small town Wisconsin, kids were allowed a whole week off for each hunting season.
• D) If you haven't hit at least one deer in your life and you grew up in Wisconsin, you are either A) from Milwaukee, B) from Madison or C) never had your driver's license. I was fortunate to only hit one in my lifetime, and it exploded in half when I was going 35 mph. I faked a head injury so my mom wouldn't be pissed that I morphed her ride into a combo-car. To this day, when I'm in Wisco, I'll instruct the driver as my mom did me, "KEEP YER DEER EYES OPEN."

6. Alcohol. Now in my life as a mid-to-late twenty something, drinking an abundance of booze and cheap beer doesn't seem like that big of a deal. But it didn't back as a kiddo, either. It didn't matter if it was your 6 year old cousin's birthday or your grandparent's 30th wedding anniversary, if there was any sort of social gathering, you better goddamn well believe there was a keg present. I didn't realize until I turned 21 that Wisconsin is the only state (still to this day) that allows underage kids to drink in bars/restaurants (upon the business's discretion) as long as their parents are present. Five year olds running around the pool table in the townie bar? Yep, been there done that (me). 18 and out with mom eating chicken strips, sipping on malibu & pineapples, yep. Stealing cups of beer at 11 for Uncle somebody's wedding, duh. It wasn't just my family either, it was EVERYBODY'S. Plus, where do you think all the best and shittiest beers are made? WISCONSIN. Schlitz, PBR, Miller Lite, Hooch's, Beast, Keystone (light), Natty Ice, New Glarus Spotted Cow, Leinenkugels, the list goes on and on. . . .

7. The Fucking. Green. Bay. Packers. Good Lawd! I never got into sports and to this day I still could give two shits if whatever overpaid team of pudgey, egotistical men wins or loses. Whatever. But Packers fans? Good christ! Maybe it was just b/c when I was growing up they actually won their games and had that whole Superbowl string. Packer Playoff parties, ESPECIALLY super bowl parties were more intense and scary than an ICP family gathering. If they won, everyone got trashed and it was time to hit up your folks for that new gameboy game or whatever you'd been jonesin. If they lost, or were losing during the game, you stayed the fuck away from that television set. I never remember being more freaked out than at one playoff game at my cousin's house where the room was full of red-faced, drunken, violent cheeseheads. (Yes, they even wore those ridiculous hats). Green Bay Packer freaks are one of the reasons I was embarassed to hail from wisco and got the fuck out when I did. *shudders* Those creepy ass foam hats. . .

8. Illinois hatred. Yep. FIBS. ever hear of em? Fucking Illinois Bastards. That's what Wisco hoodrats call any Illinois peeps. Given, the majority of Illinois residents who drive through our sleepy subdued state are tourists and don't have "their deer eyes open" and drive much more recklessly, agressive for the tractor filled roads, but it's not even just the Illinois license plates that fuel the fire. It's the Bears. It's the Cubs. It's the resentment that ohmygod there's city folk and they're too weird for us normal folk. I don't get it. But as a kid, I would too, scream "FIIIIIIIIB" upon seeing an out of state vehicle. Well, I now embrace my fibness. Maybe that should be my next tat. . .

9. Cheese. It's true. Wisconsin has fantastic cheese. You can tell, look at all the fat pussies and beer guts on half the state's population. Plus, there's a cheese shack nearly every 70 feet. Whether it's a gas station, a cheese chalet, castle, shop, you're going to find a variety of at least 500 flavors. I'm not hating on this, to this day if I see a Wisconsin cheesecurd (which to my astonishment, more people than not are still not familiar with the majesty that is a cheese curd), I freak out and devour it in zero seconds flat. But the best cheese location I've spotted to this day is hands down outside of Hudson, Wisconsin. Right along the highway there's "Wisconsin's Finest Taxidermy and Cheese." So not only can you get your curd on, but you can also pick up a stuffed Missy to replace the goat milk exploded belly version that long past away in your aunt's double wide.

10. Hicks. They're everywhere. Bib overall sportin, rider lawn mower drivin' (most likely to the high numbers of DUIs), backward baseball cappin', dip chawin' rednecks. 80% of my graduating class (which I guess would be like 25 out of my 33) were farmer dudes who rocked the sleeveless t and often drug cowshit on their shoes to school. I know songs like "Me and You gone fishin in the dark," Metallica's entire catalog, that horrible "dont know how you do what you do, so in love with youuuuuu, jus' keeps gettin betttttter (prom song)". I know the definition of "coon bashin" (and no, it's not a racial hate crime, it's a recreation involving bright lights, a pick up truck, a baseball bat and wild raccoons), "deer shinin'" (again, same as 'coon bashin,' but with deer and no baseball bat, just a bright light), "cow tippin'" (although this wasn't so much a typical recreational activity for my town's youth, at least because we knew everybody else and didn't want to disrespect their farms. Anyway. As feeble minded as some of us may interpret their slower speech mannerisms and less than ideal fashion choices, these dudes are typically pretty good guys. (as long as you're white, jesus lovin', straight, OR 'from round these parts'.) I fit into the latter category. Since I'm their former prom queen, born and bred, they still got love for me. But out of towners may want to just keep driving through . . .