West Side Stories

I have always been a Caller ID enthusiast. Over the years, it has saved me from countless telemarketers, fundraisers and sometimes an overzealous relative or two. I tend to use Caller ID aggressively and often. I like to get my money’s worth.

For me, Caller ID is most valuable prior to an election. Today alone, we’ve received four pre-voting calls – from Jill Didier, two from Scott Walker and one other that I can’t identify because I cut off the recording before it finished. It’s late afternoon, I expect a whole bunch more around dinnertime.

What baffles me about these calls is that they are just recordings, every single one of them. I just have one question: Who listens to these recordings in their entirety? Do politicians really think that little of us? I’d be curious to know how much it costs them to record and then “distribute” these calls. Regardless of who I am voting for, I refuse to sit on the phone and listen to a machine talk to me. If I wanted to do that, I'd call my insurance company...or Time Warner.

Despite the fact that I ignore, hang up on and delete these calls, I fully expect them to continue beyond tomorrow’s big vote. After all, come November, we have a really big vote happening. I’m sure my phone will be fielding calls from some heavy hitters around then.

In the meantime, I’ll just sit here and enjoy the benefits of telephone technology. Oops, gotta run. My phone is ringing. Never mind, it’s just the “Friends of Scott Walker.”

They call this time of year March Madness, and that, I love. If you give me a choice, I will always choose college basketball over the NBA.

In college, every game, give or take a cupcake or two, means something. The players play from the tip-off to the final buzzer, leaving it all out on the court.

In the NBA, they start to bring their A-game, oh in about April, so you still have some time to rest up for the playoffs. (Oh wait. There won’t be any playoffs here in Milwaukee. More about that later.) A typical SportsCenter highlight of an NBA game consists of nine guys standing around, while one guy shoots a three-pointer…uncontested. Yawn.

One final thought on the NBA here in Milwaukee. Is anyone else as bewildered as I am that the Bucks continue to run their print ads in the sports section with the tagline: The Milwaukee Bucks – Where Amazing Happens? Right. Amazing as in “it’s amazing that the general manager didn’t get fired until this past week.”

Anyway, like so many others, I have filled out my NCAA brackets. I expect to be soundly beaten by far more savvy college basketball experts and probably somebody’s 10- year old daughter who chose winners based on uniforms. Nevertheless, I find it endlessly entertaining.

Along with March Madness, we are also having one of the earliest Easter Sundays in many, many years….and it’s snowing…a lot. Gone are those dreams of taking walks in new spring apparel while we happily gaze at the blooming daffodils. Not gonna happen this year. That, my friends, is the true March Madness.

For many years, my family and I have had a tradition of playing the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar in our car pre-Easter. I guess because it’s the perfect soundtrack to the season. I vividly remember buying this album in grade school and being very worried that the nuns would confiscate it and send us to confession. They actually liked it…and to this day, so do I. It never fails to impress me with its brilliance and beauty.

And so, on that note, I leave you, my readers, with an Easter egg of my own. (Not to be confused with a hidden bonus feature on a DVD.) If you click on this link, you’ll hear one of the gifts that my kids gave our family this past Christmas. It’s a recording of “I Don’t Know How To Love Him” from Jesus Christ Superstar. (I know – shameless offspring promotion.) This just seems like the right time to share this. My daughter, Maria, on lead vocals, my son, Dan, on harmony and guitar. (They're going to kill me. Oh well.)

Enjoy and Happy Easter!

For no good reason, other than thinking it’s St. Patrick’s Day and everybody is at Mo’s, the family and I dined at the new McCormick & Schmick’s restaurant which opened their Mayfair location on Monday.

Tucked in the less busy north parking lot near Macy’s, the new M&S is rather unassuming from the outside. Once inside, it feels completely different. Sort of a mix of cathedral-meets-the-Titanic-grand-stairway, with its domed center ceiling outfitted with stained glass and capped off with a nod to the Badger State.

The deal here is seafood, seafood and more seafood, all of it flown in from places far and wide. To me, the menu very much resembled that of Mitchell’s Fish Market, another chain that operates over at Brookfield Square. Both restaurants have menus printed daily and boast how incredibly fresh everything is and that they’ll cook it pretty much the way you want it.

Having now been to both of these restaurants, I’d say that M&S wins in the ambience department, with its multilevel dining room, making every table seem cozy and private. I think their food is better too.

The bar area here is very attractive and it was great to see that the TVs in the bar weren’t hovering over the dining area. (Seems like TVs have invaded every dining room in town lately.) Our waitress made a point of mentioning that they pride themselves on the fresh ingredients in their cocktails. Nothing pre-made. Since we had wine, I’ll have to take her word for it.

The Lump Crab Con Queso with Avacado Dip Appetizer had a light yet creamy texture that was delicious and was served with large tortilla chips. The Calamari had a nice, crispy breading and was served with three different dipping sauces. (Still doesn’t rival our favorite from Bartolotta’s, but I’d give it a close second.)

One tiny complaint was that the sourdough bread, which was good, would have been much better if served warm.

The Bleu Cheese Wedge Salad and the Caesar Salad were better than your average restaurant salads – not drenched in dressing like you find at so many places these days.

My husband had the Catfish which was served over a sweet potato hash with corned beef (no doubt in tribute to St. Pat’s day). He said his was quite good. I had the Parmesan Crusted Tilapia, served with some excellent mashed potatoes. It was delicious, and I’m happy to say they didn’t skimp on capers, one of my favorite things. My daughter, not being a fish fan, had the Pot Roast, served with the mashed potatoes. It was very tender and came with a full-flavored gravy.

Just to give the entire menu a test run, we splurged on dessert. The Crème Brulee, which they claim to be their specialty, was airy and sweet, but unlike the cocktails, tasted somewhat pre-made and not recently “torched” on top. The chocolate cake was outstanding, but way too much for one person.

Another small gripe: The coffee was rather bland when compared with the food. Why do restaurants skimp on coffee quality when it’s often the last taste memory you have before leaving? Too bad, because the food was really, really good.

Overall, the service was terrific – very attentive without being intrusive. Since it was opening night, there were a few small glitches, but nothing that would prevent us from going back.

The prices? Well, it’s seafood, so you can’t expect a bargain. This is what they call a “white tablecloth” restaurant, so it’s definitely not cheap. But I think the quality of the food and service make it worthwhile.  

When comparing McCormick & Schmick’s and Mitchell’s, I’d say that we Tosans got the better of the two seafood chains in the area. Lucky us.

Gotta go now. I have some major treadmill work ahead of me after that dinner. That’s OK. It was worth it.

What’s bugging you more? Dirty snow like this…

Or icy sidewalks like this?

For me, it’s the spring tease. Our hopes are raised and then quickly dashed.

This morning I took the dog out as always, pre-dawn. Expecting to be hit with the usual icy blast, instead, it felt practically balmy. Back inside, I checked the thermometer – 39 degrees. Yes!

Honestly, my “nice weather” standards have hit an all-time low. When I’m cheering for high-30s, you know that it’s been a long, cold winter.

Last weekend, we were told to “spring ahead” and move our clocks up an hour. If that’s not a sign that spring is on the way, then I don’t know what is. But the reality is, spring will show up when it wants to – probably in June.

In the meantime, we’re stuck in this hellish, endless circle of thaw, freeze, thaw, freeze…Walking outside means taking your own life into your hands.

A couple of weeks ago, I headed down to my mailbox to return an already-viewed Netflix selection. I took a step and ended up flat on my back. Luckily, only my derriere and my ego were badly bruised.

Truth be told, I actually don’t like spring. It’s messy, not nearly warm enough and serves just to raise our hopes, which will quickly be destroyed with the first freakish spring snowstorm.

Yet, I can’t help feeling a little bit optimistic that summer might again visit us…eventually. You know what they say – hope springs eternal.

I sat and watched, riveted, with a box of Kleenex by my side. He cried. I cried. I’m sure that most of Packer nation cried. Suffice it to say, you’d have to be a cold, hard soul not to shed a tear or two.

I’m speaking, of course, about Brett Favre’s press conference this afternoon to announce his retirement.

As a Packer fan, I needed to hear what he had to say. As a sports radio listener, I needed him to answer the many questions that have been bouncing around. He did, with a surprising amount of candor, especially when asked what he would do next.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

Frankly, he seemed to be feeling the way most of us are feeling – a little lost.

And so begins the next era of the Green Bay Packers and Stage 2 in the life of Brett Favre, everyday guy.

Look, the man has led a charmed, yet blindingly public life. He’s climbed to great heights in professional sports and reached great depths in personal tragedy. His life is a Disney movie waiting to be written. We, and he, just don’t know the ending.

I know that many of you are really tired of hearing about this. There’s even a Facebook group called “Stop the Brett Favre Insanity and Report Some Actual News.” I have to say, I agree. On the other hand, collectively, we’re all having a tough time moving on. But in the interest of local public health, I’d like to try.

First of all, let’s all remind ourselves that the man did not die, something you would think if you saw 1/10 of the coverage in the past few days. He’s alive and well. He’ll survive without us, so we should be able to survive without him.

Secondly, hello! We knew this day was coming. It just happened a bit unexpectedly, but that’s pure Favre, through and through. Just when you think he won’t, he does.

Finally, I like the analogy that Brett used in the press conference. He said that Deanna said it to him the other day.

“It’s time to look at life through the front windshield instead of the rear view mirror,” he said.

Wise words indeed. Let’s all give it a try. Or think of it this way: If Brett can do it, so can I.

I blame the Boca Burgers. Perhaps he’s low on protein. A little too much Tofu?

How else to explain why Prince Fielder has messed with the delicate Brewer fan base at a time of unprecedented pre-season adoration. One of Wisconsin’s favorite sons has gone all Sterling Sharpe on us and started whining about his contract before the bases are even loaded.

On the one hand, I can’t say I blame him. The guy’s proven himself. He’s a force to be reckoned with who has become his own human highlight reel. On the other hand, don’t ya think it hurts just a little bit more because we don’t fancy our stars this way here in the land of cheese?

We like to think our home run hitters are home-grown and come complete with an aw-shucks-that’s-plenty-of-money-thank-you-attitude. This isn’t New York, so the egos should be checked at the door, right?

Um, apparently, no. This is 2008 and the bigger they play, the bigger we pay.

So Prince and his agent have dropped this giant publicity stunt, smack-dab on the front page of today’s sports section. Pretty savvy actually. The deal was renewed last spring. Yet Prince has chosen this spring, when we’re still fresh from NFC Championship heartbreak and hoping beyond hope that this is the year that we take back “Wrigley North” from the Cubs’ fans and claim the division and a playoff spot in grand fashion.

Prince knows we want it bad. He knows this will strike fear in the hearts of the Bucket Brigade. He knows we’re tired of watching pennant races filled with the names of former Brewers. Please Mark Attanasio. Let’s not add Prince’s name to that list.

But contract negotiations, like baseball, are a bit of a game. It’s he-said, they-said with a dash of revisionist history thrown in.

So let’s hope this blows over. Let’s cross our fingers that somebody steals that copy of Skinny **** from Prince’s locker and grills him a big, fat sirloin. Maybe then he won’t be so cranky.

Because although it’s going to snow again this week, Opening Day is barely a month away.

Please, Prince. Don’t mess with destiny. If you build it, we will come.

*Skinny *** is supposedly the book that Prince Fielder's wife gave him which started him on his Veggie Tales.

Besides the fact that we’re annoying each other, a little tired of being land-locked and our cabin-fever is at an all-time high, another undesirable by-product of this record-breaking winter is that we’ve become a household of sickos.

We are doing what I call trading illnesses. With our son gone at college, there are three of us in the house. At any one time, at least one of us, often two, have a cold or the flu. Don’t worry. I’ll spare you the grim details.

We’re going through Kleenex faster than water. There’s hardly enough decongestant in all of Tosa to stop our noses from running. We throw away our toothbrushes weekly. We spend our many trips to Walgreens wandering the aisles in search of something, anything that might provide a secret, miracle cure. (Yesterday, I seriously considered a Neti Pot . That’s how desperate I am.)

I have visions of calling a service, something along the lines of an exterminator, to tent our entire house and fumigate it from the germs that are apparently embedded in our walls, sort of like toxic mold.

I no longer listen for the sounds of creaking floorboards to know that my family is awake. Now it’s a cough and a few sneezes to announce their awakening.

We wash our hands so much that they’re raw to the touch. It’s obviously not helping.

I have daydreams. They involve a beach and warm, sizzling sun. Something to bake the bugs until they shrivel up and die.

I know it’s only a page turn in the calendar, but I too am really glad it’s March.