I 👋 Wisconsin. That's a wave. Could be hello, could be goodbye, could be you white-knuckling it down I-94 in a February whiteout waving at the guy who just passed you in a Silverado doing 80 like snow is a rumor. Ambiguity is the point. Wisconsin is a place you're always either arriving at or fleeing, usually with a gas station cheese curd situation in the cupholder.
Wave at the Packers fan wearing shorts in 11 degrees. Wave at the bar that opened at 6am for a noon kickoff. Wave at the supper club, the brandy old fashioned, the Friday fish fry, the entire month of April pretending to be spring. This state waves back, because Midwestern goodbyes take 45 minutes and start in the driveway.
Built from soft, substantial fabric that holds its shape through tailgates, bonfires, and questionable life decisions. Print stays sharp wash after wash, so the joke lands long after everybody's forgotten whose car they left at the bar.
