going back and going home. part two.

[Read Part One]

Part Two:  Saturday, Families and Friends

Michelle called at six a.m. on Saturday, pre-empting my alarm clock to remind me that she would be over in half an hour to take me to Appleton.

We hung up, and I lay in bed for a minute to assess my condition. I didn't remember falling asleep, but I remembered coming home, and I remembered checking the clock around four a.m. as we climbed into bed. I remembered having sex, mostly. It was the high and the rush of hormones that always did me in, regardless of the drinks or the hour. We were both still naked, though, and Greg was sound asleep next to me, probably still drunk after so few hours of rest.

My clothes lay on the floor next to the bed. I grabbed the pile, but immediately dropped it again when the smell of stale cigarettes hit my nostrils. One week in those jeans would have to be enough. I pulled another pair from my suitcase, along with a clean shirt and underwear and tiptoed to the bathroom. By the time I dressed, brushed my teeth, smoothed the bedhead from my smoke-scented hair, and ran some cold water over my heavy eyelids, my phone was ringing again and Greg was stirring in the bedroom.

“What is the address again? I think I'm here,” Michelle asked over her car radio.

“Eight-twenty Johnson. I'll meet you downstairs.”

“Oh, shoot, I am at nine-twenty. Okay, hang on. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

I jammed my suitcase closed, put Greg back to sleep with a kiss to the forehead, and met Michelle as she pulled up outside. She was wide awake, with combed hair and fresh makeup.

“We're going to need to stop for coffee,” I greeted her as I tossed my bag into the back seat.

I have made this drive hundreds of times, but I watch for new things in the drab landscape every time. The view becomes quickly redundant as you leave the city; sparse woods, flat farmland, and the occasional home set back hundreds of feet from the highway. At a few points, it is breathtaking no matter how many times you have crested the same hill. But, at most points, it is plain and disappointing. Most points of the drive into Central Wisconsin are a stark reminder of why I left.

I don't quite know why they choose to settle here. I guess most people don't; that's why this area always seems to be dying. So much of the state is filled with towns that used to be, no longer living, no longer growing, no longer useful or necessary. They are shells of once-thriving manufacturing or agricultural communities, but in the absence of these economies they are left to retirees and commuters.

Most people born to these dying, rolling landscapes leave when they can, and the ones who stay have no incentive to stay, and no hope for growth. They scrape by, procreate, and hope for the next generation to move on. The mosaic of small towns and farmland that fills the area seems to exist solely for those retired people who decide they no longer need hope, that all they want is to leave the world behind and settle into a comfortable rut.

My mom picked me up for lunch on Saturday. Michelle had a baby shower to attend, being of the age when those things happen in the Real World, so I had an afternoon to kill. True to the food culture in the city, we ended up at the Golden Coral, a mini-mall of a buffet restaurant, filled with fatty Wisconsin foods and fat Wisconsin families. I shielded my eyes and tried to stick to the salad bar.

“How's school been going?” my mom asked as we both settled into our seats with full plates.

I sighed. I had thus far neglected to tell her I had dropped out. It was easier at first to avoid the conversation, but I was growing tired of pretending to be a student, tired of pretending that I had some vision for the future that would be shaped by some institution's measures of success, tired of pretending that all of those things she pictured for the life of her daughter mattered to me.

“I decided to quit,” I said plainly, and looked into my salad. She wanted to reply, but I figured I might as well finish it off before she passed her judgment. “And I left my apartment, so I can cut down to part-time at work. I want to spend more time writing. I want to spend all of my time writing.”

“What are you doing with your writing?”

“I've got some leads for getting published.”

“Are you going back to school?”

“I don't know. Probably not. Not for awhile.”

“What about your loans?”

I don't think I'll pay those back; I don't really care about my credit score, and I can't afford the payments. “They can be deferred for awhile.” I didn't want a discussion about money just yet.

“What are you going to do in Madison? Just work part-time?”

“I'm going to write.”

“I mean for money.”

I had stopped planning for that a long time ago. It never seemed to matter; it always worked out. I didn't have the words to explain that idea to her.

“I don't even know if I'm going to stay in Madison. There is nothing keeping me here anymore. I am ready to do more, see new places, write somewhere else. I think I want to be bigger than this town.”

We were starting to come to a new type of understanding in our relationship. I wasn't a kid anymore, and I didn't need to lie to gain her approval. I didn't need to gain her approval, and she was beginning to understand that, too. I could just keep her up-to-date, like any other person in my life who cared about what I was doing, answer her questions, keep in touch. I was straying too far from the plan to try to pretend I was following it anymore, anyway. Honesty was just easier, even if she got that look on her face when I talked about moving or being poor.

I was dropped back at Michelle's house, where I napped off the buffet while she washed her dishes and folded her laundry. She set out sandwiches for dinner, and when her fiance came home from work, we ate together. Then we took turns at the shower and started to get ready for the band.

They were playing downtown at nine p.m. My ex-husband had been part of the band when it was a start-up and we were all in high school, and his brother was running sound now. I hadn't seen any of them since the divorce.

Michelle was ready to go out and dance, enjoy the show as if we were still seventeen-- completely unjaded, nothing but our dreams for the future ahead of us. I was going to have to get drunk.

We drank pitchers of Miller Lite all night-- Michelle was buying-- and I didn't talk to my brother-in-law, but to nod hello when we arrived, both acknowledging each other's presence, both realizing it was better to keep our distance, both wondering why I was there at all. My sister was the only person there I knew besides the band, so I just drank and danced in silence with her all night. She seemed to be able to step out of the moment and enjoy the night like we had since high school. I was not. It did not feel like we were seventeen. I was jaded by twenty-five years of life, and I no longer held out hope for any of the dreams I had had for my future. I existed in nothing but the moment, and I was unable to ignore the fact that no one cared anymore whether I was part of this thing that had been the center of my life for eight years.

After the show, Michelle went home, and I talked the boys into going out for breakfast-- just like the old days. A bit of me held onto the nostalgia, just wanted to believe that I could maintain this connection from this side of the gonzo line.

After breakfast, the boys drove me back to Michelle's and came in for a few more minutes of quality time before we each silently decided to write off the connection completely.

“This is bigger than my entire apartment in Chicago,” Peter said when we walked into the rec room in Michelle's basement.

I turned to glance down the length of the room, long and narrow, the bar at the other end at least twenty feet from where we stood. I nodded. Luxury was cheap in this town, if your definition of luxury mostly included space. The rec room was half of the basement, under the main floor that included a full kitchen, dining room, living room, master bedroom, office, and two full bathrooms. The dining room held Michelle's baby grand piano, and a sliding door opened into a fenced-in yard for the dog and future children.

“It's a comfortable house,” I replied. “in a shitty town.”

They both nodded.

“I guess that's the trade you make,” Peter said.

I glanced one more time to the home bar and the fireplace and the flat-screen. Some choices were easy.

We talked-- about the show, about the summers we had enjoyed together, about the lives we were living now-- until we were all drifting off to sleep. We nodded off together for a few minutes and awoke to realize it at the same time, so the boys decided to head home, leaving behind sleepy promises to keep in touch and visit soon that we all knew would be forgotten. I pulled each of them into a tight hug before they walked out the door, held on a little longer than usual. I wished them well and watched them walk lazily through the yard, unexpected casualties of inevitable choices.

squares and rockstars.

"We're not EXACTLY rockstars," the Taxman said as we headed to the hot tub early Sunday morning.  Someone had said "It's great to be rockstars," partying all night, and the neighbor's hot tub open to us at all hours.  This assertion by the Taxman sums up my evening with the Squares.

Well, there was sex, drugs, and rock and roll that night, for sure.  There was dirty dancing and hookups in dark corners; wine, beer, jello shots, and weed; two live bands playing great music we could dance to.  Partying followed by great food with friends followed by naked hot tub.

In a way, I guess, one could call it a good night:  no one went home mad, no one cried, no one had any sex they don't remember, there was no mess left anywhere, and nothing was broken or lost.  I imagine this is how the Squares see it.  "We partied an appropriate amount."  The Taxman's calculation.

We had one bottle of wine between four women.  One refrigerator of bottled beer for seventy-five people that ran out after we each had three.  Maybe four people smoking weed and only one guy with a pipe.  Not a single person smoking cigarettes.  No one drinking jello shots but the groupies because they tasted too much like vodka.  The lights were on in the house all night.  The house was ninety degrees, and the only two people I knew there (and the only ones not busy grinding with someone they wanted to hook up with) kept stepping outside for relief from the heat.  Even during the best songs!

The room was full of private-school music majors who had nothing in mind but who they would fuck that night, where, and when.  They weren't used to "outsiders" playing at their house parties, and they gave little energy to the band.  The music they talked about amongst themselves was their upcoming end-of-year recitals.  This crowd reminded me of a pianist chick who, when asked to step in for the keyboard part during my friends' band practice one time, responded, "I'm classically trained, and I don't want to damage my form." Musicians; but students, not rockstars.

Mistakes were made.  I didn't order any drinks at dinner before the show.  No one warned us, the "outsiders", that when these kids party they pre-game to shit-faced ahead of time, so the house doesn't supply a keg.  Just a few beers to keep everyone going until the hook-up hour.  The girls and I went with the practical choice of buying only one bottle of wine, assuming only we would drink it and beer would be abundant; we didn't prepare for the possibility of sharing or having no beer.  We stopped drinking early on so we could all drive home, but didn't resume the drinking once we were home, and we ate a bunch of food.  We spent a lot of time eating and chatting as the sun started to come up, and by the time we made it to the hot tub it was practically daylight, and we were all practically sober.

We were only in the hot tub for forty-five minutes, not enough time for it to warm up completely, so it was lukewarm the whole time.  The band members brought their girlfriends along, so no sexiness in the hot tub at all.  Though, when the Taxman had uncharacteristically called for naked hot tub and a late night, sexiness is certainly what he had been hoping for.

"I've never been to the hot tub with the Editor and not the Doctor before.  This should be interesting."

Well, Taxman, you have nothing but fantasies.  Any hope for achieving those you dashed yourself in your own mind before we could even get started:  "We're not EXACTLY rockstars."  You need to expect your dreams to come true and make something happen.  It was not interesting, not like you imagined.  It was far too real; lukewarm water and pale white bodies we could see with sober eyes in the morning sun.

Rockstars are meant to be seen in dim light through a smoky haze.  Never after dawn, and never sober.  They have groupies on their laps at 3am, not girlfriends-- unless their girlfriends have groupies, too.  Rockstars don't take a break for fresh air during the good songs.  Rockstars have the ability to see their dreams as possibilities and make them reality.  Squares can drink all night, dance to rock and roll, make great music, stay up until 5am, and get naked in their neighbor's hot tub.  Without the anger and the crying and the hazy sex and the mess and the broken shit and the extra booze-- without the passion-- they're just... Not exactly rockstars.

frenchie freedom weekend. part two: the life.

(Read Part One)


So, this is our weekend, the story of me and the Doctor, Frenchie, The Lately, Freedom, Wisconsin, and how we wound up sharing this artists' life non-stop for the last eight weeks.


I have to sometimes launch straight into a list of the shit that existed on a weekend like this, just so that I can remember to include it all.  It is less than eloquent for the Editor to post a bit of writing direct from her stream of conscious, but this is the only way I can truly share the events of this weekend.

Sam, the Doctor, and I met up with a friend who fell for Frenchie like the rest of us simply through our stories.  The four of us met Frenchie at the bus in Madison at 2pm on Friday; we all skipped class or work to get the weekend started.  We packed into our car and drove the two hours to Freedom, where we met up with the entourage of artists bred in the neighborhood where Sam and the Doctor grew up.  In the house at one time were this initial crew of me, the Doctor, Sam, and the French girl; the sage and original rockstar who sired Sam and his family of musicians, the chick who had sex with the Doctor and me and stole Sam's songs, her boyfriend, the Taxman, and a badass sax player we grew up with.

After greetings and dropping off our bags at Sam's, we headed across the court, where the rest of our family was frying fish, because it was Friday in Wisconsin.  The entourage hung out here for a bit to get drunk, then made its way en masse to the Colonial House for an after-hours jam session.  Jamming at the Colonial House with a host of other characters, all of whom I don't know, maybe fifteen of us in all, some of us just there to listen.  Valentine sang some French things along with the sax player's improv lyrics to the tune of "Sweet Home Alabama".  Alabama, France.  Sam serenaded us all and made us long to never leave this old basement and this hodge-podge of musicians.

Saturday morning.  The crew at Sam's house headed to Appleton to start recording.  The Doctor and I stayed in most of the day to argue over some spousal bullshit, but resolved to cut it out at about four o'clock and headed to the studio, where our forced smiles soon turned genuine as we shared Kerrigan Bros wine with the band and Frenchie.  Frenchie immediately changed into the Doctor's morph suit when we arrived and looked mysterious and ridiculous for the rest of the day.

Sam writes and sings the songs for The Lately, and the music we heard that day was awesome.  And the producer worked with a touch of genius and played badass mandolin for the album.

From the studio we headed to Freedom to watch the sage play a show.  A cover band at a small-town Wisconsin bar is always a fucking great night.  Frenchie turned to me and said, "I am probably the only French person here."  I laughed and said, "Yes, of course you are."  "That is soooo cool."  French-accent.  She got quite drunk as everyone bought her drinks with the hopes of getting to know her a little better, and she'd had no dinner.  She danced sexy and French in a black dress, put her arms around me for the slow songs, and kissed me on the lips with no warning.  So French.  The band introduced her to the crowd as "all the way from France", and she was glowing.  She got too drunk and headed to the bathroom, put her fingers in her throat, and puked.  Someone told me she was missing, and I headed to the bathroom to ensure she was alright.  She was puking and women were lining up to use the bathroom, so we headed outside, behind the building.  She handled herself well while drunk and puking, a touch of French class in the back alley of a Freedom bar.  A cop was called to the bar to break up a hick fight, and he saw her sitting there and said, "Looks like she's pretty sick" and went inside.  I led her away from the building then, and the Doctor soon got worried, found us, and took us back home, where we filmed her for an hour being wasted and singing "Shoestains".

Soon, the rest of the crew made it back home to meet us, and we all changed into our bathing suits and headed across the court to sit in Sam's neighbor's hot tub, by this time a Freedom party weekend tradition.  Traditionally, however, we go naked.  This weekend, we started in our suits, maybe because Frenchie was technically a 'stranger'?  The Doctor was the first to remove his shorts and the only one naked for a while.  Then Valentine started to tease me and remove the tie on my bikini.  Then she kissed me.  Wanted to show me what "French kiss" means.  It was wonderful; it's exactly what you imagine.  So, through flirting and teasing, we took off our suits, and the boys quickly followed.  We were in the hot tub until 6am, drinking wine, kissing, melting, and recovering from the previous18 hours of drinking.

Sunday was Daylight Savings, so we lost an hour somewhere (try to explain that to the French one, and you'll quickly realize how absurd it is).  Slept two hours and headed back to Appleton for a bit more recording.  The Doctor and I headed back to Madison around noon, stopping at a small-town Wisconsin diner for day-after brunch:  French toast, burgers, and cheesecurds.  French toast, along with a host of other so-named crap, is not French.

Sunday night, when Sam and Valentine came back to Madison, was chill times at our house.  We enjoyed Frenchie's company, even sober, ensuring the beginnings of a solid friendship.

Monday, the Doctor, Sam, Valentine, and I ate Indian food for lunch, wandered around the zoo to enjoy the beautiful day, and went shopping at the Dig n Save.  We continued the bender mildly that night with wine, American Honey Whiskey, and PBR.  Valentine had a new cute hat from the Dig n Save that I wore all night, and before she left our house she cried, "I'm not leaving that hat!", tackled me onto our bed, said "I'll trade it for a kiss", French-kissed me, and fled.

I had to work the next day, and she caught a bus back to Chicago.  We have talked to her via Facebook and Skype each day since; she's coming back to Madison next week to celebrate Sam's birthday.  She wants to live in the US, and our current plan is to find someone to marry her in a ceremony performed by the Doctor, so she can stay and work and gain citizenship after two years.  (Yeah, apparently that's really how it works.)

We don't know yet how this story will play out, but Frenchie will be in America for another two months.  It's only been seven days.- 3/18/10

frenchie freedom weekend. part one: the artist.

Not too long ago I wrote the words "I don't claim the title 'writer'.  I am just a person who writes."  Then the world changed and I began to once again write for hours each day, and I reclaimed the title, reclaimed who I am.  This is the story of the beginning of the change...


I met a beautiful French woman this weekend.  And to demonstrate how wholly she has conquered the hearts and minds of me and everyone who saw her, as I wrote that first sentence, my thoughts slipped into French-accent.  Her voice, explained my husband, gets stuck in your head like a song.  We spent five days with her.  I don't fully have the time or the space, or the words, or the ink to explain everything that happened this weekend. However, I am not the only one who will attempt to do so.  Our reminiscence has invaded Facebook, as the ten or fifteen new friends that she made over the weekend grasp at any attempt to maintain her presence in their lives.  The Doctor has recorded the weekend in gonzo words.  There is video footage of Frenchie drunk (after puking in a Freedom bar and being whisked away to avoid cops who had suddenly showed up)-- drunk and singing the chorus and violin parts of "Shoestains" by The Lately.  In French-accent. Drunk, singing, and claiming, "Sitar family...I speak a damn good USA."  Of course, none of this makes much sense alone in this journal, but this is the age of the internet and digital media; and we'll all have a chance to share the story in our own ways.  So, Facebook, doctorofgonzo.com, "Shoestains" video; and also, Frenchie herself said she will definitely be writing about the weekend-- maybe in French?  And maybe between these things, the world will be able to glimpse a picture of the first encounter between the party of Freedom, Wisconsin, and Valentine Michel.

It's Thursday, and people all over Wisconsin are still glowing from the grandness of the weekend.

To be fair, we certainly would have blown minds, done beautiful things, and sown chaos and fun throughout the Fox Valley last weekend even if Valentine Michel had not been there.  It is for sex, drugs, and rock and roll that we make the two-hour drive to Freedom, Wisconsin from Madison.  The reason for this trip was that The Lately was recording an album in Appleton on Saturday and Sunday; the Doctor and I were going along so that we could party Friday night and the Doctor could report on the recording session over the weekend.  Two weeks before the recording weekend, we met the French girl at a party in Madison; she had some unlikely connection to Sam Farrell by that point, and the Doctor and I remembered her shortly after as the random French chick who constantly said "Oh my gooooddd!" and tried to drunkenly unbutton Sam's shirt as he was leaving.  For about a week and a half, we thought little else about her, until she was invited to join us for The Lately recording party weekend.  I don't know who invited her or just why she was invited, really.  But, logically, her answer was "Yes."  "Yes, I am a French girl who has been in America for six months, living in Chicago, and I met you people for about 20 minutes at a house party in Madison.  Two weeks later, you have invited me to get into your car, drive north into Wisconsin for two hours to some country town where you grew up, spend a weekend listening to you record music and sleeping in your parents' house.  And you would like me to play violin on your album, even though you just learned a moment ago that I play it, and I don't know your songs at ALL?  Hell yes!  This is a great plan."

And thus made our weekend.  As I was saying, sex, drugs, and rock and roll.  We were set to make the weekend rock anyway, but adding Frenchie made everyone see our world in a new light, through her eyes.  Through the eyes of a foreigner who was falling in love with us and with Freedom, Wisconsin.  Frenchie, and Springtime, and Kerrigan Bros wine with Simon's Cheese, and the local band at Leap Inn, and the homes of our families that are open to anyone and everyone...You have made this a fucking fantastic weekend.

A Freedom, Wisconsin, weekend always holds a special place in my heart.  Now that we live in Madison, going to Freedom invariably gives me this amazing, soothe-your-soul feeling of Going Home.

Now, I never made the oh-so-obvious connection between the Going Home vibe and the name 'Freedom'.  Until Frenchie.  She was exclaiming all weekend, "What a free country!" and then "and we are in a town called Freedom, Wisconsin!"  Yes, we are.  And that vibe clicked for everyone around:  Wow, this place rocks, this world rocks, the things we are doing fucking rock, we rock.  Loving life.  That is what Valentine Michel gave us.  We have been sharing sex, drugs, and rock and roll with the world all along, freaking out squares by getting naked next to them in a hot tub.  But, now here she is.  She left France, where she was in a shaky relationship, on edge with her parents, taking drugs to sleep, and living with sheep and people who don't have tattoos or wear jewelry.  She came to America to find peace and freedom, and she made everyone of us realize that we are each a source of Peace and Freedom.  She is beautiful and smart and generally awesome, and she makes everyone feel as if they still have some bit of the world to share with her.

The first words Valentine heard in English were the lyrics to "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds".

We can never know quite what life will bring, but I can say today that life is different, for better or worse or neutral, now that Valentine Michel is part of it.