union rallies.

Day 1
~1,000 people

It has been over a month now, and as I watch the rallies around the Capitol wax and wane, I am just beginning to wrap my mind around what I-- and all of us in Madison, Wisconsin, the US, and the world-- have been part of for the past four weeks.

Day 2
~ 25,000 people

Day 6

The community of Madison has been transformed by this movement, and the impact won't go away quickly with the protesters. Every one of us has been affected by it, whether because we slept in the Capitol building for two weeks straight, or because we were late for work 3 out of 5 days every week because of swamped city buses, or because we suddenly have something other than Wisconsin winter weather to talk about with every single person we encounter throughout the day.

Day 7
~70,000 people

Tom Morello kicks off Week 2
with Rock for Your Rights

Our local pizza place, Ian's Pizza was absolutely swamped with business for two weeks because of hundreds of calls from around the US and the world with donations of pizza to be delivered to the protesters around the Square. Inside their store, Ian's has a board that lists all of the countries calls had come from, and a note that says "All 50 states!". They received more donations than their employees could keep up with, so many so that they started to donate their donations to other local businesses and to refer callers to other businesses to make donations.

Sit-in Feb 27

I attended the sit-in at the Capitol on February 27, fully prepared to be dragged out of the building and arrested. I was there as much for the experience as for the statement. I was moved and impressed by what the people had transformed our state Capitol into, perfectly organized chaos; a huge open communal living space that was both a statement of solidarity against the bullying of this government and a testament to the ability of people to coexist and care for each other when they are driven by common goals and not restricted by the pursuit of money.

I climbed to the second floor of the building with the number for my lawyer in magic marker on one hand and the number of a friend prepared to bail me out of jail on the other. I milled about with around 500 people as the announcement was made overhead that the building was closing at four p.m., then waited with them for the small number of police officers from counties around the state to ask us to leave. When we weren't asked to leave, or dragged out of the building, I was disappointed at first. I had come for the experience, and it was, frankly, a little boring after awhile to just mill about the Capitol listening to a drum circle and protest chants. But, then I was reminded of our reason for being there and realized that we had won this one. It was suddenly interesting to be a part of that, and I slept that night with a sense of pride for my city and my state.

"WE ARE WI"

That sense of pride was completely deflated the next morning when authorities started to restrict access to the building. That was the first moment, after attending more than two weeks of protests, that I realized that we were just going to lose.

The greatest blow, of course, came last Wednesday, when the Senate sneakily pushed through the anti-Union legislation. Although the move re-lit the fire that was threatening to burn out under the protesters, it was still completely disheartening. What are we fighting for anymore? The fight continues, but with each victory for the other side, this inspiring community is looking more and more like an angry mob to me. It seems that no matter how right we are or how loud we shout, the powers that be are not listening.  I don't know what to do to make them listen, and I know we can't possibly stop shouting.  I'm just trying to exist in my city now, witnessing this historic event without being swept up in false hope or heavy disappointment at every turn.

SOLIDARITY
Friday, Feb 18

Rock for Your Rights, Monona Terrace
Monday, Feb 21

Monday, Feb 14
Headed to the Governor's office

Tuesday, Feb 15
Teamsters arrive

Serving Ian's Pizza outside the Capitol

Rock for Your Rights
Tom Morello invites us all to join him on stage

Rules of etiquette inside the Capitol

Sneaking a moment away from work to
check out the action
Saturday, Feb 19

dreams of californication.

How I became an Asshole.

The Doctor had run off for the summer, smoking, drinking, and fucking the things that would come his way; I never asked exactly what they were. He was inspired by Miller and Thompson and Lennon and Hicks; he was living his Quiet Days. When he was in a mood like this, all I could do was let him run and stay out of the way.

My husband was an asshole. Not the kind of asshole who will fuck your sister and buy you diamonds to quiet his guilt, but the kind of Hank Moody asshole whom you can't help but fall in love with but wonder at every scene How can anyone live with this guy? The kind of guy who will wind up in a threesome with his agent and some woman he neglected to call back once, in order to enjoy the freak show and do his buddy the favor of getting him laid. His love keeps going back to him despite these indiscretions, and we root for the couple throughout the series; yet we hope, deep down, that they will never resolve their differences for good-- because then the story will end.

He was always prompting me to go out and do this on my own, go make something happen, cross the Gonzo line and understand what it's like on his side. But I never really knew how to do this. In the end, I always preferred la soledad, I guess, preferred to sketch the scene rather than make it. I'm a writer, for Christ's sake; this isn't a group activity.

But I found myself alone on a holiday weekend and feeling I needed to try it, at least. Get the fuck out of the house; if I was to find a story, it was going to be out there. So I started wandering. I spent hours in the city's parks, ate crepes and drank coffee, smoked a bowl on a pier watching fireworks over the lake, and sampled a few Bloody Marys downtown on Sunday afternoon. Writing the whole time, observing the stories of Independence Day in Madison.  I was there to experience something and record it, and it made me want more out of the days to follow than my empty apartment and the safety of work and school and peace and quiet.

Make something happen. The words began to ring in my ears at every moment. If I found myself sitting still in the afternoon or ready to go to bed before midnight, these words would creep into my mind, kick me in the ass, shove me outside to do something in the world.

The next Tuesday night I joined my new coworkers for drinks, and we ended up skinny-dipping. Tuesday nights don't always end this way, but they do usually start with dollar rail drinks, so it was no surprise. It was a gorgeous July night, long after dark-- slightly after bar-close, actually-- when Julia suggested we go swimming at the beach near her house. The three of them were about to hop into the water in their underwear when I explained to them what a terrible idea this would be, with thought to my excursions up North.

“You're going to end up wearing wet underwear under your clothes for the rest of the night. I know I'm new here, but if I contribute anything to this crew, let it be this wisdom. Just go naked.”

So, I made that happen; I crossed the line and I took them with me. It was a good start, and it made me feel fabulous. I quickly found good Monday and Wednesday events to sandwich in Tuesday's dollar rails, tried out a few Long Islands after work on Thursdays, and returned to my old office, der Rathskellar, to sketch the scene on Fridays. Saturdays I just wander; Saturdays can be wild or lonely or productive or inspiring or forgotten in the haze of Jameson and weed and Perkins' strawberry waffles.

I grew tired of staying at home.  I was going to class all day and work all evening, and when I left work I didn't want to go home. There is nothing there but some weird neighbors, an empty pantry, and a cold bed. I was practically living the life of a bachelor, and a bachelor pad is the last place you want to be alone if you are awake after two a.m.

On this side of the line, my philosophy is different; my life is different. I drink enough coffee that going to bed is rarely an option, and I drink enough alcohol that staying out always seems like a good idea. I avoid most reasons for ending the night; if something other than going to bed is offered, it usually wins, even if it is sitting up at the library and hammering out a paragraph of a story before I simply can't see anymore through exhaustion or drunkenness or that heavy combination of the two that occurs around six a.m.

I had begun to savor excess. That is what will make you an asshole. Someone will want to reign you in, and you will fuck them over. The Doctor sits in Northern Wisconsin somewhere thinking My wife has run off to smoke, drink, and fuck the things that come her way. And I am saying Don't ask what they are; just let me run, and stay out of the way. His Quiet Days in Madison turned out to be his final blowout at precisely the time that the weekend pushed me over the Gonzo line into chaos. Exactly the sort of asshole I am is the kind of person who will turn from la soledad to la vida loca on a dime without thought to those in tow. I am the sort of asshole who feels justified in this, who continues to plow forward unapologetically, inconsistently, a different sort of asshole each day.

I would call him in between bars to keep in touch That's a bad idea. “Just leaving the Argus, headed to the Cardinal for some music, then I think I'll swing by the 'Dise for one last PBR. I'll give you a call when I leave there.”

But then some guy sat next to me and talked about his novel all night, and when he offered to let me try out his Volcano as we left the bar, the Editor smelled inspiration and couldn't possibly say no. And now I have a new Gonzo novel to edit. And I got to know the bartender, so when he pours me a beer as he locks the doors at two a.m., I think about the cold and empty bachelor pad that awaits me across town if I leave now in time to catch the last bus, and I take the beer and another two, join him for breakfast, and walk home at eight a.m.

Upon leaving the comedy club one Wednesday, I was invited to join a friend for a few more drinks at the Dollar. It was eleven o'clock and Wednesday and everyone around was starting to go to bed, so I figured it was the duty of the Editor to carry on. Eleven would be an embarrassing time to check in. And after a few shots of Jamo and few more PBRs, the bartender was calling last call, and everyone around was ready to go to bed, so I figured it was the duty of the Editor carry on further. When my friend suggested we crash our sleeping buddy's house, it sounded like a great idea, as do most terrible ideas after two a.m.

So, we stumbled that way and tossed pebbles at Craig's bedroom window until he stepped into the cool early-morning air in boxers and slippers to join us for a cigarette. Certainly there was no wholesome reason for me to be up until four a.m. attempting to watch Kill Bill and call a cab and melt into Craig's couch flanked by two single men while the Doctor slept alone two hours north, and the wicked hangover that kept me home all day Thursday reminded me of this. But, that happened, and I live to write the story, and I am just the sort of asshole who calls that a success.

Once you start to savor excess, anything less feels like a failure, as you know you are missing out on something. Even when nothing is apparently going on, I know that I will make more happen if I stay awake and away from home than if I just cash in for the night. Moderation is never the most attractive idea, and it definitely never makes a good story. The stories are found at the fringes. The stories happen at the extremes, where moderation is shoved aside; where the line is always crossed, moved further ahead, and crossed again. The stories are in the chaos, so I have thrown myself into the chaos. I skirted the edges for a long time, flirted with moderation, and feared chaos and excess until I tumbled head first into the thick of it and found the beauty there.

“This is a real house.  It's old and broken and battered, 'cause shit happens here.  Real shit.”

Hank Moody

It will inevitably lead to loneliness, as no one can really live with an asshole for long. Crossing this line into chaos draws borders around the asshole in the middle, throws up boundaries that keep anyone from getting too close too easily. I lost the husband who was hurt by the chaos, I cut off the family who couldn't understand it, and I am out of touch with the friends who can't run with it. There is nothing to the life of the Hank Moody asshole but to sift through the chaos for a bit of magic; nothing can beat the high of landing a good story.

The good ones aren't written about people who make safe choices. They are made about the people who make magic up until the moment that they die face down in a puddle of their own vomit at the age of twenty-eight. No one fully sympathizes with the others in the story who are dealing with the bullshit, because they are so intoxicated by the magnificence of the main character. The main character is an asshole; there is no denying that. This asshole will take everything from you as she digs for a story, rip your heart out and hand it back to you as a work of art, and even you can't help but marvel at the fucking beauty of it.

welcome to the shit show.

“Is this confusion the price of loving an artist?” she asked me.

Fuck. I hate tending to a woman with a broken heart. It's like being a doctor who has to inform a patient she has AIDS. “Tell me there is some way to make it go away, doctor...”, and all you can say is, “I can help you live with it, but it will never go away. You'll survive, but you'll be slowly dying inside.”  Heartache. Some fucking virus your lover gives you that can't be cured, always present, fucking up every relationship to follow, eating away at your life.

“Yeah,” I answered, not what she wanted to hear. “I think confusion is the price of being in love with an artist, and being an artist. There will always be these things you have to work through. But it's certainly cheaper than the price of being alone or being with a Square. ”

Given the choice, I think I would prefer my lover give me AIDS.

Here I sit, on the couch; the cat cozy, clean, and friendly curled up next to me; my lover nearby at his computer, working.  We are both taking time to write on an afternoon off from our day jobs.  It's sunny outside. I've already had a good meal and a cup of coffee.  I have no place to be all day.

All of us are wishing, in a way, that it could be just as simple as this moment. Wishing, though, that we could live an artists' life and have this simplicity. But to have simplicity would be the death of our passion, our inspiration, our art.

Art is not born of order and calm; art is born of chaos and passion, and those fucking hurt people. Country music has the formula right: the harder the life, the sweeter the song. But we can all tell the difference between the real stories and the contrived bullshit, and we don't want to hear the bullshit.  We need the art.  We need the song this artist will sing about the life that is breaking this woman's heart.

Still, though, it's all so goddamn stupid. Any other animal would surely choose death before putting itself through such torment voluntarily. Only humans are dumb enough to have cultivated the ability to feel emotion-- to have studied it, analyzed it, encouraged it; to the point that we thrive on it, require it for life, live for the shit that we breed from it-- relationships, and art, and ideas.

And everything that human culture loves requires this goddamn shit show of chaos and passion to exist: our celebrities and their art, our preachers and their enlightenment, our teachers and their wisdom. The world is in love with the artists' life, although most couldn't possibly survive in it. I'm pretty sure that most of us living it aren't certain we can survive in it. But we are certain that living any other way is guaranteed death, and we're too stubborn to settle for a simple death. So we make our way through the shit show, and share our goddamn art with a world ignorant of the price.

“Sorry for your pain, dear,” I mumble, as if this will mean anything to her. I guess I'll just offer her another hug and be sure to write her story.

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.

living with artists.

This is it.  The life.  Editing the Doctor's work, listening to The Lately's music, film festival this afternoon with an eccentric painter we used to know, writing again.  Writing like mad.  Writing the life of artists.  This is Anais; this is where she was.  This artists' life.  The only way to do it.   Live on band time.  Groupies move into my living room.  Whiskey-sour at lunch, at breakfast for the Doctor.  Smoking, various things, depending on who's around.  No money in savings, but beer in the fridge.  Sex-bruised knees, hot tub at 5am, a picture of early Beatles looking at me from the wall and what we'll someday call "early Little Plaything" clipped to refrigerator door.  The life of artists.  Living with artists, loving artists.  Making art, making life.  Beautiful.