eternal sunshine of the drunken mind.

Chasing a story

I woke up staring at the ceiling. Greg was asleep beside me. I couldn't remember arriving at his apartment, but that was pretty normal. Steve always let us drink more than we needed and stay later than we should. My mind was prone to moments of blackout drunkenness just around bar close, coming back into consciousness sometime after landing at home.

Then I realized that I didn't remember the night at all. Nothing of what we had done once we started to get drunk, nothing after something like one a.m. That was unusual.

I reached a hand below the blankets. I was fully dressed, still in the jeans and shirt and belt and bra that I had worn the night before. He was snoring beside me. I had no headache. My head was clear, save for the sudden confusion of the hours lost. I couldn't remember getting very drunk. Where had the night gone?

I slid out of bed and tiptoed into the hallway. The house was silent; we were the only ones there, as we had been among the only ones left in the city on this Wednesday before the holiday weekend.

Just outside of the door to the bathroom was a full glass of water sitting on the floor. In the bathroom, I sidestepped a small patch of puke on the floor, then avoided the bit on the back of the toilet seat. My scarf lay on the floor a few inches away. I checked my face in the mirror. I looked good, just a bit of dark makeup gathered below my eyes, but that was normal with the layers of mascara and eyeliner it took to give my eyes the character they deserved.

I searched the bathroom and the kitchen for some sort of cleaner and towels, and finally settled for the roll of paper towels from the kitchen counter and the Windex from below the sink. I scrubbed the puke from the toilet and the floor. I noticed whole french fries and black olives caked into the drying bile. My lunch; I guess that makes this mine. I didn't usually puke, but it made sense along with the blackout. Why had my lunch not digested? I had had two meals and some unknown number of beers and whiskeys since lunch; why would I vomit whole pieces of that food?

I dumped the glass of water and refilled it. When I went back into the bedroom, Greg was drunkenly awake and looking at me.

“I don't remember anything that happened after one a.m.” I told him.

He flashed me a dopey smile. “No? Oh, this will be good...I can't wait to tell you the story...” but he turned his head and fell back to sleep without another word.

I traced my steps backward through the house-- from the bedroom, down the hallway, through the kitchen, into the living room, to the front door-- and gathered my things along the way, trying to piece together the night to no avail. My computer lay safe on the kitchen table where I had left it before leaving, untouched. My purse was tossed to the couch in the living room, contents spilling out, but all intact nonetheless. My pen was tucked into my journal, and the last line written was the last one I remembered writing:

Made it to the Argus, finally getting drunk.

But I was still what I would call sober when I wrote that, and there wasn't a trace of my usual drunken scribbling to follow. My coat was discarded just inside the front door, with my camera inside the pocket, no filth or damage on the coat and no pictures on the camera. Not a bit of the story to be found.

I was confused. I felt absolutely fine, and I had no memories of wicked drunkenness or any sort of debauchery. As far as my mind was concerned, I had had a quiet night of drinking a few whiskeys and woken up healthy and safe. This was not going to be good for my mind's drinking habit.

I checked the clock. Eleven a.m. Shit! I had to work in half an hour. Eight hours. I felt that I should be dreading this; I should be hungover. But I wasn't; I was ready to work, ready to move. I was only regretting that I wouldn't know this story for another eight hours.

I showered and changed. I had started to keep a change of underwear, a brush, and mascara in my purse in case I didn't go home at night. I pulled a t-shirt out of his closet; some band I hadn't heard of, a black shirt with skulls on the front. My coworkers would know that this one wasn't mine, and I liked that. I pulled my cardigan over the t-shirt, piled my things into my purse, retrieved my jacket and scarf from the floor, and trotted to the nearest corner to catch a bus downtown.

This had been our first unusual move last night. We rode a bus downtown, rather than drive. We immediately relinquished all responsibilities for our drinking selves onto the city we were entering. It was four in the afternoon, and we had exhausted our motivation for work with hours of story edits and website updates in the living room of the boys' empty apartment. Christmas was around the corner, and we faced a weekend of family and sobriety. Comedy was canceled for the night, and everyone we liked had already left town. We had a full bottle of American Honey Wild Turkey Whiskey-- bourbon with the spirit of Hunter and the wisdom of the new generation.

We closed our computers, cracked the bottle open, and started to move. I gathered my tools for the field while he filled two flasks with the whiskey. We each poured a glass on the rocks to down while we pulled on our coats. I tucked the flask into my boot and raised my glass as he made his way toward the door.

A toast. He raised his glass to meet mine from across the room. “Let's go find a story!”

We took a bus into the center of the city that was completely deserted for the holiday and wandered around looking for the story of the night. Nothing was happening; every bar, restaurant, and coffee shop was closed early, and every interesting person had already left town for their obligatory annual moments with distant family. And it was cold. After an hour of wandering, we were headed down State Street to see what was on the other end. I finally admitted to myself that there would be nothing down there but an expanse of empty campus, and I stopped and turned back east and said, “Do you want to just go get drunk somewhere?”

About halfway through my shift, Greg was waking up; I started to get texts. Pieces of the story, along with his complaints of a hangover that lasted until six p.m.

Do you remember falling asleep at the bar? Nope. That seems awfully unprofessional of us. But we had been awake since nine a.m. and drinking since four in the afternoon. So, it wasn't surprising that we passed out around close. My latest memories were of sitting very quiet and observing the bar around me, becoming drunk and too sleepy to entertain any of the conversations directed my way. We had accepted two shots from friends passing through and ordered one round of our own to share with Steve.

I can't believe I got so drunk after three shots! I sent to him.

We drank seven rounds in an hour, he replied.

I didn't remember those last four. But I did remember greeting Jim and Courtney just before my memory cut off, and Joe pointing to us from across the bar and summoning Steve his way. And Johnson and his girl walking through the door. And Steve with that Whiskey look in his eye. Drinking on the Square with Greg is a dangerous game; they all know him and love him too much.

“We've come home,” Greg uttered as we settled onto our barstools at the Argus.

We had wandered the city trying to do something else, trying to avoid the same old business of Wednesday nights for this crew, since the holiday had forced us out of our routines of work and class and pizza and comedy and drinking. We made the trek around the Square, played in the snow, and searched the city for a story where there was none to be found. We fought the magnetic pull from the Argus for hours as we tried to decide what to do with our night off. There was nothing on the Square, nothing on State Street, nothing at the Comedy Club, nothing on campus. This was turning out to be the worst goddamn botched assignment ever. We sipped from flasks of American Honey whiskey to keep sharp.

We wandered into the 'Dise, like all of the other barflies with no families that night. We were drinking PBRs, and the service was slow and uninterested, and we were bored. We weren't even being served fast enough to get drunk. Boredom in winter in Wisconsin is what will make you fat. There is not a thing to do but to eat food and continue to sit and drink.

After work, I made my way to the Square to meet Steve and Greg. I needed to get the rest of the story, and they seemed to be the ones guarding the details. I walked through the Argus doors just as they were calling last call. I ordered a PBR and three shots of Jameson and settled into my stool. Steve walked into the bar from the kitchen, caught my eye, tossed his head back, and laughed out loud.

“God dammit, Steve!” I passed him a shot. “What the hell happened last night?”

“Oh, don't worry,” he replied. “You didn't do anything too terribly embarrassing, except puking on the corner of the bar.”

I raised an eyebrow and glanced to Greg. He nodded in confirmation and added, “I puked, too. But I made it into the garbage.” He pointed to the trash can beside the bar.

Steve laughed again. “Yeah, you were both puking mushrooms. It was totally gross.”

So, I hadn't been the only one vomiting undigested food. It must have just been that kind of a day. The superfluous order of deep-fried mushrooms we ended up sharing at the 'Dise had been purely to entertain ourselves, in that it's-winter-in-Wisconsin-so-what-do-we-do-but-eat-fatty-food-and-drink-beer kind of way. They must have just barely settled into our stomachs, layered and undigested atop the copious amounts of food we had already eaten that day, stirred up by American Honey, Jamo, and PBR. “Gross” was right.

Greg closed the door behind his final customer, and we drank the round of shots.

Steve slammed his shot glass to the bar. “You Gonzo motherfuckers!” he exclaimed. “She's puking on the bar, you're puking in the trash...You're fucking perfect for each other.”

I caught Greg's eye as he turned to start cleaning. He grinned and said to Steve, “Say what you want. Tell whoever you want.” He gestured in a circle over his head and mine. “This shit is Gonzo.”

the hart compound.

Scenes from Campaign HQ

"She called me an asshole for no reason, then offered to make up for it by baking me a dozen cookies. I said, 'Make it three dozen and deliver them to my house before five p.m. tomorrow, and we'll have a deal.' I told her to ring the bell three times, leave the cookies at the door, and leave, and she fucking did it. She broke the deal, though; she only rang once. So fuck her, dude. Don't call her again.”

This is why I love this house. The chocolate chip cookies come with a story. And they are the only food in the house besides the PBR and Jameson, so once they run out, these boys are going to have to find someone else to fuck with, I guess.

I am watching Nick Hart and Stefan Davis write an email response to a series of questions from the Isthmus about Nick Hart for Mayor. We are all drunk on PBR and whiskey. Nick leaves town with his brother tomorrow afternoon, so this needs to be done now, they believe. Good plan, I think.

Stefan is at his MacBook, recording. Nick is standing and pacing, dictating in the dark living room. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is paused on the TV screen. I am in the kitchen cooking rice and beans. The dog Echo is curled on the chair. Adam Hart is on his computer across the room.

“This campaign thing is getting serious,” Stefan says.

“You're right,” Nick replies. “It's getting serious,” and makes a show of grabbing his whiskey drink from the coffee table and taking a drink. Ice rattles. He scans the silent room over the top of his glass.

Stefan recites the first question. “Why are you running?”

“I am running for Mayor--” Nick begins.

“We are running for Mayor.”

“We are running for Mayor,” Nick continues, “Because we want to finger the status quo.”

I am far too drunk to consider the implications of this statement. I dish out four plates of rice and beans and pour some coffee.

Nick takes another drink and says, “This is for a good cause.”

“Which is...?” I ask.

“To be named at a later date.”

Stefan, Nick, and I are working and watching a movie in the living room, and Adam appears in the doorway from his bedroom and says, “I've been trashing pop music on YouTube. People think I hate Asians now. I don't know how I got that rap.”

I'm not always sure how I end up here each night-- can't usually recall the reason or the drive through town. My memory fades back in about the time I walk into the kitchen, hit the bowl, dish up some munchies, and pour a glass of water. But it's never a decision I regret, and each night here makes me want to be around for the next.

It started as a professional relationship, really, but quickly became blurred when Nick Hart said, “Have you ever used a vaporizer? 'Cause we just got one.” Getting fucked up at three a.m. on three bags of weed vapor will inevitably blur labels like “Journalist”, “Comedian”, and “Mayoral Candidate”.

As Stefan Davis dropped me at home that night, he said, “Just so you know, everything is on the record; Nick and I agreed to that.”

“Thanks for the permission,” I replied. “But nothing is ever off the record. I'm here to tell your story.”

“What the hell is she doing hanging around with guys like us?” Stefan asked Nick when he got home.

“Dude, she's an artist.”

It is an Editorial itch that drives me to the Hart Compound, a compelling inner voice that says Oh, it's going to be good here. It's movie Sundays with day beers; it's a drive to Perkins at five a.m.; it's waking up Nick Hart to hand him a bowl while he half-sleeps naked in bed; it's Stefan presenting the candidate with a Mayoral pie at seven a.m. to celebrate a successful start to campaign season; it's the coziest and friendliest little dog who is madly in love with Nick and Adam Hart; it's Nick and Adam wrestling like kids on the couch calling each other faggots to point out the absurdity of the beliefs of the people they grew up around in South Carolina. It's a household where they know what it means to be a Gonzo asshole, and they love it.

I arrived in town after a trying Thanksgiving weekend and texted Nick.

“What are you up to tonight, Nick Hart? I want to find you and take shots of Wild Turkey whiskey. I need a Gonzo shot in the arm after four days of family in Central Wisco.”

And he indulged me. We met at the Argus and ordered the shots from his campaign manager, bartender, fellow comedian, friend, and roommate.

As Stefan set three shots in front of us he said, “This won't end well.”

I raised my glass to meet theirs and said, “It's not supposed to.”

My neuroses fit in well in this household, and I like that.

“She's pretty quiet tonight,” Stefan worries.

“She's just recording,” Nick assures him.

The Hart Compound is filled with those moments that make the writer and the comedians alike exclaim, “Write that down!”, that these moments are shared and remembered.

Nick has been surviving on comedy and unemployment for 18 months now, and the unemployment is about to be cut off. We can't picture him with a job, and it actually makes me kind of angry with the world that such a man will have to work like a sucker to make a living. Such a man ought to be able to survive in life by sharing his art with the world.

“I'm kind of hoping that this mayor thing will work out,” Nick says in response to our concerns about his job search.

The Hart Compound is a place in such juxtaposition to the Real World that anyone who enters can't help but realize that such hope can make things happen in the world. Each moment in the Hart Compound is one moment farther down the rabbit hole, one step closer to the artists' life, further from the reality we are trying desperately to fend off. Nick's seemingly naïve belief that things in life will simply fall into place becomes more and more plausible as I watch life fall into place around everyone who enters the Compound with an open mind.

“I am a firm believer in 'If you act like big shit, they will treat you like big shit',” the candidate explains simply.

booty call.

Well, I've never done anything like this before. I know what you're thinking: That's what all the girls say. But, really, I haven't; you can trust me...If I had done it, you'd surely have read the story by now.

I had spoken to him earlier in the day. He had been getting drunk and fucking with a poet I'd hooked up with a few months back. He was always a little jealous of that one, and today he was on the poet's website posting rude comments to the latest poems. They were all true; the guy was an awful poet, and a pretty dull lay on top of that, but he was a friend, and there was no need to fuck with someone's art in the public eye like that. I called him around 3pm.

“They sent all of the stories back!” he shouted into the phone without a greeting. He had been trying for months to get some short stories published in a local magazine, and they had accepted a few into a second trial round the week before. Shit. No wonder he was so sour. “I've got no money, no food, only cheap vodka and a few beers in the house.”

A writer's life, no doubt.  I offered my sympathies and told him I hoped he'd feel better and have a good night. I didn't mention the poet; he deserved a scapegoat. He mumbled a few more complaints and hung up with an abrupt goodbye.

I went home to work for a few hours on the novel. I checked my mailbox and found a check I'd been waiting for all month for a chapter I'd edited the month before. It was for fifty dollars more than promised, with the enclosed note, “Impressive work; we'll call you for the next one!” I poured myself a celebratory drink with my own cheap vodka and sat down to work. After 1000 words, I poured another drink.

Around 8pm I thought of him again...sitting at home alone with shitty booze and a shitty day on his shoulders. I had cashed a fat paycheck, and I was just sitting on it. Most of it was already earmarked for upcoming bills, but I could afford to splurge a little.

I tossed my journal, a sweater, my copy of Delta of Venus, and some cash into my purse. I ran outside to catch the next bus downtown. I walked quickly from the bus stop to make it to the liquor store near his house a few minutes before they closed. It was the only one in town that carried his favorite whiskey. $30 a bottle. It's no gem, but it's a hefty price for a writer who has to choose between that and electricity for the month. I pulled the purple ribbon from my hair and tied a bow around the neck of the bottle. Now it was a gift, and worth the price.

I walked the last few blocks to his house, unsure if he'd even be home. He wasn't answering his phone. I laughed out loud. In such a sour mood, he might even be angry at me for showing up unannounced. He'd have the whiskey, though, and he would be over it quickly.

As I approached his house, I saw the light was on inside. He was home. The back door was open for a bit of relief from the summer heat, and I caught his eye through the screen door. He had to look twice, and I grinned. He was surprised, and he was happy, and he was drunk.

He didn't get up from his chair in the living room, so I let myself in.

“Hello there,” I said.

“Well, hi,” he replied, still surprised. He finally set aside the notes he'd been working on and turned to face me.

I held up the whiskey. “I brought you a present. Don's check finally came today, and I needed to squander it a little.”

He nodded and took the bottle, set it on his desk. “I've already drank quite a bit of booze, though,” he said with a shy smile.

“That's alright,” I answered. “There's always tomorrow. If you're busy...” I gestured toward the scattered notes in front of him. “I can head out.”

“Oh, well, you're here now. You might as well stay for a bit,” he replied unceremoniously and stood from his chair. He grabbed a flute of wine from the desk and downed it in one gulp. He turned on my favorite music, and dimmed the lights. I giggled and closed the blinds, pushed the door shut behind me. I hadn't even put my purse down yet.

He moved to the loveseat next to his desk. It struck me for a moment how cheesy it was to make love on a piece of furniture with such a name, but it did seem to fit. It was a deep red, like wine, plush and worn, filthy, stained with years of lovemaking.

“I was about to go to bed,” he said as he sank into the couch.

I dropped my purse on the ground and slid out of my shoes. I joined him, sliding my knees to either side of his lap and kissing him softly on the forehead.

He looked up at me with tired eyes. “And here you are, all aggressive...like a cougar...Not that kind of cougar! A baby cougar. A cougar cub.” We laughed at the reference; I smiled softly as he stumbled through the words. “A lioness,” he finally said firmly. That was the one. Tonight, I would be a Lioness.

So I kissed him hard on the mouth as he lay comfortably on the couch. I pulled off his shirt and his pants, then stood to remove mine. I moved quickly, but was sure to give a small wiggle as I turned away from him and slipped out of my panties. Once we were both naked, I pounced again with a huge smile on my face.

“I'm just really tired, but as long as that's alright with you...” he said, returning my smile sleepily.

I bit my lip and looked down at his swelling penis. “I think we'll be alright,” I answered. He had doted over me plenty in the past, and he'd had a hard day. I owed him this night.

I pressed myself against him for a few minutes until he was hard, then I slipped down between his legs and took his cock into my mouth. He ran his fingers through my hair, gripping harder as his erection grew, then reached down for my breasts. I coaxed him to lie down on the couch with my free hand, and swung myself around so my feet rested near his head. He groped desperately now at my breasts, my face, my thighs, as I sucked him harder, ran my teeth gently across the tip of his penis. I love doing that; it always makes his body stiffen with surprised pleasure.

He was beginning to wake up, and I was becoming excited from touching him. He finally gripped my thigh hard and kissed me on the neck, then slipped a finger inside me, my flesh already wet, ready for it. I moaned with my mouth around his cock, and he slipped another finger inside, then another. I gasped, and he asked “Is it too much?” I shook my head and closed my eyes, tightened my lips around him and sucked him in deeper.

We continued this, speeding up until I came, squirting onto his hand, causing his erection to stiffen in my hand. I moaned louder. He ran his fingers all over me, through the come, across my clitoris, sending shivers up my spine. I kissed him hard on the mouth, biting his lower lip. He kissed my neck, my ears, my shoulder, my forehead, my nipples.

He was wide awake, and I wanted to come again. I sat up, turned my back to him, straddled his legs. I slipped my own fingers inside of myself for a moment, then guided him inside of me and pressed my moistened fingers against my swollen clitoris. We were fucking now, thrusting and moaning, screaming, using each others' bodies to garner the most pleasure for our own. It was at least 80 degrees in the house, and our bodies were slick with sweat. After I climaxed again, we paused, his cock inside of me with my muscles pulsing around it. He sat up and kissed my body again, covered my damp breasts in his hands and squeezed gently with his fingers, bit my earlobes and breathed warm air across my cheek with his nose. I closed my eyes and let out a low moan as the world was shut out around me. We moved in slow motion now, his hands on my skin, his breath on my face, his pelvis softly thrusting his penis around in my satiated flesh.

We rested for only a moment; he still hadn't come. Alcohol is more sustaining than Viagra for a younger man, and he was lucky to have the Lioness to lie with him tonight.

I went to the closet for a condom, handed it to him, and searched for a bottle of lube. I found one, almost empty, in the drawer of his desk. I shook it at him and smiled to tease him as he pulled on the condom.

“That's mostly from you,” he assured me. I giggled and nodded skeptically.

I mounted him face-to-face this time; we were feeling quite intimate after forty-five minutes of fucking. I let him thrust inside of me at his pace, which quickened and intensified rapidly.

“I think you're the one who's an animal now,” I whispered into his ear.

He stared hungrily into my eyes, then scooped his arm around my waist and dextrously flipped me on my back, slipping my legs over his shoulders and swooping in at me below my feet. He was thrusting hard and fast and steady now; I was kissing him hard and fast on the lips and the cheeks and the shoulders and the neck, clawing his back and shoulders. He reached up and grabbed my hands gently, one by one, and pinned them to the couch above my head. I was bound in place by this animal now.

He was fucking me now, and I was screaming and gasping with the raw pleasure of it. I had been the Lioness, but I was now his doll, pinned in place as he thrust hard and deep, taking my breath each time. I struggled as my arms felt the impulse to embrace him, my fingers to claw at his flesh, and the rush of the struggle sent adrenaline through my body, exciting every nerve he couldn't touch. He held me fast and fucked me hard until he came, pressing himself deep into my soul in the midst of the black hole we'd created in the world around us.

He never screamed or grunted or moaned when we made love. He just fucked with such intensity and desperation that I could feel his pleasure growing, and then he stopped. With a hard, slow, deep thrust; and I could feel the throbbing of his penis as he came inside of me.

And, as always, a soft kiss, and he slowly lowered his body to mine on the cushions as his energy evaporated with his erection. He loosened the grip on my wrists, and I enveloped him tenderly in my arms. After a few minutes of kissing, cuddling, accepting the exhaustion that was heavy on our bodies now that the adrenaline of arousal had dissipated, he walked away to clean himself and fill a glass of water. I lay on the couch and watched upside down as he walked around the house above me, still slightly in slow motion-- a woman's orgasm always takes a little longer to subside than a man's. He downed a glass of water without a break, then collapsed in the chair at his desk. At some point, the glass of wine had hit him, and he was wasted now.

“Do you mind if I use your shower?” I asked. “Of course not,” he replied, and I sauntered in a haze toward the back of the house while he flipped on a movie in the living room.

His bathroom was sparse, and a little dirty, reassuring me there was no woman of the house. I started a lukewarm shower and stepped in. I ran my hair and my face under the water to cool off, rinsed my sweaty body, and held my mouth under the stream of water to rinse the taste of cock from it. It was a fine taste, in the moment; but there is no need to go around with the taste of cock in your mouth all night, interfering with your dinner and what not. His soap smelled undoubtedly like Man, and I lathered it in my hands and scrubbed myself briefly with it. I patted myself dry with one of the used towels hanging on his rack, wringing out my hair over the tub. I checked my face in the mirror and wiped away my melted makeup. I wrapped myself in the towel and walked back to the living room, my hair still nearly dripping wet.

I kissed the top of his head as I walked by, and gathered my clothes from around the floor. I dressed slowly, still naturally high from the orgasms. It was pouring rain outside again, for the third time that day, so I sat to watch a bit of the movie and wait for it to pass before heading outside.

“You're not walking home alone, are you?” he asked as he lay down drunkenly on the couch.

“No,” I answered, slipping on my shoes. “I'll catch the bus downtown.”

“Good.” He closed his eyes. “I worry about you. You're too brave.”

I smiled and bent over him, brushed back his hair, and kissed him gently on the forehead. “Don't worry about me, dear. I am only brave when I feel safe.”

My knees were wobbling when I left the house. I was glad I had actually left in time to catch a bus. I grabbed a sandwich from the late-night market downtown; a decadent thing with tomatoes and avocados and alfalfa sprouts, thick soft bread. I love a plush meal after sex, with all of my senses still aroused. I ate half of the sandwich as I waited for the bus, and tucked the other half away to save for the next day. I had squandered quite enough; tomorrow I would have to go back to being thrifty, living like a poor artist, and this would be an incredible treat.

An old man who looked maybe half-crazy took a seat beside me at the bus stop as I jotted notes of the night in my journal.

“What do you write about?” he asked.

“Sex, drugs, and rock and roll,” I answered, without looking up.

He stared at me for a moment, then looked away without another word.

I tucked away my journal once I got on the bus. I was beginning to come down from the high of the evening. The fluorescent lights and arctic-cold air-conditioning of the bus came into harsh focus as I traveled across the empty town. Once home, I trudged up the stairs to my room, tossed my keys on my dresser, started a pot of coffee, and poured another cheap vodka drink. I had a story to write.

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.

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.