The Last Night of My Life

Today I wrote a restaurant capsule of the last place I dined on the last night of my life.

I am speaking of course of a previous life that existed before March 23, 2005. It is crazy to me how time has flown and yet less than two years have passed before me in period that seems longer than part of my past life, or other lives that pre existed before that one. The fact is, it is easier to talk in terms of the life I bid farwell to on March 22 than it has ever been before. The place was called Butch's Clock Steak House and me and my fellow bartenders, and owners and recently ex-boyfriend (all exclusively of the club Three, in Milwaukee) feasted on a spread of food that cost nearly $500. We had pooled tips from a recent "DJ Ball" that featured a slew of local talent on the decks and all of us decided that instead of keeping a share of them, we would treat ourselves to a big event.

I remember ordering a plate of orange roughy and gorging on fine red wine, warm bread and an olive tray that included radishes. I ate all of the radishes that night and washed everything down with glass of B&B. Our server was blonde and stoic and unfriendly, but we didn't care, surrounded tall leather couches that reminded me of old men with big cigars. The fact was, I was a queen that night, hanging with my group of boys--many whom I loved on all different levels--and I was apprenhensive and tense because in 12 hours, I was getting on a plane to go to Miami--my first trip alone since 1999. I was going to the winter music conference for the first time on a whim, and not knowing anybody besides my two friends staying in different hotels, I tried to put it out of mind.

Scanning the website for Butch's today, I felt a flood of emotions come back to me, many which have left me conflicted and somewhat sad. The words Guayma shrimp making me sad--unbelievable! But the fact is I remember that last night of my life with such searing clarity--the way we stood in the front bar waiting for everyone to gather. The initial uncomfortable silences of work buddies meeting each other outside of work, the way you smoke a cigarette to keep your hands occupied until the alcohol kicks in. J.T. was drinking a high life and Dan and Allison had been bickering just before arriving. I, myself, arrived with Jon and we had ran across three blocks against the searing March wind just to make in time. We were, of course, late. And after all dinner had settled, we embarked to water street to drink at Rosie's where I ran into my news editor at the paper I was working at the time. In the dark glow of Rosie's tap--right beside the pool table--Doug asked me, "aren't you supposed to be on a plane?" and I said, "yea, In like five hours. I don't want to go."

I couldn't believe I said it. But the fact is, I did say it and I remember standing there feeling like it was impossible for me to go alone, to retreat to a place that I thought I swallowed whole years ago. Independence. Could I do it? Who would I know? Who would I meet? I wasn't ready to face those questions because at that moment they weren't really real to me. I couldn't imagine myself doing it.

Four hours later I hopped in my Jetta, still fuzzy from a night of partying, binging and the rest, and I drove down from Milwaukee to O'Hare airport in the dark, the fog darting around the beams from my headlights. I turned on the radio and heard Beyonce singing "Naughty Girl" on the radio. I didn't take it as a sign of things to come--rather, it remains stuck in my head as a concrete memory that I can' t quite shake. I imagined Beyonce lounging in giant champagne glass. I imagined drinking champagne. I was afraid I would be late, but somewhat didn't care. I had a worn a skirt to be safe in the sun.

As I rolled under the Oasis with two hands on the wheel, the sunlight broke. I didn't look back.

---
The capsule (Soon-to-be-seen in The Onion newspaper)

Butch's Clock Steak House and Martini Bar

The high-backed, leather booths prime the palate for cigars and cognac. Butch's line-up of steak and chops is equally hearty, starting with a 20 oz. steer filet ($59.95) all the way to the demur 12 0z. Steak Sicilian ($22.95) seasoned for the daintier appetite. Those opting for something less carnivorous can look to Butch's seafood menu, which features giant Guayma shrimp, Alaskan king crab legs by the pound and Cajun orange roughy that pops with subtle kick. Try your luck on the Casino Chicken, and finished it off with a warm glass of B&B. The classic ambiance bodes well for the buzz. Go For: A decadent, steak house experience polished with old-school finesse. Grandpa will love it. Entrées: $24-$26 (800 N. Plankinton Ave. 347-0142)

I should have known better than to look at the two young men hitching babies in the courtyard.

Walking home from spin class--the Chicago air unseasonably warm for this time of November--i was wearing my cream-colored hoodie and black track pants and my hair was damp from sweat pulled half back in a pony tail snugged too tight. Down Ashland Avenue, there are communities of condominiums filled with fulfilled dreams of families, practical and stably churning with the kind of success that makes me wonder what it feels like to be successful. I'm walking down the street, staring beyond fire hydrants and flower vendors and then making eye contact with these two ordinarily successful men who are standing behind the gated communities, half cradling one- and two-year-old girls, each of them wearing the same Hanes white t-shirts and easy pants that remind me of a smooth ride. I, in fact, am having one of those weeks that is not exactely a smooth ride, so the notion of both "smooth" and "ride" entertained me, and the men cradling their perfect, darling girls looked too perfect to meet my eyes. But the fact is, they did. And as I walked passed them and notice their smooth, easy looks, they meet the uneasiness of my gaze and for a moment I wondered what each of them thought as I strolled through the night. Maybe nothing. But there was a notion that I had interupted a bonding moment between two men with perfect wives up stairs, fanning over photography books and schedules that involve coffee, lunch dates and shopping down Michigan Avenue. Somewhere, I knew, there were plastic tricycles and electronic toys and all the materialistic joy that made their easy looks sing. Perhaps, for a moment, I was something more. In the midst of wondering the who's and how's of their situation, for a moment I wanted them to wonder that about me--"Go on," I wanted to say. Make me feel like I am the success and you are the ones staring out at me from your gated confines of perfection. Is this really too much?

I don't consider anyone's situation enviable. That's not to say I am not a jealous person, because, sadly, it is a vice that has hurt me, my relationships--jesus, my eyes are green, doesn't that say enough? But in a situation where seemingly perfect pictures find your eyes, and the street lights are igniting the city in calm, white blush, there is that enviable instinct to wonder how the other side lives. There is a notion of wanting to explore such stablity even when such prospects are seemingly out of reach. Tonight, I didn't get any step closer.

The workers were stringing up the holiday wreathes around the doorway of the Tribune tower today. Walking down Michigan Avenue against the blustery whip of Novmber wind, I started thinking about the cheery glean of the holidays, and gingerbread cookies and the way Christmas lights look layered with fresh snow. Then I found myself wondering why suddenly I was feeling very sad walking alone on that sidewalk. I didn't have an answer at that moment, but coming home to dark, empty apartment, I was just beginning to see.

Enter picture one: Last night I attended a press opening for a lofted Chicago nightclub. The place was buzzing with pin striped suits, Collins glasses, women in red banded tube tops who carryed trays of crab cakes arranged like puzzle pieces. I met a stockbroker with a crooked nose who drank Seven and Sevens and told me that smelled good. I met a coat check girl that my companion Joel told me wore too much make-up and smiled a lot. I met senior editors for Playboy, national photographers who laughed about the rates and a man waiting to enter a stall in the women's bathroom. Above me, lights swirled in the shape of stars and the drinks slid down like a cool, easy ride (eventhough I was enjoying myself neither part of the evening was either easy or cool, except at the very beginning, before the room heated up with money and fragrence). For a moment, while leaning against the bar, I took a step outside myself and looked at the scores of pretty people--the men dressed in black and the women who adored them--and I caught a glimpse of my reflection in mirror. I checked it twice and wondered what I was doing here, and told myself I belonged, and for a moment, tossing my hair, I believed that. (Until of course, I realized I had lost an earring. Beautiful people don't lose earrings! They are mechanic and perfect and never use "um" when they speak).

Amidst the crush of exclusivity, I resorted to leaving at midnight to find deep house solace in The Note, located just up the street from the new club du jour. I knew people were going to be there, and I thought maybe coming down to my element would jolt me back into the comfortablity of my own skin--not to say I had been uncomfortable, but I wanted a snapshot of myself back for one moment to ensure my grounding was good. Upon entering, these kind of backhanded smiles abounded--the kind of smiles that make you realize someone in the corner of the room is not really glad to see you, not glad to hear your voice, cop a hug, and quite possibly annoyed by your very sight. I was surrounded by friends, old lovers and strangers I didn't know but looked like me--I was sure I would be welcomed home. But the dark under current hit my heart harder than I had felt in months and suddenly I stopped and asked myself, "What am I doing, really, Jenn?" Such muddled thoughts are not fueled by paranoia but the fact that as I grow older I have to question it more. Such whirls of social visiblity hit me hard every night and leaving me wondering how will be there when lights go on. I already know the answer to that--I will be the only standing, because every morning when I wake up, my question is answered.

I didn't end my night how I planned. I smoked too many cigarettes and feel asleep on the couch disatisfied, like the kind of taste a bad ham sandwich leaves behind. There is this notion of shell-shock, of working through the duality that defines a life social choas and solitary confinement. Perhaps then, it was appropriate I felt sad, walking alone down MIchigan Avenue today. No one was looking. It was nothing unordinary.

I have not been keeping up to speed on things this month, mainly because my other writing work has kept me too busy to do much else. I also spent a lot of time trying to open the package that contained my car charger for my cell phone. When I drove to Milwaukee this past Friday, I spent a good 10 minutes in the car try to open the malleable plastic package--I even stabbed at the damn thing with my keys, only to see it quasi-cave in before my eyes. The only way it opened was after repeated stabbings ... a small air pocket erupted which was only larger to fit my thumb. I am still trying to understand the uneasiness of this matter.

I am consistently amazed at the wall of sound put forth by Secret Machines. Although unable to harness the same intensity on disc versus live performance, the Texas-bred band has affinity for all things sonic. Some of the music press dubbed the band "space rock" or chalked them to Floyd with bigger keyboards. While both may be true, what stands out about the Machines is their ability to personally disconnect themselves from audiences and connect with them through heat of light and sound. Monday night's Chicago show at the Park West proved they were on again on point with musical mastery, but this time, instead of acting like dispondent wearwolves on stage they thanked audiences for coming to see their space jam--they also preceded not to play my favorite track, "Nowhere Again" and opted for the longer more inflated "Now Here is No Where" which features some the same spacey hook but less talk about "the woman in the mirror in a firey state/she motions to me, I'm turning away/she's lifting her dress up ... all the way up..." I am a lover of language and sound. The Machines enchant me because while their atmospheric music in decidedly harder than I like, the layers of keyboard and string--with only three band members--is boggling. Live, thier lyrics maybe indistinguishable but the intensity is inevitable. It jumps up and bites in the most irreverant way. And for every smoldering sonic key that's hit, a gem of lyric lurks beneath. In SM lingo: "Maybe the rain will stop following me/with millions of colors reflected in daylight/right on the kickdrum/turning the sound up full."

Yes, they certainly do.

My brother was always the inspiration behind my writing craft. Even when I was eight years old, he would write his own Choose Your Own Adventure books on the kitchen table. He drew creepy clowns on pieces of notebook paper. All of his stories were written in cursive.

What still strikes me about my brother is that he has a breezy way of telling a story and picking out exact details and writing them on a dime. He works as an advertising executive here in downtown Chi., and while he may not dabble in words the same way I do, he certain still has a sharp eye that I always remembered. He has writers eyes. He knows what makes a story work. I still admire this about him.

I'm going to post a blog for him today, on one of his experiences at work involving his newest client, Motor City Casino. Correspondence below.

Fromm Jimmy:
Funny thing at work today....our agency is shooting a commercial for Motor City Casino. I get a call at work that they need extras. They were shooting at Reserve right down the street since 7AM this morning. Account Director and myself go over and they lead us up stairs. Cameras, crew and lights and the whole sha-bang on the dance floor. There was a 20K a day, rail thin model we hired from LA and girls and guys from some local talent agencies, basically wanna be models. Hot girls and a bunch of idiot guys. There was a Russian model that Cummings would have married. I got thrown in the mix and had to shake my stuff. Funny doing it sober and during the day. I'll make sure you see the video when its cut. It will be airing in the greater Detroit market after the first of the year. By the way, Account Director had to work behind the bar as a barback because he was too short!

--
On another note, I am throughly enjoying his latest gift to me, "The Bad Guys Won!" It's a historical account of the seed-bag 86 Mets. The Scum Bunch always sat in the back of plane and threw grapes at people and smoked cigarettes. Doug Sisk was such a dirt bag. I can't wait to give a full review

Season of Change ... Five years in the Making

Fall's nostalgia is creeping in and will soon set in full boar. I noticed it Monday night, walking out of Dana's house in on the outskirts of Milwaukee, scurrying across Bluemound Ave. to get a toothbrush I had forgotten. I was wearing my coffee-brown cardigan, the one with tan flecks wooven into the cut, and its tie was snugged around my waist as I thought of a time five years ago when everything that I know in life right now was so very new. The fact is most of what I know and who I know about myself formed from that very watershed fall season of 2001, when not only me, but the entire world was changing. For a moment I felt very sad, not because I necessarily wanted to be in that moment again, but because there was an innocence I remember holding onto at the point, the creeping notion of something in flux--a transition, if you will. It was a time when I started sitting in a downtown music lounge--alone--after spending hours sitting at a folded card table on the outskirts of a common council meeting in places with names like Sussex. I attended a Town of Waukesha board meeting in a small room filled with angry residents talking about trash pick-ups ... and they were really angry, so much so I felt like I was in a movie, or a state even outside of my own.

I look back upon that fall season five years ago and realized in many ways, it was my own birthing season--birthing season for the music that moves my soul (I am of course speaking of house music, which I would never truly understand until 2005, but in 2001 I realized what it was starting to convey), birthing season for myself as a young woman finding her way through pitfalls of romantic perils and the first time falling in love. When I say falling in love I am talking in terms of the real verison--the notions beyond three-month courtships, distant admiration and interludes involving too much alcohol and too little sleep. All of it first shined its light on me during that glorious, tulmutous season and on its five-year anniversary I can't help but feel its a tug a little bit more with the creeping closeness of cooler days. There is a notion of moving forward and a notion of never going back. Jesus, would I want to? I just don't know.