It has come to our attention here at Martha Bayne, Inc., that our online brand identity may be a little muddy. After all, the name of the blog is not “WashingtonIslandsummer.com.” Nor is it “Links to my restaurant reviews,” “Half-baked thoughts on food politics,” “Chicago media death watch,” or “Funny things drunks say.” It’s “Martha Bayne.”

What does that mean?

At Christmas dinner my friend D. and I started lamenting the demonization of the first-person narrative voice in mainstream journalism (yes, the party was THAT WILD). I’ve been so blocked lately, I whined. I can barely think straight, let alone write. Whatever tiny flashes of inspiration I do have seem hopelessly tied to personal experience–but for years I’d had it hammered home, “It’s not about you.” Shit, as an editor I’d been the one pounding that stupid nail into the skull of many a hapless writer.

Yeah, but look how well that stance has worked out for the MSM, D. pointed out. Plus, look at the stuff you’ve done that you’re proud of. A lot of it is, der, first-person. (Later, he sent me this, which touches on a lot of the same stuff we did, only with fewer shiraz-fueled digressions.)

So my 2009 challenge is to embrace my inner narcissist. Or at least stop telling her she’s not welcome at the barbecue. In the name of brand clarity I’m also spinning off some new initiatives here on the intertube, to be revealed shortly. In the meantime here’s a shamelessly first-person account of 2008. I didn’t realize till I started writing that it was actually a travelogue, but, hey, I can work with that. I’m not sure how, having spent half the year on the dole, I managed get around so much, but I hope I can do it again.

(Ahem.)

((Warning. May only be interesting to my parents.))

January I turned 40 in the middle of a Wisconsin cold snap, surrounded by awkward Prairie School design and the fresh tracks of animals in the snow. We made fires and heaps of food and stayed up till 5 am playing dominoes for days. It was perfect.

February In a moment of freakish convergence, I snagged a writing assignment for a Florida travel guide right at the same time K., one of my oldest and bestest friends had her own big birthday. Her boyfriend flew me and Aa. to Jacksonville for the weekend, and then I rented a car to bang around the Daytona-Amelia Island corridor for another few days in shorts. I believe it was nine degrees in Chicago this week.

March I didn’t leave town, but I did go to work. It’s hard to explain how much having a lousy bartending job has meant to me this year. Whenever I try I sound seriously sappy. But not only did the Hideout throw me a critical financial lifeline, it also got me out of the house in the dark depths of our endless winter, let me go away for the summer, and scooped me back up into its crazy, fractious, ridiculous community when I returned. I haven’t tended bar since college and I forgot how much–despite the back pain, drunken idiots, bad bands, and age-inappropriate hours–I actually love it. 

April I hit the road again, with my friend B., in search of blue desert skies. Our plans for camping in New Mexico and Arizona were thwarted by the fact that as soon as the sun sets it’s, uh, fucking FREEZING in the high desert in April–our one attempt resulted in a 25-mile drive down the mountain to the nearest Domino’s. But we met Santa Fe’s coolest bartender, soaked in sulfurous springs at Ojo Caliente, found stupefying beauty in the Painted Desert, fought vertigo in the Grand Canyon, got stuck in a midnight traffic jam in Vegas, and vowed to never, ever tell anybody what happened in the parking lot in Zion. At the end we collapsed in a heap at Aa.’s in Los Angeles, and I got to see my sister, the Beav.

May Where did I go in May? Oh yeah–La Crosse, Wisconsin, home of the world’s largest six-pack. Here, I thought I was making progress on my book idea, but really all I did was get drunk with a cute beer geek, who volunteered to come be my cabana boy for the summer. For some reason I find men talking obsessively about beer to be inordinately charming. Especially when they’re buying. 

June I packed up the borrowed Mazda and set off for my summer home of Washington Island. If you’ve been following along with the program you know all about this already, so I won’t recap. But, here’s a bit of news: Leah Caplan, who first introduced me to the island in 2004, has resigned as chef and manager of the Washington Hotel. Yesterday was her last day.

July Three days after I got to the island in June I got a call telling me The Strangerer was going to New York. So, in July, I did too, driving six hours from the island back to Chicago and then 13 the next day due east on I-90. I still like what I wrote about it back then.

August I finally for real settled into my grueling island schedule of porch-sitting and trips to the pool. I wrote nine-tenths of a book proposal and by the time I was that far along realized I would have to go back and revise the first five-eighths and I got a little depressed. Chicago drifted ever farther away until B., who I can’t thank enough for the time he spent on the phone talking me down off various ledges of loneliness and self-doubt, came to visit again. I worked intermittently at the hotel, and as above (in re: bartending) was surprised to remember how gratifying–and fun–restaurant work can be. Also, I spent a lot of lovely time sitting around a fire drinking Guinness.

September I returned to Chicago–but I might as well have been in Wisconsin, or Montana, or Cloud Cuckoo Land, for all I seemed to notice. This month lots of stuff happened. Exhilarating, reckless, exhausting, terrifying, and sorry-way-too-personal-to-share stuff. Go here instead. It’ll make you happier in the long run.

October My heart broke (what, you didn’t see that coming?) and I borrowed Z.’s car and ran away to K.’s house outside of Madison to listen to her records and try and patch it back together with tape and spit. Miraculously, it worked, and I stood back and marveled at my crafty skills.

November Professionally, I learned that karma is a bitch. I would like take this moment to publicly apologize to the freelance writers of Chicago. If I ever ignored you, blew you off, strung you along for weeks, scolded your grammar, or just plain did not give the time and energy you put into your pitch or story its due, I AM SORRY. Also this month (thanks Em!)  I flew home to Seattle for Thanksgiving, went ice skating with my niece and nephew, and discovered the horror that is–or, thankfully, was–Club Libby Lu. At least there’s one positive thing to come from the economic meltdown. 

December I stayed home. I watched my bank balance creep determinedly down, down, down. I applied for jobs off of Craigslist and was offered one paying $20 per 500-word article. Six more of my friends got laid off from the Reader. I started seriously looking into a career change. 

But, still, l can’t get cynical about Christmas. 

Because–I love Christmas! I love lit up trees in empty apartments. I love The Nutcracker and A Christmas Carol. Heck, I love Christmas carols. And I do honestly love the season’s ideals of generosity and hospitality, which for a multitude of reasons resonate so loudly right now my ears are ringing.

There were times this year when the shit hit the fan and I worried I might crack into tiny bits or float away like ash. But I didn’t, thanks to what turned out to be an enveloping web of family and friends spun, to my surprise, of Kevlar. To everyone I know and love, I am so grateful to you all. No matter where I was you were my home in 2008.