Great Big Chicago

Part III... THE SHOW!!!

     As is my custom, I will present the notables of the show in bulleted format:

~  The show carried characteristic energy from band and audience, though the onstage banter was somewhat stunted.  Séan seemed to me to be a bit out of sorts – more than once I noticed him staring off into space, and his customary cheeky grins were few and far between.

~  Alan’s first comment concerned the awesome history of the House of Blues Chicago.  His mention of the Blues Brothers sent Séan into blues mode, and he offered us minute renditions of “Flip Flop & Fly” and “Soul Man” before Alan introduced the next song.  He began by pointing out that, “In Newfoundland, our horses are dead before the song even starts… and I’m just now realizing this!”  Séan responded with, “Flip flop fly… I think my horse just died…”

~  Just before sending us into intermission with “Lukey,” Alan boasted that the show up to this point had been nothing more than an opener.  “How was that for an opening act?” he asked us.   “How was that for an appetizer?  How was that for foreplay?”

~  Alan let us know a few songs into the second set that his application for popedom had been rejected.  Since Brit handed him his electric guitar, I assumed this was a precursor to some song that might explain why he was rejected, for example because he’d sold his soul to the devil in exchange for a lifetime of rock ‘n’ roll. Rather, it appeared he was interested in the Pope’s position more for the power than the religion, because he assured us that the world will sing when he is king. 

~  Alan, Bob, and Séan were all wearing black, but Kris and Murray had not received the memo and were both looking slightly less stylish in red/orange plaid shirts.

~  I didn’t get to see much of Chicago due to my short stay, and even less due to the booger-freezingly cold weather, so I did not know that “the best thing about Chicago is that the pubs stay open all night.”

~  Séan thanked the United States for their enthusiastic embrace of St. Patrick’s Day, suggesting that it would have been relegated to a minor holiday by now if the Americans had not insisted on being such passionate celebrants.  He then thanked the United States for American girls, whom he likes so much that he married one.

~  It seems that Bob was not actually at the show but was joining us via hologram.  He was in fact relaxing on a deck chair in Palm Beach or something, sipping a fancy tropical drink.  Fine by me; after my dream the previous night, I was just glad he was still alive.

~  Speaking of Bob, he seemed less than thrilled with my panty-flinging shenanigans.  I actually was as well; I ought to have practiced a bit more in the hotel room, and I may have learned that the flinging release that had worked so well with the last thong I used would not be as efficient for the less-than-aerodynamic-yet-magnificently-colored briefs I had chosen this time around.  They did, however, remain onstage until the last encore, at which point a stealthy stagehand snatched them up in the process of gathering up Bob’s menagerie of instruments.  Even though I was paying attention this time, I still did not actually see it happen. Sneaky stagehands.

~  I have the beginnings an idea for the next show, having met so many audience members this time around that would surely have helped me out.  The idea is as follows: Purchase perhaps six or seven pairs of panties, find cohorts in the audience willing to throw them, and have a small, unexpected shower of panties rain upon Bob.  He would be EXCESSIVELY unamused.

~  “Whataya At?” from the band’s debut CD, was apparently used in a commercial for some manner of toll-free phone service in Newfoundland in 1993 or 4, and we had the pleasure of watching said commercial on the screen behind the band before the b’ys launched into the song.  Alan said he loved the commercial despite its cheesiness because it had suggested to people that they were globe-trotting superstars when in fact the globe that they were trotting at the time consisted of almost the entire southeastern coast of Newfoundland.

~  Disappointingly, Alan informed us that all Great Big Sea shows are actually lip-synched, and proved it to us by pointing out that, “Nobody could bust these wicked dance moves and still have breath to sing.”

~   The band’s first time playing at the HOB Chicago was either 18 years ago or 75 years ago, and they were the first of three opening acts for an artist whose name I do not recall. However, this artist didn’t actually know they were opening for him.  In fact, no one did – apparently they snuck in, set their gear up onstage and were such an opening opening act that they literally played before the doors opened and as folks were coming in.

Marley and Tosh are not the only two dogs in the McCann household.  According to Alan’s introduction to Sean during “The Old Black Rum,” he actually owns “about a thousand Beagles.”

During Bob’s spotlight, Alan introduced him by saying that he “plays the everything.”

Set list!

Ordinary Day

Captain Kidd

Billy Peddle

Heart of Hearts

Jack Hinks

England

Flip Flop Fly Diamond and Soul Man (Sean)

Charlie Horse

Whataya At?

River Driver

Ferryland Sealer

When I’m Up

Yankee Sailor

Come and I Will Sing You

Lukey

INTERMISSION

Let My Love Open the Door

Love me Tonight

The Night Pat Murphy Died

When I am King

General Taylor

The Scolding Wife

Sea of No Cares

Good People

Helmethead (har har)

Consequence Free

Mari Mac

Run Runaway

Live This Life

Old Black Rum

Wave Over Wave

     And now for the post-show excitement, which is the reason the actual show had to exist in its own separate blog.

     Kim stopped on our way out of the House of Blues proper to chat with GBS’s sound guy (she knows freakin’ EVERYBODY,) then we parted ways so she could head back to the Foundation Room and I could find the swag table.  The Chicago’s House is much more complicated than Cleveland’s, with several floors and balconies and hallway thingies, and the merch table was situated next to coat check in what may have been the front of the venue but felt like the back.  A random guy stopped to high-five me, presumably because of my shirt, and we had an odd exchange that I can’t remember the details of.  But I’m pretty sure his drunk girlfriend thought I was into her or something, because she was quite tall and her Sisters were right as my nose height as I shoved through the crowd and I heard her make a slurry and suggestive noise as I passed.

     I got a pin (in case you didn’t know, I have found myself to be a pin collector, and this one now has a position of prestige on the front of my bodhrán case,) a keychain (because I don’t have enough, I guess,) and a signed poster (which, upon boarding the bus home, I discovered I had left in the hotel room – Kim assures me that “this is easily fixed,” so I am not FREAKING OUT TOO MUCH, I SWEAR.)  The swag guy over-charged me by $5, a realization that sunk in about 15 minutes later but at the time only glanced off my brain through the predictable post-concert fog.  I suppose that I can’t complain, having been ever-so-graciously hosted by Kim during my stay and knowing that the money goes to a worthy cause – the cause of letting Alan buy an extra round at the Boulder shows.

     Back in the Foundation Room I immediately ordered myself an ice water, grateful to have a bar so close and convenient after an evening of screaming and standing and dancing.  I sat for what must have been around half an hour, occasionally engaging in conversation but generally getting sleepy and feeling uncomfortable in a crowd that was significantly larger than it had been earlier in the day.  I kept wondering what on earth I was doing there, since I always feel so very out of place in crowds and in this case felt the need to cling to Kim or, in her absence, my bar stool.

     I also spent some time in front of the fireplace, having gotten chilly but not yet resigning myself to cover up my I♥BOB shirt with my White & Nerdy hoodie (and it was in fact a very romantic-ish fireplace.)  At some point after that period of waiting and being sleepy and wondering if I should turn in, I noticed that the crowd had become slightly more jovial, and when I turned around I was not exactly surprised to see Alan floating around in a sea of people.

    I was slightly embarrassed (well, maybe embarrassed is the wrong word) when I heard Kim say to Alan, “Could you turn around and say hello to my friend Sarah?”  My first thought was, “Ha, Dad!  Alan Doyle shook MY hand!” and my second was, “He was right, Alan does have big hands.”  My third was something about how socially awkward I am that Kim had to get Alan’s attention for me, and how in the heat of the moment I had no idea whatsoever what to say to Alan Doyle once I was face-to-face with him.

     Alan wandered around meeting and greeting, as is his spotlight-loving custom, and perhaps 10 minutes later (time almost has no meaning, in the Foundation Room) I noticed him posing for pictures.  Naturally I followed my instinct, fetching my camera and inching closer until such a time as I could catch his eye.  This involved waiting patiently while two or three deeply inebriated individuals staggered up to him to tell how much they loved him and ask for an autograph.

     “Hi,” I said as casually as was possible under the circumstances, “I was wondering if I could get a picture.”

     He gave me his best charming game face and replied, “Sure, but you have to be in it too.” (As if that wasn’t the idea already.)  Kim was nearby and more than willing to manhandle my camera for me.  She snapped two pictures while I stood for twenty or so blissful seconds with my arm around Alan’s waist.  This picture shall of course become my Twitter avatar, and possibly my phone wallpaper, as soon as it becomes feasible.

     Alan did not comment on my shirt, nor did he mention my panty-flinging shenanigans.  I wanted to ask him what Bob really thought of them, but part of me was certain that if he were to be honest with me, I might not like the answer.  Instead I told him how much I enjoyed reading his journal entries on greatbigsea.com about the time he spent in England training for and filming Robin Hood with Russell Crowe, remembering the jealousy and wonder with which I read of his experiences being trained in theatrical swordfighting, archery, horseback riding, and such.  I had been wondering if the barn I had seen a dream-job posting for, located in Warwickshire, England, was the same barn that had provided the horses and the training for the actors in the movie (they list Robin Hood among their movie credits, but do not specify which incarnation of the story they were involved with.

(NOTE Dad later made the following comment: “You have two songs about horses and you don’t know anything about them?  It’s a wonder you ever got Kit out of Tickle Cove Pond!”  Hahaha.  You so funny, Daddy.)

     I found myself noticing that despite the very close proximity and excessive talking (and the fact that he had a beer in his hand and the very logical assumption that it was not his first of the night) I detected no alcohol on his breath.  In fact, I noticed no untoward scent at all, which I found fascinating.  A bizarre thought flashed across my mind and disappeared as quickly – if Alan Doyle does not become King of the World, he at least has a very real shot at some kind of dental hygiene award.

     I think what excited me the most about this encounter was that for what could have been ten minutes of my life, I had Alan’s undivided attention.  There were dozens of people in that room with us, and he made his rounds as a generous star does, but for those minutes I was a fan, and he was a musician, and he was choosing to talk to me when he could have been with any number of other people.  And not once did he make me feel like I was taking up his time or badgering him unnecessarily (I’m looking at you, Steve Twigger.)  Plus, you know, he hugged me.  J

     Sometime after this moment of Awesome I noticed that Kris had wandered into the Foundation Room.  Brit had parted ways with Kim several minutes earlier, citing bus pull (when the bus is supposed to leave the venue for either the hotel or the next city,) which was supposed to be at 1am.  It was ten minutes past when Kris appeared, apparently having been sent to fetch Alan, who went on cheerily disregarding the face that they were supposed to have left already and was still hob-nobbing with the fans.  Even after my close encounter with sweetheart Alan, I found I had little to no power of social interaction with regard to anyone else, and so Kris went ungreeted by me.  People were filtering out, and I was getting quite sleepy, so I told Kim I was turning in and found my way out of the venue with an absolute minimum amount of getting lost.    

     There is nothing exciting to report from here on out.  I got dressed for bed and snuggled myself under the plush hotel comforter with the customary after-concert bedfellows – a stale headache, ringing ears, a jumping heart, and an overactive mind.  Kim came in just a few minutes after I lay down.  When I heard her cross to her suitcase I rolled over in bed.

“Alan hugged me,” I told her.

She laughed.

♥

SM

Great Big Chicago
Part II - Days 1 and 2
"Gettin' Ready for da Show..."

     I think my body didn’t mind getting out of bed this morning at 6:30 because it was under the impression that it was actually 7:30.  My body is always surprised by time zone changes and is a little slow at catching up.  I wasn’t about to remind it of the one-hour time change, however, because I went into work with Kim this morning and due to rush hour traffic we had to leave by quarter til 7.

     Getting to sleep had been surprisingly easy, given my body’s customary resistance to sleeping in unusual places, but waking up this morning was actually a blessing.  Waking up saved me from playing out a dream that was not entirely pleasant.  I dreamed that I was in Chicago with Kim and we were going to a Great Big Sea concert… but that Bob wouldn’t be attending inasmuch as he was dead.  He’d died in a car accident several months ago (I wonder if this is some remnant of The Lathe of Heaven working on my psyche,) and for some reason I either didn’t know this or was in denial.  I think that I was confused because Dream Sarah and Real Sarah had conflicting memories of Bob’s whereabouts for the past several months, and I was positive that Bob had been with the band just the other day, according to his Twitter feed. 

     Not cool, psyche. Not cool.

     Much of the time I spent in Kim’s office was devoted to finishing up yesterday’s blog post and figuring out bus times for the Cleveland RTA system for when I get back to Ohio tomorrow.  The latter involved unsuccessfully trying to reassure my mother, who clearly feels that I cannot function on my own because I tend to figure things out as I go and never plan far enough ahead for her liking.  Yes, I probably should have worked out a rock-solid plan for getting home upon my return to Cleveland BEFORE today, but I also have resources at my disposal to make sure it gets done.  I don’t always do things the way she wants me to, and I haven’t killed myself through planning-related negligence yet.  In fact, if I DID do everything the way she would, I would never have been to a concert in Cleveland or studied abroad or met Michael or driven to Maryland by myself, and I certainly would not have accepted Kim’s offer to give me the coolest birthday celebration EVER.  I know you’re not reading this, but Mom: Not everything on the other side of our front door is plotting to kill me, and I wouldn’t have survived to 26 if you and Dad had not instilled some common sense in me.  You might be worrying because you care, but from this side it really looks like you’re worrying because you don’t trust me to do anything without you.

     *deep breath*

     Kim took a route along Lake Michigan to show me Chicago’s most posh beach and its skyline from a great photo-taking vantage before we headed to the hotel.  It was at this point that I made the comment that it was “booger-freezing cold” outside, which Kim thought was funny enough to immediately put on Twitter.

     The Hotel Sax is quite literally within spitting distance of the House of Blues.  The front doors were so close together that you could hold your breath, walk out the Sax’s front door, and not even need to inhale when you got into the HOB.  Rising astoundingly over the HOB are the Marina Towers, which somewhat obscured the view out our hotel window.  The famed House of Blues Chicago itself is actually not much to look at.  It’s a sort of squat, grey, nondescript, saddle-shaped thing wedged between the Marina Towers and the Hotel Sax.  The interior, of course, is generously and elegantly architected, and is beautiful and complex and labyrinthine for the uninitiated first-time visitor, but looking at it from the outside, you would never know it.  Dave Barry might call it a turd of a building.

     I relished a shower, having skipped the day before, and went for a short jaunt to the Subway on the other side of the HOB (an EXTREMELY convenient one, from my perspective – there have been many times I’ve wished there was a Subway near the HOB Cleveland, and there’s one right frickin’ next to the HOB Chicago) to get something small to tide me over til dinner.  I then thought I’d go for a brief walk to explore the area, but I got as far as the Chicago Riverwalk before the cold drove me back to the hotel.  I learned later that there is a Dick’s Last Resort like, right underneath of the Marina Towers, right underneath of the Subway I walked into, and below that is a place to park your boat, if you are a river-going boat owner.  The Chicago River, by the way, was still very green, Kim tells me, from the St. Patrick’s Day festivities that took place just a few days ago.  I also took a picture from the foot of one of the Marina Towers looking up.  Basically it looks like a huge scalloped concrete thing, and if you look close at my picture you can see a railing on each and every scallop.

     Kim had not succeeded in napping, so when I returned to the hotel she got dressed and we met Murray (and by Murray I of course mean Murray Foster) at the House of Blues so she could deliver her Irish Car Bomb cupcakes to him.  I was again astounded by her relatively intimate association with the band, as I stood there awkwardly but buzzing with excitement while she chatted with Murray.  I got a handshake and a friendly hello, and he introduced himself to me as if I didn’t already know who he was.  He’s shorter in person.

      We then returned to the hotel, where I ate my allotted cupcake.  In case you are curious, it was a legit tastegasm explosion.  My sister might say it’s what “sex with a cupcake” would be like.  Our less tasty reason for returning to the hotel was to wait for Kim’s friends Jen and Kevin, who arrived not long after.  Jen was in the throes of a sinus infection, which put only a slight damper on her mood.  She was, after all, preparing to attend a Great Big Sea concert at the iconic House of Blues Chicago with pretty much the coolest people in town.  Kim also got a call from her sister (also named Jenny – it just about made me wish I could have brought my own Jennie with me to Chicago) to update her on her progress through the traffic-choked Chicago streets.

     The plan was to eat at the House of Blues restaurant before the show and do Pass the Line to get into the venue first, but when we got to the venue we were informed that the restaurant had been booked for a private party and would not be available tonight.  Kim was something south of livid, until they also informed us – after ten or fifteen minutes of sitting around the House of Blues lobby trying to decide where to eat and what to do or who to talk to that could rectify the situation – that Foundation Room access also came with Pass the Line privileges.  In light of this new information, and assured that we could get from the Foundation Room (which did not open until 5pm) to the House of Blues Proper before the lame people who would be waiting outside, we went around the corner to Bar Louie instead.

     I ordered the Trio Dips & Chips, but ended up mostly eating the guacamole dip.  The salsa was okay, but the queso dip was entirely too spicy and nacho cheesy for my tastes.  Kim told a story about how she learned that Bailey’s Irish Cream needed to be refrigerated, which I thought was hilarious, since it’s a milk-based beverage.  I did, however, relate my experience with it in Scotland, when I bought a bottle but kept it in the cabinet of my desk because I didn’t trust my flatmate and her friends to not drink it.  I did not refrigerate it, and it didn’t go bad, but then, it wasn’t sitting in there for months.  Then there was some adventure of which I did not get the details and on which Kim later refused to elaborate.  In my notes the only thing I have written is, “That’s when Kathy came up and shoved her tongue…”

     Not long after we ordered, a man walked in the door that made my dining companions quite excited.  Kim hugged him and he sat down with us, and I gleaned from their conversation that he was intimately associated with the band.  In fact, I learned, his name is Brit and he’s the head of their road crew.  He stuck around for at least 10 minutes just chatting with Kim like they were old friends.

     The Foundation Room was pretty awesome.  Like, really really awesome.  There were little nook everywhere to sit in, and a long bar that faced a fireplace.  The lighting was low, as is the custom at the House of Blues, and decorated with warm wood tones and vintage patterned rugs.  Off to the left immediately upon entering, there is a tiny room separated from the rest of the place by a curtain that really just invites you to peek through.  If you do, you will see a very intimate lounge lined on both sides by couches separated by a long coffee table, and at the end a gold statue of Buddha sits in an alcove contemplating inner peace.  There was no one in this lounge, which meant that either the crowds had not yet filtered in, or it was by reservation only.

     We found an empty table that required some squishing to fit most of us in, and passed the time talking of the band and our related exploits (Kim has been to roughly 100 Great Big Sea concerts, Kevin roughly 83.)  I related my panty-throwing expertise (or lack thereof) and the time at my first show when I lost my wallet at the Southern Theater in Columbus.  We also discussed the inside jokes of the OKP (the Online Kitchen Party, Great Big Sea’s official message board) and its primary drama-causing agents, something I stay away from on the OKP as avidly as I do in life.  At one point we were approached by a woman, much to the chagrin of Kim and Jen, who shall remain nameless but who is known around the OKP for being one of those monster-rabid superfans who routinely go way too far in their desire to interact with their idols.  She is of the “Well, in my defense, you made it really easy to figure out where you live” persuasion, just south of “permanent restraining order from the band.”  She was already somewhat inebriated by the time she got to us, and I wondered just how much she would be able to enjoy the music and the band by the time the show finally started.  She tried to talk to me, affecting an intimate interest in my life and goings-on, which is weird coming from a person that you only know about through an online community and don’t really talk to even then.  It did, however, make me feel like I was at least somewhat infamous around the OKP, which was kind of cool.

     I kept looking at the time, getting anxious with each passing minute about being first in line to get to the stage once they started letting us in.  When it was finally time, I was annoyed to discover that they had started letting people in from outside before we had been informed that we were cleared to enter the venue.  I still managed to get a sort-of-second-row spot after wedging myself in between a despondent-looking teenage boy and a middle-aged blonde woman with a braying laugh.  And then, as it always happens at the House of Blues regardless of city, the waiting began.  Behind me were two girls who struck up a conversation when they noticed my Weird Al Yankovic hoodie.  I chatted with them for most of the time that we waited (they were thoroughly entertained by my promise to throw underwear at Bob whenever he happened to do a solo.  They introduced themselves as Nathaniel and Supa-fly (allusions to the Weird Al song “Albuquerque”) and one took to showing me her tattoos.  When I asked her the names of the koi fish and the dragon, she said that she had never thought to name them (can you imagine?) and then came up with the names Kelly, Bob, Sheela, and Priscilla for the four figures on her arms.

     Kim, Jen, Jenny, etc. were not as interested in being squished as close to the stage as possible, and left me to my own devices as they hung back and opted for a spot on the floor that offered more elbow room.  So when the show started, we were somewhat separated.  I do regret it some, that I experienced the show more or less on my own rather than in the company of those I had come with, but I still had a rollicking good time.

♥

SM

Great Big Chicago
Part I – Days 0 and 1
“Getting’ Up and Gettin’ There”
Holy fakashkapants, it feels like it’s been positively forever since I last found myself staring at a blank document earmarked for greatness in the form of a blog post. This one begs to be written, however, as it shall document several new experiences for me – the type of experience I have missed sorely since returning from Maryland over a year ago. Though clearly domestic in nature, it has a color similar to my semester in Scotland, what with the public transportation and the going to a large city I’ve never been to and feeling all touristy and getting “free wifi” that doesn’t actually let you connect. A 5 ½ hour bus ride gives one ample opportunity to fetch out one’s computer and attempt to record one’s goings-on, so I will stretch my blogging muscles and attempt to write something that is actually readable, being as out of practice as I am.

My birthday yesterday was one of my more unremarkable ones. Most of my friends who are even remotely local live an hour away, and my work schedule didn’t afford me a real opportunity to make plans at the Hooley House (ironically and unhappily, this coming week’s schedule gives me 6 straight days off, which is kind of nice but mostly sucky because if this continues I literally won’t be able to afford my job.) Therefore most of my rainy birthday was spent attempting to slay the headache that had overtaken me the previous day at work, cleaning my room a bit (which meant organizing the recycling that SotY can’t know I’ve been rescuing,) packing for my trip, and messing around on my laptop until I had to leave to work the closing shift.

Dana and Jackie were awesome to close with, being super-nice individuals.

After a half-night’s sleep I had surprisingly little trouble dragging myself out of bed half an hour after my first alarm went off. Bailey was there to get me at five minutes past seven, and the drive into Cleveland would have been more or less completely relaxing and uneventful if not for the twenty-seven million other people that felt like they also needed to get into Cleveland this morning via route 90. [Side note: It is now roughly 10:30 am and we are apparently in Toledo, stopping to load some more passengers.] We lost several minutes of talky time, which could have been filled productively with an animated discussion about Heroes, courtesy of my growing terror at the thought of not making it to the bus stop on time. It was about five minutes past 8 when we arrived. John carried my wee suitcase as we power-walked across the parking lot, and the nice bus driver (Raoul) checked my reservation number casually. I asked if I had an assigned seat or anything, and he told me that I could sit anywhere I wanted. “Except here,” he clarified, patting his seat behind the wheel of the bus. I gave him a crestfallen look and said, “But that was my first choice! You must have the best view on the bus!” I believe that as I made my way up the stairs (you can’t ride a double-decker bus and willingly sit on the bottom level) (Jennie) he said that I could try that seat if I wanted to, and I may have commented that that may not be the wisest choice for everyone involved.

The first small leg of the journey took us through streets in Cleveland that I have never known the pleasure of perusing, and reinforced my traveler’s mentality. I saw several small shops and restaurants I would otherwise have never known existed. Despite knowing nothing about any of them, I felt that the entrepreneurial spirit was strong on this side of town and that every one of them deserved my patronage. I wanted to name a few of them here, but because I didn’t have my notebook in front of me at the time and I have the short-term memory skills of a goldfish, they shall for now remain unnamed.

So I have now been on the bus for almost 2 ½ hours, and we are on our way back to I-80. Whatever you read next will be, from my perspective, written in the future.

Several hours later…

It suddenly feels like we’ve gotten off at an actual exit. An hour and a half ago we stopped at the Ernie Pyle rest stop near Howe, Indiana, where I got some chicken tenders and water at Hardee’s, some money at an ATM, and some Motrin from the gift shop, where I also happened to find a rooster downing a glass of wine and a key fob that declares colorfully that “I LOVE BOB.” I purchased neither, being a somewhat sensible woman.

The ride is becoming tedious. Headache is tenacious, RLS is trying to catch up, and my stomach has been thinking about waging a silent war with me. So far it seems undecided in the matter, but I can feel it weighing its options.

The Adventure of Black Peter, an attempt at resting, nine pages of John Green’s embarrassing “Zombiecorns” novella (which I started reading again last night and which interestingly takes place in Chicago,) an entire Adam Lambert album, and two Brigid’s Cross songs bring us to where we are now. I’m really super hoping that my travel discomforts will not infect this entire trip, or I will prove to be a sorry companion for Kim, and not at all fit to be in the front row of a Great Big Sea concert.

A few hours later…

The bus driver announced that we would be arriving at our destination in a few blocks, so I texted Kim to let her know I was preparing to de-bus soon. She let me know that she could come around and pick me up, unless I wanted to wander about in town first, but with my heavy backpack and the biting wind I decided that the former would be preferable. After being accosted by two church representatives asking for money and one supposedly downtrodden single mother asking for money, I wandered toward the nearest building accessible to the Nonlocal Public Fresh from Cleveland, the Amtrak Union Station, to hide from the cold. I checked out the lower level of the Amtrak station, finding its hub to be a disappointing parody of the train stations in the UK – there was a single ticket window and a tiny convenience store selling overpriced goods and sundries, not including maps of Chicago. Eventually I received a phone call from Kim. “Go down the street to Union Station so you can get out of the cold, and I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

I was on my way back out to the bus stop and in the middle of a fresh accosting by a homeless person asking for money in exchange for a Chicago Transit Authority periodical that I will never in my life need when I saw a green VW bug coming toward us, “Actually, it looks like my ride is here,” I said out loud with a substantial amount of relief. I’d been accosted by almost as many people in my half an hour in Chicago as I have in the many times I have been into Cleveland.

Little did I know that rescuing me from strangers was only the first awesome thing about Kim.

My immediate impression of Chicago is that it is freaking MASSIVE and everything is so close together that it practically sits on top of itself. There are a lot of stone buildings, which reminds me faintly of London and Glasgow, but probably more of Glasgow because there are actually streets you can cut across. In London I swear there are places where you can walk for 20 minutes before you find an intersection. Kim acted as my personal tour guide, pointing out the Trump Tower, the Marina Towers, the building she worked in at her second job, a Polish church that she is particularly fond of, the Museum of Art and Engineering, and Sears Tower (Chicago is big on towers, and its skyline makes Cleveland’s look positively dwarfish.)

The roads look at least as complicated as Cleveland’s but much narrower, with cars generally parked on either side. I mentioned that while the expense of tolls and gasoline (as opposed to the $10 I spent on my Megabus ticket) is what stopped me from driving to Chicago on my own, I am also grateful that taking a bus does not require me to actually drive in Chicago. Kim’s car (LuLu) is small like mine, but she’s also a little spitfire thanks to the brain controlling her, whereas Jasmine would be a terrified little mouse afraid to play with the other cars. Kim disagreed, insisting that it’s not as frightening as it seems and that she’s sure I would be able to drive just fine. “Look!” she said, pointing across the intersection at a man crawling through the crosswalk in a power wheelchair. “There’s a guy in a wheelchair! He’s fine, You’d be fine.” (However, I do feel compelled to point out that a moment later, she added, “Oh, look, he’s gonna cross in front of me. I’ll probably pick him off now.”)

Driving along the lake we saw several artisitical and musem-al buildings, as well as an odd little basketball court-sized collection of statues. At first I thought they were leg or pant statues, until I realized that their heads were gone and their arms were bound. “What’s with the headless people over there?” I asked. Kim looked out her window at the odd field of hollow, headless brown figures, and said, “It’s ART, Sarah. Obviously.” She had no idea what they were about either, but since her wealth of knowledge about the area extends so very far already I will not complain about not knowing the story behind the headless pant-statues.

We lunched at one of the three University of Chicago dining halls, and as good girls we both had salads. I was thrilled that they had Silk machines that dispensed both vanilla and chocolate soymilk, but disappointed that the chocolate was empty. We chatted about work and school and shoes and her expectations for the show tomorrow and her plans to make IRISH CAR BOMB CUPCAKES tonight. How epic do Irish Car Bomb cupcakes sound? It means there is Bailey’s in the vicinity. I know, I know. I can smell the jealousy from here.

I also started to appreciate the depth of Kim’s Great Big Sea fandom, as she spoke of the GBS road crew like they are old friends of hers and explained the particulars of the evening she has planned for us tomorrow. House of Blues Restaurant and Pass the Line were only the beginning of the dream as, in a business-like manner, she told me that she had also booked VIP access to the Foundation Room, where it is apparently common for a band to hang out before or after a show. This woman KNOWS how to go to a concert!

The aforementioned appreciation was amplified when we go to her lovely apartment and I marveled at the autographed promotional posters and album art that decorate her walls as well as many flattering photos of land and harbors and lighthouses that she has taken during her forays in Newfoundland.

Before getting the cupcakes started. Kim ordered dinner from a local Italian place called Fellini’s. The man who answered the phone was, according to Kim, roughly 107 years old, and she informed me that we might not actually get the salads that were supposed to come as part of our meal. After a somewhat discombobulated confusion as to which door the delivery was to come through, we settled down to watch the Great Big DVD that is included in the GBSXX box set, featuring interviews and hijinks and behind-the-scenes goodies from the band’s early years. Kim told of a few of her exploits as a Great Big Sea-head, the most memorable being the time she booked a block of hotel rooms and hosted a GBS-themed after party that featured several of my cohorts from gbs.com and was so utterly rocking that the band actually showed up to party in the wee hours of the morning (minus Séan, whose wife and brother were in town at the time.) “Bob Hallett was actually answering the door for me,” she fondly recalled. This event also spawned the famous “cupcake” in-joke that I will not go into right now as it is somewhat bawdy and would be tedious to fully explain. I will simply say that Kim’s Irish Car Bomb cupcakes were a monstrous success with everyone involved.

Shortly afterward I had to go to sleep, for I was exhausted.

I did NOT lick the leftover Bailey’s-and-cream-cheese frosting out of the frosting bowl, no matter what Kim tries to tell you.

It was delicious.
♥
SM