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

Colorado Nightmare

**The following is a little disjointed and rambling, partly because there is so much that needs to go into it that I couldn’t possibly hope to fit it all in. I started it a few days before August 19th, which marked 1 year since I flew home from Colorado, but mechanically it’s sort of all over the place and working hard to fix its flaws was so distasteful to me that I put off finishing it. Though I’ve never written publically about this before, and it’s certainly not my strongest writing, I feel the need to get it out somewhere, so here it is.**
     Most of you know that last summer was a nightmare for me.
     Some of you know that this translates into occasionally having nightmares about last summer.
Courtesy of several factors that will remain unindulged at the moment, the current addition of several of these quasi-nightmares to my sleeping mind has made me sufficiently emotional to once again take up my keyboard in an attempt to stifle the demons that skulk about on a too-recent shelf in my memory.
     When I think too deeply about what happened there, my breathing will actually become erratic. My heart will pound. My throat will grow thick. My eyes will become damp. I will then do a quick search of my surroundings and tightly hug whichever family member is closest to me, even if it is my adorable and exuberant yet exceedingly smelly German Shepherd mix.
     Having just jumped from the blogging high I experienced during my semester in Scotland (See my “Kilts and Cowboys” blog in the sidebar on the right), I had every intention to let my readers follow me as I worked through my summer job in Colorado. Even on the plane ride there, however, I experienced trouble. I attempted to use the ample travel time I had to do two very important things: finish a personal journal entry of my last evening in Scotland, and use my detailed notes to put together a blog about my trip to the Scottish Highlands the previous weekend. As is my wont, I put them off, and only a week or so after landing in the Rocky Mountains I began to realize that they might never be written (and they haven't been, which is a horrible shame because they would have made great blog posts.)
     I should have listened to my gut, right at the beginning, when the manager was annoyed by a Star Trek redshirt joke I made when she gave me my uniform. I should have booked my plane right then and jetted back home.
     I was jetlagged, having flown through seven time zones in three days. I was altitude sick, albeit mildly, having ascended 8,000 feet during my journey. I was exhausted, waking up for a 5:30 barn call followed by 12 to 15-hour workdays. I was usually hungry, working for managers that generally did not care whether or not their wranglers got to eat during the day. I was frustrated, being largely surrounded by people didn’t seem to understand me. 
     But the absolute worst thing was the homesickness. A few days after arriving, I received news from my sister that our step-grandfather had passed away, and shortly after that she reported that my aunt and uncle had lost Belle, their family dog. Somewhere in between, the CEO of Borders announced via e-mail that all of the stores still in operation would be closing permanently. Over a period of roughly four weeks in the middle of my summer, I cried every single day.
     One of the few passages that I managed to turn out which, based on the emotion conveyed, could have been written about almost any given day during those three months:

I’ll be honest: I don’t want to be here anymore. I’ve been here over 10 weeks, and I’ve wanted to go home – badly – for the last five or so. In the past two weeks, only on last Tuesday did I not cry at all; every other day has seen some little thing or another, as simple as half a thought and as obvious as a song about missing home, to cause me to burst into tears, sometimes in the middle of work.

     The downward spiral of my depression was worsened by my sudden and complete inability to write. The entire time I was there I managed to fill only a page and a half of loose leaf paper. By the time I left the barn at the end of the day, showered, and ate dinner, it was usually time to think about going to bed (though of course, talking to family on Skype always had first priority) and I rarely had the energy to think about doing anything else. The tax on my body drained me of creativity, so that even on my days off writing seemed a most unthinkable impossibility. This of course resulted in further stagnation of my creative juices – which sat unchurned in whatever chalice my brain reserves for them – which in turn led to a deeper depression, causing me to want to write even less. It was a spiral that alarmed me and led to a stunting and stiffening of my creativity that followed me through my last year at school and may still be looming just behind me, like some kind of B-movie monster, as evidenced by the relative sparseness of this blog.
     Early on, I put the following down in a Word document, in an attempt to chirp out a blog entry:

To be honest, I feel like I haven’t had the energy to do anything creative since I got to Colorado. I’ve had the time, yes, but the 12-14 hour days and the fatigue and, honestly, pain that I’ve been plagued with since I got here seems to have drained the creative energy from your favorite blogger. I’ve done very little creative writing, although I have written a paper for Dr. Swartz, and little reading aside from the Dave Barry book I got at the local bookstore. At various points I’ve thought about blogging, but I could not find a moment when any slight creativity showed up in tandem with a bout of energy at a time when I could actually write.

     Almost every day, country music blared across the corral from a dusty stereo in the back room. There was a cd back there by a band called the Josh Abbot Band. I don’t know who it belonged to, but it took every fiber of my being not to break it in half. One time I actually had it in my hands. I could have done it. That cd was played over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and some days we heard nothing but those same 12 songs all day long. Thank Chan I have repressed almost all the songs. There are two that I cannot get rid of, but thankfully it is fairly easy to turn my mind from them when they plague me.
     The days when no country music blared, classic rock was blaring instead, from a playlist the manager created that contained a few Eagles songs, a mysteriously placed Matchbox Twenty song, and a distressing amount of John Mellencamp. I HATE Mellencamp. I can’t explain why, but even before Colorado, something about his voice or his music or his song style makes me want to stab a teddy bear. (One day, however, she played “Hell Freezes Over” from start to finish - it was the most fun I had all summer cleaning that corral.)
     The result of this is that I am now incredibly sensitive to country music, and those songs that I heard endlessly last summer sound horrid in my ears, especially those specifically released last summer. This makes it difficult to spend any significant amount of time in the car with my country music-obsessed sister. Among the songs I cannot listen to are: the beer in the console song, that ballad duet with Kelly Clarkson and whatshisface, anything by the Josh Abbot Band (SWEET CHAN ALIVE, HOW I LOATHE JOSH ABBOT AND HIS BAND), the song about heaven being far away, the “lie like a tree” song, the Kenny Chesney song about crazy, the “shake it for the catfish” song, and the barefoot blue jean song.
     Every Saturday I would have to ride with Chris (and sometimes Danette) to the barn’s sister stable to lead rides (where you get to follow exactly one ride before they send you off on your own). I was fortunate enough to have Chris and Danette there, as they were the two managers who actually listened to what I had to say, let me explain myself when they saw me doing something they thought was peculiar, and made sure their staff got to eat during the day. One day in particular, I had worked for 11 hours straight without a bite to eat. Rather than make me take the last ride of the day, Chris noticed that I was about to pass out, sent another wrangler in my place, and sent me into the kitchen for food. That was much more than I could have expected from some of the other managers.
     The trails at the sister stable, to make matters infinitely worse, were terrifying, and the horses that have to navigate them every day of the summer are quite amazing when one stops to think about it. Some of the climbs are legitimate 45º angles with nothing but bare rock to cling to. When a horse lunges up these rocks, it’s almost like being on a dolphin’s back. Going downhill over trails that are only slightly less steep is quite frightening, but what is scarier is worrying if a person on your ride is going to fall off (only happened to me once) n such a steep trail and get seriously injured.
     Many of you know the story of one of the more frustrating things that happened to me over the summer. The following is a passage about the incident that I succeeded in writing the first day I had off after it happened; it will give you some small idea about why I didn’t get along with most of the managers.

Last Friday I made a judgment call when I wasn’t supposed to. About 10 minutes into my first ride, Shorty began limping badly. The woman that was riding him was a horse person, so she instantly recognized that there was a problem. She told me that he seemed like he was working really hard and that she didn’t want to ride a lame horse, and asked if we could go back to the barn. This happened before we got to the place where the regular trail meets the shortcut trail (the one we use if we’re running late, that cuts a few minutes off the ride), so I gave the woman my guide horse and walked Shorty back to the barn. This, of course, was my mistake. Protocol dictates that if a horse comes up lame, even if you’ve just left the corral gates, you have to finish the ride. The day manager told me that this is not a judgment call – you finish the ride no matter what. Which means that there is no question involved; if I were to walk out the gate and have a horse trip and fracture his leg, protocol says that I must force him to walk the 2-hour trail (with no rider, of course – they’re not THAT barbaric), because that is what the customer paid for. Of course, we’re also expected to return to the barn before the 2 hours are up, though walking with a severely lame horse would mean taking a lot longer to complete the 2-hour loop.

As punishment for considering Shorty’s welfare on company time, I have to clean the corral by myself on either Sunday or Monday.

     However, it appeared that I was too valuable as an employee to spend a day cleaning the corral, because for the next few days we were too busy to afford losing a wrangler for an entire day. Instead I was made to do the end-of-day barn chores by myself for an evening, which took about 45 minutes and aside from the monumental amount of dust I inhaled, was much preferable to spending several hours shoveling manure in the hot sun.
     It is exceedingly important for me to point out that, three days after I brought him back to the barn, Shorty came in from the corral in the morning with a grade 5 lameness, what horsemen term “hopping lame” or “three-legged lame.” For those of you who are not horsemen, it is also important for me to explain that there are only three generally identified things that will make a horse grade 5 lame.  One is advanced laminitis, one is a sole abscess... and one is a bone fracture. Shorty refused to put weight on his right front, and a cursory examination confirmed that he had an abscess in the sole of his foot. He was removed from work for the rest of the summer, and sent home with the first shipment of horses.
     None of the managers mentioned that maybe I did do the right thing after all.

My Life as a (So-Called) Writer
Part 1
I wrote my first short story when I was 7 years old.
Do you remember Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark? The books with the bleak, surreal, black and white drawings that were more far more nightmarish than the stories themselves? Well, what I did, essentially, was take a Scary Story called “The Barking Ghost” and re-write it in a notebook with sloppy second-grade handwriting and sloppy second-grade grammar. I was at that blissful age where I had never heard of copyright laws and knew nothing of “writing for an audience” or even the basic concept of generating your own story ideas. The end result was pretty awful, but at the time I thought it was the coolest thing I had ever done.
I had created a piece of literature.
Granted, my mother (and possibly my grandmother) were the only people who read this creation of my genius, and their reactions were probably less than ecstatic. I didn’t see my dad on the day I wrote it (and I had probably forgotten about it by the day after), and my big sister Cindy was probably busy poking me or hoarding all the good toys or otherwise antagonizing me, as was her wont at the time. So my work had an extremely narrow readership.
Later that same year my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Bartley, announced that we would be writing stories in class. Judging by my memory, this involved not only writing our own stories but coloring our own book covers and binding then with two pieces of yarn.
I don't remember how much time we devoted to the project, but the end result for me was a 9 or so -paged story capped at both ends with a teddy bear-shaped piece of laminated paper. I seem to remember that Mrs. Bartley only wanted the stories to be about 5 pages, but I of course couldn't tell my story - about a little girl who gets a wonderful teddy bear and then, in a climactic plot twist, loses it - in only 5 pages, especially when you consider how big my handwriting was. This tendency to write way more than I was expected to would follow me for a long, long time.
I again felt that I had created a masterpiece, and although I'm sure I still have that little book somewhere, I do not recall what kind of reception it got from my small reader base.
A little over a year later my readership expanded considerably. I don’t recall having any great penchant for writing in the intervening time, but I recall the Young Authors competition as my first foray into legitimate writing. I still had no concept of originality, taking my character names from Lisa Frank and various cartoons I was enamored with and focusing on a simple plotline that any child could identify with. This was also in the heyday of my obsession with drawing, however, and I got to illustrate the book myself and, with the help of my teachers, turn it into an actual bound work of art. I received a blue ribbon for Best Story, a really pretty multi-colored one for Best Illustrations, a plaque (which I still have), and a trip to Lorain County Community College (where I would later attend school but which at the time felt like another planet) to see a speaker (or speakers). I can’t remember who the speaker(s?) was (were?). All I remember is that he (one of them?) was a man who told a story about a dog that is running a race and gets chopped in half (don’t ask me why), and his owner sews him together with two legs under him and two legs sticking out of his back. The dog wins the race by using his legs in twos, so that when one pair got tired the other pair could take over. The speaker used the first two fingers on each hand to illustrate this.
What a bizarre memory. Anyway, my point is that I got recognition for writing from someone other than my mom. And that was pretty neat.
I have an assortment of random memories from this period of drawing a LOT. I filled page after page of a notebook or two or three with pictures. Tons of pictures. I drew all the time, and so did Cindy. Mostly I drew animals, and most of those animals were doing people things, like grocery shopping or trying on clothes or going to school. I didn’t write a lot, but one could argue that these pictures were stories in themselves; often there were speech bubbles to let you know exactly what my animals were thinking or saying. Perhaps there was something there that suggested a longing to create new creatures that only exist on paper, complete with personalities and lives and friends and emotions and all that. But this idea is only just coming to me as I write this. Perhaps I was just a kid that liked to draw.
This love of drawing led me definitively into what could be my most important, and possibly most embarrassing, writing effort to date. Like a lot of people my age, I became obsessed with The Lion King as soon as I saw it in theaters back in ‘94. By 4th grade I could recite the entire movie by heart and had almost destroyed the soundtrack cassette by overplaying it. I love the characters, the artwork, the music, and the story. A great deal of my in-class artwork became focused on acacia trees and African savannahs, and my personal drawing time was spent on recreating the characters from the movie. I believe at the end of this era my Lion King folder boasted roughly 60 drawings and included every character in the movie. I copied them from the books and coloring pages I had, and prided myself on being able to tell people that none of them were traced (it was a constant irritation during this period when people, mostly grownups, would use the dismissive term “trace” to describe my pictures, and I was constantly correcting them).
In 6th grade I had the brilliant (I thought) idea to take my favorite movie and recreate it in written form, turning the animals into people. For character inspiration I turned to my favorite band (Hanson), my classmates (Zach Gress and Samantha Martin), and family (Dad and brother-in-law), and although the work was horribly misguided and senseless, I loved every minute of the process. I worked on it for months, finished it before the end of that year and started on the sequel, which was never finished, now that I think about it. I had realized how silly the endeavor was, but I kept the manuscript for posterity. I still have it.
The odd thing is that no one really criticized my cheesy adaptation. My classmates thought it was cool, my teachers didn’t express an opinion, and my parents kept mostly quiet, probably because they didn’t want to tell me that if I wanted to write a story people would read, I had to come up with something original. The only family member that tried to gently talk some reality into me was my aunt Joanne. She said something about “originality” that, although I wasn’t sure what she meant at the time, I haven’t forgotten since.
(I had a typo in the previous paragraph that Microsoft Word didn’t catch – apparently “ingot” is a legitimate word. I means, a “slab, lump, brick, or bar.” Interesting.)
If I consider my “Barking Ghost” effort to be my first short story, I think of “Capsized” as my first official short story. I wrote it for Mrs. Thomas’s class in 7th grade, during “Great Lakes Week”, which I vaguely remember as a week wherein all the lessons in our classes, even Math, were tied together by a relevance to the Great Lakes. In Mrs. Thomas’s class we were divided into groups and each group was assigned a lake, and we were given free creative rein to do whatever we wanted with the topic – game show, factual report, anecdote, poem, or what have you. I ended up writing a story about a family that takes a vacation boat ride on Lake Michigan, only to have it attacked by a massive lake monster. The inspiration for the monster was a combination of Nessie (of Loch Ness fame) and Joanna (of The Rescuers Down Under fame), and the ending was pleasantly ambiguous. It wasn’t the greatest story ever written, by far, but I think coming from a 12-year old it was certainly serviceable.
But the thing that intrigued me the most was that I had loved the process of writing it. It was a story all my own.
And I got notice from my teacher and my classmates.
And I just started three sentences with conjunctions, but I’m almost 25 now and I think my creative license ought to allow for that.
Other than that I don’t recall writing much in the way of short stories in middle school, but I do remember freewriting in 8th grade. I hated it. Mrs. Chapin made us do it all the time – once a week, if I recall, we had to turn in two pages – and I never had the slightest clue what to write. I still have those composition books, with entries that fluctuate between diary-like admissions about missing my stepbrother, who was my best friend as a little girl and who had abandoned our family when I was 11, snippets of lines from movies and television shows, and random ramblings about the nonsensicalness of freewriting. I didn’t understand the concept of freewriting at the time, but by the time I got to college I was doing it on my own. But that’s for later on in this timeline.
It would be impossible to write about my middle school forays with pencil and paper without talking about Justin, Clarke, and Billy. Their story was inspired by the X-Men movie that came out in 2000, and the characters were adaptations of the Hanson brothers, with whom you may recall I spent a good chunk of my pre-pubescent life positively OBSESSED. These characters were not as far removed from the actual Hansons than the ones mentioned above in the Lion King adaptation, but they were at least acceptable, and more or less original, characters who had a unique story to tell.
This story, which has remained untitled and unfinished, was an important creative step in my life for several reasons. It was the first time I saw writing as a sustained activity – something that required prolonged attention and passion to keep it from dying. I learned (I remember my aunt Diane driving this home for me) the importance of not dating myself; I had included specific references to television shows, movies and musicians that were important to me at the time but which added nothing to the story and were far from being timeless or universal. I discovered that no matter how much you love your creation, you cannot sustain your engine on your own love alone. There are some writers that write strictly for themselves, but for those of us that hope to someday be marketable, it is not enough to be your only reader.
This is where Cindy stepped into the picture. Remember Cindy? The big sister who hoarded all the good toys from me several paragraphs ago? Well, she was still antagonizing me on a regular basis at this point, but she did something else as well, something that affected me in a positive way and encouraged me to keep writing.
She became my first fan.
She offered to read my story out loud to me before we went to bed at night, giving me feedback from a reader’s point of view, pointing out which parts were contradictory, what made no sense, what was well-composed and what she did and didn’t understand. She read my story when all of my peers were engrossed in Harry Potter and paid little attention to the sweat and blood I was putting into my own masterpiece. This is a little embarrassing to make public, but there’s a wee part of me that harbors a sort of juvenile grudge against the Harry Potter franchise for appearing when it did. Ridiculous as it is to say, I saw Harry as an adversary that was too strong for my middle school efforts, and I resented him for it.
Anyway, my point is that Cindy liked my characters, wanted to follow their story, and encouraged me to finish it, and maybe someday I will. Granted, the beginning of that story is now well over a decade old (she can probably remember the first sentence as well as I can) and would need some serious (SERIOUS) reworking, but I still have the original copy, and may someday attempt to give it new life. I still have all the notes I took during those readings. They’re in a really nice journal that my friend Jayna had gotten me for Christmas.
I don’t know how much longer this post should go on. I feel like it’s already way too long. Maybe I’m boring you guys.
I was in Dr. Lix’s class today and he encouraged us to think about a story from our pasts that we could use to connect with an audience while giving a presentation. That got me thinking about all this, and I figured it might make for an interesting blog post.
If you’re interested, I can finish with my experiences in high school and college in another post. Let me know.
♥
SM

Dear Writer’s Block,

I know we’ve been together for a long time and I know that you’re supremely happy with the state of our relationship. However, there are some things that have been on my mind for a while, and I really need to get them off my chest.
I think we need to go our separate ways.
Yes, we’ve been companions since I was very young, and yes, we’ve gotten extremely close in the last 6 months, but I have to tell you… you’re smothering me. I feel like I can’t be myself around you, that I can’t get away from you, and that you’re trying to control every part of my life. Now that your possessive behavior is actually threatening my welfare, and quite possibly my livelihood, I can no longer stand being the passive partner in this relationship.
I know you were there whenever I needed an excuse to put off a research paper until the last minute, but I also know that you’ve been sleeping with Procrastination, having “coffee breaks” with Laziness, and just generally whoring yourself out to most of the people I know. One time my sister even called me and told me that you were bothering her, and just last month you made no attempt to hide your infatuation with my roommates. Really, Writer’s Block? My sister AND my roommates?
Not only have you been seeing other people, but any time I want to visit Danny and Rick and Kirby, you always feel the need to tag along and prevent us from being productive. And don’t even get me started on Patrick and Donald. I know you’ve hated them for a long time, but I miss them fervently and would love to see them again – something you would never allow me to do. Remember Anthony Derrick? Yes, I’ve been thinking about him. I think about him at least once a week. You can’t make me forget about him. His story needs to be told, and you’re not going to stop me from telling it.
I need to grow, Writer’s Block. I need to be responsible. I need to push myself to try new things – to take steps toward my career – and I can’t do that with you constantly dragging me down.
I probably shouldn’t mention this, but I’ve already been propositioned by Creativity and Initiative. I love them both, much, much more than I ever loved you, and I know they will take me places you never could. You never took me anywhere, Writer’s Block, and a girl can’t live like that.
Please do not respond to this letter. I would much rather forget about our past and move on. I won’t be waiting for you the next time I sit down with Kirby. You won’t be invited to my apartment next semester. I’m telling Jennie not to let you in, no matter how much you beg.
I’m moving on. I suggest you do the same.

Sincerely,
Sarah

Great Big Sea: October 21st 2010 – Kent Stage

Yeah, I know. It’s been three weeks now and I’m just getting around to posting this. We’ve been through this before with plenty of other blogs, so we’ll skip the part where I apologize and get right to the… you know, the main part.
I left the college at 6 pm (well a little after 6, as I had forgotten my mp3 player and there was NO WAY I was making the trek without it). The drive there was surprisingly lonesome, long, wet and a bit nerve-racking, I think because it was so overcast and dreary, the sky kept spitting rain on me, and I was constantly second-guessing myself about whether or not I had missed my exit, which is something I always worry about. I’m usually good about not losing my way when I’m driving to a new place, but it doesn’t stop me from being nervous. Few things make you feel more lonesome than making a trip to a place you’ve never been, by yourself, wondering if you’re lost and just haven’t realized it yet. I was ecstatic when I finally saw Dad – I’d found myself thinking that I couldn’t wait to see him, and that I’d give him a huge hug when I saw him, which I did.
It seemed like the venue was really out of the way, but I discovered upon finally getting there that it was in the middle of a town similar to some of the communities I’ve been in near the lake. After one missed turn, a mistaken intersection and a rather harried conversation with Dad, we found one another and, after still more driving in circles, we found a parking space that was technically 2-hour parking but that nobody must have been paying attention to.
The venue had sort of an old-time feel to it, with a strong tie to history similar to the House of Blues but less sleek. We couldn’t appreciate it too much due to the volume of people packed into the place (sold out to the doors, thank you very much), but we did stop and talk to Glenn at the swag table. I showed him my “I ♥ BOB” shirt, and he laughed at me. I also showed him the picture on my phone of my autographed bodhrán (I got my bodhrán signed by Séan McCann… didn’t I tell you?).
It took me several minutes, naturally, to decide what I wanted. Of course I got a copy of Bob’s book Writing out the Notes, available from greatbigsea.com and Insomniac Press. The online price is $13.99, but of course the swag price was higher ($20). I really liked the grey tour shirts, but it seems like I get a shirt at every tour I go to. I spent a considerable amount of time (surprise) deciding between the hat and the shirt, and ultimately decided on getting the hat, on the grounds that I don’t have as many hats as I do shirts and that come summer it may be helpful to have one during an internship (crosses fingers).
We didn’t talk to Diane and Kevin much, as it was difficult to wade through the crowd, but I stood and watched the door at the back of the venue after we found our seats (8th row, Stage Murray). This was strictly for the purpose of watching for Diane and Kevin, and had absolutely NOTHING to do with me wanting to show off my “I ♥ BOB” shirt to as many people as possible without being obvious about it. And you should know that as I was standing there I noticed a boy and a girl, perhaps a few years younger than me, point and then pick their way down row 9 (apparently their seats were right behind ours). As they got close the boy raised his hand in the international manner of a high-five request, and said “I just wanted to congratulate you on the awesomeness of your shirt!”
So there you have it. There is SOMEONE OUT THERE THAT LOVES MY BOBSHIRT. SO ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO LIKE TO MAKE FUN OF MY BOBLOVE (Dad and Kevin), CAN JUST TAKE THAT. And when Kevin approached me a few minutes later to give me money for some t-shirts he was buying to help me out with an entrepreneurship class (ha! I spelled that without spell-check!). I made absolutely sure he knew about The High-Five Kid. (which is how I referred to him, like he was some kind of legendary hero),
Later in the week I discovered that The High-Five Kid is actually an accomplished guitar, accordion and bodhrán player named Alex. I found him on the Online Kitchen Party in the “Show Reviews” thread.
I had a Subway napkin in my purse that I pulled from to make impromptu earplugs. Dad turned me down when I offered it to him, but changed his mind later… after my first scream… and even then, he only put it in the ear that was closest to me. Silly Daddy.
Before I get to the set list and the bulleted show highlights, I want to say that, although it seems that everyone who was at the show touted it as the best they’d ever been to, I felt that it was slightly sub-par from what I’m used to. It was naturally just as fun as any Great Big Sea show, but I felt just a smidge underfulfilled for some reason.
That is all.

Set List! (I checked this against the primary copy someone posted on greatbigsea.com, so it should be accurate (and for the record, I did remember to charge both my phone and my camera this time):
Process Man
Captain Kidd
The Night Pat Murphy Died
When I’m Up
Lukey
Safe Upon the Shore
Charlie Horse
Nothing But a Song
Good People
River Driver
Dear Home Town
Yankee Sailor
80’s Medley (I Fought the Law, Summer of ’69, Hit Me With Your Best Shot, Don’t Stop Believing, Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This), 500 Miles, Bohemian Rhapsody)
Run Run Away
Intermission
(Long Life) Where Did You Go
Love Me Tonight (w/ “Tonight’s Gonna Be a Good Night” homage)
England
Beat the Drum
When I am King
General Taylor
The Scolding Wife
HELMETHEAD!!!!!!
Consequence Free
Mari Mac
Ordinary Day
Encore 1:
Wandering Ways
Excursion Around the Bay
Fortune Set
Encore 2:
Oh Yeah
“Ode to Ohio”
Old Black Rum

The abundant string of pineapple jokes puzzled me a bit – I wondered if there was some joke that I should have been aware of but was not. From what I can tell, the simple answer is that there was a pineapple on the stage, and the guys felt that it ought to be the source of the evening’s in-joke. The pineapple received several mentions and even some time in the spotlight during a musically irrelevant “pineapple solo”. Sean, of course, succeeded in taking everything Alan said and responding with something plausibly dirty.

______________Alan presents the pineapple to the crowd_____________

I got a video of “Yankee Sailor”, my favorite song from the new album, although I missed the first several chords as I was trying to decide if I wanted a video or not. Alan turned the spotlight over to Bob so he could introduce the song (still weird seeing him talk onstage). I also took a video of the second half of Mari-Mac, mostly for the purpose of annoying my mom with it. She detests that song. :-p

You would think that after 16 years together, Alan and Sean would have exhausted their options when it comes to ways to introduce “Paddy Murphy” onstage. Alan came up with this lovely invitation to the masses of Seanivores in the audience: “It’s Sean McCann! See him! Know him! Hear him! Touch him! Love him!”

_______________See! Know! Hear! Touch! Love!_______________

At a semi-quiet point near the beginning of the show, someone in the middle of the crowd shouted “MARI-MAC!!!” extra loud, to which Alan paused and replied, “I’m sorry, we don’t take requests… we only play the hits. Aaaaaaaaaaall of the greatest Great Big Sea hits!” This is of course a well-known jest at the fact that, in 16 years of band-dom, the guys have only had one genuine “hit” – Sea of No Cares. They did not do this one at this particular show. I can’t remember which song followed this proclamation.

_______________________Kris and Alan____________________

Alan’s outro to “Safe Upon the Shore” was priceless, and I think it was perhaps a sentiment that has been reflected in the minds of a lot of GBS fans after first hearing the tune: “Grand job with that song, boys [Sean and Murray]. The first time I heard that song, the first thing I thought was 'This is pretty cool… what a beautiful song,’ and then I thought 'JAYSUS, HE'S DEAD!”
I’ll take a moment here to say this: they sort of allude to the fact that the boy in the song is dead when they sing the chorus (“So give a sailor not your heart lest sorrow you do seek… Let true love not be torn apart by favors from the sea”). What I think is interesting is that the chorus is so blatantly fatalistic while verses are full of hope, yet the overall tone of the song never wavers. You feel a strong, hopeful pull right up to the point where it’s actually revealed that the sea has played a cruel trick on the fair maid by returning her lover’s corpse to her. I also love how with very few lyrics and absolutely no music, (Sean and Murray) make you believe that the sea is a living, breathing entity, capable of love, anger, deceit, patience, etc.
Alan congratulated us when the song was over, commenting on how perfectly tight-lipped everyone was (it was one of the few times we all sat down). Sean turned this praise into a dirty joke, and they carried on with the show.

______________Sean and Bob "Safe Upon the Shore"______________

I thought the end of General Taylor was a little tense, vocally. Sean usually belts it out with that strong tenor he has, and it can be unbelievably impressive, but… I don’t know. It felt weak, like he was trying to be loud without using the full strength of his beautiful vocal power. I think Dad and I exchanged a glance at that point, and I’m sure he was thinking the same thing.

There was a woman named Jenny in the audience celebrating her 32nd birthday. Alan and Sean had us all sing to her, then proceeded to sing the song "Jenny" to her. We, of course, sang the phone number part. Alan asked us if we knew any other songs about girls named Jenny. I shouted out, "FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS!!!!", prompting him to turn in my direction. "Flight of the Conchords, eh? They have a song called 'Jenny'? Oh, that's right, they do." He ultimately decided, however, that FotC's "Jenny" didn't fit with the mood he was trying to convey, and they didn't sing it. But how awesome would it be to see Sean and Alan do that song together? I vote that they cover it!

Alan and Sean talked about how they went jogging in a park earlier in the day, where (lo!) they ran into Murray (quite literally, it seems). This prompted Murray to mention how Alan's new, "post-Robin Hood" beardedness tends to frighten small children. Alan and Sean in turn complimented Murray's cleanshaven, "manscaped" face. More bawdiness ensued.

____________________"Manscaped Murray"___________________

During The Scolding Wife, Sean changed “caught me by the middle” to “caught me by the coconuts”. Séan is known for changing the lyrics of this line, and I’m sure there have been countless versions of it tailored for countless audiences over the years.

I wasn't keen on the video screen behind the band. They've never used, or needed, one in the past, plus the pictures were kind of grainy and in some cases distracting. When Kris was allowed the luxury of coming out from behind the drum set with the piano accordion, however, he took to wandering about and between the other guys, as is his wont. This time, however, he was dragging an extraordinarily long cable behind him, and thrusting the terminal end of it into everyone’s faces and instruments. Even though there were images being projected on the screen behind the band (which I, in my defense, didn’t notice – as I suggested, I’m not accustomed to GBS shows having screens), it took me forever to realize that he was carrying a scope-like camera around. ___________Kris threatens Sean with his handheld camera__________

The people beside me quite loudly (and possibly quite drunkenly) requested “HelmetHead” perhaps every second or third song. I am a stark-raving HalletHead, as everyone is well aware. I would be tickled in every way if I could see Bob sing more than one song in any given show, and although I appreciate their love of The Bob, is it possible that I got a bit annoyed with them? Well, maybe annoyed is the wrong word. When they finally did do HelmetHead Bob had an extra long accordion solo, which tickled me.

_____________________♥AccordionBob!!!!♥ _________________

Alan was amazed and delighted to discover that whenever he shouted the letters “O-H!”, the audience would invariably respond with “I-O!” Evidently he had never been exposed to this particular peculiarity of Ohioans, and took advantage of it several times during the band’s “Ode to Ohio”. At one point he asked us, “Does that work everywhere in Ohio or just here?” I imagine he’ll be filing that information away to use on later tours. I personally was amused by Bob’s reaction to this rabble-rousing – in addition to The Stern Look, Alan received a patented Bob Hallett “WTF!” look. I think Bob’s patience was commendable.

I really can’t bring myself to end a blog without a proper closing (that’s the academic in me, I suppose), but since I didn’t write one when I started the blog three weeks ago, and I don’t feel like writing one now…
I feel like listening to Great Big Sea now. So I’ll go do that. Plus I’ll get to work on some actual academic writing (which is overdue and is the main reason this blog is so late). Wish me luck!

Taking The Walk With Hanson
or: How I Got My Foot Blisters

It was an odd thing, to wake up on the morning of a Hanson show and think “I’m going to a Walk with Hanson today!” and not “HANSON SHOW TONIGHT!!! *squeeeeeeallllll!!!!!”. But I told myself, even back when I first saw the tour dates, that I may not go to it. The last show I went to drove home how difficult it is to go to a Hanson show anymore. Jennie and I were on our feet for hours without reprieve, and during that time I developed pronounced pain in my feet, knees, back, neck and head, more than at any show previous. The House is almost unbearably dry, perhaps to encourage the purchase of over-priced beverages, and hot and claustrophobic when crowded with Fansons (this is not so bad at a Great Big Sea show). Finally, while I adore the publicity-spreading-for-relatively-unknown-bands idea behind the boys’ opening acts, after standing for several hours already in a hot, dry, crowded room, every single time I find myself wishing sudden death on anything and anyone that stands between the Hanson brothers and the stage.
At first my plan was to become intentionally ignorant of the date of the show, to lessen the odds that I would be bouncing off the walls in anxiety, like a dog watching a meat truck drive by, when the big day came. Later on, however, after I determined definitely that I wouldn’t be going, and came to terms with it as much as could be expected, I realized that I could just go to The Walk before the show, then hit up the swag table, without actually going to the show itself. This was also an extremely unusual feeling, one that permeated my thoughts throughout the day described herein.
I logged onto hanson.net in the morning to make absolutely sure the time of The Walk hadn’t been changed (I didn’t want a repeat of last year!) and found that not only was it still scheduled for 5, but that my boys were set to do a morning show spot on the Robin Swoboda Show at 10am. I checked my cell and saw that the time was 10:32 am. I tuned in just in time to see David Moss making pulled pork for a Midwest-themed meal in honor of the band, and, to my amusement, heard the boys making noises off-camera in response to the food (seriously, they way they eat they should each weigh at least 300 pounds). They may have done three songs, but I only caught two after I tuned in. They did “Waiting For This” and “Carry You There” while I kept my thumb poised over the rewind button (how did I ever live without DVR?!?!). I found myself disappointed that there weren’t more fans in the audience to do the “Shout it out!” refrain.
I left early to check out the Oberlin College bookstore, planning to ask someone there if they hire non-residents so that I know whether or not I have a shot at getting a second job there when I go back home for winter break. The campus is so spread out, city street-wise, that I got easily confused. By the time I'd found what could have been the admissions building, I’d already had plenty of time to chicken out.
Not wanting to go back home and face the screaming children that now dwell in my house, I headed for North Ridgeville and got to Kristin’s early.
We took the spare time to stop at Half-Price Books. Even though I knew better, I let myself fancy that I wasn’t a poor college student who shouldn’t be buying things she doesn’t need. Although I exercised great restraint in the area of Purchasing Books About the Science Behind Jurassic Park, I did come away with a hardcover copy of “Letters to Jenny” by Piers Anthony and Rush Hour 2 on DVD. I know, all you people out there who know me are probably wondering how I lived for so long without having that movie on DVD. I do have it on VHS, mind you. I was just slow in upgrading, and also had a surprising amount of trouble finding it.

When we got to the venue there was a small crowd gathered. We walked several hundred feet past them until we came to a point where I feared we would be solicited by strangers if we went any further. So we changed course and wandered down the East 4th St. alley where the entrance to the House of Blues Restaurant is. On the corner at the opposite end of the street is Flannery’s Pub (where Gaelic Storm had their after-party last March). We stopped in to use their bathroom, which smelled quite ripe despite the “19 Action News Clean Plate Award” declaration stickered to the door at the entrance. I noticed immediately that I had never seen the pub so empty – there were perhaps 8 or 9 people there. Also, the place looked smaller when empty – it had taken me more than ten minutes to weasel my way up to the bar to get a glass of water after the Great Big Sea show two years ago.
After satisfying our bladders we moseyed back to the front of the House shortly before someone called for all Walkers to register before The Walk (last time I walked we did it after). I explained the process to Kristin, who throughout the day had many questions about the event (“Oh, we are taking off our shoes? Why is that?”) and the cause. Some of her questions, such as the aforementioned one, I knew Taylor would answer in all his megaphone-d glory once things got underway.
The boys came out at 5:14 pm – which is about 4:55 or so Hanson Time, so I suppose they were early by their own standards of punctuality – to a roaring and quickly congealing crowd. They were dressed exactly as I had seen them that morning – Taylor was in a yellow plaid flannel shirt with that ugly little orange-ish hat that he likes to wear:

Isaac was in the ever-present white dress shirt and dressy pants:


and Zac was wearing a leather jacket over a t-shirt with thick slate-colored stripes. How he did not overheat in that thing, I have no clue:


Kristin was most excited because it would be the closest she’d ever been to a celebrity. As The Walk got underway and we floated into a position behind Isaac, she was all but giddy.
I overheard a few interesting things as we were walking, but I was not taking notes because I have a severe overabundance of faith in my memory. The only one I can remember for certain is as follows: as we were making our way down East 4th, I heard a girl behind me say, “Look at those guys! They’re probably thinking, ‘Who are all those girls following? And more importantly, how can I get them to follow me like that?’” A dozen clever answers were swimming around in my head, but none of them came to fruition so I just kept my mouth shut and smiled to myself.
Isaac was given a megaphone this time, so he and Taylor each had one, and Zac relied on his ability to project should he need to say something. At the halfway point Taylor said something about being yelled at by a crazy guy with a megaphone, mentioning that Zac is usually the crazy guy yelling at him with a megaphone. Zac declared, in a loud voice, that he didn’t need one.
We walked with each brother in turn, surprisingly, as last time I pretty much kept close rank with Isaac for the whole Walk. Sometime before the halfway point, Isaac managed to sneak ahead while Taylor appeared somewhere behind us, by some wonderful Hanson-related magic.


After the halfway point we managed (where I took a video of Taylor speaking to the gathering), to my surprise, to find ourselves relatively close to Zac, although not nearly so close as we managed with his older brothers.

Note that he is posing for a picture with a fan in this picture. I saw all three of them doing this, which should have bolstered my confidence, even though they were strict about not posing for photos the last time I walked with them.
When Zac was propelled too far forward for us to have a hope of claiming we were walking “near” him, Isaac appeared, again as if by magic, about 20 feet behind us. I slowed my walking a bit (my prerogative) and actually found myself the courage to do some of that backwards-walking-picture-taking.
You can't see it in the pic because I cropped him out out of irritation, but there was a guy in the original shot with a camera in Isaac’s face. He took up space in front of all three of them at one time or another. I don’t know where he was from, but he was extremely skilled at walking backward… and was making it difficult for the rest of us to get good shots.
The terrain we navigated, shoelessly, was old hat to the boys, who traversed it all nonchalantly. In places in direct sunlight it was hot enough to be painful, but during his midway speech, Taylor told us, “I heard someone complaining, ‘It’s too hot here!’ and let me tell you this: You know nothing of heat until you’ve Walked in 100+ degree weather…” Also, though this has nothing to do with the walking conditions, he praised the fans for the efforts that have been made in the past three years to host our own Walks that the band was not involved in. They have apparently been taking place all over the world, from Chicago to London to Sydney to Tokyo, and according to hanson.net, band and Fansons have, as of the writing of this blog, walked over 36,000 miles collectively.
Besides the really hot places, we walked over asphalt, concrete, brick, stone, and these REALLY painful grates that most of us hopped over or skirted around. I made a point to watch Isaac’s reaction to one of these obstacles. Surprisingly (or not, because I’d half expected it), he walked over it like it wasn’t even there.
As for my own pain…
I noticed a sharpish pain in both my heels before we ever reached the halfway point, and recognized the local as the place on my heel where most of the pressure is concentrated when I take a step (indeed, if you were to examine the wear on any pair of shoes I own, you would notice that the heel is worn in a decidedly lop-sided manner). It wasn’t until we got back to the House that I suspected that there were actual blisters down there – when I felt like I had something stuck there but couldn’t find the culpable irritant, then when I took a step and it actually felt like there was some fluid being pushed around in there. Gah.
I can’t imagine how painful it must have been for them the first several days or weeks of the campaign, getting used to what must have been constant pain (in addition to blisters, I’ve noticed a fierce soreness in my calf muscles from walking without the support of shoes). Also, as I will mention later, their feet must have been constantly dirty, because let me tell ya – my feet are still not completely clean.
The doors were scheduled to open at 6, but at that time we were just finishing up – when I looked at my phone for the time and saw it was exactly 6, Taylor was still addressing the crowd outside the HOB.
Kristin and I waited about 10 minutes (remember, I wanted to hit the swag table), but by quarter after 6 they still hadn’t opened the doors. I was exceedingly hungry, having skipped a trip to Subway in hopes of finding a cheapish place near the HOB. Ha. Ha ha ha.
I realized that I didn’t have to get in as soon as they opened the doors. The table would be available all night until the show was over – another oddity about not going to the show itself. I realize that these may sound like obvious things to the average layreader, but they are novel ideas to me. I don’t HAVE to get into the venue as soon as they open the doors! Imagine that!
Thus reassured that nothing would be lost by it, we walked over (well, she walked; I sort of minced, due to my blisters) to the Corner Alley, a great bowling alley/bar/lounge right on the corner of Euclid and E 4th St. It is a wonderful place – open to anyone who wants to come it and hang out, yet it has a very clean and classy feel to it. The hostess and the bartenders were very friendly (it’s the same place I stopped at for water with Jennie after last year’s show). We saw a few people that we recognized from The Walk, and some that we didn’t but whom we recognized as Hanson fans by the I heart ISAAC and I heart ZAC shirts they were wearing. I almost asked them why they weren’t going to the show but I decided against it for whatever reason. Was probably mostly social phobia, but they also seemed a bit standoffish to me.
We were in time to take advantage of the happy hour specials, and though I had intended to go in for water and then find somewhere closer to home to eat, we ended up ordering a $5 pizza with red and green peppers. It was quite good, but could not TOUCH a Lu’s pizza for deliciousness. Kristin also ordered a triple chocolate mousse-type thing, which was more delicious than I expected it to be, since it’s surprisingly easy for me to become over-chocolated in the area of dessert dishes (we are exact opposites in this respect!).
Upon leaving the Corner Alley, which I am now shamelessly plugging for its great atmosphere and service, we got back to the venue before 7:30. I was exceedingly disappointed to find that the shirt I’d wanted was not available --> http://www.hanson.net/site/sections/337 (If you’re a fan, you’ll get what this shirt is about. If you’re not, go here --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QswJz6IDAPg&feature=channel and here--> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FRtQr9PDus for more information.)
I commend the woman working the swag table (and Kristin, for that matter) for putting up with my customary indecision, and for generally being fun and friendly in the face of it. Faced with an inability to buy a REFRESH t-shirt, I (eventually) bought an “I <3>So there I sat, having washed my feet (3 times) in the tub and rubbed them with some Aloe Vera-infused lotion, with the light off and Cindy trying to sleep, steaming about how after months of looking forward to this day only to have it all rendered pointless by two of the people who are supposed to be my biggest supporters.

*sigh*

I suppose that’s a bit of a negative note on which to end a blog.

I LOVE HANSON!!!!!