Drivin' Like a Big Shot

In today's edition of Small Town Driver In The Big City, I am pleased to report that I did not get lost in Minneapolis.

Suburban Waterloo/Cedar Falls, Iowa, however, was another story.

But first: What, you might ask, could possibly prompt me to drive – by myself – in downtown Minneapolis? The answer is simple, and is the same reason I took on the streets of Chicago: Billy Joel. And so, now I must digress a little further for a mini concert review that isn't really a review at all.

** SQUEEE!!**

Billy Joel. Sigh. He was wonderful. I mean the concert was wonderful. Although I'll admit I'm not very objective when it comes to Billy Joel (SQUEEE), or the talented group of musicians performing with him. Mike DelGuidice and Crystal Taliefero singing “Nessun Dorma” and “Heatwave” – A. Maze. Ing! Instrumental solos by Mark Rivera, Tommy Byrnes, Carl Fisher and David Rosenthal – Swoony! Andy Cichon and Chuck Burgi – the bassist and drummer never get enough appreciation (and I'm not just saying that because The Little Prince is a drummer.)

The only drawback was the drunken fans in front of me. There's a not too fine line between singing along, and shut the flock up and sit down because if you flail about one more time and hit me things are gonna get ugly. Er.

So yes, while the concert was the highlight of the trip (or maybe it was meeting up with my high school pal for breakfast/gabfest), Driving through downtown Minneapolis without getting lost was a close second (or third).

And I will admit I was more than a little nervous after my last (solo) trip up North – also for a Billy Joel concert – although I did not get lost then, either. Technically, that is.

I did, however, try to check in to the wrong hotel. What can I say? It was dark, it was late, it was raining, there was traffic (there is always traffic). It was not my finest driving hour.

Determined not to make the same mis-adventure a second time, I pored over the maps and directions before I left home and planned my arrival for non-rush hour. In fact, I was so surprised by the easy route, minimal road construction and non-rush hour traffic, that I had to make up reasons to hyperventilate.

Google directions through the Twin Cities were surprisingly simple: “Keep Left,” “Use Left Lanes,” “The Other Left, Dummy.” There was no actual exiting. (Unlike that final “Keep Right/Exit” north of Waterloo, which the truck behind me almost missed, too. Dear God, I hope they weren't following my navigation!)

Since all the downtown Minneapolis traffic was in the right lanes, I hugged the leftest-left lane (after a brief moment of flop sweat when I couldn't remember which was left and which was right), and accelerated to Big City Speeds, meaning I passed almost as many people as passed me. It was glorious.

Until I realized I was driving solo in the car pool lane. And I was going too fast to read the hours for the car pool lane, but not too fast to read the part that said “Do NOT cross white line.” A quick check of the mirror, however, revealed that people obeyed the “Do NOT cross white line” sign about as much as they observed the “Speed Limit” suggestion.

I was just beginning think that perhaps I was not equipped to drive, read directions, seek out road signs, and PANIC at the same time, and hoping that somehow MN-65 would miraculously turn into a quiet-ish 3-lane, one-way, city street from a mega-lane, concrete pretzel when . . . it did.

And I was downtown and I was just a turn and a turn away from the hotel, and I was feeling like a Grizzled, Big City Driving Veteran.

I was feeling so much like a Grizzled, Big City Driver that I wasn't even rattled (much) by the occasional, random honking. Because obviously that car wasn't honking at me when I was stopped at a red light. And obviously they weren't honking at me when I was waiting my turn to zip around the double-parked car and glare at the empty driver's seat.

The car (which came out of no where and) honked at the Small Town Girl walking across the Big City Street despite the flashing “Don't Walk” sign?

They might have been honking at me.

Sharing 5 Seconds with The Princess

The Queen Mother did many, many wonderful things for me, but she never took me to a rock concert.

Plays, musicals, speech contests... heck, we even saw dancer Bobby Burgess (of Lawrence Welk fame) at the Muscatine County Fair... but never a rock concert.

In her defense, she did buy me tickets to see Richard Marx at the fair, and she didn't quibble when I wanted to see Billy Idol in concert (I may have led her to believe he was a modern-day Pat Boone).

I thought of all this while I was sitting next to The Princess at the 5 Seconds of Summer concert last weekend in Tinley Park, Illinois.

This was our Second-Annual Boy Band Concert Excursion, having successfully navigated St. Louis to see One Direction last summer. Throw in rapper Huey Mack (an introduction to the Iowa City bar-band scene) and I'd say we've hit the trifecta or scored a hat trick or, well… let's just say she's widened my range of musical influences.

Some people who are not as hip as me (and obviously I'm pretty damn hip), have asked me what the difference is between One Direction and 5SOS (pronounced “five-sauce” by the cool kids). Originally I thought the only difference was that 5SOS had four members, while 1D had five. But now that Zayn has left 1D (drama!), you can't judge a band by the numbers.

At the concert I decided the real difference is in how those band members fit the time-honored, boy band line-up stereotypes. From the Beatles and the Monkees to NSYNC and Backstreet Boys, they've all had one “bad boy,” one “smart boy,” one “cute boy,” one “fun boy,” and one “sensitive boy” (as needed).

1D have (or had) one of each.

5SOS has 2.5 bad boys.

Of course The Princess' favorite 5SOS member is the lead singer – the .5 bad boy. At the concert he was wearing a grey t-shirt (not “bad boy”) in contrast to his pierced lip (“bad boy”). The other “bad boys” are the drummer (he's the drummer, so, duh, and he was wearing his hair in a “mun” or man-bun), and the guitarist (eyebrow piercing and Harley Davidson t-shirt). The bass guitarist, he of the baby face and prep-logo t-shirt, I figure is about as clean cut as possible these days.

When I ran my bad boy ratio theory by The Princess she looked at me like I was totally not cool, and explained that 5SOS plays punk/pop, while 1D plays pop/pop. That may be why I like 5SOS both more than and at the same time less than 1D. I like the edgy sound to the 5SOS songs (although they all sounded like one long teen-age girl's scream until their cover of Green Day's “American Idiot”). But the mom in me likes 1D's lyrics (“You don't know you're beautiful/That's what makes you beautiful), better than 5SOS's (“You look so perfect standing there/In my American Apparel underwear”).

When it comes right down to it, it's not about parents enjoying their children's music (although I like it all well enough). It's about parents enjoying their children's happiness. I'm certainly not a perfect mom – when I offered to spend an equivalent seven-hours travel-time in the car with The Prince he looked horrified – but I'm trying. And of course I'm not alone.

The mom next to me at the concert said Led Zeplin was more to her liking, but she was at 5SOS to make her 14-year-old daughter happy. They had gone to 1D last summer, too. As the speakers blared Europe's “The Final Countdown” in preparation for 5SOS's big opening all four of us sang along.

“This is what we went to back in the day,” laughed the almost-as-cool-as-me mom.

Despite the age differences and the relative hip/unhipness of parents, most of us stood and kind of swayed along to all the songs – except for the parents who had their camera phones trained on the stage (presumably at their kids' request). And when 5SOS played their latest song, "She's Kinda Hot"  – which they had just “dropped” (see? I even picked up the cool lingo) a couple weeks earlier – we all knew the words and sang along.

Just like everyone sang along when 5SOS covered The Ramone's “What I Like About You” to end the show. Green Day and The Ramones? Those bad boys are growing on me.

The Princess and I had such a good time enjoying the mix of old and new music that I offered to take her with me to see Billy Joel at Wrigley Field. It was kind of hard to read her expression, what with all the lasers and strobe lights, but I'm pretty sure she looked excited.

Especially when I said we could spend the day shopping along Chicago's Magnificent Mile instead of going to the Art Institute.

It's all about compromise and sharing what you love.

With the ones you love.

I'll be Home (Ec) for Christmas

Google “Home Ec -- I mean Family Consumer Science -- Christmas Lesson Plans” and what do you get?

Christmas Cookie Lab. Christmas Cookie Bake Sale. Christmas Cookie Sampler. Christmas Cookie Comparison. Christmas Cookie Swap. Healthy Christmas Treats (there's one in every crowd).

Ask the students, right after they fill out the Spooky Halloween Treat Lab evaluation, what do they want to do next?

“Make Christmas cookies.”

So when the principal asked me “Would your classes like to make cookies to serve during semester tests?” I said yes. (Actually, I gave him the “are you kidding?” look.) Then I asked my students.

Do you want to bake Christmas cookies? “Yes!”

For the other students? “Ummm....”

You can have some, too. YES!

I was feeling pretty confident in their abilities. After all, they made snacks for a conference-wide, school administrators' meeting last month. AND had recipe requests. All semester these kids have done incredible work in the kitchens. Sure we hit a rough spot with the “healthier options” recipes, but I think whole wheat Snickerdoodles are an acquired taste.

Some students have… contributed more than others. Some have... put forth more effort than others. But each of these students has made me incredibly proud at least once this semester.

All that ended with The Great Christmas Cookie Catastrophe.

I'm not blaming the kids. I should have known better than to use untested recipes (stupid Google search). I should have watched the oven timer more closely (and made sure they used it).

I should not have tried to buy Billy Joel concert tickets on-line as soon as they went on sale while trying to supervise the creation of a batch of festive, fudge-brownie cookies.

I felt like Goldilocks. One batch of cookies was over-cooked. One batch was under-cooked. One batch was... why did I approve an anise-flavored cookie anyway? And there is not enough time in a 45-minute class period for the students to do all the baking and cleaning.

To top it all off: I didn't get a ticket for the Billy Joel concert in Minneapolis.

Ouch. Way to kick a girl when she's down, Target Center ticket program. (It's not sold out yet, but I haven't liked the “best available” tickets they've “suggested” for me. I'm gambling here. Really, you think there's not gonna be one single, odd seat left on the floor? )

Final. Straw.

Camel's back? Broken.

So I stood, forlorn, in the kitchens as the students filed in for homeroom. I was stressed, surrounded by piles of inedible cookies, mountains of dirty dishes and flour-covered counters. And I was ticket-less.

There were tears.

Yeah. No. Really.

I cried.

Over cookies.

It was a brief, silent, ragged breathing, just a couple of tears overflowing type of cry. Not my proudest moment.

Wound. Too. Tight.

But one sweet boy talked me down. “Are you ok, Mrs. Salemink?”

He helped clean up the mess – a mess he didn't make! – and helped me sort out and salvage more cookies than I thought possible.

Santa's weepy elf might have to fill in a little around the edges (I'm just not sure high schoolers are ready for anise-flavored cookies. I'm not sure any one is, no matter what the Albuquerque Convention and Visitors Bureau says.) But it looks like the Home Ec – I mean Family Consumer Science – classes will help make semester tests (and Christmas – I mean winter – break) just a little brighter at West Branch High School.

Now if the Target Center would just cut to the chase and pony up a front row, center stage ticket we could put this whole ugly scene behind us.

And have a Merry Christmas. Cookie.

We Danced All Night to the Best Blog Ever

“You two are having too much fun!”

That's what the Dad sitting behind the Princess and me at the One Direction concert in St. Louis last week said to us.

And you know what?

He was right.

I should point out that when he said this we were chair dancing enthusiastically during the hour long – that's right hour long – break between the five-song opening act and the main attraction. And did I mention the opening act started late, too? And that we waited in a glacially-slow moving t-shirt line before the opening act?

In other words, approximately two hours into our 1D concert experience we had not yet seen a glimpse of the lads, and we were still having fun. Or already having fun, however you want to figure that.

So, how was the concert? Well, One Direction is no Billy Joel. But then again, I doubt the real 1D fans (tweens, teens and post-teens) know who Billy Joel is.

And you know what?

That's OK.

It's probably a sign that all we have to look forward to during our handbasket ride to heck (or during music time at the nursing home) is non-stop Muzak versions of bubblegum pop. But that's OK.

And I'll tell you why.

But first, I'll admit I was somewhat less than excited about going to this concert. My reasoning:

     A. I had just seen Billy Joel live and in concert. Really? What could possibly compare to that, besides another Billy Joel concert? Nothing. But....

    

    B. Screaming tweens, teens and post-teens. This was even worse than I had imagined. They screamed whenever a new video started (during the 2-hour wait). They screamed whenever the safety announcements were made (in English accent). They screamed whenever the cotton-candy vendor walked by. (OK, I made that one up, but I did scream when the beer vendor walked by.) But....

     And 3. According to the Ticketmaster map, our seats were somewhere above the nose-bleed section in an area of the Edward Jones Dome accessible only by trained Sherpas carrying oxygen. But....

But....

You know what?

     3. Our seats weren't that bad. Sure we were in the third tier, but we were only three rows up from the edge of the balcony. Granted, that was straight up. And I do mean Straight. Up. But the Princess and I had trained earlier in the day by riding the ferris wheel on the roof of the St. Louis City Museum (my hands never unclenched from the safety bar). And by sitting in the school bus that hangs over the edge of the roof – 20 stories up. And by going down the 10-story slide. Best. Museum. Ever.

     And... the 1D stage cat-walk extended out to at least the 50-yard line. Combined with the obligatory Jumbo-Tron Screens this made our seats... not bad.

     B. After while I became immune to the screaming. In fact, I started to rely on it. All those 1D songs sound alike to me, so the only way I could tell they had cued up a new one was when the girls started screaming.

     True Confession: I did scream. Once. Harry (or one of the lads, they all look alike to me, too) asked if anyone in the audience was having a birthday. The Princess and I looked at each other, shot our hands in the air and started screaming like... well, like teens at a 1D concert.

     And finally, A. It wasn't a Billy Joel concert. It was a One Direction concert for One Direction fans. I wasn't the target audience. The pre-teen-posts were. And they loved it.

They danced, they sang, they screamed, they cried, they laughed, they smiled. They beamed. They radiated happiness.

They had the time of their lives.

I finally recognized one song near the end of the concert (after only 90-minutes, as opposed to 65-year-old Billy Joel's 2-hours... just sayin'). And as I sat there watching the Princess singing and swaying, I thought about how the lyrics to that bubble-gum, boy-band song summed up how I felt:

“Baby you light up my world like nobody else...”

I looked at the Dad behind us and I could tell from the smile on his face as he watched his girls that he felt the same way.

Oh yeah. We had fun.

“You don't know you're beautiful. That's what makes you beautiful.”

Keeping the Faith

This is not a review of the Billy Joel concert at Wrigley Field July 18. Because really, what else would I write besides that the show was amazing and Billy Joel was awesome and adorable. And I could have told you that before the lights even came up.

Let's face it, Billy Joel could have gone on stage and presented a two-hour dissertation on the state of modern paint drying and I would have squealed like a teen-aged girl goosed by the captain of the football team. Luckily for the sold-out crowd, Billy Joel instead chose to do what he does best, delivering a fantastic performance and generally delighting the audience. His two-hour, hit-filled show featured 23 of his songs in addition to “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and “My Kind of Town (Chicago Is).” The set list included many of my favorites because they're all my favorites, but was light on the more obscure pieces that I like. If he played 'em all, we'd still be there. Which would be OK by me.

But this isn't a concert review, it's a Chicago experience review. Or more accurately a big shout out to some of the friendly, helpful people I met during My Big Adventure Travelling to Chicago All By Myself. You often hear visitors say that Midwesterners are friendly, and by golly, we are!

Thank you to the Chicago art museum docent who practically took me by the hand and led me to the drinking fountain when I asked for directions. I must have looked particularly confused and dehydrated.

Thank you to the people who didn't honk at me when I ran the red light leaving the Millennium Park garage. In that dark intersection beneath the overpass, I was not the only person who clearly had no idea where they were supposed to be. In all fairness, I didn't honk at anyone, either.

Thank you to the lady who showed me how to use the Ventra card kiosk to get my ticket for the “L” to Wrigley. A bazillion out-of-towners trying to get on the Red Line at Grand at 5 p.m. and less than 10% knew how to work the ticket machines. We all apologize for the delay, regular commuters.

Speaking of out-of-towners, it was so nice to meet you, couple from Ontario, Canada! They traveled all the way to Chicago for a three-day weekend planned around the Billy Joel concert. And a ride on the “L.”

Thank you, young girl who thanked me over and over again when I let you have the open seat on the train (I didn't tell you I have to face forward or I get motion sickness). She'd had a long day at work and looked exhausted. In addition to being friendly and kind, she's a concert musician and opera singer. And obviously a Midwesterner.

Thank you to the crazy fan outside the stadium who was over-the-moon about meeting the members of Gavin McGraw's band. You made me feel not-so-crazy. And thanks to the security guy who let her talk to them and let me listen to her gush as we stood outside the performers' bus area.

In fact, thank you to 99% of the staff at Wrigley Field for being unbelievably polite, kind and friendly (and eventually that one girl warmed up to me, too). It didn't matter who they worked for – blue-shirt Wrigley staff, orange-shirt Wrigley security, white-shirt extra security, green-shirt something-else officials, white-shirt ushers – they were all great!

Thanks to the cute orange-shirt guys who directed me to the field entrance, the helpful orange-shirts at the field entrance, and all the shirts who pretty much let me wander wherever I wanted on the field and around the stadium. And offered to take my picture! Of course it was two-hours before the concert and they may have been as bored as I was. I am never early for anything because I don't have the patience to wait. But think of all the nice people I got to meet this time!

Like the usher guy who offered to take my picture with the infield grass, the stands, the stage, the tarp-covered pitching mound.... Oh yeah, I think he was bored.

Thanks to the end of the third-base line beer-stand guys who tried to card me for buying a bottle of water (their first sale of the night), and then offered to take my picture with the 355 ft. outfield wall marker. I took their picture, too.

Thanks to the beer guy inside the stadium who suggested a beer might help calm my upset stomach. I didn't take him up on that, but we had a nice chat.

Big, big thanks to “not Billy Joel” for letting me take a selfie with him. We swapped cameras and took pictures for each other “batting” near home plate. I started to leave, but just couldn't resist. “You know, you kind of look like Billy Joel,” I said. He shyly said he had been getting that a lot that night. He had the right hair style, the right goatee, the right height, and the prettiest eyes! I had to get a picture.

Thanks to the security guy who may or may not have (I wouldn't want to get him in trouble) pointed out the real Billy Joel standing on the balcony above us. Of course I (and everyone else) had to take a picture, although I felt guilty intruding on his privacy.

Thanks to the usher who told me to go for it when I said I was thinking of asking the caterers to give my blogger info card to Billy Joel. “What have you got to lose?” he asked. They couldn't do it, but it was worth a shot.

Thanks, of course, to my seat-mates: Mitch the policeman and his daughter the uber fan, and the nice guy from England-now-Phoenix. You made me feel like part of a group. And to the four wild girls behind us – three Sox fans who found themselves sitting in the Wrigley outfield with their lone Cubbie friend; even the three drunk, college-age guys in front of us who knew just about every song and were very entertaining: Thanks, everyone!

A thanks of relief to the nice people who let me walk with them down the kind of dark and scary alley to the “L” station after the concert because the N. Sheffield sidewalk was packed with party-goers and equally kind of dark and scary.

And thanks to the nice lady on the “L” who asked her friend to give me directions when I followed the crowd and got off the train one stop too soon. It wasn't your fault he sent me east instead of south. And thank you to the train station attendant who talked me down when the ticket kiosk wouldn't take my quarters and I was about to lose it! I can't believe I paid three dollars to ride three blocks. But it was dark. And I was tired and lost-ish. Not a good combination for me.

I'm sure there were other nice people I'm forgetting, so a huge thank you to pretty much everyone I ran into.

You've restored my faith in humanity.

I've always tried to “pay it forward,” but now I'm going to have to work extra hard not just to do that, but to “pay it up,” as well.

I'm Keeping the Faith.

Play Me A Piano Man Memory

I've never been one to let reality stand in the way of a good story. But the story you are about to read is true.

Mostly....

The intensity of my current preoccupation with Billy Joel has taken even me by surprise. On more than one occasion I've wondered if I have, indeed, finally lost my mind for good. Then, while I was gloating over finally wrangling a good, face-value ticket from the actual, official ticket vendor, a little snippet of a memory started niggling at the back of my mind.

I've done this before.

I've tried to get Billy Joel concert tickets before, that is. But it wasn't until I clicked the “Buy Now!” icon and looked over the freshly printed ticket (and started worrying that I was the victim of an elaborate hoax), that the memory of that first, failed attempt for tickets started coming in to focus.

In some respect, I think I'm like the old man in Billy Joel's “Piano Man” who asks:

“Son, can you play me a memory

I'm not really sure how it goes”

I know what he means. There are parts of that first ticket buying memory which are true. Others? I'm not really sure how they go.

“It's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete

When I wore a younger man's clothes.”

This memory is sad, but it's definitely not sweet and I may have added some details to make it complete.

It does, however, involve a younger me's clothes.

Picture if you will, Eastern Iowa circa 1984-ish. KRNA radio (mandatory listening for Eastern Iowa teens) announced that Billy Joel would be appearing at Carver Hawkeye Arena in Iowa City. Tickets would be available at local Ticketmaster outlets.

I wanted desperately to go to this show. But not so desperately that I would skip school (nerd alert) to camp out at the box office. Remember, these were the dark days before home computers and the internet. If you wanted tickets you stood in line, you didn't go on-line.

The day tickets went on sale I rushed home from school to change clothes before heading to Iowa City. I just had to swap my cheerleading uniform for something infinitely more cool and appropriate for concert-ticket buying: spray-painted on jeans and layered polos – collars popped!

Up in my second-floor room the radio was on and the sweater was coming off when my hopes and dreams came crashing down: The DJ announced the IC concert was already sold out.

Noooooooooooooo! This is the song of my people: the anguished cry of the disillusioned, heartbroken, angst-ridden teen.

My arms were caught up in that akward over-the-head sweater-removing tangle when, in my frustration and despair, I gave one last great tug to free myself from my poly-cotton blend straightjacket and wacked my elbow on my tall dresser.

NooooooooooOOOOOOOWWWW!

Now I had no ticket and no feeling in my arm.

I was scarred for life. Or at least for 20 some-odd years (or 30).

Flash forward to Eastern Iowa, circa 2014. I'm certain it was the repressed and potentially sketchy memory of my first failed (and painful) attempt to score Billy Joel tickets that kept me skulking around the ticket web sites until my sheer determination and dumb luck paid off.

I got a tick-et. I got a tick-et.

I went on-li-ine and got a tick-et.

And I didn't have to change clothes or smash my elbow.

Sing me a song, Piano Man. I'm in the mood for a new memory.