Took a Little Trip...

Ordinarily, I try to keep politics and religion out of the Coast of Illinois. But in order to put this post into context, I must break that rather slim, Miss Manners initiated rule. 

I had no idea there were so many Land Pirates...

I am a Parrothead.

There. I said it.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, please tune your SiriusXM radios to channel 24. Parrothead is the term associated with fans of Jimmy Buffett.

But it's more than a music thing. Or being a member of a club.

I don't officially belong to any of the numerous local Parrothead clubs. They are fine institutions and not only do many fun activities but the basis of their philosophy is to 'Party with a Purpose' which means most group functions have a charitable element attached.

I belonged to one local group for a year and it was fun. I was introduced to some fun people, some great music venues and musicians. But most importantly, for me, belonging to the group made me examine just what it means to live in Margaritaville.

Which leads to another explanation.

Margaritaville, while being a very successful song and brand, is also a philosophy.

A good friend recently asked me to define just what that means.

It's not easy but let me try:

Margaritaville is anywhere you feel most content. It's not a specific place, although it can be.

Living in Margaritaville means enjoying every moment of every day. And if that is impossible then Margaritaville becomes the destination to get you through.

It exists solely in your mind, for those times when work is just too annoying or the kids are just too trying or life has become just too sad.

It is the place where you know you will feel safe. You may not feel happy immediately but you know that it is the place where your best chance of fulfillment exists, even if it is temporary.

Because life is just too short.

And once you find Margaritaville, you will always be able to return.

On rare occasions, Margaritaville becomes a real, living, breathing place.

As it did this past Saturday.

Because of my past affiliation with the St. Louis Parrotheads, I became Facebook friends with several members. And while I didn't renew my official membership, Rob and I prefer to be Feral Rogue Parrotheads, my Facebook friendships still exist.

So thanks to that wonder that is social media, we were invited to the No Name Deck for a concert by the PHINS. 

We considered mightily the fact that this party was an hour away at a private home where we hardly knew anyone, on an afternoon in August when the relative humidity has been 200% with a forecast of 99.9% thunderstorms.

So of course, we were in.

As we drove across two bridges and two rivers the clouds parted and the sky turned blue and the sun shined down. The humidity down shifted from steam bath and as we walked into the backyard of our hosts we were greeted with bear hugs and handshakes and a genuine greeting of 'so glad you made it!'. 

Our lovely hosts, who opened their home and backyard and also had the foresight to rent a port-a-potty for the gathering!

We feasted on potluck and brauts and chatted with other lawn chair pirates as we sipped our fizzy waters and rosé and the occasional mysterious beverage poured from questionably reused apple juice containers. 

We sang along with a phenomenal band.

We booed the guy who kept requesting 'Freebird'.

We helped out a local senior center with personal care item donations.

We Conga-ed.

And for a few hours, we lived in Margaritaville. 

Check out these sites and show some love!

For info on the band:

http://www.paulroush.com/ 

 https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/take-me-to-paradise/id602682405

For Info on the St. Louis Parrotheads:

http://www.stlphc.org/ 

Check out the featured post for another tale from my own personal Margaritaville odyssey.

Living My Life Like a ~Randomly Connected~ Song*

I am interrupting this blog post with an important update!! I am a guest blogger!! Please check out the link and while you are there, check out Vikki's stories of married life and just living! : Laugh Lines!  

Now, back to my blog! 
 
So, I briefly held a monkey hostage this weekend.

Just to clarify:

1. No monkeys were harmed in this brief hostage-taking.
2. There was only one monkey.
3. There was wine involved. And Parrotheads.

This is the monkey of question:

If you woof someone, set them free...

 He is of Chinese pedigree, according to his tag – and the rather poorly translated 'wuv' which reads 'woof'. Unless Chinese monkeys actually do 'woof', which his owner adamantly believes to be true.

We met 'Woofy' and his owner, Amanda, at Grafton Winery.

We were there with two old friends to listen to some music, have a glass of wine on an otherwise dreary Saturday and celebrate our anniversary. You know, keep it quiet. Low key. But instead of a peaceful winery with people sipping pinot while sampling cheeses we were greeted by a Cabin Fever Party – Hawaiian Leas, a light up flamingo, a trop-rock band and a winery full of Parrotheads. 
As feral Parrotheads, Bart and I felt right at home.

There was also raffle tickets, tiny drink umbrellas and wine.

Through some rather...friendly extortion...I managed to get the crowd's support in acquiring Woofy.

(It should be noted that I never intended to keep Woofy.)

Bart, fearing for the monkey's safety, did some UN level negotiating and for the price of one dance, Amber was reunited with her pet. And Bart and I were invited to join the Parrotheads of the River Bend. (As it turns out, Amber is the group's charity director.)

and if they woof you they will come back...or if you get the band to do a shout out...either way...

I guess my point here is this: keep your eyes and your mind open and be ready to always have fun. You just never know when you will meet a new friend, learn a new song, taste a new food. We left the house on Saturday expecting to hear some tunes and talk with some old friends. I never intended to kidnap a monkey. Amber never intended to wind up on this blog. Bart...well, he never knows what's going to happen.

We left the winery and drove literally straight up the bluff and spent the rest of our evening enjoying the lovely fireplace in our rented condo. 

Fine. It was electric. But it was still pretty.

(A little background – Parrotheads are people who embrace the music of Jimmy Buffett. As a sanctioned Parrothead club, the mission is to Party with a Purpose. The clubs gather, or Phlock, for fun and to support a variety of causes. On this particular day, Parrotheads of the River Bend raised money for a local no-kill animal shelter; click on their name if you would like a full list of their charities, activities and their manatee. Yes. Manatee. And after such a warm welcome by the group, Bart and I are reconsidering our Feral Parrothead status.)

I would love to have included some photos of Grafton, the confluence of the Mississippi and Illinois Rivers, that horrifying road up to Aerie's Lodge and some of the winter nesting bald eagles. I should also mention the delicious breakfast we ate at Ruebel Hotel - present in Grafton since 1904! However, it was cloudy on Saturday so I held off on picture taking until Sunday. Visibility was about three feet on Sunday, the whole region fogged in after a cold front just missed dumping ice and snow on us. Seize the day. Lesson learned, God.

This turned out to be a blessing as it allowed us to drive back down the horrifying bluff road and make it home in time for me to sign up for the Color Run 5K.

It will be my first 5k.

But it won't be the first time I get stuff all over my white clothes.

*Living My Life Like a Song~Jimmy Buffett

The Road to A1-eh!

As a self-proclaimed beach bum and feral Parrothead, it seems an odd choice that I would drive 10 hours in the opposite direction of the ocean for a long weekend get-away. Just 2 hours more and I could have been on the white sand beach of Destin. An additional 10 hours and 43 minutes gets me all the way down A1A to the motherland of Key West.

It pretty much falls down to number of days available- 3- and number of hours my well padded butt can handle an albeit, comfy, car seat- also 3. When you divide the number of driving hours by this pivotal number of butt hours, figuring a snack stop variable of 4...well...a Google maps ten hour drive is the limit.

Which is why I found myself desperately seeking A1A at a decidedly northern latitude.

The catalyst for this trip was a Scott Kirby concert. I was introduced to Mr. Kirby's music via satellite radio. His warm, pleasant vocals in songs about boats (Little Blue Boat) and beaches (A Night on the Beach) and general escaping (Sol Searching) as well as his hauntingly truthful stories of relationships (If She Tells You She's Batshit Crazy You Better Believe Her) bring to mind the warm ocean breezes of that mythical land known as Margaritaville.

His concert in London Ontario fell on this particular weekend and as we had never been to Canada it seemed like a good idea.

So I found myself driving north on highways numbered up to 93x higher than A1A towards a city named for a much larger city on a continent thousands of miles away.

London, Ontario is beautiful and was modeled after London England. As demonstrated by our hotel:

Turrets. All buildings should have turrets.

And this statue of a guy who looks like the hunter from Jumanji:

This was a soldier's memorial so I don't mean to be disrespectful.

 

But seriously. He's waiting to catch Robin Williams before those rhinos stampede from the fireplace.

And these:

I am not sure if there are black squirrels in England but I am sure this guy's name is Nigel.

I would have also taken a photo of a cool tank in Victoria Park but there was a precocious seven year old on top of it who informed us that it was in fact his tank as, and I quote, 'I farted on it.' I am not sure what country's tradition this is but wouldn't it be wonderful if all  nation's disputes could be solved this way?

Our concert venue was the London MusicClub, essentially a space in the basement of a lovely Victorian mansion. I have to admit, after being surrounded by all this English-ness, I was sort of hoping for some East Enders in leather jackets and tight, straight-legged dungarees. Sort of a Sid Vicious without the heroin.

Instead, we were greeted by the LondonParrothead Club whose members had considerably fewer piercings than Sid Vicious yet were equally delighted that we had actually driven all the way from St. Louis, Missouri. (I didn't try to explain that we were actually from the Illinois coast. And I am only assuming Sid would by delighted by our trip, although I hear he was a huge fan of road trips.)

 It was a fabulous afternoon of Hawaiian Shirts, tiki heads and beach music. It was even the hottest, most humid day of the summer. 

Except for the lack of palm trees we could have been in Key West. Which is not what I expected while visiting a city in a foreign country, named for a bigger city in a different foreign country. In fact, the afternoon felt nearly identical to the first time I saw Scott Kirby play, which was in a tiki-bar styled venue in the back room of a pub type restaurant on the Coast of Illinois. 

And then one of the concert-goers did something which to me is existentially Canadian. He asked Mr. Kirby to sign a CD with 'A1-eh?' 

Oh...Canada.

And as we walked back to the hotel we were caught in a perfect London rain. 

Come back on Monday for the final installment of  Coast of Illinois Goes International ~Once Again I Find Myself at a Border 
And if you missed part one...Click HERE

Just 10 Short Hours Away! ~ Road Trip to Canada ~The Coast of Illinois goes International Once Again!

All I said was, "I have a long weekend coming up."

Four weeks, two concert tickets and ten short hours later I found myself here:

Yup. Canada.

 explaining to the border guard that 'yes, we did in fact drive 10 hours just for a concert'. It seems that once the word 'Parrothead' came into play it made sense. It seems the border guard's sister is 'one of them'.

I love a good road trip. There is something about watching the scenery roll past my car window as our favorite music plays on the radio and Bart and I debate the fate of our victims in a rousing game of Marry-Shag-Hit in the Head with a Shovel.*

So, when Bart heard we had several free days he hit the internet and discovered that Scott Kirby – one of our favorite Trop-Rock Singers was playing in London, Ontario, Canada. I am sure that this decision had nothing to do with the fact that he had recently renewed his passport and it was burning a hole in his traveling cargo pants pocket.

A ten hour drive (more like twelve with truck-stop stops) can be daunting, best illustrated by the 'You're going where?' face of most of the people I know.

(You, too, can make the 'You're going where?' face by tipping your head to the right while simultaneous squinting your left eye completely shut while keeping your right eye open just wide enough to prevent the insane person in front of you from shoving you into the car with them as they declare 'We are going to Canada for the weekend!')

But we have the road trip thing down.

For this particular trip we packed:

a cooler of fizzy waters – which leads to numerous truck-stop stops

several boxes of red hots – only 80 calories per box and so hot you can only really eat half a box thus requiring MORE fizzy water and MORE truck-stop stops.

an outdated Cosmopolitan magazine – because I am too embarrassed to read it in front of my grown daughter

and a cable to sync my iPod to our new car's media center.

However, we haven't exactly figured out the media center so once we got the iPod to play, it began at 'Addicted to Love' by Florence and the Machine followed by 'Addicted to Love' by Robert Palmer and proceeded to go through every song on the device in alphabetical order. Suffice it to say, I have enough 'A' songs to last from the McDonalds in Vandalia through to the Mobile gas station in Terre Haute.

Somehow the shuffle button got hit outside Toledo.

We were delighted that the alphabet worked out to 'Feel Like a Number by Bob Seger as we hit the first of many Detroit exits. And we shut it down when Space Cowboy began blasting as we pulled into line at the border.

The diverse beauty of our country always leaves an impression on me during a road trip. Be it the plains of Kansas – which many dismiss as boring but I find awe-inspiring, probably because I fully expect Sheriff Bart and the Waco Kid to ride over the butte ala Mel Brooks – to the endless corn fields of the Midwest. Maybe it's because I grew up surrounded by these rustling plants, but I can study these fields for hours as they zip past my car window, reaching out in endless stripes of dark and darker green.

We saw more than our share of corn fields this trip. The corn seemed to be a bit taller in central Indiana than it did in central Illinois. Which, according to Bart, means the ghost ball players are more likely to be playing around Indianapolis. Whether that is true or not, I can not say. All I know is YOU NEVER WANDER INTO A CORNFIELD. According to my parents you will get lost and never find your way out until the farmer mows over you at harvest at which time you will be very very sorry.

We also saw a lovely suburb of Toledo. Why they put an interstate through the middle of a Toledo suburb, why they put stoplights in the middle of the interstate and why the GPS Wench took us through a suburb of Toledo is beyond me, but it did make me think that should I ever have to move to Toledo, it might not be so bad. Assuming the intersection camera didn't get a clear photo of my plates as I accidentally blew through the first stoplight.

And, thanks to my awesome driving skills, as well as the fact that I wanted nothing to do with driving through Detroit or the subsequent border to Canada, we also stopped at Luna Pier. What we thought was a charming roadside gas station turned out to be a charming little beach town on the banks of Lake Erie. 

Pay no attention to the woman who has sat in a car for nearing ten hours. Please note the lovely lighthouse and beach home behind her.

And they say the Great Lake they call Gitchigoomee is gloomy...

Our journey became considerably more industrial as we drove into Detroit. I am aware that Detroit is known for the auto industry but I was not prepared for the FIELDS of car factories lining either side of the interstate. While no 'amber waves of grain' these enormous factories made an equally important statement about our country. It may sound cheesy but I was as awe-inspired by the FORD plant as I was by the plains of Kansas, the mountains of Colorado and the beautiful blue Gulf of Mexico.

And then it was time to cross the border.

I have a notorious history of border crossing issues. (See Accidental Terrorist and Hello Customs...)

I was instructed to keep my mouth shut and if I could pretend to be asleep without looking DEAD that would be even better. Never mind that my current passport picture makes me look like an anemic stroke victim pushing 95 years of age.Which is probably what distracted the border gaurd when Bart completely forgot the name of the singer we were going to see or the name of the hotel we were staying in.

As he stammered and played word association with other musician names I piped up with the name of our hotel – the Delta Armorie – and then wowed the the guard with my awesome Priceline purchasing skills.

It was then that Bart came to his senses and commented that the singer was a sort of Margaritaville style Parrothead singer and well, the border guard has only his sister to blame.

For better or worse, he let us enter Canada.

I was hoping for a complimentary bottle of maple syrup.

Come back Friday for the second installment of Coast of Illinois Goes International – The Road to A1-Eh!

*Marry-Shag-Hit in the Head with a Shovel is the Bob and Tom Radio version of Marry-$%#!-Kill, then endlessly entertaining game in which one player lists three celebrities and the second player must classify which action he or she would take with that person. There are only two rules to this game- you can only assign one person to each action and NEVER use people whom you know as the choices.

Seriously.