THE VIC IS IN THE LAKESHORE WRIGLEYVILLE DISTRICT OF CHICAGO, WITH THE EL THUNDERING BY OVERHEAD EVERY FEW MINUTES. DURING THE SHOW THE HOUSE SHAKES AS THE TRAINS PASS. IT FEELS LIKE A MOMENT FROM AN EALING comedy. I am really enjoying doing the show now. After thirty-five performances and a couple of months on the road it all comes perfectly naturally. I feel very comfortable onstage, no panic, no alarm, no fears; indeed at one point, when there is a massive explosion from our sound equipment and we all completely lose our place in “The Money Song” and each pick up at a different spot so the audience sees four people each confidently belting out different lyrics and different tunes, it makes me laugh out loud with joy. The audience doesn’t mind at all. They laugh right along with us. Jen wins; she has such a strong and powerful voice.
Mancow is in the house, which is kind, because he said he would, and my very sweet and beautiful niece Sasha comes to the show, with her friends Joelle and Katy. She has grown into a fine and adorable woman. I have known her all her life. I am a fortunate greedy bastard to have a large Chicago family of in-laws and they are all coming tonight. Then we have almost a week off. We have come almost ten thousand miles since we set out from Boston. Now I’m going to take a break and spend Thanksgiving with my family. Some of the company are flying home to see their spouses, while the buses and the rest of the tour party make their way up to Edmonton via Fargo. I know Jen and Gilli are looking forward to finally getting into my bed. I hope they clean up afterward. While on tour I keep the door locked at night just in case. You never know with young women. Obviously I have powerful hormones which young females are unable to resist and—[Oh, shut up.—Ed.]
I’ll be rejoining everyone in Edmonton, Canada, on Thursday night. Meanwhile I shall miss my roommates. Skip has become invaluable. Jen is a delightful companion on the road and getting better and better in the show, while Gilli is a total amazement. As well as stage manager and lighting director and wardrobe whipper-in and general pooh-bah on the tour she is a gifted singer-songwriter in her own right. Now she works on my back! I am in pain after the sound check and she puts me on my face and cracks my back and massages my shoulder and, voilà, I am fine. Is there no end to her talents?
A finely built young lady leaves her lacy red bra in the encore bucket and afterward kindly shows me where it came from. No, not Victoria’s Secret, her chest. I have been asked to sign one or two breasts on this tour. It always seems a little weird. But you know I do it. Somebody has to. Our Greedy Bastard promoters are in the house. Arnie Granat is beaming after the signing. I give him a big hug. I like all the Jam people. Apart from Arnie, Steve Traxler, and Scott Sampson, their company seems to consist of very attractive young women. They throw us a party after the show and buy us dinner at Leona’s, which is more than decent of them. Afterward I am sniffed appreciatively by their women. I told you about these Chicago gals, didn’t I?
Arnie drives me home. We agree Chicago is a great city. “If the weather were better,” says Arnie, “everyone would live here.”