Prologue:

I swear to God this is true: I feel honored and privileged to be one of you, you fans of the David Cook and of his friends and relations. And, I know that sounds stupid. You should know that, too; if you don’t, you should say it to one of your real-life friends, preferably a male one, and see what it gets you. It sounds wrong. But it ain’t.

Part 1: Friday, October 9, 2009, Clifton Park, NY

It’s only a half-hour from my house. I used to drive twice that far to work every day. I still drive past it to get to the Exit 9 Wine and Liquor Warehouse, because any place where it’s the norm to load your wine and liquor into a full-sized shopping cart, with your toddler sitting in the seat near the handle, is my kind of place. So, I guess, if the David Cook is going to come all the way out here, the least I can do is go watch.

And, it being so close to home, I really ought to celebrate, yeah? So, next thing you know, I’ve got half-a-dozen Cook fans talked into staying at my house that night. Really, after reading the Twitter accounts of the accommodations in the Capital District, I wish I’d extended the invitation directly to the boys (and girl) in the bands. Yeah, my house is a little messy, but it does not smell of urine (at least, not since we got the cat neutered), and the bats around here f*ck really, really quietly, as far as I can tell. We do have the occasional coyote in the woods out back, and the cat kind of likes to sleep with everyone, but it's pretty quiet. The rockstars all could’ve settled down in the basement for a good night’s sleep. Hell, I’d’ve even have read them “Goodnight, Moon,” if they wanted. Goodnight noises everywhere.

But, back to the actual recap of actual reality. Friday evening, there was dinner at five at a table for ten in a restaurant across the street from the concert venue. We were in the “outdoor” dining space, which was much more comfortable than you’d expect on a dreary, drizzly fall evening, mostly because it had been thoroughly shrink-wrapped, kind of like they do with boats when they’re preparing them for winter storage. There was missaddicted, and Zarita, and AndreaK1041, and vtlsc and her friend, and sylvanaire, and dinahcat, and Kvon, and ellemarie. And some obnoxious short chick who, when ellemarie came in last and said, “I’m not even going to try to guess who’s who,” was all, “c’mon, I dare you, go ahead, give it your best shot,” to which ellemarie replied decisively, “you’re normanthecat,” except she used my real name, which is actually a regular girl/human name, not a boy/cat name. So, yeah. Am I like that? I didn’t know I was like that, but I’m kind of okay with it.

The spinach salad had bacon in it, and it also came with that hot dressing you make with the bacon fat, so, the food gets five stars from me. And there was Guinness on tap. I had two. Wouldn’t you?

We shared tales of traffic tie-ups and customs agents and pumpkin shortages and unreliable cars and experimental middle-school programs and foliage and Thanksgiving dinners waiting to be purchased and cooked. We ate sweet potato fries, because, some things, you have to get when you can . Kind of like Guinness. Actually, the Guinness thing was just me, but, whatever. It was lovely. We were all a little nervous and jerky, because we had to do a thing with some people at around 7 PM, and no one wanted to be late. But it was lovely, just the same.

Northern Lights, however? Not so much, with the lovely. On the plus side, there were several bars, but, with one bartender each, they were severely understaffed. Perhaps the American Idol connection threw the venue management off; maybe they expected a parent-and-child crowd. What they got, instead, of course, were mostly a whole lot of women well over the age of 21, many of whom had convinced spouses and significant others to accompany them, and, the boys, they needed a little something to prepare them for the American Idol concert.

The space? Was not good. Like, someone gutted an old Grand Union and painted the walls and ceilings real dark and put in a stage and two or three spotlights. The coolest thing about it was how they had TVs on the wall by the bars that showed the stage. It’s like going to the racetrack, where, instead of sitting in the grandstand under the hot sun, you can relax at a table away from the action and watch the horses run on TV. Only, instead of horses, there’s people and instruments. And, no betting, which makes the TV thing way less interesting. I kind of like the idea of going to hang out at a table while some band you don’t really know plays, though, and watching them on TV, and being in the same room. The Misfits are coming next week; maybe I should check it out. [No, I won’t, not really. I didn’t know they were still together, to tell you the truth, and it’s awfully hard for me to imagine that the things I loved about the Misfits twenty years ago are still relevant to them or to me. But, the idea of sitting and sipping cocktails while the Misfits play makes me happy.]

So, we staked out some turf behind a post, stage left, about eight rows back. The advantage to travelling in packs for GA concerts is that you can agree to leave some breathing room in the middle of your group, so you’re not stuffed together nose-to-armpit like you might be otherwise. And, I say “nose-to-armpit” because I, unfortunately, am generally on the “nose” end of that relationship. The five-foot-one thing works out great for things like flying on airplanes (smaller than Skib!) and crashing on your friend’s couch, but for the GA-concert-thing? Not so helpful. I had a pretty good GA experience in Northampton, standing way in the back, but the house at Pearl Street was wide and not so deep. Northern Lights seemed to run the other (wronger) way – deep, but not wide. So, the back of the house would have been a mile from the stage, I think. We made the best we could of the situation. Just behind me, I recognized a woman named Patti. I worked with her for about six months, eight years ago. I didn’t say hi, I guess because, if there’s anything more awkward than running into someone you actually know at a David Cook concert, it might be seeing someone you vaguely remember and trying to strike up a conversation. So, um, Patti, if you’re out there? Hey.

So. Ryan Star. I have been through a transformation on the Ryan thing. From “meh” (Newburgh) to “wow, not bad” (Northampton) to “what the f*ck?” (listening to his records with the weird backing vocals and electronic drummy stuff) to “actually, I kind of love these songs” (YouTube videos of Cook singing backup on ‘Breathe’ and Skib doing ‘Last Train Home,’ minus a few lyrics, in some hallway backstage somewhere) to “why the hell aren’t you people standing up?” (balcony at Lupo’s). Ryan Star was great. He and his band put on a super show, high-energy, totally into their role as warm-up band for Cook. The only fail was on the part of the audience. Not even the audience, maybe, so much as the venue and its sh*tty, grocery-store acoustics. Because, unless Ryan and his band were blowing us away with sound, he was nearly drowned out by the audience chatter. He had this great acoustic segment in the middle of his set, but the audience wouldn’t.shut.up. And, actually, I get that; I’ve missed a few opening acts in my life, because, if you’re just there for the headliner, the opener can be a great time to get a beer and hit the rest room. Only, all these months of watching David Cook watch his opening acts has made me understand that, if I’m in the room when someone’s performing, I really ought to just shut up and enjoy the performance. I don’t really fault the audience for not getting that, though; I fault the venue for billing itself as a concert hall and really being just a giant concrete box. Real theaters are built so that sound travels from the stage to the house, and not the other way around. Grocery stores are built so everyone can hear, “clean-up on aisle seven.”

Ryan sang the usual stuff, I think. The songs that stick in my head are Brand New Day. Last Train Home – which, I kind of hate the “stay away from my daughter” bits, because, the idea of mentioning my father in a love song is so f*cking creepy I can’t even discuss it, and, maybe Ryan should get together with John Mayer and they can work out their women’s daddy issues before either of them feels compelled to write another song about it. But I love everything else about that song, the whole “I’ll be here, forever” thing. Breathe, which I figured out to play on my guitar Friday morning; it’s just straightforward chords in D - D, G, A, and Bm - but with the capo on the first fret so it sounds like E-flat.

Cook and bandmates came out to hang near the sound guy during Ryan’s set. We were standing waaaay stage left, and I, being, um, short, had no idea we were about two rows back from the sound board. But during half of Ryan’s set, everyone around us was taking pictures off to the right. People kept telling me the boys were over there, but I only got a few glimpses. Of greatness, you know, right near me in the audience. For a minute everyone was going apesh*t over Cook’s being there, and this woman behind me forcibly pulled me backwards and invited me to stand on her legs, because she “wanted me to see him.” What is the etiquette in that situation, I ask you? I was all, “no, I’m good,” for about five minutes, and then I finally gave up and tried to stand on her legs, which promptly gave out (shut up – I’m pretty little, really, but, so was she). I dunno… maybe I should’ve worn my wedding ring. That was just weird. But, on the bright side, the volume level, combined with the sh*tty acoustics, seemed to be driving people away, so I found myself inching ever closer to the stage as the night went on.

So, anyway, Ryan and his band were, all told, pretty great. Oh, also, some doctor guy came up and joined them for the last song. I don’t know if he was, like, Ryan’s podiatrist, or something? But, whoever he was, he was a crazy good guitar player. Surgeon’s hands, must be.

Between Ryan’s set and Cook’s, someone decided it would be fun to play an entire f*cking album of pop-country covers of classic rock songs. “Walk this way, talk this way…” It was abominable. Even we, the redneck audience of northern East Assonowear, New York, got restless at about track 6.

But, then, Cook and the boys. They had a week off. Cook got sick, and Neal got drawn on, and Skib installed a doorknob, and Kyle got a shave and also a machine to make wind in his hair, and Monty studied up on the David Cook and MWK catalogs. And, they played a kick-ass set. And I’m not even going to bother describing it because you’ve already read all about it, and seen it on YouTube, and, I couldn’t even see the part where he allegedly lay back and let the front row touch his hair. All I know was he disappeared, then came back again. I will note that, during the a capella part of ‘Lie,’ I could hear the audience really well, but, Cook, not at all. Also that he asked to turn the house lights up so he could see us. Which he has asked at every.single.show since February. And this is the first time I can recollect that they were unable to do that. Apparently, no act has ever asked to turn the house lights up at Northern Lights. Because, it seems like the dude checking IDs at the door could’ve just flipped a switch, if he’d been paying attention, but. Whatever.

So, about me: the audience chanted “Da-Vid! Da-Vid!” between the first part of the set and the encore. And I loved that, because, I guess the audience was really into it, which is a good, good thing. But, I, personally, for me, felt funny chanting “Da-Vid,” even though I did it, and I guess it’s because I feel pretty strongly about the amazingness of the rest of the band. Of course, it’s Cook and his beauty and his voice and his ridiculously healthy attitude about rock stardom that’s keeping me here. He’s the dude. It’s just, I wanted to yell everybody else’s name, too. Because they’re all working so hard, and playing so well, and making this whole thing such a fun experience, even when they play in places with posts and speakers that block the view and sh*t acoustics and boffing bats and bloody urinating dead things and crappy cellular service.

After the show, I begged my fellow fans to use the term “naughty boy scout” in their recaps, because Cook was wearing a button-down shirt – maybe the gray S&B? – unbuttoned down to there, with a vest over it, and the way the collar spread out over the vest looked like a bandanna, like he was a member of Cub Scout Troop 12, except real Cub Scouts don’t usually show off their chest tattoos while they’re in uniform. There was speculation that this was the shirt he sweated right through during the show where he had that girl come up and whoa-whoa-whoa through A Daily AntheM with him, and that the dark vest might’ve been chosen to hide the sweaty. Which would mean he totally watches himself on YouTube, which would be awesome.

I caught a distant glimpse of the boys doing some radio-station meet-and-greet after the show. The venue had drawn curtains to divide the space, and the boys were on the other side of the curtain, with a ton of people holding 8x10 glossies, smiling and posing for photos. And I still want to meet them in person, some day, I really do, but… ayy. I dunno. I am not made for the rock-star life, I guess. I enjoy the light of day too much. I thought for a moment about trying to sweet-talk my way in – I clearly didn’t have as much to offer as the “blond” chick in the sparkly skirt and tank top, mind you, but I guess in low light I could try my luck with the “tiny/cute” angle, maybe, if I were so inclined – but, I think I’d had my fill. Because, I have never, ever, in my life, breathed so deeply and appreciated so intensely the aroma of cigarette smoke as I did when I got out of Northern Lights. Because it meant I was out, in the fresh, polluted air, free from the 110-degree sauna that was that place.

AndreaK1041 and ellemarie went on their separate ways. I've had a few chances to hang out with AndreaK1041, but this was the first time I've met ellemarie, so I felt the teeniest bit Baba O'Reilly-ed when we said goodnight. Because she writes the greatest posts, and 90 percent of the time, she says exactly what I'm thinking, and the other 10 percent, she says things I just plain haven't thought of, but I agree, once I think about it. And we barely got to say hello, because we were so busy watching the rockstars.

So, they left, and we left, and found our way through the gloomy, misty fog, along the unlit streets of northern East Assonowear, past eight four-way stop signs, to the House of thecats. And somehow we ended up opening a bottle of wine and sitting around the dining room table, four Cook fans, until 2 AM. And it was good. We talked about David Cook. And his bandmates. And music, and children, and education, and careers, and where we live, and who we are, and, you know what’s crazy? Four women from four different states (three states and a province, technically), talking about David Cook and everything associated with him, and not a single bit of it felt weird. As if it were a perfectly normal thing to have in common. And: it is. Because, this is what I keep trying to tell everyone: It isn’t really about David Cook. It’s about you and me, laughing at the same stupid sh*t. It’s about assuming that people’s intentions are good. It’s about watching some kids live their dreams, and feeling great about it, because, why shouldn’t they? Also, apparently, it’s about watching “Glee,” which I have yet to do, but it’s my next project, I promise.

And we talked, and we slept, and we got up at the not-so-rock-and-roll hour of seven and ate bacon and eggs, graciously prepared by misterthecat and thekittens, and we drank coffee and tea, and we talked more, and we said goodbye, and it was fun. These Cook fans, they are the easiest bunch of houseguests you’ll ever have, I promise.

To Be Continued...