It's a simple question, doctor: Would you eat the moon if it were made of ribs?

I'd never been to Chicago before our stop at the House Of Blues yesterday, and I was always a little skeptical about something. 

But let me tell ya: Chicago? That city really is effing windy.

Who knew?

I'm talkin' bout wind, son. The kind that blows your hoodie off even if it's tightly zippered up over the Thrice shirt you bought six days earlier at a vintage clothing store in Portland. Now you know.

So I'm sorry this blog is a half a day late. But we spent most of the night in an underground bunker below the HOB where the internet was as elusive as a tentative sense of safety. For proof, just check out that photo of our view for the day. Think rock 'n' roll is glamorous? Tell that to my mud covered, sopping wet Chuck Taylors. (Both pairs. And while you're at it, ask them if they know what I did with any of my clean socks or my iPod charger.)

So I spent a lot of time trying to get phone reception at surface level next to Harry Caray's Restaurant. 

As for the show, I've got three words for you: Ho Ly Crap. Those fans were ravenous. I had the misfortune of being at the entrance while trying to get my street teamers in (by the way: AP's Chicago Street Team? A finely-tuned machine that was really only held back by me). For some reason, the HOB opened the doors about 10 minutes early, and I was nearly trampled Pamplona-style by the stampeding mass of humanity that instantly flooded the staircase in order to get prime spots for Forever The Sickest Kids. 

I sobbed out of pure fear. Then I sobbed out of pure joy to have survived. Then I sobbed because I can't find my iPod charger.

I didn't see a ton of the show because there was really barely anywhere to stand and an insane amount of kids who wanted their free subscriptions (although, like I said, the all-world street team helped keep me in line). 

But what I did see was really rad. All the bands got crazy receptions and things got to a boiling point right around the All Time Low/Rocket Summer duo, and I'm pretty sure that when I get home, I'm purchasing a confetti cannon. Bryce has one that goes off at certain moments during his set and every time it goes off, the crowd starts to pull each others' hair with unbridled glee. I'm gonna use it anytime I have to give anyone bad news. "Sorry, mom. I forgot to pay my student loan and accidentally bought $457 worth of tacos instead." [Boom goes the confetti cannon. My mom dances about and gives me $11 to buy baseball cards.] 

By the time the show was over, every soul in the place was crammed into the tiny coat check hallway where all the merch was and kids began tugging at whatever wasn't attached to the walls. Three girls stole my glasses, 23 Sonny posters and one of my shoes, respectively. 

Now I know how Ricky Martin felt during those two months he was relevant. 

So I gotta go set up in Detroit. I'm sustaining myself on gas station snacks (so I'm pretty much able to sustain my normal lifestyle). 

It's no movie. There's no Mekhi Phifer.

AP Tim