Cruising the Third Coast with Bobby Cann

This Friday, I'm competing with the Chicago League of Lady Arm Wrestlers (CLLAW) as my public radio-themed alter ego, Gorrison Killer.

One of my friends who loved this gag the most -- a first-draft pick for my CLLAW entourage, a person I could always rely on to talk about news stories with me,  a critic of our least favorite anchor -- was struck and killed by a drunk driver last week.

The last time I really hung out with Bobby, he was my date to a live taping/editing/behind-the-scenes-look of Re:Sound, the Third Coast International Audio Festival's radio show. He was the first person I asked to go with me, because before I even pitched the idea, I could hear his reply: a drawn-out, bookish-white-man-acting-cool kind of "hell, yeah!"

That's Bobby.

We met up by The Hideout's bike racks, bought Indian food and mac and cheese from nearby food trucks, and squeezed inside the bar. As we drank Zombie Dust beers, I quietly pointed out the Third Coast creators to him as they walked past our table. "Go talk to her!" Bobby said every time. I think he even jabbed me in the arm with his index finger a little bit.  But no, I swore I couldn't. Who the hell am I? What if I apply for a job there someday and they remember me as that overexcitable girl from The Hideout? No, no. They can keep being the coolest women in the world, and I'll stay right over here.



The taping/behind-the-scenes-breakdown-of-Pro-Tools was about Re:Sound's The Colors Show (#173). We heard about the man behind the Double Rainbow video on YouTube, were happy to re-listen to Radiolab's story on color spectrums in the animal kingdom, and couldn't stop staring at Gwen Macsai's darling father as he sat in the audience. I turned around to look at Bobby from time to time, and he was always beaming and nodding. There was nothing Bobby didn't want to learn about -- how to plant pepper seedlings, how to write computer code, how to ride the hell out of his bike every day of the year, how to turn my name into a semi-threatening nickname just to see if it would stick (Buzzsaw). Of course he was excited to learn about the eyes of a mantis shrimp with me.  That's Bobby (or, as I called him in return, Cannonball).

After the show -- but before Bobby tried to donate the $5 bill he found on the floor to Third Coast -- we filled out the festival's listener survey. Here's what he said. 

Bobby didn't understand why that made me feel so bashful. He didn't understand why anyone would choose to wait around to do everything they loved, big or small.  As our friend Aaron remembered in his beautiful online memorial , Bobby was the kind of guy who'd tell you, “Stop painting scenery on the front lens of your telescope, go find a microscope, and fly.”

Even if I don't pursue public radio the way I once thought I would, I know I'll always hear Bobby asking me what the hell I'm waiting for. No matter what it is I'm waiting for.