The Last Bell

Climbing Into Adulthood

  I have lived my life as one long series of escalating procrastinations.  I used to say that by the time I got out of high school I would have figured out what I wanted to do with my life.  As graduation neared, I started to realize how badly I had misjudged matters and instead predicted that I would have things firmly in hand once I had gotten a little bit of college under my belt.  Once my freshman year yielded little more than scars[1] and a growing distaste for the Periodic Table of the Elements, I amended my claim once again.  The mission, I decided, would give me what it took to set me on my life’s path.  Two years of dedicated service to the most important cause there is would undoubtedly narrow my focus and sense of direction to the point where the rest of my life would effortlessly stretch out in front of me like a slip’n slide on a hot day.

Needless to say, I was wrong.  So very wrong.  If wrong were money, I would have been rich.  If wrong were nuclear weaponry, I would have been sought after by underdeveloped hostile terrorist nations and destroyed by fictional action heroes.  If wrong were direction and purpose in life, I would have been right. 

            Instead, some two months after returning home from the Mexico City East Mission, I found myself with improved organizational skills, a mastery of the Spanish language[2] and a dedicated passion to street vendor tacos, but very little in the way of answers.  Despite my lofty expectations, I was still waking every morning to the same question I had asked myself in one form or another every morning since leaving elementary school: Now what?

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I want this to be the world’s first “Live Blog of a Meat Loaf Concert the Writer TiVoed Two Weeks Ago and Is Just Now Getting Around to Watching, But Really He Can’t See Himself Watching For More Than Twenty Minutes Or So”

 - He leads off with “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.”  Bold choice.

 - So he’s wearing the classic frilly tuxedo, but it just looks wrong.  Mr. Aday has not aged well.  It’s not that he’s obese - in fact he’s probably a little lighter than he was in the 70’s.  But Meat Loaf’s aging is unprecedented in that advanced age has made him uglier at a rate far, far beyond that expected of the normal aging process.  And it only makes it more pronounced that his co-performer is a super-hot chick in a cheerleader outfit that has to be at least 35 years his junior. 

- Gotta say, I’m a little disappointed at the lack of intensity in his delivery of the “So now I’m praying for the end of time” verse.  I think my buddy did it better in a karaoke performance. 

- But he completely redeems himself at the end, when he and his lady friend end the song with some barbed insults, and after a particularly stinging one from the little lady, Loaf asks the band to stop, stares at her, sticks a ridiculously large middle finger in her face, and bellows “F—- YOU!!!”  Now that’s intensity I’m looking for. 

- Video interlude while Meat Loaf changes out of his frilly tuxedo, and it’s the 1970’s Doors-esque footage of Jim Steinman doing the “Hot Summer Night” dialogue with a creepy femal silouhette who really wants to offer her throat to the wolf with the red roses.  I’ve probably listened to Bat Out of Hell 200 times since discovering it sometime in the mid-90’s, and I will never stop debating whether I’m more confused or more creeped out by this little exchange. 

- Meat Loaf is back for “You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth”, and he’s wearing a San Diego Chargers football jersey.  The concert is in England, so this wardrobe choice is confusing to say the least.  Not only is he not appealing to the hometown fans, but the vast majority of fans likely have no idea where this jersey means.  And unfortunately, the jersey turns out to be a replica of quarterback Phil Rivers’, thus dashing my hope that Meat was wearing a football jersey with a gigantic “LOAF” written across the back.  That would have been awesome. 

- Meat follows with some song I’ve never heard before.  I am underwhelmed. 

- The lame song is followed by an instantaneous costume change into a long velvety 1780’s style overcoat over a bright blue sequined vest, as Meat belts out a version of “I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” that brings tears to my eyes.  I instantly feel incredibly guilty for any criticisms I may have made of a man capable of bringing so much joy to life.  I’d like to call special attention to Meat, soaking in sweat with his hair matted and filthy, following up his female partner (now dressed in a rather classy black evening gown) ’s  “Would you hose me down with holy water if I get too hot?” line by booming “HOT!!!!” along with the backup vocalists.    

- Screw “tears to my eyes.”  I’m sobbing now. 

- Life has meaning. 

My Chicago Trip in Terms of Late-80’s/Early-90’s Pop Culture, Wherein “Late-80’s/Early-90’s Pop Culture” is Defined as “Pretty Much Just ‘Perfect Strangers’”

Standing Tall

I open the shades of our room in the Rosemont Hotel Intercontinental to see a disturbingly flat yet stunningly beautiful view of the Chicago River.  As per pre-arranged mandate, the theme song to “Perfect Strangers” blasts out of the speaker that houses my wife’s iPod.  My wife is strangely unwilling to follow me out the window to walk along the ledge in the face of blistering winds a la the opening credits of “Perfect Strangers.”

On the Wings of My Dreams

We climb off the bus to be greeted by the gigantic red “Wrigley Field: Home of the Chicago Cubs” sign.  My wife is strangely unwilling to grab my arm in a companionable wrist clasp before excitedly running toward the entrance a la the opening credits of “Perfect Strangers.”  I’m not wearing short pants anyway.

Rise and Fall

We walk along the banks of Lake Michican and see two heavyset black police officers buying ice cream sandwiches from an ice cream vendor.  I am a racist.  How do I know that I am a racist?  Because I cannot see these men without thinking, “Hey, it’s Carl Winslow and his buddy, Carl Winslow!”

On the Wings of My Dreams

Standing in front of Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte are three of the ugliest children I have ever seen but who nevertheless are working to become less unattractive via the appreciation of late-19th century impressionism.  Their father is a heavyset white man with a bushy mustache.  I cannot see him without thinking of George Wendt as the host of “Bill Swersky’s Superfans.”  I am a racist, but I am that kind of racist that is prejudiced toward all races equally.

No Matter What the Odds Are This Time, Nothing’s Gonna Stand in My Way

I am draped in business casual and learning how to take depositions.  Mr. Gorpley is nowhere in sight, and I remember that Kanye West’s “Homecoming” is also about Chicago.  Perhaps I have erred to the detriment of a more current, more culturally-relevant method of interpreting this trip.

Keep Makin’ Keep Makin’ That Platinum and Gold for Me

Nope.

This Flame in My Heart and a Long-Lost Friend Give Every Dark Street a Light in the End

Heading out to a local bar to drink holds no sway for me, so instead I will aimlessly wander the streets of downtown Chicago.  Unexpectedly in the rational sense but perhaps unavoidably in the karmic sense, the theme song to “Perfect Strangers” pops up on my shuffle.  Tragically, I can remember no more shots from the opening credits of “Perfect Strangers” except for that one where Balki pets the horse and then looks optimistically into the distance just off-center of camera, the emulation of which unfortunately holds almost as little sway for me as does the drinking thing, and besides, my wife has already left for home and so no one is there to appreciate it.  While I have no problem looking like a raving loon in public as long as someone is there to appreciate it, the relatively minor subtraction of a single person drops my “Willingness-to-Look-Like-a-Raving-Loon-in-Public-o-Meter” from 100% to zero, an equation which defies mathematics but fortunately has kept me out of the nuthouse thus far.  Undaunted, I hit the repeat button on my shuffle and relisten to the theme song from “Perfect Strangers” six more times.       

Sometimes the World Looks Perfect

Absolutely no part of that entry was a joke.