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.
2 years ago • Notes