Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner (19 page)

“Um, yeah. Considering the last concert you saw was Ministry, I’m thinking Taylor Swift isn’t quite your jam.”

“Then I wholeheartedly approve.”

In
Atlas Shrugged
, Ayn Rand stated that there’s no such thing as real altruism. She espoused the principle of ethical egotism, meaning that a person’s moral obligation is to promote their own welfare.

Translation?

I still have the musical sensibilities of a teenage girl and I kind of want to see a shitty pop concert in the guise of doing something nice for my pal’s kid, so I need to find a way to make it happen.

Not long ago I asked for some upbeat, treadmill-worthy iTunes suggestions and I ended up downloading the super-sugar-pop playlist of your typical eighth grader, full of glitter and Katy Perry and Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber. Despite an almost pathological
desire to douse that kid with a can of mousse, I’ve played “Baby” more times than I care to mention. So the idea of taking Joanna’s daughter to see him wasn’t without appeal. More importantly, I could write off the cost of my tickets in the name of research—win, win!

Joanna threw a wrench in the works, however. “Anna doesn’t like Justin Bieber. She says he’s for younger girls.”

Fine.

I have the musical taste of a tween.

We can still work around this.

Joanna buys four tickets for the Chicago leg of the
Glee
tour and her daughter Anna loses her freaking mind when she finds out we’re going. (Joanna doesn’t let her watch the whole show, but she gets to see the musical numbers and I guess that’s enough.)

I make sure Anna’s aware that it’s me who masterminded this whole idea because, for some odd reason, it’s important for this kid to like me. I’ve never been one to win a child’s favor before, but this is Joanna’s daughter we’re talking about and I want to be her Auntie Jen, largely because she’s a fine young lady and her parents have done an amazing job of raising her. In fact, at her last birthday party, she asked for donations to the local animal shelter in lieu of presents. How cool is that?

Anna’s favored me more since she came swimming here last fall and I made some decent headway with a marshmallow-scented Philosophy gift set and the
Monster High
book, but I’ve ground to cover still.

You see, our last big outing together was kind of a misstep. During Christmas break in 2009, Joanna and I had the bright idea to take Anna to the museum and then to high tea because Joanna’s
mom and her friend did this when she was Anna’s age and she has such fond memories of that day.

However, our edited-for-tween-listening college stories did nothing for her, [
Even at ten and a half, she didn’t buy that we were reading the Bible with all those Sigma Nus.
] nor did the Matisse exhibit.

I’m not sure how to say this next part because the last thing I ever want to do is offend Joanna. I adore her and her daughter so much, and yet I need to get it out… Little girls ask a lot of fucking questions.

For two hours we trudged through the museum, and, to her credit, Anna’s behavior was exemplary. But she was relentless about gaining an understanding of stuff we had no idea how to answer, like why this particular artist worked in the medium he did, what’s the deal with all the tiny dollhouses and who came up with the idea to miniaturize everything in the first place, and how come everyone’s naked in that portrait? Good Lord, my dogs drive me to drink and they can’t even talk. I can’t imagine the lush I’d be with the barrage of questions all day long. Were I to hear “Hey, Mom? Hey, Mom?” that many times in a row, I’m pretty sure I’d hang myself.

Anna didn’t care for much of what we saw [
Likely because we’re shitty docents.
] until we came upon this massive painting featuring hundreds of amoeba-looking blue circles hanging over the staircase leading down to the first floor.

Anna stopped to gaze up at it. “What’s this called?” she asked.

“Oh,
liebchen
, I don’t see a placard so I’m not sure,” Joanna replied. “Let’s try to find out.”

We spent fifteen minutes looking for some sort of guide or
description or replication in the gift shop, and failed to turn up anything. However, Anna was on a mission. She found some art that spoke to her, damn it, and we were going to find out its backstory.

Or die trying.

Another ten minutes of interrogation later, I realized that A) Anna has a brilliant career in litigation ahead of her, B) I should buy better museum shoes, and C) I need to nip this question foolishness in the bud.

I snapped my fingers. “Hey! Wait, I totally remember! The artist is Von Rizcheck and it’s called
Ebb and Flow
, like those iceberg pieces you see in
National Geographic
specials about Alaska. Notice the darker blue parts around the circles? That’s the Antarctic Sea and the painting is the artist expressing his concerns about global warming.”

Seemingly satisfied, we finally moved on.

Above Anna’s head, Joanna mouthed, “Von
Rizcheck
?”

I shrugged and replied, “Maybe?”

And there in the Art Institute, I learned a valuable lesson that will surely change the course of history because I’m the first person to have discovered it:

Sometimes lying to children is the path of least resistance.

That’s my gift to you. You’re welcome.

Anyway, Anna eventually found out the real story behind the painting [
It’s by Georgia O’Keeffe and is called
Sky Above Clouds
. I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for your fine, meddling school system, DuPage County!
] and now perceives me to be full of shit, so this concert is a prime opportunity to work on my image.

Speaking of my image, what do I wear to impress a twelve-
year-old? Joanna’s going to the show in full Coach Sue Sylvester gear but A) I don’t have an Adidas track suit and B) no. I’ve been all about the beachy-preppy-tunic-and-long-white-shorts thing this summer, but I’m not sure the kids are into J. Jill and I bet their math teacher wears polo shirts, so my usual Lacoste is out, too.

I settle on a funky white T-shirt and some stupid pants with silly stitching and sparkly side panels I bought while in a panic in Pittsburgh after spilling an in-flight Bloody Mary on my good travelin’ trousers. (Lousy turbulence.) I loop a lightweight Burberry scarf around my neck and throw on some wedge sandals. To curry extra favor, I wear the necklace Anna made for me out of a domino and some glitter paint. When I’m donning the pants, I notice the button is one enormous rhinestone and I wonder exactly how drunk I was when I got off the plane and headed to the mall. A lot, I think.

I’m meeting the gals at Allstate Arena. When I park, I pay special attention to being as close to the exit aisle as possible. The last place I want to be is trapped in this parking lot for an hour with twenty thousand little girls all hopped up on Vitamin Glee. What’s surprising is given the audience, I thought I’d be in Minivan Central, but most of the vehicles around me are all shiny and new and sporty. Weird.

Anyway, I’m excited for the concert! I’ve adored
Glee
since the premiere episode, which lives on my iPod. Every time I take a flight longer than an hour—which is almost daily when I’m touring—I rewatch it. I normally have distaste for pilot episodes because they’re almost uniformly terrible with stilted dialogue and awkward exposition, no matter how good the show is once it hits its stride. The problem is a pilot episode has to establish the why here/why now aspect, as well as providing enough character development
to make the viewer invested, so they tend to be all words and little action. Rarely are pilots anything less than painful.

However, the first episode of
Glee
was the best I’ve ever seen, from the second Mr. Schuester stepped out of his crappy old Honda to the final chorus of “Don’t Stop Believing.” Everything about it was perfection, which is why I feel it’s my job to voice my displeasure on the Internet every Tuesday night after yet another disappointing episode. My constant constructive criticism is exactly what the show’s writers need to get back on their game.

Again, you’re welcome. [
And P.S., Very Special Episodes are a privilege, not a right, and aren’t meant to air every damn week. Ryan Murphy, I love you, man, but enough already.
]

I find Joanna, Anna, and her friend Morgan easily. Joanna’s stocked my seat with a large beer and a cold water, unsure of which I prefer.

She’s a keeper.

As we survey the crowd, I’m surprised by the demographic. I’d envisioned Rick Springfield, Take Two, except there are people here over the age of fifteen. A whole bunch of them, in fact. And they’re not all chicks. At least half the audience is comprised of gay men. Guess that explains all the fancy cars in the parking lot.

Of particular interest is the couple sitting directly behind us. I’d guess they were in their sixties and don’t have kids or grandkids with them. We’re not sure why they’re here. We’re trying to figure out their story when the lights come up and a shaggy-haired breakdancer appears onstage. When the roar of the audience dies down, I hear the gentleman ask his companion, “Is that Justin Bieber?”

Turns out they’re not sure why they’re here, either.

After the opening act, we have a short respite before the main event and that’s when Anna and Morgan ready their signs. They spent the afternoon perfecting their artwork and I step back to admire their craft.

“‘Anna + Artie = love’?” I ask Joanna. Although Artie’s character is adorable with his nerd glasses and wheelchair, I kind of thought the girls would go for more obvious choices like Finn or the blond boy with the lips. [
Or, if you’re Team Cougar, Puck.
]

Joanna beams with pride. “She’s sensitive.”

The lights come up again and the opening notes to “Don’t Stop Believing” play. And that’s when I hear The Noise.

The Noise is like nothing I’ve ever heard before and probably nothing I’ll ever hear again. Were one to try to replicate it, one would need to set off an atom bomb in a bubble gum factory or perhaps burst a Hello Kitty Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon with a unicorn horn.

The Noise sucks all the air out of the arena.

The Noise causes dogs three states away to bark.

The Noise could simultaneously cure and cause cancer.

The Noise refers to the collective gasp coming from twenty thousand twelve-year-old girls and gay men, jointly sucking in their breath at the same time before screaming themselves apeshit, ratfuck, banana-sandwich crazy over cute little Chris Colfer.

I’m probably going to need a second beer.

Two songs into the performance, I’ve lost a large portion of my patience as well as most of my hearing to the screaming. So when the small, tidy, peevish Asian man in knife-creased khakis taps
me on the shoulder to say something, I’m in the mood to rumble. I can’t make out his words the first time, so Joanna leans in to listen when he repeats himself.

“Listen, ma’am, I paid a lot of money for my seats and your little girls are blocking my view. It’s not fair for me to have paid all this money and then all I see is the back of their posters.”

Seriously, dude? You’re what, fifty? And you’re surprised that there are kids here ruining the performance for you? What is this, Ravinia? Tanglewood? A night at the opera? Give me a break, pal.

When I was the girls’ age, we were vaulting over dividers and shoving security guards out of the way to get closer to Mr. Springfield. If we had to, we’d have slit people’s throats and ridden their bodies like toboggans down from the balcony if it got us six inches closer to the stage. Plus, you’re sitting down, asshole. Of course you can’t see over the signs. You don’t sit down at a concert! What the fuck is wrong with you?

As I’m drawing a breath to explain to the gentleman that he need just bend over and I will find a new home for those posters immediately, Joanna jumps in. “Girls, put the signs down. Sorry, sir!” Then she smiles and he returns to his seat.

Oh.

I guess that’s another way to play it.

Good to know.

As it turns out, the kids don’t bother me at the show, but the adults are making me nutty. There’s a woman across the narrow aisle from me whom I would very much enjoy punching, as much for the ear-piercing screams that erupt from her piehole every ten seconds as for her “dancing,” which is really more of a full-body contact sport. Even though we’re six feet apart, she’s nailed me in the back three times with all her flailing.

She’s been pantomiming the words to most of the lyrics, e.g., raising her glass during the Pink song, putting an L on her head during “Loser Like Me,” and waving her naked ring finger around for “Single Ladies.” She’s doing the kind of emoting that makes me want to kick my television during
Idol
auditions. Also, she’s my size, yet did not get the Very Important Big Girl Memo about bras never being “optional.”

Having already been deafened, I swear if I’m robbed of my vision by one of her free-range ta-tas, I’m going to wear her skin as a coat.

“I’m going to shove the bitch down the stairs,” I tell Joanna. The only reason I haven’t is because I don’t want to make a bad impression on Anna.

“Oh, come on, she’s just really happy.”

“No, she’s obnoxious. That’s a subtle but crucial difference. I hate her. Everyone sitting around her hates her. The world hates her.”

Always the optimist, Joanna replies, “The guy with her doesn’t hate her. He must be her boyfriend.”

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend; she has a
cat
.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the guy started crying when Chris Colfer sang ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’”

Joanna’s face arranges into the kind of wry expression that speaks of an entire afternoon of dealing with “Hey, Mom! Hey, Mom!”

Okay, okay, message received.

I’m on my best behavior for the rest of the show. I experience a surreal moment when Finn performs his version of “Jessie’s Girl” and every twelve-year-old in the joint loses her fucking marbles.
With the wailing and crying and rending of garments happening all around me, I can’t help but recall that similar night thirty years ago when another young rock star filled a similar arena. I’m simultaneously shocked and thrilled at how every girl in the joint knows every word.