My rock 'n' roll adventure

by Aaron Reincheld

I do not like big cities. Maybe living across the street from a cornfield all these years spoiled me, but I just cannot take the crowds, the cost and, most importantly, all of the cars.

However, Weezer's rock show was in Chicago. So you can see my dilemma as I stared at the license plate of the car in front of mine, which had not changed in the last hour, stuck in Friday afternoon rush hour traffic on the Chicago "Expressway," a very misleading name.

Ready for a nervous breakdown and wishing I had never visited the Land of Lincoln, I looked around at my carmates for "A Little Help From My Friends."

"You're doing great," my sister said with the best of intentions.

"Yeah, great," said my friend Tom from the navigator's seat.

But their encouragement did not help my feeling of helplessness from being lost in a sea of practically motionless metal.

I knew from the map that the exit for the hotel was a mere four miles away. But traveling at .000001 mph, the exit might as well have been 4,000 miles away.

When we finally did exit the Highway from Hell, I tried to look into the eyes of each of my fellow travelers to see which of them had sold his soul for rock 'n' roll. They all looked innocent enough, although there was the one who appeared to be growing the start of a tail.

The relief was only momentary, though, like a cool breeze that teases you on a 100-degree summer's day. To get to our final destination of a downtown concert hall, we had to get back on the freeway and drive the other direction, back into the war zone.

Shaking violently, mumbling to myself and drooling slightly, I was in no shape to drive, so Tom took over behind the wheel. "On the road again," we reached the physical manifestation of the stupidity of big-city driving, a toll area with 10 booths that quickly became only three lanes after drivers paid their 40 cents.

Had I been driving, the scene would have sent me into convulsions, but Tom handled it like a NASCAR driver: weaving back and forth and saying something to the effect of, "You have to hit someone, then they'll respect you."

These were not exactly the most comforting words to hear in the backseat of my own car, but we survived, car intact cause we're "Survivors" and reached the concert hall.

We were then faced with the daunting task of finding a place to park; even tougher was finding a spot where we thought the car still would be after the show. Tom saw a break in the cars along the road big enough for a Volkswagen Beetle and assured me he could get my four-door sedan to fit.

I got out and stood in front of the truck Tom was determined to introduce to my bumper and guided him into the spot. But there was a problem: Tom could get the car to fit into the parallel parking spot, but one of the back tires was running onto the curb.

In a scene straight out of a Mentos commercial, Tom, our traveling partner Andy and I summoned all our strength, lifted the back of the car up off the curb and set it down in the street. We were proud of our accomplishment, standing around with our hands on our hips telling each other how great a job we had done - a true male-bonding moment.

We then walked the three blocks to the concert, enjoyed the show and afterward made our way back to the hotel.

The next morning I was still quite "Dazed and Confused," though thank God the drooling had stopped, and Tom started the nine-hour drive back home.

Sure, we had fun on our rock 'n' roll adventure, but after pulling into the driveway of that house across the street from the cornfield, I vowed "Wherever I May Roam" I would never venture into the city again - or, if I did, I would fly and save myself the mental anguish experienced in the past 48 hours.

Having trouble adjusting to the big-city driving experience in Athens? Contact Reincheld at ar228699, he can help.