I finally broke down and got sick last Friday. It hit me like a freight train, and I still feel gross. The upside to all of the fluids in my body draining out my nose is that I have been goofy as hell because I’m so tired, and completely incapable of doing any real work.
So I did what every Gen Xer worth their salt does when they’re sick, and I watched TV. Except it wasn’t Let’s Make a Deal or The Price is Right. I watched The Blues Brothers. And I saw the light.
I have been searching for the wrong thing all my life. I’ve been looking for steady employment and not hating their ex-wives, when what I really want is Elwood.
Elwood Blues is the archetype of perfect positive masculinity for this flaming dumpster fire that is dominating what should be my peaceful midlife. I did everything right, everything turned out wrong, and now I want integrity, unfortunate tattoos, and someone—ANYONE–who believes in something bigger than themselves to bring me along for the bit.
First, some personal context. While The Blues Brothers was being filmed, I lived near Joliet, Illinois—my family lived there until I was 8. I was watching the opening sequence, at the hellish hazy oil refineries, and I said wait, I know that place. My dad worked in that strip of refineries at a chemical plant, and, it being the early 1980s, would take me into work with him, where an office assistant would park me in a conference room with stacks of green-and-white striped dot matrix printer paper and smelly markers while my dad worked on enormous mainframes that were probably less technologically complex than my blender manufactured last year.
Every time I travel through Chicago, I cry. Every time I fly into O’Hare and the plane curves around the Sears Tower, I take studied sips of water to hide the tears rising in my eyes. Every time I’ve emerged from Union Station into the caverns of downtown Chicago, I’ve had to work harder than I did on my capstone project for my degree on looking like it doesn’t affect me.
I love that part of the country. It’s in my bones. It’s probably the closest experience I have to home.
That said, this movie beautifully reminds me of that home. The haze is forlorn, the trash in the streets has a purpose, the old police car is, of course, the rational choice over the Cadillac. I didn’t live in the shiny northern suburbs, I lived in the ones where people did the work.
And Elwood Blues, who waits for his brother dutifully outside of the prison, who tells him he has to see the penguin because he promised, who, when he attends the church and his brother sees the light, doesn’t see anything himself—but is still the one who insists, throughout the movie, that they’re on a mission from God… He’s my flipping hero. He lets his brother sleep on the bed. He only eats white toast. (Sensory issues, I can relate.) He’s the driver, he doesn’t smoke, he plays harmonica without it being annoying.
He’s competent and steady and even puts hooking up with literally the most beautiful woman in the world aside in order to get to the gig and create a better future for kids like he once was.
It’s a silly movie from a silly time, and there must have been mountains of cocaine involved, but seriously. Where’s my Elwood Blues? Yes, his name is scrawled unevenly across his knuckles, trailing off on the third finger of his left hand, but I am personally no stranger to unfortunate tattoos. I need the steadiness. I need the divine dedication. I need someone, anyone, who can ride beside me on this stupid fucking “journey” and not make it worse on purpose.
And knows the best way to handle Nazis is to drive straight through them.
I don’t think this is too much to ask. A little sincerity goes a long way, and if you add vision to that you have the perfect man.
So I’m taking applications. The contact form is above. Thank you for your consideration.
These people compared The Blues Brothers to a crusade movie and they kind of have a point.