We had moved to Kansas City. I was interviewing for a job. The boss was sizing me up as we lined up

for a lunch of KC barbecue, he asked me if I liked Meatloaf. I knew it was a test. I said sure. He loved Meatloaf. I, on the other hand, even though I was and am music obsessed, had ignored Meatloaf.

I knew nothing about Paradise by the Dashboard Light.

I figured I better get with it. Grew to like the album a lot and began a life of Meatloaf appreciation. I was smitten with “Two out of three ain’t bad”.

Years later a family member told an amusing story about a relative who was on a girls softball team with with Meatloaf’s daughter and coached by, who else, Meatloaf.

When asked what the players called him the answer was simple: “Coach Meat.”

Final snapshot. We moved to Colorado and at a new but now extinct outdoor venue in Denver downtown,

Meatloaf came to town.

Three couples made it an event, spending the night.

I started drinking Margaritas. The others encouraged me. By the time we got to the venue I was higher than a kite.

We had great seats. Meatloaf was working his ass off. He made a passionate speech about how we were the boss and he was their to do what he could to make us happy.

They kept passing me Margaritas.

By the time he reached “Paradise” I was shitfaced screaming out the lyrics and making a total ass of myself.

I stumbled back to the hotel.

I remember this was July 3 because I woke up the next morning with the Coney Island Hot Dog eating 4th of July contest on tv. I asked my wife to block the tv so I couldn’t see it and throw up.

I’ve never gotten that bombed since. I still look upon Margaritas with suspicion.

But I never held it against Coach Meat.

May he rest in peace.