The Stake Dance: A Metaphor for Life

Without permission, my daughter Abbie turned 14 last week. And I have no one to blame but myself, as it even happened on my watch, and I did absolutely nothing to stop it. In my defense, I was distracted by my life-changing AppleTV and being able to watch YouTube videos on my television! Ah, technology. I kind of fear you, sometimes.

The thing about being 14 in the LDS Church is that you now get to experience that rite of passage known as … The Stake Dance. And Abbie will be attending her first on Saturday.

(For you non-LDS’ers, a standard congregation in the LDS Church is called a “ward.” Several wards combine to make up a “stake.” And once a month a dance is held in one of the ward buildings for all the youth, ages 14 to 18 in the entire stake. It’s a marvelous social opportunity for the young people in today’s world to come be together so they can bask in the overpowering odiferous combination of cologne and body order, circumvent actual conversations by texting each other from opposite ends of the gym, and at all costs – including death first – avoid any actual dancing.)

My gosh, what an emotional rollercoaster a Saturday night stake dance used to be for me. It was like experiencing puberty in a microwave. In one single evening you were terrified, elated, awkward, euphoric … you loved everyone, you hated everyone, wished you were younger, wished you were older, you had the sweats, and by night’s end…your voice had changed, and you were four inches taller.

The energy was palpable. Circles of friends assembled in assorted areas throughout the low-lit gym; half-dancing already, gossiping, hoping that “certain somebody” would be showing up that night, making lists of what songs you were going to request from Mr. DJ, and deciding what to do after the dance – going to Bob’s Big Boy for shakes, or going to toilet paper some poor soul’s house.

I remember my very first stake dance. My parents dropped me off outside the church, with a pep talk from my dad on how I should just grab the first girl I saw and use some pick-up line like, “Hey Sweetheart, teach me to dance.” Apparently my dad hadn’t been 14 in many, many years. And “sweetheart” must have been a warmer salutation at that time, or on that planet.

I walked into that gym alone, the youngest guy in the room, and immediately scanned the place for any sign of safety or reassurance. I suddenly found it in the face of Sherri Rosquist, a friend from my Sunday school class. I hadn’t been in the room two minutes and she came up to me.

“Hey, let’s dance!” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me with her.

“I don’t know how,” I answered, as I walked out onto the floor with her. I really didn’t feel timid about having never publicly danced before, as much as I felt I should legitimately warn her that things could get unsightly, if not physically and socially precarious for the both of us.

“I’ll teach you,” she kindly responded, with a big smile and all the confidence in the world.

Bless you, Sherri Rosquist. Bless you for saving me from a night of discomfiture and an entire adolescence of shame. Bless you for knowing how to dance. Bless you for your forwardness. And bless you for calling me back to the dance floor when, during the humming part near the end of Modern English’s “I Melt with You,” I assumed the song was over and started to exit from said dance floor.

As the song finally did end, I thanked Sherri and began walking away when a tall brunette stepped right in front of me and blocked my exit.

“Wanna dance?!” she beamed.

Oh, hold me. It was the spectacular Danielle Martin! She had been my regular babysitter when I was 8 and she was 12. 

Unless my memory is playing tricks on me, this is precisely what 

Danielle Martin looked like when she asked me to dance. 

I remembered her well, as she had occupied a starring role in my dreams lo those (many) six years.  I’d had my suspicions when I was 8 that Danielle may have had what scientists termed as “the hots” for me. After all, when the other kids were sent to bed, I was allowed to stay up and watch TV with her until we heard my parents pull into the driveway. At 8 years old, that spelled out love to me! But our forbidden love had to be kept a secret.

But not anymore!  Now I was 14 and she was a bombshell of an 18 year old, and we were on a dance floor! The scene was set, and all that we needed was the perfect soundtrack to celebrate the moment. So you’re probably thinking what I’m thinking. Yep. Cue the Hall & Oates.

The night continued down this magnificent path, enchanting moment after enchanting moment. I got jiggy wit it, I socialized with the “older” crowd, I delighted in the array of refreshments. It could not have been better.

And that’s when I saw her.

She was beautiful; this nameless lady in a red dress, with dark hair and blue eyes. Of course I can only assume you’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking. Yep. Romance was in the air. Cue the Wham!

She was standing in the midst of several other attractive and significantly older women. 18 year olds. Well, thanks to a sensational experience earlier with Danielle Martin, plus an evening of flawless socializing…I was really overloaded with a false sense of confidence. I could not be shaken. I walked boldly up to Red Dress, completely convinced we would one day tell our grandchildren about this night.

“Wanna dance?” my voice warbled, surprising even myself.

It was the last song of the evening, and heaven bless her, she actually nodded her head. Wow. Really, the only thing that would have made the moment even better would have been if she’d instead just said, “Not a chance.”

See, it quickly became evident that she hadn’t done either of us any favors by agreeing to dance with me. She clearly didn’t want to be there, and I clearly wanted her to be there so badly that my palms were sweating as if this dance were being judged by Church leaders themselves and my life hung in the balance.

Who was I to think an attractive 18 year old woman was desperately waiting for a junior high kid to come make her evening by pulling her away from her ostentatious friends and out onto the dance floor in front of a condemnatory crowd to enjoy what had to have been the single longest love song ever recorded in the history of ever?

Not a word. Not a single word spoken between us. I blamed myself, of course. But I blamed her, too. Sure, I obviously put her in the difficult situation of not wanting to crush the spirit of an overly-zealous pubescent boy while also not wanting to dance with him…but once we found ourselves in this horrific predicament, she did absolutely nothing to save me. She didn’t compliment me on my “Deacon Two-Step” (the quintessential dance move of all stake dance first-timers), she didn’t ask if that was Drakkar Noir or Old Spice that I was wearing (it was both, I wanted to smell really special), and she didn’t ask me what I thought of the intricate subtleties and underlying meanings behind Wham!’s “Careless Whisper,” which was underscoring our unending dance. Nothing. Just complete, painful silence.

It felt like days had passed.

Finally the song ended, our hands dropped to our side, and we both did an about-face and marched away from each other, equally embarrassed and ashamed.

And that’s life in a nutshell, my friends. Ups and downs. Peaks and valleys. Unstoppable, then humbled. Cloud Nine, then Cell Block Nine. But what a journey. And what a soundtrack! You’re probably thinking what I’m thinking, right? Yep. Cue the Howard Jones. 

Sock Hoppin'

Our family recently attended a church activity that was affectionately referred to as a “Sock Hop.” A “sock hop” was a cultural phenomenon associated with the 1950 and early rock n’ roll. I like to think the name was derived from a common ritual that took place in most American high schools during that era, wherein when a young man asked a young lady to dance; if she said ‘no,’ he promptly took her shoes and went running into the night. Thus leaving her to have to “sock hop” all the way home. (It just makes sense.  Of course, I’ve checked zero resources to verify this. But I have to imagine it’s true.)

Not wanting to be unprepared, I thought I’d better do my homework before attending the dance. I began a rigorous study of early rock n’ roll. If a song came on, I wanted to know the moves, the attitude, and the lyrics – so I could belt it out for all the world to hear, while I ran out of the church carrying Katie’s shoes.

I am going to freely admit that I love early rock n’ roll. The simplicity, the playfulness, the contagious toe-tapping. However, in my studies, I came across two songs I simply do not consider boss (to coin a phrase, Daddy-O).

The first song, penned by Gerry Goffin and Carole King, is the 1962 hit from The Crystals, He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss).

What the WHAT?! What kind of complete bull pucky is that? Are those lyrics autobiographical, because that should cause alarm. Let me tell you what some possible song titles would be if my daughter wrote it:

He Hit Me (And My Dad Punched Him in the Throat)

He Hit Me (And His Funeral Services Are This Saturday)

He Hit Me (And He’ll No Longer Be Able to Have Children)

He Hit Me (And Now He Can Only Eat Things Like Jell-O)

He Hit Me (And the Police Still Haven’t Located His Body)

Or at the very, very minimum… He Hit Me (And We Broke Up)

The second song is The Cookies’ Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad (About My Baby). Written by – surprise, surprise – Gerry Goffin and Carole King – the same relationship-savvy duo that wrote He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss). In this lyrical sonnet, our delicate ingénue pleads with us to not say nothin’ bad about her hapless, insipid boyfriend. It’s bad enough this young man is clearly a horse’s patoot, but then, listen to her defense of him. Pitiful.

Everybody says he's lazy

But not when he's kissing me

Everybody says he's crazy

Sure he's crazy, crazy about me (Oh, yeah)

So…what you’re saying is that although it’s common consent that this boy is a useless, unmotivated sap, he’s pretty aggressive and “un-lazy” when he’s trying to eat your face and pushing the boundaries of moral decency. Hmmm…I hear what you’re saying…and while “assertiveness” may be a commendable trait, I’m just not sure that’s a ringing endorsement of his character. Not really the kind of integrity we’re looking for. And then there’s the issue of his sanity, to which you drolly respond “Oh, yes, he’s absolutely insane in the membrane – insane over ME!” (as you throw flowers in the air and twirl). Meanwhile, this “crazy for you” kind of guy is taking a baseball bat to the car of that friendly, upstanding sane boy that he saw you talking to at school. Ah. That’s sweet. Now, why would we say anything bad about your baby?

But aside from these two songs, I have to state for the record that in general, early rock n’ roll songs were delightfully lighthearted, fun tunes. I say we need more sock hops! I miss the simple days of yesteryear – when little ditties made you smile, when youth shared a single soda with two straws, and when Gerry Goffin and Carole King were evidently in a highly dysfunctional, complex relationship that led to financial success and abusive kissing.

***

Here’s a clip of our festive night. Let me just answer your questions right now:

1. Yes, Katie made those poodle skirts for Abbie, Roxanna, and Becca.
2. Yes, it was the most fun night of Connor’s life.
3. No, they did not play He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss) or Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad (About My Baby)

A Toast to Dan Fogelberg

I was recently driving down the highway, minding my own holiday cheer and avoiding WalMart like a punch to the throat, when I was exposed to an extra special (read: not extra special) Song of the Season.

I will accept some responsibility for this, as I was listening to the local radio station that is federally mandated to play Christmas music between Thanksgiving and Christmas; however, I maintain the real blame lies with the author of this little holiday hymn. 

The song began and, not having heard it before, I was intrigued. Somewhere in the middle of the song I thought to myself,  “This was written by a hippie.” Then towards the end, I thought to myself, “I'm not sure this resembles a Christmas song by any stretch of the imagination.”

The song is Same Old Lang Syne, and it is written and performed by Colorado based and noted folk singer/songwriter, Dan Fogelberg. I’ve included the lyrics here, and I thought we should review them together. My notes are after each stanza.

Met my old lover in the grocery store

The snow was falling Christmas Eve

I stole behind her in the frozen foods

And I touched her on the sleeve

Okay, first, does your “old lover” have a name, Dan? Because frankly, that’s just rude to refer to her that way when making introductions. “Oh, John, this is my old lover – Old Lover, this is John.” And second, unless your name is Weird Al Yankovic or Barnenaked Ladies, the words “frozen foods” have absolutely zero business being included in your lyrics.

She didn't recognize the face at first

But then her eyes flew open wide

She went to hug me and she spilled her purse

And we laughed until we cried

I’m sorry, how hard did you laugh? I’m going to go out on a Christmas tree limb and guess that these two people don’t laugh often, and when they do, it is usually at Pauley Shore movies. Also, the song doesn’t say, but I like to picture Dan standing there, still laughing as his old lover crawls along the floor, unassisted, picking up all the spilled contents from her purse.

We took her groceries to the checkout stand

The food was totaled up and bagged

We stood there lost in our embarrassment

As the conversation dragged

You know what , this is where you say, “It was great to see you; have a Merry Christmas, and hey – are you on Facebook?” If after three minutes of catching up the conversation is already dragging, then don’t let’s pretend we are suddenly obligated to be buddies, since you, Dan, are obviously busy being a (folk) rock star, and she is merely your old lover.

Went to have ourselves a drink or two

But couldn't find an open bar

We bought a six-pack at the liquor store

And we drank it in her car

Still got it, eh, Dan? You old romantic. But why not just drive the rest of the way to her trailer?

We drank a toast to innocence

We drank a toast to now
(And don’t forget a toast to Schlitz Malt Liquor, guys)

And tried to reach beyond the emptiness

But neither one knew how

She said she'd married her an architect

Who kept her warm and safe and dry

(the architect, or the tent he designed?)

She would have liked to say she loved the man

But she didn't like to lie

Yes, she has far too much integrity to lie, so instead, she just married a man she didn’t love. Well played, Old Lover.

I said the years had been a friend to her

And that her eyes were still as blue

But in those eyes I wasn't sure if I

Saw doubt or gratitude

“I wasn’t sure what I was seeing, because the beer was kicking in at this point.”

She said she saw me in the record stores

And that I must be doing well

I said the audience was heavenly

But the traveling was hell

I imagine traveling all over the great state of Boulder, Colorado would indeed be a grueling tour schedule.

We drank a toast to innocence

We drank a toast to now

And tried to reach beyond the emptiness

But neither one knew how


"But one's thing's for sure, the beer was helping."

We drank a toast to innocence

We drank a toast to time

Reliving in our eloquence

Another 'auld lang syne'

The beer was empty and our tongues were tired

And running out of things to say

She gave a kiss to me as I got out

And I watched her drive away

NOW who’s laughing, Dan? Guess she must have remembered how you stood there laughing while she had to pick all of her belongings off the grocery store floor without even an offer to help from you. Now you’re stuck out in the middle of nowhere with a Miller buzz on Christmas Eve while she drives off in her nice warm car! HA!

Just for a moment I was back at school

And felt that old familiar pain

And as I turned to make my way back home

The snow turned into rain

And God bless us, everyone.

Part-Time Rock Star

Secretly, I have always wanted to be a rock star. I think I would be rather good at it, because, frankly, I think feeling adored and validated by thousands of screaming fans would come rather naturally to me. (It’s a gift.) I also have plenty of jeans and ratty shirts. (Another gift. It’s called "laziness.") There is really only one, bona fide snag in my plan, and that is my complete and total lack of any musical ability. 

Except when I’m sick. Anytime my health suffers, I am bequeathed with a low, sassy, baritone voice. I love it. The singing I usually reserve for the shower, the car, and one special friend, to whom I sing to whenever I leave a voice mail on her cell, suddenly becomes public. I belt it out. I let it fly. I’m loud and proud, sister!

I’ve always fantasized that, if I were to take advantage of this voice and become a part-time rock star, my producer/tour manager would always make the most of my “sick time.” As soon as he got word of my ill health, he would be on the phone, either setting up recording time for a new album, or booking some venues for a short tour. “No! We can’t wait!” Bernie would yell. “We’ve got to get this man into the studio immediately! We’ve only got a limited time before these gold pipes fade, baby!” (Also my producer/tour manager is Bernie.)

Ticket prices for the tour would be astronomical, of course, because it is such a limited engagement. Honestly, even if my loose, party lifestyle prolonged my “sick voice” (and by “party lifestyle” I mean “eating ice cream after midnight”), the most I would get is a week and half. Really. It’s not much.

Perhaps to avoid having to schedule a recording studio, I could just have my friend take my voice mail singings and record them on to a CD. Now THERE’S an idea. Voice Mail Tunes, Volume 1: The Ken Craig Collection.

Rattlin' & Hummin'

I’m not exactly sure why, but in the pre-existence I chose November as the month that I would attend U2 concerts. I’ve now seen U2 five times, and each time has been in this blessed autumn month.

1987
The first time I attended a U2 concert was November 1987 at the L.A. Coliseum. The Joshua Tree tour. A friend of mine, we’ll call him Kyle Binns (names have not been changed), had two tickets for this show of shows. Kyle was two years older than me, and to be perfectly honest, I think he knew me mostly as the guy who hung around his younger sister. Kyle and a friend were going to the concert the next Tuesday, and I remember on that Sunday prior, in the halls at church, I joked with him that if either he or his friend didn’t feel like going, I would be happy to take one of the tickets. I pretty much thought that was the end of it. Why would anybody not go to the concert? If my leg were accidentally amputated on the way to the concert, I would still go. I would buy one of the overpriced t-shirts and bandage my leg with it. And I’m sure I wouldn’t notice the pain until the final encore.

Well, Tuesday evening, no earlier than 5:30 p.m., the phone rings. I’m going potty. My sister, Marlise, answers the phone and yells, “Keeeeeeennnnnn, the phone’s for yoooouuuu.” “I’m not heeeeere,” I yell back, wondering if there will ever be a time in my adult life that I will be able to go potty in peace. There’s a pause, and then she yells, “It’s Kyle Biiiiiinns.” I drop the newspaper and look straight ahead. If I had been in a movie, I would have looked directly at the wall where a calendar would be hanging, looked directly at the date, and on the date would have been the words “U2 Concert” written in red and circled. To this day, I love Kyle Binns for sensing that I was probably home, probably occupied, and just needed to know he was the one on the phone, and that he was holding two tickets in his hand.

"Say it, Kyle. Say the words.”
“Do you want to go to a U2 concert?”
“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” I answered.
“I’m leaving right now. Can you be ready to go in 5 minutes.”
“I was born ready, Kyle. See, when I was in the pre-existence, I…Hello? Kyle?”

All that was left was approval from my dad. Normally, I would be a little nervous to ask my dad if it would be okay to drive into downtown Los Angles on a school night, never to return until sometime after midnight. But on this particular evening, I wasn’t nervous. I was wet-my-pants terrified. Did I have seminary the next morning at 5:45 a.m.? Yes, yes I did. Had I done all my homework for school the next day? No, no I hadn’t. Had I been treating my mom with utmost kindness as of late? No, no I hadn’t. And that would be the final nail in my coffin. Or my forehead, depending on my dad’s mood.

In one of his most loving gestures to date, he allowed me to go. My dad was just getting home, stepping out of the car, and I met him there in the driveway. I pleaded. And maybe it was the season, maybe it was the excitement exuding off of me…but when I begged him to be able to go, he just sort of looked at me with a half-crooked smile and said, “Fine.” No sooner did he answer then Kyle came around the corner to pick me up. I mean, literally, the next second. I jumped in the car and we took off. I wanted to get out of there before my dad realized that he had just given me permission to do something for which I had already given myself permission.

Man, what a concert. We had seats on the floor and it was an incredible show. For me, The Joshua Tree is hands-down one of the greatest albums of all time. And this was one of the greatest shows of all time. At that time in their career, the energy behind everything they did was spectacular.

1992
Fast forward to November 1992. I had returned home from my LDS mission that August and was up at BYU in Provo, Utah. Achtung Baby had been released a year earlier, in November 1991, and the Zoo TV tour was still around, but quickly winding down. The tour wasn't stoping in Utah, and the closest venue was Las Vegas. Myself and three of my good friends – Jim, Greg, and Justin – all bought tickets. We drove down that Friday, the night of the concert – had some dinner, toured around Las Vegas a bit, and went to the concert. Then we drove home that very same night, arriving in time for some of us to head straight to class. I don’t know how we didn’t die that night. My hat is still off to Greg, who has miraculous powers. (Powers that are based on a caffeine buzz, I’m sure.)

If you didn’t see the Zoo TV tour, you missed out on a musical spectacle that will most likely never be repeated by any rock group ever.

2001
Fast forward to November 2001. The Elevation Tour. I was living in Las Vegas now, but my friend Eric Snider (names haven’t been changed) wrote for a newspaper in Utah and had press tickets to the concert. He invited me to me the recipient of one of those press tickets. So even though I would have to drive up, I knew the amazing seats would be worth it. But I had no idea beforehand how much I would be willing to sacrifice to make it to the show.

Eric called Wednesday and said he had the extra ticket for Friday’s concert. Katie had two different meetings she needed to be in Las Vegas for over Friday and Saturday, so she decided to stay home and gave me the go-ahead to run up for the concert without her. We only had our minivan, so I borrowed a car from a friend of mine, Matt. (And by "friend" I mean "people with whom I never discuss this incident.")

I left around 10 a.m. (11 a.m. Utah time). I was on the road exactly an hour, when the car up and died. I could not get it started. The concert didn't start until 7:30 p.m., so I knew I still had some time. I was looking at a 4.5-hour drive to Provo, where Eric lived, and then another hour to Salt Lake. I was feeling optimistic.

By 12 p.m. I was not feeling optimistic. And I think we all know what the landscape between Las Vegas and St. George looks like. No services for miles. I had tried calling Katie several times – about ever half-hour – but she was out. I called my friend Matt to let him know the situation. He reported, "That’s strange – that car has never given me trouble before. Of course it's been sitting in our driveway for a year and a half."

Hmm. Now, I know relatively nothing about cars. But I am pretty sure that taking a car on a 11-hour car trip after it has been sitting in a driveway for 18 months is...how you say?…BAD.

At that point, I surrendered to the fact I was not going to make it in time. And on top of that, I felt guilty for taking my friend's car, and driving out into the middle of the desert to die. I hadn't done anything to the car, but still, I was driving it when something happened, and that made me feel bad.

A police officer stopped by to tell me I couldn’t park my car on the side of the road. Thanks for that, Mr. Law Enforcement Genius. Some Good Samaritan also stopped by and tried to help. Used to work for Ford, he did. Knew a lot about cars, he said. Couldn't see what was wrong, he admitted.

I kept trying to call Katie. I kept trying to start the car. I kept trying to fight the urge to jump in front of a moving vehicle, so frustrated was I. The hours passed by, and nothing was changing. It was 2:30 p.m. I had finally accepted, for the second time, that I wasn't going to make it. I was a little sad, but that's all. It's not like the concert was going to change my life or I couldn't live without it. It wasn't like I was a 16 year-old high school girl who HAD to see Bono.

Or was I?

I called Matt at 3:00 p.m. and admitted defeat. "I would have to be in a moving car THIS INSTANT if I was going to make it to the concert." "Well," he said, "My in-laws live in Mesquite. Get a ride into Mesquite and have the car towed to my in-laws house; then rent a car. My insurance will cover the towing, and I will pay for half the rental car." That was very kind of him. A good friend, to be sure. But still…"No. I'm not going to have you pay for half the car, and I'm out of time, anyway, and..."

Just then, a pickup with this chubby Mexican pulled up beside me and asked if I wanted to ride in the back of his truck to Mesquite. He stopped at a Texaco, and I ran in, demanding control of the establishment, as if I were holding the place up.

"I need a towing company, and I need a car rental agency – STAT!" I ordered. (I actually didn't say STAT. That's just too nerdy. Even for Mesquite.) The ladies behind the counter grabbed the phone book as if their lives depended on it. Because in a very real way, it did. I first called a car rental place, but all they had was a full-size car, and it was $48 a day, plus it only gave me 200 miles. I needed about 775 miles. I told them "never mind" and for the third time, gave up on the idea of making it.

I called Eric to let him know. I wanted to give him the option of finding someone else to take. I knew he would appreciate early notice so he would have time to invite somebody else. Imagine my surprise when he said, "Wow. Oh my gosh. Well...you'll just have to figure out another way to get up here."

I couldn't believe it. Eric hadn't given up yet. Well, if he hadn't, who was I to give up?

Out of the blue, my chubby Mexican friend that gave me a ride into Mesquite walked into the Texaco. He hadn't left yet. I asked him how far he was going. Wyoming. I asked for a ride in his truck to Salt Lake. He said sure, but he was going to spend some time gambling first. By all means. This is a free country, with a soft, chewy center. Knock yourself out. Actually, I thought this was perfect, as it gave me the chance to find a towing company and get the car towed to Matt’s in-laws in Mesquite.

I called the towing place, but they had a policy. And that poopy policy was that I would have to ride with them to pick up the car. I explained why I couldn't, but they wouldn't budge. I can't believe anybody living in Mesquite would have a policy about ANYTHING. If you don't have a policy about where you live (which you obviously don't if you are living in Mesquite), HOW can you be taken seriously about anything else?

Suddenly, the lady’s voice dropped low, and she whispered into the phone that there was a local towing place that would pick up the car, and I wouldn't have to go with them. She gave me the phone number. I called the number and talked to the guy, and he apparently does this business out of his house. I deduced this by the way he answered the phone: “Yep.” “Uh, hi. Do you tow cars?” “Yep.” “Legally?”

I told him where the car was, where I needed it to go, and that I had the key with me at the Texaco. He told me he didn’t need a credit card number. Didn’t need a phone number to reach me at. Didn’t need to know my name. But then he said the magic words – I didn't have to ride with him to pick it up. Whether or not I would ever see this car again, I was on my way to Salt Lake. I told my new tow-trucking friend that I would leave the key with one of the cashiers at the Texaco.

I ran outside to find my Chubby Mexican. He was gone. So was his truck. He wasn't coming back. It was 3:30 p.m., and I had to literally be in a car bound for Provo if I wanted to make it to Provo by 7:30 p.m., and the concert by 8:30. (No Doubt was opening at 7:30, so U2 wouldn't be going on before 8:30...possibly 9:00 p.m.)

I began looking around for cars with Utah license plates. Each and every one was heading the other direction – to Vegas. I finally found this small, red pickup truck.

"Are you heading to Salt Lake?" "Yep." as he opens his car door. "Can I ride in your truck?" "Yep," as he gets in and spits out his chew. He leans out the window to explain how I can't sit up front because they have some equipment up there. I looked. It was true. They also had some in the back, up against the cab. I threw my bag in the back, and climbed aboard.

Propped myself up against my bag, and called all the necessary people. Katie, Matt, and Eric. Katie was finally home, and relieved I was going to make it to the concert, even though I admitted to her that I really had no concrete plan for how to get back to Las Vegas. Matt was happy for me, and reassured me that all would be fine with the car. Eric asked me if I was riding with a truck full of pigs or some other form of livestock.

We hit the highway, and these guys were making no exception to the fact they had a human being in the back of their truck. 85 to 90 mph. This was fine with me, as I needed to get there as soon as I could.

The drive up to St. George was fantastic. Beautiful. Especially through the canyon. I was relaxed, I was going to make it to the concert, and I was a little impressed with the hippy in me who just bummed a 400-mile ride off a stranger. I decided that I would one day hitchhike all the way across the U.S., and for sure I would start commuting to work this way every morning. I looked up at the sky as I rode, and for the first time, I really got what John Denver and Willy Nelson were singing about.

We reached St. George and I thought to myself, "Man, I really love this crisp fall air. Even at 90 mph."

Somewhere between St. George and Cedar City, the sun had set, the wind had picked up, and the altitude was amazingly higher. I was freezing. I put my jacket on, but it was paper-thin, and made of paper, and had the wind resistance of paper. I wanted to put my sweater on as well, but was too cold to move. I finally bit the bullet and ripped my sweater out of my bag, threw it on, and put my jacket on over it. Surprisingly, I was not any warmer.

I tried to crawl up as close as I could to the cab, and tried to curl up in a fetal position. I tried to fall asleep, but was just too cold. And I sat there chattering and dieing until we reached Fillmore 2 hours later, where we stopped for gas.

I was a bit nervous to get out of the truck, still stung with the memory of the last time somebody with a truck offered to give me a ride, and then disappeared…Yes, a mere 3 hours before, in Mesquite.

But I needed to make sure I could still move. I bought a hot chocolate and drank it like Gatorade. Then I took some maternity clothes out of my bag. These were clothes Katie had wanted me to drop off to her sister, Jill, in Provo. I took the clothes and crammed them up my pants, under my sweater, and sleeves, and everywhere I could fit them. I was trying to bulk up and do "layers."

Layers are for CRAP! After we got on the freeway, I realized nothing was going to help at this point. I was ice cold, and was going to be so for the next hour and a half.

About a half an hour south of Provo, I tried to call Eric to tell him I was getting close. I had lost feeling and coordination of my fingers and was shaking so violently, I couldn't push the numbers on my cell phone. Ten minutes and several misdialed numbers later, I got a hold of Eric and told him I was almost there.

We got to the exit, and I tapped on the window to let the drivers know that I was ready to get out. They dropped me off at the Exxon just down from Eric’s condo, and just up from the on-ramp to the freeway.

I stood up in the back of the truck, but noticed I didn't have a real strong sense of my legs. They were numb-ish. So I sort of slithered out of the back of the truck. I called Eric and told him to come save my life, and that I was ready to see U2.

I ran over to the on-ramp and waited for him. The wind wasn't whipping me anymore, but my core temperature was so low, I couldn't stop shaking. Eric picked me up and cranked the heater. By the time we got to Salt Lake, I was feeling better. The concert was spectacular, and we had a great time.

I called my sister the next morning. She lives there in Provo. I invited her and her husband to come visit me in Vegas, and to pick me up on the way. I offered to pay for gas, and buy them dinner, etc. They agreed to it, and I had a warmer ride home.

Later that month we traveled up to Lake Tahoe for Thanksgiving. But we went up a day early. Why? Because U2 was performing in Sacramento, and my youngest brother, Dehn, who had become a U2 fan due to the efforts of his oldest brother, me, wanted us to go to the concert together. A sweeter gesture, I could not fathom. And we had a great time. Several of my siblings also attended, as well as my 58-year old father, who at first was offended that he hadn’t been invited to attend.

2005
And fast forward to November 2005, last Saturday night. The Vertigo tour, right here in Las Vegas, Nevada, at the MGM Grand Arena. For some reason, all the Johnyy-Come-Lately’s have made U2 tickets impossible to seize unless you are a millionaire or married to The Edge’s sister. But I had one ace up my sleeve. I knew a vice president at the MGM. I made the call. He said he couldn’t get me a break on the cost of the tickets, but he could ensure I got fantastic seats. All I would have to do is fork over one of my children. I gave him two of them, and wham-bam – I had two fantastic seats at the concert.

I really enjoyed myself. I was watching these guys perform and realized I have been a faithful fan for more than half my life. And I just appreciated the memories I have associated with their music. But what I took away most from this concert was how cute my eight-and-half-month pregnant wife looked all dressed up in her hot outfit, dancing to Mysterious Ways, and supporting her husband in his mania that is U2.

Your 80s Station

Here in Las Vegas we actually have a radio station designed and programmed to feed us southern Nevadans a solid, albeit unbalanced diet of 80s music. I say unbalanced because they have an entire decade of tunes to choose from, yet they have a vast library of exactly eight songs that they play in rotation. In fact, in its conceptual stage, I believe they were going to call it "The Madonna and Men at Work Station." Test audiences didn’t like it, so they went with “Star: Your 80s Station.”

Here’s why they are not MY 80s station:

First, I was a teenager in the 80s. With no real responsibilities, any cash I had went directly to purchasing cds. Any odd jobs I did for neighbors I would say “Just make my check out to The Wherehouse.” Essentially, any 80s song I want to hear now, I already own. Some 80s songs that I never want to hear again…I already own. (Debby Gibson, I’m looking in your direction.)

Second, I’m annoyed with the DJs who are introducing these 80s bands as if they had more than one hit, and they are teasing us with which possible song could be coming up next. “Coming up next, it’s Dexy’s Midnight Runners.” Hmm. Gee. What could that song BE? Could it be…'Come On Eileen?' Oh, wait…what was their other big song? Oh, right. There wasn’t one. “Coming up next, Dexy’s Midnight Runners doing a medley of their hit…”

Finally, these program directors are retarded. Just because these songs are from the same decade, doesn’t mean they should be in the same line up. Any teenager from the 80s will tell you about the natural segregation that existed then – you had hard rock, rap, punk, techno pop, top 40, alternative, R&B, reggae, and George Michael. There was no such station that played all of these songs together. But now there is. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Las Vegas’ own Star 102.7.

The DJs will actually give teasers like this: “Coming up next, it’s Duran Duran, The Cure, and The Pointer Sisters!” Huh? “Stay tuned! Coming right up we’ve got Van Halen, Guns n’ Roses, and Richard Marx!” Really? These guys are peers? I mean, could you even fathom the wedgie that Axl Rose would give Richard Marx if they met? Mr. Marx would just now be finding his underwear, in 2005. And then he would write a top 40 hit about his underwear and how he’d been right there waiting for them.

Now, here’s my favorite, and this is an actual, real-life example I heard whilst driving one day. “Right after these commercials we’ve got The Pet Shop Boys, Tiffany, and of course, Pink Floyd. So stay tuned!” OF COURSE, Pink Floyd! “OF COURSE?!” Does that sound like a natural progression? That’s like saying “For dinner we’re having pizza, breadsticks, and of course, orange juice.” “For bedtime kids, we’ll be reading The Little Engine that Could, Goodnight Moon, and of course, Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.” “My professional goals include getting a promotion, becoming top salesman, and of course, getting sued for embezzlement.”

A suggestion might be “Coming up next, Paul Simon, Tom Petty, and OF COURSE, Pink Floyd.” See, you could imagine these guys hanging out, having a conversation. Of course, that conversation would begin and end with:

“Dude, are there anymore special brownies?”
“No.”
“Any Cheetos left?”
“No.”
“Bummer.”
“Yeah.”

Or another possibility – “Coming up next, Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, and of course, White Snake.” And you could imagine what topic would be first on their list to discuss. Right, hair products.

Despite a conversation I once had with my friend Chris Clark regarding 80s music, wherein, at the end of the conversation we concluded, “Oh, WHY did we ever have to have the 80s?” I am actually a fan of the 80s music scene. (In our defense, we had just finished singing the ‘a-buh-ba-ba-ba-buh, buh-buh-buh-buh’ part of Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up.”) Some of the stuff I like strictly for nostalgic purposes, some it’s fun to make fun while simultaneously being ashamed of knowing all the words, and some I genuinely think is outstanding music. (U2, I salute you.) Besides, if it weren’t for the 80s, we wouldn’t have the likes of Run DMC, the Beastie Boys, and of course, Hall & Oats.