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I survived, but only just barely.
I come to you today from a miserable state that is the fallout of a wonderful weekend of family, food and rock and roll. My Uncle Drake and I decided a few month back to bite the bullet and secure tickets to the Rolling Stones tour date in Omaha for this past weekend. The purchase was supposed to be surprise Christmas present for No. 2, but in truth, we really wanted to go too. And we knew dad wouldn’t spring for that kind of Christmas present for us.
The ordeal started with us dropping obnoxious clues to the old man. Trips to the cabin this fall were punctuated with comments like, “Man, Paul McCartney sounds like shit now, but the Stones still really fucking rock.” And, “You really need that reconstructive knee surgery, but you’d better wait until February.” That one really made his blood boil.
At the big Muellerski family X-mas, Dad opened his gift and gave us the look we had long waited for. The infamous “Are you fucking serious?” that could only be matched if we had pronounced ourselves gay. This weekend it all came to fruition, but not without serious bodily injury.
Being the genius that I am, when I got off work on Friday night at 11 p.m., I called my friend from work who had been fired earlier in the day and said I would buy him a beer. “A beer” turned into closing down the bar, buying a case of Natty Light and making the house party rounds in IF until 4 in the morning. I passed out for a few hours, went home to my loving wife and prepared for the weekend ahead.
Saturday evening we did appetizers at D&C’s before going out for a lovely dinner. My mom warned against it, but I went with the Elk. While Sara’s scallops n’ shrooms were better, I do enjoy a slab of woodland creature. It was a good end to a very hungover day.
Sunday morning Drake did his best to earn some extra crotch room at the concert by trying to kill us with a breakfast composed of four kinds of pork, eggs and pancakes. We all persevered and piled in the Caravan for a jaunt to the Big O. The iPod guided our journey with some Stones’ greatest hits and we were all getting in the mood for a night of rockin.
Inexplicably, we needed to eat again upon arrival. After some indecision, Old Chicago filled us to the brim and I was once again beginning to feel human following Friday night’s bender. Another beer in the hotel and change into our concert gear, and we were ready to walk the block to the Qwest Center.
It was a good decision to arrive more than an hour early as it took nearly that long to make it through the T-shirt buying line. Beer began to flow freely, and soon Brooks and Dunn were being largely ignored on the stage as they tried to open for arguably the greatest rock band in history with a whole lot of Kountry flavuh. “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and “My Maria,” graciously brought their set to a close, and anticipation reached a fever pitch.
I have to say, we were not disappointed. Th Stones fucking rocked. The set list was better than anything I had seen posted online leading into the big day and I was simply in awe of the 60-somethings on stage. For my money, “Gimme Shelter” was the highlight, but all the staples were there, and were performed to perfection.
Can anyone prove to me, definitively, that Keith is NOT God?
Sitting one row back from the balcony, were weren’t much more than 100 feet from the stage. I, of course, managed to spill beer down the back of the 65 year old woman seated in front of me, but that was just a precursor to the main event. After apologizing profusely and chatting it up with the older women about when they had first seen Mick and Keith, they were about to get to know me a whole lot better.
About 15 songs into the main event, some dude stumbled down the stairs behind me and gave me a forearm shiver to the back. I went sprawling, grabbing the balcony railing with left left hand landing in the ladies laps. I can only assume that they saw the culprit make his get away, and they have a story to tell as much as I do, but I still feel bad about putting a damper on their night.
Of course, the spill had ramifications for me, too. I have a bruise running the length of my right calf and my right ring finger is shattered (One classic I don’t remember being on the set list) swollen to twice its normal dimensions, and pointing a couple different directions, none of which are natural.
Also, a day and a half later, and my voice has yet to show signs of coming back. But it was totally fucking worth it. In fact, I’d probably cut the fucking finger off for another chance to see the Stones.
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Not a day passes that I don’t have something to write about. A lot of days pass that I don’t just sit down and do it.
Last night I got off at a respectable time, made a mad dash through Hy-Vee to pick up some stir-fry ingredients and shot home to enjoy my new wok (thank you Kari and Kyle Gray, who never read this but gave Sara (me) the wok at one of her bridal showers) and my big TV (thank you Konrads, who also never read this blog because Sara’s head would explode if they knew just how fucked up the newest member of their family is).
In my old age, I have developed a serious case of A.D.D. When I watch TV, I never actually WATCH anything. I flip. And I know it’s a horrible waste of my time, but I’m always convinced there is something else on that I must see and am missing when I pause too long on an episode of Iron Chef America.
Nudity and absolute absurdity are the two exceptions to this rule. With the Nip/Tuck season now over, I needed to find a regular fix, and last night I hit the jackpot. The new season of “The Bachelor” (I would say “now with 100 percent more whores,” except 25 girls willing to flaunt their bodies and make out with some random dude to be on TV for a few weeks can’t really top itself from season to season in terms of whorieness) caught my attention and the remote sat unmolested for an entire hour.
I don’t know that too many of my man-readers, if I have any left, will care enough to mock me endlessly for watching what is clearly a show intended for a female audience, but I’m telling you, fellas, you need to turn off WWE Raw and tune this shit in.
First of all, the chicks are, by in large, pretty hot. More than that, though, they are fucking crazy. And I love it.
I didn’t have to look too deep into my crystal ball to peg the one that was going to flip out last night. I wish I could site names for those who watched it too, or those that come to the show late, but unlike the dude who actually has to remember things about these girls in order to get in their pants, I just give them my own little nicknames…you know, like Horseface, Floppy Boobs, THE Hottie, Drawl, and Fucking Psycho (FS from here on out). Anyway, FS jumped out at me immediately. Not only was this babe older and better educated that the rest of the women, but also a lot uglier. So you knew she was out right away.
THE Hottie
When she gets her three minutes to sit down with the dude, Travis, and make her case as the first one willing to give him a BJ on TV, she totally bombs by telling him she is ready to enter the “reproductive stage of her life.” I’m not shitting you. Had Sara called me the night before our wedding and used those words, I might have gone to Mexico by myself. FS is meeting “Dream-boat Doctor Travis”, who happens to have 24 hotter women at his beckoned call, for the very first time, and she comes right out and says she wants to have his baby. Sure, it’s what 75% of the girls where thinking, but you don’t see Travis coming right out and making a blanket announcement that he is ready to enter the “multiple anal penetrations stage of his life,” do you? But he’s thinking it, believe me.
Of course, she did freak out when he didn’t keep her around, accosting him and demanding an explanation. That was great, and it included the always entertaining quote: “You don’t know me,” from Trav, but it was the anticipation of her impending international embarrassment that hooks me.
Also worthy of you attention, “The Flavor of Love”:
“The Bachelor, Boyeeee” complete with oversized clock necklaces instead of roses for those the Public Enemy rapper wants to keep around.
Over the 10-week series Flav stays true to his roots, taking dates to Red Lobster and inviting his mom out to help him narrow the field. His star-crossed former love and fellow reality-show star Brigitte Nielsen will even drop in to administer lie-detector tests on the contestants.”
By the way, the stir-fry was fucking fantastic.
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Maybe this will tide you ravenous sons’ a bitches over.
Eddie Podolak’s raspy voice interrupted the celebration that had commenced in the sports department on Monday.
“That’s gutless,” he said.
Later, on video, I heard ESPN analyst Chris Spielman evaluate the call as “unconscionable,” and “The game is too fast for these officials.” The Iowa City Press Citizen headline minutes after the game read in not so subtle terms: “Hawkeyes Hosed.” I thought Iowa football coach Kirk Ferentz had the best response of all in his post-game radio interview when he called the Conference USA officiating of the Outback Bowl, “A very consistent performance.”
Classy, but cutting.
My favorite reaction came from an anonymous submission to a Des Moines Register message board asking readers to submit headlines for Tuesday’s game coverage. “Conference USA gets another Bowl win,” was the best.
I’ve been able to laugh at a lot of these comments since Monday’s debacle, but I assure you, there was some colorful language flying in the newsroom on Monday. When T.J. Norman stopped in the office at about halftime and an Iowa comeback seemed hardly plausible, I told him I wouldn’t be one to blame the official for this loss. I’m sticking to that.
The Hawks did not play well through three quarters. Florida and coach Urban Meyer took big chances and they paid off. The Gators, I’m sad to say, were the deserving winners of that game. What the Hawks did deserve, though, was their last gasp and they were denied that opportunity when Chad Greenway was deemed to be over an invisible line that we could see more clearly from 2,000 miles away than could Conference USA officials who were standing on it.
Following the Outback Bowl, the NCAA has announced selection and evaluation of bowl officiating crews will be up for discussion in spring meetings. Conference USA has also come out and admitted that the offside call on Greenway was erroneous.
“Out of approximately 175 plays in this game, we have five under specific review,” said C-USA coordinator of officials Gerald Austin. “Including an important call at the end of the game. We do teach our officials that toward the end of the game, the calls should clearly be a foul. In this case, the onside kickoff call was too technical and should not have been made.”
Too technical? I feel much better now, how about you?
Outrage is not limited to the Outback. In the Michigan versus Nebraska Alamo Bowl, the Wolverines, a team I never thought I would side with, were the victims of even more egregious officiating. Coach Lloyd Carr thrice had to spend his team’s timeouts to provoke instant replays and in college football, even when you’re right, you don’t get those precious clock-stoppers back. Then, on a play that provoked comparison to Cal and Standford’s “The band is on the field” infamous play, Michigan nearly pulled off a stunning array of laterals to win.
Officials failed to notice Husker coach Bill Callahan and his entire bench pouring onto the field, even beyond the hash marks, before a whistle had blown the play dead. That’s a penalty. Games cannot end on a defensive penalty. No flag flew, however, and Sun Belt Conference officials, presumably and rightfully concerned for their lives, fled the scene.
Whether Spielman was right when he said the game was too fast for those officials, there’s no reason for the theory to be tested. When teams from two major conferences like the Big Ten and SEC meet up, shouldn’t the best officials, those of another major conference like the Big 12 or Pac-10, call the game?
I think so, and so does Iowa athletic director Bob Bowlsby.
“When you see a crew that was obviously over their head in our game and in the Michigan-Nebraska game, it will stimulate a lot of discussion, Bowlsby said. “Take an officiating crew from the Sun Belt Conference. If those guys were as good as the guys we have working in our league, they would be working in our league.”
Take solace, though, fellow Hawkeye fans. At least Urban Meyer and the Gators showed some trepidation at winning on a bad call.
“Boy, I hope they were offsides,” Meyer said. “I mean, to make a call like that, that’s … I didn’t see it, but that was a tough call.”
Callahan, on the other hand, didn’t show the same class for fans of Michigan. Still on the field, this time when the game had actually ended, he could only muster this nugget to ESPN’s Erin Andrews after the game.
“I’m just glad they didn’t throw the flag.”
