I’ve got a couple of things I need to apologize for. First up, I lied to you recently. Well, I wouldn’t call it a lie, really, more of an omission of some salient facts. (That just sounded so slippery, and because I didn’t feel the least bit slimy writing it, I feel that my true calling is politics. Watch out Brownback, I’m coming for you.) But the story behind the “omission” has to wait a second because I’ve got some rabid Rolling Stones fans I have to placate.
Last week, I wrote about having zero desire to ever attend a live concert event again. In doing so I referenced the Rolling Stones concert at Arrowhead stadium and casually mentioned how I was secretly glad I was not attending it because of my concert phobia brought to a head by a 2010 Justin Bieber extravaganza at the Sprint Center. Now, please note nowhere in last week’s column did I mention that I did not love, respect, or revere the Rolling Stones.
Apparently, unbeknownst to me even mentioning the Rolling Stones without some sort of genuflecting is an egregious offense. Add in that I did use the words “mini stroke” and Lipitor when referencing the crowd and, well, I got myself a whole bunch of hate email and worse, older men stopping me at Hen House, at the dog park and even one very animated gentleman waylaying me for a lecture on musical history while I had one foot inside the Town Center Bath and Bodyworks store and was clutching a handful of coupons for two-for-one candles and pedicure creams that weren’t going to spend themselves.
OK, every guy over 60 who felt the need to shame me and share that the concert was a “religious experience,” or “even better than when they played at Kemper Arena in 1981” and then tell me that I’m “an idiot”: Simmer down. I get it.
Great-grandpa Mick Jagger with his 24-inch waist bringing it and putting any 20something musician to shame is an inspiration to all of us. I love the Stones. It’s just that I’m mentally scarred and unable to handle anything in a concert format. That’s all, no offense was intended.
Now on to the omission apology that is also related to last week’s column. My husband pointed out to me that I was not totally honest in listing my concert experiences. He even went so far as to suggest that Justin Bieber is not the real reason for my issues and that ground zero for my neurosis harkens all the way back to July 4, 1986, at the Farm Aid II concert in Manor, Texas.
When he mentioned Farm Aid II, I gasped. We had a deal. He was never to bring up that concert. The event was so horrific I can’t bear to think about it, but putting honesty first, here I go. For you, I will relive the day the music and my dignity died.
I was a very young news reporter at an Austin TV station and I was assigned to cover the Farm Aid concert. Now, because it was 1986, there are four things you should know: 1) Back in the day a female reporter never appeared on camera without a blazer. 2) Cellphones were the size of toaster ovens and almost no one owned one. 3) Imodium was not yet available without a prescription and the travel-size moist towelette was still an OCD’ers dream. 4) Texas in July makes Hell look like an all-inclusive resort. On that day it was a balmy 104 out. Now add in 40,000 souls languishing on unshaded turf and you have a picnic in lower purgatory.
So, there I was doing a “live shot” from the concert every 20 minutes while I sweated bullets and battled a wide variety of insects that were attracted to my Aqua Netted hair. I also needed to use the restroom — big time — but there was no way I was going into a makeshift latrine that the sun had turned into human refuse crock pot. This girl was going to hold it.
Then the unthinkable happened mid live shot: My bowels betrayed me. Yes, I pooped myself on camera! At first I was stunned. What do I do? The only thing I could think of was toss to weather and make a break for it. I got off camera, took off my blazer, tied it around my waist and tried to do some sort of triage in the latrine of doom. Then I slinked back to the Live Truck, stole the one cellphone the station owned and called my husband — my knight in shining armor.
When he stopped laughing, he vowed to brave the traffic and rescue me. “Just make it to the access road,” he promised, “and I’ll get you.”
And that coupled with Justin Bieber is why you’ll never see me at a concert again. And really who can blame me?