MC Hammer and Vanilla Iceless

So the question is, how did I wake up with skinned knees, pounding head, a vague recollection of last night’s incessant laughter still ringing through my ears, a bag of Baconators being ordered from Wendy’s and only photos to remind me what had happened? Well, I will give you the recipe, but I don’t suggest you cook it. It is a night in Orem, built up anticipation followed by complete boredom, a bottle of Jameson, and the right kind of friend with you to participate in aforementioned things. The moon had aligned perfectly with the stars for this kind of night.

See, I was always that kid who was about three years behind on trends. Living in Iowa,that set me back to at least six years behind. I never did get the Girbauds while they were hot of the jeans press or the slap bracelets that threatened to come out of their protective casing and cut your wrist until they were settled into the DI. For that reason, I never went to concerts or watched Beverly Hills 90210 when it first came out. I knew and loved MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice, and true to form, twenty years after the fact I was ready to see them in concert.

The mere idea that they were coming to Orem Utah on February 27th and only Orem Utah alone, no other tours, just this, blew my mind. Since I don’t get out of the house much, I had actually never been to Orem and had to prepare for this trip. This concert in my mind was going to be epically epic. Well before we made that drive Conor and I sat in the liquor store debating which kind of whiskey could be downed wihtout choking hazards.

We then made the one hour drive up there and arrived shortly before 8:00. I feared we were actually going to be late since the bill stated that the show started at 8:00. As I sat in the parking lot I started to fill a Coke bottle with Jameson. Then Conor and I were faced with the task of how we were to fill the flask. See they have these tiny holes and no funnel! Easy, the funnel was made out of the directions to get there.

We finished our Coke and exited the vehicle. I was greeted by a massive sea of people standing in a massive sea of lines all excited to get inside. Some were dressed up straight out of the 80’s, hardcore fans had steps shaved in their heads, and others appeared to be the curious onlookers of the night.

Just a few sips of liquid courage later, you know to get me warmed up while I waited in the cold, and I was ready to go inside and nail this concert. Well, the line proved to be longer and colder than anticipated. I sent Conor back to the car to retrieve the other Coke bottle. We were destined to smell like hobos for the night. He came back and warned me this was a strong batch, he also called out my manliness so I had to drink right along with him as he had left about 1/100 Coke and the rest whiskey in this one.

So a few sips became a few gulp, guzzles, pounds.

We finally found our way inside and explored the many tunnels of the McKay Events center. Hoards of people were gathered around waiting for the show to start, and it was set up much like a Junior High pep rally with dancers on stage and our favorite hits from back in the day blasting through the speakers.

We found the press room where we were excited to meet our men of the 80’s, and I decided to pose by the beautiful backrop that was glistening with washed up success reunited for just one night

I wandered upstairs and was beckoned by some men with a Playstation video game console up and running. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly, I haven’t played video games since the first Nintendo came out.” They convinced me to do so though and I picked your typical character for a girl, Wonderwoman, and proceeded to kick my video game loving friend’s ass. I was just that perfect amount of buzzed, you know the kind where you can bowl a great score? Oh I got a free t-shirt out of the deal, and that to me was as good as gold. I danced around a lot and said things like “SUCK IT!”

So then it sounded like something big was about to happen since it was about 9:30 and we ran downstairs to see if our Hammer or Ice was coming out. After a few minutes of just more amping up the crowd happened, and more opening acts, and more breakdancers, we confirmed it was not happening yet and went wandering (drinking) some more. This is where you are about to have that second game of bowling and you suck because you drank a lot more because that is supposed to make you double awesome.

In the process of going outside to have a cigarette, I put my coveted shirt in the door to keep it open. Security snaked up behind me and snatched it out the door and ran off with it! Luckily for cell phones Conor came and got me back in and we told my tearful story to the Playstation men who happily supplied me with another t-shirt. 10:30 rolls around. We have been here for hours, and no sign of the main acts. More people dancing around, Vanilla Ice’s dancers went up to Conor and asked when he was going to go on. He lied and said next. I think it was more wishful thinking than lying. Even Vanilla’s dancers didn’t know when the actual show was starting!

Yet more wandering commenced which led us into the media room. Alone. With a copy machine. Bored. Things that shouldn’t get copied got copied. There is still a photo copy of my boobs sitting in Conor’s car. I kept giggling and saying the 3-year-old phrase “Don’t look don’t look!!”

Finally, all the excitement, buildup, happiness about this whole event started to wane down. I had about as much fun as one can have in a media room and Conor even had to stop me from tearing down the tapestry to take home (with a lighter) and instead we decided on a chain that weighed about 150 pounds. I was also in dire need of water. This much need.

We had been in Orem for hours upon hours, we were out of things to do, and quite honestly I am surprised the gigantic crowd outside wasn’t rioting. We remained patient and loyal for as long as we could, and even adult beverages make me more patient that Mother Theresa. So the executive decision was made after over four hours of waiting for the hype to stop and the actual event to happen.

Sometimes awesome things are better kept a mystery, and the buildup in your head is far better than the actual event that unfolds before you. This decision was made as we walked out those doors and missed our epically epic event. Though somehow, it still turned out to be one of the best concerts I had even been to this year.

Afterwards some Iranian men bought me some much not needed shots which pretty much put me over the edge. I think I convinced myself that I was a hobbit and that this endearing fella was Gandolf the Gray because I wanted my picture with him and was dumbfounded that I was so short in comparison with his tallness. I don’t remember this photo being taken.

Along the way BACONATORS! was screamed. Conor thought it was a good idea too. I don’t remember that either. Nor do I remember falling flat on the floor the second me feet walked inside, but there is proof in photos of course.

Billy May I

Today while I was being so productive at work that I could barely
think, my Billy Mays replacement Vince came on television pimping out
his Shamwow, you know the uber absorbent towel that could clean up all
that blood from stabbing someone repeatedly. You can wash and reuse
too! This man is totally ridiculous and he even wears a headset while
doing a commercial on televison. Bets have been that it is either
totally a prop or he really wears it all day and takes Shamwow orders
even while showering.

This is Vince, you really need to see this to get the full picture:

I
haven’t heard from Billy Mays in a while and I wonder what he has been
up to. I miss him yelling at me from the television set, and I’ll be
damned if I didn’t buy Kaboom after he advertised it. I am a chronic
infomercial junkie by the way. I get this special high watching all of
these wonderous products promising to make my infinitely difficult life
much more simple. Ten minute workouts, cleaning products, and makeup
top the list of ones that I will stare at the television watching,
waiting, biting my nails in anticipation.

I love how they take
their sweet time telling me all of the things that these items will do,
watching the excited faces on people who are not paid actors endorse
it, but that is not the part that baits me the most. It is the BUT
WAIT…..part that kills me. What am I waiting for is what? Possibly
them to knock off a payment? A free penlight? A double order if I
purchase now? It gets me all tingly and excited to see what they are
going to do for me.

This led to another one of my very normal
Skype conversations that I have daily with Conor. I started to ponder
whether or not these infomercial guys fight for parts in the
infomercial the way that actual actors fight for a role.

I
picture them sitting in a dirty waiting room, reading the script,
nervously sizing up the competition. Calling their infomercial agent to
tell them they didn’t get the part because they totally flubbed their
lines. Practicing at home on their own products that they have lying
around, turning to the cat to ask if it sounded ok.

Here is the most proof I can find that there is that competition out there:

Who
writes the scripts for infomercials too? Can I aspire to do that one
day? Could I be an excited extra on one? Why don’t I know anything
about this unchartered television territory?

Whenever I
start to miss Billy though, I watch the below video and it makes me
wish that he would make an Billy Mays alarm clock to soothe me awake.
each morning

To Not Pinch & To Grow An Inch

It is amazing when you go to the doctor what useful information you can take home with you for the mere price of a $15.00 co-pay. That is less than a psychic, and the information they give you is almost as reliable.

I almost with I could go to my doctor once a week, what with my hypochondria and all, and have them give me all sorts of new information about my body.

For instance, in the throes of a major head/jawache, I started to rub my jaw. While rummaging around down there, I found that one side felt funnier than the other. As in one side had a lumpity bump and the other did not.

Immediately and most logically it was either a blood clot that was going to shoot straight into my brain, or a tumor that would leave me with only one top of my jaw left. Once I managed to calm myself down, I figured my mother would be my further Valium in life, so I called her and casually mentioned it in passing like “Oh hey, I woke up today like I do every day.”

She instead reignited the paranoia and told me that I must go to the doctor right away. I must have disobeyed her too much in my youth, because now I do every single thing my mom tells me to do without question. I must inherently be making up for all that rebellion by turning into a yes ma’am kind of girl.

Once I went in for my appointment, I was dreading getting on that scale. Winter has taken its cold dreary hold on me and fast food has been the way to go. I was pretty much convinced that the scale was going to tip over once I stepped on it, but the nurse rattled off a tolerable weight that only put me 4 lbs above what I was in the summer time. Sure it all when to my ass, hips, and new double chin, but I will take a four pound gain over a ten pound one.

She then went to measure my height and I’ll be damned if I didn’t think I was five feet four inches for about 13 years now. I am actually five feet five inches! It’s like I have some new taller perspective to look forward to now. I shall now look down upon all of you five foot four inchers and rule the kingdom of giants from here on out!

Other than that, the doctor said something about swollen lymph node or cyst just chilling on my jaw and if it gets any bigger to come back. I figure I will show him when I come back and some sort of hair and teeth tumor has attached itself to the side of my face and I am faced with the challenge of coming up with a name for my new friend.

Mo’ Music

Go check out all of our little besty blurbs that we worked hard on for Musicstravaganza that is going on right now! DO IT.

http://cityweekly.net/index.cfm?do=article.details&id=663A6575-14D1-1357-9CD16FBBD68E5BAD&page=3

Mock Of Love

My blog has a link to another blog on City Weekly  that Conor and I, who are the funniest people ever, did.

Read it now!

 

http://cityweekly.blogspot.com/2008/04/rock-of-interview.html

Between A Rock & A Love Place

Brett Michaels…..

Will you stay here, on this phone with me, and continue to rock my world?

No! No he won’t because now free publicity comes with stipulations now I guess.

I was all slated for a phone interview with him on Friday, my day off, (a rarity) and I got served! Er, I didn’t get served, I didn’t even get into the interview restaurant.

I spent time that should have been spent doing homework and other stuff like watching t.v., meticulously structuring all of the amazing questions I was going to ask him.

Hint: They had to do with grizzly bears, bandanas, skanks, eyeliner, and polygamy.

For those of you who don’t know, I am a very busy person on Fridays. First I have to shop for the bulk of the day, eat, try to work off all that food I ate, take a nap, email my friends, play on the internet a bit longer, squeeze in a shower, and then take one more nap before I start drinking that night.

Due to the fact that management got all finicky on how the interview was going to be presented,stated with the promise to call me back, things got a little…whatsa goin’ on?

Here’s the deal. A lot of people come on the CW website, that was where the interview was going to be posted. I mean come on an interview this awesome cannot be bound by the restraints of word count right?

Then a blurb in the Wednesday paper saying “Hey cancel Christmas Bret Michaels is coming to Club 90 on April 13th”

Then, I was going to go to said show and write up a review on it. So the review was going to go into City Weekly’s actual paper edition.

That is three Bret Mentions in like a week. I am thinking of changing the City Weekly name to Bret Michaels Weekly after this.

But I guess management didn’t like the idea of the interview being online and a blurb on Wednesday, followed by a review after the show because I never got a fucking phone call back!

When I emailed questioning as to whether this would still be happening, they assured me he was busy and that we could do this on Monday or Tuesday and they would contact me.

It is Tuesday. They have not contacted me! I am firing his marketing director.

They could have called to dump me, they could have texted. They could have put me up on a platform with 13 other tearful women and handed each of them a backstage pass and then brought me down to tell me my tour ends here, but instead I got the shaft.

Bret Michaels owes me a shopping trip, and no, we can’t go to Ed Hardy.

I am going to be his Stalk of Love at the show coming up this Sunday, just you watch, Big John can’t keep me down!!

Send in the Clowns

By Dominique LeJeunesse
Posted 10/19/2006

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Take the vilest joke that someone has ever told you. Picture yourself laughing out loud at it, then having the person that told you the joke look you in the eyes and say, “No, really, that’s what I did on Tuesday night.” Then you say to yourself “Wait, is he serious?” That was impression I’d had of Insane Clown Posse from the moment I first heard their name.I’d been to the Great Saltair once prior to the ICP show on Oct. 7 (you try saying Insane Clown Posse 30 times). Saltair is a large venue and has many vantage points to see the show without actually having to be in the crowd. But, I really wanted to know what the fans would be/look like, more so than any other concert I’ve been to.

I’d recently learned that male ICP fans are referred to as Juggalos and the females, Juggalettes. These are not casual fans. Juggalos adapt a lifestyle that entails donning clown makeup, owning as much band merchandise as possible, attending annual gatherings, and immersing their lives in ICP Culture. You know, like joining up with your favorite religious cult. So be it—I was intrigued. If a Juggalette had a baby with a regular person, was it considered a Juggalo? If a Juggalo sweats on me, do I become one when the moon is full?

The theme of the night was lines. In the line to get into the show, I became eerily aware of my surroundings. At the very least, 80 percent of the crowd was wearing clown makeup and ICP apparel. I guess the old adage of “Don’t wear the shirt of the band you’re going to see” is not in the Juggalo handbook.

Once inside, I stood in another line to get to the bar—my first and foremost goal for the night. I am terrified of clowns. I was surrounded by people dressed like them. Two minutes into the bar line, I got my ass grabbed—quite firmly, I might add—by a clown who then pointed to his Juggalette as though she were the culprit. I could only stand there speechless and shaking my head. Put that in your It sequel, Stephen King.

At Saltair, you have to purchase a membership to get into the Salt Lick bar—because surely you’ll be making the drive to Saltair 10 times over the course of three weeks for martinis. But, at least the drinks were reasonably priced.

During all my line standing, there were three opening bands.

The first band, Wolfpac, made me believe in earplugs. Their only saving grace: A dancing evil midget. Everybody needs one of those. Band No. 2, Boondox, had girl-on-girl stripper action and portable stripper poles—thank you technology! Thirdly, not smooth jazz, as their name had led me to think, was Subnoize Souljaz. No strippers, no clowns, no midgets … but they were shirtless! My brain tends to block out traumatic moments, so that set is a blur.

In the restroom, there was an array of Juggalettes touching up their clown makeup, making me feel silly for simply reapplying my boring lipstick. I hear the men’s restroom was just as cramped for mirror time, since it had been raining.

ICP finally came on, and they did have an impressive stage set. The crowd was more into them than I had ever seen at a show, singing all the words and chanting. Apparently, ICP also have a soda line called Faygo—Lil John and Diddy eat your hearts out. They sprayed the Saltair audience with gallons of it, and then covered them in confetti—the equivalent of being tarred and feathered?

I was convinced I’d meet my demise at this show, but the crowd was actually just as docile as any show I’d ever been too—minus the ass-grabbery. I do, however, continue to be amazed by the legions of hardcore followers Insane Clown Posse have. The show and music were lacking any substance that I could comprehend, and it still inspired this many people to come out in droves. Maybe it’s something in the Faygo.

Just Doin’ It

By Dominique LaJanuesse
Posted 06/14/2007

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I haven’t had much business in Liberty Park for years. It’s nice for running, as long as you don’t mind the occasional nest of bugs swarming at your face. But creatures with beaks are on my list of irrational fears (you have one bad goose experience …) so you won’t see me feeding the ducks, and I really have outgrown ruling the playground.

Of course, there are plenty of activities for most people to enjoy at the park: Barbecues, The Tracy Aviary, possibly a night stabbing, some good old-fashioned people-watching and—if you’re into it—the notorious Sunday drum circle.

Since my hacky sack was at the cleaners, June 3 turned out to be a bad day for drum circling. Instead, I joined Uprok Records for the local shop’s summer kick-off—a little something they call “Doin’ It at the Park,” which just so happened to conflict with Pride’s festivities downtown. Curiosity beat out diversity and, since you learn by “doin’” …

Of course, the most I could come up with was a MySpace page (MySpace.com/UprokRecords) reaffirming the music store’s involvement. I had no idea what I was getting into.

In my defense, the phrase “doin’ it” can be taken any number of ways, perverts.

After finding a pithy bit of information, and unaware of a start-to-finish time, or where in the park the event was taking place, I circled until I used deductive reasoning that the event was not the children on the playground, the guy sunbathing or the drum circle, but the pavilion filled with loud music and fly folk.

I was expecting angry hip-hop and people rapping but what I stumbled upon was some of my favorite ’70s funk and some old school hip-hop with kids taking turns on a break-dancing mat.

I watched them and watched everyone watching them, and then wandered around to the surrounding areas to check out what others were doin’.

They had some boards set up with spray-paint cans and people working on graffiti art. So far, this seemed very participant-oriented and, as I am an itinerary person, I wasn’t quite sure in which order events were supposed to be happening, if any at all.

After asking around to see if other things would be happening—in or out of order—most people had no idea. So, I turned around, stepped in a giant quicksand puddle of mud to cool down (OK, the puddle jumped me) and made my own graffiti sculpture of mud in a weak attempt to clean off my feet, followed by that discomfiting “Hey guys! Nothing happened. I will sit around and watch a bit longer with an island in my shoe” moment.

With no time frame or clue whether there’d me more to do, I headed home to unravel the mysteries of Doin’ It at the Park.

The best thing for promotional purposes would be to have a schedule of events for next time so that I would not feel so befuddled and so that passersby could stop, hang out for a bit, figure out what was going on and pass this information along to their friends. Perhaps I missed it, or perhaps it just hadn’t been outlined.

In short, all I know is that Doin’ It includes an Emcee Battle complete with break-dancers. At the beginning of the day, graffiti art can be made and meat—bring your own—can be grilled. It will be happening again July 1, Aug. 5 and Sept. 2.

If you find yourself in the park’s vicinity between 2 and 10 p.m. on these dates, you may want to watch it all unfold with a friend. I will meander back with a slightly better idea as to how it works but with the same confused look I always have on my face.

Oh, and make sure to bring your break-dancing clothes. Show the most def break-dancer of our time how it’s done, son!

Huka Mama: Smoke may get in your eyes at the Huka Bar & Grill

By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 12/27/2007

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Going out on the town is getting harder to do, it seems. My recent attempts were thwarted by a live-band karaoke leader getting in a car accident (forcing him to cancel inspired takes on Journey), bars not updating their Websites to explain that advertised events were suddenly nixed, and exorbinant cover charges of approximately $1 million and a left toe. I almost gave up on leaving the house altogether. I found what I thought was a sure bet at The Huka Bar & Grill in Murray on Dec. 20. The gods were vengeful, and a blizzard dumped down something fierce prior to my leaving the house. I was stubborn and decided that the only thing that could possibly be more stupid than going might be encountering the bar’s clientele.

I made it there safely and walked into a room where a bunch of men stood screamingmanly things that only testosterone overload can fuel. That, and steroids. After regaining my hearing, I sat down at one of the tables. The ambience was so atmospherically curious that I expected couch humping and blow snorting to commence.

The best part of The Huka is the sweet, succulent tobacco you get to smoke there, out of, well a huka. You are invited to choose: Do I want to ruin my liver or lungs tonight? Liver? Lungs? I opted for both. New Year’s is coming up, and I can resolve to fix them both at a later date. I wanted to be sure I knew whom I was sharing my huka with. No surprise strains of mono for this lady! Happily enough, the club provides you with your very own plastic tips—or, as I like to call them, huka condoms. The irony of the bar is that you cannot smoke cigarettes inside. Fine with me; the bar did have a pleasant aroma of a distinguished gentleman’s jacket.

Though I was interested in seeing The Huka in its full glory, I was actually mainly there to watch One Punch (formerly known as Afro Omega), a damned-good dub-rock group packing heat out of Salt Lake City. I was too late to talk to the band about their name change, and drummer Josh “Mancrush” Dixon (sorry, dudes, he is taken) was not quite sure of the reasons behind the switch, either. But he does play an impeccable high hat and snare drum—and that’s what really matters.

Consensus? Huka crowd: bad. One Punch: good. At least for one night. As the bar filled, I started to regret that fact that I had made the harrowing drive. I couldn’t drink myself into a coma of tolerance. If popped collars were still in, that place would have been littered with them. The term “trick-ass bitch”? Probably coined at this establishment. I saw more hoochie mama than I have in my nightmares and heard more transparent conversation than my eardrums could handle. Favorite pick up line? “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you. Actually, I did. Heh. Heh. Heh.”

Favorite bathroom conversation—crack-skinny girls complaining that they should not eat sushi anymore because it has too many carbs and that the bathroom mirror makes them look fat.

I was in the “hubble-bubble” of a superficial-personality planet, with no hope of salvation. The few people I ran into that evening were there on accident, or by kidnapping, I am not sure which.

Plus, the drinks were spendy. I was convinced I might have to pay off my tab by doing dishes.

You know when you have this look on your face, and you aren’t trying to intentionally make it and somebody comes up to you and says “What’s wrong?” and you say “Oh, nothing. I didn’t know I was making that face.” I was intentionally making that face the whole time. Apparently, chivalry is checked at the door here, too. I have never been bumped so rudely this many times in my life. You bump your mother with that shoulder, people?

It’s this kind of rude behavior that gives good clubs a bad name. When I check out One Punch again, it might be at a different venue—or maybe at the Huka Bar & Grill—just a different night.

The Farcade Fire Show

By Dominique LaJeunesse
Posted 09/27/2007

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I didn’t move to Utah for snowboarding. I take the end of summer harder than a toddler throwing a fit over the lollipop that they can’t have in the grocery store, screaming “Mommy, you suck!” So, what better, and less embarrassing panacea than a kick-ass concert in the middle of Utah County to quell these feelings of cold contempt?

Admittedly, everyone was baffled by LCD Soundsystem and Arcade Fire’s decision to perform at Thanksgiving Point, a venue typically associated with weddings and Halloween activities. Either they wanted something nontraditional or someone didn’t know what they were doing. Or did they? Were we just clueless about the Point’s appeal?

If you haven’t lived there, gotten lost there, or have some sort of aberrant fascination with dinosaurs, you’d have no clue where Lehi, Utah is located. Granted, it was nice to get a change of scenery, and after driving around much of the country this summer to catch some of my favorite bands, I was grateful that this show was nearer-by so that I may save some of this gas money that had been plaguing my paychecks as of late.

We kicked off the night with a tailgate party, something I assumed many others would participate in, but looking around the T-Giving Point parking lot, it seemed we were the only ones drinking our beverages out of reality TV show cups—scarlet red flags of alcoholism. But while no one joined us, no one narced us out either. We quickly accepted the fact that yes, we are the old people rearing to hear some music that most of the 15-year-olds in attendance would be embarrassed to see me dancing to.

Later, after one short pat-down by security (yes, they search thoroughly and no, alcohol is not served inside. Get clever or get over it), we were in the show. LCD Soundsystem almost immediately took the stage, ready to move Bruce Springsteen out of the way because they were the new Boss in town. I’ve heard all of their albums (the few that there are) and was blown away watching their commanding presence onstage. I don’t care how shitty of a dancer I am, I was participating the whole time. I had to take advantage of the fact that they may never set their sights on Salt Lake City again—although James Murphy repeatedly commented on the awesome mountains which, “We don’t get to see in New York City.” I hope they return. Murphy’s unique voice and electro-pop-rock is downright irresistible.

LCD is a hard act to follow, no doubt, but Arcade Fire is a force to be reckoned with—and clearly the group 99.8 percent of the audience came to see. Everyone gathered around in anticipation. I shimmied my way through to find friends with only a few sardonic “What the hell do you think you are doing” or “No, you aren’t sorry” comments.

Arcade Fire boldly announced their presence onstage with more gusto and bandmates than a whorehouse in Wyoming. There were lights, and live feed video of band members playing with gusto. Every instrument you could think of—and many more that you would never imagine—was ready to be banged, plucked, pounded, tossed in the air and generally manipulated to achieve transcendent melodies. They even packed in piano pipes that rival the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s.

The young crowd went wild as a 6-foot-plus Win Butler broke into song with a lush, deep voice that earns him comparisons to Bowie. I get it, but I think they have their sound is unique as a whole—a sort of frenzied hymnal rock symphony that started as a cult following (sans the Kool-Aid) but that continues to gain speed in more mainstream quadrants. Arcade Fire doesn’t tour (promoters book them by request), especially not in the United States, and now I understand why people went nuts when they found out the Canadian group would be appearing in little old Utah. They sounded powerful and all encompassing. All eight, er, nine, um, make that 10 members? I couldn’t keep count.

After a unique demand for an encore—the crowd spontaneously started humming a refrain from one Arcade Fire song in unison until the band returned—they launched into “Old Flame,” an old number released prior to their name-making Funeral. They finished up with “Wake Up,” a cathartic song that satiated the now-sweaty and exhilarated audience. I’m guessing everyone was smiling, but since I’d succumbed to a nasty case of hiccups, so I listened to the remaining anthems in a sprawling parking lot. Amazingly , the sound was just as awesome outside the venue as it was within.

Turns out Lehi is alright. It was nice to wave goodbye to summer with this concert, but something tells me there won’t be many similar experiences in the near future. I do, however, look forward to many haystack rides in a hundred-acre fantasyland should I ever again choose a Thanksgiving Point adventure.