After receiving a couple emails about my last column, I feel like I need to clear something up… I don’t write music reviews.

I listen to music and see a few concerts here and there, in no way does that make me an expert. Apply the same theory to movies and food. I’m not a reviewer by any means. This column is about me, and my life. Yes, I really AM that narcissistic.

With that said, click here for this week’s column, in which I don’t review music or food. Instead you’ll get another peek into my neurotic life.

To read my column this week click here. When you finish please pray to whatever god you believe in, that I may be blessed with extraordinary kickball skills by six o’clock tonight. Otherwise, pray I don’t punch anyone who makes fun of me in the face.

For this week’s column go here.

That’s What She Said

Drinking Games–This shot at sports proves it’s really about the shots at the bar.

by Sarah Nielson

snielson@inthisweek.com

I’ve never been much of an athlete. In fact, I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding all sports-related activities. I suffered enough humiliation in gym classes as a kid that I’ve spent my entire adult life shunning all things sports. Especially ball sports – those childhood dodgeball bruises weren’t just physical ones.

When a friend of mine sent an e-mail about trying to find people for her kickball team, I thought, “What the hell?” It’s not like I had anything else going on Thursday nights, and maybe it was time to get over my fear of sports.

The kicker was when I found out the entire league goes to the bar together afterwards. I thought it would be a great way to meet new people. However, I overlooked one tiny detail: I have no athletic ability, and would soon be making a fool of myself in front of these people.

When I expressed this fear to my friend, she assured me that our team was there to have fun and none of the players were the competitive type. She also reminded me about the mid-season and end-of-season parties. I remembered hearing how much fun they had been the previous season, so I gave in and signed up.

I had the foresight to also sign up my younger, and much sportier, brother. It was the only way to be forgiven for any kickball blunders I would make during the season.

The first game went off without a snag, at least on my end. At the end of the game, there was a fight between the opposing team and the referee over a call, which I found more humorous than distressful.

It was the second game that made me want to give up kickball and find a sport more geared towards me. Something like synchronized drinking.

When it was my turn to kick I stood way too close to the plate. I admit I wasn’t really paying attention, but didn’t see why a woman on the opposing team felt the need to make snarky comments about it.

I’m the master of snark, but even I have my limits. I was livid. Frankly, if I thought I could have thrown the ball and hit her in the face, I would have. Instead, in a flustered state, I kicked the ball and got out at first. The second time I was up I didn’t fare any better.

I skipped the bar in lieu of a paper I needed to write for school, and immediately went home following the game. The thought of running into that woman at the bar may have had a little something to do with it as well.

I promised myself I’d play another couple of games before quitting. In life I’ve found having a plan helps me accomplish my goals. My plan is to drink enough before the game that I’m unaware of the fact I’m actually playing a sport.

It’s a well-thought-out plan and one that I hope will help. The pleasant buzz may also help with any anger issues if the next team decides to cop attitude. After all, a bottle of vodka is much cheaper than anger management classes.

To learn more about Salt Lake City’s kickball league visit www.kickball.com.

In Utah This Week–Pick Your Poison: Bret Michaels chooses his whoriffic winner of ‘Rock of Love,’ then melts hearts in SLC.

When I heard the “Rock of Love” tour was coming to Salt Lake City, there was only one thing to do: GO!

I’ve loved Bret Michaels since that fateful day in junior high school when the bus driver played Every Rose Has Its Thorn on the way home from school. I was thirteen years old; I was in love. I begged and begged my mother to buy me a Poison tape but she refused– she wasn’t big on glam metal. If she had her way, I would have fawned over John Denver, not some lead singer of a band named Poison. That’s right folks; I’ve been disappointing mothers since 1975.

Sunday night my friend, and fellow groupie, Aimee headed out to the ‘burbs to see our beloved perform. As it turns out we weren’t the only girls up for a night of wild Bret. The place was absolutely packed. Luckily, we managed to bypass the line that wrapped around the building, and headed straight in to meet with the tour manager. I begged him to tell me who had won Bret Michael’s heart, but instead he directed me to the bar where the “Rock of Love 2” season finale was to going to be aired shortly.

After ordering our obligatory vodka tonics, we found a quiet corner with a TV just in time to watch the show starting. It wasn’t long before our quiet corner turned into a madhouse. Everyone wanted to see which stripperesque contestant Michaels chose. Out of the two finalists, Amber and Daisy, I liked Amber much better, but appreciate Daisy for the crazy train-wreck that she is. When Michaels announced that Amber was indeed his rock of love, the crowd erupted with cheers and deafening whistles. Apparently train-wreck Daisy wasn’t a favorite of anyone but her plastic surgeon, who incidentally, should be shot for the horrible lip injections she was seen sporting throughout the show.

Shortly after the finale finished, the main event started. I really had no idea what to expect. I didn’t actually read the press release past his name and date of the show. What I thought would be Michaels and a parade of the women from his show, was really an intimate concert with just my beloved. Aimee and I were able to snag a great spot near the stage. I wanted to be close enough to see the sweat glisten off his body, and thankfully I was. The chosen song for Michaels to come on stage to was Guns and Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.” I thought it sort of an odd choice since it wasn’t a Poison song, but once he was on stage he announced he’d not only be singing some of his old stuff, but some of his favorite cover songs.

I’ve got to hand it to him; the guy can certainly rock a microphone. After a few songs, he had his bodyguard from the TV show, Big John, pass out beers to the audience. I’m never, ever, throwing that bottle away.

The remainder of the show was mind-blowing; I’m just as much in love with him as ever. And as for the V.I.P. after party? What happens backstage stays backstage. Sorry kids, but my lips are sealed.

Upset you missed the fun? Don’t fret–Bret Michaels is coming back to SLC on July 3rd to kick off his summer Poison tour– info at www.poisonweb.com.

That’s What She Said
Religion Rocks–Gilgal Garden gives this conference-dodging gal a way to get in touch with her roots.

by Sarah Nielson
snielson@inthisweek.com

Last weekend was the LDS church’s 178th Annual General Conference. Conference weekend always takes me back to my childhood when my parents forced my brothers and I to watch conference on TV. I absolutely hated it and still haven’t forgiven them.

Every year when conference weekend rolls around I find myself suddenly hit with a twinge of religious guilt – my mother would be oh-so-proud. Since I’m not a practicing Mormon, or a practicing member of any religion for that matter, I had to find other, more creative ways to get my Jesus on.

Clad in my favorite “Jesus Rocks” T-shirt and armed with a full flask and camera, I headed to Gilgal Garden for a little religious sightseeing. The garden is home to 12 religious sculptures and over 70 stones engraved with scriptures and philosophical texts.

I’d never heard of the garden before the woman my brother is dating mentioned it. I started asking around and found that many of my friends already knew about it, and even have fond memories of breaking onto the grounds as kids. I was able to talk one of those friends into going with me. We were going on a Sunday, and just in case it was closed I wanted someone who could scale a fence with me.

I was slightly disappointed when we arrived and found we weren’t alone. It’s more of a challenge to poke fun at the creepiness of it all when a church-clothed family is within earshot. Thank God (pun very much intended) the family left shortly and my regularly-scheduled sarcasm quickly returned.

I’ve always had a difficult time understanding religion, so viewing it in sculpture form only confused me further. We wandered around the grounds and tried to make sense of all the verses carved into the stone. A couple I recognized as Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poems, but the rest were too scriptural for me to be familiar with. All those early morning parentally-forced scripture study sessions didn’t make a lasting impression, apparently.

“The Sphinx” is the best-known sculpture, and by far the creepiest. The face was carved to replicate Joseph Smith and the similarity was uncanny. It looked far too close to the pictures my parents had hanging on their walls when I was a child, which gave me the heebie-jeebies. I quickly shrugged them off, and had my friend snap a picture of me with my finger up the statue’s nose. If I’m going to Mormon hell, I want it to be worth it.

My favorite sculpture was “The Monument to the Trade.” The sculpture is a self-portrait of Thomas Child, the man behind the garden. Child is holding a Bible under one arm and blueprints of some sort under the other, but it was the pants that won me over. Checkered pants on a man, sculpture or real, are always a treat – and by treat I mean giggle-worthy. We took some slightly lewd photos not suitable for my mother’s Christmas newsletter or print.

Once I got home and looked through all the pictures we had taken, my religious guilt doubled. I knew I should have just stayed home and watched “The Ten Commandments” to get my religious fix and also to mark Charlton Heston’s death.

I’ve never been a huge fan of classical music. I wasn’t exposed to Mozart or other classical composers in my childhood like I was other genres of music. The music of my childhood consists of two influences and two bands. My mother: The Beatles. My father: Johnny Cash. I had no idea anything other music existed until I discovered the Nine Inch Nails in junior high school.

When a friend invited me to attend the Utah Symphony I accepted with only slight hesitation. I haven’t been to the symphony since high school and decided it was time for a second chance. I’m older now; perhaps my musical appreciation has changed.

Our seats were in the balcony, which made seeing people behind me impossible, unless I wanted to turn around and gawk at them. You’re probably wondering why this mattered. I’m nosy, that’s why. If I am within earshot of an interesting conversation I have a need to know exactly what’s being discussed and who is discussing it. I couldn’t help but notice the moment Collin Currie, the especially dreamy percussionist, took stage the women behind me started chattering about how handsome he was. And he so, so was. Being Scottish only made him dreamier. I thought perhaps their hormones would calm down once the performance started. Nope. I leaned forward, and in a whisper, explained to my friend what was going on and that I had to see what these women looked like. He turned around and glanced at the women behind me and grimaced. He warned me that if I turned around I would probably find myself in fits of hysterical laughter. Not wanting to embarrass him I waited until the intermission.

At that point, I turned and saw something that indeed gave me a giggle fit. The women behind me were much older than I was expected. I thought I’d turn to see women my mother’s age, but oh no, these women were older than my grandmother.

I was absolutely thrilled these grannies still had it. They may not be hanging out lusting after men at the bars, like me, but they certainly still had the moxie to find a venue more fitting to their lusting needs.

The women left after the intermission. I assumed they were heading home to bed, but when the music started again and the percussionist didn’t come back on stage I had a different idea where they went. I too have slipped backstage at a concert in hopes of getting a glimpse at whatever musician I may be lusting after that night. I think the two women were doing the exact same thing. I applaud them for such bold moves. Had I not been there with a man I’d have done the exact same thing– Scottish accents are to die for.

With the women gone I didn’t have anything to listen to but the music. After a few minutes I found myself enjoying Tchaikovsky’s Fourth more than I expected. I’m not saying I’m going to be a classical music buff, but I can promise that when my friends’ have it playing in their homes and cars I will stop making exaggerated gagging sounds until they turn it off. And this, folks, is what I call progress.

Just when I thought I was done writing about dating, the most significant heartbreak of my life occurs.

One of my longtime favorite bands, The Mother Hips, played at The Urban Lounge last weekend.  A man I dated in 2002 first introduced me to this alt-country band when he played me the song “Sarah Bellum.” I’ve been obsessed with them ever since.

I hadn’t seen them play in a couple of years, so when I noticed the band was coming to town I knew I had to go.  I talked two friends into going, promising they would be attending the concert of a lifetime.  Apparently, I’m a big fat liar.  How was I to know my once beloved band had lost their mojo?

The highlight of my evening came before the concert even began.  I was hurrying out of the bathroom when I ran smack into the back of the lead singer Tim Bluhm. I nearly fell over and he kindly helped me back on my feet.  I was too tongue-tied and embarrassed at my klutz-like behavior to thank him, and before I knew it he was on his way to the stage to ruin my life.

I miss the old days—where my rock star idols were still rock stars and not middle-aged men with salt and pepper hair, rocking out to a twelve-minute guitar solo.  I only slightly exaggerate.  It’s entirely possible the solo was only ten minutes.  Either way I felt like I was attending a Phish concert, not the high-energy concerts I remember The Mother Hips once playing.  I’m finally OK with my own aging, but I shouldn’t be expected to watch my idols age as well.  Isn’t music supposed to be timeless?

They did play some old favorites: “Red Tandy” and “Magazine,” but the songs sounded nothing like they did at previous concerts. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a band discovering a new sound, but typically I like the new sound not to suck.

The crowd was full of loyal fans—a few that I recognized from the days where I attended every single concert the band played at the dearly departed Zephyr Club.  I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were as dissatisfied with the performance as I was.

As we slipped out before an encore I ran into an old friend. When he asked why I was leaving, I mentioned something about the band being the biggest disappointment of my life; he assured me they were much better the night before.  Leave it to me to pick the worst night to attend.  I wanted to hear alt-country, not alt-crappy.

Determined to prove to friends, and myself the band really was good, I went home and made a Mother Hips play list to die for.  I burned each friend a copy, hoping to show the band really was a talented one–just one having an off night.

I think with the demise of The Zephyr Club came the demise of The Mother Hips.  Earlier that day my four-year-old niece, Hannah, told me that sometimes your heart just breaks.  And you know what?  She was right.