Mushrooms, excavators, and play-in games

Okay, so I hinted at but did not necessarily promise a story about snarfing down fried mushrooms a few posts back. Hold on to your nipples: I am now delivering on said quasi-promise.

This story isn't actually so much about snarfing fried mushrooms as it is about my home city and its attempts to be kinda sorta big-ish. In some respects, my city has delivered. I mean, there was the whole New York Times article thing. And the documented witnesssing of actual Des Moines tourism. And I'm definitely jazzed about the upcoming 80/35 Music Festival. And there's Wells Fargo Arena, where I went to see Bon Jovi play last Sunday night (and also saw an arena football game Saturday night, but that's another story).

I'll admit that a Bon Jovi concert isn't exactly the hippest thing in the world and that, due to inate hickishness that I swear is beyond our control, Iowans perhaps get a little overly excited about such an event. But for argument's sake let's just agree that the Bon Jovi concert could be classified into the category of major, sold-out, arena rock concert featuring internationally famous act...the kind they have in a place like Madison Square Garden all the time.

I posted on my work blog last month about Des Moines' recent hosting of the NCAA women's basketball tourament's first and second rounds at Wells Fargo Arena and how I thought the city did an excellent job:

"When I was traversing the Des Moines skywalk system
to get to my media credential distribution volunteer post
last Friday morning, I tried to see the city I call home through
the eyes of our visitors. And I’ll tell you this: If it were my
first time in Des Moines, I’d be pretty impressed. For players,
a gym is a gym. But for fans and other dignitaries, it’s sure
nice to be in a community that supports and appreciates
women’s college basketball and that has culture, dining, and
first-class accommodations all within walking distance of an
excellent venue."

I wasn't the only one who felt this way. The Des Moines Register spent the following Sunday salivating over the prospects of hosting more important rounds of the women's tournament at WFA in future years. Or hosting early rounds of the men's tournament in Des Moines. "At least take the play-in game away from Dayton and give it to us," they cried.

And I was on the bandwagon (not about the play-in game because, seriously: The play-in game?). But you know, we do have a great setup for a major basketball championship event. Why not Des Moines?, I thought.

I'll tell you why not; there's one simple reason. And that reason is Zimm's Food and Spirits.

My companions and I ended up at this den of iniquity after our pre-concert libation attempts in the vicinity of the arena went horribly awry. Every single person who was out and about in downtown Des Moines last Sunday night was going to the Bon Jovi concert. (This also means, of course, that on Sunday nights when there isn't a Bon Jovi concert the downtown is basically dead.) We literally attempted to dine at every restaurant/bar/whatever you'd call Spaghetti Works within 12 blocks of the arena and struck out repeatedly (all the while shielding our eyes from road construction-related sediment flying through the air and walking around equipment being operated by people who didn't seem to understand why there were so many damn people out on Court Avenue that night anyway), forcing us to retrieve my illegally parked Honda and head away from downtown as quickly as possible while our available minutes til Daughtry (MTD) dwindled. We started down Ingersoll Ave., finding two-hour waits at Wellman's Pub and the Star Bar. We drove by a Dairy Queen and wished it were open. I was just about to suggest the Baker's Cafeteria when Amy saw it, beckoning from the left side of the road like a dirty hitchhiker with a neon Budweiser sign around his neck: Zimm's Food and Spirits!

"Yeeeeaaaaaah, Bon Jovi!," some drunk guys shrieked at us as we circumnavigated Zimm's patio and breezed into the entrance. We were delighted to find available seating in the bar. After 15 minutes of pleading (at least as best as one can plead to a person who is streaking past her at mach 7, trying not to make any eye contact) we procured our own menus from the wait station and our own beer from the bartender. "Good food takes time," the menu read. How long for bad food, we wondered. (Answer: 20 minutes.) Once the lone Zimm's waitress finally arrived at our table she scoffed at our suggestion that maybe we could get something to eat before the Bon Jovi concert started. We opted instead for Zimm's fastest appetizers (including fried mushrooms) and departed Zimm's at about 10 MTD, which only made us about 10 minutes late for the concert.

Des Moines, you know I love ya. But next time I go to one of your big concerts I think I'll eat a popsicle and the broken bits from the bottom of my Doritos bag before I leave the house. I know I'm not any more likely to eat at Zimm's again than I am to pay $14 for an arena cheeseburger.

They were kinda decent mushrooms.

Pretty much the same, but with normal hair

When I was about 11 years old, I was SO going to grow up to be Mrs. Jon Bongiovi. I was convinced that New Jersey had to be about the coolest place in the world to live. And yes, I recorded the "I'll Be There for You" music video on my parents' VCR and watched it back in slow motion. Many times. I just loved when Jon tossed his 80s metal mane and crooned that when I got drunk, he'd be the wine. Like that isn't a stupid lyric or something. And like I even knew what that meant in 1989.

Then there was a period of time during my adolescence and high school days when I was far too deep and artistic to be a bubble gum Bon Jovi fan. So I developed a similar devotion to 90s grunge bands, particularly Nirvana. The first full-fledged concert I ever attended was Nirvana at Palmer Auditorium in Davenport, Iowa -- a few months before Kurt Cobain committed suicide, actually. I was 16. Kurt dumped a bottle of water on me and my friend, Cyndy, and we vowed never to wash the shirts we were wearing again. I mean, probably if I still had that shirt the Smithsonian would be beating down my door right now. (In my own defense, may I just say that my friend Amy has a similar story about Joey from New Kids on the Block spraying her with a garden hose at the Iowa State Fair? So yeah.)

I guess I still thought Jon Bon was cute in the 90s and all. It's just that I preferred more cerebral song lyrics, like "Oh well, whatever, nevermind" to stuff like "Remember at the prom that night? You and me, we had a fight."

So last night's Bon Jovi concert at Wells Fargo Arena was all about indulging my 12-year-old self. And let me just tell you: My 12-year-old self had pretty good taste in hotties. Why is it that men seem to get better looking with age? Because the man is seriously more gorgeouser than ever.

The aforementioned Amy contacted me a loooong time ago about getting tickets to this show, and I'm so glad she did. We didn't spring for the $110+ floor seats, but we still had a decent view among the sellout crowd. The setlist was pretty much perfect for me (possibly excepting the omission of "Lay Your Hands on Me"). Amy really wanted to hear the songs from the movie Young Guns, dating back to her obsession with Emilio Estevez and the time she and her friends were frequent watchers of Young Guns and were pretty sure they spotted Emilio at a McDonald's in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and OH MY GOD they picked up a quarter he dropped on the floor. (See: EVERY woman my age has an embarrassing 80s and/or 90s celebrity crush story! Also: I just can't resist telling Amy's hilarious stories because they are so perfect. And she will probably kill me after she reads this.)

Like everyone else, my favorite Bon Jovi song is "Livin' on a Prayer," so I was 99.9% confident I would get to hear it. And of course I did.

The opening act, which started before we arrived at the concert due to extenuating circumstances which involve me snarfing down a bowl of deep fried mushrooms in 6 minutes and dust particles clouding my retinas and which prove downtown Des Moines is not fully equipped to handle major volumes of event traffic that I may or may not share in more detail later, was Daughtry. I'll admit I had to use the Google to figure out who this cat was before I went to the show, but I'll say he wasn't half bad. In a sad commentary on my aging, my favorite selections from Daughtry ended up being when he played about 1/4 of Motley Crue's "Home Sweet Home" and most of Filter's "Hey Man, Nice Shot." I also noticed several teenagers swooning over Daughtry like he were Jon Bon Jovi or something. I mean, that was weird.

So, I would just like to thank Amy, Kim, Deborah, and my evening at Wells Fargo Arena for reminding me just what a dorky child I was and for giving me the opportunity, under the cover of darkness in Section 307, to revisit the complicated series of hand gestures I once created to go along with the song Bad Medicine.

Shake it up.