Kenny Chesney & Heinz Field Security : Vomit & Condom Dogs

If you're already familiar with my agenda, scroll down to the pic of Hillary.  The time you save could be precious.  Those 2 valuable minutes could have been spent listening to the wisdom of Donald Trump or admiring his neo-sculpted side do.  Life is full of choices. You either read the next few paragraphs or you don't.  You can't have both.  The world is an inherently cruel place.

For the past several years I've been trying to prevent human stampedes.  I know, sounds borderline ridiculous.  But if you phrase it differently... for the past several years, I've been trying to educate the general public and increase fan situational awareness...

LEGITIMATE emergency evacuation orders for large, confined crowds (stadiums, ballparks, motor speedways, etc.) would NEVER be delivered via your personal cell phone.

Well, all of a sudden, it starts to make a lot more sense.  Reason being, if something like this were to occur, it's almost certainly a malicious hoax designed to create a stampede.  There is one other viable possibility I suppose.  That someone is attempting a mass venue evacuation merely for their own personal amusement.  Either way, both scenarios could produce an incredibly dire outcome.  You do not require a doctorate in physics with a minor in communications in order to comprehend the issue.

The problem is this.  Anytime you suggest something that might result in a 9/11-like disaster, and it's something the vast majority of the public has never considered, you'll likely be labeled a crackpot or an imbecile.  Hardly a surprise.  I'm virtually certain that Rick Rescorla (the director for security of Morgan Stanley in the World Trade Center) was viewed with similar disdain when he told fellow employees...

"Hey, I think we should prepare for the possibility that someone might crash a 747 into your office cubicle on the 78th floor.  Since our building has been attacked in the past and remains a high profile target, wouldn't it be wise to acknowledge the fundamental security gaps and try to at least devise some kind of contingency plan?"  Hmmm, I think we all know how this one turned out.

People express a lot of discomfort when trying to cope with unsettling scenarios.  But rather than have a conversation about inconsistencies, vulnerabilities or exploring mitigation options (there aren't any credible ones that address my specific concerns), most people resort to ad hominem attacks and denigration.  They lash out.  Trust me, I get it.

Some surely view me as a stark, raving lunatic.  Others are likely anxious and unable to articulate a counter-argument.  Personally, I don't think I come across as an imprudent buffoon.  Maybe I am.  Maybe I'm not.  I do not know.  However, I do one thing  --- it's incredibly challenging to engage people on hypothetical, asymmetric national security issues.  Especially ones that most people simply could never fathom due to a lack of historical precedent.  A DOMINIPEDE (multiple, simultaneous human stampedes likely impacting the entire NFL 1 o'clock slate of games)?  Well, there you go.  Uhh, something like that would probably qualify.

So I've done all kinds of things to promote the AGSAF awareness campaign.  Books, emails, phone calls, letters, the website/newsletter... like I said, it's a tough one.  One of my zanier promotional ideas was something known as "condom dog."  More on that later.  Now there ain't any money to be made here and not a lot of upside for getting involved.  Unless of course, you just want to tell people the truth (evac orders in NFL stadiums don't come from your personal cell phone) and try to save a life or two along the way.  I'll willingly concede the following: it's some highly speculative, controversial material... assuming you don't own a cell phone or have never seen anyone utilize a wireless device.  Hey, maybe you don't get out that much.
 
And forgive me for trying to lend a hand, but I'm just trying to prevent the worst black swan event in the history of mankind, even surpassing the debilitating emotional toll and inconceivable societal fallout of 9/11 (endless war, diminished standing, trillions wasted, etc.).  So calm down.  If I'm right, it's really not that big a deal.  Just 10 or so near-simultaneous human stampedes with 500 - 1,000 fatalities and somewhere in the realm of 7,500 injuries scattered across nearly a dozen separate locations in the Northeast into the Midwest.  

"Does it really matter?  What difference does it make?" --- Hillary Clinton.

For the love of Santorum, I hope you understand the message.  It's amazing how many people can't seem to grasp the real-world, blaring security disconnect (50,000 - 100,000 active cell phones in any NFL stadium capable of disseminating false information).  Frustrating too.

Let's fast forward to Saturday night.  Kenny Chesney brought his annual shindig hoe-down to Heinz Field.  It's a boot stompin', truck engine rumblin', tobacco spittin', wife-beatin' wearin', non-craft beer drinkin' event of a lifetime.  Don't just take my word for it. 

It's an annual, make that annular, tradition.  Nothing will impede the "Burgers and Dogs" tour  or the "Leggo my Skoal" tour or whatever they're calling it this year.  To be honest, I can't remember the moniker and to execute a Google search would represent a humiliating defeat.

Now last year, Chesney and his cunt-tree coalition bypassed Catsup Stadium due to the trash-brawl publicity fiasco of 2013.  Apparently, shitting in buckets is out-of-bounds.  As is pissing in kiddie wading pools filled with jello or sand.  Also, you're not permitted to sodomize Obama supporting concert-goers with the American flag.  Who woulda thunk it?

More bad stuff happened at this year's concert.  Check out this footage from Pamela Osborne, my second favorite WPXI reporter!

Alright, hang in there with me.  We're approaching the "rouge cou denouement."  That's french for "redneck finale."

G and I have been on a walking binge as of late.  We go pretty much anywhere.  We'll do walking trails, private country club golf courses, shopping malls, cemeteries, parks, bridges, sewage treatment plants, abandoned whorehouses, steps to nowhere... we don't care where.  We just choose a given destination and start walking.

As you may have ascertained, last evening's walk was multiple laps around Heinz Field, encompassing the river trail and the gold lots.  Just an aside... for future Chesney shows, I think they should rename the gold lots... the "golden lots."  As in golden shower.  Simply put, the whole place reeked of piss.  Twas' a biblical plague of urine, likely on par with the flooding in Houston which was recently declared a national disaster.  Hey now, I'm just happy the selfless right wing wackos in Texas are willing to graciously accept relief funds from the current administration.  I foolishly thought some Tex-Mex politicians would refuse the monies based on a fear of centralized government takeover of the lone star state.  Does anyone recall the Rick Perry-inspired idiots yapping about secession in 2012?  Still going strong with Jade Helm I see.  Who the fuck are these people?

Anyway, the stench of urine was both resolute and determined.  Some would say, utterly defiant.  But it wasn't the puddles and streams of piss that piqued my attention.  It was the endless islands of puke.  Pile after pile.  Mound upon mound.  Liquified chunk-laden conglomerates.  Gratuitous heaping smell-bads.  Some featuring Cool Ranch Doritos.  Some with McNugget.  Others showcasing corn dog.  One even featuring "The Artist Formerly Known as Bucket of Hot Wings."  Not quite sure what that means.  Suffice to say, it was a vomitous upheaval.  And that just triggered a recollection --- it's the Big Revival Tour.  Yee-haw.  Lookie there ma!  That's Kinny with Big Ben (pronounced bihn).
 

Alright.  Now in the words of Led Zeppelin, we're finally "gonna bring it on home."  Or in the words of Kenny Chesney, "we gonna git r' dun."  I'm assuming he had at least a minimal role in the creation of that anguished rallying oink.  A sad testimony if you think about it.  Let's be honest.  Chesney isn't fit to carry the Pig Man's jock.

Okle Dokle.  So we have a Kenny Chesney parking lot and a whole lotta drunk, stomach spewing morons.  Whaddya got in mind?  CONDOM DOG, BABY!!!  Not only do you bring back condom dog, you bring it back the other way!  --- Rage Against the Machine lead singer whose name escapes me

Regrettably, this idea came to me on 279N.  Too little, too late.  But I can always share and promote this earth-shattering concept.  Ohh, the power of the internet.

Just go to your local Piggly Wiggly and buy a pack of cheap hot dogs.  It'll probably set you back about a buck.  Toss them in the freezer.  Next, take a trip to your local health department and ask for a bag of free condoms.  They'll be more than happy to give you a baker's dozen of prophylactics.

Now right before you head off to the big show, remove the individual dogs and apply each rubber accordingly.  You'll end up with something like this.

If any of this makes you feel uncomfortable, just try to think of it in terms of promoting responsible birth control and safe sex at a Mormon gang bang in a suburb outside Provo, Utah.  That should help alleviate the "seediness" factor.

Now place all the newly suited condom dogs in a large ziplock bag.  Discreetly store in cooler.  Throw cooler in the back of your jacked-up Ford F-10,000 pick-up truck and drive to the Carnegie Science Center lot next to Heinz Field.  Pay the reasonable $75 parking fee and find a spot.  You've now established a credible forward military base for "Operation Condom Dog."

This is where your special journey begins.  Every time you see a pile of vomit, gently place a condom dog in the middle of it.  Or you can go hog-wild and throw it down with reckless abandon.  BLAM!  I suggest singing that unforgettable commercial lyrical ditty "Trojan Man."  Adds that element of mystique with a celebration of song and dance... or if you will... boot, scoot and boogie... or if you prefer... puke, fuck and shitty. 

Now anywhere there's a splattering of vomit.  Yep, you guessed it.  Condom Dog is on the scene, making its presence felt.  But this activity represents something of vastly greater magnitude.  It's not just some discarded low-end meat wrapped in synthetic latex.  Lest ye forget the underlying purpose, the overriding mission, the humanitarian cause --- HUMAN STAMPEDE PREVENTION at any NFL stadium.  That's right, bitches.  Anytime a person sees that "condom dog in a pile of puke," it will naturally signal a message of situational awareness for fans who are about to enter an NFL stadium.  It's the critical public safety information which the government and private industry are unwilling to divulge.  The common sense, 5th grade level information that's deliberately concealed from the general population.

LEGITIMATE emergency stadium evacuation orders would NEVER come from your personal cell phone.  If something like this were to occur, it is an attempt to maim and kill innocent people by weaponizing a human stampede.

People have a fundamental right to know... 

that if they're in a large, confined crowd and receive an evacuation order and/or panic-inducing information from their cell phone or mobile device...

 
it's almost certainly a hoax designed to create an artificially generated stampede.

My only regret.  This whole promotional campaign/marketing endeavor popped into my head on our way home.  Thus lamentably, no pics.  However, next year I will put this plan into action.  And by the way, the yearly Kenny Chesney concert at Heinz Field does NOT have a monopoly on condom dog.  However, I defy you to find a superior concert or sporting event which embraces the spirit and essence of that which is condom dog.  Good.  Fucking.  Luck.

So if you believe in truth and justice, and to a lesser extent, vomit and condom dogs... if you found this information helpfully disconcerting or beneficially disgusting... instead of throwing it up, throw it out.  Share this blog link with any trending hash tag on any social media platform.  And if you know anyone affiliated with the NFL or any stadium concert performers (remnants of the Grateful Dead, Rolling Stones, etc.), fill 'em in.  Personally, I'd like to see One Direction or even Taylor Swift get involved... although the role of Condom Dog would likely be rendered marginally insignificant due to a lack of copious vomit.  

Thank you for your consideration,
AGSAF

Reverse Bandit: 2015 Pittsburgh Marathon

Back in 1994, a short, stocky, slow-witted bald man decided to do everything "the opposite."  His name was Costanza.  Even non-Seinfeld fans have a vague recollection of the season finale where George undergoes one of the most vivid transformations in the history of modern television.  I happened to watch that episode the day before the Pittsburgh Marathon and it triggered something deep within my soul.

Long story short, I came up with an idea that would irreparably alter the course of humanity.  I invented the concept of "reverse bandit."

First, a brief explanation.  I've been a runner since high school.  Cross country, track and a little soccer.  I wouldn't classify myself as passionate or obsessed.   I'm more of a part-time exercise enthusiast.  But I have stuck with it for the past two decades.  Mostly in the 5-10 kilometer range.  Keep in mind, I've never seriously considered the notion of doing an entire 26.2 mile marathon.  It's just way out of my league.   

Some additional background.  The Pittsburgh Marathon was recently ranked #8... on the planet earth.  That's right.  Outclassing races in Tokyo and San Francisco, even Paris and London.  We may lack the Eiffel Tower and Big Ben. But we do have the U.S. Steel Tower and Big Ben.  Huzzah.

Now for those unfamiliar with the jogging industry, there's a derogatory term for people who enter a race without the proper credentials.  They're called "race bandits."  They don't pay the fee.  They don't sign a waiver.  They don't get a numbered tag.  They just show up and run.  Many have the audacity to snag a bottle of water and some will even smile while consuming an Eat'n'Park cookie.  People who do this are generally not well-received.  The closest approximation would be something along the lines of a "volunteer scab."  Blah.

Lest ye forget, the inspiration for this article is grounded in the George Costanza metamorphosis.  As I reflected on that Seinfeld episode, a crazy idea popped into my head.  What if I were to do the entire marathon... but do it in reverse?  Walk not run.  Start at the finish line and finish at the starting line.  Just do everything the opposite.  The mere thought of this was like getting a B12 shot.  Let's just say... I think it moved.

So I searched on all kinds of phrases.  Reverse marathon, backwards relay, inverted racing, intransigent bandit and so on.  But nothing came up.  This left me even more determined and resolute.  I was going to be the first ever pseudo-official reverse bandit.  I was going to go where no runner had gone before, n'at.   

As far as preparation went, there's not much to describe.  I went to the official website and printed out the precise directions and a nifty map.  Roughly twelve distinct neighborhoods winding through the city of Pixburgh.  I figured the whole escapade would last about 6 hours. 

Sunday morning May 3 came early.  Fortunately, my girlfriend wakes up for work at 5 am on the weekends.  And since she was heading downtown, it was a perfect fit.  She could drop me off directly at the finish line. 

The majority of runners choose to "carb up" with an intravenously administered, liquified entree of fettuccine alfredo.  However, I opted for chicken salad, on rye, untoasted, with a side of potato salad and a cup of tea.  Just kidding.  I had a slice of pumpernickel, a hard boiled egg and a cup of coffee.

When most runners prepare for battle, they spend plenty of cash on electronic gadgets and expensive attire.  I on the other hand had some grass-stained tennis shoes, a bottle of water and a handful of napkins.  No cell phone, no money, no ipod, no keys, no identification, no nothing.  On second thought, I had two things.  A hastily emblazoned t-shirt with the term "reverse bandit" and something else of far greater significance.  My mission, my purpose, my cause.  For the last several years, I've been an ardent supporter of AGSAF, the Artificially Generated Stampede Awareness Foundation.  No time for a thorough explanation.  Suffice to say, it ain't the Human Fund.  If you wish, feel free to google it on the internet machine.

Now from what I've heard, the most important thing one can do before a big race is get a good night's sleep.  Instead, me and the woman went to an outdoor Hall & Oates concert at Stage AE.  In the shadow of Heinz Field, that venue rarely disappoints.

Gigi dropped me off right on schedule.  5:30 am at the Boulevard of the Allies (how prophetic --- I'd need all the help I could get).  She gave me some added inspiration with a prepared written statement.  "Eric, most people think you're out of touch.  But I will always encourage you to do what you want, be what you are.  Say it isn't so, but you make my dreams come true.  And while I wanted to join you this morning, I just can't go for that."  We both chimed in unison, "no can do."  She then gave me a kiss and wished me luck.

I headed up Liberty Avenue through the Strip District with a moderate pace.  It was cold and dark.  Keep in mind, I was doing everything in reverse so except for the police, emergency med techs and race volunteers, the course was largely deserted.  A few miles in, the sun began to rise.  Soon after would come my first meaningful encounter.  I was accosted by an elderly hippie sitting on a Victorian porch near the intersection of Friendship Avenue.  He beckoned, "What the hell does reverse bandit mean?"  I explained how it was a burgeoning concept in alternative competition.  I clamored back, "It ain't all about fame and fortune.  Reverse bandit is here to stay.  It's the wave of the future."

He heckled back, "Ya know, we're living in a society!  We're supposed to act in a civilized way!"  I told him I didn't think his behavior was representative of the Friendship community in which he resided.

This was no ordinary hippie espousing peace and love.  Quite the contrary, I could sense his seething bitterness and pent-up rage.  And lemme tell ya something, he sure was angry that day.  Like an old man trying to send back matzah ball soup in a Squirrel Hill deli.  So much for Woodstock and freedom rock.  I journeyed onward.

On the outskirts of Homewood, I glanced at a homeless man in an alley.  He was eying up my plastic water as if it were a bottle of Dom Perignon.  I wished him a pleasant afternoon but he snarled back, "Can't stand ya."  Considering the recent spate of negativity, I started to wonder if I should just quit.  Maybe this wasn't all worth it.

By the time I hit Shadyside, I made first contact with the para-cyclists.  Then a trio of elite male athletes passed me in Oakland.  Things were starting to pick up.  The concentration of runners was growing more dense.  An old high school friend spotted me and yelled my name.  I hollered back, "TARRAGON!"  Note: his last name has been altered to protect against any affiliation with those deemed undesirable (me).

As I approached the Birmingham Bridge, everything turned into a sea of absolute chaos.  It brought to mind images of stampeding wildebeests along the Serengeti.  Everyone coming directly at me, pounding the pavement, jostling for leverage and position.  I tried to keep an eye out for people I knew, but the mass of humanity had a dizzying effect.  So I stuck to the sidewalk and focused on the path forward.

Fun fact for you.  The Pittsburgh Marathon incorporates four bridges, crossing three landmark rivers.  There's the Allegheny, Ohio and the Mon (pronounced Mahn), short for Monongahela.  Hey, there's nothing wrong with a little geographical enlightenment.  Even the oil and gas industry has fallen in love with our scenic waterways.  Go figure.  Drill baby drill.  Seriously, what the frick/frack is/was that?

I began to sense a growing trend.  Many of the runners were evolving into alternative life forms.  There was Batman, a sumo wrestler, the infamous Super Bowl Left Shark, a couple of giant hot dogs and even the Greatest American Hero which triggered that memorable 1981 theme song in my head.  "Believe it or not, it's just me."  Reminiscent of an answering machine from a man who's self-described as totally inadequate, completely insecure, paranoid, neurotic.  He even used to wear a toupee.  I'd give him a ring, but I think he'd screen me out.  "Believe it or not, I'm not home."

   
As I ventured deeper into the Southside, I spotted a maniacal, shirtless freak.  Covered with tattoos, chiseled with bodily piercings and sporting earlobe discs the size of frisbees.  He was repeatedly screaming at the top of his lungs, "Yinz got this!  Yinz got this!"  I think everyone has had an encounter with one of these reptilian imposters.  Let me be honest.  I'm a social liberal who's very accepting of others, but the lizard people really bother me.  I think it's a combination of distasteful annoyance and abhorrent revulsion.

Slowly but surely, the crowd began to dwindle.  All that remained were some vigilant sanitation workers cleaning up a gazillion discarded cups.  By the time I reached the beginning of the West End, I was alone again.  I carried on through the North Side, clutching my directions.  I remained beholden to a simple theory.  Every direction was the opposite.  Right was left.  Left was right.  Up was down.  Black was white.  Good was bad.  Day was night.

In considerable pain, I made my triumphantly twisted return to the Strip District.  A blister had formed on my left foot.  My neck was sore and my back was killing me.  But I had finally reached the starting line.  The sound of silence reverberated.  Hooah!  Or in this case HUA, the Marine slogan which stands for heard, understood and acknowledged.  I felt a calm sense of reassurance despite being actively denied all three prior characterizations.

Suddenly it dawned on me.  I didn't have a ride home.  So I hobbled over to the definitive finish line.  The crowd was enormous.  The runners alone easily tallied over 30,000.  Factor in family and friends and the Point State Park throng was likely in the range of 100,000.  By some sort of Sunday miracle, I spotted my old friend Tarragon.  Turns out he was heading to the airport which was in my general homeward direction.  Let's just say it takes a very special kind of person... who's willing to pester someone that just ran 26+ miles.  My exact words, "Dude, you gotta gimme a ride, man."

On the way home, we had a fascinating discussion about asymmetric national security threats, the proliferation of cellular technology, wireless hyper-connectivity, situational awareness, civil rights and generational warfare.  We even talked about my decision to embrace the role of reverse bandit.

I asked him, "Hey, I'm just curious.  As a legit marathon runner, what's your honest opinion of this whole reverse bandit thing?  Is what I did okay?  Or am I just living a lie?"  

He replied, "Saf, just remember.  It's not a lie... if you believe it."

Tarragon continued, "I gotta be honest, I think what you've accomplished deserves some kind of recognition.  You just need a hook.  As far as Pittsburgh goes, everyone knows about the immaculate reception.  How about we label your disturbing achievement as... the immaculate rejection?"

Hmm, that has a nice ring to it.  I think I'll secure the domain rights.

So just remember.  There are those who finish first.  And there are those who finish last.  And then there are those who do it in in reverse.  Regardless, I'll be back next year.  Same Burgh time.  Same Burgh channel.


Incidentally, if you happen to know a marathon runner who enjoys Seinfeld humor, feel free to share this blog.  Unlike the television show, this isn't about nothing.  It's about something.

Styx concert review, Pittsburgh, Stage AE, 5-8-15

Gigi and I zipped down to the Styx concert last night at Stage AE. 

Styx is best seen as a headlining act.  I prefer them immensely more when they're doing an entire concert rather than being sandwiched in between Night Ranger and Foreigner.  Ya know what I mean? 

I've seen them a few times.  Once in 2004 at the Capitol Music Hall in Wheeling and they were really impressive.  No ticket stub.  I vaguely recall walking right past the ticket scanner dude while clutching a draft beer.  The crowd was electric that night.  I also saw them at Wheeling Island Stadium with REO Speedwagon in 2009.  This was one of those embarrassing concerts where all the Wheeling bigwigs show up and were forced to intermix with the Island rats.  And get their classic groove-on with the Bell-Dirtiers.  A rare conflagration of Ohio Valley entities --- upper echelon, East Ohio rednecks and WV hillbillies.  There's gonna be a party.

A fond recollection from the Capitol Music Hall performance: one of our friends (who I usually refer to as "man-boy lovechild") was trying to impress a young lady with his stellar "credentials" --- a backstage pass indicating some kind of laminated security access to a deluxe port-a-potty.  As he was trying to sway the attention of this young hottie, I entered the fray and asked him if he could get "Styx to sign my cock."  The girl laughed and turned her attention towards me which temporarily infuriated his sensibilities.  What can I say?  I personally thought it was hysterical.

After she left, he said, "Saf, why do you always fuck with me like that.  It's just not cool!"  I replied, "Hey man, I just wanted the band members to autograph my dick.  Is that really asking too much?"  Funny shit.  At least I think so. 

So what about the show last night?  Let's do a brief run-thru.  Suffice to say, these guys are legit rock stars.  Every band member has an over-the-top level of enthusiasm without appearing overtly silly.  Tons of energy.   The first few songs were exceptionally solid.  Grand Illusion is such a strong choice for an opener.   Followed by Too Much Time On My Hands.  I'm not normally a huge fan of cover tunes, but the Beatles rip off of "I am the Walrus" was a worthwhile endeavor.  Unfortunately, the Lawrence Gowan keyboard medley-mashup towards the end was a little too hokey.  A cornball rendition of snippets from the Stones, Paul McCartney and Queen.  Well executed but kind of zany.  Just not my cup of tea.  If this was actual tea, I'd compare it to that spiced mandarin orange crap in our kitchen.  I prefer grandma's tea, King Diamond style.  Now that is a fine cup of tea.  Also, peppermint and Earl Grey.

One observation and suggestion: If you're going to heavily utilize synthesizers, it's actually cool to go overboard.  I wish Tommy Shaw (lead vocal, guitars) would incorporate his solo tune "Girls With Guns" into the tour.  It's one of those hidden gems of the mid-1980's.  A diamond in the rough song popularized when Crockett and Tubbs ventured into the everglades to rescue some girl that was kidnapped.  Check it.

Honestly, how fucking cool was that 3 minute version of "I can't believe it's not a crockett of tubbs" driving down I-95?

And guess who snagged a Tommy Shaw guitar pic.  Yep, the evil one himself... sonofsaf.

Here's a humorous Miami Vice anecdote.  A couple years ago I was at Gigi's family Christmas dinner and they were discussing the movie Elf.  I chimed in, "Oh, I'm a huge fan of Elf.  That show was way ahead of its time.  Very futuristic.  So much vision."  Everyone looked at me like I was a complete imbecile.  Gigi figured out the misinterpretation and said, "He thinks you're talking about Alf the sitcom... not Elf the movie."  Several people chuckled.  For some reason, we thought it downright was hysterical.  I guess you had to be there.  Or maybe not.

So here's the full setlist.

The Grand Illusion
Too Much Time on My Hands
Fooling Yourself (The Angry Young Man)
Lady
Lorelei
Man in the Wilderness
I'm O.K.
Light Up
I Am the Walrus
Suite Madame Blue

INTERMISSION

Miss America
Lights
Crystal Ball
Pieces of Eight
Blue Collar Man (Long Nights)
Medley
Come Sail Away

* Rockin' the Paradise
* Renegade


Guess who snagged a setlist?  Yep, G.  Just the second half though.

Anyway, since this is a review about Styx playing in the shadow of Heinz Field (the Rooney super-colliding cauldron of pain and punishment).  Well... no critique would be complete without a super-cool link to Renegade.  The band is accompanied by the Cleveland Youth Symphony Orchestra.  This entire concert is well worth the watch.  More bands should try stuff like this.

And since were talkin' Steelers, I might as well mention how this morning, I spoke briefly with Tunch Ilkin and Craig Wolfley regarding my concerns about obsolete NFL stadium emergency evacuation protocol.  I intentionally ran into them at a 5K Walk for the Homeless.  They sponsor it every year in tandem with a religious Baptist affiliate on the North Side.  I'm not sure if all the overt references to Christ being battered and bludgeoned to death were necessary... but hey, I get it.  I've sacrificed for my cause as well.  Certainly not to the extent of Jesus Christ dying for the sins of mankind, but a lot of people do make condescending remarks.  The Wheeling police department used to call me "manifesto fucktard."

One funny anecdote --- KDKA weather forecaster Dennis Bowman was on stage and remarked about how he has been around a lot longer than Tunch or Wolf.  He even said, and I quote, "They tallied the number of shows I've done... Sixty six thousand, six hundred (hint - that's 66,600)."  I think he may have been making a slight mockery of all the excessive Christian brainwashin' goin' on with a subtle 666 reference.  Regrettably, only me and him picked up on the quick, verbal jab.

I spoke with others as well.  Among them, Pittsburgh City Council person Natalia Rudiak and Allegheny County Executive Rich Fitzgerald.  She was incredibly pleasant and receptive.  Give her your vote.  On the other hand, there was Fitzgerald.  He listened but honestly didn't give a shit.  Do not vote for this man.

ISIS and the Foosball Gods

When 9/11 went down, I was 31 years old.  Now I'm 44.

gratuitous photo of plane about to hit building

I generally understood the premise for the war in Afghanistan.  The Taliban were sheltering Al Qaeda.  Either turn them over or we'll be forced to go in and "smoke them out of their holes."  That's a W-Bush line for the ages.  Deserving of honorable mention as it just so happens I recently stocked up on Lonestar beef jerky.  Hands down the best smoke-filled, tangiest flavor of them all.

So even though Afghaninstan was comprised of xenophobes.  Even though there was no central government to topple.  Even though their culture is insane in the brain and their terrain is insane in the membrane.  Despite all the facts and conjecture... at the time, none of it mattered.  Screw them.  America had right of vengeance.  Trust me, I get it. 

But when the war shifted to Iraq, I became incredibly skeptical.  And when Bush said, "We'll be welcomed as heroes for freeing the Iraqi people," well... I knew for a fact that he was full of shit.  If there's one constant throughout the history of mankind it's this --- no people like being invaded and no nation enjoys being occupied.  It doesn't require critical analysis of every major war ever fought.  All you need to do is invoke the golden rule.  How would we feel if Iraq invaded us?  Call me crazy, but if Saddam's forces went patrollin' out the crick, I sense the average redneck would cling to their bible, whip out their shotgun and go Haji hunting.

No duh.  It would be fucking open fucking season.

The cold reality of war: after the dust settles, anyone who performs their routine jobs of working with the newly established puppet government (picking up the garbage, delivering the mail, paving the roads, etc.) will be seen as collaborators with the foreign infidels.  Because in the immediate aftermath of a "victory," the enemy becomes multifaceted.  Everybody despises each other.  Societal trust goes out the window and everything descends into, at the very least, a 10 year counterinsurgency.  The think-tank policy "experts" might not tell you.  But uhh, it's called people fighting back.  I don't think this requires a keen understanding of Sunni/Shia politics, Muslim extremism or geo-political turbulence.  It's all just common sense.  We invade + they resist = extended civil war.  Enough said.

I'm certainly not an expert on the Middle East.  Not unlike our commander in chief at the time who received his Masters in International Studies from Taco Bell with a doctorate in military theory from Chipotle.  It was obvious to me that Bush was pretty much an unwitting patsy for the Dick Cheney agenda.  You don't need a degree from Yale or Harvard Business School.  All it takes is a 2 year associates degree from Jackson Hole Community College.  Hey, that's where they teach you about safety issues... like how not to shoot your best friend in the face.

And just to play devil's advocate here.  I'm not some peace-promotin' liberal hippie brainwashed from years of listening to freedom rock...

I do think you can make a semi-rational argument, that at the time (early 2000's), Afghanistan wouldn't have been "enough" for the American public.  It's not entirely unreasonable to view the Iraq War from the perspective of the United States having to send the world a "message" --- we cannot accept or tolerate the possibility of a nation state joining forces or aligning itself with a suicidal terrorist group.  I don't happen to agree with the whole WMD line of reasoning.  But I do understand why it worked.  Once again, trust me.  I get it.  And call me crazy, but I don't think we've seen the last of the mushroom cloud argument.

Enough with the preamble.  Let's just say I recognized the core dilemma with the occupation of Afghanistan and was bitterly opposed to the war in Iraq.  And we'll leave it at that.

So now, there's the Islamic State in Iraq & Syria.  Regrettably, most Americans think ISIS was married to superhero Aquaman and they took their honeymoon on the Nile River.  The rest think ISIS is some new brand of flavored Aquafina.  Just an aside --- worst bottled water on the planet is Dasani.  Tastes like liquified mineral rust.  How ironic.  Get it?  See what I did there?

Anyway, now there's ISIS.  They're being labeled as the most brutal, barbaric, sadistic enemy in the history of mankind.  Hmmm.  Sound familiar?  Does anyone remember the CIA leaking propaganda about Saddam's kids Uday and Qusay?  Assuming the U.S. gubmint is the ultimate conveyor belt of truth, a typical evening for these guys started with them heading out on the town in their twin Lamborghinis, frequenting the hippest Baghdad nightspots.  Then, they'd randomly choose a couple of women from the crowd and have their bodyguards drug them.  Then, they'd rape them.  But the fun didn't stop there.  Such an ending would be anti-climactic.  Finally, they'd go to the Baghdad Zoo and FEED THEM TO THE LIONS!  Not joking.

So first, a disclaimer.  I AM NOT PRO-ISIS.  Department of Homeland Security, do you hear me?  I know you keep an eye out for agitators like myself who try to educate the general public.  Allow me to reiterate.  I do not wish to travel to Damascus.  I have no desire to attend services at the local Mosque.  I do not lay down prayer carpet, kneel and bow toward Mecca.  I am not changing my name from Eric to Abdullah.  I am not going to suddenly embrace a new diet consisting of figs and dates.  Although I do like pistachios and kebabs.

For cryin' out loud, I'm an atheist Jew.  ISIS hates me far more than your average Bob Evans down on the farm, Sugardale bacon-eatin', bible-totin', ark-boarding Christian.  Normally, it would be unnecessary to blather on and on, but DHS and our federal government at-large have entered a new phase --- they like to monitor unruly kids from Omaha, Nebraska who smoke pot and google strange words like "dominipede."

Now here's the problem daddio.  When you make all these anti-ISIS statements, there's a natural inclination for any competent up'n'comer in the NSA to get pretty suspicious.  After all, I just went to incredible lengths to distance myself from ISIS.  What if I'm trying to hide my true feelings and intentions.  What if I'm putting out a black-op cover story?  Why do I get the feeling there's an underground cubicle bunker in Quantico, VA with a group resembling this trio? 

With summer rapidly approaching, it can be very tempting to hang out in the 122 degrees fahrenheit desert with a group of murderous, fun lovin' criminals (underrated song).  After all, the lure of ISIS is strong.  Throw in a sandy hotspot vacation destination like Ramadi or Aleppo and a squadron of tempting, pious virgins.  Hell, you've got all the pertinent ingredients for a top secret bouillabaisse recipe.  And that smells like something fishy!

Fortunately these days, everyone is innocent until proven guilty.  Yeah, right.  And I'm gonna run the Pittsburgh Marathon backwards (Intentional sarcasm.  I just did something yesterday called "reverse bandit."  Probably the topic of my next blog).

So now, I've determined it necessary to offer convincing, undeniable proof that I have no intention of joining the terrorist group ISIS.  This is going to be surprisingly easier than might think.

I recently read a CNN front page article about everyday life under the ISIS regime.  This might come as a surprise, but life isn't really all that unusual.  They offer prenatal care and issue birth certificates.  They have welfare-oriented programs for those deemed less fortunate.  They even have a functional civilian judicial system.  Now unfortunately it's grounded in Sharia.  So if you steal a loaf of bread, they do cut your hands off.  But that kind of shit never happens with their opposition in Saudi Arabia.  The only bad thing happening in Riyadh is when a 70 year old man buys himself an 8 year old wife.  Other than that, living under the House of Saud regime is actually quite pleasant.

Here's where ISIS and I start to go our separate ways.  Let me paraphrase an excerpt from the aforementioned CNN article:

Under ISIS, even entertainment is regulated.  Foosball can be played, provided there is no gambling and the faces or heads are taken off the figurines to prevent idol worship.

Is it just me, or does this ISIS group have an obsession with chopping off heads?

An honest admission.  I have this same exact obsession.  See, when a foosball player dies (gets broken in half due to plastic/pin breakage as a result of repeated blunt force trauma to the torso), its spirit goes to foosball heaven.  But I like to preserve the decapitated remains.  I actually treasure these fallen heroes and worship their heads.  As Worf the Klingon, head of security for the Starship Enterprise, would often claim, "they died with honor... in battle."  So naturally, I believe they deserve to be properly memorialized.  In this case, that means lining up the severed heads on the window sill.

I'll occasionally play with the heads.  I know, kinda morbid.

 Even the cats get involved.  Here's Tyson debating the fate of each victim.

And here's a silhouette of Kitters licking his chops.

We honor their service by placing these "foos-skulls" on the window sill.  It's critical their headless bodies bask in the sunlight bestowed upon us by the foosball gods --- Ching Wa, Tung Ti and Tongue Twat.  Fuck ISIS.  These are gods I worship.  And I have the evidence to back it up.  Below are the foosball terms taken from Chapter 3 of my autobiography.

As you can see, I'm not making this shit up.  Everything has been documented with great care and precision.

Please note the three most commonly asked questions in foosball.  These answers have never been made available for public consumption... until now.

1.  Who hails from Pakistan?  Well, that's an easy one.  It's our friend Babu Bott who regrettably got deported, but later reemerged and exacted testimonial vengeance in the season finale.

I like how Jerry is swaying along to the haunting chants of Babu.

2.  Most foosball players resemble one man.  Who is this man?  Well, it's our good buddy from Massachusetts, the late Senator Edward Kennedy.

Even the more generic foosball characters have a striking resemblance.  Just take a youthful pic and do the hair-part from the opposite side.

Kennedy has my respect and admiration.  But ISIS probably views Teddy Kennedy like they would any other bastard, heathen infidel.  With seething contempt and unadulterated disdain.

3.  What are the most despicable acts of foosball terrorism?  This answer admittedly has nothing to do with ISIS.  Spinning.  Spinners are the ultimate scourge of foosball.  Anyone who does this shalt be referred to as "spinner faggot" regardless of gender or sexual orientation.  The other no-no is setting a drink or lit cigarette on the table.  But Saf, what about the built-in drink holders?  To that I say, fuck you.  Listen up.  Nothing good can possibly come of this.  So why should it be permitted?

And one other point --- you're also not allowed to kick the table in frustration.  Although I actually encourage it if you're playing barefoot.  As far as I'm concerned, punishment will be meted out by the sturdy butcher block legs of the Tornado Cyclone II.  Translation: I hope you crack your shin and break your toes... asshole.  There is one exception to the rule - if you happen to be playing against one of these karate villains:

They don't sweep legs, they break 'em.

All of this should serve as ample proof that I have no affiliation or connection to ISIS in any way whatsoever.  However, if these intransigent denials still give you reason for pause or suspicion... I've purposely saved this final pic.  No explanation necessary.  Behold!  The foosball cross of purity in all its glory.

Recollections of Rundgren , Pittsburgh (4-25-15)

Last night, five of us went to see Todd Rundgren at Stage AE.  It was a rare indoor seated show.  They actually brought out the "plastique" folding chairs and bound them together with these irrevocable twisty ties.  In a venue that normally reaches capacity near 1800, somehow this show managed to "sellout" around the 500 range.  And there were still loads of empty seats in the upper deck.  Mr. Rundgren was shooting for an air of intimacy.  He wanted to connect with the fans. 

As I reflect on everything the following morning, I began to wonder... exactly what did I witness?  The bizarre truth --- I honestly have no idea.  This human deejay machine was front and center. Imagine Mitt Romney storming the stage dressed as Flavor Flav?  Yeahhh boyyy!   That's how things kinda got pumped up.  "Everybody in the house!  We got any Roethlisbergers up in da hizzy?  Can I get a McKees Rocks?  Can I get a whoop whoop?  Let's do the Crafton humpty-hump!  Pittsbuuuurghhhh."

Okay, if that wasn't peculiar enough, these two afro-headed, solid-golded dancers grooved onto the stage.  Except they weren't black.  One was white, the other quasi-Filipino.  They both had the general background disco moves down pat.  But they lacked the spot-on choreography.  Throughout the evening they followed the same routine, but one of them would occasionally throw in an errant Pulp Fiction sideways peace-sign dance insignia while the other would do a Chubby Checker twist.

And then out came Rundgren.

You might remember Todd as kind of an "off-broadway", semi-obscure singer song writer of the early 70's.  Most people remember him for "Hello It's Me" or know him as the Green Bay Packers "I Don't Wanna Work, I just Want To Bang On These Drums All Day" Lambeau Leap touchdown song.  No music in the background here.  This clip serves as a bad microcosm for went wrong last night.

Without even the slightest hint of sarcasm, let's just say that Todd has taken things in a new direction.  The timing for my blog is a bit ironic because I recently did some light reading on the subject of transhumanism.  Without getting too involved, transhumanism is the sci-fi inspired field of study which suggests that mankind is gradually evolving toward a complete integration with artificial super-intelligence.  It's the notion that we will eventually transcend beyond the "human form" and strive toward this intellectual superiority, a "singularity" if you will.  It's really not that crazy IF you take a long-term event horizon.  It's the same suggestion I give to people who cannot fathom the prospect a dominipede (multiple, simultaneous artificially generated stampedes).  There's a discernible inevitability in play you morons.  Maybe not the doomsday scenario of the entire NFL 1 o'clock slate.  But it shouldn't be that difficult to comprehend.

And coming off the heels of the Presidential Correspondents Dinner, there's even a 2016 presidential candidate named Zoltan Istvan.  He's a Columbia grad and leader of the Transhumanist Party.  For those of you who follow politics, he poses a serious threat to the electoral chances of, well... Ralph Nader's half-brother Ralph-Malph Nader (the transcendental basket weaving, Happy Days quantum equivalent candidate... and that's assuming Fonzie's floral cousin Spike doesn't throw his leather chapeau in the ring).  Enough.

Call me crazy, but I think Todd Rundgren is desperately trying to evolve into some kind of higher-techno life form.  But he's not winning.  Perhaps somewhere in the realm of Charlie Sheen's breakdown a few years back.

This tour was all his new material.  If anything, the "sound" is certainly unique.  It's a musical extravaganza grounded in a journey through the eyes of beleaguered electronica house music.  With hints of gospel and televangelism.  Some of the crowd appeared to be gearing up for their church indoctrination session about 12 hours too early.  There was this one old lady down front who appeared to be speaking in tongues.  Try extrapolating based on this audacious hag...

Most of the crowd was in the 50-70 range.  It made Gigi and I feel young again.  I mean, at least we tried... but the music was just sooo bad.

Okay.  So Todd Rundgren is on stage.  With the exception of one tune, he refrained from picking up a guitar or any musical instrument.  It's just him sidling around, shuffling off to Beaver and crooning along.  And his voice doesn't exactly qualify as Clay Aiken.  In fact, it kind of left us "achin."  More of a mesmerizing, mind-numbingly arthritic pain in the exhaustive arse.  It was just him shimmying to both sides of the stage like Ozzy Osbourne searching for a lost golden retriever.  He would "saunter" all over the place in this extra large t-shirt with just the slightest hint of a Milwaukee's Best Light beer belly.  We call it the MBLBB.

Rundgren seemed to be searching for something.  Like a disoriented amateur bowler seeking some kind of holy grail.  Like an omniscient Arby's commercial overseer beckoning for the meats.  The whole concert was like a juiced up revival on low-grade Viagra.  The entire production would just have been better suited for an evangelist's carnival tent.  It's difficult to put it in words.  You really had to see it, to believe it. 

Suddenly, we were taken on a journey back in time, to mother fuckin' ancient Egypt.  As an atheist Jew, I have a difficult time grasping the objectives of the Muslim brotherhood.  I'm more of Steve Martin-inspired wild'n'crazy guy. 

Sorry but this clip was the best available.  What a travesty.  I despise the legions of trolling trademark attorneys whose sole purpose is to scour the internet.  Their overriding agenda --- to deprive future generations of absolutely anything which espouses even the slightest hint of creativity and merit.  This video has been blocked by Sony Corporation.  I hope you Sony executives get hacked to death by Isis and then sodomized by homophobic Saudi royalty.

I kept thinking the background Rundgren dancers were going to break into electric boogaloo-Banglerama Walk Like An Egyptian mode.

But they never did.

In dire need of a sabbatical, we ventured into the empty VIP upstairs bar.  An old baldo was asleep in the corner.  We sat around and joked about how certain people in the crowd were literally in tears.  Not tears of musical joy.  More likely delusional streams of dismay and chagrin.  An apt location for the confluence of three rivers. 

I actually started to sympathize for the Rundgren brand.  That's brand.  Not band.  There was no band.  Exactly what had led him into this altered dimension?  I speculated.  Maybe he was just fulfilling the terms of a multi-decade contract.  You know --- I'm the head honcho of Deftone Records and you must put out a new LP every 10 years or we'll haul your ass into Santa Monica magistrate court.  So faced with that possibility, Rundgren took it to the East Coast.  He holed up in a Myrtle Beach Econo-Lodge for a long weekend with his Casio keyboard and churned out some viciously agonizing material.  I'm not being sarcastic here.  I think something like this may have transpired during the summer doldrums of 2014.

So that's my final take.  Like Hesh on the Sopranos used to say, "There's good and there's not good.   This is not good."  Again, it becomes necessary to click on the youtube icon in the lower right hand corner.

If you don't value my opinion, then take it from Hesh... you do not wish to partake in that which constitutes the mummified hip-hop Rundgren. 

Let's put it in terms a douchebag foodie could understand.  This concert was like eating a rotten spring roll filled with rancid cabbage (pronounce the word cabbage like Republican casino magnate Sheldon Adelson would say the word garbage... with a pompous Frenchie-Jew twang "ghar bahge").  And then, we shall snap repeated i-phone pics of the vomitous upheaval.

I wonder who the fuck sponsored this tour?  Geritol?  Depends Undergarments?  Donald Trump and his line of hipster dufus toupees?  Jockeys on acid drinking mint juleps at the Kentucky Derby?   Seriously, what the fuck was this? 

So we dropped our friend off and called it a night.  I had some bad dreams last night.  Visions of a perpetual, robotic fisting.  An arsenal of gay pride.  Deep in the butthole.  Thumping over and over.  On and On.  Pulsating onward and upward.  Taking me higher and higher... but ultimately lower and lower into a strobe-like sewer of despair.

The Return of The Stones (Heinz Field, 6-20-15)

A concert review is traditionally written after the show ends and the band has left town.  Some fan scribbles down a generally uninspired account of their evening.  They played all my favorites.  The crowd loved every minute.  We shared a nachos grande.  Some moron spilled a beer on Colton.  On the way home, we got pulled over by Ross Township police for an expired inspection sticker.  The breathalyzer registered a .09.  Game over.  Other than the encounter with law enforcement, these recollections seem a tad mundane.  Why won't anyone challenge the predictability of the age-old concert review?  Well, I'm gonna try and give it a shot.  So here it comes.  A very rare, proactive approach.  Because not only is it rock'n'roll, but I also happen to like it. 

In what might have been one of the worst kept secrets in the history of rock'n'roll, the Rolling Stones announced a 2015 summer tour.  Even with the curiously timed re-release of the 1981 classic album Sticky Fingers.  Even with all those electronic billboard advertisements illuminating the heartland.

Even with a salivating red tongue logo painted on the Heinz Field 50 yard line... nobody had the slightest clue the Stones were hitting the road.  Who woulda thunk it?  Kind of like Hillary announcing her 2016 presidential run.  Who would have ever dreamed?

Still, the band had a trick up Mick Jagger's sleeveless wifebeater.  And it would come in the form of destinations for this 15 city trek.  Chicago or New York City?  No shirt.  Philly or Boston?  No shoes.  Houston or Phoenix?  Nooo dice (tumbling dice that is).  Instead, in a move that would make Spicoli proud, they opted for secondary markets like Buffalo, Raleigh and Kansas City.  And sure enough, we've got a Pittsburgh show scheduled for June 20 at Heinz Field.  It's refreshing to see all the big cities escape the itinerary.  Now that's at least worthy of a minimal exclamation.  Damn.

The venues will consist of NFL and NCAA stadiums, a couple ballparks and even the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.  How's that sound for a freedom lovin', monoxide laden 4th of July?  I know.  I know.  You already purchased a dozen bottle rockets and froze a gluttonous tub of macaroni salad for the annual Dormont family picnic.  Color me envious.  That's not one, but two of the seven deadly sins.

Yeah, I've seen a few rock concerts in my day.  You could say that.  But do not fret.  I will not regale you with epic tales of Foghat headlining the Ribfest or Steppenwolf jamming at the Regatta.  But I have seen some big ones.  Among them, the last 2 Pittsburgh Rolling Stones appearances:  the 1994 show at Three Rivers and the 2005 concert with Pearl Jam at PNC Park.

And while many things grow better with time, I'm not so sure the Stones are one of them.  They are not a vintage cabernet.  Though don't get me wrong.  I'm glad they're returning.  It's just more about the law of diminishing marginal returns.

Now if you want to see the Stones, this is probably your last chance.  I hate to sound cynical, but these chaps are all in their early 70's.  It's just hard to envision the whole gang coming back to Pittsburgh in another decade.  I think a Golden Girls reunion is more likely.  And three of those gals are deceased.  That being said, it's hard to do the patented half-Jagger, half-rooster strut when you're confined to a motorized scooter.  Perhaps if our lead singer wielded a cane or functional staff like Gandolph or some heroic biblical character.  Noah comes to mind as he had a strong track record for live performances.  His organizational talent (guiding animals in groups of twosies twosies) and leadership skills (I'm assuming he was the captain of that wooden ark... not the one near Frostburg, Maryland on I-68) were unparalleled. 

It's been rumored the band might play the Sticky Fingers album in its entirety.  But I seriously doubt it.  I just don't think the live dynamic would translate.  These stadium shows are a massive production.  You gotta keep the crowd enthralled.  Trust me on this one.  It just wouldn't bode well from a predictability standpoint. 

The coolest aspect of a rock concert of this nature is not knowing which songs the band will play.  Fortunately, Nerdlinger's here to explain how that info gets plastered all over the internet the millisecond the first show concludes.  Lame.  So I decided to create a fantasy set list.  One that borders somewhere in the realm of barely plausible and extremely doubtful.  I was even kind enough to include mini-gaps which offer the band some time to regroup and take a breather if necessary.  How cool is that?  That's how much I care.  Truth be told, I've always wanted to craft a set list for one of the mega-rock bands (Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Grateful Dead, etc.).  So let's take a stab at it.

1.  Start Me Up.  Traditional octane-fueled opener.
2.  Let's Spend The Night Together.  Self explanatory segue way. 

3. Undercover of the Night.  My favorite Stones song of the 1980's.  Underplayed and relatively forgotten.  Great tune for explosions, pyrotechnics, machine gun fire, strobe lights, really anything.
4.  She's So Cold.  This song came out just as Reagan took office.  You gotta throw in an original that signaled the end of the 70's.  Disco balls and football stadiums are underrated.  Here here!
5.  Bitch.  Time to pay homage to the Sticky Fingers reissue. 
6.  Can't You Hear Knockin'.  Another follow-up from the same album.  I'll take a lengthy version of this song over an exhaustive Midnight Rambler harmonica solo any day of the week.
7.  Tumblin' Dice or Miss You.  Classic staple groove songs with near gospel-like overtones.  Take your pick.

8.  Emotional Rescue.  Such a peculiar song.  So glad they resurrected it from the cusp of the 8-track grave.  They trotted it out in 2013.  Let's hope they don't ditch it. 
9.  Monkey Man.  Any song that evokes memories of the movie Good Fellas is good enough for me.
10.  Street Fighting Man.  Killer rock tune from the late 60's.  Not everyone was listening to the Beach Boys back then. 
11.  The Last Time.  Could serve as an omen.  No matter how hard I try, I just can't envision another Rolling Stones show in the Burgh ten years from now.

12.  Thru n'Thru.  Time to slow things down for a bit.  Maybe purchase an $8.50 tepid draft beer or go use the restroom.  Tremendous Keith Richards twang from the early 90's.  Very memorable background music from The Sopranos (Season 2 closer after they "dispose" of their friend Vincent Pastore).
13.  Wild Horses.  Another ballad from the Sticky fingers album.  Maybe bring out a hometown guest vocalist to trade verses.  Christinia Aguillera?  Bill Peduto?  Mark Cuban?  Roethlisberger?  The possibilities are endless.
14.  Waitin' on a Friend or Under My Thumb or Let it Bleed.  Bring back some swaying rhythm and galvanize a little momentum.  Take your pick.  Any of the three would suffice.  How about we make it an audible and let the crowd decide?
15.  Paint It Black.  Ideally, this song would feature special guest vocalist Blackie Lawless from the band WASP.  If you've never heard the screeching heavy metal rendition, you're really missing something.  Although I'm not exactly sure what that is.

16.  Gimme Shelter.  My all-time favorite Stones tune.  Seems appropriate if you watch the news these days.  War, children.  Rape, murder.  It's just a shot away.  You cannot have a Stones mega-production without this song in the line-up.
17.  Sympathy For The Devil.  Excellent audience participation song.  Mick Jagger is the perfect candidate to introduce himself and then reintroduce himself.  Just in case you didn't know, he's pleased to meet you.
18.  Satisfaction.  You better play this one.  If for no other reason but to satisfy the mongrel hoard.  But you wanna know who really needs a Snickers?  It's the rockin' poser fans who paid $1,750 to sit in the first couple rows.  I've always enjoyed watching these people.  They're the ones who proudly pay $50 bucks for an 80 cent t-shirt.  They're just so fun to watch.  You might think I'm deranged, but give it a try.  Hang out and observe the t-shirt concession stand.  There's weak amusement to be had.  And best of all, it's free.  It literally screams satisfaction.
19.  Jumpin' Jack Flash.  Might as well make everyone stand up and dance.  Mick and company shouldn't be the only ones on their feet all night long.
20.  Loving Cup.  Just because I like it and few would expect to hear it.
21.  Love Train.  The Stones sometimes throw in a Motown cover (no relation to the hippie clothing worn by wealthy WVU kids from New Jersey).  I'm quite fond of the song "Going to a Go Go," but allow me to make a blunt admission.  I love naked women (make that woman, only Gigi).  Yet I'm not a big proponent of strip clubs. However, this O'Jay (not Simpson) classic is perfectly suited for monster crowds.  There's a fantastic rendition of the band playing it in Paris circa 2003.  Google it. 
22.  Not Fade Away.  With the 50th anniversary of the Grateful Dead, here's your ideal set closer.  Straight outta Love Train.  As the song winds itself down, you ramp up the crowd with the Jumbotron.  "You know our love will not fade away."  If anyone from the band were to read this, you really need to trust me.  This is how you close a stadium show.  It would be unforgettable.

Encores:

23.  You Can't Always Get What You Want.  In the words of the immortal Ozzy Osbourne, "Let me see those cigarette lighters." This is how you return to the stage.  The song visually demands a light up.  One of the most heartfelt, prophetic ballads in the history of rock music.

 

photo by Gigi Roman

Detroit, MI, Super Bowl XL halftime show, 2-5-06

24.  Brown Sugar.  Wouldn't it seem appropriate to finish the concert with the song that opens Sticky Fingers?

So there's your 2015 fantasy Rolling Stones set list.  Hope it lived up to your expectations.  Word to the wise.  Don't get carried away.  I seriously doubt it will resemble the real one.  Maybe bits and pieces.  There's only one way to know for sure.  Hit the show and find out for yourself. 

Now you're probably thinking --- ohh... the tickets, the parking, the concessions.  Everything is so expensive.  We just can't afford it!  Well, here's a thought.  Park up on Federal Street for free.  Grab a case of Arhn City and head on down.  If you can't find a cheap ticket, just sit by the river with a loaf of stale bread and illegally feed the fowl while listening to one of the most notorious rock bands of our generation.  Sounds like a good plan B.  But then again, I'm easy to please and eager to help.

As far as I know, there is no opening act.  I imagine something will surface.  Oddly enough, there's a nationally known band playing 30 minutes away at The Meadows in Washington, PA.  Huey Lewis and The News are at the casino that night.  Why should you find this even remotely interesting?  Well, Huey Lewis was one of my first ever unchaperoned rock concerts.  In 1988, they played the Wheeling Civic Center.  I even had the unmitigated audacity to take a black sharpie and write "Huey Lewis Sucks, Metallica Rules" on the back of my t-shirt.  Ahh, the impetuousness of youth.  Ironically, these days I find Metallica exceptionally annoying.  I'd much rather listen to Huey Lewis and watch the evening news.  However, I can assure you, my rebellious nature has not simmered with the passage of time.

With that in mind, let's end this proactive concert review with some helpful public safety information.  Heinz Field holds over 65,000 fans.  But there's one little snippet of guidance the NFL is unwilling to provide.  In my humble opinion, they have a moral obligation to explicitly warn fans that legitimate emergency evacuation orders would never come from their personal cell phones.  If an evacuation is deemed absolutely necessary, protocol dictates using the public address system in tandem with the video monitors.

Think of it as the modern, technological equivalent of shouting "fire" in a crowded theater... but nobody's allowed to talk about it.  Rest assured, NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell isn't going to address the issue.  The reason for this is essentially grounded in plausible deniability, foreseeable litigation and the lose-lose proposition.  Roger and NFL ownership just don't have the courage.  So maybe Mick Jagger could help us out.  Rock stars have a penchant for moving society forward.  Seems to me like an excellent opportunity to "discuss the undiscussable" and expand societal horizons.  Mick, if you're listening... let's give it a shot.  After all, it's just a shot away.

agsaf.org
Artificially Generated Stampede Awareness Foundation