Why would I see Garth Brooks in Vegas?

Pretty good seats.

Looking back on the memory of last weekend, I'd have to say yee haw! My younger sister turned a certain age, and she wanted to do it Vegas. I have always been supportive of her, so my wife and I decided to go--as a selfless act of kindness, of course. Lucky for me I am so kind and selfless. I made a nice chunk of change at the craps table the first night we landed (thank you, Becca "the Bank" or "Money" Zumbiel, whichever you prefer). The next night, I ate a good meal with good company while sitting a table away from a celebrity whose career I respect (Rob Lowe of Tommy Boy, Wayne's World, West Wing, Parks and Rec). Yes, he is shorter in person. Those events were unexpected, but the best event of of the trip was planned: seeing the Garth Brooks show.

Garth Brooks in Vegas

The show was not at all what I expected. I thought we would sit in the back of the theater and hear him and his band play his biggest hits; then we would ride home, hoarse from singing along. I learned that instead of the back row, my sister had scored tickets in the fifth row, which was an entire story closer than I thought we would be. The show opened with a fifty year old white guy in a T-shirt, loose jeans, and non-Cowboy boots walking out on stage. A baseball cap instead of a cowboy hat sat upon his balding head. He didn't strut or have the slim figure that we remember from his album covers. The word "doughy" came to mind. He could have been mistaken for a roadie if there had been more equipment than a guitar, a stool, and a couple bottles of water on the stage.

He said hello and then explained that we are going to be taken on a tour of his musical influences. For the next hour and a half, he covered his history of musical appreciation, decade by decade, through anecdotes of his family life, a continuous line of jokes, and covers of his favorite artists' songs. When he sang, just him and his guitar, he would assume an awkward pigeon-toed posture, one that I associate with Dave Matthews, where the only graceful parts of his body appear to be his hands and his powerful voice. He sounded as good as ever--actually, he sounded better than I'd ever heard him because there was nothing but his guitar and his voice. Hearing such a strong and confident voice emanating from such an unassuming body was a little surprising.

As he explained his way through the 60's, 70's, and 80's, he played a few of his own songs, but mostly he covered his influences, some of which were too country for me to have heard, like Merle Haggard, George Jones, and Keith Whitley. He also covered some more mainstream ones like "Mrs. Robinson", "Sweet Baby James", "American Pie", and "Sitting by the Dock of the Bay". I'd take a CD of just him covering other songs (which to be fair, a few of his hits are). He told stories of when he met one his idols, James Taylor, and how he came to cover Bob Dylan's "To Make You Feel My Love" for the movie Hope Floats.

His wife, Trisha Yearwood, another huge country name, joined him on the stage, which was a big treat for my older sister. They sang a few songs before he got to the 90's when he really got down to playing his own music. Of course, he didn't have time to play enough for the crowd, but he encored with "The Dance", "Piano Man", and "Friends in Low Places". My only complaint is that we didn't get to hear a single song in its entirety, but the show may have lasted forever if that had happened. Plus, he mentioned that once his oldest left for college, he may be starting a tour again, which I would happily pay to see.

The Appeal of Country Music

I have to admit that I understand why people don't understand or appreciate country music. I used to sort of hate it myself. I still wouldn't call myself a true country music listener, and I'm certain any cowboy would call me a city slicker. I also understand that some would consider Garth a little too close to pop to call him country. For me, Garth helped bridge the gap between palatable pop and the more country music of Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings. By listening to some older stuff, a person learns that country has a certain appeal, which I will get to in a bit. I also get that recent country can be cloying. Like hip hop, it has strayed a bit from its roots of singing about hard times and hard love (though the self-aggrandizement can sometimes be funny--"Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy"). Even some of Garth's stuff wanders into saccharine. So yes, I understand that it can sometimes be hard for a person to stomach country as a genre.

However, country thrives on simple story telling that I enjoy. My favorite songs of Garth's have obvious stories that are the backdrop of universal themes--well, usually, it's the theme of love or loss or love lost, but these are concepts we all understand to the core. The story is always easy to grasp, which is difficult to accomplish in three minutes. Look at how much time you've already wasted reading to this point in this post. Even though Garth didn't write a lot of his stuff, his song writers embrace succinct country story telling.

Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots
And ruined your black tie affair.
The last one to know, the last one to show,
I was the last one you thought you'd see there.

This first verse from "Friends in Low Places" paints a quick picture: people from different backgrounds, the singer is "low class", the setting is a fancy dinner, the singer is beyond fashionably late, and he's crashing. Not a bad set up for some drama in under forty words. I'm a bit jealous. And it rhymes!

Every light is burnin' in a house across town.
She's pacin' by the telephone in her faded flannel gown.
Askin' for a miracle, hopin' she's not right
Prayin' it's the weather that's kept him out all night.


She's waitin' by the window when he pulls into the drive.
She rushes out to hold him, thankful he's a live.
But on the wind and rain, a strange new perfume blows.
And the lightin' flashes in her eyes, and he knows that she knows.


She runs back down the hallway to the bedroom door.
She reaches for a pistol kept in the dresser drawer.
Tells the lady in the mirror he won't do this again.
Cause tonight will be the last time she'll wonder where's he been.

These verses from "The Thunder Rolls" again quickly paint a picture, clue the listener into the mixed emotions the woman is feeling, portend that country theme of broken hearts, and then unfurl the drama without directly saying, "she shot him". Garth actually co-wrote this one. And it rhymes, again!

Granted not all country music paints these simple stories and country doesn't have a monopoly on good story telling in its songs. Remember "Regulators"? Eminem can also tell a mean story in his own misogynistic way ("Lose Yourself"). I'm sure you can think of many a song that tells a tight story.

The other appealing aspect of country is the nostalgia it elicits. I imagine that most people who like Garth think of some past love interest when they hear "The Dance"; I also have the same thing when I hear "Callin' Baton Rouge". I don't yearn for those people, but I am reminded of those times when emotion was high because of life's simplicity. Of course, country is not the only genre that elicits nostalgia, but its themes are universal and its stories are right on the surface, making it easy to access those memories of times past. Even if you don't love country, you don't have to wear a Stetson to understand the pictures it paints.

My Western Roots

Most people seemed surprised when they heard I was going to see Garth, and each time I was a little surprised that they were surprised. Yes, I'm a bit of a city slicker, having lived in San Jose, Seoul, London, San Diego, and Boston. I really do like my cities and the anonymity they provide when walking their streets.

On the other hand, I lived the first six years of my life in a small town in Colorado. During every summer of my childhood, I spent at least a week of it in Nebraska, where we would see a cowboy show and drive through the arid, yucca-filled landscape that nurtured the myth of the West. My aunt raises cattle and takes a leg of the Pony Express ride every year. I think my dad likes Westerns more than sports, and I've learned to really love the genre as well. My dad's dad was born in Kansas, where names like Wild Bill Hickok, Buffalo Bill Cody, and Wyatt Earp spent some time. I grew up playing with toy guns, wishing I had cowboy boots, and trying unsuccessfully to lasso stuff. I also spent a lot of time where my mother grew up, at another icon of the West: the farmstead. My mom also rode horses, which she still does with my aunt today at the age of . . . well, I wouldn't tell the whole world that. Wouldn't be polite, would it, ma'am? Indiana isn't exactly the Wild West, but the land is flat, the sky is big, and the town where my mom spent her youth makes Deadwood look like a metropolis.

Though my parents didn't listen to a lot of country music, my sisters did, perhaps because they identified more with what the romance of the West than I did. Among their Wilson Phillips and Sinead O'Connor tapes were sprinkled Randy Travis, Garth Brooks, and Reba McEntire. Though I never bothered to listen to the tapes, I couldn't escape the country stations when riding in the car with them and later with my younger sister. I couldn't understand why they liked it so much when I was a teen, much like I didn't understand my dad's draw to Westerns. But I get it now.

In high school, I wrote an essay about the myth of the West and how it was built. It occurred to me only recently that perhaps I was drawn to such a report topic because of my familiarity with it. Similarly, perhaps I chose a summer project on a Native American reservation because I had grown up playing cowboys and Indians. So even though I apparently hide it well/completely, I can't deny my country roots and how they have shaped me. I am told I have a strong moral code. I am told I am independent and sometimes polite. I have seen a horse in person and a cow made out of butter. I'm no cowboy, but I spent a good portion of my childhood where they used to roam. So, as a sort-of country kid who grew up in cities, it seems natural that I would want to see Garth Brooks in Vegas.

Why is Kauai memorable?

I just returned from Kauai, Hawaii. The locale was everything I expected: clear water, lush vistas, great snorkeling. But it was more. It was wild (feral, not crazy) chickens, some roads that were more hole than road, and one-lane bridges. While the expected Eden is what drew me there, it was the unexpected, less perfect oddities that gave it its charm. 

Birds of paradise

The first wildlife I saw in Kauai? Tropical fish? No. Insects the size of my face? No. Brightly colored birds? Eh, sort of. As I left the airpot, I saw some chickens out in the open, running wild. Over the course of the trip, I found them in parking lots, at secluded beaches, and way up in the mountains. To their credit, they were more colorful than the monochromatic chickens of childrens books. They sat under cars, chased each other, and cruised about with their clutches of chicks. Elderly people fed them crumbs, adults videotaped them, and one kid yelled, "Die, chicken, die!". Think large, land-bound pigeons taking the place of stray cats. 

But instead of hearing yowls of alley cats, I heard roosters cock-a-doodle-doodling much of the day, which was quite different from the chirping of tropical birds that I expected. From what I've read about roosters (which consists almost completely of books aimed at 6 years olds), I thought they were only supposed to crow in the morning. I guess these roosters can't even read at a 6 year old's level so they crowed all the time. Fortunately, I only got annoyed once when one decided to roost just outside of my window one morning. I was ready preheat the oven. 

Supposedly, they are wild because Hurricane Iniki hit the island in 1992 and liberated the chickens. Here in California, it takes a Proposition to give chickens a little more freedom, but Hawaii has a different, more effective way. Without any natural predators, they ran amok. Come to think of it, the largest animal I saw was a chicken--except for the humans. And I did have fried chicken one night at a less-than-fancy place...but I'm sure they imported that. 

Holey Mary, Mother of God

Most of the roads were great, but the one that led up to and past Waimea canyon had more holes than a sieve--or even a net. Imagine every pothole you've ever driven through, add that to every pothole you've successfully avoided, multiply by 5, and put all those on the road directly in front of you. If that's not worrisome enough, add some fog, a slope, and a narrow road. That's what the road was like in some patches. Now, be very glad you're driving a rental car because if you were driving my 1989 Integra...you'd end up walking. But now, say a prayer because you just remembered that you didn't get the insurance, and based on the number of holes, one will probably eat a tire, a wheel, a bumper, or a passenger. It wasn't the scariest ride I've done (like I said, I drive an '89 Integra), but it was the worst road I think I've seen and/or felt rack my body.

The drive was well worth it. Not only did we get to view the amazing canyonscape, but we took an 8 mile hike (round trip) to Kilohana lookout. The hike started on a ridge. It was like standing on the rim of a cappuccino. One side was a valley filled to the brim with dense fog whereas the other side had a clearly-visible, verdant valley. The trail was mostly boardwalk, but the parts that were not were filled with many mud pits and steep, wet rock. In some respects, it was like to drive up: smooth most of the way but trying to kill its travelers at other times. 

The boardwalk was necessary because the trail took us through the highest swamp on earth. I know, that phrase reads like "oooh! highest!" and then "uhhh, swamp?". I'm no swamp expert, but I was not overwhelmed by its swampiness, which I'm going to say is a good thing. The hike ended at a cliff face overlooking the north shore of the island and a cavernous, lush valley that leads to it. It was a vista as grand as I've ever seen, perhaps grander because I had put in some work to get there. My words could never adequately describe it, but it made the hike and the drive well worth it. Plus, we could see where we had driven the day before, making it me feel that we had really made it around the island.

One-lane bridges

Towards the end of the road I just mentioned, which takes you up the east side of the island, there are a number of one-lane bridges. When I first saw the sign "One Lane Bridge Ahead", I was a bit nervous. After all, what if the one-way is going against me? How would I ever get across it? Yeah, sometimes I think stupid thoughts. I'm guessing they were cheaper than the two-lane bridges and traffic was low enough that it didn't matter. 

They basically work like a two way stop in that you yield the right of way to anybody who got there before you. The bridges are all pretty short so you can see the other side. If nobody's on the bridge, you can drive across without stopping. But unlike a two way stop, local courtesy says that five to seven cars are allowed to cross one way if they are all waiting there. So, if there is a line coming at you, somebody after the fifth or sixth car should yield and give you and four or six cars behind you a chance to cross. It was pretty easy and effective. However, I'm not going to recommend it for the Dumbarton or Golden Gate Bridges.

Chickens, potholes, and one-lane bridges: these unexpected imperfections made Kauai feel like a good friend, and I'd go back to visit in a second. 

Why do people have to crowd the baggage carousel?

I am a pretty seasoned flyer and far from an angry one, but there is one thing that always gets me at the ends of my trips: people who stand right up against the baggage carousel. 

Usually, travel is actually relatively enjoyable for me. I like the time to think or read or partake in a mindless game or movie. I don't mind bagging my liquids (I usually just try not to take any). Strip down to my boxers? Not a problem. I don't usually mind if my plane is late, as long as I'm not missing a connection. Screaming baby? I've got my noise cancelling ear phones.

But I'm not a pushover when flying either. I get annoyed by the guy who puts up the armrest and takes some of my space. I do mind having to pay extra money to check a bag. I am not a fan of children kicking the back of my seat. I think that's all pretty normal. 

However, the one thing that irks me that may not annoy other people is how people at the baggage claim carousel stand right up against it while waiting for their checked bags. Even worse are those people that don't move to make room for the bag that I am hauling from the carousel. They just stand there like dumb posts.

Let's consider the situation. Everybody at the baggage claim carousel is waiting to . . . claim a bag--and probably a relatively large and/or heavy bag. The carousel moves fast enough that you have, at most, 5 seconds to retrieve your bag. Every person there has to do this, and the task becomes much more difficult when you have to squeeze in and try to thread your up-to-50-pound bag between two people that you don't want to whack with your luggage--even though it would serve them right for being dumb posts.

Perhaps you see this as a simple first-come, first-serve situation, like at Starbucks. I admit that the ordering end is a first-come, first-serve situation. I arrived first, I get to put my order in first. However, at the other end, picking up my drink, social etiquette requires that I not crowd the pick-up area. I do not order, pay, and then jump directly into the line for getting my drink. I stand back with the understanding that drinks may not come out in the sequence they were ordered.  And this is a situation where drinks usually do come out in the sequence that they were ordered. If I did what people do at a baggage claim, it would cause chaos! OK, it wouldn't be that bad, but I would deservingly get weird looks.

I don't understand why this social rule breaks down at the airport.

At a baggage claim carousel, it is practically guaranteed that the first bag out will not belong to the first person that arrived. In fact, I'd say there are good odds that it doesn't belong to any of the people standing against the carousel, but people still insist on being right there for their bags. I say that they gain nothing, except my ire. 

My solution to my problem: everybody stand back one yard from the carousel. Then everybody can wait for their bag to come around, step up, easily retrieve their luggage, and leave. 

I know this sounds radical, but I think it is deserving of a study. If there has been a study that shows that crowding around the carousel and getting in the way of others is more efficient for everybody, I would actually feel great. Please, let me know. 

I might also justifiably be told to relax. After all, it's not like I'm losing a lot of time. What's a few more rounds on the carousel? I admit that I have no reply to this. It's true, but it doesn't excuse people from ignoring social etiquette.