April 2004

Hailyn Nielsen • Tips for Weekend Fun in Iowa

In correspondence with friends from outside the Midwest, I inevitably field the same question: “So, what is there to do in Iowa on the weekends?” Occasionally, someone works up the courage to ask the real question on everyone’s mind: “Do you guys spend Saturday nights tipping cows?” I find it easiest to alleviate such misconceptions with examples such as these:

November 2003, Five Seasons Center, Davenport, IA, Saturday night
It’s freezing. I’m standing in about the seventh fold of an exceptionally twisted line, shivering, trying to make small talk, and waiting to get into the concert by A Perfect Circle. Technically, this is my first big concert. (My dad counts The Doobie Brothers, whom I saw outside of DC this past summer, but no one else my age does.) I was supposed to see A Perfect Circle in Ames with a friend about a week ago. The wonderful winter weather had other designs: I was snowed in. When I complained about my misfortune the next day in Computer Science discussion, I found a fellow fan and classmate who also wanted to go see the band. Luckily, they were playing in the Quad Cities, and my new friend has a car.

Aaron and I, bare acquaintances brought together in the cold by a common music taste, discuss the musical evolution of lead singer Maynard, argue the finer points of computer science, and laugh about his roommate’s pet alligator, Lizzie. A Perfect Circle most definitely appeals to a select audience, of which I don’t necessarily consider myself a member. However, as the winter progresses, my music becomes louder and angrier. I think it’s the lack of sunlight.

In front of us are various tattooed, predominantly male, teenagers and 20-something’s wearing black A Perfect Circle T-shirts. Anyone sporting trendy blue jeans, light colors, or bright make-up hopelessly stands out. The assembled populace, in dress, hairstyle, and other superficialities, is like a negative of the people one sees on the street any given day. Surprisingly, the company is quite comfortable. I’m not so worried about the shade of my lipstick, the style of my shoes, or the appropriateness of my accessories.

However, the couple to my side is not put at ease by the eclectic fan base. They seem to be most disturbed by the various shapes, sizes, and shades of mohawks. They worriedly glance around and uncomfortably cross their arms across their chests as they try to appear separate from their daughter. She looks about 14, with a lip ring, an eyebrow ring, black lipstick, dyed black hair, baggy black cargo jeans, and several chains hanging from her belt and pockets.

We finally get inside and wait about an hour or so for the concert to start. It does. It’s incredible. Aaron convinces me to enter the mosh pit, where fans go wild against the backdrop of the music. Against my better judgment, I agree. Thankfully, it’s not a ‘run into each other’ mosh pit, but rather a ‘crowd-surfing’ one. I manage to squirm my way within about 20 feet of the stage, losing all sight of Aaron in the process. Bouncers in bright yellow shirts grab crowd surfers and return them to earth. I’m shoulder to shoulder with complete strangers. It’s impossible to move anywhere under my own power; I’m at the mercy of the movements of the masses. The pit seems to sway from front to back and side to side in rhythm with the music. I have no choice but to succumb to its ebb and flow.

Helpless to move, but exhilarated at the same time, I watch the show. Colored and shifting lights move shadows of the band members around the stage. The musicians feed off the cheers of the crowd; the swaying quickens as Maynard moans the same sentiments that must run through everyone’s head at one point in life: “…mistook their nods for an approval,” “…screaming feed me here, fill me up again, temporarily pacify this hungering,” “…can I ask a question to help save me from myself?”

Aaron and I reunite at our pre-appointed location after the concert. We look at each other and smile. Overwhelmed by the show, we drive back to campus sharing thoughts on the interesting attendees, the dynamics of the band, and, of course, the music.

December 2003, post-finals, the hill down to the IMU, Friday night
It’s cold … again, but this time, it’s snowing. Not only snowing, but accumulating. My friends and I have been planning for the first big snow for weeks. At dinner in the dorm cafeteria, we surreptitiously grab one tray each and sneak out. Successful, we wait for darkness and dress in boots, gloves, and layers. Trays in hand, we hurry to the hill by the IMU. Usually, I hate this hill. It’s just vertical space that must be traversed on my way from microbiology class to Spanish class. Tonight, though, I love it.

Kitchen trays make wonderful sleds. We spend the night flying down the hill. Snow fights—then snow battles—break out. As alliances become complicated and roommates are assigned to infantry and cavalry, we declare snow war. When we can no longer enunciate battle commands and strategies because our lips are too numb, we call it a night. The defeated side prepares hot chocolate for the victors.

February 2004, Studio 13, downtown Iowa City, Sunday night
My mouth drops as I watch a 6’4”, 250-pound man in a lime-green, low-cut, sequined, fitted dress sing and dance to “The Last Dance.” I was unaware that the entertainment for my friend’s birthday celebration was a drag show. Unbeknownst to me, Studio 13 hosts this event biweekly. Tonight, four different performers regale patrons with revived disco and techno tunes. It’s a bit depressing that the drag queens look wonderful in sequins (a nightmare for most girls), possess a mastery of the art of make-up (a skill for which I don’t have a knack), and can dance in 4-inch heels (always a painful and precarious process). The redhead can do the splits, as well!

To sum up, as an Iowan who’s experienced such big cities as Washington, DC, San Diego, and London, I feel quite pleased with the entertainment the Midwest provides. I’m proud to say I enjoyed myself in the corn maze. However, there is one thing I must do before I leave Iowa. I have yet to tip a cow!

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