Oh life is full of surprises. It seems that every time you think you have life figured out it turns the calm sea that you’re sailing on into a tumultuous hurricane and destroys your sense of worth.

This last Sunday was one of those days. It was to be a great day because of the Big Head Todd and Robert Bradley show in Iowa City. I had been looking forward to the concert and was excited to get on the road.

The show was slated to begin at 7:30 p.m. so we loaded up my car and headed out about 3 p.m.

After a quick stop in Des Moines, we were on I-80 heading eastbound for I.C. Oh what a glorious day.

The day quickly turned sour when my car, a very reliable vehicle up until this point, decided that it no longer wanted to go to Iowa City. It would like to hang out in Colfax.

The next two hours were like something out of a twisted Hitchcock movie. Three college students were instantly reduced to helpless idiots standing on I-80.

After a two-mile hike to a Texaco, I was at the mercy of two service station workers who said, “We’ll tow your car when we get around to it.” I got to thinking that mechanics are probably some of the world’s most powerful people. They control one of every American’s prized possessions: his car. They can tell you just about anything and you have to accept it.

While we waited for a backup vehicle and a tow truck we were cast down with the locals to bask in all of their wonder.

We were first stalked by three guys in what looked like a stolen police car that was stripped. The windows and the trunk were held in place with duct tape. (I still fear these guys, but feel fairly safe writing about them because I’m pretty sure they can’t read.)

After we watched a few Trans Ams drive by and peel out repeatedly and a big guy on a small moped, our second car arrived, a 1979 Pinto.

In this car we would ride in luxury.

Once at the Memorial Union we ran into the some of the most over- qualified and hypersensitive people in the world — concert security.

I think these people, clad in their yellow “STAFF” shirts, thought that they were protecting the president, not just two bands.

They all walked around, walkie-talkies in hand, as if they were divinely ordained to serve and protect some higher power that everyone else was unaware of.

Once backstage, the security got tighter. I was introduced to the head of security who led me around in an arm lock showing me where I could go and where I could not go. And, if I went where I shouldn’t, he told me all of the dreadful and painful things that would happen. I was like a dog on a choke chain, being enticed by the piece of steak just out of my reach.

“If I catch you back here when Big Head Todd goes on you’ll be kicked out of the concert,” one of the yellow-shirted militia told me.

Knowing the impending doom that would be inflicted upon me if I broke the “law” I went about my business quickly.

As I left I was confronted by yet another guard as to my reasons for being there. I explained what was going on and even showed him my backstage pass. All of this did not phase the man. He called his boss on the radio who basically said he should escort me back to the crowd which is where I wanted to go anyway.

The whole experience jaded my view of concerts in general. I would wish that people could relax. After all, when you go to a concert you are paying to be entertained, not to be harassed by these pseudo-power lords. Down with the man!

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J.R. Grant is a junior in journalism and mass communication from Cuyohoga Falls, Ohio.