Victory Dance

Sometimes you just can't catch a break, and everything that can go wrong does go wrong. You miss the bus. Your umbrella turns inside out. The guy next to you at the urinal pees on your shoe.

Saturday was the exact opposite of that. I won Saturday so hard that I am now the subject of an NCAA investigation.


Okay, so this weekend, roommates Matt, Nate and I make a pilgrimage to Sweden. It's the great white north, where the women are tall and beautiful, technology is state-of-the-art, and winter lasts from September through May. It looks kind of like this:

*Artist's Conception

On Saturday we explore Old Town, watch the changing of the guard at the Presidential Palace, and do all the other regular touristy things. We plan to round out the day with a drink at the heinously impractical Stockholm Ice Bar.

The aptly-named Ice Bar, a thoroughly useless display of human ingenuity, is a minuscule establishment made entirely of ice, and kept at a chilly -5°C. No, really. The bar is made of ice. The seats are ice. The flippin' glasses are blocks of ice with a hole in the middle.

They did not need to make Sweden any colder.

So we pay the entrance fee of 190 Kronor (to this day I have no idea how many Euros this is equal to) and proceed to the cloak room.

Nate moves to take his jacket off, but the attendant stops him.

"No," he says. "Keep it on. It's freezing in there." He hands us a second parka to don over our winter coats. "Do you like baseball?" the curious Swede inquires, as everywhere we go it's plainly evident that we're American.

"Of course," we respond. We are American, after all.

"You know Derek Yeeter? He is in the bar."

What? Who the hell is-- Oh... Derek Jeter. We chuckle at the man. His brave stab at American pop culture is endearing, even though he's probably just bucking for a tip.

Oh, Derek Yeeter. You so dreamy.

Once inside the bar I order a Wolf Paw, some crazy amalgamation of vodka and lingonberries, with no visible traces of wolf. We give the obligatory toast to Sweden, cheers, and--

Oh shit. Don't look guys. It's Derek Jeter. There are like ten people in this tiny room and one of them is Derek Jeter. Don't freak out.

I glance over my shoulder just in time to see his enormous friggin' head and giant, white teeth.

*Dramatization, but not really very much.

We gravitate to him like ants to a fallen grape popsicle, until we are abruptly intercepted by one of his managers who assures us that no, Mr. Jeter is not especially interested in having his picture taken with us.

Jeter and his entourage then promptly leave, probably made uncomfortable by three awkward, grinning Americans.

We finish our drinks and leave the bar. What do we do now? We can probably die happily, having just run into an American sports icon. But this is where the night starts to get good.

We've spent all our Kronor (what the hell is even a Krona, anyway?), so we need to stop by an ATM to get some more of this crazy currency, when suddenly I see the poster hanging above the machine:

I don't just want to see this show. I need to see this show. After a missed opportunity to see MMJ at Colorado's Red Rocks amphitheater this summer and an infamous incident in 2008 at the University of Iowa Rec Center (in which Jim James fell off the stage three songs into the show and injured himself too badly to continue) I will fight fifty drunken Scandinavians and their moose to get into this concert.

Okay. Munchenbryggerietensteiggentan. Let's go. We ask some Swedes, we take the crazy subway, we ask some more Swedes, we walk three miles, we ask still more Swedes, and then we find Muncherbreiggartentogenfluger, or something.

We approach some cold and miserable-looking youths waiting for the doors to open, and ask them if they know how to get tickets.

"It's sold out," they tell us. "Like, really sold out."

No matter. We're resourceful. We're diligent. We will stalk that tour bus and assault whoever comes out until they let us into this concert. And so we do. We make the acquaintance of the genial, British bus driver and tell him of our plight. We're Americans, we insist. Matt and Nate are from Ohio, we plead. That's like one state away from Kentucky, where MMJ is from! We love them! Let us in!

He listens patiently, then explains that, although he is sympathetic to our situation, he's really just a bus driver, and has no sway over the inner workings of the My Morning Jacket tour.

Oh.

So we mope away to a pub. We regroup. We each pound a Newcastle.

Sweet, sweet release.

Okay. We can do this. We are going to post up outside this bus and when we see Jim James's magnificent, bountiful hair we are going to pounce on it and he will have no choice but to let us in.

And so we do. But instead of the angelic James, we are greeted again by the cheerful bus driver, who is clearly not a band member.

"Any luck, boys?"

"No."

He disappears again. We wait. Nate quizzes me on any important My Morning Jacket trivia, in case someone emerges from the bus and we need to prove our devotion to the band.

The driver reappears from around the corner of the bus. He points at us, talking to someone out of view. He approaches with another man, who identifies himself as the tour manager.

"I'm Nate," says Nate.

"I'm Matt," says Matt.

"I'm Gabe," says Gabe.

We explain our situation. We're Americans, we offer. We're studying in Torino. We love My Morning Jacket. I saw them in Iowa City, I tell him. Remember, that time that Jim fell off the stage and really hurt himself?

"Oh," the manager's face falls. "You were there for that one.

"What's your last name?" He asks.

"DeJong," I tell him.

"Like D-E-Y-O-U-N-G?"

What the hell? Why is this even important?

"No, it's kind of strange, like D-E-J-O-N-G. It's spelled weird."

"Okay," he says. "Gabe DeJong plus two guests are on the list for tonight. You'll go in the side door. Enjoy the show."

...

I blacked out for a few minutes afterwards, but Matt and Nate say that my reaction went something like this.

The concert was amazing. The place was no bigger than my high school gymnasium, and the guy outside was right, it was really sold out. It was completely packed full of Swedish people, and evidently Swedish people go absolutely nuts for My Morning Jacket. The energy in the place was incredible. Add to the equation that it was the last stop on the tour, both MMJ and the more-than-pleasantly surprising opening act, The Head and the Heart, put together an unforgettable concert experience.

We managed to get really close. Really, really close. I can't tell you with certainty what brand of underwear James wears, but I'm pretty sure they're boxer briefs.

Pictured: Gabe, Jim James, Nate

After the six-song encore (culminating in I'll Be Home for Christmas featuring the members of The Head and the Heart) Jim James donned his magic cape and drifted back to the spirit world, and we snagged a bunch loot from the stage hands.

Pictured: Set list, drumstick
Not Pictured: Guitar pick

The real prize, however, is the thought that the band was told about the three foolish fans who waited outside hopelessly in the cold for the chance to see the show. Maybe, somewhere in Jim James's crazy, mystical, alien brain, he thought about us and said to himself, "Huh. That's pretty cool."

And maybe Derek Jeter-- Oh, forget about it. Nobody really gives a shit about Derek Jeter.