He's not my soul provider

Once upon a time, there was a much younger Ned. This Ned was 18 years old, and in the throes of the early 90's. The summer of Ned's 18th year bestowed upon him his first concert of a reknowned musical performer.

Now you're probably thinking "Wow, it must have been one hell of a show that Ned went to go see! He probably threw up the horns and saw Metallica or Guns 'N Roses." Or maybe your thoughts are "Man, I feel sorry for those folks in the mosh pits when Ned saw Nirvana or Stone Temple Pilots." Quite possibly you could be thinking "How could Ned drink all that Guinness at 18 and get into a brawl over someone calling football soccer at a U2 show?"

Any and just about all of your thoughts of who this performer was are probably so far off the mark that there's no explaining it, and you may think less of me.

It was a Michael Bolton concert.

Yes, you read that correctly. Michael "I stole your song and didn't pay you royalties" Bolton. The no-talent ass clown himself.

Michael Bolton was playing at Summerfest that year, and my mother was a fan of his. So it was decided that the family would go to Summerfest that day just so Mom could get herself some Michael Bolton singing action. Unfortunately, my father, brother, my friend Leif and myself were forced to succumb to this audio atrocity.

Leif and I didn't want to see this. We were both connoiseurs of all things metal, grunge, and the start of alternative. We also valued our masculinity, and to see Michael Bolton would do much to damage any attempts at having heterosexual lifestyles in the near future. My mother didn't care. I knew at this point, something had to be done to not only regain our masculinity, but also embarrass my mother for this.

So we were dragged, not quite literally, into the Marcus Amphitheatre to get good grass seats. Leif and I grumbled, and tried to think of what we could do. Nothing was coming to mind. Our conspiracies came to a crashing halt as Michael's opening act came out and started singing her hit song, "Love Can Move Mountains"...

That's right. Out came Celine Dion, just before she had started to hit it big here in the States. I felt my testicles start to shrivel and ascend into my coelum. Her song finished, and she was welcoming the crowd, speaking to us in somewhat broken English as she said what a pleasure it was to sing for us and let us know what a great country America was. I realized right then and there something had to be done, otherwise my friend and I were doomed to a life full of horrid pop music. I did the only thing that my addled mind could think of...

I stood up, cupped my hands to my mouth and bellowed out, "SIT DOWN! YOU SUCK!" then looked down at my mother with a little smirk. A smirk of hopeful victory.

It had worked. My mother was embarrassed enough to let Leif and I go do our own thing and meet up with her and my father and brother after the show. We were victorious, and to celebrate our victory we ran as quickly as possible to the metal stage. The thumping bassline, the screaming of the lyrics and screech of the guitar gave my testicles the strength needed to shrug off the power of Celine, and manliness was regained.

Once again, all was right in the world.