Random quote: Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That'll teach you to keep your mouth shut. - Ernest Hemingway
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Location: Inside the Writer's Digest office | You've been waiting in a line for days to get concert tickets to your favorite band's upcoming show. You're keeping track of your experience in a journal. What does it say? | |
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Member
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| Tuesday: Yeah! Only half a block away from the box office! These seats are gonna be so sweet! I wouldn't ordinarily trust Dewey about anything, but I've got to give him his due. He got us right where we needed to be.
Damn it! Dewey is such a jackass! And me even more, for listening to him. You'd think all the little girls and soccer moms in line with us would have tipped us off, y'know? I CAN'T BELIEVE WE WERE IN LINE FOR F**KING MILEY CYRUS TICKETS! And now, we're in the right place, in the right line behind ... everybody in the tri-state area, I think. Man, this sucks. This sucks! At least it's not raining.
Wednesday: "Waterlogged" is such a strange word. I'd never really thought about it before: "waterlogged." I'm thinking about it now. It's been raining for three hours straight, and I feel wetter than the time I fell out of that rowboat. No, Dewey did that, standing up to get a better look at the "chicks" that turned out to be guys. Damn it, I hate Dewey. I'm soaked. My shoes are squishing. My f**king underwear is squishing. And you know that wet-dog smell, sort of sour and earthy and ... wet? Dewey smells worse.
Finally found an ATM, and I gotta pay three dollars for the privilege of getting my own money out of my own account. "Of course they take credit cards," Dewey said. "Where do you think we are?" And of course, it's cash only. And of course, Dewey doesn't have enough cash. Or an ATM card. Or his wallet. What the f**k? Who wanders around without his f**king wallet? Idiot Dewey, that's who. And me the worse idiot, for hanging around with him.
Thursday: Just a few doors away, now, and I think we're actually going to get tickets! They'll be sucky seats, compared to what we could have gotten if Dewey wasn't such a JACKASS! But, we'll get to see it. God, I can't wait to get this done. He won't shut up about how we should have stayed in the Miley Cyrus line and bought those tickets. We could have sold them to some desperate mom and then bought any seats we wanted to this show. I gotta admit, it wasn't a bad plan. But we didn't think about it, so SHUT UP! Almost there, now ...
So close, and I'm holed up in the john. Dewey's totally unaffected by two days of eating fast-food crap, but it's killing me. I gotta get out of here. I can't imagine how he could screw this up, but still. "Here's the money, and there's the ticket window. Simple, right?" So simple. Get the tickets, enjoy the show, and then never, ever, EVER have to talk to Dewey again. Jesus, this place smells.
Hard to write left-handed. Hand HURTS! I was so psyched to see him holding the tickets. "Where are the seats?" I asked. Dewey says, "Who knows? Let's see where we can find!" He was so happy, so proud, like a five-year-old with a macaroni necklace. It made me nervous. "You're holding the tickets in your hand, idiot! Where are the seats?" Then a blur: Dewey talking about the guy with prime Miley Cyrus tickets, how we were gonna score big, me grabbing the tickets. Then, not a blur. Like the tumblers in a lock, I saw everything fall into place. F**king Dewey spent our -- my -- money on tickets to the Miley Cyrus concert. Last night's Miley Cyrus concert. I never knew how much it hurt to punch somebody in the face. I know now.
Edited by bobbyt 2009-09-23 4:07 PM
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Veteran
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Location: swamps o' Florida | bobbyt,
LOL that's good! | |
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| DAY ONE: Mom dropped off me, Greg, Bobby, and my brother Ron at Tower Records. We wanted to be the first in line but when we got there several others beat us there. That sucked. But we were still up there. People said we were crazy to stand in line for three days. Yeah it sucks. Its hot and boring. We ate at MacDonalds that night. We had a little tent and crowded in at night. Bobby had a few joints and we smoked one. We laughed a bit as Greg kept mimicing Jones, some idiot at school and it was fun. Went to sleep.
DAY TWO: Holy crap when we woke up around six, cars were honking, people partying, the line was around the corner. It was so cool we were tenth in line, front row tickets baby. We were offered 50 bucks for our spots in line, we laughed in their face. Ron almost kicked this dudes ass for trying to sneak in line. That day was cool, it was if we were at the concert. People had signs, music blasting it was crazy. The cops finally came and we still had fun but we were more careful. That night we met some chicks and smoked some weed and this dude bought us a pint of Peppermint Snopps--Schnops? Any way I hung with Tina she was cool. I think half of us ended up barfing so no one made out but we may hook up for the concert. Passed out in tent.
DAY THREE: The morning arrived and most people were hung over, hungry and tired. The day before made the morning news. We were on it--Well Greg and Bobby but you can kind of see me, it was cool. Any way The doors were about to open and people were getting anxious. We screamed to those pathetic fools, driving by with their stupid selfrighteous glares, who seemed to hate us. One idiot even slowed, honked, and gave us the finger. That pissed us all off and it was so cool everyone started chanting Ozzy! Ozzy! Ozzy! That dude and all those other fools had no clue as to what they were missing...Ozzy Tickets. The doors openned and we got our front row seats and danced, and leaped up and down and I'll tell you right now the only thing that could top these three days... will be the show... Thanks God!
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Member
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| imagery, as you can tell from my post count, I'm pretty new around here, as well. So, let's keep our grains of salt handy. What I like about your piece is the rat-a-tat style, and the focus on things a metalhead teenager would think was cool. It's not clear whether this is a stylistic choice, or if you are in fact a metalhead teenager, but the effect works regardless.
I particularly liked this passage: "The day before made the morning news. We were on it--Well Greg and Bobby but you can kind of see me, it was cool." The additional detail that the narrator wasn't clearly visible in the footage lends it a bit more credibility. And of course, the narrator would think that all of this was "cool." For what it's worth, it reminded me of Mike Wazowski's reactions to being "on TV" and "on the cover of a magazine!" in the movie Monsters, Inc.
That said, there are some style issues that I find a bit distracting. I know this is supposed to be a journal, and people -- maybe especially teenage metalheads -- typically wouldn't police their own spelling and grammar in a journal. But this is a representation of a journal, and missed details like "Its hot and boring" and "ate at MacDonalds" are a bit jarring. Contrast this with the acknowledgement of the spelling difficulty with schnapps, which comes across as an endearing bit of self-deprecation.
I hope this comes across as helpful (my intent), and not harsh. | |
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| Personal log, Wednesday the fourteenth, 8:00 PM: Only fourteen more hours of pretending I give a rat's ass about Hell N Back and the brain-shattering raucous noise only drugged-out teenagers would allow to pass for music. MY own tastes run more toward Waylon, Willie and the boys. Songs with lyrics you could discern without Googling InaudibleHidiousDeathrockSongLyrics.com or wherever one goes to find such things.
Without explicit orders from my boss, Captain Morris, I would never camp out for concert tickets, not even for Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings and Merle Haggard all on the same show and certainly not for this crap band. Patience is not one of my virtues; probably one of the reasons I’m still Officer Maldonado rather than Detective Sergeant Maldonado like Jimmy Falco and Bobby Da Marco, two of my buds from my class at the academy.
Then there were those pesky excessive force beefs. Three had eventually been dismissed but two more had resulted in disciplinary action. The last one, a four-week suspension without pay for throwing a pedophile suspect out of a second-story window. The psych-eval board cited a lack of remorse on my part as some sort of proof of my “blatant disregard for departmental policy”. If they really knew how much distain I had for their policies, they would probably boot me off the force altogether.
I’ve been watching dope deal after dope deal right out here on the street, secretly video recording each one so by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, when the tickets go on sell, Captain Morris and the Operation Street Sweep team can swoop in, TV cameras in tow and start making arrests.
You must admit, I was about the most unlikely guy on the team to be picked for this particular undercover gig. I’m too old, almost forty. I am too healthy and too muscular; most of the kids out here are in their teens, pale and scrawny. No one was more surprised than me when Assistant Precinct Chief Noah Kidd asked for me personally. It took me almost two full days before my internal paranoia alarm went off. Why me? Why the Chief? Why not some young fair-haired boy-wonder?
Then it hit me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course. If something goes wrong, the blame comes down on me. It’s what’s known in the locker room as a typical brass ass cover. The media is there recording everything. The brass is there with their prepared spontaneous sound-bites at the ready. If all goes well, the Chief makes the six o’clock news all smiles and false modesty. If the operation turns out to be a bust, it’s “No one was more shock than I to see a senior officer make so many mistakes on one simple operation.” He would “tisk, tisk” a while and find he was urgently needed back at headquarters. My personnel jacket would somehow be mysteriously leaked to the press and that is when the feces, and Officer Blake Maldonado, would hit the fan.
Thursday, 9:55 AM: The kid behind me in line, a red-faced pimplely kid who called himself Bloodhead, tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “What time are all your cop buddies going to show up?”
Oh, crap. I grabbed him by the collar. “How many people know that I’m a cop?” I asked him in something akin to a yelled whisper.”
“Everybody,” he said, “We knew they were sending someone down here last week. You just madit really easy to tell who the cop was.”
Don’t panic. Maybe Uncle Larry still needs someone to run one of his landscape crews. I mean, how bad could it be, really. Working outdoors, plenty of fresh air and sun, no pressure. Oh sure, the pension would have been nice and the seventy-percent cut in pay will be an adjustment but, hey, they can’t lock me up. Can they?
Edited by Akastan 2009-09-23 3:17 PM
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| BOBBY T Thanks for reading my story and for your comments. I love criticism. With out it you'll never grow as a writer and if you can't take it you'll never get far. I just learned to use a computer and had trouble with editing, as I knew it was filled with errors that hurt the story. I did try to make it realistic as you stated, "A young metal head would do," but I also did try to clean it up, but like I said, I'm still trying to figure out how to use spell check etc.
As for your story, I read it several times and have to first admit I have trouble understanding what I read because I am not a reader. I am afraid of my ideas being replaced with others if I read their work-- selfish fear. So I am not the greatest critic. But since you commented on mine I re-read and re-read your story. and will do my best to be a critic of some intelligence.
As for your story I loved the stupid idiot Dewey who can't even follow the simplest of directions. Been there and know plenty of Dewey's.
Good discription of what being waterlogged would feel like-- "All squishy"
Love- love the poke at the banks and their damn greedy little charges to get your own cash.
I was very confused. Were there two lines, one for Miley, and one for the concert tickets you were supposed to be in line for. If so-- I want to know what tickets you were there for? You have to know.
If you were there for say Ozzy tickets wouldn't it be obvious that you were in the wrong line? Kids and Moms? Or was that an example of just how stupid Dewey really is?
Finally in the right line at the window you realize Dewey has no cash.
Did you lose your place in line?
(I read your story again)
Once in the right line, almost at the window, while you were in the john what happened?
Did he buy tickets from a scalper for your show because it sold out and he got ripped off.
Or while you were gone did he get the brilliant idea to buy Miley tickets, to turn a profit, to suprise you when you returned, so-- you could buy better seats to the show that you were there to get tickets for? And they turned out to be old tickets for Miley ((If that was the story that is funny))
Lastly in the end the "BLUR" confused me. For a second I thought you were going to grab the tickets from the hands of the person talking to Dewey or did the "BLUR" indicate a slick move some guy pulled on Dewey, by snatching his real tickets and slyly slipped him old tickets?
I would have punched him in the face as soon as I realized he was in the wrong line and again when he had no wallet and definately at the end.
Why were people in line for Miley tickets if the concert was the night before?
This is my first critic of others work so don't take it personnaly. Again I don't read a lot and may have totally missed the point. I write simple stuff kids books Simpson episodes so I have trouble understanding work like yours who's style I refer to as "intelligent writting" oposed to my simple minded style.
I do grow as a writer hearing what others think of my work, and a lot is great advice, but I never let it get to me, nor will I change my writting soul, because of what someone says. All we can do is just keep writting. See you on the next page my friend.
Sorry to all for all the gammatical errors in my writting. I hear you all and will work hard to improve.
Write on!
Edited by imagery 2009-09-23 1:19 PM
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| imagery, thanks in turn for your input. I've tried to clean some stuff up, and make the chronology more explicit. There's always something.
Akastan, there's some good stuff in your piece, mostly the tone. It's certainly been done before, but there's still material to be mined in the genre of the rugged cop who doesn't follow rules. I like the fact that there's a wrinkle, and that everybody, including himself, is aware that he's not passing as a concert-goer, or at least not one of these concert-goers. If this were part of a larger work, the protagonist could well be an unreliable narrator, making things interesting for the reader by getting things wrong about himself and his situations.
However, there's one detail that just feels wrong given this context. If everybody around knows there's going to be a police presence, and if he's so clearly that police presence, how is it that people are openly conducting drug deals right in front of him? He's aware enough to know that he doesn't look like the rest of the crowd, but not aware enough to know that people are on to him. You could take advantage of that, I think. Maybe the kids in line are toying with him, pretending to make deals in front of him while somebody else handles the real transactions out of sight? Or maybe he could be surprised (and probably disappointed) by an utter lack of drug activity. Again, they could toy with him by ... I dunno, having lots of coffee and doughnuts in his presence, and getting their drugs elsewhere. As written, his potentially valuable surveillance footage doesn't fit with everything else.
On a different level, I'd lose the musical preferences of the narrator. As prominent as that is in the beginning, it's odd that it never comes up again. I was half expecting the narrator to out himself by making an inappropriate musical reference. It's probably enough to show that he's older than everybody else, and hates their music. That's a shorthand we can all understand, and in this context I think it would be useful, as opposed to feeling cliche.
Finally, grammar and spelling ... blah blah blah. I have those issues, too, and I suspect we all do. Not a big deal, since that stuff is easily corrected. | |
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| Thanks for the read and critique. I whipped it out pretty fast and should have gon back over it. You are right as to the musical reference- to long, too specific. As for as why they still dealt drugs, I assumed the reader would understand they expected no arrests until the day the box office opened. A stretch on my part. It was fun to do. Thanks again. | |
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| Day 1
I'm really excited right now. As I write this, I am standing at the back end of a giant line to get tickets to see my all time favorite band. It sucks that I have to sit in a line this long for however much time I have to, but for the end result, I'm definitely jazzed about this. Besides, I've often been told that the anticipation of something is better than the thing itself. Even if that's true, I anticipate a lot from it, so it has got to be awesome. Whoops. The line is moving forward a bit. Probably shouldn't keep people behind me up.
Day 2
Still in line, still excited about this concert. I had this one weird moment of fear that somehow I'd get there and they would be out of tickets, but then I realized that this line wouldn't exist in the first place if there was any chance of that happening. Besides, if there's a divinity controlling the universe, then I'm sure that he wouldn't be that cruel. Meanwhile, I'm just standing and or sitting around waiting. I kind of wonder what the other people in the line are thinking.
Day 3
I'm beginning to get a little philosophical about this line. It's sort of like a caterpillar. Although it seems to be made of separate parts, really it's all just one seething whole of love for a truly awesome band. All people in it feel the same, and all people act the same too, more or less. I still can't wait for this concert, but the experience of getting to it is beginning to become interesting to me.
Day 4
It's been four days in this line. Isn't that amazing? I kind of wonder what the front of the line feels like.
Day 5
I've noticed something a little bit odd. At first, everyone in the line was really chatty and loud. Now that's changed. There's a complete lack of energy anywhere in this line, or at least, anywhere that I can see. I guess it kind of makes sense after five days standing around in a line. Towards lunchtime, I found myself for the first time thinking about leaving, it's getting that uncomfortable. But then I thought a little more about those tickets, and energy came back to me.
Day 6
I no longer think of this line as a caterpillar. It's more like a mountain. Mount Everest, to be precise. It's easy to go off the mountain and easier still to go backwards, but pushing upwards is hard, and sometimes it seems as if no progress will ever be made. Still, I know that there in fact is an end to this line, and I'm determined to make it there.
Day 7
It's now been a week, and the line has turned into its own self-contained universe. I realize now that there is no need for a back of this line or for a front of it as long as there is some kind of motion. That motion, not the goal is what defines the line, for that is the only thing that differentiates from a simple mass. Will power is holding all of us together in the line, but it is not our own will-power. Many people in the line clearly wish to escape, but the line does not want to be broken. It holds a power over all of us that we cannot resist. There is no direction but forwards and there is no universe except for the back of the neck of the woman standing directly in front of me.
Day 8
Society has begun to dissolve in the line. It was only a matter of time. As long as the rule of forward progression without cutting holds, there is no further need for the Social Contract. The rules of the line do not force us to recognize each other as human beings. They only require us to exist, to make it thicker. This, I believe, is the only reason that cannibalism has not already begun.
Day 9
Cannibalism has just begun. However, it is only practiced on those who have died from the natural stresses of constant forward motion. The younger among us are required to keep going. I no longer remember what band I'm waiting to get tickets for, nor would I remember did I not have this journal.
Day 10
Strike that bit above about cannibalism only being practiced on those who have died naturally. But I would not accuse us of being savages. Although it is only because of this journal that I have kept the capacity of language while others have lost it, the sense of community is fully developed. If any predator attempted to cut, even those in front of that part of the line would join the others to fight it off. Also, a religion, or rather a religious sense has also formed. I have been chosen as high priest.
Day 11
The inevitable has happened. Just as I was facilitating one of the people behind me as he tried to remove the ill humors from his body, I reached the ticket booth. There is no line in front of me any more, only behind. The clerk asked me to buy tickets, which I did. Oddly, I bought two rather than one. The extra ticket is now attached to my wall as a memory of this curious experience. (Note: All above observations were made on the four other people that I could see. I don't know if such patterns held throughout the line.) | |
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Location: Florida | Monday: Tenth in line. Four days to tickets. Settling in in my canvas chair on the sidewalk. The old body fits well into that chair. Checking in. Sleeping bag. Check. Food. Check. Water. Eight bottles, not enough. Sanity Not sure.
What the hell am I doing here? A gnarled sixty-five year old with a hip hop passion in a sea of pimply-faced teens and barely post-pubescent twenties. I feel like an intruder.
But I love that hip hop, the message, the poetry, the energy that captures my anger and hopes. Old geezers feel too.
Maybe this will be my last crazy act. My last moment of defiance. Besides, I relished my son’s reaction when I told him my plan.
“You can’t do this dad. You’re too old. What are you thinking? No… you’re not thinking at all. If I could, I’d take away your car keys.”
Then his wife chimed in. “Please dad, don’t. We’re begging you. I know you love their music, but dad, you’re sixty-five.”
They even got my granddaughter to help. “Grandpa, I love you. You’re too old. What if you don’t come back?”
Then I think she winked. Maybe not, but I like to believe what I believe.
Now I am surrounded by potential grandkids.
Tuesday: I think I’m the first person awake in line. God, how those kids can stay up late and sleep forever.
Yesterday was amazing. At first, I was an oddity, an old fart, out of place, out of time. But kids were curious and couldn’t resist conversation. I blew them away with all I knew about hip hop artists and hip hop culture. I quoted rappers as easily as my minister would quote the Bible. The kids were awed. Soon I had a following.
Feel stiff and achy. Concrete doesn’t make a good bed. I’m counting the days.
Wednesday: Yesterday, I navigated the conversation from hip hop to politics and back to hip hop again. The kids had strange notions about violence and guns. My notions were equally strange to them.
The line keeps getting longer, gyrating around the block. My favorite distractions were the t-shirt girl – I bought three for my granddaughter; and the ragged, tattooed hotdog guy, who became my main sustenance. I sprang for hotdogs for the dozen kids immediately in front and behind me in line- my new family, my new community.
I got a cheer that was heard at the end of the line.
I even got interviewed on Channel 4 as the local curiosity for the five o’clock news. Imagine, at 65 I finally become famous.
Only one more sleepless night on concrete.
Thursday: I awake to rain. Pelting rain. Soaking rain. Two more hours before tickets. Don’t know if I can hold out. Suddenly, the sound of the rain changes. The kids in front of me and behind me set up a rain tarp over me. Don’t know where they got the poles, but they did. I am protected and safe. A true Master Card moment.
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Location: Same place, just 17 years later | 3.12.2K9: This cute guy behind me keeps flashing me his smile. He's hot! His dimples, his light-gray eyes and pretty lips...he's hella cute, he kinda looks Hawaiian. He's such a tease. He wants to cut in front of me for twenty dollars. What a tease!
But, nobody gets between me and Mike, or Chester, Rob, Brad, Joe, and Phoenix!
Ha, not today, not ever. What the hell? Did that bitch just give him cuts. Aww hell-to-the-no she did not just give him cuts. Damn, where's security when you need them? I knew this was gonna happen.
Ha-ha, now look at you trying to explain to Security that y'all 'cousins'. BUSTED! Ha-ha, y'all both booted to the back of the line. We're already 1,700 people deep...Sayonara, suckers! Tout à l'heure! (tout-a-loo) lol.
3.13.2K9: Gees, Louise, it's so cold out here. "I've become so numb" Lol. There's some homeless people grazing around looking for a little somethin' somethin'. Oh, crap, she saw me. I think she's coming over here. Don't come over here! Dammint! I don't want to lie, but I don't want to go to hell either. Look, my money's for my ticket, hell or high-water. She can have my honey buns.
I hated those honey buns anyway, if I had eaten another honey bun, I would've puked. So, I let her have the whole box. There were like three left in there anyways. She just scored three, free organic honey buns!
I don't know why I didn't just buy that organic Trail Mix from Whole Foods like I wanted. They had it on sale: 32 oz. for $16.99. It's organic! I wonder what Mike's doing now. When I meet him, I won't tell him that I'm a vegan...not just yet at least.
(doodles) LoReina Shinoda... Mrs. LoReina Shinoda... Mr. Mike and LoReina Shinoda... Mr. and Mrs. Mike and LoReina Shinoda...
3.14.2K9: My butt hurts. No matter how many times I fold this fudging pillow, my ass feels like it hurts even worse. Shi2! I need some drugs. I need some ass drugs. Eww, what if I get hemorrhoids from sitting for so long. Oh shi2! I hope I don't get hemorrhoids. If I get hemorrhoids, I'll have to kill myself. I'm so fudging pissed ...I better not get hemorrhoids. I'm hungry...No, I'm starving. All the hot food has meat on it... This lady think that I'm gonna give her some of my Purell for free? Money talks, sweetie! See, now that's what I'm talking 'bout, two-bucks for three squirts. I just made ten dollars in one-minute. That's what's up! Mike would be so proud of me. His baby out here hustlin' for us. I love you, Mike.
3.15.2K9: Omigosh. What-the-hell is this? They're putting up some "SOLD OUT" signs. Maybe it's just for tomorrow's concert. I think I actually could stick my foot through that intercom thing if they tell me that my ticket was sold. I'd be like, "wtf, I been out here for three fudging days and I get up here and my ticket's sold? Oh hell-no, y'all betta go and find my ticket back there. I ordered it online! Don't start none, there won't be none!" LOL.
Damn, omigosh, three girls just fainted. OMG!, OMG! All the concerts are SOLD OUT!
3.16.2K9: I don't remember how I even made it back home. But, I'm finally home. I just remembered screaming my lungs out, my foot got stepped on, a riot broke out. I think I passed out. Oh, yeah, I think someone got stabbed. That was so weird. What if that was me? I'd be so scared if I got stabbed. Why are people so mean? Mean people should die. I will never be mean again.
Edited by LoReina 2009-10-04 3:10 PM
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| By the time we arrived, there were enough people in line to bridge the horizons, but we expected that. Matt says we'll have to get rid of at least a hundred and fifty people ahead of us if we want to get tickets before they sell out, and since he's training to be an engineer I'm inclined to believe his math. We have three and a half days to do it--more than enough time. We will rain down fire and brimstone, we will scorch the earth and sow it with salt if we must, but nothing will stand between us and this concert. Last year we were unprepared for the battle. This year we shall taste victory.
Day 1: The Psych Out
The first thing you have to do is show the other fans that you have enough supplies to last you for months. By "supplies" I mainly mean beer, but a good base camp needs a few other essentials to properly psych the competition out. I'm talking tents and air mattresses and tiny portable grills. Nothing is more disheartening after a night spent shivering in the rain than waking up to see the guy ten or twenty feet behind him reaching out of a warm, dry tent to throw a steak on the grill. We make friends with out immediate neighbors and let them in on our plan. Once we make it clear our success is their success, they'll be valuable allies. Even so, always leave at least one guard behind--there are limits to trust in wartime.
Day 2: The Pied Piper
Jason slipped into a full on uni-bomber ensemble for phase two. We spent all of the morning making fake tickets, using pictures of last years tickets for a model. They don't pass close inspection, but from a distance they're nothing less than works of art. Jason pocketed all of them and started playing the experienced scalper. He'd flash the tickets quickly and tell people it was too sketchy to sell them right there. He must've lured fifty people around the corner that way, and by the time their spots had been seized unless they left a friend behind to guard it. Of course, once people started catching on, he had to run for his life and ditch the hoodie, sunglasses, and baseball hat in a dumpster and sneak stealthily back.
Day 3: The Stampede
This one worked even better than we thought. All you have to do is stand near the front of the line and say to eachother in carefully staged whispers, "No way! And he only had one body guard?" "Yeah, I swear, he's right there in that Starbucks!" "Don't point, stupid, if everyone knows the lead singer is in there they'll scare him off! Me and Allison will go get autographs, you stay here!" By the time I was halfway across the street I'd been overtaken by a shrieking horde of idiots. Allison, sadly, was trampled to death in the melee. She will be missed, but she knew the risks. She moshing in heaven now.
Day 5: Bargaining
After five days of watching us reveling in luxury, people are starting to get antsy. Now is the time we started getting "generous". At first it was little things. Trade you a few beers to switch places in line with us! Trade you a flashlight and clean socks for your blanket! Once we started climbing through the ranks we had to give more stuff away. They only thought they were getting a good deal. What good is a battery powered coffee maker when the batteries die anyway? Finally we've reached the place in line where we aren't the only ones with good tents. I think we'll be able to get seats from here, but that's not good enough. We need seats close enough we can feel the guitarist's sweat flying off of her. These people will be much harder to dislodge.
Day 6: Civil War
We send representatives to the back of the line to inform them they have no mathematical chance of scoring tickets unless they join forces with us against the front of the line. Our tactics became brutal (everyone laughs at the kids wearing flea collars until the infested hiv positive ferrets are set loose). We begin to make necklaces from the teeth of the vanquished. We sleep in shifts, armed to the teeth, and await the morning.
Day 7: Victory?
Finally, the box office opens and we are the third group in line. Three of our original group are dead, two missing and presumed dead, but those who remain will surely be in the front row. Spattered liberally with blood and gore we accept our tickets amid blood curdling war cries and cheering from our faithful foot soldiers in the back of the line. Too bad for them they probably still won't get tickets. Now, onto the problem of obtaining backstage passes... | |
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In Line for Concert Tickets - 9/22
