January 27, 2012
One Saturday morning in the spring of 1996, I woke up early and drove down to the Tower Records of Highway 101 in Corte Madera. The line already stretched from the door to the Cost Plus Imports next door when I arrived. People there seemed used to this. Some had lawn chairs, coffee, the newspaper. I had nothing. At some point, we drew numbers, and lined up according to those. Apparently, other people were there for tickets to Van Morrison, or Elvis Costello or, Jerry Seinfeld (who seemed like a really, really dull thing to line up for, but whatever). I was there for tickets to Pulp, at Bimbo’s 365 Club. An hour or so later, I got up to the front. “Pulp,” I said, when the clerk asked me what I wanted. “One, please.” The guy working the computer seemed happy to have a show for which he didn’t have to deal with seating. A few minutes later, I was out, ticket in hand. Back at school on Monday, a friend told me he got tickets later in the weekend. I think some other friends even got tickets later in the week. Though that show had sold out when it finally came around, it hadn’t been quite so impossible as this one, the Radio City reunion show, where I came up with nothing. That lining up was a real pain in the ass. Not long from then, I’d see it from the other side, and I didn’t love it then, either. Still, I wish it were the option for tickets these days, rather than this silly scam in which scalper bots get the tickets, and they’re immediately on StubHub. At least then, if you wanted, you could make the effort. And, almost always—and I say this from being the one selling the tickets, not just buying—if you made the effort, you’d do okay. 

One Saturday morning in the spring of 1996, I woke up early and drove down to the Tower Records of Highway 101 in Corte Madera. The line already stretched from the door to the Cost Plus Imports next door when I arrived. People there seemed used to this. Some had lawn chairs, coffee, the newspaper. I had nothing.

At some point, we drew numbers, and lined up according to those. Apparently, other people were there for tickets to Van Morrison, or Elvis Costello or, Jerry Seinfeld (who seemed like a really, really dull thing to line up for, but whatever). I was there for tickets to Pulp, at Bimbo’s 365 Club.

An hour or so later, I got up to the front. “Pulp,” I said, when the clerk asked me what I wanted. “One, please.” The guy working the computer seemed happy to have a show for which he didn’t have to deal with seating. A few minutes later, I was out, ticket in hand.

Back at school on Monday, a friend told me he got tickets later in the weekend. I think some other friends even got tickets later in the week. Though that show had sold out when it finally came around, it hadn’t been quite so impossible as this one, the Radio City reunion show, where I came up with nothing.

That lining up was a real pain in the ass. Not long from then, I’d see it from the other side, and I didn’t love it then, either. Still, I wish it were the option for tickets these days, rather than this silly scam in which scalper bots get the tickets, and they’re immediately on StubHub. At least then, if you wanted, you could make the effort. And, almost always—and I say this from being the one selling the tickets, not just buying—if you made the effort, you’d do okay. 

11:23am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZKwiWyFSMGKv
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: do you remember the first time? 
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