This won't be my Stones year. I was there, in all my internet glory, logged in and ready to buy tickets at 10:00 a.m. The first ones I drew were limited view. As were the next and the next and the next. Finally, in desperation, I took two that would have been looking over Keith's shoulder, but from 10,000 feet up. Damn the home computer's useless dial-up internet!! I timed out before it could process my request, so I lost those tickets. Then I went insane.
I tried to buy seats that actually faced the stage. I tried to buy seats from which you could SEE the stage. I tried to buy seats from which you could tell which direction Mick tucks. I threatened. I pleaded. I let loose lots of colorful language and gesticulations. All to no avail. Freaking scalpers/ticket brokers/greedy maniacs in Charlotte. Nothing was left at 10:12. Nothing.
I should be disappointed, but I'm not. Angry. Bitter. Disenfranchised. But I was all that before. I don't want to see the Stones from the Ozone Layer. I don't want to see them with 20,000 strangers, That Drunk Guy and his girlfriend The WooHoo Girl (only there will be like 100 of each). The negatives are beating the positives senseless on this fight. I don't really like big crowds. I don't like to wade through piss and vomit in public restrooms (any restrooms, I should clarify). Parking's a bitch. I hate standing in line. All this to watch the back of Keith's head? The vague disappointment will disappear like smoke after a bit of retail therapy. Mick, Keith, you'll get your money anyway. And I won't have to pay $5 for warm beer.
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