Surprise - Ticket Scalpers Are Assholes!
March 5, 2001
I'm going to die. I'm abso-fucking-lutely going to die. I just called to ask about NSync ticket prices for the concert July 8, and the price they quoted for the best seats nearly sent me into cardiac arrest - both because it's so high and because the seats are so good.
Here's what I'm talking, people:
Fourth Row. Center.
Seven Hundred and Fifty Dollars.
I don't think my logic has ever battled so hard against my instinct as at the moment the man quoted those numbers to me. I was torn. Torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool. Torn like an old sweater. Torn like Natalie Imbruglia. I clung to my sanity long enough - barely - to choke out that I would have to call him back, then hung up before my raving screaming inner teenie could bellow, "GIVE THEM TO ME NOW!"
It was a near thing, I'm telling you.
And that inner teenie hasn't quieted down. Her name is Lulubelle, and she is wild-eyed with rage at the thought we could be so close to the Sex Gods/Giant Dorks, yet we appear to be passing up the chance. Fortunately (for my bank account, anyway), I seem to have an inner sensible adult as well, Eva, and she is crooning soothing words about the cruise I want to take this summer, the Europe trip JFalstaff and I have our sights set on, the improvements we want to make around the house, and the amount of makeup I could buy at the Lancome counter for that dollar figure. She's doing a good job, is Eva, at calming me and convincing me there is no possible way I could spend that much money on ONE freaking ticket.
Lulubelle ain't havin' it, though, and keeps mouthing off about how close they would be, and how easily one of them could look down and see me there - shining like a beacon of maturity and sexual experience amidst the adolescents - and decide he's tired of braces and acne and is ready for a real woman, and how I would probably at least catch droplets of their sweat (to which Eva says Yuck, and Lulubelle just sticks out her tongue).
And of course I'm a terrific dork, and have started to wonder what one wears to enhance one's status as a beacon of maturity and sexual experience, while at the same time not looking like an absolute slut. Oh, and taking into account the heat factor - floor level of Texas Stadium in July is bound to be an oven. Only the strongest will survive with their mascara intact.
Oh, God. I'm planning my attack. I suck.