And the number of the beast was 619-220-TIXS
There is an evil in America today, and its name is Ticketmaster. It is a parasite that is feeding off the host of live music. It is entirely insidious in nature – luring music fans in with the promise of convenience, but then striking with malevolent barbs of insatiable greed at the last page of checkout.
Any fan of live music has certainly experienced this pain. However, like a shameful addiction, we do not often talk about it. It is something experienced in secret, before the soft glow of the computer monitor. It has become personal. And that is why Ticketmaster has thrived. The only way to combat this behemoth of convenience charges, order processing charges, and mailing charges is to expose it. Like a poisonous mushroom, pull it out of the dank, dark shadows and watch it shrivel in the light.
The silence the public has about this crime against concertdom is like the story of The Emperor With No Clothes. Except, in this case, we’re the ones with no clothes, because we’ve hocked them all to pay the fees. And we’re choosing not to acknowledge the nakedness of our fellow citizens who have also lost their shirts.
Ticketmaster succeeds because it knows music is a drug. And it’s the best kind of drug. It’s legal, has mass appeal and is socially acceptable. So, Ticketmaster knows when you go into to by that $40 Radiohead ticket, you are not going to back out when they shoot the final price up by 50 percent with their multitude of monstrous fees. They know that your feeling of violation and betrayal will subside once you begin thinking fondly about your secured attendance at “the concert event of the summer.”
This monopoly of live music also has the audacity to call them “convenience” fees. Yes, it is very convenient for them to collect loads of money for simply offering up an automated e-commerce site and portal for concert events. I want that kind of convenience in my life. I would probably feel better about it if they were honest. How about calling them “you have no other choice, so we know you’ll pay ‘em” fees? Just an idea. I would like to be honorable and take a valiant stand against this evil empire, but I also want to go to Radiohead. Live music is a fix, so I guess I’ll take the hit. Ticketmaster be damned.
Saturday, July 26, 2003
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
Putting the fire back into fireworks
I’m not sure if it’s the smell of ignited gunpowder, the latent pyro inherent in everyone, or the thrill of real danger to one’s digits, but I love lighting fireworks. This past 4th of July was the first one in the last 14 or so that I’ve been able to be an active participant in the processes of formally fêting our fair nation’s birth and narrow escape from the foul tyranny and drab clothes of Britain.
The opportunity presented itself during a planned escape from the foul tyrannous firework prohibition of California. In truth, on the onset of the journey I wasn’t aware that Oregon did not share the same prudent, cautious and boring legislation that destroys many a young Californian’s dreams of blowing stuff up. So, upon my arrival in Portland, I was delighted to learn that the city compensated for its lackluster weather with open views towards putting explosive materials in the hands of ill-supervised children.
I was informed of this fact by our Portlandian friends who ventured out to the airport to pick us from our two-hour journey from sunny San Diego. Apparently, there is some validity to being able to take the weather with you, because I doubt Portland would have been so hot and sunny if we had arrived from Seattle or some other sun-challenged locale. Regardless of how it happened, the weather in Portland was impressive, which was a stark change from the oppressive weather that I was expecting
Our Portlandian friends are actually recent transplants from the Bay Area, who I now think moved up north for the fireworks. That’s the reason that seems to make the most sense anyways – that and perhaps Portland’s more reasonable attitudes towards what a two- bedroom, one-bath house should cost. Anyway, these friends informed us that they had stopped at Costco, the mass purveyors of mass quantities of all things American, and purchased the standard firework sampler. I was informed that the jumbo sampler was the size of a large door and wouldn’t have fit in their car. Luckily, most of Costco’s members drive super-sized SUVs, so sales of the jumbo version were still brisk.
Spending my adolescent, fire-curious years in New Mexico, I was used to going to firework shacks, lean-tos and back of pickups for my firework buying needs. However, I did find Costco had a decent selection of the safe, crowd pleaser types. What were missing, though, were the dangerous, self-pleasing ones. This latter category, of course, covers your lady finger, bottle rocket and M-80 varieties.
While these were sorely missed, we managed to still have fun with the fire-marshal approved incendiaries. Plus, I discovered, that if miss-handled, you can still add an element of danger. For example, when burning ash blew into my eyes while looking up at the spark emitting ‘candles’ that I was waving above my head. This was almost as thrilling as discovering how quick the fuses were on some illicit firecrackers that were shared with us by some patriotic, drunk passerbys. While drunk, I have to give them credit for not trying to light the firecrackers themselves – and passing them onto a slightly more sober, definitely less discerning, pyro.
The drunken revelers also informed us that you can get the “good fireworks” in Washington State, or on the Indian reservations. So that’s the mission for next year. I think it’s sad that I have to leave the state to find proper rockets that red glare, but if that’s what it takes to celebrate the good ol’ USA with Chinese-manufactured explosives, then that’s what I’ll do.
I’m not sure if it’s the smell of ignited gunpowder, the latent pyro inherent in everyone, or the thrill of real danger to one’s digits, but I love lighting fireworks. This past 4th of July was the first one in the last 14 or so that I’ve been able to be an active participant in the processes of formally fêting our fair nation’s birth and narrow escape from the foul tyranny and drab clothes of Britain.
The opportunity presented itself during a planned escape from the foul tyrannous firework prohibition of California. In truth, on the onset of the journey I wasn’t aware that Oregon did not share the same prudent, cautious and boring legislation that destroys many a young Californian’s dreams of blowing stuff up. So, upon my arrival in Portland, I was delighted to learn that the city compensated for its lackluster weather with open views towards putting explosive materials in the hands of ill-supervised children.
I was informed of this fact by our Portlandian friends who ventured out to the airport to pick us from our two-hour journey from sunny San Diego. Apparently, there is some validity to being able to take the weather with you, because I doubt Portland would have been so hot and sunny if we had arrived from Seattle or some other sun-challenged locale. Regardless of how it happened, the weather in Portland was impressive, which was a stark change from the oppressive weather that I was expecting
Our Portlandian friends are actually recent transplants from the Bay Area, who I now think moved up north for the fireworks. That’s the reason that seems to make the most sense anyways – that and perhaps Portland’s more reasonable attitudes towards what a two- bedroom, one-bath house should cost. Anyway, these friends informed us that they had stopped at Costco, the mass purveyors of mass quantities of all things American, and purchased the standard firework sampler. I was informed that the jumbo sampler was the size of a large door and wouldn’t have fit in their car. Luckily, most of Costco’s members drive super-sized SUVs, so sales of the jumbo version were still brisk.
Spending my adolescent, fire-curious years in New Mexico, I was used to going to firework shacks, lean-tos and back of pickups for my firework buying needs. However, I did find Costco had a decent selection of the safe, crowd pleaser types. What were missing, though, were the dangerous, self-pleasing ones. This latter category, of course, covers your lady finger, bottle rocket and M-80 varieties.
While these were sorely missed, we managed to still have fun with the fire-marshal approved incendiaries. Plus, I discovered, that if miss-handled, you can still add an element of danger. For example, when burning ash blew into my eyes while looking up at the spark emitting ‘candles’ that I was waving above my head. This was almost as thrilling as discovering how quick the fuses were on some illicit firecrackers that were shared with us by some patriotic, drunk passerbys. While drunk, I have to give them credit for not trying to light the firecrackers themselves – and passing them onto a slightly more sober, definitely less discerning, pyro.
The drunken revelers also informed us that you can get the “good fireworks” in Washington State, or on the Indian reservations. So that’s the mission for next year. I think it’s sad that I have to leave the state to find proper rockets that red glare, but if that’s what it takes to celebrate the good ol’ USA with Chinese-manufactured explosives, then that’s what I’ll do.
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