Springsteen tickets go on sale today: Game on.

I’m not exactly an athlete, but today is opening day of the one sport that I’m a pro at.

Yes.

Springsteen tickets go on sale today.

Game on.

To the non-competitive fans out there, I know it doesn’t sound like much of an athletic activity, but trust me, it requires months of preparation, mental agility, cat-like reflexes, and the patience of a Buddhist monk.

If you’re smart like I am, you’re in constant training. There’s no off-season when you’re serious about getting Bruce tickets.

The preparation starts with location and a credit card. For any given tour, there are certain cities that are likely to get concerts. It’s important to anticipate which of these are within a reasonable driving distance (a twelve-hour radius is acceptable on your own, more if you have a second driver going with you), and to make sure that you’ve bought enough stuff with your credit card to rack up the mileage points to enable you to travel to the shows outside of that reasonable radius. I recommend charging all concert tickets on mileage credit cards, because then your tickets work toward your travel goals as well. This stage of the training process can take years, but if you’re an chronic shopper like I am, you can make training fun.

Next, you need to take up yoga. This is the part that’s hard for me. I’m not a patient person. If I’m going to work out, I want to run and lift heavy things. (Yes, like running toward sales and carrying shopping bags loaded with shoes. Shut up. I work out for real. Jerks.)

You see, to deal with Ticketmaster, you need yoga. Because Ticketmaster is the single most evil corporation in the history of the world. It’s a little-known fact that it has been around for hundreds of years, since LONG before you were able to buy tickets online, or by phone, or even in a kiosk (which was before my ticket-buying time). I actually have a theory that Ticketmaster was single-handedly responsible for the Kennedy assassination, the Holocaust, the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand (which started World War I), the Indonesian tsunami, George W. Bush, and the Microsoft corporation.

Seriously. The root of all modern evil.

And it’s apparently an unbreakable monopoly since the Live Nation merger, so there’s no way around dealing with them.

But you need yoga because it’s imperative that you are able to keep calm when dealing with Ticketmaster, even when you get the dreaded error message that tells you that there’s a problem processing your order when you pulled the exact seats that you wanted (GA, in my case—if it’s not the pit, it’s not perfect!), and you get thrown back into the queue, then told there are no tickets available.

Normally, when this happens, I turn into the Incredible Hulk. Literally. I turn green, sprout massive muscles, and run around smashing everything in my path yelling, “SARA MAD!” But with yoga’s meditation techniques, I’ve been able to control my anger to the point where I only turn slightly green, grow muscles that don’t destroy my clothes, and am able to grit my teeth, tell Ticketmaster to go do something that isn’t anatomically possible for it to do to itself, and keep hitting refresh, hoping that that tickets that an error message screwed someone else out of will pop back up for me to buy.

Trust me, without yoga, the cost of repairing the swath of destruction wreaked by Ticketmaster rage far exceeded the exorbitant Ticketmaster fees. And that’s saying something.

You also need to be prepared to type in the randomly generated “codes” that Ticketmaster provides to ensure that you’re human. And which are also the primary source of amusement for Ticketmaster employees other than causing system errors after giving you great tickets. One time the randomly-generated code said, “Nice try, loser,” right before saying there were no tickets available. Another time it said “No Bruce for you.” And another one said “ham sandwich.” (Okay, that one MIGHT have been random. Or it could have been a subtle jab at me because I’m Jewish and onto Ticketmaster about orchestrating the Holocaust.) But the more practice you have at reading and rapidly typing in those infuriating codes, the better your ticket chances are.

In order to get tickets to multiple shows (and let’s face it, I’m going to be at multiple shows on this tour), you sometimes need to perfect the art of being in multiple places at once. Tickets for both Philadelphia shows go on sale at the same time tomorrow (from ComcastTix, which is like Ticketmaster but with a less reliable website. Fail.). If you buy for one show, the second one will be sold out by the time you finish your purchase. I recommend cloning yourself and training your clone to buy tickets. However, I’m on a teacher’s salary and since it apparently costs $50,000 to clone a dog (and since cloning people isn’t legal… yet… muahahaha), that option is out for me. So if you can’t afford a clone, or have issues with playing God, you need a partner. I, for example, will be forced to rely on a less trained helper (my dad) to get tickets for the other Philly night. Pray for me. (Just kidding, daddy! I have faith in your abilities! But please try hard!)

And it’s wise to remember that buying tickets is a marathon, not a sprint. Because I’m not JUST planning to go to shows in New Jersey, which go on sale today. Oh no. I’m getting up early on a Saturday to buy my tickets for the DC and Philly shows tomorrow.

But even once I get my tickets, it’s not time to rest yet. It’s just time to start training to buy my tickets for the second US leg of the tour, which hasn’t even been announced yet.

And time to start training for pit survival–If you don’t condition your legs and bladder, that’s an uncomfortable experience. Worth every second of it, but uncomfortable all the same.

Good luck fellow tramps!

Let the ticket-buying begin!

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It’s only rock and roll… but I love everything about it!

You know how the mystical entity known as they “they” always say that as soon as you stop looking for something, you find it?

Well, it finally happened for me.

Yes, boys and girls, that most amazing, magical thing that could possibly happen to a person happened to me on Friday night.

No, I’m not talking about love. I’m single and probably will be for life unless they eventually make it legal for a crazy cat lady to marry her seventeen cats. Which in some states, might actually happen before gay marriage, but that’s a topic for another blog and another day. (For the record I have no cats. I hate cats. Which is why it’s truly horrible that my destiny is to become a crazy cat lady. Pray for me.)

So what happened to me on Friday?

Only the best and most wonderful thing that can happen in my world!

I went to New Jersey to see the Gaslight Anthem. And I wasn’t looking for it, I wasn’t expecting it, hell, I wasn’t even THINKING about it. But it happened.

Bruce Springsteen popped up on stage at a show that I was at in Asbury Park.

And I was front and center.

Okay, slightly off to the right of center. But close enough.

Several very reliably sources told me that he was there that night before he came out on stage.  But I was relying on Bruce’s own dictum to “Trust none of what you hear, and less of what you see,” because I had been burned by rumors before.

Of course, I probably should have been able to guess that Bruce would be there, because Friday was just one of those incredible, too-good-to-be-true, perfect days when the stars all align and everything works out exactly as it should.

There were no hiccups on the way to Asbury Park at all. The ICC is finally open in Maryland, shaving half an hour off the time it takes to get there. And even Delaware cooperated! Worst-state-in-the-union Delaware got its act together in time for my trip to Asbury Park. Somehow, in what can only be described as a Festivus miracle, the road work that has been going on since the dawn of time in Delaware seems to be FINISHED.

And even more miraculous, the toll plaza of doom that always caused traffic to slow to the point where you actually start moving backwards has been replaced with a high-speed EZ Pass. Granted, I’m sure when I eventually get to hell (and trust me, that’s where I’m going when I die), the gates of hell will look nothing like Rodin imagined and will instead be the exact toll plaza that used to ruin all road trips through Delaware, but I’ll worry about that when I get there.

Seriously, after Friday, I’m thinking about letting Delaware remain a state when I take over the world. The state clearly read my earlier blog about my plan to revoke its statehood and is making the changes necessary to ensure its survival. And I respect that effort.

And thanks to those changes in Delaware, we made it to Asbury Park in record time, even with a Superman-style stop along the way for Lynnlee and me to change out of our road-trip yoga pants and t-shirts into the glamorous rock and roll goddesses you see at a show. Seriously, we walk into the rest stop as Clark Kent and we emerge as Megan Fox. It’s amazing what a little glitter eyeliner, mascara, and cleavage can do.

Which is also probably how we managed to make it to the very front of the pit, despite not being the first people in line, but I don’t question these things. When the stars align, you let it happen. (Ana, that was for you!)

Of course, even in my rock goddess mode, I feel a little out of place at a Gaslight Anthem show. Mostly because I’m neither fifteen years old, nor do I have approximately 863 tattoos. Seriously. The band might sing about “your hightop sneakers and your sailor tattoos,” in “Old White Lincoln,” but they seem to have left out any mention of the skulls, mermaids, song lyrics, and the one really freaky tattoo that I saw on some girl’s chest that looked EXACTLY like my dead grandma.  Seriously.  It scared me.

And with how tightly packed that pit was, I’m really glad tattoos aren’t contagious because I’m pretty sure I would have caught a whole lot of them from the people around me. Piercings too. Like I didn’t know you COULD pierce your eyelid or chin dimple or pinky finger. But I learned Friday night that apparently there is nothing attached to your body that can’t be tattooed and/or pierced.

I’m also pretty sure that I now have internal bleeding from the moshers. I’ve never understood the appeal of moshing. Like I’m happy to dance at a show. And I understand the appeal of wanting to be as close to the action on stage as possible. But I’ve never felt the need to hurl my entire body at the people around me as hard as is humanly possible for the sake of showing my enjoyment at a concert.

I guess I’m just weird.

Especially considering that the old Asian couple behind us were seriously getting into it. They were there with their teenage daughter, and I felt sorry for her because I was positive that when the moshing started, they were going to yank that girl out of there faster than you could pierce an eyelid. But Asian dad was moshing like a pro. Like he actually was. And I think I even saw Asian mom crowd surfing at one point.

But I forgot all about the moshers and crowd surfers and the chick who was busy trying to tattoo the Gaslight Anthem logo onto the back of my shoulder when Brian Fallon told us that he had a Christmas gift for us. And somehow, collectively, the entire audience’s Bruce-dar went off.

I think Lynnlee still has nail marks in her arm from how hard I grabbed her.

It was only one song. And it honestly had nothing to do with why I was there that night, because the Gaslight Anthem is unequivocally my favorite band in the world after Bruce. But it was one of those moments that absolutely shifted my outlook on everything.

Clarence is still gone and none of us mere fans have any real idea of how Bruce is going to handle that for this next tour. Hell, we don’t even have a hint of what the next album is going to be called or any confirmed US tour dates. Just a promise that they’re coming.

But whatever happens, I’m ready.

Because when Bruce shows up to play in Asbury, all is right in my world.

And so, with a hoarse voice, massive internal moshing injuries, and a half-finished tattoo that looks like the one Steve-O got while off-roading, I return to my normal, non-rock goddess life, to await the new year of albums and concerts and touring, oh my!

But after Friday night, I can’t wait to see what 2012 will bring.

In the words of the Gaslight Anthem, “Bring it On”…

You’ve gotta fight for your right…to stay at the front of the pit

I am mildly claustrophobic/agoraphobic, and am therefore NOT a big fan of tightly packed crowds. In fact, despite being an inveterate shopaholic, I refuse to set foot in a mall during the month of December for that reason. (Side note: I think it’s a sign of the impending apocalypse that Microsoft Word recognized “shopaholic” as a legitimate, accurately-spelled word. Maybe the Mayans were right. The end is near. Repent now.)

But I love concerts more than I hate crowds, so I brave them pretty frequently to see some of my favorite bands. At Bruce shows, that’s not much of a problem. If I’m in the pit (which I usually am, because once you’ve been in the pit, you never want to be in seats again, even if they’re REALLY good seats), and it gets too crowded, I’ll retreat to the back of the pit, where I’m still super close to the stage, but have room to breathe.

Taken from the pit in DC, 5/18/09

Although to be honest, that’s not much of a problem at Bruce shows, because it’s an older crowd. They may be desperate to get closer to Bruce, but at least they’re not moshing or crowd surfing. Bruce is the only one who crowd surfs at a Bruce show, and I’m not going to object to HIS butt passing over my head.

Taken from the pit during Bruce’s final show at the Spectrum, 10/20/09

At other shows, however, the pit can be scarier than Lindsay Lohan driving after hitting the crack pipe.

I love being in the pit though, so over the years I’ve developed some tricks to try to protect some of my personal space when I’m at the front of the crowd.

First of all, it’s better to be off to the side on the rail than dead center but a few people in. The reason for this is simple: at the rail, you have a certain amount of inviolable personal space that no non-rail position can provide. For a claustrophobe in a crowded situation, that’s worth its weight in gold.

So how do you guarantee a spot on the rail? At a Bruce show, you can’t. He uses a lottery system for the pit, which is great sometimes because it means you don’t have to camp out for a week to be in the front.  I lucked out at the show below (second person back in front of Bruce, right in front of my uncle, who’s wearing the white baseball cap).

Of course, it sucks like a Dyson when someone three numbers after you gets called and you wind up way far in the back.

For other shows, it means getting there early. Now I’m chronically late for everything I do, but I plan to arrive insanely early for concerts when I want to be in the front. Therefore when I’m fifteen minutes late, I’m still earlier than most of the other fans who DIDN’T plan so far in advance.

You also can’t skip the opening acts when you want to be in the front. For me, that’s a bonus though because I love opening bands. Sometimes they’re awful, but I’ve found a lot of new music that I’ve really liked from checking out the opening bands. (Most recently notable: Frank Turner and Fake Problems, both from Gaslight Anthem shows… Check them out, they were awesome!)

Once you have your spot on the rail, TAKE UP AS MUCH ROOM AS YOU CAN. Seriously. Pretend you’re really fat and hoard as much space as you would need if you were six times your own body weight. Pay special attention to hoarding the space behind you. People will fill that space in once the show starts, but the more room you can take up before the show, the better your chances of being able to breathe when it starts.

There are two words I can’t stress enough when you’re in the pit: DEFENSIVE ELBOWS. I learned this trick at crowded bars, and it’s NECESSARY at a concert. If someone is invading your space, keep your elbows out. If you make it uncomfortable enough for them to crowd you, they’ll eventually stop and try to squeeze in somewhere else.

Most people aren’t comfortable in high heels for a whole concert, but I am, and this works to my advantage. Because if someone behind you is crushing you up against the railing (like Saturday night’s Gaslight Anthem show in Charlottesville—true story: I have a massive bruise along my rib cage from getting slammed into the stage. But it was an AWESOME show, so it was well worth the bruised ribs and possible internal bleeding), a stiletto heel to the foot is your only available weapon. And it REALLY works well.

My last trick comes courtesy of my great grandfather, who gave this advice to my grandmother for riding the bus: keep a hatpin handy. Now I don’t know where to get a hatpin in this day and age, but safety pins are super cheap and easy to conceal. If the situation behind you starts to feel like a proctology exam, stick an open safety pin in your back pocket pointing out. No one is going to keep grabbing your ass if they’re getting stabbed every time they do.

So if you’re ever behind me at a concert and decide to rush the stage, be warned. I’m never going to be rude or start moshing, but I’ll fight for my spot in the pit if you make me. And that has nothing to do with being claustrophobic or afraid of crowds.

It’s because guys with guitars are REALLY hot.