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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Thursday, October 1   >>


I hate ticket brokers. Well, except for one. He was like my personal ticket broker in high school. Back then, before bills and all that other adult shit, I would save up all my money and stash it away. For what? Video games? No, I was fucking hip (in my own mind). Clothes? Double no, that's fucking gay.

I'd buy my way into live music. And I eventually had a personal ticket broker by the name of Gary, who always made the transaction in the parking lot of a local Target. Creepy? Yes. Effective? Yes yes.

He was a rad guy. He was old and looked like a guy who really loved Fleetwood Mac. He took advantage of my barely post-pubescent voice over the phone. I knew early on that he was dicking me over with prices, but eventually he came to like me and sell at barely above face value.

Then he disappeared. I think he got arrested or something.

Which brings me to yesterday:

HUGO: Hi, I'm looking for Jason Mraz tickets at the Bowl.

BROKER: Sure, what's your price?

HUGO: Nothing over $150 for a pai... is this Gary?

BROKER: Huh? Yes? We have singles starting at $150...

HUGO: OHMAHGAH GARY. I used to hit you up years ago. Remember you got me into that Weezer benefit and met up with you there with your daughter and you were upset she saw nudity at such an early age?

BROKER GARY: Why... yes. Yes I do. How are you?

HUGO: Relatively broke. And really wanting to catch Mraz. He doesn't suck anymore.