There’s never a proper reason to fight with an elderly woman.
At 9:52 in the morning the last situation you’d expect to find yourself in, is arguing with a woman in a laundry room, and pondering why she had the audacity to reach into your machine to take your clothes out, although she was fully aware of your presence in the laundry room. It seems that she ran out of f-cks to give… But these unnecessary squabbles weren’t enough to slow down the momentum of the amazing night I was sold on.
The hours pass on by and the hype train is preparing to depart from the station. Damn… no one wants to trek to the city for a show ungroomed, especially when there’s copious amounts of “fun” to be had. What is a boy to do? You cut your hair. Using my bare-knuckle knowledge of cutting locks, I grabbed my handy dandy Andis clippers and cleaned myself up. I had to look fresh, despite being pressed for time. What’s that you say mirror, I need a shape-up? Oh, you’re absolutely right, I in fact do need a trim. But the barber closes in twenty minutes. Well haul ass and get a move on.
For now, I’ll skip pass the part where the barber disregarded my request to not shave my beard and left my face lopsided. Hey, don’t sweat the small things they say… spare me.
Upon uniting with my friend that I’d be attending this concert with, we traverse through the barren wasteland of a Queens evening and into Manhattan on the god-awful 7 train, courtesy of the MTA. It’s this particular ride that I admit to myself that I’m not well-versed in the catalog of Travis Scott. He does have some amazing records, at least that I could appreciate, but my knowledge and understanding of his work does not compare to that of my friend’s. He explains to me that this will be an experience unlike any and that I’d be able to enjoy the show with a blank slate. Fair enough, no fret.
We arrive at Terminal 5, a venue that I have a love/hate relationship with: sometimes I get inside, sometimes I don’t. As fate would have it, this would be another night the venue wouldn’t permit me onto the other side of their gates. I step onto the admissions line where I’m given a wristband to partake in alcohol consumption once inside. So far, so good. Time for a pat down. The woman who checked me before entering the venue strips of some items that I, uh, forgot to take out of my pocket and she pretends to place it in the trash can. For some that may have been a crime against humanity, I was just focused on getting into the show. In the case of the content in my pockets, let’s just say that money does tend to grow on trees.
I enter through the doors and step into that familiar narrow corridor that all attendees must walk through. I pull out my wallet and remove the concert ticket from the billfold. I extend my hand to show the event staff the night’s most prized possession. “That’s not a real ticket,” one gentleman boldly exclaims. “Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout man?” I replied. He gives me an explanation as to why my ticket is not real, though I’ve already drowned him out. He’s no longer a person in existence. My friend has the same wave of disappointment wash over him and in a moment’s notice we’re both back on 56th Street with nothing to do.
“What do you want to do?”
These are the common expressions of a pair of guys whose plans were absolutely demolished. What were we to do, hit the bar? Yes, yes. We hit the bar. Now, it doesn't matter what I did later in the night (I griped about it, sure), because what's more important is the lesson I learned from the situation. Don't put all of your faith into third-party sellers... and please, please, double check your ticket before you get to the door and save yourself the misfortune of the walk of shame.
If you were among the unlucky legion of folks who didn't get to see La Flame, check out some awesome footage provided by savvy colleague below: