All your anger.
All your love.
All your fear.
All your drive.
All your hate.
All your pride.
All your doubt.
All your passion.
All your joy.
All your effort.
All your fury.
All. Your. Everything.
Apparently concert venues are having a hard time getting Millennials to fill the seats. Well, hello. Millennial here. I think I can help.
DEAR CONCERT VENUES:
🎟️ Just tell me what the ticket costs. I do not want to select a $79 ticket and discover at checkout that it is actually $146 because of a facility fee, service fee, processing fee, and a fee for having successfully paid the other fees.
📱 Stop making ticket buying a military operation. I should not need three apps, a verified fan code, a presale password from a credit card I don’t own, and 11:00 AM availability on a Tuesday to buy two seats.
💺 Assigned seats. We did our time standing shoulder-to-shoulder at shows in 2008. Some of us have mortgages now. Some of us have sciatica.
🕖 Start earlier. A 7 PM show is not embarrassing. In fact, I would like to formally recognize whoever invented the 7 PM show.
⏰ And tell us the actual times. “Doors at 7” is not useful information if the opener starts at 8:15 and the person I came to see appears at 10:07.
🚗 Parking instructions written for a normal person. Tell me which garage to use, what it costs, and whether I will spend 55 minutes trying to leave it afterward. I am willing to pay $20 for certainty.
🍺 I will buy your $14 beer. I have accepted this. But if I miss three songs waiting for it, you have broken the social contract.
🚽 Enough bathrooms. We are in our 30s and 40s. Half of us have had children. This is now infrastructure.
🔉 It can still be loud. We are Millennials, not the Greatest Generation. But some of us are bringing earplugs now and we are no longer ashamed of it.
DEAR ARTISTS:
⏰ Please go on roughly when you said you would. We have babysitters. The babysitter has an end time. This is now a logistics problem involving several adults.
🎤 Play the songs from 2004–2014. You know which ones. We know which ones. Nobody needs to pretend otherwise.
🎶 Play some new stuff. Absolutely. We support your continued artistic development. But there is a point in the evening when you need to play the song that was on our iPod Nano while we drove to high school.
📵 You can tell us to put our phones away. We secretly want someone to make us do this anyway.
🪑 An intermission would not offend us. We can use the bathroom, answer the babysitter, check whether the dog has destroyed anything, and look at Zillow for eight minutes.
And please understand: Millennials still like concerts.
We have disposable income now. We are nostalgic. We will absolutely spend irresponsible amounts of money to hear a band we first discovered on LimeWire.
But we also have jobs, children, dogs, mortgages, lower-back problems, and a very clear memory of when concert tickets cost $35.
You want Millennials back?
Make it easy to buy the ticket. Tell us when the show actually starts. Give us somewhere to sit. Play the song from 2007.
We’ll be there.
We just need to be home by 11.
Raider Nation is intrigued by young DBs like Treydan Stukes, Jermod McCoy, Zeke Masses and Darien Porter.
But fans should keep an eye on an unexpected name at training camp: UDFA Tanner Wall.
Wall could be a dark horse to make the 53-man team, or at least the practice squad. https://t.co/6YvoDev7m9
USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving.
Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free.
I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these."
"They just come with the table, man."
They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner.
This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat.
I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared.
"Did we…?"
"Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless."
Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined.
My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude."
Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man.
I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy.
Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived.
I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most.
Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.