These are actual entries taken from the journal of a live music patron, shortly before and after buying tickets through an online presale.
8:43 AM - My bones thaw from the wretched winter chill that's imposed itself upon town in the past days. Behind scarf and wintercoat, I soldiered through an assault of nipping breezes to reach, with great relief, my place of work and the warmth therein. I'll repair to the break area for steaming black coffee in due time; yet first, I must engage my browsing interface for the ascertainment of fresh electronic post.
8:46 AM - To my great surprise, I've learnt the band Wilco--troubadours six from Chicagotowne of Illinois--shall present their balladry, in full concert, as the first spring flowers reach bloom in March. Admittance, however, shall come at the purchase of tickets, available uniquely through a single electronic protocol. At ten bells, a slate of performance allowances shall be portioned to those willing to commit to a predetermined timespan, should they agree to partake in a standard transaction. This 'presale', so-called, allows those with untempered interest in the event to capitalize on their own appreciation of the fine minstrels. I must reach my beloved, for it is with little doubt I speculate on her desire for a place of witness adjacent to my own.
8:53 AM - With little effort I reached my beloved, and she served to confirm my suspicions. But not without the readjustment of my perceived actions here out, as she additionally requested her sister a reservation at the performance. This greets me unsoundly, as the capacity of our party shall only increase the likelihood of our potential for amounting distance from stagefront. Alas, it must be, and I choose to welcome her presence rather than lament it, as the Fabulous Fox Theatre in the towne Atlanta of Georgia yields not a one poor exposure to stage theatrics. I confirm this, although I did witness the hermit Tom Waits at the exact venue nearly two years past. I was five souls removed from the well-trodden planks of the Fox's stage, and it was a most glorious observation of the bizarre talent laid before me.
9:00 AM - A single hour divides the presenttime and my attainment of, let us all pray, eventual proximity to the fine performers' stageshow. My mind does inquire with wonder: With what piece shall they regale us at the onset? The mournful dirge "Ashes of American Flags"? The spirited whimsy of "Outtasite (Outtamind)"? The self-serving irony of "Wilco (The Song)"? My imagination knows no rein or fence, nor will it prior to the initial note struck by the skilled hand of Nels of the family Cline.
9:23 AM - I write with quivering hand; not from cold or fear at present, but rather the lingering decline of anxiety following a notion that occurred to me: Was the presale merchantry borne out of the Ten oclock hour, or was it the ninth toll? Some faint recurrence of the hour Nine brought on a mist of doubt that instigated an irrational scramble for confirming the hour of official introduction of sale to the masses. Greatly relieved was I to discover the unfounded root of my fear: Indeed, Nine was the hour, but only in the native timezone of Wilco proper, which is properly translated to a firm Ten O'clock initiation for those who reside in the former colonies. A crisis gladly averted, as surely I'd be doomed to the recesses of the concerthall had I been so unabashedly truant.
9:50 AM - Oh, it's no good to busy myself with toil at this stage. The hourglass has all but emptied its grains fully southward, and I'm overcome with a palpable sense of eagerness. My heart raps impatiently, akin to the toe of an anxious housewife awaiting her tardy spouse. I examine the entirety of the interface through which I must maneuver shortly. Ah, in due time the crimson type reading "PRESALE STARTS AT 9AM CST" shall, through some digital wizardry, transmogrify to an inviting conduit link. At that very second I shall leap forth and secure for my companions and I what I imagine to be a trio of lush chairspots, affording an unparalleled and staggering vista of Wilco's finely-vintaged showmanship.
9:59 AM - I stand at the precipice of glory. This shall be my final entry preceeding the events anticipated in the half-dozen prior. To all: I shall greet thee at the heel of the beast.
10:02 AM - Goddamnit!! Row R? Fucking balls dude I jump the presale as soon as the thing starts, and the best I get is Row motherfucking R!? Not to mention it's on the end of the row. Great...I'll have to deal with assholes sliding past me every two seconds. What kind of fucking horsecock presale is this, anyway? Did I miss the fine print where it said "GOOD SEATS ONLY AVAILABLE DURING REGULAR SALE". Cause I don't think I did. Ass, ass, ass. 117 bucks for three row-end, just-ok seats. Guess I'll hop on the regular sale Saturday and see what if I can get, then resell these. Which is a massive pain in the ass, but now it's a matter of principle.
Fuck a presale.