The Ticketmaster

Steve and I are heading up to NYC for a special performance by comedian Mike Birbiglia this Friday. Julie, Gil, Rose and Amrit are joining us, and I took a moment to look for our tickets online (I’d bought all six and been reimbursed.) Horrors! Nary a trace of a purchase! But I knew I’d secured the tix way back in October! I combed through my American Express statements and theatre emails, looking for attachments. Finally, I called the theatre itself. “Oh, I see your six tickets!” said the box office person. “You bought them on Ticketmaster. Go to their website.” When I did, wonder of wonders, there they were. But there’s no way to print them out. They exist on the Ticketmaster app on my iPhone. So now I’ll worry all week that there’ll be a tech glitch and we won’t be able to get in.

I feel that way about tickets of all types. Though the world has moved on from paper, and everybody just shows their phones now at the airport gate and concert venue, I feel TONS better with a physical ticket in hand. They are incontrovertible proof that I belong wherever it is I’m going, and they make dandy souvenirs as well. I love looking at the little bright green Funland ride tickets in winter, daydreaming about the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk and the fun our kids and grandkids have had on the carousel and Sea Dragon. In a genius bit of marketing, the tickets never expire; I’ve been known to surrender limp, gray, and smudged tix from several years ago, and they still give us access to the many joys of Funland. 

I'm not a supermarket deli counter regular, but I do notice that the old-school ticket machine is still there, the little slips informing the customers that they are #77 in line. The last time I took a deli ticket, I was pleased to see that they were already at #76. Alas, the 76er was a nightmare orderer, “I’ll have ¼ pound provolone, sliced thin. No, that’s too thin. I want a ¼ pound of turkey breast. Is it smoked? I want PLAIN turkey and make it lean! Now I want a small tub of coleslaw. No, medium! No, small! No…” At that point I decided I didn’t want roast beef badly enough to wait another month, and walked away.

Other ticket observations:

Never bought a lottery ticket. It’s simpler to just set fire to a $20. 

I love skip-the-line tix for museums when we travel—especially the envious looks we get sailing past the long, straggly queue for the Uffizi or Musée d’Orsay.

Wish there was such a thing as a Ticket to Heaven that I could pre-book. I’d pay any price, and even clean up my behavior, if I knew St. Peter would be there to wave me right through the Pearly Gates. Afterlife Insurance!

With my luck, though, it’d only be available on my iPhone, which of course I left back on earth.