On Tuesday morning, our field reporter and her cohort waited in line for Macklemore tickets, risking life and limb for a chance to meet the esteemed tag-popper. This is a log of her entirely unnecessary saga.
4:30 AM: I am roused by traditional battle hymns (otherwise known as “Love On Top” by Beyonce). Though usually excited to hear the sweet croons of the Beyonce, I am currently disoriented and almost don my pants backwards.
4:46 AM: My cohabitators and I (henceforth known as “the cohort”) assemble in the lobby of our domicile. The security guard gives us strange looks; he cannot comprehend the importance of our plans. I have packed with me a journal to document the experience, as well provisions to last the morning and a modern communication device, upon which I may entertain myself with games of Angry Birds. Survival is yet uncertain, but we voyage onward.
4:52 AM: The cohort arrives at base camp. Others have been camped out long before us, sleeping before the great altar of Conte Forum. Though initially excited to be in line, playing cultish chants (otherwise known as “Can’t Hold Us” by Macklemore ft. Ryan Lewis) to keep our spirits up, our enthusiasm soon wanes.
4:55 AM: Despite promises to ration our goods, I finish my banana—the last source of food I have brought with me. Hunger pangs begin to set in. I examine members of the cohort to determine which will be first to go in the case that we must resort to cannibalism.
5:12 AM: With almost three hours remaining until the imminent descent of UGBC, The Great and Powerful, the cohort searches for sources of entertainment. One member waxes philosophical about VIP passes, the very stuff of dreams. I turn on Netflix to escape the pain of present suffering.
5:29 AM: As numbers begin to increase, morale dwindles. Netflix stops working. I sacrifice a banana peel to the gods, praying for mercy.
5:45 AM: The sun rises. Our hunter-gatherers go forth to forage in the far-flung land of “Dunkin’ Donuts”. The cohort prays to ensure their survival. Just more than two hours remain until UGBC, the Great and Powerful, opens its doors to us.
6:23 AM: Short-form tales from the front arise on Twitter, many expressing a desire for warmth and nourishment. A professor passes by, puzzled by the masses; despite his infinite wisdom, he cannot understand the depths of our longing.
6:40 AM: The hunter-gatherers return with sustenance in the form of hot chocolate and munchkins. The cohort feasts and gives thanks to the gods for this nourishment.
7:03 AM: The first arrivals from the Caravan of Newton appear on the scene. Legends come forth, stating that the lines extend from the great altar of Conte up to the land of Fulton. We pray for their unfortunate souls, for it truly sucks to be them.
8:03 AM: UGBC, The Great and Powerful, descends upon us with gifts and great tidings. Though the line moves at the pace of the great northern glacier, we rejoice and give thanks.
8:16 AM: A guard of UGBC, The Great and Powerful, asks us to be sorted by last name. Time spent in the field has eliminated my understanding of the alphabet. I struggle to regain my humanity.
8:23 AM: The cohort emerges forth into the sunlight with our gifts in hand, blessed with the privilege to prostrate ourselves before the almighty Macklemore and his divine Companion, Ryan Lewis. Grateful for the mercy of UGBC, The Great and Powerful, we return to our domiciles to sleep.
9:12 AM: An acquaintance wishes to profit off of his ticket, advertising with the banal “yo modstock tix 4 sale msg me”. We reject him as a pariah and an enemy to our lands.
9:56 AM: Reports come forth from UGBC, The Great and Powerful, that tickets are indeed in surplus and our efforts were for naught. But tonight the cohort sleeps well, our pockets filled not just with twenty dollars, but with the pride of a job well done and a valiant effort.
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