fake tickets to robotic rock

We saw Daft Punk.

Holy jeeze, what a spectacle. The light show was non-stop and bonkers and completely in sync with the music. The crowd bounced and swayed a little slower then the massive speaker cones pumped. Each persons movement was amplified by the constricting crowd.

I'm not going to lie, I was stoked to be there, and I couldn't say a bad thing about the show, 'cept I really had to urinate badly for the last thirty minutes of the performance. I couldn't care less if Daft Punk was doing anything up there in their pyramid of lights and screens; I couldn't even care less if it was actually the dudes from Daft Punk in the robot suits. I read somewhere that there was some suspicion that the genuine Frenchmen might have hired people to masquerade as them. Fuck it. It doesn't matter anyways, and I'm now convinced that Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel did become robots in some freak accident eight years ago.

During the latter part of the show, the pyramid screens began blasting short, somewhat subliminal shots of flora, fauna, nebulas and planets, moons, and then human anatomy. I saw the college crowd rage and raise up in rapture and sweat; I worried they were being hypnotized by Daft Punk. I would enjoy having that power over the next generation of American power makers and World Leaders.

Did I mention where the performance took place? Stumbling into some dumb and beautiful luck, David and I scored a dorm room in a Berkeley Co-op. Whew. I'd like to go to that school. Dave knew that Daft Punk was playing that night, somewhere in San Francisco, some place called The Greek Theater.

"Ali, The Greek Theater is like, 4 blocks from the pad, or something."

We had to go. Scalpers were selling single tickets for one hundred fifty a pop. A bit steep, but we agreed that we'd pay one hundred. We couldn't pass by this opportunity. After driving around on the prowl for extra tickets, for less then $150, then walking around and asking, all to no avail, we happened upon a big and stout Aboriginal Australian; tickets for $100. Stoked.

He gathers us close, along with some other males our age, as if to tell us the secret of seven league boots. Instead of instruction for magic boots, he tells us how to get in with pilfered tickets...

"Right, follow me, to the tee. Follow me and go to the same ticket checker as I do. Make sure it's the same guy, got it? Alright, lets go."

Following, past the turnstyle, past the ticket checker. He feigns a scan, avoids eye contact and I pass. Success.

Seven dollar drinks.

The next day we look at the tickets: "LCD Soundsystem with Guests, May 14 2007, Fillmore."