Okay Regina, here’s how it works: when there’s an act performing on the stage you’re standing in front of, SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.

Just so it’s clear (because you obviously don’t get it): I’m parked in front of the stage to watch an artist pour their heart out. I’m NOT there to hear about why Bob came back from Europe, or why Jennifer left town and never called anyone, or why Roger is an asshole because he bought the wrong hat. Seriously? The wrong fucking hat? Who cares? Sometimes artists perform quietly and it’s really hard to hear them over your unbelievably loud conversation about Roger’s fucking hat.

And if I wanted to know about Bob and his Europe trip I would have called you well before now. If I even knew you from fucking Adam.

It’s a big province and it’s not like there aren’t other places to go have a conversation, so take it somewhere else. Somewhere musicians aren’t playing. Somewhere far away from me. And by the way, if you drop out of the Boogie Zone to get a beer in the middle of Charles Bradley’s set and then expect that your space will be waiting for you when you get back, there’s just something wrong with you. Maybe more than one thing. /Anonymous



A shout out to the guy in the orange shirt in section 261 at the Paul McCartney concert.  You tirelessly tried to start the wave several times before it caught on and swept 40,000 into the fun. Well done. And thanks. If I could have sent over a beer during the show, I would have. /Anonymous


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