A feel good circle jerk promulgated by those out of touch with economic realities. And tech ones too.

Remember when Congress held hearings over Napster? What killed illegal P2P was technological solutions, i.e. Spotify, with its free tier. Want to kill ticket scalping? Charge what the tickets are worth or tie them to the buyer, neither of which the sellers are willing to do.

Let’s start with the musicians, so worried about their image that they will not charge what their tickets are worth. They parade their lifestyles in social media, the private jets and the island vacations, and then we’re supposed to believe they truly care about the little people, that ticket buyers see them as other than the mercenary tools they most certainly are.

Or you could go paperless. But then you might find out demand is de minimis. Miley Cyrus taught us this lesson. Attorneys general were up in arms that their constituents could not get tickets for her tour. So, she went paperless the next time out and found…the overwhelming demand was artificial, created by scalpers, the same people employing these bots.

Come on, when you leave eight billion dollars on the table do you really expect hackers overseas to be afraid of some silly U.S. law? Especially when the government can’t even keep its own house in order, when its servers are infiltrated by foreign governments?

This is not a legal issue, this is an economic issue, one which the purveyors would prefer to go unsolved. Because the truth is sellers don’t care about customers, they just care that someone else is reaping the revenue. The upside on StubHub does not go to them. But can you blame someone for shopping on StubHub when the ticket game is so opaque? You’ve got to get every credit card known to man, from Citi to AmEx and beyond, you’ve got to join the fan club, and for those waking up at ten a.m. on Saturday, they haven’t gotten the memo that by time the public onsale takes place oftentimes fewer than ten percent of the tickets remain.

So they bitch.

But nobody cares.

As for being unable to buy a ticket to “Hamilton”… Try buying the hot new Christmas toy. Or the hot new car. You overpay, it’s simple supply and demand. Which is why the “Hamilton” producers now have multiple productions in other locations. Come on, you can’t get a Tesla Model X on launch date but everyone should be able to go to “Hamilton” whenever they want at face value? Give me a break.

“Hamilton” could go paperless. But then how would those fat cats who traipse through New York get in at the last minute? The producers always talk about the little guy, but the person they protect is always the big guy. There’s always a ticket for the big guy, who might overpay for it, but it’s available.

What’s our goal here? To get the public in at a fair price or…

And it’s only getting worse. Acts are scalping their own tickets, talent agencies too, they skim the best and sell them as VIP packages, everybody’s in the ticketing game yet they’re pointing fingers at the anonymous bots as the problem… Give me a break.

And the truth is the employers of those bots, the scalpers, are often in cahoots with the purveyors themselves, the promoters, the acts, the buildings… They want to make sure they meet their nut, they want some of that upside.

If you want transparency, the BOTS Act won’t get you there.

But enough people pissed that they weren’t getting the upside leaned on the government to the point this inane act was passed. Makes you lose all faith in our system.

Some things can’t be regulated, they’re solved by the marketplace. One thing’s for sure, by time the government gets involved the train has already left the station. To ask the government to understand ticketing is like asking your tot to understand quantum mechanics, it’s impossible.

Everyone wants to jet back to the past, when you lined up and every ticket went on sale at one time.

But that was back when the money was in records, not tours. When tickets were three, four or five dollars, maybe ten, certainly not a hundred. Before convenience ruled. Before everybody in America believed they were entitled to whatever they wanted at list price immediately.

But that can’t happen. Drake can’t play enough dates to satisfy demand. Beyonce either. You’re lucky if you can go.

Which is why most people love scalping. The bots make it so they can buy tickets from third parties. Of course they overpay, but it’s not only the rich doing this, but the rank and file, it’s worth it to them to pay five hundred bucks to sit up close, they scrimp and save and in an era where experiences are everything, it’s worth it.

Otherwise StubHub wouldn’t exist. There aren’t enough fat cats to fill every seat.

So what I’m saying here is there’s a gap. Between what we’re charging and what the tickets are worth. And those most unhappy about it are the sellers, they want that gap, that upside, for themselves. Which is why they’re not attacking the underlying problem, just those keeping them from this extra revenue.

Pass a law making senate seat holders unable to resell tickets.

Pass a law putting every seat in the building on the manifest.

Pass a law eliminating holdbacks.

Address the real problem.

But the government won’t. Because it doesn’t even understand what’s going on.

And believing the bot makers and users will be afraid of this law is believing dope laws will eliminate drug use. Ain’t ever gonna happen. There’s too much money on the table and the public wants to use drugs. Legalize it and sell it at a fair price and you eliminate crime. The same paradigm works in ticketing… Put all the tickets on sale for what the traffic will bear and bots will disappear overnight. This is what the Stones do, they flex price, depending upon demand, no one scalps their tickets, and they have the biggest gross.

This act is just evidence of how wrongheaded the industry has become.

We’re going in the wrong direction. We’re driving buyers to the secondary market. Because the primary market is incomprehensible, it’s a full time job knowing when tickets go on sale and how to buy them.

Charge what the damn things are worth. Tie the buyer to the ticket.

But no one will do this.

The BOTS Act is much ado about nothing.

Comes after the storm.

Did I ever tell you about the time I left part of my tongue on the T-bar at Stratton?

That was back in December ’65, when they finally had snow, when Skylight Lodge was full and Christmas was not a bust.

I started skiing in Bobby Hickey’s backyard. He lived down the street. His dad had bought him boards at that hardware store we did not go to. They were nine dollars. They had bear trap bindings, as in they didn’t release, and one day up at the school, after a storm, Bobby let me try ’em.

To say I was instantly hooked would be wrong. But I liked all manner of snow sports. I had a Flexible Flyer, my dad bought us flying saucers, back when they were made out of aluminum instead of plastic, when you went over a bump and they dented. And then he purchased two toboggans. We’d go up to Fairchild Wheeler, the public golf course, and everybody would get on board and by time we got to the bottom, most people would be strewn on the slope above us.

But that was before Bobby and I became friends. And after we did, I implored my dad to buy me skis. Which he did at Mooney’s, the local sporting goods shop. I don’t remember the brand, but I do know they came with bamboo poles, and the toes would pivot and release, assuming my galoshes could generate enough torque. But when you’re young you’re stupid, you believe you’re invulnerable, I never thought I’d get hurt, and I didn’t, until years later, when my rental skis released in mid-air, but that’s another story.

So after getting my own boards, they were red, I’d spend afternoons and evenings at Bobby’s, down the street. There was a floodlight. We’d descend the fifteen vertical feet and make it almost to the house. We built jumps. We made the equivalent of a bobsled run, and then Mr. Conley showed our sixth grade class a movie about Mt. Snow.

I convinced my parents to go.

That was right after the Beatles were on “Ed Sullivan” the third time. That was right after Cassius Clay knocked out Sonny Liston. We all stayed in one room at the Novice Inn, took lessons at Carinthia, a small spot down the road from Mt. Snow which was incorporated into the big area in the eighties, and then we spent the next three days riding the chairs at Walt Schoenknecht’s playground. My family was hooked. So we booked the following Christmas at the Skylight Lodge in Manchester…

But it rained.

This was before snowmaking. We drove up to Vermont hoping the temperature would drop, that what was rain in Connecticut would be snow up north, but this was not to be. It was nearly sixty degrees. The snow was washed away. We were one of only two families at the Lodge. The other being from New York City, not Manhattan, but an outer borough. We made friends with a fourteen year old, who pooh-poohed the Beatles, we were infected by “Beatles ’65,” but he liked the Stones, and the only 45 around was “Charlie Brown,” which we played over and over and over again.

And I’ll never forget that trip back to Connecticut. It was so foggy my father opened the front door of our Oldsmobile to find the center line. Funny how you feel so safe in the back seat, like your parents are oh-so-powerful and can do no wrong. But it was only later that I realized my dad could not relinquish the steering wheel, that he had to plow on no matter what the circumstances, until one day in ’88 when he told my mother to take over, the multiple myeloma was causing too much pain, he had cancer, but this was before he was diagnosed.

So, after being blown out at Christmas my parents refused to go to Vermont during February vacation. We went to the Concord, which had its own ski area. Two T-bars and two flat slopes, but that did not hold me back, except for the final day, when it rained, you never know what the sky will bring on the east coast.

But feeling guilty for dashing my dreams, that March we went to Stratton.

Well, not really. We went to Sargent Camp, in New Hampshire, it was owned by mother’s alma mater, Boston University, and once again, my parents were planning for a bust.

But this time there was snow. We drove across the state line to Stratton. I convinced my mother and sisters to descend from the top via the Wanderer, almost every ski area in Vermont has a novice run from the top. My mother fell and scraped her nose, no one would forgive me, this is one of the last times I led the rest of my family on an adventure.

But the trip was a success. So the following Christmas, we tried the Skylight Lodge once again.

Now essentially it was a dormitory, with bathrooms down the hall. Usually my parents drew the line at detached loos, but for some reason this time they were amenable.

And the following morning…

Our boots were frozen.

Life is a learning experience. As is skiing. We did not know not to keep our boots in the back of the station wagon with our skis. You need them warm. But we put them under the car heater and we drove up to the mountain and there we separated. I was on my own adventure, they went to the bunny hill.

Now at that time there were two ways to make it to the middle of the mountain. One was the Suntanner chairlift, the other was two T-bars.

T-bars. They’re rare these days. No one wants to work. Except in Europe, where they were devised and still survive. For the uninitiated, they look like upside down “T”‘s, and they pull you up the hill. Two people at a time. Do not sit down, that’s anathema, you immediately fall. The key is to put the wood under your butt, hold the center pole and…

There are two kinds of T-bars. One on a rope and one that’s an aluminum pole, with a spring inside. The former was invented first, the latter was supposedly an improvement, but the latter is so much harder to ride. Especially alone. You end up gripping the bar arms crossed, holding on for dear life as it pulls you uphill.

This is what happened to me that day at Stratton back in ’65.

Now going back to the Concord, in February of that same year, being bored with the two runs I noticed…that if I put my face on the T-bar it would stick ever so slightly. It was a cool sensation. I enjoyed it. So when I was riding the T-bar at Stratton I decided….

Now there was a temperature difference. At the Concord, it was near freezing, about thirty two degrees. At Stratton, it was in the single digits.

I licked the T-bar. There it is. I’ll make it that simple. I could not ride it alone with the bar behind my butt, I was gripping the pole with my arms and I remembered my experience at the Concord and I stuck out my tongue and…

It immediately froze to the aluminum.

I tried to pull it away.

No-go.

Now I’m eleven years old, alone on the lift, far from mommy and daddy, in an era long before cellphones, what was I supposed to do?

The longer it stuck there, the worse it would be, right?

And if I got to the top and was still attached…what would the operator do, assuming he noticed and comprehended my problem?

There was only one solution, I had to take action, I had to pull my tongue off the T-bar.

Which I did.

RIPPPPPPPP!!!!

The worst things happen fast. I jerked my head away and I immediately noticed, stuck to the aluminum T-bar, a piece of skin about the size of a quarter.

Holy moly! Had I permanently disfigured myself? Would I still be able to speak, never mind eat? Was this a turning point in my life?

And I’m starting to freak, and lord knows what causes me to spit, but I do, and there’s blood all over the snow.

Then I spit again and get the same result.

So I figured I’d better save my plasma, and I got to the top of the lift and skidded down the off-ramp and immediately hightailed it for the lodge, eager to investigate the damage, to discover if I would survive.

And when I got in front of the bathroom mirror I found…

A big red spot in the middle of my tongue. The bleeding had almost been stanched, but I was absent part of my being, I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about the whole damn thing, I was alive, but was I forever damaged?

I didn’t see my parents until lunch. I don’t think I told the exact same story. I think I said the T-bar had stopped and jerked and my tongue had become attached inadvertently. Never underestimate the power of a person to obfuscate, no one tells the truth, they always place themselves in the best light.

My father laughed. My mother did not display compassion. I’d just had a life-altering moment and all I got was…

A shrug.

But I never heard the end of it. My father would make jokes about it for years. He cut out a cartoon from the paper, of a little kid stuck to a lamppost. That’s one thing about families, the way they put each other down, the way they jockey for position, the way they never forget anything.

And I never forgot that December day back in ’65. It comes to mind on days like today, when the snow has stopped blowing and the temperature drops and it’s close to zero and if you don’t watch out…

You’ll be stuck to a pole in the middle of nowhere with no means of escape.

Old man winter is a harsh master.

But his briskness makes you feel so alive.

When you’re not afraid you’re gonna die.

Sometimes you have to be reminded where you came from.

I grew up in Connecticut, when it used to snow, when every November you put on snow tires, before all season radials, before anyone had four wheel drive. You’d walk to school, the thought of being kidnapped never crossed one’s mind, if anything you planned to run away. I did that once, packed a suitcase, got as far as the front lawn, down the slope, hidden from the house, my mother didn’t come after me, she knew I would be back.

I was.

I remember the snowdrifts topping the trees on the side of the house. I always wondered thereafter, was there that much snow or was that before the trees matured?

I’ll never know.

We had galoshes. The big breakthrough was clodhoppers. Boots that went above the ankle. We had a veritable cornucopia of outdoor gear and we’d go out and roll in the snow and come back in an hour and strip ourselves down, take a bath, and if we were lucky our mother would make us hot chocolate, long before it came in a mix.

And then I went to college in Vermont, during the dark ages. There was one snowy television channel, no radio other than the college station, one movie theatre in town and if you were lucky the films they played on campus every Friday and Saturday night appealed to you. Usually they didn’t. This was long before the cinema was taken over by high concept drivel, Marvel stars, if a film was in English it was a surprise. But they were minting snobs at Middlebury College. Not that they did such a good job, because after we graduated money became more important that education and my classmates were not so good at making it.

But we were hearty, we survived.

Nights far below zero, when we wore the same jeans we partied in during the spring.

There was no food in the dorms. You had to hike out to the SDUs, aka the “Social Dining Units.” Today, people would Uber over. But we walked. Before the age of hoverboards, back before skateboarding was revolutionized by polyurethane wheels.

Hey, did I ever tell you that story, about skateboarding after the revolution? You see I was part of the first wave, when Jan & Dean implored us to grab our boards and go sidewalk surfin’ with them. Then the boards had steel wheels, and it was nearly impossible to go around a corner. But in ’75 I was in California and an acquaintance showed me the new equipment and I went for a ride down the Mammoth Mountain parking lot and a few hundred yards down I realized I’d have to walk back so I stepped off the board and…

That’s right, I stepped off. And I immediately hit the pavement. Took the skin right off my palm, ripped right through a turtleneck and long underwear, Duofold to be exact, and my ski pants too.

I don’t think I’ve been on a skateboard since.

Oh yes, this was long before synthetics. Most people bought long underwear at Sears. It had a waffle pattern. But if you were a skier you went for the state of the art, the aforementioned Duofold, which featured two layers of cotton, one perforated to trap heat. But we were still damn cold, it was years before anybody invented fleece.

But what I remember most about those cold winter nights was the isolation.

No one’s isolated anymore. You just pick up your device and dial in, text a friend, surf the web. You might be alienated, but you’re connected.

We were completely alone.

I was just reminded of this walking through a snowstorm.

You forget how the flakes sting your eyes. How you have to put your head down and focus on the destination. And make sure not to slip. There are all these skills that are second nature when you live in the hinterlands, but are completely forgotten when you reside where it rarely precipitates, never mind snows.

And then there’s the quiet. The snow absorbs all the sound. It’s just you and the elements.

Except for the occasional car. Reminded me of my mother driving me to school one night, for some activity I do not remember. Her Ford Falcon did a 360 a block from home. What did she do? Keep driving. She took me there.

My mother will be ninety on Sunday. She’s seen so much.

And I’ve seen so much too.

They call us old farts, they tell us to get with the program, they don’t want to hear how it once was.

But we remember. When life was different.

I won’t say it was better, but it was harder, and difficulty yields character.

There was no foam on the playground. If you hadn’t been dumped on the seesaw you never went on one.

And sledding oftentimes ended with bloody lips or noses. You were constantly cracking into something. But that didn’t stop you. Because life was about the thrill. Make everything safe and you end up with dullness. I don’t know what’s caused the obesity epidemic, could be fructose corn syrup, but one thing’s for sure, we were constantly moving back then. My mother wouldn’t pick us up from school on a rainy day, never mind a snowstorm. I’d be trudging along, getting soaked, thinking of that warm abode at the end of my trek.

So I found myself out walking tonight. Everybody else waited for a ride. I was the only one. I was alone.

And I regretted my decision instantly. I could not see where I was going.

But I pulled up my hood and it blocked the wind. And I watched out for automobiles because I was breaking the cardinal rule, I was not wearing white at night, mostly black, could a driver see me?

I doubt it.

And then I got cold. And I was reminded of walking back to campus from the Alibi. The bar where beer was a quarter and drinks were a buck and you could not get a DUI because no one had a car, you took the shoe leather express back home, to an overheated room, back before the energy crisis, back before Jimmy Carter implored us all to put on a sweater.

And sometimes you were with a buddy. And sometimes you talked, but most of the time you were just too damn cold, you focused on the destination.

So I focused on where I was going.

But then I noticed the roads were covered, but the sidewalks were nearly clear. I remembered how snow stuck variably, depending upon the surface. That was always a question way back when, was the snow gonna stick, was the ground frozen?

We’d only been playing football on it weeks before.

And during a storm most people stay inside. So despite being in civilization, almost no one was on the sidewalk. And that’s when I remembered, all those nights in Vermont, walking, walking…

When I went to college it was a sentence. You weren’t trolling for a job, you were just doing your duty, fulfilling your parents’ expectations. And one thing we did for sure was to live up to our parents’ expectations, they were serious people, not our friends, and they could and would rage and exact penalties…

Then again, most faux pas were not visible. Little was trackable. You were on your own.

Except for your grades.

But you grow up and realize grades are irrelevant. That school does not square with the game of life. You’re set free and you try to figure it out. If you play for safety you never really live.

Because living is dangerous. You can slip in the snow. Break a bone.

But those with character get up and keep going. Not because anybody is watching, but because if you’re not moving forward, if you’re not eating up life every day…

You’re already dead.

Stuff happens to interrupt your plans.

The more you look into the future, the more you’ll be interrupted by the present. Screw be here now, screw mindfulness, just know that life is about unexpected interruptions, and the older you get the more they relate to health. While you’re thinking about achievement, nature is throwing a wrench into the works. You can try to stay on track, but recovery is a more useful skill than the ability to plan.

The older you get the less possessions mean to you.

When you’re a kid you need the latest toy, the newest cereal, you’re all about accumulation. Get older and not only is your stuff an impediment, suddenly it doesn’t get you high like it used to. You treasure experiences, if you can remember them. And now this is impacting the younger generation, with so much of our lives being virtual. Kids are the first to give up cars, they don’t need their license. They’re willing to live in shoeboxes in cities, in order to have community, maybe child is truly father to the man.

People believe the news they want to.

The right wing has turned the “New York Times” into a joke. The establishment is up for grabs. Bedrock is a fictitious place for Fred and Barney, we live in a Tower of Babel world, not only do we listen to different music, watch different TV shows and pray in different houses of worship, we don’t even agree on the same facts. This is not about fake news, this is about a schism in society, which no one is willing to address as they’re busy pointing fingers at each other.

_______________________

History is prologue.

Why did the Democrats believe they could defeat Donald Trump when no Republican could come close to doing so?

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The divide is not between the ethnic groups and the whites, but between those who live in the metropolis and those who live in the country. Read this story by Eduardo Porter:

“Where Were Trump’s Votes? Where the Jobs Weren’t”

Oh, that’s right, it’s in the “Times,” so it must be untrue.

The truth is the “New York Times” runs this country. It sets the agenda for the Republicans. It’s the only news outlet with boots on the ground everywhere. The “Wall Street Journal,” the right wing paper of record, cut so many reporters that its paper resembles a pamphlet, it’s not quite as irrelevant as the “Los Angeles Times,” but it’s moving in that direction. Remember Tech 101, the outlet that doubles down, despite being excoriated all the while, wins in the end. The “Times” just has to stay the course. I have not forgiven it for missing the election. It’s too rooted in old school journalism. But like Amazon, it dominates. Come on, what would they have to talk about on Fox News if it weren’t for the “New York Times”?

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Music is niche. And movies too. There’s nothing we’ve all got to see. The purveyors have been so busy chasing bucks that they’ve given up on appealing to everyone. But the truth is society is dependent upon universality. The last time we had that in music was with Adele’s “21.” But “25” just wasn’t good enough. As for refusing to be on Spotify… Ain’t that a modern musician, bucks are primary, cultural impact is secondary. How did we get here, where who you are and what you have to say is secondary to how much money you make?

_______________________

Incentive is being squashed by the billionaires.

The best and the brightest don’t want to work in fields with a ceiling, they all go into finance and tech, to our society’s detriment. You work sixty hours a week and you make a couple of hundred thousand dollars. Your compatriot works as hard and makes ten to twenty million. You feel like a chump.

As for those pooh-poohing the wealthy, that’s fine, but stop poor-mouthing. If you’re wearing your downtrodden economic status as a badge of honor, you’ve missed the memo. Everyone’s on their own in America. It’s a greased pole, it’s hard to get ahead, and that needs to be fixed, but just because you’re poor you’re not better than the rich. Why does everybody need to feel superior to everybody else? The truth is we’re all in it together, we’re all dependent upon each other. It’s just that you can’t go anywhere or buy anything without someone saying “it must be nice.” Hell, I got an e-mail from someone who said they couldn’t afford $200 for a phone upgrade. To quote Bob Dylan, they want to drag me down into the hole they’re in. But I’d rather try to climb the ladder, however difficult that might be. Put me down, think you’re better than me, but the joke is on you. He not moving forward is being left behind.

_______________________

The educated abhor the rich and the poor abhor the elite and no one’s got any idea what the other thinks.

_______________________

Protocol is everything. How dare Bob Dylan not acknowledge his Nobel. Remember when it was a badge of honor to question institutions? What happened to that precept?

_______________________

There’s always a vocal minority that can’t accept progress.

If I write about streaming services my inbox fills up with missives saying Spotify is gonna kill music. Last I checked, the internet allowed everybody to play, supposedly Napster was gonna kill music, but now the problem is there’s too much of it!

_______________________

Ticketing is becoming even more opaque.

Even talent agencies are in the ticketing business. No one respects the customer, art is secondary to commerce, the artists have been neutered and the businessmen have won. Remember when you signed a deal and delivered your LP and the label had to release it, no matter what it sounded like? Those days are done, because the investment in marketing is just too large, and the suits know better. Why do we live in a society where the suits always know better?

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Nobody in power sees the cliff ahead.

The NFL could not see ratings tanking and Hillary Clinton could not see the public embracing Trump (never mind Bernie). As the seer once said, “Don’t follow leaders, watch the parking meters.”

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You don’t admit fault, you double-down.

This is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s a badge of honor to admit your mistakes, to say you were wrong. But the truth is the naysayers are so busy playing GOTCHA! that you must fight back and repel them at every turn, something the Democrats have not learned. The Republicans define the debate, the Democrats play catch-up. Is this any way to run a country?

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Looks rule.

If Ivanka Trump were ugly would everybody be singing her praises?

_______________________

Your biggest enemy is you. Just ask Roger Ailes and Kanye West. You may think everybody’s out to get you, but the truth is you’ll be brought down by your own doings.

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The big get bigger and no one does anything about it.

Apple, Amazon, Facebook and Google run tech. The goal is sell your company to one of the four. But since the companies are so venerated, since techies are the new rock stars and can do no wrong, no one is raising their finger and saying “Wait a minute here…”