You, row Q at Mumford and Sons. Yes you, too-old-to-be-frat-boys with the popped collars. And your dates in club attire who were not of legal drinking age. Our group nicknamed you “Drunken Croakies,” and you tripped all over the poor couple next to you every time you and half your entourage went for more shots. You yelled for someone to bring you pretzels during the accoustic numbers. You socialized as if you were tailgating through the band’s new material. You texted. You tweeted. You tried to engage everyone within three rows in beer-sloshing, glass-raising toasts. You kept saying, “So shorry for bein’ loud. We’re jus havin a good ol time. Agoodol time.”
I do not forgive you for taking a phone call during the soulful, beautiful song I paid $40 to hear performed live. Away with you. Back to Glenwood South, until you learn how to behave better. Your smart phones do not make you any smarter.