🎤 MINI-ISSUE: We're Off to See the Boy Band

This Saturday I’ll be joining thousands of other Gen Xers and older millennials inside an 18,600-seat LED womb of nostalgia known as Sphere.

The Backstreet Boys are performing. Yeah, yeah…

There will be vibrating seats.
There will be wind and temperature changes.
There will be an actual spaceship.

And yes, there will be a homemade white t-shirt on my body that reads, in 265-point bold:

Because sometimes you have to lean in. Hard.

And yes, I made more. (Obviously.)
Grab one for yourself, or for someone who still sings into their hairbrush, right here.

I just need to look back on the things I’ve done, try to be someone, and show you the shape of… how this ties into direct mail.

“As we walked out of The Sphere that night, I felt immense joy. A sense that while life is often filled with tragedy and trauma, it’s also rich with beauty, and the moments that shape who we are becoming.”
- Chantal Waldholz, Glamour

Tune in next week to see if I agree. I’ll break down what this show says about marketing, emotional design, and larger-than-life offers. And how direct mail might need more screens, haptic feedback, and fewer brochures.

(Keyword: next week. Don’t rush me.)

Remember concert tickets like these?

Not the part where you waited in line all night at Ticketmaster in a strip mall.

But the part where you actually had the ticket. A stub. A receipt for your joy. Something worth stashing in a shoebox or pinning to your bulletin board. Something tactile.

Now it’s just a QR code on your phone that doesn’t even work if your screen’s cracked.

You know what still shows up in your mailbox — with texture, weight, and physical presence?

You know what I’m going to say…

Direct mail.
It’s the ticket stub of modern marketing.
Savable. Real. And yes, losable… like a ticket stub.

But unlike that laminate from the Citizen Steely Dan tour in ’93,
you don’t have to explain why Walter Becker’s monologue during “Hey Nineteen” still makes you cry when you find it in your nightstand.

Coming soon in the full issue:

I won’t be posting live from the Sphere. I’ll be too busy trying to harmonize—poorly but loudly—and crying when none of the other 18,597 fans are looking at me.

I don’t care who you are (who you are)
Where you’re from (where you’re from)
What you did
As long as you love… forwarding this to someone you can’t get out of your head.

And if you haven’t subscribed yet?

Fix that at presortedbs.com before the full issue lands early-next-week-ish.

I don’t care.
As long as you love me.
(Or at least this newsletter.)

There’s also a pair of 50-foot Wicked Witch legs with 22-foot ruby slippers sticking out of the building.

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Vegas anymore. 

There’s no place like Sphere.
There’s no place like Sphere.
There’s no place like Sphere.

Because… I want it that way.