BIGBANG World Tour Best Concert Tickets at Staples Center in Los Angeles on October 3, 2015 in Los Angeles, California For Sale

BIGBANG xxxx WORLD TOUR SCHEDULE & TICKETS
BigBang Tickets
Staples Center
Las Vegas, NV
Saturday
10/3/xxxx
7:00 PM
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We will have an excellent selection of concert tickets for the BIGBANG World Tour xxxx and options made available by the hosting venues including, if made available, Meet and Greet Passes and VIP Fan Packages for select venues.
The BIGBANG concert tickets available might include BIGBANG Presale Tickets, BIGBANG Front Row Tickets, BIGBANG Floor Tickets, BIGBANG Balcony Tickets, BIGBANG Orchestra Tickets, BIGBANG Pit Tickets, BIGBANG Loge Tickets and BIGBANG Mezzanine Tickets.
To view an updated schedule for the BIGBANG xxxx World Tour please use this link:
Updated BIGBANG xxxx World Tour Schedule.
BIGBANG xxxx World Tour Schedule
BigBang Tickets
Mandalay Bay - Events Center
Las Vegas, NV
Friday
10/2/xxxx
8:00 PM
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BigBang Tickets
Staples Center
Las Vegas, NV
Saturday
10/3/xxxx
7:00 PM
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BigBang Tickets
Honda Center
Anaheim, CA
Sunday
10/4/xxxx
8:00 PM
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BigBang Tickets
Prudential Center
Newark, NJ
Saturday
10/10/xxxx
8:00 PM
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BigBang Tickets
Prudential Center
Newark, NJ
Sunday
10/11/xxxx
8:00 PM
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BigBang Tickets
Air Canada Centre
Toronto, Canada
Tuesday
10/13/xxxx
8:00 PM
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the kind of life he had determined to escape. What, he asked himself, did he want with these genial honors and substantial comforts? Hardships and difficulties he had carried lightly; overwork had not exhausted him; but this dead calm of middle life which confronted him,-- of that he was afraid. He was not ready for it. It was like being buried alive. In his youth he would not have believed such a thing possible. The one thing he had really wanted all his life was to be free; and there was still something unconquered in him, something besides the strong work-horse that his profession had made of him. He felt rich to-night in the possession of that unstultified survival; in the light of his experience, it was more precious than honors or achievement. In all those busy, successful years there had been nothing so good as this hour of wild light-heartedness. This feeling was the only happiness that was real to him, and such hours were the only ones in which he could feel his own continuous identity-- feel the boy he had been in the rough days of the old West, feel the youth who had worked his way across the ocean on a cattle-ship and gone to study in Paris without a dollar in his pocket. The man who sat in his offices in Boston was only a powerful machine. Under the activities of that machine the person who, in such moments as this, he felt to be himself, was fading and dying. He remembered how, when he was a little boy and his father called him in the morning, he used to leap from his bed into the full consciousness of himself. That consciousness was
the kind of life he had determined to escape. What, he asked himself, did he want with these genial honors and substantial comforts? Hardships and difficulties he had carried lightly; overwork had not exhausted him; but this dead calm of middle life which confronted him,-- of that he was afraid. He was not ready for it. It was like being buried alive. In his youth he would not have believed such a thing possible. The one thing he had really wanted all his life was to be free; and there was still something unconquered in him, something besides the strong work-horse that his profession had made of him. He felt rich to-night in the possession of that unstultified survival; in the light of his experience, it was more precious than honors or achievement. In all those busy, successful years there had been nothing so good as this hour of wild light-heartedness. This feeling was the only happiness that was real to him, and such hours were the only ones in which he could feel his own continuous identity-- feel the boy he had been in the rough days of the old West, feel the youth who had worked his way across the ocean on a cattle-ship and gone to study in Paris without a dollar in his pocket. The man who sat in his offices in Boston was only a powerful machine. Under the activities of that machine the person who, in such moments as this, he felt to be himself, was fading and dying. He remembered how, when he was a little boy and his father called him in the morning, he used to leap from his bed into the full consciousness of himself. That consciousness was
Life itself. Whatever took its place, action, reflection, the power of concentrated thought, were only functions of a mechanism useful to society; things that could be bought in the market. There was only one thing that had an absolute value for each individual, and it was just that original impulse, that internal heat, that feeling of one's self in one's own breast. The next night, and the next, Alexander repeated this same foolish performance. It was always Miss Burgoyne whom he started out to find, and he got no farther than the Temple gardens and the Embankment. It was a pleasant kind of loneliness. To a man who was so little given to reflection, whose dreams always took the form of definite ideas, reaching into the future, there was a seductive excitement in renewing old experiences in imagination. He started out upon these walks half guiltily, with a curious longing and expectancy which were wholly gratified by solitude. Solitude, but not solitariness; for he walked shoulder to shoulder with a shadowy companion--not little Hilda Burgoyne, by any means, but some one vastly dearer to him than she had ever been--his own young self, the youth who had waited for him upon the steps of the British Museum that night, and who, though he had tried to pass so quietly, had known him and come down and linked an arm in his. One Sunday evening, at Lady Walford's, Alexander did at last meet Hilda Burgoyne. Mainhall had told him that she would probably be there. He looked about for her rather nervously, and finally found her at the farther end of the large