Rushmore Civic Center Bag Policy

So, you’re heading to the Rushmore Civic Center. Awesome. You’ve got your tickets, your friends, and that pre-show energy. But hold up. There’s a dragon you have to slay first: the bag policy. Yes, that little booklet of rules that can turn your concert night into a locker-room drama.

Let’s be real. Nobody actually reads those signs at the gate. So we’re doing it now. Like a cool friend giving you the inside scoop before you get frisked by a flashlight.

The Bag: Not Your Plus-One

Your bag can’t be bigger than 12” x 12” x 6”. That’s the size of a small loaf of bread. Or a very chunky hardcover book you’ll never read. If your tote bag looks like it could hold a small dog, you’re in trouble.

Clear bags are strongly encouraged. Why? Because the security guards love to see your snacks. They are psychic. They know you hid a granola bar in that secret pocket. You can’t fool them.

Fun fact: The rule was inspired by a 2019 incident where someone smuggled in a live ferret in a duffle bag. The ferret escaped. It ran across the stage during a jazz performance. The crowd lost its mind. The ferret became a local legend named “Squeaky.”

What You Can’t Bring (The No-No List)

Let’s start with the obvious: no weapons. No guns. No knives. No ninja stars. You laugh, but someone actually tried to bring a plastic lightsaber to a comic-con last year. They said it was a “costume accessory.” The guard said, “It stays in the car, Jedi.”

Now, the weird stuff. No laser pointers. You think you’re being funny? You’re just annoying the performer and every tall person in row 12. Also, no selfie sticks. They call them “narcissistic poles” on the security memo. I’m not joking. That’s the official term.

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And here’s the kicker: no outside food or drink—except for a single sealed water bottle. Why? Because the nachos inside cost $14. They are made of cheese-flavored plastic. It’s a trap. You will buy them. You will regret it.

The Diaper Bag Loophole

Here’s a slice of genius: medical and diaper bags get special treatment. You can bring a larger bag if you have a baby or a valid medical need. The security team does not ask for proof. They just nod and let you through.

So, what do smart locals do? They borrow a friend’s toddler for the night. They rent one from a classified ad. (Don’t actually do this.) But the point is: the rule is hilariously flexible. One guy brought a backpack cooler with a sign on it that said “Baby Food.” It was full of soda and sandwiches. He got in.

Also, if you wear a big, fluffy coat, you can hide a small purse in the hood. Security calls this the “puffer jacket trick.” They’ve seen it. They let it slide because it’s cold outside. Cold = mercy.

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The Zipper Law

This is my favorite quirky detail. The policy says all bags must have a working zipper. If your clutch is a magnetic flap, you’re out. If it’s a drawstring sack, you’re out. The logic? They want to zip it shut during the inspection so nothing falls out. There’s a story about a woman whose bag was full of loose change that scattered across the floor. It took three guards and a broom to fix it. That’s why the rule exists. You’re welcome.

Also, no backpacks with chest straps. They look “tactical.” One time, a guy wore a camo backpack with six straps. The guard asked, “You planning a hike or a heist?” He didn’t get in.

The Purse Tax

If your bag breaks the size limit, don’t panic. The Rushmore Civic Center offers lockers outside the main entrance. They cost $5. They are the size of a microwave. You will stuff your bag in there like a clown car. Then you’ll forget which locker number you used. Happens every single show.

Pro tip: take a photo of the locker barcode with your phone. Actually, take three photos. Because you’ll be sweaty, happy, and slightly drunk by the end of the night. Future you will thank past you.

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Oh, and the lockers are painted bright orange. Why? Because the designer’s favorite color was orange. He also designed the parking garage. It is the color of a traffic cone. The whole place looks like a safety vest convention. Embrace it.

The Fun Part: Use It to Your Advantage

Now that you know the rules, you can be the smooth operator at the gate. Walk up with your tiny 12x12 clear bag. Smile. Let them see your lip balm. They’ll wave you through in two seconds flat. Meanwhile, the guy behind you is arguing about his vintage fanny pack. He’s losing. You’re already inside, smelling the nachos.

This policy isn’t a chore. It’s a game. Can you be clever enough to bring in a battery pack? Yes, if it’s under 10,000 mAh. Can you bring a tiny umbrella? No, unless it’s a medical mobility aid. (See? Loopholes everywhere.)

So go. Have your fun. Be the friend who knew about the ferret. And remember: no matter how strict the bag policy feels, it’s way better than the time they banned airhorns because someone used one during a quiet acoustic set. That man was chased by a security guard wearing sneakers. He did not escape. The airhorn is now in a trophy case. I swear.