You're right. I gather it is far worse on the receiving end, having to live one's life as a commodity. [Insert pages of disclaimers about how I don't believe Gepetto has magical powers and I never learned the art of humor.] My Christmas wish would be for Justin to be a real boy. But that would mean I would have to drop the fan mania, assuming truth to social psychological suppositions that persona arise to meet cultural demand. Don't you think we're all weird because the spontaneous celebrations at the rock concerts of the sixties and seventies forged unilateral emotional ties outside a natural social environment. We keep the good feelings alive by going through the motions and reliving the past, while the social scene has not evolved to the point where celebrities and fans may be integrated in a meaningful manner. What's it like to have a thousand stalkers who project a foreign personality onto you - and you don't know which ones are dangerous and which are safe and fun. Yes, three seconds of sunshine is more than I'd give my stalker. Yay for the band.

When all is said and done, I'd rather stand between Graeme and John than pay taxes on a Mini Cooper. If money were not scarce, I'd buy all of the above plus food for all the children in Africa.

That sounds like Aubrey Hepburn in that awful move about which a song was named. I despised the song because it bumped Justin's "The Way of the World" from the daily rotation at the local station. Yes, we had a good radio station. I remember one night a young guy was there, and his ears perked up when the DJ put TWotW on. He demanded to know who it was. "He's good!" he exclaimed at his behind-the-curve discovery.

Mixing and twisting threads again, I had the best dream last night. Justin was a real boy (grown up, though), and he was staying at my parents'. I was still a goof. He was going to go running, and he was trying to set things up on his GPS. I was too afraid to offer help lest I would over-groupie him. I also feared I would not be able to match his stamina and poop out, leaving him lost somewhere or spoiling his exercise. But it was sooooo good to see him. I remembered smiling, perhaps the first time I've ever done that in a dream, when I first saw him there.

Back to having strings on me, I shall try not to change the subject. Ya think? Back in the radio days, I moonlit as a security guard at a local mall. A couple local bands had been begging me to show up at the Freakers Ball, but I couldn't guarantee I'd get off on time. I finally told them I would go, but my uniform would be my outfit. "Nice costume!" one girl told me right off the bat. Then, a big can of Raid came, touched his head, and sprayed Silly String all over the "cop."

moodyballetdancer said

AMAC is the way to go, Tom.

http://amac.us/

Who would pledge to pay twice as much to hear the Moodies at an Amac event?

Me first

Chirp! Chirp! I guess the Kronies don't come here. I knew you-all were a good lot.

I want Glenn Beck to buy the Moodies out. They can play at a private party in Texas that day. I dread all these old fogies conflating good music and AARP or, worse, getting some kind of conditioned response to [politics deleted] when they hear Moodies.

Who are the Blues?

lunazure said

Apparently it's a nick name for the band that nice people who are new to the community use. I had no trouble understanding it. In the aviation community, the "Blues" can mean only one thing, the Blue Angels.

It's all a matter of perspective.

Thanks for the nice people comment and I'll cease using the name Blues.