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You asked for it?

It all started when tickets were going on sale. I couldn’t afford anything, so I had to forego those high-anxiety days of trying to get tickets the second they went on-sale. If I had all the money in the world, I might try to do some of those $600 photo ops. But actually, if I had all that money, I’d hire a PI to find out where Justin’s associates golfed, take golfing lessons, meet them on the green and angle for a formal introduction. It would be too obvious to, like move to Monaco and rent the flat next to Justin. But I don’t have all that money, so I had to wait.

Something kept telling me to call A. I love A very much, hate to love her, actually. She’s good at finding out how to reach me and begging me to buy scalper-rate Moodies tickets. She knows I can’t refuse. We had lost touch, but I finally called her to see if she was going to Agua Caliente. She said she was, she had a good ticket, on the end of the front row, and accommodations for me. How could I say no? The next stop was finding an airline ticket. That was done rather simply. Then, I had to try to find a Pala ticket, and that did not turn out so well.

I longed to go to Southern California. Then, I had a dream that made me want to go more. I love the warmth, sunshine, and palm trees; but I can do without the glitz and glamour. I scored a ticket to Pala, but it was in about the tenth row. I also managed to score a couple good tickets to the Chateau, found a cheap flight, and secured permission from the boss for some vacation time. Nothing was coming together for any shows out east, and, frankly, I hate traffic anywhere from Washington, DC on up along I-95 and to the east.

I recall not too long ago making arrangements to pick up a friend to go to the Boston show and then staying with her. Then, I sat in Connecticut traffic. She had to get a taxi to the show, and I finally showed up in time for the last two numbers. I changed in the car, tried to throw some makeup on under my glasses, and went all sweaty like a pig. I later got a ticket in the mail for doing a U-turn on the toll road. Later that night, when we got lost trying to get back to where she was staying, I really had a nervous breakdown. I tend to go berserk anytime I try to do four all-nighters in one week. Again, if I were rich, I would probably sleep every single night.

So, back to this tour, I had been under the impression that red-eyes left at 11:55. Such had always been the case for me. This time, they were leaving at 11:15 with boarding times of 10:30. Flashing back again, I recall Justin’s first tour of San Juan Capistrano and Santa Barbara. That was such a wonderful time. It was spring, and everything was soft green except for the extraordinarily brilliant flowers. I was staying with B, who I think was doing the whole tour. I had to catch a plane, but it occurred to me I could pick up a ticket for the show that night and see maybe half of it before catching the plane.

That I did. As I sat in the audience, time came to catch the plane, and I thought I’d press it. I wanted to stay just a little bit longer, and a little bit longer. I was where I wanted to be, and the whole world could take a hike for all I cared. Missing my flight and returning my car rental late, having to pay penalties, buy another ticket, miss another day of work without notice and possibly get fired – ah, such petty losses compared to being in that “magic” Justin says the audiences bring to shows. As it turned out, the advice I got on how to miss a flight was all rather bad, and I ended up paying more than I should have. But I can’t say I regret my choice.

This time was different. My boss is handicapped, he has a high-maintenance dog, and the people who agree to fill in for me are rather unreliable. Besides, I needed all the paychecks I could get to see as many shows as possible. Furthermore, if I broke my word and showed up 8 hours later than expected (next planes leaving at 7 something in the morning); that would damage my credibility for future requests for time off.

So, anyway. Going out there, I don’t recall driving to the airport or anything. My mechanic has been on my case since I bought my car to replace my tires. That was before Houston and San Antonio and everything else from that tour, too. There were lots of prayers for the tires to hold together. I have purchased a spare, but I didn’t even want to buy a jack assembly with funds I could use on tickets. Yes, I am a menace to society.

The next thing I remember is getting to LAX and taking the shuttle to Budget and waiting in line. The line was long like the last time I rented from them, so I just read until I got to the front of the line. Meanwhile, there was an accident outside, which made me not protest too much when the guy wanted to slip the extra insurance on the bill. After the paperwork, I sat next to a couple and their toddler. They were afraid they’d miss the birthday party they had come to see. I got called before them.

Then, it was off to the desert, quite nice. I don’t recall much of the ride; but I got to the hotel and called A from the lobby. We connected, and I got to get scrubbed up for the show. I was sleepless, so I said I’d just crash out in the room until the other two people came back from their dinner dates and such. But after awhile, I got tired of holding down the room. I was in sunny Southern California staring at four walls and going stir crazy. I called A and asked if I could join her. She said yeah, but it was a terrible mistake. The conversation was way too adult.

We went to the show. Honestly, they all tend to blur together, and lots of performances are on YouTube, though the sound is much fuller live. The musicianship, of course, is professional. The visuals were overpowering. I suppose that’s what people like these days, multimedia, but I prefer the mood of Justin’s solo shows. The images were definitely artfully selected. The aerial over NYC could make me queasy if I wanted to think about it. The children were bright the first part of the tour, but that was swapped out. I recall one child had sapphire eyes like Justin, and I wondered if what one fan had said might be true about them being the band members’ grandkids. There was one view of a kid fishing, and it totally depressed me because I thought of him fifty or sixty years later with all his baggage and physical ailments. In later shows, the primary-color children were replaced by a more abstract golden scene. A hazy lady spun slowly. She reminded me of Norda because her hair had the wet look.

Jeremy Irons didn’t do a whole lot for me, though his telegenic eyes were spectacular. The volume at most shows for the second half was way too loud. I understand drilling the music into your head is supposed to boost sales, but I wanted to watch this over and over. I did like the planetary perspective on the hours of the day, and I enjoyed the sharp resolution in general, and the plays of light on the clocks in “Peak Hour.”

Like many, I was disappointed the band used a canned soundtrack. Surely, they have enough talent to do it all live. I understand tight schedules, all the folks doing stuff with their own bands and such, but this had a touch of Milli Vanilli. That said, there are many artistic reasons or excuses one might want to use the original soundtrack – a hat tip to Peter Knight, fidelity in sound for purists in the audience, nostalgia, etc.

“Evening: The Sunset” was really cool. It sounded so absolutely funky the first time I heard it. At later shows, I really loved the contrast of the follow-up with “Twilight Time,” with the LSD train rails or whatever. I wondered if that was how train rides looked to trippers. Scary.

After the first show, though, my thoughts were I didn’t know if I would be able to sit through this that many times. I know Justin likes music for music’s sake, but I guess I’m more of a people person. You can’t have music without people, unless it’s the birds and the crickets, whose charm I adore muchly; but if I pay for a ticket, I want to experience genius at work creating transcendent vibrations, a mystery of sorts. I’ve never been much a fan of more amateurish singers who play a tape for backup. Like I say, I would rather play CD’s at home and watch ants move around the floor than sit in the back of a venue. I seek some kind of P2P connection. Tall me twazy.

I suppose I slept well. Agua Caliente is quite the desert, but it is surrounded by lots of irrigated neighborhoods with huge palm trees and other tropical vegetation. The word was that the backup musicians were staying at Agua Caliente, but the big three original members were elsewhere. I saw Billy by the elevator.

I went out for a walk and got a taco salad from Castaneda’s that was about an hour away. It was humongo and very, very good; and a lot of food for the money. I had to doggie it. But as for the terrain, it was mostly sagebrush with ginormous anthills scattered about. I noticed some dog prints in the sand, but beside that, it was just nice, desert desolation.

I went to church in Indio. I had a dream when I was a young teenager about Indio. I thought I had made up the name. Then, when I heard it was a real place, I always wanted to go there, supposing something might happen. But, of course nothing did.

Then, there was the trip to Pala. Google Maps said take the CA 74. I was conducted through some nice neighborhoods with many turns, and then there was the 74, one of the craziest roads I’ve ever been on. It was beautiful, the sun contrasting Degas-like on the hoodoo rock formations, the changes in elevation, it was quite heavenly. Then, I asked myself if all these Moody fans were actually going along this crazy road, too. I found it hard to believe.

It took a lot longer than expected, but I finally arrived. I had gotten several dresses from Fashion Mia – about $12 each, but you had to buy over $79 worth to get free shipping. I was pulling them out of the bags for the tour. Things always look good on the models, and some of them weren’t even modeled, which is usually a very bad harbinger. But the first got lots of compliments and I loved it quite a lot myself. The one I had on this night made me look like a bowling ball. Oh, well. I like to live dangerously, so I didn’t dare pack a backup. Besides, that might have led to baggage fees, and it would bog me down running through the airports.

It was a beautiful evening, outside in the desert air. The heat was wonderful. I sat next to some ladies with English accents. One knew somebody who knew John, and she was going to go backstage. They told me the band had individual rooms backstage for private meet and greets. I saw David Minasian and Trinity in the audience. They were as far back as me, so I didn’t feel too bad. I’m not remembering much of the first half. The ladies knew my predicament about the plane, and so they encouraged me to slide to the end of the row for a quick exit during intermish.

There, I met a guy who had also spied the empty seats. I gave him permission to sit next to me in a seat to which I had no right. I told him of my predicament. I had calculated three minutes per song, and so when the show started again, I was going to count down until drop-dead time. It really spoils a show when you’re watching the clock knowing you’re going to have to run out. It also sort of aggravated me when they went longer than twenty minutes on their break. I did not come all this way for a break, even though the desert evening was a dream come true. I wanted to see Justin and drown in the good emotion.

What do I remember about our heroes? I remember Justin was grabbing his side like it hurt at some of the shows. His voice was in good shape. He was looking more rested and youthful than he has in recent tours. His hair. How does his hair always look so good? I’m just the opposite. I can fix it real nice, then drive a few hours in sweltering heat with the windows down, sit in the audience and sweat some more – Grrrrr. Justin always wore black and/or white, generally speaking – jeans or dress pants and button-down shirts or a sweatshirt. His aura was kindly as always. Aaaaah. Was anybody else on the stage? Oh, yes. There were those people laughing at me for staring at Justin so intently. But it’s OK.

It got to the part where people were scurrying around. I can hear that music so well in my mind, blaring. I think it was 18 after that we decided was my drop-dead time. And, at that point, the guy next to me sadly showed me his phone reading the appointed time. I slipped my cruel shoes off and ran like crazy for the door, bumping and dodging as I went. It was a folding chairs on grass setup, kind of flimsy. I got to the door and a guard wanted to stamp my hand for re-entry. I blew her off.

I assumed I was on security cameras, running for my life. This was timed to the minute. I ran as fast as I could to my car, that was parked far away. I split while the band would have been watching the video, hoping they would not see this offensive maneuver. Leaving in the middle of a show! How classless and rude! How essential to ensuring my presence at future concerts, though.

I couldn’t look back. I couldn’t think of staying. I had to run light the wind. The mere thought of Justin being right there could turn me to putty. I’ve said before, I feel like I’m tied by rubber bands to Moodies shows. The further away I go, the stronger the force to catapult me back. A classic example would be the time Justin played Arlene’s in NYC. I had run cross-town after his earlier show, and now I didn’t know how to get back. I kept stopping for directions, and people kept sending me in a circle. After about an hour, I had assumed I was well on my way, and then Mike Dawes ran past me. Then, I saw a crowd of blonde fans. Then, I saw the getaway car with Udo and Justin. I digress.

I was off to a bad start. I made a bad turn. I pulled back into the lot, recalculated the GPS, and rode like the wind. The escape was flawless. I love driving the LA freeway after around 9PM. I love speeding, and it is such a joy to drive in a pack of cars, going 85 mph all the way. Sometimes, there are minor slowdowns for a few seconds, but then it all picks up again. I returned my car. I knew where after I totally blew it the last time and made people yell at me for going the wrong way and all. That was like clockwork. I didn’t want to wait for the van, so I hailed a taxi and got to the airport. It was nasty crowded, but the taxi man took me the wrong way. He dropped me off at the wrong door, where a lady told me how to get where I needed, and employee elevator or something. I did the security theatre and arrived at the gate as my zone was boarding. Only a handful of people were in front of me and about three or four were behind me. I was sad to have missed the show, sad to have been rude, but happy I arrived with so little time to spare. Besides, maybe I added some theatre-in-the-round to the scurrying masses on the screen, thought I; trying to hide a heartbreak.

I got back to work. The Boy Scouts were supposed to have walked the boss’ dog twice a day. I found five piles of poo and some wet spots in the office, and so I relieved them of their duty for the next week. The boss’ housekeeper had volunteered her daughter. I suffered the week and was off again the next weekend. I like to set my boss up with meals and get him treats (for which he pays) so he will enjoy my absence and be supportive.

I think I departed from Atlanta both times, but don’t trust me. It’s all a blur, now. But I made the connection, and off again I was. I recall on the flight, the girl next to me was watching “A Dog’s Purpose.” I started watching late, just sort of looking up from time to time. I had the advantage of not having sound, so I was like a real dog, seeing the people and all their drama and not understanding the why or wherefore of their actions. Both me and the girl watching bawled our eyes out. I would recommend that movie to anybody. It has caused me to love The EVO! even more.

At the car rental, there was a long line again. The people behind me were afraid they would miss the graduation they came to see. I offered to give them cuts; I had my book and was prepared. Arriving at the desk, the lady wanted to rent me a Camaro. She said it fit my personality. I objected. I had reserved an economy car. She ended up getting me a Prius. Now, I hang with a crowd that scoffs at Prius drivers, but I really loved this car. I did a ton of driving on just $8 of gas. It was really cool.

I’m going to take a break and try to collect my memories. Ah, yes. I headed for the TA in North Bend for a shower. There, I had a jambalaya from Popeyes and took a walk. I found a path through the woods, enjoying the tall pines and ferns, and I stumbled upon some homeless camps. I went back to make myself as beautiful as could be expected. This dress was a keeper. Then, it was off to the Chateau. I paid attention, as I knew there would be a fast getaway the next night.

The Chateau brought back memories. I had been there once before on a disastrous trip aeons ago. Back then, my driver’s license had slipped down between the seat and floorboard as I was getting out of my car in the airport. That left me unable to rent a car. I took a taxi to the Chateau, and sat on the grass. Though far back, I thought I saw Justin acknowledge me from the stage. After all, I was blonde back then. It was a special memory I’ll always cherish.

On that trip, I took a bus to Kelowna. I had a backstage pass, and I wasn’t going to blow that. It was a wonderful bus ride. The Canadian mountains were brilliant against a blue sky with intermittent stormy, gray clouds. My eyes couldn’t get enough. I tried to polish my nails en route, but I kept messing them up and redoing them. Every time I opened the bottle, somebody would cough. It was a rich shade of aqua. I recall throwing a perfectly good dress away because I had too much baggage for this crazy way I was traveling.

Backstage, I recall I made a jack bottom out of myself, and Justin was very tolerant. I really enjoyed it and would love to do it over and over again. After the show, some amazingly wonderful fans, astonished at how I had gotten to the show, mercifully bought me a bus ticket back to Sea-Tac. I don’t remember how things unfolded, but I was in new territory for me, but this old dude at the station told me which bus to go on, because she was a good driver. I did, and traffic was bad, but our driver drove along the shoulder in construction and even ran a red light, for which I applauded. Everybody else on the bus was going somewhere else. I was the only person catching a plane, and she got me to the airport in the nick of time. It was a miracle. I got back home and found my driver’s license, … But I digress.

My other memory of the Chateau was leaving as the vines were getting sprayed. We were moving slow, and people kept mooing like cows because that’s what we felt like.

The day was crisp and clean, but the long, slow line for the security theatre was annoying, not my idea of hospitality, particularly when I had to go to the bathroom. I was scouting out a nice bush behind which I could duck. Once inside, I demanded like crazy to know how to get to the bathroom, and had to go through about three bureaucrats first – get my hand stamped and all.

I forgot to mention how much I enjoyed the bumper music. Songs like “Tracy” and “Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)” put lots of us in a good mood. I wanted to sing along, and did sometimes. It’s great when a band has such confidence as to play some of the best music ever as a warmup act. Even the security guards were bopping.

It was a tad cold at the Chateau, and I hadn’t brought a coat. Locals described the weather as nice. The venue was nice. I can still see the trees behind, the tall trees in the yard. I soon caught up with Luna. She was sitting in my seat, so I bumped her. Then, it turned out my seat was two closer to center. Nice. We caught up. She invited me to stay with her, but I couldn’t dream of it. The last time, I was sleepless driving here and there and everywhere on dark roads following her when all I wanted to do was keel over and sleep anywhere. I didn’t think I had it in me.

Justin was doing more vocals without assistance from Julie. He asked for help with “Question” more as a routine than necessity, I believe. He was able to do his outstanding cadenza at the end “Nights,” but didn’t always. Again, I don’t go to shows to critique nuances in fingering or intonation. I go for the ecstasy and the love. The more I try to explain, the worse it gets.

Jus appeared to be having a thing with Luna. He spent the whole night looking at her side of the audience, smiling, laughing, and talking. I was a green-eyed monster. Sure, I took it in stride, but all along I was like, “Oh, please, Justin! Please look our way! Please? Pretty please? …”

I spent the night at the TA. Then, I went to church and took a walk around the neighborhood of North Bend. There was a nice river and riverside park, an old town, a shopping center, and a nice Nintendo campus. I was looking for a place that might print my boarding pass so I could stay a few minutes longer at the show, but had no success. I returned to the TA for a shower. This dress would not be good. I wore it backward. And this face! It looks like the picture of Dorian Gray and gets worse with every look in the mirror! When I returned to my rental, the windshield was cracked. Now, I would have to fill out an accident report, moving my departure time from the concert forward even further. The trip was already riddled with cost overruns. I was not a happy camper. My journal says things like, “The Washington trip was a joke,” and, well let’s forget that one.

I pulled off in an office park hoping to find some place to print a boarding pass. These days, it is almost impossible to get directions. People don’t speak English and they don’t know anything about the area. One place I have found still to have hospitality, and persons fluent in English, though is Marriotts. The nice lady at one of the hotels let me use their computers to print a pass, and that was very nice. Pshew. That should buy me a song or two more.

The second show, I sat with Luna in the grass. I wanted to get in line so I could get in the venue earlier, but she didn’t. When we finally got in, I was directed to a security guard for help with calculating my drop-dead time. He scoffed, as if to say I should have left for the airport already. I was still of the opinion that half a show was better than none, still kicking myself for not organizing things better. I told myself I was smarter than this, and this was going to be the last time I rudely run out of a show. I told the guard his answer was unacceptable and I would shop the question. Again, this was early in the tour and missing the plane and getting to work eight hours late – not being true to my word, not having arranged for a substitute, the boss starving, the dog going all over the floors - was not something I wanted to risk.

I asked around. People talked about “the games” that would be letting out. They also said it was graduation night, and parents had flown in and kids would be flying home from every school in the area. The lady at the auto rental had told me to be at the airport two hours early to ensure catching a shuttle. I was trying to ignore her in my mind.

In the audience was a guy with a hat knit in the shape of a brain. He sat behind me. There was also a lady who I really liked. She often made the trip to the airport from Bellevue. She did a multivariate calculation. She brought to my attention that I had Pre-Pass, which was probably some kind of mistake or miracle, as I didn’t have it on my next flight. She subtracted time for the car return, the accident report, the games, the graduations, the shuttle, pointing out I would have to get to the other side of the airport. 8:45 p.m. was the time we agreed upon. I loved the way she thought and thought it would be nice to bring her home to have a friend like that – no drama, just the facts, ma’am.

Again, the show was a tad nerve-wracking, knowing I would have to be rude and leave. Knowing nothing on earth would be better than to stay, except going to more concerts later. It came to be almost 8:45. I had been sitting in the shadows and I suppose not all that conspicuous. The same portion of the show arrived. I thought I could risk staying for the whole show, but any delay could bump my critical path behind a two-hour delay getting out of the parking lot, waiting for a shuttle, getting behind one of “the games,” lines in security. I didn’t have the faith I used to have. So, when the people started running on the big screen, at about 8:43, I split again. This time, running in front of the stage – Who cares? The band was watching the big screen. One of the guards, who I warned I would be leaving early, yelled at me for cutting through the wire. It was too late. I ran through the Chateau. I had asked a guard where best to park for an early exit, but he just put me in in order.

I was out and made it with only one bad turn. There were no delays to speak of. I got to the airport with time to spare, much to my disappointment, but I kept reminding myself of all the potential delays that would catapult me onto … As it turned out, the plane was late to leave. I was depressed. I just slouched in my chair and cried myself to sleep. I kept waking up and looking up at the clock, thinking of what might have been, then “rolling over,” back to sleep in my airport seat. Once on the plane, I pulled my blanket over my face and went to sleep. “Do not disturb,” was my message to the world. I woke up with my nose mashed sideways against my face, straightened it out, and “rolled back over.”

I still felt the need to go to LA, but there was no getting a decent ticket to the Hollywood Bowl. It wasn’t worth the price of airfare, car rental, time off, etc. to go watch fireworks. Then, the Grammy thingie was announced. I checked out the venue online, and it appeared to be nice and small. I could dig this way more than two more Moodies concerts. It would be just Justin, not a lot of multimedia. This could be good. I don’t have AmEx, so I couldn’t get a ticket when they went on-sale. I synchronized with the Atomic Clock for the on-sale time to the general public (not the new cabinet member), and started pushing the “buy tickets” button a few minutes in advance in case AXS’ clock was off. I kept pushing, but nothing would become available.

I watched the scalper tickets, but they were unreasonable. Finally, I bit. I asked the boss if I could get my next paycheck advanced so I could get a ticket back to LA. He consented, and we set up substitutes. Then, a few days later, I was off. There was a funky arrangement for getting the ticket, and I was on an almost zero budget. I drove to BNA just for the day trip.

I landed and the plan was to walk to the venue. I got off to a bad start, getting totally turned around just in LAX. It took me about an hour just to get out, and then I had to walk through dry flower beds and such on the islands. Traffic at the airport was steady and not designed for pedestrians – even though Google Maps provided me a pedestrian route.

It was a lovely day for a walk. I’d been berating myself for the Washington fiasco, but now I was walking on air again. Don’t ask me. I walked through some construction, and I eventually had to stop at a convenience store for a drink. I got two freezy cold lemonades, and some dood took a photo of me drinking them outside the gas station. Whatever. Onward. The most beautiful part of the trip was a lovely subdivision, with tropical plantings and Moorish architecture atop a hill. It was well-kempt, and yes, it was African-American. At the top, one could see the blue, hazy hills and the city of LA below. Quite nice.

I descended the hill, then my Google Maps told me to go the wrong way. I was sure it was the wrong way. It had me doubling back. I paused and then pressed on the way I thought I should go. This led to a huge construction mess. I asked for directions at a laundry mat, a gas station – nobody wanted to speak English or bother with my predicament. I sat on the ground a couple times trying to get the phone GPS to make sense.

Then, I noticed I was in a motel – not a hotel – district. They surely have customers who need taxis and could probably recommend somebody to me that wouldn’t have to drive an hour to pick me up. I was really crunched for this point, and I had decided it would be impossible to make it on time if I persisted on foot.

The nice innkeeper of one of the places gave me the number for Yellow Cab. I called, and one was dispatched, to arrive in a reasonable time. I was exhausted, sweaty, a wreck. Sitting on the ground. I got a text saying my cab was arriving. A truck pulled up at the motel, and I attempted to open the door, but the driver motioned to me as if to say, “No thanks.” After that, the innkeeper came out to ask me what my business was. (Get it? Trampy looking chick, hanging outside a motel, trying to get into peoples’ cars? Sheer embarrassment.)

But before that, the cabbie had sent a text saying he was lost and I would have to do something with some feature on my phone with which I was unfamiliar. I got so angry. I couldn’t even hail a cab. But it was when the innkeeper was talking with me that, much to my delight, we saw a Yellow Cab drive past the intersection a tad bit away. “Yellow Cab! Yellow Cab!” I cried in desperation. The innkeeper was kind and helped me get settled in the cab.

My cabbie was Joseph. He was from Nigeria. He didn’t want to talk about what things were like back home, just that Americans are spoiled to think they are poor and the political situation is not good. He told me I was a genius for getting as far as I did. He figured I was some kind of scientist. I think he was making fun of me, but he was correctly concluding things about me – except for the genius part.

Joseph took me on the grand tour of town. I hate it when they do that. I was not that far away, but we drove for what seemed like over half an hour. I don’t know where all we went. Finally, I recognized the Grammy Museum from the Google Maps streetview I had previewed before leaving. We were struck in traffic. I still needed to duck into a telephone booth somewhere and change, I had to pick up my ticket, and I had to get the ticket to somebody with whom I thought I had made an agreement online to buy the other ticket. This was all general admission (not another cabinet member), and time was ticking away. I begged Joseph to let me get out and run to the venue. He insisted on keeping me parked in traffic so he could drop me at the door. I would pay anyway, “Just get me out of here!”

We made it to the door, and I called my friend’s name. She had given up on me and made another deal, for a ticket about $175 cheaper. Who could blame her? I even told her online the deal was tenuous. She had raised suspicions about the transaction.

Well, here I was, a sweaty swamp rat, stuck with an extra ticket. People were going in. Where was my guy? I texted him, and he said he saw me and told me to chill out. How could I. I was sitting on the ground, against a concrete planter against which I banged my head. I stared up at the sky and asked God what on earth was wrong with me and how I could be so stupid. Everything was wrong. Then, I got a text, and my scalper told me where to meet him. He was dressed like Barry Gibb. I gave him a piece of my unchained temper, but he was kind and gentle and let me know my experience was not unique.

I got the ticket, got in the door, and asked directions to the lady’s room. No time to waste, I changed, threw some mousse in the hair, did the eyes and put on some lipstick, then hurried out to stand in line. Only a few people would stand in the line after me; one of whom stood in front of me. Who cares at this point, right? I saw some celebrities – like Minasian and Julie Ragins whilst waiting. Then, the line began to move.

When I got there, there were still some end seats. A dood in the third row said he and his wife had saved one for me. How sweet. Then, I noticed an empty right in front of me. I asked the lady adjacent if it was occupied, and she said I could have it. I scooted up. I knew the lady next to whom I sat. We had met in California years ago I think, and we split a pair of tickets for Chastain Park. She didn’t recognize me until I told her about that. Then, she shouted my name for all to hear.

Sinking down in my seat, we reminisced about that night. It poured rain. I had long hair back then, and I remember bending over and slapping it back to make a big splash. Justin had made a joke about the people at the front tables eating soup. I remember him smiling. We caught up on what happened after that. I drove back home with the heater full blast to dry out on the way home. She had trouble with her hotel booking so went to stay at the Ritz, where the band happened to be staying. She was swimming in the pool when Justin showed up … She didn’t want him to see her in her bathing suit. She didn’t want to intrude on his privacy. All those things that rush through one’s mind.

We reminisced about the old days, when we had pen pals at the fan club. Mine were from England. It was a simpler time. There was no widespread Internet, no sniping, no snarking; just love and a shared appreciation for great music and great musicians. Those were the days.

We were also sitting right in front of the camera, so it was a safe bet we wouldn’t have our mugs appearing anywhere online.

The MC was Scott Goldman, but when they introduced him, it sounded something like, “Here’s God Goldman.” What a horrible choice of stage names, I thought. But that’s OK. He introduced Justin’s song as “The Wind of Change,” for which he received heckling. The volume reminded me of Marty McFly. (). Then, the recording snagged before the end. Goldman promised they’d finish it later, but I was glad they didn’t at that vol.

Goldman did a great interview. It wasn’t the same questions, and he was conversant, like he really wanted to know things, rather than checking off a list of approved questions. It was delightful, and I don’t know how long it lasted. I don’t care how long it lasted, but I didn’t want it to end. When Justin broke to sing some songs, I was hoping they’d get back together for some more.

Now, I am assuming this thing is proprietary, so I will not share anything, just that it was really fun, with Justin’s sharp wit and Scott’s real talent for quality interviews. It was all heavenly. If I could make one complaint, it would be the harmonies. Now, I know Julie has tremendous talent. She can change her voice, she can add color or do harmonies. But why was she singing in 2nds, 7ths, susts, and other - I guess it was to impress the academicians want an avant edge. I am much more comfortable with classical harmonies like the ones that made the Moodies so well-loved. No matter. I had long forgotten banging my head on the planter, and not because of amnesia.

Then, as if the world was not all peace, love, and joy; Justin left the stage right past my friend. I got to see him up-close, and then my life was complete. Wowie! Yowza! Ay-ay-ay!

Well, it looked like there was going to be an after-show, and I wasn’t invited, so there was nothing left to do but take the long trek back to LAX. Joseph had told me to take Figueroa to Century on my way back, though he would have preferred I call for a ride. He realized I was stubborn, though. His route would be the square root of 2 longer than the 12 miles on Google Maps, but I wouldn’t get lost.

I love LA, but this was not all that lovable. It was warm, but it was a swill. I smelled so much ripe trash. There were piles of it along the roadside. People picked through garbage bins to get stuff for their shopping carts. Drunk people driving by would proposition me. It musta been dark. Prostitutes hung out on corners, not the old tramps like we have around here, but nice-looking girls in hot outfits – the kind I would like to wear, were it not for friends who tell me, “Why are you wearing Plexiglas heels? You look like a --- !”

Toward the end, a dood named Jay caught up to me. He said I should take a bus. I didn’t know the schedules or how to pay or anything like that, but Jay had been riding his bike, but he walked along with me for awhile. He was a painter, and he had just gotten off work. He got to his destination, and I continued on. I came upon a 7-11 and was delighted to get a chicken salad pasta, grapes, and something to drink for $7. At last! Affordable, healthy food! Where have you been all my life! I sat on the curb off to the side, resting my weary feet, enjoying the warm night air, now out of the scent of ripe trash. Life was good. After the rest, my feet were like balls of straw on the end of my legs. I shuffled on.

I was soon passing familiar sites near the airport. I was soon at the airport and got yelled at for trying to go the wrong way. I arrived and slept in one of those comfortable airport chairs (not) until time to go. The airport was so absol-tutely freezy, I had to crack down and buy one of their pretty pink “Los Angeles” hoodies. Then, I was a happy camper. My journal entry here, by contrast, begins, “LA trip!”

Now, it was time to save some funds for some shows out east. I was happy to be done flying. I had scored a couple good seats. I tried to do two concerts on consecutive nights to avoid all this up and down driving. I had already spent a ton on airfare. But the two tickets I had were for the furthest shows from home, except for Toronto, which I decided early was going to be out of the question.

I had supposed I would go to the two Ohio shows. Remember, my tires were officially shot, and I still had no jack assembly. Ohio was closest to home. But I was still smarting from the LA trip. I decided I could at least just go to Kettering. I set the goal of going to six more shows. Then, I kept seeing myself at Kettering, clearly. My ticket search came up with a 5th-row, center aisle ticket on Craigslist. I thought I had a deal with the guy, but he hemmed and hawed. Finally, I asked for a final decision, and he said he didn’t want to deal with somebody from out of town. So, the search began again. Again, I saw myself there so clearly.

What do I tell the boss? I was so certain I was going, and I could see myself there, so I made contingency plans. Then, the day of the show, two tickets two rows in front of the others and for considerably less showed up. I made arrangements to close the deal in the parking lot of Marion’s Pizza, and I was off. I spent some time at Starbucks trying to get some work done on my laptop, but only did a disappointing amount. I preferred to listen to the brainiacs around me talking about how they were going to interest generals (real generals this time) in emerging technology. Boy, did I feel like a clone.

The car was making great mileage. I sold the other ticket for face value, and with what I had saved, I was sure I would have been able to go to Cleveland, but I had not made the arrangements to cover for me back at the ranch.

I loved the dress. The hair was wicked, and I decided I had had enough of that old hag staring back at me in all these mirrors. Just like the problem of leaving shows early, this haggish makeup would be remedied. The contact lenses, however, had been superb this time. I’m really happy with the choices the light guy is making, as the refraction problems appear to have disappeared – same lenses, different lights.

I wore my cruel shoes again, and people made fun of me. I was trying to find somebody to buy my ticket, baby-stepping grassy knolls in platform heels with rounded souls. Ohioans were very friendly waiting in line. In one place, we speculated on whether they had sprayed the lawn, or if ticks would be lurking. That led to horrible stories about big spiders and such, from which I had to excuse myself.

The guy who bought my ticket was a health nut. He was about my age, but he was starting over. He had a band that kept him young. He gave me some good advice. He said you can get good at anything if you spend four hours a day at it. It’s why I’m so good at sleeping.

Honestly, I’m not remembering anything special from this show – only it was nice to stay for the full show, and the multimedia production was not as insufferable the nth time around as I had anticipated. I felt good about the whole thing, but I can’t remember this or that.

OK I’m pooping out. Things get better from here. If this unabashed narcissism doesn’t bore you out of your wits, I’ll supply the exciting conclusion next Sunday if I get a chance.

But if you're a Congrefscritter, capable of reading, scrutinizing, and critically analyzing 2000 pages an hour, here's the rest of it.

Coming back from Kettering, I managed to get a fever blister or some kind of infection on my lip. That was swell. Everybody knew I was going to a rock concert. What would they think of me? “I’m surprised I didn’t give myself a hickey,” thought I. So, within about 24 hours, walking The EVO!, a wasp flew straight into my neck for a sting. There was my hickey. It’s about four weeks later, and I think the sticker may still be there, but I can’t get my eyes to curl around. I just pick at it. At least the esophagus did not swell shut. I should be happy. More than that, whenever it bothered me during a show, Justin would reach for his neck. He grabs at his hair when my hair gets stuck in my eyelashes, too. I know, attention bias on top of obsession. Is that all I have to say about the shows?

I figured I would do a make-up day either the coming or the next weekend to atone for not trying to go to Cleveland. After all, I had set my goal, right? Now, it’s a tough decision, whether I should go to Philadelphia or Wallingford, right? So tough, I copped out and settled for both.

I had always said, for only about thirty years, that I wanted to go to the Goddard Library. It’s got the memoirs and such of Robert Goddard. The interest arose when, in the line of employment, I discovered he had patented ion jets. Not only was he the father of modern rocketry, he appeared to have already conceived of everything NASA had been taking seriously for space travel. I thought if I could crawl through his every paper, his every schematic, I might find something that, like Tesla’s wireless, had been sitting there in front of a blind public for almost a century. It’s not that I’m genius or worthy of such rediscovery. I was, at this point, looking for something to jog my mind back into gear, a problem to solve to help humanity, like I used to always carry around to while away the hours in, say traffic jams.

Well, lo and behold, Clark University, where the Goddard Library sits, was right on the road between Wallingford and Boston. It looked like wish come true. I called, but learned the archivist would not be in that day, but I was told I was welcome to go see the displays. The displays were lame, but I reconsidered Goddard’s vision. Up in a cherry tree, trimming it, one day he envisioned a tube of sorts with a circulating weight that, by centripetal force created a thrust. It was a bonehead idea, as Goddard agreed, but it set him on a lifetime quest to achieve space travel.

Now, it is a little odd that Goddard called his idea a vision. Not only that, but he celebrated “Anniversary Day” on future days to commemorate it. My phone was taking forever to charge, so, after doing all I could think to in the library, which was decorated with a number of board games, I took a walk around the neighborhood.

It was a bright, sunny day, good for contemplating. I reviewed the vision, and realized I had turned somethings sideways in my mind. Now, I was wondering if it might be possible to, with the circulating weight, attend to the electric component rather than the mass and perhaps achieve some form of magnetic thrust. I was happy to see Clark University had a somewhat extensive magnetics laboratory, as if m great idea had already been thoroughly considered. I walked past the lab. I wondered if they were perchance sintering new kinds of ceramics. It would have been cool to ask questions, but they were pretty much closed for the summer. Now, I can’t find the lab online. Is this delirium?

The phone still wasn’t charged, but I had to pack up. The folks at the library only exchanged niceties the indicated they had no clue about what Goddard was about. They were just faking. “Oh, yes. He was very intelligent.” The displays were largely about artifacts and medals, not patents and schemmies. Still, I was happy because I had some food for thought, about which I quickly forgot.

I’m getting ahead of myself. First, there was the trip to Wallingford. The toll roads, and the phone, which is actually a company phone that I am allowed to take on vacations, lest I get lost and return late, has a thing for toll roads. It has never met a toll road it doesn’t like. It likes to put me on them and then send me on U-turns. In Boston, having decided it was really time to get that jack assembly, I headed off to Herb Chambers’. The third time the phone put me on the same toll road, going in circles, I wanted to quit. But I got there. Herb didn’t have the jack. There’s no such thing. I have to get a universal one. I did, however, help myself to one of their absol-tutely most delicious cookie ever. They were out for customers to add some quality Euro flavor for customers waiting. Yum.

But Wallingford! I was running late – again. I stopped at a couple service stations along the toll road to clean up some of the sweat with a disinfecting, deodorizing Swiffer Sweeper mop pad and put in my contact lenses. I left a few things undone in the interest of making sure I got to the venue on-time. So, wouldn’t you know it, the dood parked me on the very end of the lot, where everybody entering after me would have to walk past my car. That made it very hard to change panty hose with all my sticky sweat. Mission accomplished, I got out, and that was when I learned about the round soles on my cruel shoes. I got them because I had seen another pair online. The model was so sure-footed; but that design had sold out before I was ready to buy. These were an attractive substitute, purchased without the advantage of a model. So, I took baby steps all across the parking lot, laughing with everybody who was laughing at me.

I got to sit next to a man who had come to the show with his little boy. They had done the photo op, and were thrilled about everything about it. It was nice to see new life, not jaded like me. The little boy had gotten to play the gong, but hadn’t quite mastered the art of how to make it ring. After the show, the boy got one of John’s picks, and one or two of Graeme’s sticks – handed directly to him by the stars. Justin hesitated. In my mind, I thought he was going to give the kid a pick, saw me, hesitated, thought I would eat him alive if he tried, and carried on. You can see the peeps here: http://www.moodybluestoday.com.....ngford-ct/. My ticket was aftermarket, so, although it was in the front, I didn’t get to play wax museum and hear Udo instruct me to behave again.

After the show, I walked around the studio looking for the buses, to no avail. I saw no sense in idling in traffic, so I walked around the venue. I met up with a lady who had lost her husband. It reminded me of the time when, moonlighting as a mall security officer, a lady really did lose her husband. He went into the men’s room and never came out. I hung out with here until the husband did show up, and then went to my car.

That was when I discovered my glasses were missing. My eyesight is bad. My first eye exam in about the third grade, I scored 20-200 for the right eye and 20-400 for the left. It’s only been downhill since. My contacts were all gooed up and ready to get out of my eyes, at that “killing me” stage. I searched and searched. Still, no glasses. I decided to walk back to the venue and see if a guard could help me look with a flashlight. They had seen me doing laps around the joint, so I was already a suspicious character. But they were merciful. I took everything out of the car as the guard helped, and the glasses were nowhere to be found. I decided that, in exasperation, I must have left them at one of the service stations. The guard told me where they were – the second being a sixty-mile roundtrip out of my way. But that was the only recourse. Either that, or I would have to blow my remaining Moodies budget getting an eye exam and waiting until the lenses could be crafted.

At the first stop, third shift had come in, and nobody knew anything or could be bothered with my plea. I could not go, though. Besides the “killing me,” the glasses had to be there. There was nowhere else. Blind as I was, and feeling I had exhausted all possibilities, I happened to stare right at the side of the cash register where somebody had put them. This was another miracle, as I have nothing in the way of peripheral vision and usually need to employ the services of finder elves when anything gets lost. I was happy and just took a four-hour nap in the car. I’ve found that with a milk box full of junk on the passenger side, I can sleep most comfortably sideways – except as in the case of Nashville, where I managed to shift gears with my back. It took some doing, but I finally got the car to where I could start it. I felt stupid.

It gets light early up there, and by 5:00, I had all the sleep I could take. I piddled around waiting for the Goddard Library to open. Leaving the library as described above, I ducked into a port-a-potty to get washed and changed. There was a padlock on the outside, and I had visions of missing the show because some smart-alec locked me in, so I took the lock inside with me. It was smelly, but much more private than the night before. I stopped off to have a professional wash and style my hair, and she burnt my scalp about ten times with the blow drier. That did not feel good and continued to hurt for a few days. Add it to the stack of reasons to berate myself for being stupid. I thought I would be bald in back.

I got to Boston early. It was hot – nice – and parking was steep. I stayed in the car and read. I could hear the sound check and could stand it no longer. I got out that perchance I might espy a view, but it wasn’t to be. I walked around the venue. The river was dirty, and there was a lot of duck do on the sidewalk. I went back past the gate and parked myself next to an inlet, hoping some moderation of the temperature from the water’s specific heat would somehow save my painful hairdo. I watched the waves roll in. I could see to the bottom of the water, and it wasn’t pretty. It was then I realized it was much easier to mathematically describe waves in a body of water using polar coordinates instead of Cartesian coords. It was so obvious, I felt kind of stupid. I watched the expanding circles with the delight of an idiot. It wasn’t until later I told myself I needed to reduce this to the molecular level rather than looking at wave velocities. Yes, while the poor of the earth cry out for social justice, I waste my short time on earth trying to mathematically model mass molecular UCM in my mind.

Well, we went to stand in line. Security lived down to my expectations, first sending us in this line, telling us to bend the line this way, telling everybody in the road to take cuts in front of us, telling us not to bend that way, etc. When it was finally my turn to get wanded, the dood gave me a nice pat on my fat rear end with his wand. I know. It’s so huge, it’s hard to miss. But I hate the whole scene. It enrages me. Nowadays, they not only herd us like cattle and humiliate us, they let us put our stuff in dog bowls – just like the Nazis fed the Jews in concentration camps. When will the madness end?

I blew it off. I was seated on the other side of the stage, off the deep-end, and behind a camera man. I was next to a really fun couple. The guy was really funny, cracking me up with commentary about Tom Jones and such. There was a gap in the seats, separating the three of us from the rest of the row. We decided to close it to our advantage since the seats weren’t nailed down. We slid after the show started, but I had to go back, as I was now right behind the cameraman. As I recall, Justin didn’t seem all that interested in being there.

After break, I slid to the center section, next to the people who beat me sliding to the better seats. Again, they were nice people. The girl had been raised right by her mom to appreciate good music – just like the lad and his dad from the night before. The view was much better there. I caught myself looking at Justin like Marie was looking at Andy in that video I love so much. I think I bemuse him when he asks the audience to fill in on “Question.” Me, all full of myself, singing like some child’s first day in choir, trying to impress everybody singing at the top of my lungs and out of tune – and all. Then he came to where we were as he said good-bye to the crowd after the show. Ee! Ee! As my little niece would say. It was a great experience, and I was rather happy for it all. Great show – not that I remember anything but love and euphoria having gone under Justin’s spell.

It would be a beautiful world if there were always a Moodies show on the weekends, and I had the wherewithal to attend. “I enjoyed my trip,” begins this journal entry. The journal is terribly sketchy and illegible, written by a sleepless wench in stolen moments, so we must not put too much stock in it, though.

The next stop was Philadelphia. I had gotten a good ticket for Saratoga Springs early on, but only found an affordable pit seat for the Mann on StubHub five days before the show. I spent as much on tolls this trip as I spent on gas, and that is not good. You will recall the GPS has a love affair with toll roads, and this was no exception. When I stopped for gas, I couldn’t even get the pump to work. I was exasperated. Nothing was working, and I was running out of time. The attendant, who only spoke Indian, took over control of the pump and tried to calm me down. Another customer also tried to be encouraging. I could appreciate them, but I was too enraged to show it. I left, and the GPS still wanted to send me on circles on the toll road, so I pulled into the friendly Courtyard by Marriott across the street. I had to wait for paying customers to resolve their concerns before collapsing at the concierge, demanding mercy. At this point, neither my printed map nor my GPS were making any sense.

She was kind and printed out new directions. I had faith in her. She asked if there was anything else she could do, and I was too grateful to ask a backstage pass while she was at it. Oh, if only Mr. Marriott knew how many times his good employees had gotten me to Moodies shows.

The venue was much like Wolftrap; in fact, I got confused sometimes and wondered if some of my memories hadn’t been warped.

I had printed some maps and addresses for churches along the path Sunday morning. When it came time to consult them, I saw all the addresses printed as white squares, obscuring the places on the map where the churches were. I tried to get to one, but I kept getting lost. It was a beautiful place to get lost, and I must admit I was enjoying it, along the 9W. Time was running out. It was now impossible to make a 9am service. I pulled out the phone and then realized the church starting times were available online, and so sought one that started at 10. The nearest one was in Scarsdale. All I could think was, “down to Scarsdale, where the 7734 am I?” It was an hour roundtrip out of my way.

I had ditched the later two meetings last week, and I was feeling sort of guilty about skipping the first this week. I thought how lame services had been of late. I decided to do the right thing, in accordance with the parting advice delivered through my former Institute director at our last meeting in Phoenix, on the ASU campus, before that Justin show, the best day of my life. I set the GPS for Scarsdale – and toll roads! – and sort of angrily prayed, “This better be good.”

I longed for an old-fashioned service, where stories of God’s mercy and lovingkindness would bring tears to the eye, where people walked the walk and miracles followed, not that I was at all worthy of such company. My phone was dwindling, as nothing in my possession can ever retain a charge. I thought, semi-consciously, on top of running into an old-school crowd, how I wanted to quickly run into somebody with the authority to tell me I can recharge the phone.

Now, I’d been to this church before, and on reflection, I’ve been to a lot of churches in New York over the years. I just didn’t recognize it one bit. Instead, I only remember the cold, stark city street where I ducked into a Starbucks to plug in my laptop to locate it.

So, here I was, a raging bull, still demanding of heaven, “This better be good!” I swung open the door like a bad guy going into the sa-loon. And before me stood this dood. “Hi, I’m Bishop Mortenson,” he said.

Now, God answers prayers at our level, and mine at this stage was considerably infantile, but that was all I needed. Here was this dood, with an old-guard name with the authority to let me plug in my phone. God lived. God was good. And this was going to be good.

But then the services started. On the way, I’d also been berating myself for being such a stupid clown. I never do anything good. I don’t know how to be good. I long to love and serve people, but I bungle everything I do. The talks and lessons were all about that, how we all have feelings of insecurity. We just have to start where we are and try and trust the Holy Ghost. One guy told how he was at his wits’ end with depression in college and told his family they were going to fly him back to the states or he was going to swim across the Pacific. At his lowest, a girl yelled in his window, “Hey, Derek. A guy’s playing guitar on the corner and we’re all watching.” The following camaraderie was all he needed to snap him out of his funk. Derek also told of how many worthwhile things go unrecognized until future generations.

Another lady told the story of a lady who had a gnawing urge to buy some fresh crab for somebody. She finally gave in to the promptings, got it, and delivered it. Later, she learned the fresh crab and bread had become symbolic of good times shared with the widow and her now departed. It was their anniversary, and she had asked for a sign to know love continues beyond the grave. Yep. God answered my prayer and made it good. That had me thinking, truth is so self-evident; communication is so complex. Bishop Mortenson reminded us all that in these days of planted news stories and staged social media accounts, only the Holy Ghost will let us know for sure what is true.

I took a walk around the beautiful neighborhood, down streets I recognized, the sun and shadow making the world beautiful. I wandered longer than expected, then eased on down the road, stopping off somewhere for a quick but real shower.

Saratoga Springs was a weird setup, I thought. My GPS took me to the park. I paid $10 and then went up and down the road looking for a venue. I saw a park ranger and a cop talking, and asked them where to park. They recommended one lot, the Orenda Pavilion, a name that now echoes in my dreams. I pulled in right by them, as my car was now running on fumes, and the last thing I needed was to have to push my car to a gas station that might be closed after the show got out. I pulled myself together a bit and then began searching for the venue. This was crazy, I thought: Pay $10 to park and then walk three miles to the venue. Yet, as had happened so many times in crazy messes along the road this tour, a part of my brain reminded me that I was really enjoying this.

It was a beautiful state park. A small creek gurgled beneath the underbrush to my left. All was green and lush, the air was clean. But I wondered how handicapped people were supposed to do this. I asked directions, and it turned out one went into one of the parking lots and then went through a hole in the trees totally invisible from the road. That led to … drumroll please … the parking lot where everybody with half a brain had parked.

I had a very good seat, so there was no need to move up. I could just relax and get into the show. Justin appeared to me at least to be enjoying the show, laughing and smiling with his eyes. “Nights” was the most powerful rendition in my recollection. I was so delighted with the show, I jotted down a lot of notes in the journal, apparently driving in the dark, as I can scarcely read a word. There’s a “pretty, blue eyes” in there, and that’s enough to shoot me to another planet, at least.

When it was all over, so sad, so as not to waste time, I asked directions back to the Orenda Pavilion, as I had forgotten the name of mine. The guard sent me through the Alhambra-like plaza, past the frog pond, past a bunch of colonial buildings. No. I had walked Creekside. This was not it, but to be obedient, I persisted. It was pitch black, so I couldn’t read the signs. I had to put my nose on them. Sure, this was cutting into my travel time, but I was now walking barefoot on the warm pavement, the warm night air carrying the song of crickets. This, too, I was enjoying in spite of it all. Continuing on about an hour, I was happy to see a park ranger pull up. Somebody had reported a maniac wandering down a lonesome road and she went to fetch me. Having gone totally the opposite direction, she gladly gave me a ride back to my car, which was where I said it was, lending some credence to this oddity.

The ranger gave me directions to the highway and a gas station, and I was back to racing to work. I was glad this would be the last long-haul of the tour, but not really, considering that’s what I have to do to feel all right.

I recalled years ago going to work and struggling to hold myself up after driving back from Nashville. It was an awful feeling, but I couldn’t help myself. Something in my head kept telling me I would regret it forever if I did not go to all three shows. I can’t speak to that, but I am sure happy with my decision. When the boss asked what days I would be taking off, I looked again on the Internet and found a good ticket and announced I would take three more days off instead of two. It was short notice. I left work midday. The dog walker’s friend agreed to take The EVO! that day, and he agreed to take her Saturday. All was well, and then I found myself in a traffic nightmare. Everybody was going 55mph for forever, in both lanes. At hill tops, I could see the line extended as far as the eye could see, rolling like sludge. This went on for a couple hours.

It was unbelievable. I didn’t know which circle of the underworld we were in. I schedule time off in accordance with Google Maps. I take their time and add 10-15%, realizing I have to stop for gas and to pull myself together, and also accepting that these times tend to require one to run 10mph faster than the posted speed limit. I just try not to be the fastest thing on the road.

Finally, I remembered to pray. So, I did, and things loosened enough to do some aggressive weaving. As I recall, I only weaved about four times, and then I broke free. The road was normal in front of these two trucks carrying humongous pipes. I kept looking back to see somebody else break free, but nobody did. I’ll chalk that up to yet another miracle.

Running late, though, I had to gussy up in the car, again. It was so hot, my moisturizer had turned to hot oil, and I didn’t realize I had spilled it on my dress. It looked rather obscene. I worked on washing it off in the restroom at the venue. It was hot enough to dry out in time for the show.

Again, the seat was off to the side in the front behind the pit. A seat remained empty next to the lady next to me, so I asked if she wanted it or if I could take it. She picked up her stuff and allowed me to scoot. It was a mistake. I was now next to a lady who wouldn’t stop fanning herself. And was she ever a dancer. I sat, trying not to get huffy. This show wasn’t about me. I was but one of many drops in the bucket. All had come seeking some form of better emotion/state of mind. Who was I to break her fun? I sulked, again, like the proverbial guitar left in the dressing room.

After what was practically a lap dance through “IKYOTS,” I decided to slide back to my first chair, annoying the nice lady, who had to now move her stuff back to where it was, with me crawling and stumbling all over her. This is likely me projecting, but Justin seemed in a huff, too, and that didn’t help. Like the trip up, this show didn’t break loose until the end.

I supposed the venue was full of government people who still had jobs and had to get up in the morning. Unlike other places, there was a mass exodus, starting around the beginning of “Nights.” Of course, I took advantage of it, and slid to front and center behind the pit. I threw my keys on the ground in front of me so I could clap, and as soon as I did, a youngster picked them up and handed them to security. I absolutely loved the encore, being so close and all. I could not be happier. Life was complete. Justin was so absol-tutely beautiful in all ways. I could see his pretty, pretty eyes. Love, peace, and comfort were all around. It would have been nice to live there forever. I didn’t want him to go. After the show, I walked up to the guard and simply held my had out for her to deliver my keys, kind of sarcastically acting like I owned the place. I thought it was funny.

One thing that stood out was the wretched lacquer on Justin’s original Collings. That is one of the world’s most beautiful guitars. I remember first noticing it when he was playing “Forever Autumn” solo. Amber is not one of my favorite colors, but he was under amber lights, wearing that red, mint, and beige floral shirt. The pearlescent (abalone?) inlay around the sound hole sparkling silver by contrast. Ah! It was a sight to behold. I liked the neat arrangement of the headstock, too. Now, the lacquer was bumpy with a big smudge across the top fingerboard side. I assumed this was only visible under the stage lights, or maybe the problem would only repeat with each passing day’s sweltering weather conditions. The way Justin so adorably “plays dolls” with his guitars, I supposed he would not like things this way.

I waited with some fans by the buses. The security girl informed us the band was not coming out. To that, I thought, “Pish posh! They are going to be in Nashville in a couple of days, so the fundamental theorem of calculus requires them to come out!” Well, they didn’t. I did notice the cop car take off, and assumed it was following Justin, but I was too afraid to break ranks with the crowd and go galloping behind the getaway SUV.

A good ticket to Nashville never materialized, but I was intent on going. I had to go to Chastain Park. It was settled, and firmly engrained in the mind’s eye. Driving back from Nashville the night before was going to kill me, but I didn’t care. It was Nashville, the former Music City that is now, according to what locals tell me, Tech City, with the music component fading. There was that weird angle, which was weird considering how little deference I have to status symbols.

There was also the alley. As I flashed back through the years, I thought of the minutes spent in that grungy alley after dark, stuck between two walls and smelling the warm, summer garbage from the restaurants, waiting for the band to come out. The setup there is good – no inside alcove gated off, no tunnels or bridges, just the band. I’ve been there when Justin talked to everybody but me and even turned back to ask the girl next to me if she wanted anything else while still ignoring me. Oh, if only I weren’t so nasty inside and out. The diss couldn’t stop me from thinking the world of him. It was great to see the love and admiration shared among other fans just the same – or am I just being a good sport? So, yeah. I wanted to go back to that alley scene. Just like the birds who suddenly appear, stars that fall down from the sky, and all the girls in town following him around – I long to be, close to Justin. That probably didn’t sound very good.

Big anyway, I didn’t get a chance to do laundry, so I settled on another new dress that was way too short, so I doubled up on the skirt. I wore espadrilles so I could sprint across the alley in case I had settled on the wrong side of the bus. Yep, I really did. I rolled my hair in old-fashionied curlers so it would look good for a change. I figured the boss and the dog wouldn’t care. I put a plastic bag over my head for a do-rag and proceeded to run into a big spider web with it while walking The EVO! Off with the do-rag! Ick! Ick! Ick! Back at the ranch, a higher up from the boss’ political party stopped by to drop off a plaque. There I was in my curlers. I said nothing and let him think what he wanted.

The drive was all right. No more toll roads this tour! Wee hee! My only complaint, and it is minor, is I can’t hear the radio when the windows are down. I need to have the windows down a bit. I’m kind of freaky that way, but I like to sing with the radio. Now, I can’t do both. But the tires were holding up and the car was proving much more sturdy than I had previously thought. It now has another 18,000 miles on it. This was an unusual trip. There was neither rush nor desperation, no traffic tie-ups. I even got to the venue an hour early.

At the Ryman, the word that crossed my mind was “hospitality.” I still can’t say I enjoy the changes they made, putting a modern storefront on the old church, but it’s THEIR property. THEY can do what they want with it. Three fans came out of the joint off to the left of the security checkpoint and all gracefully had pleasantries and words of encouragement for me. But still, this was not Biblical times where one felt a responsibility to be kind to visitors. This was America, the land of the free and the brave, and we were all waiting in line and melting for the privilege of going through search and seizure. It protects our American way of life to be wanded, mauled, searched. My hair! My hair! It had looked like an old Farrah Faucett do before it melted. Curses, foiled again.

My attitude changed when the doors opened. The guards were super-nice and far less invasive than most. That got me off to a good start. I was sent to Danny for help finding my seat. So were the people behind me.

It was weird sitting in the middle of the Reimann. It looked so small. I would have loved to move up, but a lot of the celebrity fans were there, and I didn’t want to bring my storm cloud to rain on their joy. At break, I asked around for a closer seat, but there either wasn’t one, or nobody wanted me in it if there was. There was a very large guy a few rows up. He liked to raise his hands in the air and conduct the audience, telling when to stand and cheer. Nobody was paying any attention to him, except me, because he kept obstructing my view. He slid down a couple seats for the second half, and I happily got to sit behind his tiny wife/date instead. I had applied earplugs for the second half.

The show began with Justin smiling to the crowd – like right at me. I smiled back, and then realized I was but a pinpoint in blackness. It was a nice thought, though. He went on to smile, laugh, and talk from the stage to somebody up front. I supposed it was Bonnie, as they had appeared to share the same pleasant interaction in Sanatone’. I’ve sat through enough Sunday school classes to know I should rejoice in other’s happiness/achievement/success. I turned green, anyway. It’s what I do. Gotta work on that.

At the end, I joined the mosh. I loved it, being so close to the stage again. There’s something about seeing Justin close up that makes me feel like I’m in love. He’s so swell, and he has the prettiest, kindliest eyes. I’m sounding stupid again.

After the show, my purse was missing. I went in search of a guard to see if anybody had turned it in, and there was Danny, standing at the door. He held a large bag for garbage and my purse in the other hand. He gave it to me without asking me to identify myself or anything. To the alley!

There was a larger crowd than usual. We stood and watched restaurant workers. One guy kept running barrels of garbage, held on his back, which was rather impressive. I fancied him a young musician willing to do anything to pay the rent in Nashville.

The backup artists came out first. There was a guardrail defining the line the fans were not to cross. Alan went to the other side and was talking at length with fans. He always acts like he knows me, so we exchanged hellos. I can only speak for myself, but it appeared we both weren’t sure if we were going to wave or shake hands, so we did this weird thing, where we tinkled each other’s fingers. I told myself it was a piano-player’s handshake. I’m such a joke.

Then came Justin. He spent a lot of time with fans on the far end of the line. I couldn’t see what he was doing with whom. He slowly made his way toward the door of the bus where I was standing. I couldn’t help but stare at his beautiful, kindly, light blue eyes. I could have fallen in. There was something youthful about his face, but I was probably dreaming. At some point, I snapped out of it and realized he was now behind me and turned around, but he was boarding. John came out later, and then there was nothing to do but wave at the dark windows of the bus.

I was happy. Life was complete. Justin has no reason to know I exist, and if he does, it’s not because of my integrity or musical prowess. Yet, there is something really good about him I refuse to let go. I had forgotten about how much I hate my job and all. I didn’t care to eat or sleep. I forgot I was perpetually grouchy. Life was as beautiful as crystal clear water sparkling in the sunlight, an endless azure sky … See why I say I’m not good at this?

The trip to Chastain Park was sentimental. This was one of the first venues where I saw the Moodies. The first was the ever-beloved Pine Knob in the mysteriously haunting Clarkston. Pine Knob is now DTE Theatre, and I have no clue what it looks like inside. Back in the day, it was beyond the concrete jungle. You could smell the trees and the lake life in the fresh air. There’s something poetic about that place. It’s a chicken-and-egg phenomenon. Do I love that town with all my might because it was the first place I saw Justin, or was it special before? The world may never know.

Anyway, I doubted the Moodies would ever play there again. It’s a large amphitheatre, and the Moodies may be going the way of the “intimate.” Chastain Park is also a large venue, but it’s a classy place far away from others, carved from stone and full of masonry in a wonderful, large park in beautiful north Atlanta. Besides being one of the first four places I ever saw the Moodies, I loved the romantic atmosphere, the candles on the tables after dark in the warm summer air. Could this be the last time I made the trek down the 19 to Wieuca, the corner where the scalpers used to stand, where a Caribou Coffee joint used to be. Then, there was the walk past the office buildings, past the crepe myrtles, on to the parking lot, and into the majestic venue.

It was difficult getting a ticket. It always is, but I’ve been lucky in this life to have three front-table seats. I had paid for a ticket at a sixth-row table, but a few days before the show, something told me to click on the front-row table that had been advertising two tickets for $350 each. To my surprise, it then showed me purchasing a single ticket for $225. When I caught up with the seller, she told me I bought it as soon as she had posted it. She had bought the pair and then posted the ticket she didn’t want. It was hair-raising waiting for the ticket, since everything was so last-minute; but the ticket arrived an hour before I had to be out the door to Vienna. There was an empty-nester feeling returning to the office with no high-anxiety ticket watches, no fear of spending money on stuff like groceries and laundry, no praying the car holds together just long enough. Just work.

Once the ticket was in-hand, and vying for some badly-needed karma, I emailed the other guy and told him it was too late to request a refund, but I hoped he could find a taker. He said he could.

I was beat. I knew trying to do Vienna, Nashville, and Atlanta would put me in that awful dizzy state of sleeplessness. Instead, my eyes were practically swollen shut this time. The bags under them were translucent with swelling. I didn’t want to go to the show and fall asleep. I asked for a priesthood blessing, and my neck immediately straightened out, solving a lot of my problems. I felt good enough to run to my car afterward.

Traffic was good up until about a normal hour out of Atlanta. Then, the freeway became a parking lot for three episodes. At the exit off the 285, I went to a gas station to try to get fixed up. Then, I found an off-road place to do the makeup, contact lenses, etc. Whilst there, a crepe myrtle landed on the windshield, so I picked it up and took it in the car for old-time’s sake. Crepe myrtles always remind me of Moodies concerts in the southern states on hot July/August evenings. I proceeded to park at a vacant office, suspecting the worst for parking rates.

Taking what may have been the last walk down memory lane, I was intercepted by a crossing guard. Somewhat to my disappointment, he directed me another way. Not wanting to fight authority, I complied. There were a couple guys behind me. We kept asking if this was the right way. We’d been going down this road for some time. The other way was never so long. It was lovely, though, nice and green and summery. Then, I saw where the tour buses were hanging out, making it all worth it. Then, I got to the venue, and the line was wrapped the wrong way. I’d always gone in the other gate. This was fresh. Then, I got to climb down the big, stony stairs in my cruel shoes with the rounded soles.

I had taken care to curl my hair again, but it was now all stuck to my head with sweat. The lady who sold me the ticket had the same problem. Mine was worse, though. She was attractive, and I had this part in the middle all frizzed out to the sides like one of those Queen of Hearts character hairdos. All I could do is grin and bear it. I thought of Julie cutting her own hair and being so cute all the time – but she even looks good in a Reptile. The smart ladies had their hair up in buns or short and magically fluffed. How do they do it? Not in stop-and-go traffic, that’s for sure.

It was sweltering in the pit, as somebody who had wanted to sell me a box seat had warned. But I love to swelter. This was sweet. The others at the table were a good bunch. We had two horse enthusiasts, and I enjoyed listening to them talk. One was sure Norda had children, but didn’t think Julie did. She figured Julie was thirty-something. Another goes to shoes for fidelity in album emulation.

I looked around to see if I could find Steve Goss. It’s been twenty years, so I may have looked straight at him obliviously. I first saw Steve when Justin performed at Borders Book Store. Steve was the MC. He worked for Peach FM at the time, and self-described as a big Justin fan. So, one day when I was in Atlanta after that, I was listening to WPCH and heard Steve was doing a remote at the Perimeter Mall, which was practically in front of me. So, I thought I’d drop by and pay homage to a fellow Justin admirer. I did, we chatted, and that was that. Then, maybe a year or two later when the Moodies were playing Chastain again. I was walking along the amphitheater to my far-back seat and I heard somebody call my name. It was Steve. I was impressed. Of all the millions of people he meets in musicland, he remembered the couple minutes I stopped by to say hello.

A few years later, when I was searching for a close-up seat at Chastain, I thought to email Steve, who was now working at a different station, to see if he had any inside angles. He regretted to say he was like the rest of us, and he and his family would also be stuck in the way-back. I recently found out he had retired from radio, and he went out in style. Scroll down here (http://radiotvtalk.blog.ajc.co.....held-high/) for another heart-warming story about the final song.

The Perry’s found me, though. Michelle’s hair gets longer and blonder every time I see her, but her sparkly blue eyes always give her away. She is now in the habit of asking if I recognize her. She’s like Olivia Newton-John for changing her looks. Other than that, I recognized nobody in the audience, but the folks were all very friendly – some even offering to help the wench in the cruel shoes down the stairs, like some kind of princess. I couldn’t take myself seriously enough to go along with that.

Notice how these reviews go dark right around show time? What’s that about? I drag my feet in tedious boredom of the lead-up, and then – Ya think maybe I need help?

It was sort of sentimental, this being the last time and all. I tried harder to live in every moment. I was behind the table, and then, with the permission of those around me, moved to the front, between the tables for the second half. The guy at the table next to me consented provided those at his table consented to let him up, too. For the encore, we all stood. When Justin came over to our side of the stage, during “IJAS,” there was nobody standing or dancing between me and him for a few seconds. There was something special about that, in my psyche at least. Somebody walloped me from behind trying to get in front. I caught myself giving them a dirty look. I didn’t mean to. I was just trying inconspicuously to see if it was somebody I knew, if I was getting a beating I deserved.

I liked the encore best, up so close. It was a big thrill to see Justin. I couldn’t ask for more. I made googly eyes at him and caught a bad case of butterflies in my stomach as he left. Then, he was gone. I turned my back to the stage to look, perhaps for the last time, at the beautiful venue. I turned back around to see Mark Hogue. He waved and motioned something about my dreadful hairdo. I pretended my hair had fallen off, and he laughed and turned around. After talking with my table people and picking up a bit, I went to wait by the buses.

A lady with a cane had lost her Uber driver, and her friend was trying to run him down. The security guard let her wait there. I asked if this was where the fans waited for the buses. He said he wasn’t supposed to say so, but yes. He got chairs for me and the lady to wait. Soon, the bus was pulling up. It was dark, so I just waved into the dark windows. The bus stopped. Then it rolled. As it crept past us, I saw Justin as riding shotgun. I freaked out and about threw myself at the bus. He waved kindly, and I was smitten. The bus stopped again. I wanted to run to the window and exchange pleasantries with Justin, but I’m a germy fan. I couldn’t. That would be creepy. But I wanted to. But I was paralyzed with fear. The bus just stayed there. And then it went on its merry way.

I’m understating my emotions here. I couldn’t have been higher when Justin waved or when he was so close on the stage here and at the last two concerts. It’s why I say I’m no good at these reviews. I only make stuff sound stupid.

The other lady’s Uber soon arrived, and I slow-walked it back to the car. The crickets, the warm summer air, the trees, the stars. Would I return? I stalled when I got back to my car, read a bit, posted some letters in a mailbox. Still not wanting to leave, I stopped by the Atlanta Temple. It would be locked, but I needed a shoulder to lean on. It was lit beautifully by night. I said hi to God as I stared at the steeple, dragging my feet. The answer I got was to quit making excuses all the time. I pulled off the road when I started dreaming with my eyes open. I got up in time to get to work on time.

Now, I want to go to New Zealand, to England, to the cruise – except that …

Salient? You mean like, "I was looking for a bobby pin, and managed to find two under the seat of my car!" Yeah, let me know if you find any. Take your time. I understand it is putting people all over the world to sleep.