I recall the time in Hard Rock, Orlando, when there was a bank of empty seats in the second row. All us guys to the right slid down to occupy them. People from above came down to fill our seats. Then the ticket-holders showed up. It was musical seats, and I was the odd one out. I had a legitimate ticket for a second-row seat, for which I paid scalper prices, but security told me to stand in the corner. I waited through a song, maybe a song and a half, and nobody came to assist me. Finally, the door opened, and I launched with my mighty temper into . . . Mark the technician. So sorry (still). Anyway, the next security guard told me to make the person get out of my seat. I told them they would laugh at me and that was their job. Finally, I got back.

I haven't been good at seat-hopping or even scoring good tickets of late. Maybe I should go back and reread what Gwen posted on that thread that, regardless of where it started, is now on the topic of life being a simple game. Rinse and repeat until it sinks in . . .

Would this be a good time to recount that cool experience at Nokia?

I was at Nokia in the summer, but it felt like winter. I even wore the sparkly purple shoes with matching hoop earrings. The rest of the outfit was stewardess. Karen not-Cole complemented my outfit. Norda came out. Justin's grandbaby was outside. Not knowing who it was, I admired his cherubic face as well as that of his playmate.

I had made arrangements to get a ticket from a fan. He's a nice guy. In fact, I was sitting next to him that time in the front row when I sat down after a standing-O, crossed my legs, and accidentally flung my keychain with my stiletto right up to the stage. We were dying with laughter but trying to be polite to the performers.

Anyway, I had been stationed in the great state of Arizona, having the time of my life in paradise, but when I crossed the California border, my bank decided my credit card was at risk for having been stolen, and they froze it. They had done the same up in Ontario. I was fine until I tried to make use of my second-row seat at the Montreaux Jazz Festival. I had enough gas to make it back to Toronto, and I was able to swap out some US currency later. Following that experience, I begged the bank's permission to allow me to go out of town. They assured me it wouldn't be a problem if I wasn't going out of the country. Ha!

So, I had enough gas to make it to LA, but I had no money for a ticket. I decided I would risk going to the theatre and beg for a delinquent payment plan. After all, I didn't have any way of phoning or emailing the guy, and the polite thing was to let him know I couldn't buy the ticket. I went, found the guy, and he was not open to delinquent payment. He went off to sell the ticket. I don't hold it against him. He's still a nice guy. In fact, he showed me how to get to Arlene's in NYC, as I had gotten bad directions.

So, there I was, kind of praying for an improbable free tickets. It happens some times, but usually at casinos. Another kindly fan told me that some Nokia people were giving away free tickets. I got hooked up with one. They were "registering" people in their phones, and there were two or four pairs of four tickets that the winners would get. I didn't win. He tried registering a friend for me. No luck. He tried registering me with other Nokia employees. Nothing.

I sat, waiting for my miracle unsure how it would happen. The dude returned. "You really want that ticket," he observed. He began thinking outloud about somebody who had won and said she wasn't going to use her tickets. We just had to find her. Then, he shot of across the plaza. I comped along behind in my oversized purple shoes. When I caught up, he was reclaiming a ticket from the girl, which he awarded to me. I was trembling because nothing short of an all-loving, all-powerful Creator could have pulled that one off.

Inside, I sat in my Row S seats. After a few songs, I moved to the Row N seats, which were obviously abandoned by the Nokia winners. As I did, I kicked over somebody's beer bottle that rolled and rolled and rolled. I must once again say how incredibly good the acoustics and optics were in that venue. It was delightful just to appreciate the technology. You could have heard a pin . . .

I had spied some seats right behind the pit, to which I moved after intermission. It was a terrific seat about five rows back. I could have gotten into the pit, as security was very lax and easily distracted. But there was one problem. Marie, Doremi, Cassius, and who knows who else were sitting behind the pit. I kept having visions of hopping the bar, catching a heel, and flipping my skirt over my head. Ordinarily, this wouldn't be a problem, but I didn't want to do it in front of THEM! I want to say again, this is one of the best shows I ever attended. Justin seemed really happy, and that made for an outstanding concert.

Well, I got back to Arizona, my card started working again, and I lived to tell about it.

Ah, yes. I forgot about the laryngitis, how helpless we were to get the voice back; deciding to fast for him as a last entreaty and waking you up as I chug-a-lugged breaking it at the appointed wee hour of the morning.

Ah, yes. Portlandia and FRUITILANDIA! Justin walking past me and me being too afraid to explain to my roommate why I didn't remain at my post. Oh, how I longed to make an utter fool out of myself, "Hi, Mr. Hayward. May I please walk ten paces behind to watch you go to the venue and bask in the peaceful aura around you? Can I try to tell you how much I love your music and your personality even though I've tripped all over my tongue every other time I tried? Oh! Oh! Mr. Hayward. Please acknowledge that you know I exist! Oh! Oh! Watch me fall flat on my face into traffic because I'm a bundle of nerves. Oh! Oh!"

As you recall, he never answered when I screamed his name on the streets. Whaddup wit-dat?

Shrink this:

It would be laughable for me to try to interpret people. Justin is too nice to be mean, even to people like me.

Something there is about Justin that makes the whole world feel like it is falling in love. I say it with no strings attached. It is just an impartial observation. Let me restate that: Everything there is about Justin makes the whole world feel like it is falling in love. The exhilaration of being around him far outweighs the insecurity of knowing if he looks at me it is to keep a close watch on a suspicious character of ill repute.

Fandom is the stupidest thing on earth, and yet going to a Moodies show is the easiest way for me to put things in perspective and refocus on living a good life. The music is refreshing, even if Justin makes me go ga-ga, and scream for Mommy.

So, a friend told me today that my stalker asked her for my ring size. I really hate the thought that I nauseate Justin as much as this scene does me. And yet I can't help but adore everything about Justin. My only comfort is that I'm on a list and guys like Udo and Mark know my number and how to handle the small percentage of us fans who are messed up. I wonder why I can't adore Justin just like all the good people do. And so, when I go to a concert, part of me is awash in the peace and love flows naturally, and another is singing:

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so ****** special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the **** am I doing here?
I don't belong here

I don't care if it hurts
I want to have control [This is the only line that doesn't apply, at least at a conscious level.]
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice when I'm not around
You're so ****** special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the **** am I doing here?
I don't belong here

He's running out the door
He's running out
H runs runs runs runs..
Runs...

Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so ****** special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the **** am I doing here?
I don't belong here
I don't belong here

---- Radiohead

I think I take after my daddy with my attitude problem. I don't even notice it. I don't try to be mean, just honest and/or sarcastic.

Then, I think that I scared everybody away with my negativity. This is a Moody Blues board, and I feel like I should be posting gentle and beautiful insights about the cosmos; especially on the subject of love. But that would be so pretentious for me. Back when I wrote music, I tried writing lyrics, but they failed as I had no experience with the subject matter of pop music. The best ever was an attempt to describe a weird dream, but that is neither here nor there.

I know Justin doesn't give a flip about me, and I think he is incapable of hate; but something in my brain keeps telling me when I go to concerts that he hates me. I tell myself I should take my gross personality to some fan site where they think it is cool to bite off bat heads, but my heart isn't in that. This is where I want to be, but I am not worthy. "The curse causeless shall not come," is my motto.

Echoing in my brain is a piece of a long-forgotten song that I can't quite grasp now.

Here's my schtick:

Like everybody else, I adore Justin Hayward. There is something inspiring about his personality and talents, and he is so full of light, I enjoy watching him. He just seems to live a life of love and music. He goes about making the world a better place through his goodness.

Then, there is this stalker dude who claims revelation that I must marry him, that I am sexy, that can't stop sending me letters and emails (blocked for a few years).

What's the difference? I accept that Justin is married, but I still can't stop adoring him, and I can never get enough. My stalker makes me want to puke and scream, and I wonder how I am any different. So, I come here for some group therapy.

Perhaps I should go to my next concert loaded down with staff paper to score the show and provide constructive adjustments for the next show. Maybe I should get a backstage pass to inspect the circuitry and go home and develop three or four effects to enhance the program. Maybe I could get a cell phone to photograph the whole thing and go home and zoom in on Justin's guitar strings to see if I can't engineer a higher-quality product. But then I would feel pretentious, a slavish amateur, and I wouldn't even know how to get my great ideas to anybody.

Do other fans have this problem of wondering why they go to concerts? Why do well-adjusted people go to so many concerts by the same band? I'm just wondering.

Something positive: Protons.
Something good: I got a press pass to Moogfest!
Something good about winter: It is a beautiful song by Vivaldi. In fact, I have long had this unverified suspicion that it is the culmination of all the songs he was trying to write. In other works, I hear faint whispers of it, as if there was a "piece of a dream" wafting in his mind. He could only glimpse a bit here and there. It was one of those subconscious things where as soon as you catch yourself thinking about it, it disappears; or as some songwriter speculated, songwriting was pulling things out of the aether, and he couldn't quite see it all at first. In "Winter," it all came together. Well, there's some hooey for today, but that IS the way I think of "Winter."
Something else good about winter: Wintergreen has an amazing smell.

I feel MUCH, MUCH, MUCH better now. To say thanks would be understating it.

I'd love to go to Durham, but I didn't even get two hours of sleep last night. Durham is ten hours roundtrip, and I'll have to file two articles from Tuesday meetings, one of which I would have to catch on the computer en route, by 8:00 a.m. I could adapt my car so I could plug in the computer and hop from hot spot to hot spot, skipping deadzones; but there's no telling how many concerts (my unit of currency) that would cost. Then, I could teach you all I learn about weaving as I jockey the puter in traffic.

I found something I like more than my imaginary friend. Guess what it is? It's the real Justin. He's so princely. Gush gush gush. Look to the east, luna. See all those hearts in the sky? They're coming out of my head. Just like they do in the cartoons.

Graeme, whose name this site is telling me I misspelled, said the culprit had very curly hair. I am, however, no fan of whodunits. The whizkid may be only an aliasing. I think the cause was that old cliche about Justin being so de-lightful.

It would be impossible for me to give a concert review, since nobody would believe what I go through to get to the shows, and the miraculous way it all gets resolved at the last minute. I'd love to share some of the stories, though. They're faith-promoting, absurd, simple, amazing, and all that. Then, it is totally impossible for me to provide objective, fair and balanced reporting. I go for intangible reasons that sound stupid when I try to put them in words. It would be better to rely on that which the TV babies post to YouTube.

OK. Here's my review: Look at his eyes! They're so bright. He's smiling! He's happy! Listen to that note! He knocked it out of the park! Perfect pitch. Technical precision on the guitar there. Shivers up my spine. What was that I was worried about back home? Man this feels magnificent. Oh, he looks so fine. Man, what a voice! This is inspirational. The strange euphoria is returning. So good. Did he just do THAT? Wow! He's so full of light and love. Mommy! What a guy! Oooh-ooh-oowie! Help! He's coming over to this side of the stage. Sensory overload. I'm back. Wow. He's still there. There is no better voice in the universe. This is the best spiritual high I know. You gotta love him. My heart wants to explode. Look how nice! AAAAAAAH!

Well, that's just a one-dimensional slice of about a minute of my last concert. Do you really want the rest?

Now is the time to kick myself for all my former financial decisions. Justin is only five hours away, and I'm supposed to cover a useless meeting tonight.