When I was 11 years old, I saw my very first concert.  It was … I’m painfully sorry and embarrassed to admit … John Schneider.  Yes, Bo Duke from “The Dukes of Hazzard” was on the State Fair circuit tour.   I went with my next-door neighbor Jennifer and her aunt.  We had killer seats.   I remember two things about that evening.  John was ridiculously late to the concert because his flight was late getting in to Des Moines.  The limo roared in and pulled up in a cloud of dust.  Tires squealed and girls squealed.  John leapt out, bounded up the stairs, grabbed the mic and started singing.  I remember his band looking around at each other with nonchalance.   They decided to start playing along after about 45 seconds.   I also remember the obnoxious, unnecessary amount of screaming and crying coming from the girls around me.   Girls would wail and flail their arms around like they were under attack from wasps.  Then they’d sob uncontrollably as if they had been repeatedly stung.  One girl handed John a yellow rose that was so wilted it resembled a day old banana peel.  John said, “Don’t cry, you pretty thing.”  That, of course, made her sob harder.  I wanted to flail my arms just so I could smack her.

My second concert was the same week.   The one … the only … Dolly Parton.  That concert kicked off my 30-year love affair with her music.  I’ve seen her perform live five times.  Only problem … I can never get close enough to the stage to actually see her face.  She’s always just this little teensy spec on a darkened stage.  Good thing she always wears sequins.  She still looks sparkly and glam even in Row 112, Upper Balcony.

If I really like the artist, I can’t get closer than Row ZZ.  If I’m ambivalent or uninterested, I’ll score the most phenomenal seats.  I was in the 2^nd row dead center for Neil Diamond.  The man wore an impossibly snug pair of pants.  Sir, you’re like 70.  Wouldn’t a nice pair of Dockers be more appropriate?

My concert history is bizarre mish-mash of has beens and pop icons.  Janet Jackson canceled on me in 1989.  I’ve never forgiven her.   Once I won tickets to go see the Wallflowers.   I went only because I couldn’t scalp them.   I once told Sarah McLachlan in a meet-n-greet to dedicate the song “Possession” to me.  “I lost my virginity while that song was on the radio,” I mentioned.  She said, “That’s a song about a stalker.”  I said, “And?  So?”  She called security not too long after that.

Last year, Fleetwood Mac were (still) on tour.  I was always mesmerized by Stevie Nicks.  I watched her “Behind The Music” special so much I could recite commentary along with the narrator.  I was yammering on to my intern about how excited I was to go to the concert.  He said, “Oh.  Em.  Gee.  Fleetwood Mac?  I love HIM!”  I called security not too lo ng after that.

Today I’m off to Lillith Fair.  I promise not to get too close to Ms. McLachlan this year.  But if I see Ann Wilson of Heart, I’m running up to her and telling her that us big girls need to stick together.

Oohhh, barracuda!