Picture me, if you will, slightly dazed, half deaf, hair pointing in fourteen and a half different directions, pockets turned inside out and empty except for a stray lint or dog hair, arms covered with various difficult to remove neon wristbands and smudged ink, standing alone and shivering, holding a half-chewed up styrofoam cup in one hand and a "Help the Dumb-Ass Music Fan" sign in the other.

Because, really, that image is not all that far-fetched if I keep this up.

I just bid my rent on Costello tickets. If someone outbids me they'd better hope I don't hunt them down and force them to listen to Celine Dion until their ears bleed.