Prelude to an exit.

I thought about waiting in line. Then I decided not to.

Had I waited, I could have said hello. Nice job. I liked what I heard, odd as it was to hear it. The cover was amazing. I was singing the harmonies to myself. It was a little strange, hearing the catcalls. The tease still cracks me up, although I don't think that's the intent behind it. C'est la vie. Yep, in town for the weekend. Again. What can I say? I love it here. How are you doing? What's been going on?

But more likely: Hi. Nice job. Oh, you're welcome, it was good to be here. Uh, yeah, I'm well, thanks. You? That's good to hear. OK. Bye.

Awkward, awkward, awkward. Ugh.

I briefly chat with someone else. Hiya. Yeah, I'm in town for the weekend. Indeed, it was good, wasn't it? Oh, I'm doing well, thanks. How are you? Good times. OK, we're heading out. Good to see you. Bye.

The whole notion of waiting in line leaves me a little baffled these days. It makes sense if you haven't met the person before, of course. The desire to say you were impressed, to introduce yourself, to get something signed. I don't generally go out of my way to do with most artists these days, but I used to, to say thank you for the impressive performance I'd just been able to experience.

But there's only so much conversation that can take place in a venue after a set. Or before, even. And I've had that conversation too many times already. The introduction came years ago. I've chatted and discussed. I've gushed and I've been a bitch. While I don't want to seem indifferent, shy or rude, I'd rather spare us both a pointless round of chitchat at a crowded show. You can't really say anthing of particular merit when you're standing in line - and I'm more for saying something worthwhile than going through the motions.

So instead, I start to walk away, look back with a smile in case there's a break in the line and he happens to look up, and walk out the door.