DON'T CALL IT STALKING. Let's go with... hunting. I have hunted Judas Priest's Rob Halford many, many times. When I lived in San Diego, Halford was quite the man about town. "Town" being Hillcrest, San Diego's gay district, and "man" being a fading metalgod that totally blended into the crowd. It happened embarrassingly often; an outta town friend would visit and be like, "WTF?! Halford lives in San Diego?! Lets go look for him!" So, we'd hop in my safari jeep, and Halford Hunting Season would commence!
But he was an elusive prey. Halford is bald as a summer squash, and wears a ton of leather. He's a leather guy. A leather femme-macho biker bar typa guy. (When we did spot him, he was most always sitting on his sled outside a bar looking mean as a pitbull.) Now, it wasn't easy because Hillcrest, where Rob lived atop a 10,000-story semi-luxury hotel, is 99.9999999 percent leather biker dudes that are bald as summer squashes and wile away their days on bikes in fronta bars looking mean as pitbulls. It was a challenge. But we were up for it--come hell or high water.
Just before it was announced Halford was rejoining Priest, my fandom hit an all-time high/low. I was told by some drunken hipsters at an art show that Halford was having a party on the roof of his hotel, just THREE BLOCKS AWAY. So we hit the streets en masse, walked in groups of two past the unsuspecting desk clerk, ascended the elevator and found the roof access LOCKED. Undaunted, and humming Priest's "Breaking the Law," we smashed a window with an ashcan, climbed through, hoisted ourselves onto the roof to find... absolutely nothing! The heaviest round of Halford Hunting and we got a pile of broken glass and a dark, empty roof. Thanks for nothing, Rob. You can send me free tickets to your show courtesy of the Merc. You owe me, bub.