The workplace affords a limited context within which to reveal the varied facets, that, brought together, form the whole of any human.

Regular readers will know me as a man liberal in political and social perspective. One who embraces the responsibility each man and woman is graced with by birth, to occasionally set aside individual concerns and take a moment to contribute to the well-being of the community at large.

You may have gotten a hint from pieces I’ve written about family that I’m a bit of a soft-heart, and from numerous off-handed remarks I’ve made over the years, you’ve probably taken away the impression that I can be – at times – a bit of a smart-ass.

But unless we’ve met in social circles or you are privileged to circulate in the rarified air of my five zillion Facebook friends, you may not know that, next to my family, the great love of my life is music.

While I play enough guitar to pound out the basic structure of a tune I can sing to – rather than classify myself in any way a true musician – I am a fan.

I love Dylan, Jesse Winchester, Bruce Springsteen, Bonnie Raitt, Susan Tedeschi, Derek Trucks, Ruthie Foster, to name a few. In days gone by I was a diehard for The Band, the Dead, the Allmans and many more.

Local musicians can ring my chimes as well, from Rich Moore and Molly O’Brien to Chris Daniels and The Kings; Danielle Ate The Sandwich to Blind Child Rockin’ Blues Band. It’s about the music, not the marquee.

While I have a reasonably representative collection of CDs and DVDs to choose from when in need of a musical fix, it is live performance that touches me at the core.

And with music, as with real estate, where I sit is very important. Location, location, location. I need to be part of the experience, not just in the building. I want to see the artist’s facial expressions, and to watch fingers glide across the keyboard or down the neck of the guitar. I want to be enveloped by sound, not just hear the tunes. I want the seats that people die for. Sometimes first ten rows, sometimes back by the sound board. Center section is a given.

Back in the day when tickets were only sold by – and to – live humans in brick and mortar ticket outlets, I spent many overnights on a chaise lounge on the sidewalk outside of May D&F, holding my place in line ‘til the sun came up and the box office finally opened some four hours later.

I’ve slept on the concrete outside of King Bee Records (now Spanky’s on E. Evans by DU) to get my kids great seats for Michael Jackson’s Victory Tour at Mile High Stadium.

Now, in the time of cyber-ticketing, I’ve developed my skills for the 21st century. Generally, I’m on line a half hour before ticketing begins, with the exact time displayed by atomic clock in a split screen format. I refresh the ticketing page approximately four seconds before the ticketing hour in hopes of hitting the nail precisely on the head.

Once tickets are in hand, if it’s a general admission show, my friends know I’ll be in line as early as possible, winter or summer, rain or shine. If it’s an 8p.m. show that’s going to draw a big line, it’s not unusual that I’ll get there at 9a.m. and sit for hours with a handful of other compulsives until the crowd starts arriving six hours later. My buds all tell me I’m crazy, then thank me when it’s show time and I’ve held them spots so close to the stage you have to dodge beads of sweat, and need ear plugs to preserve what’s left of your hearing.

Or if it’s a primarily standing-only venue like the Ogden, the Bluebird or the Boulder Fox, I’ve secured room on the pit rail to support aging bones over the course of a three-hour show.

And, yes, I’ve crossed the line a few times between assertive line behavior and aggressive. I’ve cut people off running for seats at the Botanic Gardens, run when I was told to walk, jumped over seat backs and raised my voice when it was I who was victimized by such abhorrent behavior. For all those sins I am ashamed. I am quite sure I will be banished to the upper balcony in the afterlife.

Having fought the good fight for seats for the greats of my generation and my children’s, I faced the greatest challenge of my ticket-buying career last week when word came that Justin Bieber will open his world tour Sept. 29 in Glendale, Ariz., in a stadium setting mere minutes from the home of my soon to be 8-year-old granddaughter, Asher, who owns my heart and soul and has already pledged hers to Mr. Bieber. Tickets would go on sale the next day at 10a.m. MST.

“Dad, I hate to ask, but Ash and I will be at a doctor’s appointment,” came my daughter’s plea. “Would you mind?” Two later calls boosted the ticket request to four, and then six, meaning the hopes and dreams of two other eight-year-olds and their moms now rested on my shoulders as well.

Needless to say, I was at my computer at 9a.m., to be sure all was in order. Checking my Ticketmaster profile, I realized my account was still connected to an old credit card, which could have jeopardized the entire transaction at the 11th hour. I updated my billing, verifying all passwords were in order. I was ready to rumble.

Next, I called up the seating chart for the arena in question, called my daughter to verify that behind the stage was unacceptable, and then listed the remaining sections in order of desirability. This is a science, people. Do not try this without a spotter.

As 10a.m. MST approached, I refreshed my page a few times to see how many seconds elapsed, so I could hone my plan to a razor-sharp edge. The tension was building. I noticed a slight tremor in my mousing hand.

Four seconds before 10a.m. MST I refreshed the page to no avail. The ticketing page did not come up. I tried again. And again no success. And again. And again. And again.

Over the next 15 minutes, with sunken heart, not understanding where I had gone wrong, I called upon my skills and my God to see me through this unexpected catastrophe. Surely all the good tickets were gone by now. Reviewing my procedures, I saw I had followed all proper protocol. There must be some other explanation.

My office mate, O’Leary, a former Phoenix resident reminded me that Phoenix observes MST, but not daylight saving, and it was then only 9:10a.m. MST in Phoenix. Aha! Perhaps we were back in the game. The clock ticked slowly over the next 45 minutes, and like a pilot preparing for take-off, I went back over my controls.

Correct URL in the bar, check. Atomic clock visible, check. All credit card information at hand for verification if needed, check.

At 10:59:56 MST Denver time I refreshed my screen to no avail. I depressed the mouse once more, and voilá, we hit the promised land. I was elated. Ticketing had begun. I quickly but calmly determined which of the six available quantity boxes to choose from, entered the number “6”, clicked on “purchase tickets” and was directed to that cursed page that asks you to enter two character jumbles correctly to separate man from machine.

Success once again! The computer accepted my entry, sending me to the page saying, “We are searching for your tickets.” I was in a cold sweat as I awaited the next view which would either tell me all seats were sold out or reveal what level of success I had achieved. In this case there would be no gray area. It was either the mountaintop of success with seats to be proud of, or the pit of shame.

Suddenly my journey was over. Section 101, Row H, seats 11-16. I glanced at my list of priorities, and found 101 sitting third from the top! Two sections back, stage left, eight rows up from the floor. Killer sight lines to the stage!

Folks, I’ve been front row for numerous bigtime shows, and first ten for dozens more. I’ve found ways to acquire seats to sold out shows from which others had been locked out. There’s a handful of stools along a railing by the bar at the Fillmore that make a show there a Cadillac experience – I consider them my private domain.

And never, ever, have I been as excited over a ticket-buying experience as I was to purchase those six ducats so three moms and three eight-year-old daughters could see Justin Bieber at the Jobing.com arena.

I love live music, and I love great seats. Apparently, I love little Asher a little bit more. Even if her heart belongs to Justin.