The sheer madness, the incredible absurdity of expressing appreciation for someone, of feeling something that the other person can not possibly reciprocate—of being a fan—is definitely like having a crush. You never want to put it that way, because then it would involve all those sweaty palms and silent phones and constant daydreams. But there’s a part of fanhood that is crush.

There is also a part of being a fan that is the air already pregnant with the sharp smell of imminent snow or that sensation of spring approaching when the wind still tosses bare branches around, only slightly more gently than before. At these moments I acknowledge the ineffable tingle of my heart. Then I wonder if the earth conspires to produce this feeling in me. Or maybe I am someone who experiences things more deeply than others. Or possibly the combination of snow, sun and trees is like the rubber hammer that a doctor uses to test the reflexes in people’s knees and elbows—when it hits everyone, no one escapes reacting helplessly in that jerky way.

As I anticipated meeting the band in person, I began to ask myself what in the world did it mean to actually come face to face with the people I had spent years observing, contemplating and publicly quoting and defending? I began to feel the weight of the number of hours I had spent in devotion to the music (web site creation, plane tickets to concerts, etc.). Somehow during this time, had I lost the person who would truly connect with the band members themselves? Had she been replaced by a "Trekkie," a cult member narrowly chasing a dream?

In light of this self-reflection or possibly because of it, meeting the band drop kicked me into that dream where you are forced to act casually despite the fact that you are wearing absolutely nothing but your underwear. It was the sensation that I knew too much. At the same time, I also felt as though Hanson had x-ray vision into my heart . . . or else, what the heck was I doing there? How and why had I overcome tall mountains and high water to meet three individuals who did not know my name before or even after our meeting?

Even though that encounter did not become the bridge to a personal relationship—in fact, quite the opposite occurred—I felt something had been unearthed for me. As we stood face to face, instead of feeling an instant bond, I felt the preposterousness of interacting with icons that appeared to be hundreds of miles high, when in reality were closer to my own height. It was like suddenly realizing that you had been shouting when all the while the person was standing only a few feet away.

Those pivotal five minutes in the same room produced a lasting effect. Even today, I can revert back to the brief moments of meeting Isaac, Taylor and Zac, and then suddenly each fan’s piercing scream, each twisted act of devotion, and this web page itself gets cast in a flickering, eerie light. Lone mirages?

Who, exactly, did I meet that day? I think I met myself, as perceived by the band. And my perception of our relationship, because it is a relationship.  No one can deny that the guys share pieces of themselves with others. This connection is so crudely referred to as "fanhood," when in truth there is a magic that extends beyond the crass business of strictly music distribution.

I have grasped finally that there is a power greater than three musicians acting on their own. This isn't rocket science, I understand. And, of course, the sheer force of their music, creativity and warmth generates the momentum, but without my response there would be no Narnia moments. Maybe Hanson don’t really have the ability to open souls and peer into hearts . . . but then how do I explain my initial interpretation of lyrics that has successfully woven itself into the band's own words to a familiar song? Both meanings are inseparable at this point.

Tenderly I must be recalling . . .
(a.k.a. Then I hear my spirit calling . . .)

-- Save Me or not?

P.S. The retelling of the October 7, 2000 backstage experience: How it is