"I'm going to blow a hundred thousand on three tickets," Kenji boasted as we waited outside the Ticket Pia office for Plant/Page seats to go on sale. "Eight thousand yen for one here and the rest on the scalpers. . . . By the way, do you take drugs?"

The world of the dedicated ticket-buyer is a world of fanatics. It's a world where no sacrifice is too great in the pursuit of that most-cherished of prizes, the front row seat. When you consider that Kenji earns only [[yen]]7800 a day down at the pachinko parlor where he works, you get an idea of just how far people will go. And crucial to reaching the front row is being first in the Ticket Pia line. Failure here can cost everything.

Take for example the Plant/Page purchase. With no other major bands on sale, we knew that every Joe and his dog in every other line across town would be after the same tickets. Not only that, but Pia was also taking telephone bookings, thus multiplying the number of outlets exponentially. Considering the circumstances, me and my ticket-buying comrade Steve had decided to take no chances. We arrived 17 hours early outside the department store which housed our favorite Pia counter. And when the printer eventually began spitting out our tickets, we got front row seats for the Thursday show. Kenji, however, in the number two spot behind us, had to abort his first choice of Friday night--unless he wanted to be sitting on the Budokan roof--and retreat to Thursday. He'll still need the binoculars though.

With the price of failure so high, there is plenty of room for paranoia to creep into the lining up process. In January last year we were on the trail of Slayer tickets. Determined to get the best seats, we arrived at 5am. It was freezing, but we wanted those tickets and were prepared to suffer. Wrapped in only a couple of extra sweaters and some newspaper, suffer we did. The kick in the teeth was that no one showed up to take second place in line for three and a half hours. By that time, our ill-equipped party was on the verge of hypothermia. Thermals and sleeping bags have since been purchased.

Of course, you have to accept that there will always be someone crazier than you. When Steve and I lined up for Van Halen tickets a full 17 hours early one rainy day, we were beaten to the punch by eight high school girls gunning for SMAP tickets. Being beaten in a fair fight--now, I can respect that. But SMAP? We immediately launched a desperate dash to another Pia down the line, where we counted on being first because it offered no shelter from the rain. The result? Front row seats and a howling victory lap around the department store bedroom furniture floor.

Being first is the key, though a little luck never hurt anyone. In January 1994, we lined up for Aerosmith tickets. It was not our proudest moment. Snow was falling and we were 16th in line. By the time we reached the desk, three nights had sold out and we were holding out little hope for decent tickets. But fate smiled on us. We had rolled up just in time to snag front row, second-tier balcony seats, right beside the stage. They weren't the greatest, but under the circumstances they were a godsend.

Let's say you've got it all sorted out: you're first in line and you're equipped for any weather conditions. There's just one little problem: the scalper. If I had my way, these worthless examples of humanity would be slow-roasted to a crispy lump by flame-thrower. In the summer of 1991, after waiting three days for sumo tickets outside the Kokugikan, my friends and I found out that when the yakuza come for their tickets, they aren't particularly concerned with details like who was there first or how long they have been waiting.

It was not so much the threat of violence, but the stench of the street bums who the gangsters paid to line up for them. On the night before tickets went on sale, hundreds of them engulfed the 60 or so people who had gotten there first. While policeman cruised by on bicycles, apparently unconcerned, the crowd grew riotous as the invaders shoved their way to the head of the queue and began jostling for position. By the next morning, despite our strenuous efforts, we had been pushed back some 300 places--and compared to some of the other people around us, we had come out of it well.

It's a rough and tumble world, so it pays to keep in shape. I almost missed out on Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow due to a stage-diving escapade at a Ramones concert that went awry. A trip to the hospital the next day confirmed my worst fears: I wouldn't be in any shape to line up when tickets went on sale two days later. My truss just wouldn't take the strain. Fortunately, a friend was prepared to step into the breach and third row seats were secured.

I was lucky to get that ticket, because having Ritchie to look forward to has kept me going while I'm waiting for Plant/Page to roll around. Meanwhile our latest adventure, the pursuit of Ozzy Osbourne, continues apace. After shivering all night on the streets last November--and waking to find our sleeping bags encrusted in frost--Steve and I were only able to secure 15th row seats for the one night scheduled so far at the Budokan. Not content, we await the addition of more dates and a second chance to beat the queue. As we move deeper into winter, you can bet there won't be too many brass monkeys in that line.