The Hunt For Halford
By Larry

Published in Genetic Disorder #16,
Sept. 2002

When I lived on Third Avenue in Hillcrest, I used to see Rob Halford on the streets every couple of months. I would never talk to the guy. I could never get the nerve to strike up a conversation with the former vocalist for heavy metal pioneers Judas Priest. I would stand at a distance, watching him browse used CDs at Off the Record or sip coffee on the patio at David's. I wouldn't know what to say anyway, except maybe I really liked the title track from his first solo CD, "Resurrection."

I was never really a fan, but I still think it kicks ass that there's a chance I might be sitting at the Alibi having a beer next to the Turbo Lover himself.

But after being evicted from the Third Avenue house and forced to move out of the neighborhood because of the skyrocketing rents, I haven't seen the Metal God around town. Instead, I decided to get proactive and go looking for him. So every once in a while, I'll load up my backpack with my three Judas Priest records, a camera and a Sharpie in a search for Halford so I can ask him to sign my records and take a picture with him.

I guess you could think of this as a "Where's Waldo" come to life. I know Rob is out there, and from what I've heard, he's a pretty friendly guy. But I guess I won't know until I finally get to meet him.

My search has lasted six months, so it's not as easy as it sounds. First off, I assume he's out of town a lot taking care of rock star business and occasionally touring.

But what has made my hunt really difficult is the number of Halford decoys wandering around my old neighborhood. Do you know how many tall, thin white guys in baggy cargo shorts with shaved heads can be found walking down University Avenue?

One last thing, Rob, if you read this, please don't change your routine so I'll have an easier time finding you. This is meant to be a challenge, and I look forward to meeting you.

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Hell Bent for Halford!
I Was a Teenage Judas Priest Stalker
By Adam Gnade

Published in the Portland Mercury,
June 30, 2005

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 front of 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.

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