Talking to Yanni

I'm somewhat in love with two guys I've never met: Yanni and Robert Redford.
My husband isn't threatened by Redford because he figures the chances that I'll meet and greet this wrinkled man who is now nearly 75 years old are slim.
He's a little worried about Yanni because I've been talking to him frequently on the phone.

The original Yanni

Well, maybe not frequently but three times is a fair amount of exchange, right?
And this last time, he even called me by name. (Swoon.)(I was part of a national conference call thing where I was introduced by name and so when he answered my question, he said, "Sharon...")
It works like this.
I've been a major fan of Yanni for years since the first time I saw a poster of him with all that hair and that smile in a display at the Media Play store. I remember staring at his face and asking, "Who's that? What's that?"
I soon learned exactly who he was and I came to a point where I was somewhat jealous of Linda Evans because she walked right up to his hotel room door and became his girlfriend.
I started buying Yanni's CDs and attending his concerts. I even came close to getting a backstage pass once. I watched him on PBS. I signed up for his newsletters. I snagged the opportunity to review his concerts in Salt Lake.

The music man today

I always took my husband but only if he promised to behave. (Yanni music isn't really his thing.)
The deal is, it isn't the face really or the hair or the look.
It isn't even the man — especially after I read his autobiography which made it clear he isn't above partying, drinking or catting around. He is Greek, after all.
It's truly the music, the soothing, beautiful music that sends my soul soaring.
It's the peace, the serenity and the power. It's the energy and the vibe.
I've used his music to ski by, to drive the commute by and as a balm to my sometimes troubled soul.
It's luscious and sweet, delicious to my ears.
I even use it to calm me down after the phone calls.