Whenever you go to a concert, you spend immeasurably more on flights/fares/hotels than you do on tickets. And end up in towns you never would have even heard of if not for GBS.
Half your stories begin with "Well, this one time, when we went to a GBS concert . . ." (The other half begin, "This one time in St. John's . . ." All other stories are hardly worth telling by now.)
You have a group of people that you consider friends - real friends, that you genuinely care about and talk to about your hopes and dreams - whom you virtually NEVER see in real life, unless GBS and/or Newfoundland are somehow involved.
Sometimes, you see a person in the street with long light brown hair and you almost want to yell "Alan!" And then, it turns out to be a teenage stoner or a husky woman.
You divide your life into the era before GBS and the era after GBS. As in "This was in May . . . yes, I'd already been to my first GBS concert, so it must have been May."
Alcohol brings it out in new and marvelous ways, too. Like - you get drunk on a picnic with some friends, none of whom know GBS's music (although, rest assured, they've heard OF them), get happy, and end up loudly singing "Rant and Roar" and trying to do a jig, if only you didn't keep falling down and two people weren't bodily carrying you back to the car.
Or, you get drunk . . . again . . . and somehow end up wandering through the streets of New York, screaming "Free Newfoundland! F@#$ Tibet! Free Newfoundland!" (And hey, some dude actually yelled "Woot!" I think I convinced him.)