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| -by Sailor Mur |
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Fan. It's short for fanatic, or one who is obsessive about something or someone. When we start to dissect the word, it doesn't really sound like something we'd want to be. But many of us are fans, whether it be the Entertainment Weekly reading fans desperate for news on who Russell Crowe is boinking this week ("and why o why isn't it me," they think) or the people who dress as Klingons at conventions. We are fans of actors, bands, writers, and even politicians. "Buffy" creator Joss Whedon and "Babylon 5" creator J. Michael Strazynski have both been called "God" by their fans. Garth Brooks has been mailed pubic hairs by fans. And everyone knows how members of rock bands find it incredibly easy to get laid by their fans.
I am a fan. I haven't mailed pubes or slept with anyone famous, mind you, but I do get rather giggly and dry mouthed when placed in a position of associating with an idol on a personal level. They are more than human to me, and I have no idea how to interact with these demi-god figures that are so much higher than me on the social scale of importance. Last year it struck me: why are these people so amazing to me? Logic assumes that they are human, like me, put the pants on the same way, have had their heart broken and felt like a fool, gotten a speeding ticket, and perhaps have even been constipated in their life. If I can strike up a conversation with a stranger while waiting in line, what is so magical about these idols that makes me so frightened of them and yet makes me worship them? I decided to do some research. I started with a friend whose stepmother is a well known mystery author. She has accompanied her stepmother to readings and appearances, and she tells me that she honestly can't figure out why these weird people "stalk" her stepmother. "[My stepmother] pointed me out during one of her talks," she told me, "and this woman came up and asked me if there was a way she could go to lunch with us after the reading because she really wanted to hang out with my stepmother. Why would she do that? She didn't even know us, and we certainly didn't know her. It was kinda creepy." I understood the fan's POV immediately. It has nothing to do with whether you know the famous person or not; if you get the chance to get close to an idol, you grab it, even if you then do not know what to do with that chance. Two years ago my husband and I bought plane tickets to New York City and paid a good sum to charity to attend a reception with author Neil Gaiman. We hung out in a dark bar full of Sandman fans, munching on sushi and wondering when Gaiman would show up. After about an hour of not talking to anyone but each other, Gaiman's handler and The Man Himself wandered by. The handler noticed us standing around looking nervous, and he asked if we wanted to meet Gaiman. I managed a nod, but the spit dried up and I fought the urge to giggle. We shook hands with him, he thanked us for our contributions to charity and mentioned that we were mad to have flown there from North Carolina just to see him read from his new book, and then he walked on. I couldn't say a word. About 45 minutes later I remembered that I had a camera in my bag. I have met Gaiman a couple of other times at science fiction conventions, so I am able to notice this phenomenon is not a one-time thing with me. Why do I freeze? Why do I assume that this man is so much better than I, worthy of nervous adoration instead of a normal person-to-person interaction? Why can't I think of anything intelligent to say? "I really enjoy your work," is obvious; else I wouldn't be at the convention/reading/event. How about, "I'm your biggest fan." Even worse, now we're getting into Stephen King's Misery. So I say nothing, being preferred to be viewed as mysterious and shy rather than just like all the other fans. I often wonder if my freezing up status is actually a clever manipulation to get more attention. Evan Dorkin (of "Dork!", "Milk and Cheese" and "Space Ghost Coast to Coast" fame, of whom I am also a fan) once drew a comic depicting himself at a rock concert. He was standing at the back developing a rather big crush on a drummer of a band. "Look at all those people cheering for her and calling her by name," he thinks, "she's got to know that they're all just stupid fans, and she's bound to notice me quietly worshiping her back here, really appreciating her music." I was embarrassed by how astutely that described me at rock concerts. Of course I know that the names of the founders of They Might Be Giants are John Linnell and John Flansburg, but calling them by their first names feels rather... familiar. And yes, I am the one who stands in silent adoration instead of the person in the front row screaming, "Great show, John!" like they had been college roomies with the guy. (To be fair, maybe the guy had been college roomies with John Linnell, but Linnell paid no attention to him.) Fans have such odd behaviors that we sometimes fascinate our idols. At Dragon*Con a couple of years ago, Richard Biggs (Dr. Franklin of "Babylon 5") described his observation of different fans. As he has been a regular on a soap opera ("Days of Our Lives") and a science fiction show, he has seen two distinct sides of the obsessive culture. Soap fans, he says, will come up to him at lunch, sit down, touch him, tell him how much they love his character, and even ask for a lock of his hair or something else physical to keep as a memento. Sci Fi fans will walk by him at the same lunch table, lean over him, say, "Good work on B5," and keep walking. Again, I was abashed by the observation. When you're shy, you don't think people notice, and if they do notice, then they're not supposed to figure you out so easily. After much contemplation and observation (mostly of myself), I figured it out. When I read their fiction or listen to their albums or watch their movies, their work moves me in some way. The words that come out of them, the tunes, the thoughts, the epic works... all of it means something to me. The work leaves a mark on my life, some marks lasting for years. (The first TMBG song I listened to when I was in high school in 1989 was the same song my husband and I danced to at our wedding in 1998.) These people give me so much, and yet I found myself asking, "What do I want from these people that they're not giving me through their work?" And the answer is easy -- I want the golden goose, not just the egg. I found fandom to be a little like falling in love. You meet someone, they're nice to look at, they're fun to be with, there's something inside their being that touches you, moves you, and you want more of it. The biggest thing you want, however, is for them to love you too. Someone that wonderful loving you would be a dream come true. When a writer or musician or actor puts their work out there, they show us something that came from inside them, and if it touches us, we want to be able to touch them too. We dream about meeting them on a person-to-person level and impressing them, making friends. Since they impress us so much with their work, we want to have them be impressed with what we can do.1 Of course, the chances of that happening for real is infinitesimal, so we do the next best thing: cheer them on at concerts, go to movies, attend conventions and stand in long autograph lines for 10 seconds of "I love your work, and my name is spelled M-U-R," before we are moved on by unsmiling handlers to let the person behind us say the exact same thing -- except for the M-U-R part; that would be weird).2 A friend pointed out to me that love is also about understanding someone. When the idol writes a novel or song or acts a part in a movie that speaks to you, you may feel that the author is a kindred spirit. They really understand you, better than your parents do, better than most of your friends. You are sure that you could be great friends. This is where it goes a tad bit overboard... I can understand how it can be creepy for the famous person. When I was a freshman in college, my mother tried to set me up with a guy who was a grad student. She told him many things about me, while telling me almost nothing about him except that he was smart. When I met him, he knew several things about me personally, and I felt like he had the advantage. I got uneasy as the night went on, and I started to feel naked and vulnerable. Everything I tried to tell him about myself he'd already heard, and had decided we could be friends without me getting the chance to decide it on my own. Considering how much personal information gets out about these stars (I mean, Jesus, you may love or hate Britney Spears, but can you really imagine the entire world debating your virginity claims?), and how desperate their fans are to think they know them personally, I can see a correlation. You are the famous person, you meet someone on the street who knows your name, your birth date, your spouse's name (and they're probably pissed at the fact that there is a spouse in the first place) and who wants you to take them to lunch (cause you're the famous person with the bankroll and they work at Kinko's). That's fucking creepy. I've used that word a lot -- creepy. It seems to be the other side of fandom: the obsessive knowledge that if the object of your affection would just get to know you, he would be as entranced by you as you are by him, and you would live happily ever after. Suddenly, without even meaning to, you've crossed into severe Stalker Territory. Some fans still think like 6-year-olds: any attention -- good or bad - from your idol is a positive thing. So, with that in mind, I rein in my adoration to a respectful distance. I have the feeling that I'd rather my idol not know I'm alive and live happily rather than know me and think I'm a freak, or even worse, fear me... I read your book |
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