The Reason I'll Never Stalk a Celebrity

As some of you may have guessed, I am the SciFi Adventuress in love with Spike as noted in Cate's blog intro. And it was my idea to attend the said SciFi convention, because I wanted to see James Marsters. Not just see him, I wanted to meet him (but I didn't tell Cate that piece of the plan).

The day had so many hilarious moments that I am banned from writing, mostly because Cate does not share my need to ridicule herself in public. But it was funny! There was this room full of minor celebrities who would whine about their lives and sign pictures for you if you made them feel important. There was the large retail room full of SciFi junk you'd never wanted to know existed. Best of all, though, was the main stage where the creators of your fave SciFi shows would talk about, well, nothing.

James was the last person to speak on Sunday night. I had purchased an autograph ticket but was too embarrassed to even mention it. I stood in the terrifyingly long line, feeling bereft of my usual "devil-may-care" attitude. In line with me was an autograph-freak who spent an hour showing me her collection, and the sweetest young woman you'd ever hope to meet.

The young woman told me that she wanted to meet James because he had inspired her to start a music career. It was a really sweet story about how she'd seen him play with his band, and had then gone out and bought herself a guitar. She had brought that guitar to be signed. We all rallyed around her and promised to move quickly so that she would have time to tell her story.

At about that time, some hell-beast woman emerged from behind the curtain where James was seated. She began barking orders, "Move faster!" "Don't take too much of his time!" "He can't talk to you all!" She was obnoxious. We all made fun of his over-protective agent. As we neared the tent, however, I began to think the shrieking harpy was really James Marsters' wife.

Her high-pitched demands grew in ridiculousness as the night wore on. "No names!" "Just an initial or two!" "No handshakes!" "He might get carpal tunnel!" And the one least likely to encourage a change in behavior, "He has to be naked on a set tomorrow and he needs to be fresh!"

I was bristling. We had all paid a handsome fee for this service, so it was a self-imposed burden that the actor could have refused. Plus, I was annoyed that this woman, if his wife she be, was busy insulting the very people who were supplying her Santa Monica apartment. I had begun to be vocal about my annoyance when the first of our little group entered the autograph area.

Now, I get really nervous around celebrities, so I had no intention of speaking. I just wanted to get my autograph, meet James, and go home. But the harpy would not shut up, and I was too tired for emotional control.

The sweet girl and I entered the area together "for moral support." The banshee looked at sweet girl's guitar and rolled her eyes. She said, "I suppose you want him to sign right where your breast will be so that you can think about him that way while you play."

My hand flew up in the international stop sign. Two feet from James Marsters, my mouth burst open and I told this hell demon what I thought of her. As it always does when my hand goes into action, my brain turned off completely, so I have no idea what I actually said.

The effect was immediate. A hush fell across the entire tent. James grabbed the guitar and my paper, signed, and I was ushered out the door rapidly.

Although I'll never know for sure.....

...........................I think I called James Marsters wife a bitch.