New Year, Old Stuff
Something from the archives
Hi Friends!
My sparkly, fresh new year turned to the color of pigeon scat within about 24 hours of that New York City confetti blizzard. On the first of January, my brother began having health issues that quickly bloomed into a DEFCON 1 situation, which is still ongoing. 2024, I’d like to talk to your manager please. As you can imagine, my mental and emotional energy (as well as whatever faculty is in charge of eating-all-the-carbs) has been vacuum sealed inside this ordeal.
I hope to get back to my regular writing schedule with new material in the next few weeks. Until then, I’ll be sharing archived and photography pieces.
Thanks for the support and for sticking around. I hope your 2024 is loitering around DEFCON 5 or 7 at least.
Note: This piece was very fun to write and I really enjoyed revisiting this experience. I’m kind of hoping that there is some kind of law of “fan girl” physics that states the net force of cheeseball antics is equal to one’s adoration. For this post, I’ve updated the Lens Zen section. Enjoy!
Just a Fan
Our cars were briefly in tandem on the highway. Mine, a generic slate colored SUV; his also an SUV though not generic at all. It was lavishly painted with Superman iconography. My eyes darted back and forth between this comic book on wheels and the road. Distracted driving, yes. Worth it? Also yes.
The Man of Steel himself occupied prime position across the hood. He was splayed in classic Superman flight pose: one fist thrust out, one knee bent for maximum boosting, fire engine red cape fluttering behind him. Blocks of blue, yellow, and white comic book panels that included spikey ZAPOW! text bubbles outfitted most of the rest of the car. Another Superman flew across the driver side doors with his name marching underneath in blocky font immediately recognizable from movie posters, T-shirts, comics, and just about every other kind of printable merchandise. From my glances I could see an unassuming man behind the wheel with dark hair, maybe 30-something. But that didn’t mean it was his ride alone. What if this were the family car? I imagined him picking up his daughter from robotics team practice:
DAD (laying on the horn, bleats a version of John Williams’ Superman theme) KATE! KATEY! IT’S DAD! OVER HERE!! KAAAATTTTEEE!!!
FRIEND: That’s, like, your Dad?
KATEY: Orphans are so lucky.
I searched for some kind of corporate designation (copyright and licensing infringement be damned)—Superman Pest Removal! It’s critter kryptonite!—but found nothing. I guess he was just a fan.
Younglings of fandom cannot even begin to appreciate the amount of work, of real labor, that their Elders did in service of being FANS 4LYFE of entertainers, celebrities, sports and movie and book franchises, and musicians in the pre-Internet decades. I’m talking about standing in line for tickets; carrying a radio around the house with you all day so you don’t miss a chance to be the eleventh caller to win back stage passes for a meet and greet at the concert; driving out of state to check out a flea market or collector convention, sitting on a disgusting floor splattered with something you hope is sawdust, hoarding a crate of records or memorabilia as if you were Winnie the Pooh with a honey jar, ferally digging for the first edition or mint condition item. Today’s Wayback Machine entries and grainy YouTube clips taken from an even fuzzier VHS tape are laced with our fandom sweat equity.
For most diehard fans the merch, the memorabilia, the autographed thing is really just a substitute for contact with the object of fan desire. I think we all harbor a secret hope that by breaking the velvet rope and having an encounter, we’ll be transformed. No longer just a blank fan face on the periphery, we’ll become someone who actually counts. And, let’s face it, in these fan-tasies we are all super cool, and very chill. We are smart and charming and funny in our brush with fandom, positioning ourselves as exactly the type of person that Tina Fey or Steve Martin or Bono never even knew they needed in their friend group until you showed up. At least that’s how it’s always played out in my mind, and one summer I got the chance to my theory to the test.
As a college graduation present my mother gave me a trip to Fan Fair. It was 1998 and in country music that meant the high holy days of Garth Brooks and Faith Hill and Shania Twain. I had become a fan of all of it. It would be a phase, but at the time I was in the grips of narrative-based songwriting about hard-working men and the women who loved them. Maybe not my most progressive period, but let she without any misguided retro beliefs cast the first stone.
Fan Fair was an annual music festival that took place in Nashville. More than just performances, Fan Fair promised attendees meet-and-greet opportunities with country music’s biggest stars. The Internet was barely real and my mother, now in her 80s, still says things like “go on THE GOOGLE,” so I have no idea how she even found out about this experience. All I knew was what made the large print: I was going to a place where country music artists like Tim McGraw and Martina McBride were standing around in booths like donkeys at a petting zoo just waiting to make you the newest member of their entourage. How fast could I pack?
I invited my friend Julie who was also a country music fan at the time to come along. The festival took place over a week in June at the Nashville Fairgrounds Speedway just outside of the city. The grounds consisted of two major areas: the speedway where there was now a stage on one side to accommodate performances and the fair buildings. They were the size of airplane hangars, and for five days they would be outfitted with booths where artists would hang out, sign autographs, and sell merch.
This was all very seductive for someone who both dreamed of and secretly feared meeting a FOR REAL CELEBRITY SOMEONE. And I realized I had to keep at least some of my expectations in check. I knew it was highly unlikely that a legend like Dolly Parton or Garth Brooks would show up. I would set my sights on someone, if not in my league, at least almost adjacent. That person was an artist I was smitten with named Bryan White or, as I instantly began calling him, My Bryan White.
My Bryan White was a young, adorable, artist whose two most recent albums were burning up the charts (because those still existed), putting him on the fast track to country music stardom. He was a talented performer, embarrassingly cute, who wrote the kind of squishy love songs made for rom-coms. I spooned up his music and licked the bowl clean. It spoke to my HEART, you guys. As if there were a world where My Bryan White was actually writing a girl just like me into his life one three-chord tune at a time. SAAAA-WOOON! I feel deep, hard, and fast into the Bryan White fanverse. Did I mention that My Bryan White had these boyish, criminally fine looking features? Are my fingers sweating a little typing this twenty-five years later? Yes and also yes.
There were some obvious preparations for this meet-cutie-cute-cute. Outfit (duh). I wanted to be comfortable and put together, but not too fancy or no-effort-schlubby. Hydrate, of course; Tic-Tacs, absolutely. Obsessively think through, plan out, rehearse, and role play with Julie exactly what I’m going to say in order to choreograph this momentous encounter and make sure it goes off flawlessly—check, check, check! And then there was my secret weapon, the extra mile, the gesture that would help me stand out as well as endear him to me for life: a gift. I would present My Bryan White with some small token to show him I am a thoughtful and totally normal superfan. I was reasonably sure no one else had ever thought of this in the history of both ideas and the galaxy. I read somewhere that Bryan enjoyed being out on the water fishing and boating. True or not, the detail stuck with me. Before I left for Nashville, I drove to one of the charming little seacoast towns in New England not far from where I lived under the lame pretense that I wanted to spend an afternoon by the ocean. Once there, I made a beeline for the first gift shop I saw and purchased a small wooden boat with the name of the town painted on the side. Personal for both of us, but not too personal. Mic. Drop.
Day one of Fan Fair dawned mercilessly hot even for June in Tennessee. Julie and I hopped on the early morning hotel shuttle to the fairgrounds, armed with our schedule of who was appearing at their “fan booths” at what times over the course of the day. We also made a list of performances we hoped to catch. The only thing left to do was stroll over to My Bryan White’s booth and get this life-long friendship party started.
Not even 7 a.m. and the crowds meandering toward the gates were massive. We followed until we were forced to stop in a kind of traffic jam on foot. We all shuffled and rearranged ourselves into some semblance of a line so long it could have easily looped down to Memphis and back. What was the hold up? The festival was clearly open. Call us naïve, but I think in that moment it dawned on both of us that we were not going to be spending our time collecting country music BFFs like seashells on a beach.
Artists were scheduled to be in their booths at very specific times for a limited duration. There was a window and when it shut, too bad, but you can still buy a tee-shirt! Even worse, spending time waiting for one artist usually meant losing out on seeing someone else. The lose/lose factor was very high in what we started to think of as a massive country music shell game. The panic of not getting to have my critical face-to-face with My Bryan White set in immediately. We parked ourselves in that goddamn line for his booth nearly two hours before his appearance. A line, I will add, that was already long. I told Julie she could go wander, try and see other people, shop for merch, charter a plane to a private island and leave this insanity behind. I would get it. But she stuck it out with me. And that’s why she has dibs on my kidneys, my liver, a lung if it comes to that-no questions asked.
At least waiting gave me the chance to shake out my nerves. As the time ticked closer to zero hour, the more that seemed to leak out of my head. I rehearsed saying my name (read that again. Minga!) as if I were practicing how to sound natural on my outgoing voicemail message. Also, I thought I might legitimately forget it in the moment. I tried out explaining the boat, aiming for the sweet spot somewhere along the lines of playful and funny and harmless. I unwrapped it from its tissue paper thinking I should just give it to him already unwrapped. Then I rewrapped it to make it obvious it was a gift I bought and not something handmade, which even I admit might summon security immediately. I unwrapped it again. Better he can see it for what it is: FUN AND NORMAL!! I tried not to handle it too much as my hands were sweating and I didn’t want to smear the paint.
Suddenly there was movement. The fifty or sixty people ahead of us who had also been sitting on the floor rose up in a groaning wave. It was happening. Shortly. Soon-ish? Oh God. Another 30 minutes passed with us collectively shifting from foot-to-foot, necks craning. Applause and cheers broke out nearer to the front of the line. HE WAS HERE! OH GOD!!! Now every few minutes the line inched forward. This was not a drill. If I had a stroke on the spot, it would be totally worth it.
Just getting within sight line of the booth and seeing Bryan’s silky (I imagine) chestnut (not that I thought about the EXACT shade) hair bent over a photo as he signed it, gave me the vapors. For a micron of a millisecond I thought, No. I can’t. It’s too much. And then the two girls in front of me peeled away and there was no one left but me.
With no video evidence, I have no way of replaying footage of the encounter. But in my wooly memory it unfolded like so:
BRYAN: Hi there!
ME: HI!MYNAMEISSHEILAI’MSUCHAFANANDTHANKYOUSOMUCHYOURSONGWRITINGISREALLYBEAUTIFULANDSOGREATIT’SJUSTWONDERFUL
Translation: Hi! My name is Sheila. I’m such a fan! And thank you so much; your songwriting is really beautiful and so great. It’s just wonderful.
BRYAN: Thanks! (he sees my camera) Want a photo?
ME: YESOHTHANKSYESSUREHAAHAHAHA (a beat while we pose for a photo and I float outside of my body)
Translation: Yes! Thanks! Yes, sure (easy, totally normal and not maniacal laughter)
BRYAN (reaches out to shake my hand and wrap this the fuck up, respectfully): Thanks so much!
ME: YEAOKAYSOTHISISWEIRDBUTIHOPEITWON’TBEWEIRDI’MNOTAWEIRDOORCREEPYSTALKERHAHAHAHASORRYIREADTHATYOUENJOYFISINGBOATINGANDTHISISFROMNEWENGLANDWHEREILIVEANDITHOUGHTYOUWOULDLIKEITANDIT’SABOAT
Translation: Yeah! Okay, so this is weird, but I hope it won’t be weird. I’m not a weirdo or creepy stalker (more easy laughter). Sorry. I read that you enjoy fishing, boating. And this is from New England, where I live, and I thought you would like it. It’s a boat.
BRYAN (takes boat and politely turns it over): Aww! That was so nice of you. Thank you very much. Thanks! (discretely gives boat to manager/PR person who probably tosses it in the nearest incinerator, respectfully)
ME: THANKSAGAIN!BYE!
Translation: Thanks again! Bye!
SCENE
When I came back into my body I asked Julie how she thought it all went.
“You did great!” she said. “I think you made the right impression. Not, you know, crazy or anything. Just, you know, sincere.”
“That’s good. I think it felt okay, but I couldn’t tell. I think I was talking fast. Was I talking too fast?”
“I think you were talking the right speed.”
“That’s good.”
“So who should we try for next?”
My nervous system waved a white flag. I didn’t think I was cut out for another one of those that day or maybe ever. Can you imagine if My Bryan White had decided he actually wanted to be my friend? No. Some of us are made to be just fans.
Lens Zen!
A damp, soggy stretch of weather closed out 2023 in New England. The perfect conditions for reflection.
Perhaps an updated update with Josh Ritter would be in order. Just sayin
You are glorious and it is stunningly fun as your friend to watch you continuously shine! 💕
Larry Mullen, Jr has been my seekrit drummer boyfriend since I was in high school. I'm 57 and he's 61 or 62. I've never met him or anyone else in U2. You'd have to mop me up off the floor.