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					  UTHORITA     RA
A UTHORITATIVE R AVING

      Will the Real Mrs. Rick                                                     Two years ago, Val and I took the day off from our respective jobs,
                                                                             she some sort of long-distance teacher of pilots, and me a big cheese at
                      Stand
   Springfield Please Stand Up?                                              a publisher once located in Manhattan. But that’s not important right
                                                                             now. We took the day off because Rick was coming to visit me and
                        By Karen Accavallo, Authority[1]
                                                                             maybe sign a few copies of his new CD.
                                                                                  We waited on line for about two hours (I didn’t want to be
                                                                             obvious), where we met some of the saddest people alive. Now we’re
                              Some people are just plain nuts.               friendly enough gals; what we thought was innocent conversation with
                              I have seen with my own eyes grown             some ladies in front of us perverted itself into a bizarre demonstration
                          women — professional women, women who              of this one chick’s self-choreographed routine to Rick’s 1981 hit “Love
                          hold down a good job, care for a family, conduct   is Alright Tonite”. “I get down on the floor like this and then I jump up
                          intellectual discussions on the unrest in the      again!” she squealed. Uh, yeah. I didn’t want to embarrass her by
                          Middle East, come up with ideas in business        telling her I was married to him, and that song had been written about
                          meetings so brilliant you wish you could think     me. Pathetic.
                          of something half that good, tremble and                I had really wanted to feign a heart attack at this point, but Val
                          whimper like a wounded animal at the very          convinced me otherwise. The same group that was in front of us now
                          mention of their favorite star. Fanaticism is a    wanted our participation in some kind of pilgrimage of madness,
                          scary place, folks, a dark world of obsessive      originating at a New York restaurant called Karma, which coincidentally
                          and dangerous behavior, and is a discussion        was the name of my husband’s album at the time. Apparently we were
                          into which only the bravest of souls dare enter.   to all gather at this restaurant and then proudly make our way to the
                              Now, everyone in their right mind knows        theater at which Ricky-poo was playing that night. “C’mon, Karen!” the
     Rick Springfield     that I am married to Rick Springfield. I mean,
  circa 1975. His manly please. To think otherwise would be crazy. Let’s     dancer pulled at my sleeve, “Are you listening? George is explaining
    power just radiates                                                      what subways we need to take later!” I smiled politely and thought to
     from this picture,   get that out of the way right now, so that we      myself, “This poor rube. Doesn’t she have a job? I mean, if you want to
     don’t you think?     can have an intelligent discussion on some of      get your favorite celeb’s attention you don’t convene at some
                          the nuts I’ve seen this past summer.               restaurant that has the same name as his album. You form a business
      This summer, my oldest friend Val and I went to see Rick               called Celebrity Stalkers Unlimited, hire thugs to dress in orange prison
Springfield (my husband) at the Westbury Music Fair, a place where           outfits and camp outside the Meadowlands, shackles at the ready.”
most (I said most) careers go to die. Now Val was there to enjoy music       Anyone knows that.
that we’ve loved since 1981 and say hi to Rick (my husband). I was                Apparently all these freaks now congregate on the Internet. I know
there because I’m family. But these other women – I don’t know what          this because I just logged off one message board, where I was doing
their story was.                                                             some intense research for this article. They all chat with one another
      We arrived at the Music Fair and surveyed the crowd. Now this is       each night, posting messages with subject lines like, “2 hours until
the honest truth – a woman in the next row stood up and proceeded to         concert!” and “2 hours since concert!” and other sad things.
drape herself in a gold lamé robe, flapping her wings as if she either       Occasionally it degenerates into a recipe swap; a bunch of lonely
wanted to take flight, or had had me under video surveillance for the        strangers tap-tap-tapping away on their latest recipe for lemon poppy
past month and was mocking my Stevie Nicks-esque interpretive scarf          muffins. Now, I don’t post on these boards – I don’t understand this
dance. Rick finally came down the stairs, and right after he flashed me      type of behavior. I have real live friends, plus I’m married to my
that knowing look, this woman jumped out of her seat and began               favorite celebrity, so I don’t need to have cyber friends. But if I did, my
flapping and flapping until she was rightly whisked away by security.        subject lines would be more along the lines of “I cracked the security
Hopefully she was beaten senseless with bats in the back somewhere.          code at the summer house” or “The guard dogs like liver” or “The
      What offends me most about this chick is not so much her nerve,        thugs can hide in the brush along Route 3.” Am I wrong here? Hello?
but rather her approach. I mean to shell out $45 for a ticket to a concert        Once I experienced these crazies, I thought I had seen everything.
to hear some really great music and then to be whisked away halfway          Was I wrong. Before Jeff Somers and TIS Security Chief Ken West
through a futile and embarrassing attempt to gain the attention of your      installed my computer back in April, there was a world of fanaticism
favorite star is pretty sad, don’t you think? If you want to make contact    that I would never have believed existed – the phenomenon known as
with your favorite celebrity I’ve got two words for you: Dead house          Fan Fiction. At least these folks haven’t seeped over to
pets. At least get your money’s worth for an hour or two of good             rickspringfield.com, but were he still performing as the sexy playboy Dr.
tunes.                                                                       Noah Drake, you can bet your super-powered night vision goggles
[1] Karen is obviously under a lot of stress.                                they would be.
     Fan Fiction is something I discovered quite accidentally while
“researching” JAG and JAG-related paraphernalia. (Note to self: Plan
all-nude demonstration in front of CBS next week to protest these
bastards moving my favorite show to Fridays.) If I understand
correctly, fans of particular television programs (maybe movies, too;
I’m afraid to know) write and electronically archive their own stories
involving their favorite characters. Apparently this is done when a)
fans are upset when the storyline doesn’t go according to their own
wishes, b) fans miss their favorite characters during summer hiatus and
simply must keep them alive, or c) all creativity goes down the crapper.
Or d) they’re nuts.
     Now I’m sure that Jeff will insert some sort of crack here that at
least these folks are writing something, and that my keyboard has been
used only for ransom notes and letters to CBS. Fair enough. But these
people actually give each other AWARDS for this crap. Really – do a
Google search sometime on “fan fiction” and you’ll get lots of sites for
Fan Fiction Awards. Granted, sometimes I do jot down the secret
messages I receive over the television when JAG is over, but the day I
start winning awards for it I’ll know the world’s gone mad.
     Then I happened (by accident, of course) on something called
“slash” fan fiction. This was in the name of research, so a few clicks
later I was reading a story in which Bo and Luke Duke were getting it
on. With each other. Now it’s not so much the homosexual incest that
bothers me. If you’re going to write this stuff, does it have to be about
Bo and Luke Duke? I mean, what possesses a person to think up weird
fantasies about bad tv? I’m just thankful no one has gone down the
road of Ginger and Mary Ann. Oh for goodness’ sake…there’s a site for
that, too.
     Don’t even get me started on the pigs at CBS.

				
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posted:12/12/2011
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