I Don’t Want to Be… A Superfan

They ruin it for everyone.

I waited three years for a concert from the prison guard/specialist’s son, because that’s the state we’re currently in, and really, it would’ve been absolutely fine—small venue, limited tickets, poignant subject matter (a playthrough of his upcoming album dedicated to his dead parents)—but for the superfans.

The homely, possessive, self-aggrandizing ones. Who showed up for both scheduled nights, back to back. And stared. And lingered. And conducted lengthy text conversations in plain view indicating concern over who went backstage and for how long. And lingered some more. And three hours later (two hours after I called it quits, as I won’t wait forever), posted selfies with his tired ass all over social media from their stalker spots in the parking lot.

I like him, but I might like him a little less after some of the shit that came out of his mouth during the show. That’s how I know I’m not one of them. And the music, well. It deserved to be a full-on gospel record, and he knows it. The man could sing the phone book and panties would hit the stage. I don’t know how it’s going to chart because of the subject matter, but the least-sad song might make a good single.

Anyway. The morning after, I woke up feeling just as grossed out as when I went to bed; most of my disgust stemmed from the thought of being lumped in with that palpable desperation. It was one thing to be a superfan before the internet, when people weren’t accessible on the other side of a screen (for those few who run their own social media) and the world wasn’t all about immediate satisfaction. I read up on my favorite artists, memorized their hometowns and birthdays, and put pen to paper for an epic story or twelve. Sure, why not. But I didn’t put any of that shit out in front of the rest of the world, nor did it ever occur to me that that would be A Thing.

Nor did I ever think that meeting someone at any level of celebrity or interacting with them in some way would entitle me to more of their time, for that matter. Pay for a meet-and-greet, sure—that’s structured interaction, and they know what’s coming (including the uglies with a case of the grabs). But showing up everywhere, and I’m looking at you, Miss This Is My 91st Show First Grade Teacher, is just… no. You are not a friend. You are, at best, a footnote in a restraining order, and you’re probably tainting six-year-old minds on a daily basis.

But hey, I’m still one up on you, ladeez. Almost four years ago to the day, I was on a little excursion.

Surprise, suckers.

Sorry, Gavin. We had a good run, but the gold medal goes to Tom Petty.