I have made it no secret that I was a tween and a teen during that magical musical time known as the eighties. Back in my day, we had fabulous magazines like Teen Beat and Tiger Beat and Bop!. The sole purpose of these fine periodicals was to deliver glossy photos of hot young movie stars, hot young TV stars, and hot young musicians. The teenage girls into whose hands these hot young photos were delivered would immediately cut those images out and tack them to their walls. I was one of those girls. It seemed to be a required step in the puberty process.

I’m sure, if you’ve ever read this blog before, you can guess who was on my wall: Duran Duran, the cast of The Outsiders, more Duran Duran. But also Adam Ant, The Pet Shop Boys, and this funny British guy with crooked teeth.

Yes, that is David Bowie. Why is he holding a cat? Who knows? I didn't care. Keep in mind that I was still a tween. I loved my British pop stars, but I also loved kitties. I might have had this photo framed.

I’d love to tell you that I admired Bowie because of his voice: so instantly recognizable, yet ever-changing; or his expansive talents—actor, artist, space alien. But I was a young, hormonal girl. Here’s what I loved: his hair, his eyes, and his teeth. He was hot.

His hair, because it always looked perfectly spikily coiffed, something that (despite my best efforts with Dep gel and Aqua Net) I could never achieve. His eyes, because they were not only two different colors, but one pupil was permanently dilated, and thus endlessly fascinating. And his teeth, because they weren’t perfect. (I had never been self-conscious about my teeth until a dentist suggested I have my front uppers and lowers capped to straighten them out. I didn’t do it—up until that very moment, I had never given their crookedness a second thought—but now I am painfully aware of my jack-’o-lantern smile.) Famous people with imperfect teeth hold a special place in my heart (Ethan Hawke, I salute you). If they don’t care about their haphazard grins, why should I?

My point is, as a teenager, I thought David Bowie was handsome and sexy and enigmatic. 

Eventually, I got through puberty and grew up. And happily, as an adult, I found David Bowie to be brilliant and crazy and bizarre and beautiful.

David Bowie was always part of the backdrop as I aged. While I was agonizing over pimples and bad dates and bad marriages and a mortgage, he was singing and acting and reinventing himself over, and over, and over. And in every interview, every video, every movie he popped up in, I thought Hey, there’s my old friend, David Bowie! I love that guy! And once: Hey, what the—did he fix his teeth? How could he?

Waking up Monday morning to the news that David Bowie had left the proverbial building was saddening in a way I wasn’t prepared for. My old friend was gone. His absence was immediate and huge.

Except . . . it isn’t. I have a lot of Bowie on my iPhone, and played his music all week while driving or at my desk. I put on Basquiat Monday night and watched him play one of my other favorite artists, Andy Warhol. Social media and the online sites have been posting tributes all week to this amazing man. And even scrolling through some of my old blog posts, I found references to Bowie that I’d forgotten—my love of his duet with Bing Crosby, only because it’s David Bowie. My love of Labyrinth, even though, let’s be honest, it’s not the best movie in the world. References to “Space Oddity” and “Changes” occasionally made because I’d assumed everybody knew these songs and would get the reference.

I have one coworker that is as deep in mourning as I am over the loss of Ziggy Stardust. We started talking about how absolutely brilliant he was to release Blackstar so close to his death. His swan song has skyrocketed in sales this week, and there has been endless speculation and interpretation around the lyrics and videos he left us with.

“Typical Bowie,” my coworker said. “Leaving us all guessing and wanting more.”

This is true. Typical Bowie—in that he never did the typical or expected.

I’ll miss you, old friend. 

I’m off to put on my red shoes and dance the blues.    
__
This week from The Storyside:
Fabulous free fiction: "That Sounds Familiar" by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)
An overview of how to get your book written and published: "From Idea to Printed Page, Part 1" by Ursula Wong

I do a lot of conventions. It’s a great way to meet new readers, get my face and books out there, and yes, stalk celebrities. But conventions aren’t all fun and games. It can be exhausting greeting and talking with people for three days straight, and I’ll admit, by Day 3, I’m not at my perky best. There are snafus and cancelled guests and times when a potty break is desperately needed yet just can’t happen. I invite you now to Rhode Island ComicCon, to witness the other side of the convention table.

Day 1 (Friday): We arrive a couple hours before the doors open to check in and set up. There’s a line to check in, so Jason drops off our inventory at the table while I stand behind a large, hirsute man who is complaining loudly that he doesn’t want to stand in line. None of us do, pal. It’s all part of the routine. I use the emergency tube of Nair I keep in my purse to depilate a smiley face in his back hair. Jason comes back to relieve me, and I go to the table to set up.

Setting up isn’t just propping up books on a table. I lay out the tablecloth, lint-roll the cat hair off of it, set up book stands, arrange the books in an eye-catching way so that all of the black covers (so prevalent in horror) aren’t displayed together but that the kids’ books are; pull out pens (for signing books), the receipt book (to track sales), and the antibacterial hand sanitizer (for those times people sneeze when perusing books, which happens more often than you might think). I greet our neighbors, like artist Karen Gosselin and puzzle guy Charles Flowers and fellow author Eric Dimbleby. (You do enough conventions, you start making friends with the other vendors.) I put up my banner and arrange the extra inventory under the table and in the meantime, Jason comes back with our passes. We’re ready to go!

Six hours later, I’m tired, I haven’t met any of the thirty-odd celebrities billed to be here this weekend, and I’m already on my second bottle of hand sanitizer (it’s flu season, folks). Sales have been slow, but not terrible—not unusual for a Friday night. I’ve met a charming young man whose mother has MS, an older gentleman who wants to be a writer, and a woman who wants to go to clown school (strangers will tell you the most amazing things at these events). We’ve been invited to dinner by our friends Cat and Barry, so we head to their place, where I gorge myself on good conversation and mozzarella-stuffed meatballs.

Day 2 (Saturday): Saturday is traditionally the busiest day of the convention. Before the doors open, Jason takes me over to Lou Ferrigno’s table to introduce us. That’s right: the Incredible Hulk is in the building. Our exchange went something like this:

Me: I love you.
Lou: Thank you (shakes my hand).
Me: No, seriously, as soon as you stop touching my hand, I’m going to text my sister and tell her I touched you.
Lou: Security!

This elation over meeting the big green guy of my youth lasts for most of the morning . . . until I get my first sneeze-reader (God bless you).

The space behind our table is cramped, and if I’m sitting, I have to twist my body sideways, causing what will eventually be pretty severe pain in my back and knee (still with me seven days later as I type this). The people-watching is fun, though I’m resentful that the man dressed as Jessica Rabbit looks sexier than I ever have. I talk to one guy about a book project he’s been thinking of and another about how he hasn’t been to a dentist in ten years. I tell aspiring authors about different writing organizations and reiterate the importance of editing (I’m sitting across from a sign with an improperly formatted ellipsis, by the way, and it drives me nuts all weekend). Jason disappears for two hours to attend celebrity panel discussions, and I text him because I need the little writers’ room. He ignores me until I text him again, reporting that I have now peed my pants. He shows up five minutes later, panicked and with a handful of paper towels. (To clarify, I had not. It was merely a clever tactic to get him back to the table.)

By the end of the day, we’ve sold several books, I’ve met a ton of new people, and my socialization skills are completely depleted. I bark at Jason because I’m tired, I don’t like socializing, and I certainly can’t write or edit or clean the house when I’m at these things for three days straight. It’s his fault that he’s always trying to promote me and get free tables and invitations to be a guest at these things, the selfish bastard. He makes an emergency stop at Panera Bread to ply me with macaroni and cheese just to shut me up (can’t yell at him if I’m eating). 

Day 3 (Sunday): Stick a fork in me—I’m done. For the first two hours, I can’t even muster up the energy to look people in the eye. I cradle my industrial-size coffee cup (urn, whatever) and try not to cry. I can’t do this. I’m an introvert. This is too much.

Then, a young woman named Anastasia picks up a copy of Ordinary Boy. She reads the back and looks up at me and tells me that the main character sounds just like her. She wants to buy the book and asks me timidly for my autograph. I instantly love this young woman. Okay, yes. This is why I do these things.

I get to meet wrestler Ted DiBiase and eyeball actors Ralph Macchio and Michael Dorn. I slink down lower in my seat when the organizers are questioning bystanders to find out who the vandal was that used a red Sharpie to indicate a space was needed before the ellipsis in the food court sign. I sell lots of books and meet even more people and at the end of the day, Anastasia comes back to buy a second book, because she’s the coolest kid ever and she loves to read.

The convention ends at 5 PM. We have packing up down to a science, and the car is loaded up by 5:15. We head home.

“We did well,” Jason says, and yes, okay, he’s right. But I’m burned out and I’m going to be useless for the next three days. These events exhaust me so thoroughly—mentally, physically, emotionally—that I don’t bounce back quickly from them. I want to tell him that we have to stop doing so many of these things (something I have, in fact, said several times) because I don’t have it in me. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

“That one girl came back twice. That was cool.”

Again, he’s right. That was pretty cool. And because of that one girl who shyly asked for my autograph, the whole convention was worth it. I decide not to gripe during the car ride home, and nap instead. Clean houses are overrated anyway, right? 

I’ve waxed poetic a few times about my favorite actors. But up until now, I haven’t shared my list of actors I can’t stand, mostly because that would be mean. However, I’m short on material this week, so I’ve decided to toss my instincts to not be cruel aside and instead trash some celebrities who have made a lot more money than I have doing something that, while doing it terribly, is still something I've never attempted. So here is my list of people who can't act:

10. Tom Green

Kind of a no-brainer with this guy. He’s not funny,  but he thinks he is, which makes him unfunny and obnoxious.

9. Tia Carrere

I give this woman a lot of credit for going on Dancing With The Stars something like six weeks after giving birth. I really do. But she can't act. I remember watching her in Wayne's World and thinking Huh. I didn't expect this lady to be the worst thing about this turdblossom of a movie.

8. Ryan Phillippe

Does anybody even remember what this vanilla milkshake of an actor has even done, besides marry Reese Witherspoon? (She did eventually realize she could do better and divorced him.) Did you know he was in Gosford Park, Flags of Our Fathers, and The Lincoln Lawyer? No? You didn't remember because he's bland, boring, and unremarkable.

7. Nicholas Cage

I am not over The Wicker Man yet. There are so many things I could've done with those wasted 102 minutes: visited a local garage to see how automobiles are fixed. Written a letter to my congressman about what a good job he's doing (if I knew his name, that is). Clipped my toenails. Something other than sitting through that crapfest. 
Also, he reminds one of my coworkers of someone she doesn't like. Strike two. And strike three, because Wicker Man.

6. Jean Claude Van Damme

I still can't figure out why anyone ever paid to see this guy in a movie. (I should also probably mention here that I don't particularly like movies with a lot of [read: any] martial arts.) I cringe when he opens his mouth. He's not handsome. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I'll admit I can forgive a lot if you're pretty to look at. Jason Statham: can't act, does a lot of fancy fighting in his movies, pretty to look at. I sure do love me some Jason Statham.

You, Mr. Van Damme, are no Jason Statham.

5. Rob Schneider

I hate picking on this guy, because everybody does. Plus, it's not like he has a huge, undeserved ego, like Tom Green. In fact, Tom Green should be higher on my list than this guy, because Green is an incompetent troll who thinks he's awesome. Let me reiterate: he is not. But I don't feel like renumbering the whole list, so just assume Schneider is 10 and Green is 5.
Rob Schneider: seems nice, but makes stupid films.

4. Ashton Kutcher

Honestly, if this guy hadn't married Demi Moore, I would still have no idea who he is. I think he was on some show once, and then he was on another show. He might've been in a movie, too. I don't know. Here's what I do know: he single-handedly caused every woman my age who dates a man even six months younger than her to now be referred to as a "cougar." Thanks a lot, jerk.

3. Emilio Estevez

The powers that be might revoke my "child of the eighties" card for this, but I'll confess, I never understood what the big deal was about Emilio Estevez. He was forgettable in The Outsiders, a total milk dud in St. Elmo's Fire, and the janitor in Breakfast Club turned in a better performance than this guy. The Mighty Ducks may have been the peak of his acting skills. Just terrible.

2. David Arquette

I often feel embarrassed for David Arquette when he shows up in something. He's not funny, his comedic timing is nonexistent, and he acts like idiocy is something to be proud of. How he ever got Courtney Cox to marry him is a mystery to this day. She said she fell in love with him because he was funny. When I read that, I mailed her a copy of Mad magazine with a note telling her to raise her standards.

1. David Caruso
I don’t know why this man irritates me so much, but if you want to see me change from mild-mannered, coffee-sipping farmer’s daughter to crazed, furious, shooting-flames-out-of-my-eye-sockets maniac in 2.3 seconds, change the channel to an old episode of CSI: Miami. I hate this guy’s voice, his face, his mannerisms, and have been known to screech, “He’s standing still too loudly! TURN IT OFF!” shrilly enough to shatter ice cubes. He can’t act, he’s not attractive, and he’s a condescending egomaniac. Did I say I didn’t know why he irritated me? Mystery solved.



There you have it. Agree with me, disagree,  or try to debate me about why martial arts films are great. (Is Jason Statham in it? No? Then no.) Here's what I know: my blog is now done for the week, and I truly hate David Caruso.

I’ve never been particularly attracted to the type of person who demands the spotlight. Growing up in the '80s, it was not the showboating Simon LeBon or sexy John Taylor who kept me tuning in to watch Duran Duran videos on MTV; it was the quiet keyboardist in the background who kind of looked like a girl that caught my interest. The same held true for movies and television. It was not River Phoenix who inspired me to watch Stand By Me seventeen times; I wanted to know more about the guy playing River’s older brother. You know: the actor who got approximately six seconds of screen time. Whatever happened to that guy?

I decided to take the time and investigate what, indeed, had happened to some of my favorite actors you have probably never heard of.

1. Bradley Gregg

With his dark curls and wide eyes, this seldom-seen actor’s appearances on the big screen always made my teenage heart go pitter-pat. This was the man who made the aforementioned role of Eyeball Chambers in Stand By Me unforgettable (in my book; others seem to have forgotten him entirely). He popped up in minor roles throughout the '80s, including as Phillip Anderson (the puppet guy) in Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors and as Sean O’Brien in the Lonesome Dove TV miniseries. You remember—the kid who was killed in spectacular fashion by water moccasins.

Where is he now?

Mr. Gregg dropped off the acting map, having only appeared in four minor roles after 1997. Incidentally, this is the same year that he has stated he found God. He started a film and video production company called Eventide Fields to make movies about how wonderful God is.

What? No drug problems, jail time, or syphilis scandals? This is not how I expect my teenage heartthrobs to wind up. I’m a bit disappointed.

2. Peter DeLuise

Back before Hollywood started making really crappy movies based on ’80s shows, tarnishing the reputation of television in a decade that really wasn’t that bad, there was an awesome little show on the up-and-coming Fox network called 21 Jump Street. While most girls my age were swooning over Johnny Depp in this ensemble piece, it was Peter DeLuise, playing Depp’s partner Doug Penhall, who had me giggling. He then went on to "star" (I use the term loosely) in Stargate SG-1, then disappeared. I thought.

Where is he now?

Peter has continued to act steadily in some really minor roles (“Witness #1” in Smile of April, for instance), never quite achieving the fame his costar found.
DeLuise is reportedly directing television shows, and did have a cameo in the 2012 movie 21 Jump Street. If I were to be honest, I’d tell you that the movie was a festering boil of stinking pus, but did I mention Peter DeLuise had a cameo in it? The teenage girl who still resides deep in my dark soul let loose a high-pitched squeeeee when he showed up on screen.

Also, DeLuise is now losing his hair, but does not shave his head. Yet another teenage crush to disappoint me.

3. Ian Ziering

Beverly Hills 90210 started airing when I was seventeen-year-old girl. I was 100% their target demographic. I missed nary an episode.

At the time, it was not the cocky and crazy Steve Sanders, played by Ian Ziering, who made me all gooey inside. I was a Jason Priestley gal, having adored him since his minor role as Tober in a 21 Jump Street episode. And I’m not gonna lie: Luke Perry was pretty dreamy, too. In my mind, Ziering was just there as the token blond to offset the other two dreamboats’ sideburns.

Then, a funny thing happened. 90210 ended, and Priestley and Perry faded off into that good night, banished to minor TV roles, failed sitcoms, and B movies. And Ziering began to pimp himself with the glee and gusto of a child who has just discovered that pudding not only tastes good, but is fun to fling, too.

Where is he now?

Ian (that’s eye-an, NOT eee-an) has been acting in bad television (Son of the Beach), good cartoons (he was the voice of Harry Osborn in the 2003 Spider-Man series, and Vinnie in Biker Mice from Mars), and the BEST made-for-TV movie series EVER: Sharknado and Sharknado 2: The Second One. He’s happy to pop up on reality television, making it to the semi-finals of Dancing with the Stars in 2005, and currently butting heads with Geraldo Rivera on Celebrity Apprentice. What I like most about this man is that he always, always, seems to be having the time of his life.

Upon meeting Ian Ziering in late 2014, my life came full circle. “Hi,” I said. “I’m your demographic.”

“Hello, demographic,” he said, flashing a wide grin, appearing for all the world to be having the time of his life among aging wrestlers in a crowded, body-odor-reeking convention. Jason Priestley and Luke Perry were but faded teenage memories. As an adult, I was now a full-fledged member of #TeamIan.

There you have it. In case you’ve lain in bed at night wondering what ever happened to the guy that chased River Phoenix on top of a train in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (hint: that, too, was Bradley Gregg), wonder no more. Eventually, we all grow up and find new things to interest us. (Sort of. Go #TeamIan!)

It's the most wonderful time of the year, and to celebrate Halloween, I've decided to list my favorite horror movie baddies of all time. Don't agree? Too bad. It's my blog, not yours.

10.  Michael Myers from the Halloween series

Though Donald Pleasance and Jamie Lee Curtis really make this movie for me, the fact that Michael Myers just won't die no matter how much you shoot, stab, and impale him is unsettling. I've got some bad guys in my own family. I'd like to think they'll die eventually. This guy just won't.

9.  Church from Pet Sematary

Maybe Gage creeped you out in this movie, but for me, it was the cat, Church, that did it for me. I love cats, but seeing Church all feral and possessed by demonic forces upset me more than the kid wandering out in front of a semi. I've never wanted to have kids, and my indifference to Gage's roadkill status just kind of proves that I made the right choice there. So the kid's a creature from Hell now. Eh. It's the poor mangy kitty-cat that still bothers me.

8.  Pinhead from the Hellraiser series

First off, you should know that I hate needles, things resembling needles, and witnessing anything that goes in to or under the skin. (Even splinters make me squeamish.) So it bothers me just to look at this guy. He does get major karma points, however, for being smugly amusing. My favorite Pinhead quote: "Do I look like someone who cares about what God thinks?" If I'm going to Hell, I fully expect Pinhead to be the guy waiting there.

7.  Norman Bates's mother in Psycho

Poor Norman Bates. He had so much potential. Shy in an endearing way, with the boyish good looks of Anthony Perkins (in the movie, anyway). If only he wasn't such a mama's boy. She really ruined his life . I guess it's true . . . we all go a little mad sometimes.

6.  Cujo the dog in Cujo

As I have previously mentioned, I am a cat person. But I was rooting for this giant, slobbering, slightly rabid Saint Bernard in this movie. Sure, he was terrifying, and he made me wet my pants a few times. But we, as the audience, were trapped inside that car with a shrill, screeching Danny Pintauro. His high-pitched wailing and sniveling made my ears bleed. I was with the dog—good Lord, I wanted that kid dead.

5.  Kane from Poltergeist II: The Other Side

This movie, as a whole, was disappointing. However, Julian Beck as the creepy preacher is just terrifying. Beck was dying of stomach cancer when this movie was shot, and as a result, he looks gaunt and gruesome. After sleeping with the lights on for years after watching the first Poltergeist, I'd just gotten used to the dark again until I watched Kane hiss "You're all gonna die!" and fished out my nightlight again.

4.  Jack Torrance from The Shining

Jack Nicholson was amazingly scary as a man losing his grip on reality in the most horrible of ways in this movie. The haunted hotel, the creepy twins, the elevator full of blood . . . I had nightmares. But the scariest part of all was that this movie raised a terrible question: If you can't trust your dad, who can you trust? (Answer: Scatman Crothers.)

3.  Jason Voorhees from the Friday the 13th series

Though this is not my favorite eighties slasher series, I have a lot of respect for the villain, Jason Voorhees. Mostly because I've met Kane Hodder, the guy who plays him, several times, and he's a sweetheart. He's also really proud of the role he played in these movies, and even has a tattoo inside his lower lip that says "KILL." (Because the killer's theme music is "ki-ki-ki, ma-ma-ma," which, of course, is short for "Kill her, Mommy!") You've got to love a guy who embraces a character that much.

2.  Hannibal Lecter from The Silence of the Lambs (and an honorable mention: Buffalo Bill)

This movie was brilliant. Anthony Hopkins was amazing as Hannibal Lecter. Ted Levine was ubercreepy as Jame Gumb. I cite this book and movie all the time when I'm talking about how to make your audience uncomfortable—by making the villain appealing. (James Spader on The Blacklist is another excellent example of this. Ooh! Maybe television baddies are next! But I digress.) I could watch this movie over and over again—and have.

1.  Freddy Krueger from the original Nightmare on Elm Street series

I LOVE Freddy Kreuger (and Robert Englund). I loved him when he was dark and sinister in the first A Nightmare on Elm Street, and I loved him as he cracked jokes while filleting teenagers in later installments. "Hey Dylan, ever played skin-the-cat?" Ha ha! That's comedic gold, my friends! Apparently, I'm willing to root for even a horribly burned, undead child murderer if he can make me laugh.

If you've ever met me, then you know that I've met Survivor winner Richard Hatch, because it's something I like to work into the first twenty seconds of every conversation I have. I've actually met a lot of celebrities, pseudo-celebrities, and local personalities, but Mr. Hatch ranks in my Top Five (the other four being Duran Duran, Dee Snider, "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan, and Tony Goldwyn, if you were wondering. Oh, and Jake "The Snake" Roberts. Top Six. Whatever.) But why do I insist on gushing about Richard Hatch so much? I think the only way you'll see what a kind, decent, generous, and funny human being he was is if I recreate our meeting for you. (Disclaimer: the following recreation might not be exactly how it went. But close.)

The setting: Rhode Island Comic Con, November 1, 2013. STACEY LONGO and author ROB WATTS are walking up and down the aisles as the vendors begin to unpack. The show hasn't opened yet, but because JASON HARRIS made them arrive three hours early to set up a table display that takes 25 minutes to prepare, they have some time to kill.

As they round the corner past the Batmobile display, STACEY spots a veeeery familiar face.

STACEY: Oh my God. That's Richard Hatch. I'm going to go talk to him.

ROB: Don't you want to wait until he takes off his coat, at least? It looks like he just arriv--

STACEY: (approaching Richard Hatch) Hi! Ohmahgerd, I love you! Last year they said Richard Hatch was going to be here but it turned out to be some old guy from Battlestar Galactica. I was so mad that it wasn't you, I pouted all weekend! ROB, remember how upset I was?

ROB: Um, sure.

RICHARD HATCH: Er, hi. You don't seem weird or stalkerish at all. Sometimes I get the other Richard Hatch's mail.

STACEY: Honestly, and don't tell Tommy Howell this, but you were, like, the only person I wanted to meet here this weekend. I just love you!

RICHARD HATCH: You know I'm gay, right?

STACEY: Oh, I'm not hitting on you. I'm married. (RICHARD HATCH looks at ROB WATTS apologetically.) Not to him, either (motions towards ROB). My husband is at our vendor table, lint rolling our tablecloth. He's going to be sooo mad that I met you already! We own the first season of Survivor on DVD and I've made him watch it, like, seventeen times. Have you seen it, ROB? Do you want to borrow it? (ROB WATTS shakes head, smiles apologetically at RICHARD HATCH.)

RICHARD HATCH: Oh, you have a table here? What are you selling?

STACEY: Books. We're horror writers (points to herself and ROB WATTS, then shoves ROB aside). Here's a copy of my short story collection. It would be my honor to give you a copy. Also, I mention you in every single story.

RICHARD HATCH: Surprisingly, that is still not creepy or stalkerish at all. I'd be honored! (Takes book.)

STACEY: Wow, you don't seem like an obnoxious jerk at all. I guess you really can't believe everything you see on television. I've been bamboozled! (Laughs nervously.) Get it? Like you said on Survivor: Borneo? Bamboozled? Er . . .

RICHARD HATCH: Yes, I remember. Very clever. And it's always nice to hear that I'm not really an a**hole.

STACEY: Listen, I have to go gush to my husband that I met you. I'll probably get all weepy and breathless, and I don't want you to see that. Would it be okay if I stopped by your table 46 more times over the weekend and pick your brain about who's going to win this season of Survivor,  and about how jail was, and what Jeff Probst's dimples really look like up close?

RICHARD HATCH: Why, that sounds delightful. I look forward to it!

Yes, gentle reader, I did in fact spend 80% of my time that weekend at Mr. Hatch's table. He was kind enough to tolerate me, and I learned that jail was awful (though he got a lot of reading done), Richard won't speculate on who will win any given season of Survivor (though we agreed that Vytas was pretty clever on the season that was airing at the time), and that Jeff Probst's dimples are even deeper than they appear on television. Overall, it was one of the most pleasant experiences of my life, which is why, as you'll now understand, I try to mention it as much as possible. Over dinner, during job interviews, while waiting in line at the grocery store . . . incidentally, none of my friends have wanted to hang out with me since November. Including my sister.

They're all just jealous.

I've met a lot of famous people over the years, for which I'm thankful. These encounters don't always go as planned. Here are some real-life encounters I've had, how I'd hoped they would go, and how they really went.

Christopher Walken
I had the opportunity about 10 years ago to deliver a Fedex package to Christopher Walken. Here's how I imagined it would go:
Me: Mr. Walken, it's an honor to meet you. I know you're more famous for movies like The Deer Hunter, but I have to say your comedic timing is spot-on. I thought you were brilliant on the Saturday Night Live 25th anniversary special.
Christopher Walken: You're brilliant. Let's have dinner.

That's not exactly how it went in real life. Here's what happened when I pulled into his driveway:
Christopher Walken: Who are you? You're not the regular FedEx driver. I'm calling the cops.
Me: No, wait! The Fedex guy got a flat tire and I'm his wife. Here! (Thrusts package into his chest, causing him to fall backwards.)
Christopher Walken: Thanks, I guess. Go away now.
Me (beaming like an idiot): No, thank you! (Runs for the car to call sister and brag about meeting Christopher Walken.)

Tom Brady
The famous Patriots quarterback once vacationed on Block Island. Here's how I thought it would go:
Me: Hey, I know you. Did we go to high school together or something?
Tom Brady: You mean you have no idea who I am? How refreshing! Let me dump my supermodel girlfriend and we'll have dinner.

The reality was a little different. First of all, I watched this jerk refuse to sign an autograph for an 8-year-old because he was on vacation and "didn't want to draw attention" to himself. Then he proceeded to take off his shirt and toss a football with his supermodel girlfriend right in the center of New Harbor. So here's how our meeting went:
Tom Brady (flexing and posing shirtless): Please, I just want to enjoy my vacation. (Spikes a football at the edge of Payne's Dock.)
Me (driving by in a pickup truck with unidentifiable plates): You throw like a girl!

Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran
This was the man of my dreams for many, many years. When my sister won backstage passes to meet Duran Duran in 2007, it was the highlight of my life. Here's how I imagined it would go:
Me: Nick! Can you please pose for a picture with me?
Nick Rhodes: Of course I can.
Me: This is so exciting. You don't understand. I was going to be the mother of your children.
Nick Rhodes: Yes, I can see you're clearly the woman of my dreams. Screw dinner; let's get married.

Here's what actually happened:
Me: Nick! Can you please pose for a picture with me?
Nick Rhodes: Of course I can.
Me: This is so exciting. You don't understand. I was going to be the mother of your children.
Nick Rhodes: Security!

So you see, you can plan and plan for your famous celebrity interaction, but you really never know how it will go. This weekend, I'll be at Rhode Island Comicon, where my teenage crush, C. Thomas "Tommy" Howell will also be. Will I be running off to Hollywood with Ponyboy? Probably not. But a girl can dream, can't she?

The internet exploded yesterday with incredible news that had everyone talking. Was it the use of chemical weapons in Syria that had everyone angered? Or perhaps people were concerned about the wildfire currently burning out of control at Yosemite National Park? Heck, no. It seems that people are stunned and outraged at the news that Ben Affleck has been cast as Batman in the next Superman movie. Honestly, people. Your priorities are terrible.
"But look at Daredevil!" You cry. "It was awful!" Sure it was a stinker, but is this Affleck's fault? Aren't there a few other people to blame for this? I personally think the script writer, director, producer, Jennifer Garner, and the key grip might share some of that blame. (But not Michael Clarke Duncan. He is never to blame, because he was wonderful.) Blaming Ben Affleck for Daredevil is like blaming Ronald McDonald when you get a bad cheeseburger. Neither one of them is really running the show. Know what movie I really like? Dazed and Confused. Ben was in that, too. But everyone knows that Affleck is not the reason why that movie was so wonderful. That's just ridiculous.  Matthew McConaughey is the reason why that movie was awesome.
Think that the personal betrayal you are feeling over the casting of Batman is something new? Let me take you back in time. The year was 1995. Michael Keaton, the Batman of all Batmans, had dropped out of Batman Forever. The world was in chaos. Jerry Garcia dropped dead over it. (What? Do you actually know that this isn't what killed him? What else could it possibly have been?) The powers that be chose someone different (gasp) for the role. That's right. Val Kilmer would now don the cape and bat ears.
You want to talk about outrage? Anger? The end of the world as we know it? The masses were furious. Val Kilmer? The Iceman? The guy who won a Chicago Film Critics Association Best Actor Award for his portrayal of Jim Morrison in The Doors? Who was this hack?
Well, you can imagine what happened. The movie came out, made a ton of money, and nobody cared that Batman was now Val Kilmer. That's right: nobody cared. They were too distracted by the nipples on the Batman costume to really criticize Kilmer's performance.
So there you go. History has a way of repeating itself, and here we are again, struggling to come to grips with a new face behind the Bat Mask. Sure, a mass grave with bodies of adolescent children was just discovered near Mexico, but is that really important? Apparently not. Our priority now is to discuss what, exactly, Batman's costume is going to look like in Batman vs. Superman. Because that's what really matters.

It was really no coincidence that I dressed up as Marilyn Monroe this past Halloween.  I’ve found that she and I have so much in common, it’s uncanny.

Marilyn and I both get (or got) our blonde out of a bottle - she because platinum was popular, me because gray is decidedly not.  She was known for her beauty and comedic ability, just as I like to think I am.  She starred in How to Marry a Millionaire, and I have often wished I married a millionaire.
 
But wait.  The coincidences don’t end there.  It has been said many times that Marilyn was a size sixteen at one point.  I have been a size sixteen many times in my life.  She was married to Yankee Joe DiMaggio.  That makes both of us Yankees fans. Marilyn’s second husband was playwright Arthur Miller, author of Death of a Salesman – a play I’ve read.  Twice.

Spooky, right?  It’s like I’m writing about my twin, practically.  But there’s more!

When Marilyn was young, it’s rumored that she slept with Marlon Brando.  I would have loved to sleep with a young Marlon Brando.  And Marilyn, of course, was in the buff with both Jack and Bobby Kennedy.  I am personally a huge Kennedy buff!  (Go ahead!  Ask me anything about any of them! Unless you ask me a dirty question – then I would have to read Marilyn’s diary to find the answer.)

Really, we have so much in common; I’m surprised people don’t confuse me with her more often.
 
Or ever.  

Just once would be nice.