Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Star Struck? Me? No...not at all.

We all have our little "fandemoniums".  What I'm trying to imply with this whimsical word is that we, myself included, have people or celebrities that if given the opportunity to meet, the calm human beings we consider ourselves to be, lose all rationality.  This is usually translated through wobbly legs and diarrhea of the mouth.   

Having lived in Southern California for the majority of my life, I was exposed to celebrity sightings all the time.  In my defense, I behaved better than most people.  I had boundaries.  I never approached celebrities in restaurants or with their families - ever.  This was complete taboo.  After all, these people are entitled to their privacy.  Also, if I happened to catch a celebrity outside of their home, I wouldn't approach them.  I did my best to respect people's space at all times; however there were and/or might be times in the future when I have or may have to reconsider some of my ground rules.  They are as follows:

If I had been anywhere near the Ocean's 11, 12, or 13 movie sets I would have been arrested as a complete and certified stalker.  As I write this, I don't believe an explanation is needed.  George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and Andy Garcia dressed in Italian suits and looking every bit as sophisticated as they are...really?  Be still my beating heart!  And, may I just ask for the record, what is it with Brad Pitt chomping on a nut that drives this poor blog writer breathless?
Mike Rowe, Dirty Jobs

If I saw Mike Rowe anywhere - even in a restaurant with God forbid, oyster juice dripping from his mouth, a baby on his lap, and his elderly parents by his side - taboo be damned.  I would jump three tables and two waiters just to say, "Hello, my name is Brizo Pozto and I'm your biggest fanzo."

During the 1981-82 NBA Finals between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Philadelphia 76ers, I was thirteen years old and probably one of the biggest Magic Johnson fans in the history of the game.  My 18-year old sister and I had been going to the Forum in Inglewood, California the entire season and followed our beloved team all the way to the finals.  My father's employer had amazing season tickets three rows behind the Laker bench.  We were so close, we could hear coach Pat Riley shouting the calls and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar laughing with Magic. 

When the final shot was thrown and the championship was clenched, I left my seat along with hundreds of other fans and converged onto the court.  All I remember hearing was the panic in my sister's voice..."MARIA...!"  There was no going back.  I was running towards Number 32, Magic Johnson.  Needless to say, I was a rather short kid on a court full of giants and screaming adults so I was lucky to find any basketball player to grab.  The first tall, sweaty body I found happened to be Kurt Rambis.  He seemed startled by the young elf hanging onto to his knees but was excited enough to hug me back.  Awesome.  Regardless, I found my magic.  Thank goodness my dad didn't see his youngest daughter running onto court while watching the game at home.  He would have been banned his daughters from live LA sports' venues for the rest of our lives.

So...thinking about my "fandemonium", I'm not that bad am I?


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