Like a lot of teenage boys, I had a poster of a professional male racquetball player next to my bed. At the time, my friends were adorning their walls with posters of Cindy Crawford drinking from that Pepsi can or some vestige from their older brother's Jane Fonda fixation.
But I went to sleep each night staring at the visage of some nobody I can't even remember nowadays, thinking that if I practiced really hard, every day, for hours on end, I'd still never fill out eye protection goggles like that dude.
At the time, however, I knew that if he had ever visited our local mall -- maybe for some spiffy new Ocean Pacific corduroy PE coach shorts -- I'm positive I would have talked my mom into driving me over to see him, and we probably would have ended our day in jail, arrested for either harassment or stalking. Or if I was really lucky, both.
What I like to call my Humiliating Racquetball Period came back in full, embarrassing waves the other day when I was reading a New York Times story about these young girls' obsession with the new vampire movie Twilight and one of its stars: sweet, sweet Jawbone Pattinson.
Pattinson was making an appearance at a mall in Pennsylvania, and a thousand young girls lined up to see him, if only for a fleeting, passing moment. Many drove long distances. Many more screamed. A few appeared to almost pass out with glee.
A surprising number seemingly confused the actor with his character, wondering whether if they got too close, would he bite them on the neck -- just like his character in the movie.
From the story: “It is bizarre,” Pattinson said. “People come from three states away and walk up to you trembling. I feel that I am at a disadvantage here because I can’t provide this mystical thing that they came for in the two seconds we have.”
Having once obsessed over everything from middle aged, short-court tennis pros to the Guess jeans triangle, it never surprises me to read these stories -- the pandemonium of the Beatles at Shea Stadium was referenced. Or the 400-mile treks through the snow to see Tiffany at the Mall of Middle America or wherever. I swear I can recall kids passing out and needing medical attention on Michael Jackson's Japan tour.
And didn't Don Johnson cause riots in Germany? Over Heartbeat?
Ouch.
Now, you hear similar stories about Avril Lavigne, Miley Cyrus or, far, far worse on the future humiliation scale, the Jonas Brothers.
What, exactly, is wrong with our girls?
Why do they go bat-shit crazy over these passing pop infatuations and how can we stop them?
Or ... do we?
I'm reminded of that girl who said during the New Kids on the Block craze that she'd take a bullet for the Cute One, Joey McIntyre. Later, probably on some VH1 then-and-now documentary, they caught up with the same girl 10 years later and she was all, like, Joey who?
My depth of concern doesn't go deeper than a desire to avoid someday driving my daughter and her shrieking friends to see Britney Spears's child perform at the Warfield, while I stand in the back with all the other dads pretending not to actually enjoy the music. I survived my infatuations with remarkably few official charges and incarcerations and I'm sure she'll survive hers.
But I frequently wonder what I'm going to say to my daughter when these obsessions begin and she cries behind locked doors while I knock gently, apparently not understanding "what true love is!"
Oy.
I can wait for this.
Sure, part of me will want to impart the wisdom of age and break out YouTube videos on the evolution of a NKOTB groupie to perform something akin to an anti-cult re-education program, proving to her that time will cure all.
But part of me, I'm sure, will remember that nameless racquetball player and the way he always seemed ready, poised with his graphite Pro-Kennex, to knock my heart right out of my chest. In the end, I hope I'll remember these are innocent, adolescent thrills and do what parents have done for generations: just shut up, drive and keep that smirk to myself.
-- Mike at Cry It Out!
