The word "fan" is an abbreviated form of "fanatic." I can't say I'm passionate enough to call myself a fan of any particular celebrity. To me the true value of spotting a famous person in the wild is how I can bring it up in conversation to the delight of others. Encountering a wild animal in a public place has the same energy. You didn't expect to see an emu when you walked into Jamba Juice, but then you figure Oh, they must live near here. Later you'll tell the story, "Oh, guess who I saw getting a smoothie? It was that emu from the show you like." And the person you're talking to will reward you with, "Oh my gosh, I'm so jealous! They're my favorite actor." Discovering we know the same people is ancient and effective social bonding.
If you are a truly ethical person (as I am) you will subscribe to the old wildlife observer's philosophy of quietly appreciating from afar—no undignified grappling with the beasts to pose them for the camera. But, if a well-known toucan or flamingo happens to approach me, well then of course I'll make some casual small talk and maybe offer an apple from my backpack. I'll be posting about my most notable observations of celebrities in the field, starting with my first in 1995:
Pennsylvania Sightings
My hometown of Perkasie, Pennsylvania was truly small-town America. It was corny, both figuratively (Mayor Godshall wore a top hat and a sash just like in old TV shows) and literally (there was a corn growing behind my house and along most roads leading into town). At two and a half square miles Perkasie was so small that we couldn’t fit in it. I went to school in Perkasie, and we wrote “Perkasie” on our mail, but technically we resided five minutes outside Perkasie Bourough’s borders. Hilltown, as the name suggests, was more pastoral. Animals—both wild and domestic—appeared in our backyard frequently: deer stepping out from the corn field, stray sheep grazing on our lawn, fat turkeys waking us with their loud gobbling. One morning a pig appeared on our front porch. Well, it wasn’t the whole pig—just the head. Although this was ominous, we were fairly confident it was dragged there by a neighbor’s farm dog—the neighborhood was rural!
This was not the environment where one stumbles upon movie stars, but there were a few local notables. My punk rock pals were proud that the drummer from the Dead Milkmen graduated from our high school just a few years before us. It was rumored that the sister of one girl in my grade was a regular in a soap opera. Another girl I knew had competed in a model search. She didn't win, but her picture was printed on a tear-out subscription card in issues of Seventeen Magazine. And there was that one girl who starred in our high school plays every year (even after she graduated). Hints of celebrity, sure. But to come across actual famous people I had to drive a bit further from home.
In November 1995 I was excited because there was a new James Bond movie. Our truly small town didn't have a movie theater of its own so we had to drive to nearby Quakertown. There weren’t many people at the late night showing, so my friends and I easily found seats in the middle of the theater. Just as the last trailer played and the room darkened in walked John Popper, lead singer of Blues Traveler. His music video for the hit song "Run-Around" had aired repeatedly since the beginning of the year, so he was instantly recognizable to us. With popcorn and soda in hand he walked at a brisk pace, seating himself in one of the front rows, far from anyone else. Popper seemed like he was attempting to avoid attention, but he was easy to notice. He had chosen to wear his distinctive black fedora and a fisherman’s vest, looking just as we had seen him on MTV. I would assume that a people-shy celebrity and fellow fan of espionage movies should be more interested in disguise. Perhaps Popper put so much energy into crafting his distinctive style, that he couldn’t bear to wear something off his personal brand. As a high schooler in the very style-critical 1990s, I could relate to the danger of being called out as a poser. The brief celebrity excitement passed, and we focused on watching Goldeneye. Two hours later the end credits began, I stood up and looked to Popper’s seat, but he had vanished under the cover of darkness. It would seem Popper was stealthier at exits than entrances. I read an article saying he lived in Quakertown for almost ten more years, but I never spotted him again. Maybe he got better at blending in.