I had a friend back in college who was a huge Blondie fan. One night, he went to a Blondie show, and afterwards, got to meet Debbie Harry backstage. So thrilled by meeting his idol, my friend wanted to keep a little piece of the experience forever—not just in his memory, but in some tangible way. So he stole Debbie Harry’s plastic cup of water, carrying it—half full—back to his apartment where he carefully stowed it away in the freezer, preserving the cherished artifact in perpetuity.
“Debbie Harry actually sipped from this cup!” he would remark, flaunting the frozen hunk of ice to his guests, four, five, six years later. I wouldn’t be surprised if he still had the cup in his freezer today.
And I will always remember this act of rabid fandom with great affection (and more than a little curiosity) because personally, I have never been one of those crazy super-fans.
Had I been a teenager in the 60’s, I would not have screamed over the Beatles, no matter how adorable Paul’s dimples were, especially when he hit the high notes and shook his floppy hair. Unlike my husband and sister, I never “went on tour,” nor did I get overly excited when I got to shake Thom Yorke’s sweaty hand. And I LOVE Radiohead. And I never really got what was so damn important about buying the concert t-shirt.