Can I Have Your Autograph?

I've never quite understood the big deal about celebrity autographs. You have a name on a piece of paper or a picture and it means what? Maybe they address it to you specifically and this gets you what? Perhaps you are so damn proud of it that you hang it on a wall and who is actually going to be impressed by this?

Yeah, I don't get it. Oh, I have a few strewn around someplace. When I was about twelve, I wrote a fan letter to Paul Lynde and he sent me an autographed photo. Frankly, it was a lot more memorable years later when I interviewed the guy for the college radio station. I went to book signings for Milton Berle and Audrey Meadows, but I did so more for the chance to shake hands with a TV legend. More recently, I went to Valerie Bertinelli's book signing. If you're on this blog regularly, I need not explain more my reasons for being there. Her scrawl adorns this entry.

Still, I have these peoples' signatures and it's no big deal. I've only really sought them if there is a really special reason to do so. When we were writing a project with Linda Ellerbee, I knew that TV writer/producer Marc Cherry was a big fan of hers. He was really impressed that we were working for her. So, we got him a specially autographed copy of her book. He loved the gesture. It meant something to him. And, to me, that's when an autograph makes sense.

Living in Hollywood, I suppose I should be knee deep in celebrity autographs. But I'm not. If opportunities arise in public meet and greets at Hollywood screenings, I might ask for a joint photo. Or, when the Aero Theater ran "The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad," I made a point of getting some face time with Kathryn Grant Crosby to ask about "The Big Circus." When Shirley Jones was there for a screening of "Elmer Gantry," I asked for a snapshot with her, primarily because an old friend of mine is a big fan.

Yet, nine times out of ten, I'll see a celebrity out and about and I will leave them alone. Do you want to be stopped by some stranger when you're trying to pick up your dry cleaning? Probably not. And neither does anybody else. So while it is tempting, I leave them alone. I don't talk to them. I don't pester. As a matter of fact, there are several folks that I have seen more times than I have seen some friends. Teri Hatcher? In several restaurants, the Arclight Cinemas, and a few stores. Jon Voight? In the supermarket, the movies, and in the row ahead of me on a flight to NY. Richard Benjamin? Several different drugstores. Bob Newhart? You name it. Walgreen's, Ralph's, the gas station, Best Buy.

The closest I've come to breaking my self-imposed moratorium is when I was standing on the popcorn and candy line at the Egyptian Theater alongside Ron Howard for a "Guns of Navarone" screening. I came close. Almost. I like and respect the guy. Ultimately, I didn't. Why not? Some stooge ran over.

"Ron, will you sign this napkin for me?"

And there it is. The quintessential Hollywood autograph seeker. The one who will go to any length whatsoever to annoy the absolute shit out of some celebrity.

When any star is scheduled to be in attendance at a book signing or a screening, these assholes show up in droves. Usually dressed in Old Navy hand-me-downs and frequently carrying around a shopping bag full of dog-eared memorabilia that is desperately in need of the finishing touch. Somebody's John Hancock.

And these graduates from Loser University pull no punches in their relentless need for emotional validation. They're funny to watch. They're pathetic to watch. But, nevertheless, they are among us with little shame and a very high threshold for personal embarrassment. Grown people with sweat stains on their shirts and underwear logos sticking out of their waist bands. Yet, they consider themselves totally entitled to a fleeting moment with Rhonda Fleming as she writes her name across some 1940s photo of her in a bathing suit.

Watching them in action, I want to laugh. I want to cry. More importantly, as a joint member of this society, I want to crawl under a rock and hide.

Last Saturday night, at an Egyptian Theater screening of "Funny Girl," it got super ugly. For me, in particular.

For some mystical reason, the unspooling of the film was going to be preceded by introductions from the in-person producers of "Glee," as well as one of the megahit's stars, Lea Michele. This dragged out every Sharpie-equipped leech within a five mile area of the theater. Watching these numbskulls prep for the expected appearance of Lea, I was astounded and repulsed by their brazenness. Running here, running there as if Jesus Christ was arriving with fish and loaves of bread. One fat chick went so far as to physically lift up the movie screen curtain looking for an electrical plug so she could recharge her digital camera. Any aspect of dignity had long since touched any of their lives.

Since the "Glee" folks stayed for the entire movie, there are even more predators lurking in the parking lot outside. Because the thought of even leaving Lea Michele with one single moment to herself on this Saturday night was an alien concept to these morons. They blocked the exitway with their posters and calendars. As I walked past one such obese oaf, I made an aside to my friend.

"These people need to get a life."

There was nothing wrong with the oaf's hearing. And I hadn't simply touched a nerve. I had molested it. And he called after me as I kept walking.

'YOU NEED TO GET A FUCKING LIFE. YOU FAT, OLD, MOTHER-FUCKING, CRIPPLED FAGGOT!"

Okay, fat? Who isn't a little at this age? Old? A subject for debate. Mother fucking? Not that I can recall. Crippled? Okay, a little arthritic and stiff after a two-and-a-half hour movie. Faggot? Er, no. And, given that this "guy's" screams were reminiscent of Minnie Mouse, this dummy obviously has defective Gaydar.

I wanted to turn around and answer back. Maybe something about him going home to sleep in the same bed with his mother as he pets the eight or nine cats that live in the house. But, I didn't. I kept walking. Well, actually, I kept on limping.

And wondering.

Is this as bad as it gets for the world around us? Or, in these days of TMZ, is the worst yet to come?

The next day, I mentioned the exchange to another friend. And she lamented that this is the way some people make a living. By getting signatures and then selling them on e-Bay or the internet.

And what's worse than some goofballs selling these autographs?

Somebody's obviously out there buying them.

Dinner last night: Pizza in NY to celebrate the end of 24.