Stalking Alan

                                                                                                                                         4:37 a.m.   1/10/11/05

stalking catWith my obsession for all things Brit in general and for all things Alan Rickman specifically, I was worried that I might become a stalker. Oh, I’ve never stalked anyone before, but I’ve never had this strong a celeb crush before. It’s silly and it’s stupid, I know, but I feared that I would take that next, drastic step and cross the invisible line.

Then I realized there are two huge reasons I would never be a stalker. One, I’m a lazy bitch who doesn’t like to even drive thirty minutes to get to a friend’s house, let alone fly across the damn ocean to stalk someone I’ve never met. That’s just too much energy and devotion. Jason Isaacs has talked about his personal stalker who seems to know when he’s home and when he isn’t. Any time he’s out of the country, she’s there at the door when he gets back. Of course, that leads him to wonder if she’s just there every day, waiting for him to return. She’s called him, pounded on the door, etc. He takes out restraining orders on her, but we all know they’re just pieces of paper.

As I read about the horror he faced with this crazy woman, I realized that was just way too much work. Staking out someone’s house every day? Keeping tabs on somebody’s schedule? Find a way to get an unlisted number? I get tired just thinking about it, let alone doing it. Plus, it would cost way too much money to do. So you combine the amount of energy and ingenuity I’d have to expend with the amount of money I’d have to spend, and well, I just don’t see it happening. I mean, if Alan Rickman lived in my house or something, well, then I wouldn’t have to stalk him, would I? If he would even just stay in one place, preferably in the Midwest, then I might think about stalking him. I still wouldn’t do it, but it would make it easier to even fantasize about it.

The second reason is because I like my privacy too damn much to do that to someone. There’s this woman on eBay selling pictures of Alan she’d taken herself. One was at the Cannes Festival in France. Another was at some famous London theatre. There were others, and all I could think was, ‘Leave the poor man alone.’ It’s horrifying the lengths some people will go to in order to run into a favorite celebrity. I don’t blame celebs for getting surly when constantly overwhelmed by fans. I would like to be famous, but I wouldn’t like the accompanying scrutiny that goes hand-in-hand with fame. Jennifer and Brad split after four years of marriage. Rumors have it he’s been having phone sex with Angelina Jolie. Rumor has it he wants to have children, and she doesn’t. I couldn’t imagine being the focus of that kind of speculation. I have too many oddities to fare well under the bright lights.

I digress, of course, but I’m making a point. Since I cherish my alone time to the point where I screen my phone calls and I don’t have a cell phone or pager, it would horrify me to take that away from someone else. Besides, I have pride, man. I’m not going to humiliate myself by throwing myself at the feet of one who doesn’t give a damn about me. I would rather watch the Pack beat the Vikes a hundred times straight than to debase myself for anybody. I don’t understand how someone can be so vulnerable and say, ‘You mean so much to me, I’m willing to give up the rest of my life to follow you.’ Vulnerable and pathetic. Which brings me to my next point.

I’m not self-delusional enough to carry off a stalking. In order to stalk someone, you have to be somewhat off-kilter. Your filter has to be broken, and you have to believe that the person you’re stalking is in love with you despite all evidence to the contrary. In other words, you have to be stark, raving nuts in order to be a stalker. While I am odd and have my share of flaws, being crazy is not one of them. I know well enough how ludicrous my feelings are, and I have no intention of making an ass out of myself by stalking Mr. Rickman. That would be rude and invasive. Also, I wouldn’t want to bother him. It relieves me to know that I wouldn’t stalk someone, no matter how much I might crush out on him/her. The last thing I need is to go to jail. I mean, I could probably hack it-I’m no Martha Stewart-but it’s not where I want to be. Then again, it would give me more time to think about Alan and plan our future together. I’m kidding, of course, so don’t get your feathers ruffled. It can’t hurt to fantasize, can it? It helps release some of the frustration.

In conclusion, I will never be a stalker. I’m too lazy; I’m too smart; I’m not self-deluded enough; I have my pride; I know that no means no. So don’t worry, Mr. Rickman, you won’t be seeing my mug any time soon.

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