Misadventures with Famous People: Part 1

I have talked about my love of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” on this blog before and much more extensively if you’ve ever met me in person. Probably too much. No, definitely too much. I can’t help it though. I’m hopelessly addicted to that show even though it hasn’t been on the air in over ten years.

So last November when I had the chance to go to the Austin, TX Comic-Con and meet James Marsters, the actor who played fan-favorite vampire Spike, I ran around the house squealing like a three-year-old for several hours. All that enthusiasm was before I realized that I shouldn’t be allowed near famous people.

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Be prepared for me to shake your hand your hand way too many times.

The Comic-Con started the day I got home from school for the winter break. My dad had somehow scored me a couple of three day passes. I never know exactly how he does these things. He says he has connections, but I think that connection is to the Dark Lord because he has nabbed tickets to events that certainly required some kind of sacrifice and incantation.

I missed out on the Friday event because of my late flight, but I woke up early on Saturday morning, ready to get my nerd on. It was the first time I had ever driven to downtown Austin on my own before. I had always been deeply terrified of driving in big cities, but there are very few things that would keep me away from TV vampires.

I said TV vampires, Sparkleface.

I said TV vampires, Sparkleface.

I found my way to the Austin Convention Center after half an hour of white knuckling my steering wheel. I have never been to a convention like that before so I strolled in an hour before the doors opened thinking I was super ahead of the game only to walk into an intimidating sea of excited costumed fans. Wolverines and Jokers and Thors as far as the eye could see.

I found the booth that held my pass and made my way onto the convention floor an hour early with the rest of the VIPs. (Witchcraft. I’m convinced of it.) I walked around looking at all the booths and admiring the beautiful artwork I could never afford. Great framed works by Alex Ross that left me in awe, in equal parts by the beautiful depictions of the Justice League of America and the multi-thousand dollar price tags.

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Some people want Picassos. I want this on my walls.

I bought myself a few trinkets. And then stood in line at James Marster’s autograph booth which I was assured he would make an appearance at by 11:30. I was third in line and shaking with anticipation as I waited for the next hour. I flipped through the convention schedule, making note of the events I wanted to see: The Doctor Who 50th anniversary episode screening, a talk on 75 years of Batman, and James Marster’s Q&A.

I stood quietly, scanning the faces of everyone who came even close to the autograph booth in hopes that it would be Mr. Marsters, but it never was. I marveled at the fact that I was as tall as Lou Ferrigno who stood a few booths over. I felt pretty cool. Sure he had biceps the size of my head, but I was as tall as the freaking Hulk, man.

Let's go, punk. You aint got nothing on me.

Let’s go, punk. You aint got nothing on me.

The autograph line filled up to bursting right before 11:30 and then stayed that way for twenty more minutes. Excited chatter about favorite “Buffy” episodes or “Torchwood” memories turned to questions of would he make it in time. His photo booth started in ten minutes and his Q&A was twenty minutes after that. Slowly people slipped away to go to his photobooth or shake hands with the Karate Kid at a different booth.

I stubbornly waited, hoping he’d show, but he never did.

But in the booth next to his sat Erica Durance, “Smallville’s” Lois Lane and my future wife, and my heart kind of exploded in my chest. I didn’t know she was going to be there, lot less twenty feet away from me.

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Do you have a piece of kryptonite in your purse? Because my knees just got weak.

I walked over with the sweaty palms of a seventh grader asking his crush to dance at the spring fling. I practiced what I would say, deciding not to recite to her the poems I wrote for her when I was fifteen. I figured I wanted to at least wait until the end of the weekend before we started breaking out the restraining orders.

I bought a photo of her for her to sign and slid down the line until we were face to face. She smiled and I cried a little bit. I tried to say some words. I didn’t care if they were sentences or not. I just wanted words out there. Hopefully something more eloquent than, “You. Pretty. Me. Lonely.” But I just made sounds at her face.

We shook hands and I laughed at myself, apologizing for my awkwardness saying, “Man, I really thought I’d get a full sentence out before I started speaking gibberish.” To which she replied, “Oh that’s ok. I speak gibberish all the time.”

And then we ran away together and got married and she would call me her Superman every time I made chicken alfredo pizzas for dinner. Or I blushed so hard that my knees got weak and I had to run away. Probably the second one.

That could have been me.

That could have been me.

Check in next week for more mishaps from my Austin Comic-Con adventures.

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