FRESH YARN PRESENTS:

Not Really a Star F#*ker
By Kate Flannery

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His star power may have dwindled in Hollywood, but you'd never know it touring the country. The Ohio tollbooth guy went nuts when he saw him. Outside a St. Louis liquor store, a homeless man lit up like a Christmas tree. People would ask me to take their picture with him -- even in the frozen food aisle of a supermarket in Kalamazoo. We'd hear "The Chimps" songs in every town, restaurant and store. I was with the Daydream Believer guy.

At every venue these two middle-aged ladies would sell his t-shirts. They looked like PTA moms. One of them had a 12-year-old son who bore a striking resemblance to my Pop Star. I was sure she would do anything for him. Anything.

Then there was his fan club who came out of the woodwork. These 40-something-year-old female fans would drive three, four and five hours to catch his act. They showed up with roses, cameras and motel keys. I would make myself look busy, like I wasn't waiting around for him. But I was.

They were the star fuckers, not me.

The Pop Star was 20 years older than I, separated from his second wife and had four daughters. I knew he never belonged to me. He belonged to the world. No promises, no demands.

Two weeks and six cities later, on a night before a two-week break in the tour, he was drunk and he picked a fight with me over nothing in a bar.

He said, in that British accent, "Do you know who you're fucking talking to? Do you know who you're fucking talking to?" (As his anger swelled I imagined him doing his signature "Daydream Believer" dance the whole time...) "Do you know who you're fucking talking to? Do you know? You're not fucking talking to Dudley Moore, you're not fucking talking to Peter Noonan of Herman's Hermits! DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU'RE FUCKING TALKING TO??"

Good question. I did not know who I was fucking talking to, or who I was fucking, for that matter. I waited 'til I got home to my room at the Holiday Inn to cry.

Star fuckers put up with this shit?

The other ten people on the bus, who we spent every waking moment with, were a little more aware of what was going on than I thought. I came back to the show after our two-week break, and received some advice from the guy who played Greg Brady in our show. "Don't wait around for the Pop Star anymore."

So I didn't.

Well, guess who kinda, started waiting around for me? Guess who winked at me during the finale, again? And took me to dinner? And gave me a charm that said, "LUV YA"?

And GUESS WHO woke up the next morning in Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania at the Best Western to the sound of the guitar strumming at the foot of the bed, again?

He looked at me and said, "I feel inspired" Then he sang, "I love you this year, I'll love you next year, I'll love you forever." Had he forgotten that he felt inspired by me four weeks before?

The last time I saw my Pop Star was a year later. He was shaking his tambourine at a balloon and cheese festival in Temecula, California.

We were not alone that day. Besides my new boyfriend, the former Chimp had about 25 women there waiting for him. He was busy autographing those familiar 8 X 10's next to the petting zoo. I found myself waiting in that line to say hi to him.

The 40-something-year-old fan club was out in full force. The t-shirt ladies were working at their usual proximity to the Pop star. And near the cheese display was the fan also known as M'lady. All the usual suspects.

When I got to the front of the line, it actually took him a minute to place me. He gave me a hug, but he seemed so guarded and awkward.

How could I have put myself in this position?

We weren't on the road anymore. We weren't on a rock 'n roll bus anymore. We weren't doing sell-out shows; no radio and TV interviews. We were not the toast of every small town, or spending every waking moment ten feet away from each other anymore. We were not anything anymore.

I don't think he even remembered my name anymore.

I thought, "Do you know who you're fucking talking to?"

He had moved on. And I had definitely moved on.

I was no longer a star fucker.

I grabbed my boyfriend, Minnie Pearl's Godson, and went home.

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