Random fandom is something I’ve never been able to get behind. If none of it is real anyway – death, love, power, money, etc. – it’s hard to get emotionally invested in a hockey team.
But real fandom, the fully obsessed-with-a-person kind, is truly something else. I call it “stan”, a portmanteau of “stalking” and “fan”, as well as a reference to an offender from a Dido-chorused Eminem tune.
The first stan I ever realized was one was Mark David [last name redacted as he shall not be named in full without someone accusing you of thinking The Beatles were only okay].
Then there’s John Hinckley Jr., who stanned Jodie Foster so much that he ended up shooting the president of the friggin’ States. Famous females have it the worst, for sure.
Madonna’s been a victim an outstanding number of times, and likely will be until she dies.
Gweneth kept receiving pizzas from this creep named Dante.
And, as you might know, women can even become little stanettes themsleves. Or at least one. Margaret Ray went on a little stanning spree, first creeping Letterman, then an astronaut with the seemingly fakest name you ever heard in Story Musgrave. Then a mid-level accountant at a struggling bakery. And you know if we know of three, there’s gotta be more.
But back to you. I’m sure you’ve had a few stans yourself, and I truly hope you’ve held your own through it all.
[Editor’s note: The author was, and is still, unaware that one of your very own stans is actually mentioned above, and may have even helped me come up with the term. If he had known, he would certainly have thought twice before submitting this greeting.]