As you may already know, the word "fan" is short for "fanatic", and that we were, although it didn't feel like it at the time. It felt anything but negative. It was euphoric at times, hilarious at others.
Interestingly, we the fans were vilified, criticized and ostracized, just like the object of our love. Like shrunken down versions of this superstar, we felt like we were under the spotlight too, although there were no record deals or world tours for us.
We would have to be content with singing in our bedrooms or cars, and if we were lucky, maybe we could get up the courage to sing one of our idol's hit songs at karaoke night. After all, we would know all the choreography by heart, so putting on a mini concert would be easy for us. The word "embarrassment" never really occurred to us as a consequence of being a fan. The word we heard more often was "obsessed".
And for the people who gave us a hard time? They were just assholes. Haters. Losers. They were the ones who were missing out. Why couldn't they just leave us alone?
For most of us, the closest we would ever get to stardom was being in the same arena as our idol, singing our hearts out for two straight hours along with thousands of other fans. Scoring a concert ticket was a privilege and an honor. It also meant you were going to have one hell of a night. You were on top of the world because nothing at all could ever compare to this. For this slice of time, your troubles didn't exist and everybody in the room seemed to love each other.
It took me a long time to come down from that constant, stubborn high and realize that it was kind of a waste. I poured thousands of dollars into the pocket of someone who I have nothing in common with. In retrospect, that money should have gone into a bank account or a retirement fund. But what's more exciting when you're 20? Unless you have been diagnosed with a terminal illness, life is endless to you.
During this frenzy of fandom, I amassed a large collection of records, CDs, DVDs, books, posters, art, magazines, postcards...you name it, I had to have it. Your collection was your status as a fan and it wasn't uncommon for fans to accuse other fans of being "not a true fan" if they didn't have this book or that promotional piece in their collection. For a long time, I displayed it in my bedroom with no shame, despite the protestations of my parents. See, my parents were haters too. What did they know, right? Fuck them, right?
Wrong.
Years later, I moved out of my parents house, but the collection remained packed away in their basement, hopefully safe from a fire or flood that would wipe out my "retirement." At a certain point, I stopped collecting, partly out of embarrassment, but mostly out of a waning interest. I assumed that I would make back my money tenfold when she passed away.
Stop making that face. You've probably thought about it too.
By now you're probably wondering who the "idol" is. Who is this blog going to be about? While I will reveal her name, I won't reveal my identity just yet. While most mature people can have civilized discussions, I am anticipating a hilarious, foaming-at-the-mouth backlash from her current fanbase, who would blindly follow her into an open volcano.
I've come to terms with my former "obsession" because I understand that blind loyalty is akin to mental illness. Nobody is worth that much of your money and time unless they are a beloved family member.
Even though none of my friends are currently fans and I understand that this might very well make me the Salmon Rushdie of my generation, I have to get it out of my system. I have seen other blogs that criticize famous people. Maybe I will be attacked, maybe I will be ignored. Maybe her lawyers will threaten to sue and it will vanish without a trace.
So, without further adieu, I present:
Confessions of an Ex-Fan: The Ups and Downs of Worshiping Madonna
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