Photo by theilr.
When I was a teen in the 1970s, I didn't have the conventional celebrity crushes. Growing up, I listened to my parents' LPs, so I was more interested in Frank Sinatra and Nate Cole than singers who fronted the rock bands of my youth.I felt a certain superiority when my friends talked giddily about the virtues of David Lee Roth's hair or Steve Tyler's lips. I did not swoon for such superficiality. I listened to music that withstood the test of time and admired singers who didn't rely on such gimmicks to sell their songs. I was composed and knowing.
But decades later, I transmogrified from a rational college instructor/mother of two and into a fanatic. In 2003, I developed a crush on American Idol contestant Clay Aiken. Yes, I was a Claymate, a member of the Clay Nation, and the keeper of Clay's Jazz Hands, as I claimed them on a fan board.
Wither this madness?
Several factors should have prevented my twitterpation for this reality television contestant. 1) I was 16 years his senior. 2) I wasn't rich, famous or musically talented. And most salient, 3) I was married! Still, I imagined conversations where Clay and I discussed his performances week by week and strategized on how to secure more votes. I even mailed off a fan letter, which I had never done before--or since.
I was not alone in my infatuation. Somehow, Clay hit upon a perfect storm of appeal for a previously untapped demographic: hordes of female viewers from 8 to 80 were mesmerized by his Idol journey. We watched him transformation from awkward country boy to a somewhat polished singer of pop standards. Along with the other Claymates, I played the part of crazed fangirl. Scratch the surface of our swooning and you'd find the kid sister, the mom or the grandmother. We were all shouting at the screen, "You can do it, kid!" And because there wasn't an established role for fictive kin fans, we forced ourselves into the pre-fab slot of fangirls. We were an odd bunch.
In the decade since his Idol run, I have continued my interest in Clay's career. I'm a bit more tempered now. I don't watch and rewatch his performances or perform Google searches of his image the way I did back in the day. Like a proud aunt, I am beaming with pride. Clay has gone on to make several albums, establish a charity, appear in a Broadway musical and start an unconventional-but-wonderful family.
But I did slip into a bit of my old fangirly self when I followed him on Celebrity Apprentice last year. I logged onto some chat boards where I extolled his virtues as project manager. I had a handy excuse for any criticism he received in the boardroom. I groaned when he came in second place--again. Maybe it's time for me to write a second fan letter, this time a composed and knowing missive to Mr. Trump about the error of his judgment.
