Crushing

My good friend, Tameri Etherton, has a kick-ass blog (and someday will release a kick-ass novel, trust me) and every month she posts a "Crush of the Month" where she waxes poetic about whatever actor or singer or Starbucks barista (okay, kidding about this one) she thinks is deliriously exciting. Check her out - her posts are great fun.

Her crushes are always very logical choices. Her guys are always gorgeous. I mean, the woman's got good taste. Her posts remind me of my own crushes, except mine are mostly not as, hm, reasonable as hers. I mean, it's not always obvious why I'm so taken with some guys. And while I'm certain, she would have a great time meeting any one of her adorable guys, I am hoping I never run into any of my crushes, because I would giggle like a schoolgirl.

This is not attractive for a woman of my age.

So these are the men I will not be meeting:

I was first smitten with Eric Clapton when I went to see Concert for Bangladesh. I didn't know at the time he was deeply ill with the effects of heroin addiction and his friends feared he might not live. He did recover, however, and he's still a major crush. I've seen him twice in concert, and given the chance, I'd see him again.

Just don't bother getting me a backstage pass. I won't use it. Or I will use it, embarrass myself completely and blame you.

Then there's this guy:

I don't know how to explain my crush on Danny Glover, except to show you this:

My hubby.

I first noticed Danny in Silverado, liked him in the Lethal Weapon series, but really "saw" him in Grand Canyon. I dunno, he's just so solid - I mean, I know he plays bad guys, too, but his good guys are earthy and real and quiet and-and-and-

Never mind. Moving on.

Okay, this is kind of a no-brainer. I cannot, under any circumstances, come into contact with this man without becoming a blithering idiot. And if you add in his latest TV partner, I would be locked away in the looney bin.

I can't really say I loved the Batman movies, but I did love Robin/Chris.

There's one guy I don't exactly have a crush on, in terms of "isn't he dreamy", but I'm still pretty sure a giggle-fit would result if I ever met him. This is a problem, because the chances of my meeting this guy are pretty darned good. You see, I've been corresponding with him about being the featured guest at our Placentia Library Author's Luncheon, held next March.


That's right. Dean Koontz. I confess, I'm in awe of the man. He's written a gazillion books, only half of which I've been able to read. Anything he writes sells an infinite number of copies. According to one of his anecdotes his books are published even when his editor hates them.

I nearly met him today, when I saw him speak at the Fullerton Library. He was supposed to sign books afterward, and I spent most of the morning practicing, "Hi, Mr. Koontz, I'm Gayle Carline, we've been corresponding about your visit to the Placentia Library," without giggling and bursting into blushing flames. Unfortunately, he had to leave early, so there was no signing. (He did feel badly about it, and gave us all a free, pre-autographed copy of Trixie's memoir.)

If everything goes well and he's our guest, I'm wondering whether I can get all my tee-heeing done in the car on the way to the event, or if I will need a big glass of something to calm me down.

Who are some of your crushes? And what goes best with being a blithering idiot - red or white wine?

Man, that torks me off.

I think I've always been a little unique in what attracts me in a man. When I was three or four, I became mesmorized watching Harry Belafonte on TV. Don't get me wrong, Mr. Belafonte was (and probably still is) a gorgeous man. He just wasn't the right 'color' of gorgeousness for my WASP (dare I say racist?) family. I tried to understand what they were talking about, and thought I had the rules, and then Chubby Checkers came along, who was just cute as a button (to me). So I suffered through another round of, "oh, hell no," from Mom.

When the Beatles appeared on the scene, I think I actually heard my mom sigh with relief. They may had have long hair, but at least they were white. But while my girlfriends were swooning over Paul, with George and John coming in at close second/thirds, I was in love with Ringo.

That's right, the weird-looking guy with the goofy sense of humor. Even with white guys, I wasn't attracted to the traditionally cute ones.

The Beatles faded away as I became a preteen and the Monkees flew into my radar. All of my friends had posters of Davey Jones on their walls. But not me. No, I fancied Peter Tork, the one with the goofy personae. (I'm beginning to see a goofy pattern here, but I digress.)

I read today that Peter Tork has been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma. They first discovered it as a growth on his tongue. According to his website, it's pretty curable, it hasn't spread, but he'll be going through surgery and radiation.

First of all, I can't imagine anything more painful than radiation in your tongue/mouth/throat area. 'Raw', 'burning', 'unable to eat' images come to mind. Second, it sounds like a particularly horrid thing to happen to a singer. I am just so sad about my former crush having to go through this, and wish him a speedy recovery. I'm also amazed that I can feel so intimately affected by someone I don't officially know. We've never met, and if we did, I'd probably channel my inner 13-year old and drift between insane gushing and dorky shyness.

So, my question of the day is, has a famous person's personal crisis ever affected you as if they were a close friend, or even family member? Go ahead and share. I won't tell anyone.

P.S. I wouldn't call my husband weird-looking, and he has a sense of humor, but it's not goofy. You will, however, notice a distinct trend in my attraction to him: