In the Halls of the New England King

If you know me, it should be no secret that I like Stephen King. The thing is, sometimes I find myself thinking that maybe I like him a bit too much. In several of his books, particularly those that delve into his personal life, he makes it clear that although many people feel compelled to visit him at his house, or contact him in any number of ways, he's not interested and we should understand his desire for privacy.

I consider myself a well-reasoning individual overall. And I can totally understand not wanting strange people showing up at your house, or hassling you on the street. But like many other travesties we face in life, the dead truth at the center is that the offendee isn't thinking about you. I've been cheated on, and the hardest realization was that the other woman wasn't thinking about how it would hurt me. I didn't enter in to the equation. And my personal theory about the hassling of Stephen King is that people don't make these decisions based on Stephen King, the man. They just can't override the connection they want to complete with the storyteller.

The thing is, my personal theory is pretty darn personal. I'll admit, I've thought about road tripping to King's hometown, or going to a UMaine, Orono game with the hopes of just seeing him. There is this weird moth-bumping-its-head-on-a-porchlight feel to it. But in my head, when I see King, I see the creative nexus of all these stories that are part of my brain now. That darn creepy clown is my monster archetype. Stephen King is like a gate or a well to access someplace I can't go myself. The fact that he's a regular person, a father and a husband, just doesn't merge with what I want to see. It isn't part of the equation either.

All this reflecting and admitting on the topic of King comes from the dream I had last night. I had won some contest where the prize was to go hang out with SK for the day. But I had to share him with this mob of other fans. We all tried to play it cool, but he dropped us into a DOOM-esque competition where we were all monsters. I ended up recalling my few jiu jitsu skills and took a bunch of em' out. But by then the day was over and I hadn't gotten a chance to talk to him. I just wanted to tell him that I knew what he was. That he wasn't creative, he was a conduit to some greater creativity. But I didn't get the chance, and anyway that theory was forwarded by him already.

The deal is, the reasoning part of me knows its unrealistic to expect to ever meet him, and will keep me from ever doing something so silly or invasive as showin' up on his lawn. "To see that he is real." is what my head always choruses in. I'll shrug and admit my mild obsession to you out there. But it unnerves me how close anyone can be to stalker-fan . . .

Oh well, fortunately for now I'm only obsessed with Stephen King and Joss Whedon. My unrealistic dream is somehow, someday in the future, they will have a lovechild, and oh the stories and dialogue we'd have then!

On completely unrelated news, HBO's "Rome" completely rocks my face off.