"Well, hello, Mr. Fancypants!" and Other Things Not To Say to B-Movie Celebrities

Ah, here at Cabbages, we have not been without our brushes with fame...

Like when my friend Squeaky swore she saw Richard Gere's entire elbow as he got into a limo during The Mothman Prophecies filming....

Or when my friend Weasel got trod on by Mario LeMieux during a Pens game because she wasn't walking in his stratosphere.

Oh yes, my friends and I have, indeed, known greatness.

And what's my story, you ask? Well, my story involves a life-changing quest, a magical book, a series of obstacles designed to test the bonds of man... Oh, and B-movie actor Bruce Campbell of the Evil Dead movies.

Ever since college, my friends and I have had fond associations with Bruce Campbell and his Army of Darkness film. Our first exposure to it was as a welcome respite during senior year finals, where we sat on the furry, sticky purple couches of the King's Court theater in Oakland and watched the heavy burdens of our workload drain away through zombies, chainsaws, questionable special effects, and a few needed laughs.

So it was little surprise a few years later when my friend Scoobie hinted to her inner circle that she'd like a copy of ol' Brucie's autobiography for Christmas. Yes, indeed, that girl went on a several-week campaign of nuances so subtle only her very closest friends could possibly discern her desires.

Phrases like, “If someone were to get me a copy of Bruce Campbell’s autobiography, I probably wouldn’t mind...”

We picked up on it. We’re clever that way.

But when we heard that Bruce Campbell would actually be in town to have a signing for that very book-- and coinciding when Scoobie was far, far away on vacation, no less!-- well, we suddenly knew what we must do to enable the Very Best Gift Ever.

My partner-in-crime, Austin, and I found our way to the DeStinta Theater. And the moment we stepped through those shiny glass doors it became clear we had entered the Fanzone.

What I'd thought would be just a tidy little group of dedicated viewers, was actually a sea of people of all ages, and from all walks of life-- though, admittedly, most of us were wearing black and enjoying haircolors not generally found in nature (mine, I believe, was sort of a misguided fuchsia-burgundy at the time).

"Oh boy," breathed Austin, taking in the ocean of humanity before us. It was a testament to his resolve and friendship that he didn't turn rapidly on his heel and simply disappear into the night...

Only, I think I was the one with the car keys.

Anyway, soon we discovered there were lines to get movie tickets. There were lines to buy books. There were even lines to get tickets to get in line. And all of it unmarked, banking on the overly-broad assumption that each of us had special psychic powers we'd like to test out.

So after some detectivework and with Tickets To Get In Line firmly in hand, we stepped behind a guy with a homemade "Shop Smart, Shop S-Mart" shirt and waited for our moment with The Man Himself...

And we waited... And edged up.... And shifted feet... And examined our shoes... And counted the repeat patterns on the theater carpeting... And waited some more.

I guess it was somewhere into the second hour of the Bruce Campbell Queue of Tested Patience that I realized that if we ever made it to the front of the line, I would probably have to actually talk to the fellow.

And heck, what would I say that someone else hadn't already said a million times before? I mean, I know these folks are just people, too. And I’m not the type to want to be anything less than sensible in the proximity to semi-fame.

So would I tell him that the night I saw Army of Darkness was one of my favorite college memories?

Would I share that after two days of stressing out over a tedious final paper on Russian history, my friends had kidnapped me for a late night viewing?

Would I describe how we sat on the questionable sofas of that gummy, goth theater and took in one of the funniest horror flicks I’d ever set bloodshot eyes upon?

Would I tell him how, years later, his film had become inextricably intertwined with a brief, shining moment of much needed escapism?

Would I say how I’d rented the rest of the series? That I enjoyed how he didn't take himself too seriously? That I was genuinely pleased to meet him?

No, because he headed us off. "So what do you do for a living?" he asked.

And I blanked. What did I do for a living? I'd been standing in line so long, I didn't even remember my life anymore beyond the theater walls.

For all I knew, we would come out of that theater and see the city of Pittsburgh had, in our absence, fallen to atomic war, or some other post-apocalyptic cliche.

We'd exit to discover everyone we knew was dead, my apartment was just rubble, my car burnt out, and our system of government being overrun by punk road warriors proclaiming themselves king.

"I'm a marketing writer," I said, finally remembering something about ads and scripts and their general relationship to me.

Bruce Campbell turned to Austin. "And you?"

"I'm unemployed!" Austin announced with a broad, confident smile.

"All riiiight!" Bruce Campbell cheered.

So that, my friends, was my moment of interaction with b-movie acting greatness. Four hours in line, sore feet, hair which ended up smelling like hot buttered popcorn even after a serious shampoo, one thoroughly signed autobiography, and Bruce Campbell rooting on my jobless friend.

On our way out, I turned to see the slack-jawed never-ending hoarde, groaning, shuffling and moaning in queue. We were free, but poor Bruce, he had a long dark night ahead of him.

We walked into the cool night air to see the world hadn't, in fact, changed while we were gone. And I drove off thinking it couldn't be such an easy life when it's not just the zombies who want a piece of you.

The signed book, by the way, was quite a hit.

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