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Article by Wire - June 2nd 2002 All That Glitters: A tale of two autographs Finding the line between reporter and fan By Richard Abowitz (abowitz@vegas.com) Shakira I love you, Shakira! I love you, Shakira!” a little girl kept screaming. A few minutes earlier the pint-size, red-hot Colombian singer had started making her way down the red carpet on her way into the MGM to perform at “VH1 Divas Las Vegas.” I was standing behind a rope barrier interviewing the arriving stars with the rest of the working press. The young fan’s voice was so loud, though, that I couldn’t hear a word of what Cyndi Lauper was saying to me. It was driving me nuts. “Shakira, I love you!” I looked around and saw the girl standing on a bench on the sidewalk directly behind me. Cyndi Lauper broke off her answer when she noticed my attention tapering off. “Well. Um. Eh,” Lauper said. “Sorry,” I said. Lauper smiled and moved on to answer questions from the Entertainment Weekly reporter standing next to me. Next up on the carpet for me to interview was Shakira. But it was also the little girl’s best sighting yet of her idol and, if possible, it made her yelling even more passionate. “I love you, Shakira!” Without thinking, I offered Shakira my pen and notebook and told her that if she wanted to sign an autograph for the little girl, I would take it over to the bench. Shakira thanked me and, at once, signed three autographs. That confused me at first, but after I stepped over the television cables and ducked under the barrier to get to the bench, I saw that the girl was with her family, which included two siblings. Shakira was paying attention. I handed each child an autograph then ran back to the carpet to finish the interview. I can’t explain why I did it. It was a first for me. Press work involves interviewing celebrities, which isn’t the same as meeting them. I ask my questions and then get out of the way. This is both a fact and a boundary. I’ve never had my picture taken with someone I interviewed and I’ve never asked for an autograph. I even caused a minor family crisis once by refusing to score Britney Spears’ autograph for my niece. Sorry. The night after “Divas” I went to see Elvis Costello, one of my idols, at the Hard Rock. With the tickets I discovered an unexpected bonus: passes to an after-show meet-and-greet with Costello. I spent the concert in blind, uncritical awe, and when it was over my friend and I went to meet Costello. “You should get his autograph,” my friend said. She is not a big Costello fan, but came to keep me company at the concert. “I can’t.” “Why?” “It’s unprofessional.” “But your story on him is out. You’re not working tonight.” That brought me to a stop. Still, I explained, starting to stutter, I couldn’t do it. “I’d feel like a radio contest winner.” The truth was, as much as I admired Costello, it seemed demeaning to ask him for an autograph. “Everything I need from him was at that concert and on the disks.” I tried to sound sincere saying this, while ignoring the cold sweat resulting from my mounting excitement at meeting him. There were less than a dozen of us when Costello popped out of his dressing room in a jacket and knit cap. He began shaking hands and signing autographs. I couldn’t breathe. I stood far away, leaning on the table. After about five minutes, a man came out and told Costello it was time to go. My friend grabbed my arm and dragged me toward him. We shook hands. I panicked when I couldn’t remember my first question and then realized I wasn’t there to ask questions. I was just a fan. I felt a rushing in my ears and I don’t remember what was said. In a moment, it was over. Back in the car, my friend handed me a piece of paper. It was the Elvis Costello autograph she got for me. “Thank you,” I said. |