Not That Kind Of Fan
I went to a "Gatecon" this weekend with some friends. Think Trekkie convention, only, with a lot fewer people gluing vacuum cleaner parts to leotards and trying to talk like Borgs. In fact, no one was wearing a costume except the volunteers who were actually working the show. It was nice. Everyone was normal.
Until Michael Shanks came out.
I am definitely the pot giving the kettle a call to some extent, considering I was the one who said "Hellooooooo, good looking" in that "mmm mmm good" tone of voice during the unfortunate moment of silence that fell right after the room finished screaming their welcome to Mister Shanks. OF COURSE I objectify the guy to some extent. He's a good looking fellow with giant biceps who comes into my living room several times a week pretending to be a nerdy, sensitive dude. I don't know anything about him. For all I know he picks his nose and farts in bed. I don't care, I'm not married to him. I just enjoy the TV show, and go about my day. (A day where I happily find myself married to a good looking and sensitive fellow with giant biceps and an enormous collection of sci-fi books and DVDs and related dolls... er... action figures.)
But it seemed like a number of Gatecon attendees had trouble separating Michael Shanks from Daniel Jackson. They kept asking when he was going to stop dying, when he was going back to such and such a planet, and stuff like that. One freak asked him when he was going to go back to being an archeologist instead of a gung ho member of the military establishment.
Lady, he is neither an archeologist or a member of the Air Force. And stop asking the man questions that only the show's writers or producers could answer.
I wanted to tell him I sympathized. I have one of those jobs that, when I meet customers in person, gets me asked vaguely aggressive questions that I can't possibly answer. I also tend to attract attention from people who think they know me, because they know a carefully constructed public persona - one that comes into their homes every day. I wanted to tell him I admired his grace and charm, as well as the fact that he'd just slapped on a hat and some torn jeans and spent Sunday afternoon with a bunch of sci-fi fans.
But I didn't, for the same reason one of my friends didn't grab the chance to stop Gary Jones in the hallway and tell him how awesome he was. Actually saying it would have made the sentiments feel creepy instead of admiring. It's odd that sincere, G... okay, PG rated admiration would feel skanky in a room shared with slashfic writers.
Until Michael Shanks came out.
I am definitely the pot giving the kettle a call to some extent, considering I was the one who said "Hellooooooo, good looking" in that "mmm mmm good" tone of voice during the unfortunate moment of silence that fell right after the room finished screaming their welcome to Mister Shanks. OF COURSE I objectify the guy to some extent. He's a good looking fellow with giant biceps who comes into my living room several times a week pretending to be a nerdy, sensitive dude. I don't know anything about him. For all I know he picks his nose and farts in bed. I don't care, I'm not married to him. I just enjoy the TV show, and go about my day. (A day where I happily find myself married to a good looking and sensitive fellow with giant biceps and an enormous collection of sci-fi books and DVDs and related dolls... er... action figures.)
But it seemed like a number of Gatecon attendees had trouble separating Michael Shanks from Daniel Jackson. They kept asking when he was going to stop dying, when he was going back to such and such a planet, and stuff like that. One freak asked him when he was going to go back to being an archeologist instead of a gung ho member of the military establishment.
Lady, he is neither an archeologist or a member of the Air Force. And stop asking the man questions that only the show's writers or producers could answer.
I wanted to tell him I sympathized. I have one of those jobs that, when I meet customers in person, gets me asked vaguely aggressive questions that I can't possibly answer. I also tend to attract attention from people who think they know me, because they know a carefully constructed public persona - one that comes into their homes every day. I wanted to tell him I admired his grace and charm, as well as the fact that he'd just slapped on a hat and some torn jeans and spent Sunday afternoon with a bunch of sci-fi fans.
But I didn't, for the same reason one of my friends didn't grab the chance to stop Gary Jones in the hallway and tell him how awesome he was. Actually saying it would have made the sentiments feel creepy instead of admiring. It's odd that sincere, G... okay, PG rated admiration would feel skanky in a room shared with slashfic writers.
posted by Sanya at 11:58 PM
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