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September 2nd, 2002
The first thing that I want to say right off the bat is that I'm not an autograph hound. I don't actively seek out celebrities with the goal of getting them to scrawl their illegible Sharpie line all over whatever it is that they're hawking, or in the case of the "celebrities" that I usually meet, an 8x10 glossy of them circa the TV show that they were on in 1975.
By Marcus
My intro disclaimer notwithstanding, a few weeks ago, I forced Gary to go to the "Fangoria Weekend of Horrors" for the express purpose of acquiring Evil Dead star Bruce Campbell's autograph.
"But Marcus," you astute long-time misinformer readers are saying, "Didn't you already get Bruce Campbell's autograph once, you pathetic simpering fanboy?"
Well, yes. Of course. But the thing is... okay, let's start at the beginning...
Okay, back in March, Anchor Bay came out with The Evil Dead: Book of the Dead Limited Edition DVD.
It's no secret that I'm more interested in the Evil Dead trilogy than I am about, say, the various side effects of any prescription medications I may be taking, and so when this ugly rubber book hit the stores, I was there poste haste to get my own foul-smelling latex copy.
And I was happy. Like I said, I'm not an autograph seeker. The thought never crossed my mind.
Just a few days later, however, there was some tiny little horror convention at some nearby hotel conference room, where all three "Ladies of the Evil Dead" were going to be appearing to sign autographs. Seeing as how I had just got the DVD that week, and it was still sitting on top of my TV when I was on my way out the door, I thought, "What the hell, right? I'll get the ladies to sign my ugly book."
And they did. And that was that. And I was happy.
But as I was on my way out of that featureless, anonymous airport Hilton, my girlfriend pointed out a flyer by the door. Hal Delrich, the "Party Down!" guy from Evil Dead was going to be signing autographs at some store in the mall at Hollywood and Highland the next weekend.
I figured, okay, sure. There were only five people in the whole movie. I already had three autographs. I may as well get the fourth and have almost the whole cast.
So I did. And that was that. And I was happy.
Or was I?
As the months wore on, my thoughts kept returning to that stupid DVD. A collector's mentality had taken over my rational thoughts, and it got to the point where I couldn't sleep, knowing that I was now 4/5ths of the way to having the autographs of the entire cast of the movie. I had to finish it.
Turning to bruce-campbell.com for help, I found out that in August, still many months away, Bruce Campbell, the last autograph on my quest, would be appearing at Fangoria's Weekend of Horrors in Pasadena. That would be where I would complete my collection.
So I wrote it on the calendar, and I waited. And waited and waited.
Finally the weekend came. I called Gary, and told him he had to come with me. We were a go.
Now Gary has just moved to Los Angeles, and he still doesn't know where anything is. That's not to be held against him, as the whole of Southern California was obviously planned by letting ink-dipped mice run over a topology map of the area.
I can understand not being able to read a map sometimes too. Maps can be confusing, what with all the lines and symbols and what not. Still, I gave the little freak printed out Mapquest directions, and we still got lost.
me: So, we're on Colorado Boulevard right now. Where do I turn?
Gary: You don't turn. It's on this street.
me: Really? On Colorado?
Gary: Yep!
me: I thought we should have got to it by now...
Gary: Maybe we should just go down a little further.
(Fifteen blocks later.)
me: I really think we're past it.
Gary: Um...
me: Let me see those directions... Gary! After Colorado, it says "Right on Orange Grove, Left on Green Street."
Gary: Yeah, I know.
me: But you said it was on Colorado!
Gary: It is!
me: You know what? I'm just going to look for signs. Try not to get your head caught in the window.
By the time that we finally found the parking structure, I had completely forgotten what we had come for. The parking attendant asked us what event we were going to, and I totally drew a blank. I was trying to remember what the Fangoria web page said, and the only word that I could scrape up was "Pasadena."
So the guy is like, "What event are you here for?" and I'm all, "Um... Pasadena?"
Finally Gary managed to get his head dislodged from the window, and chirped "Fangoria's Weekend of Horrors, sir!"
The parking attendant lazily lifted the barrier arm and said, "Turn to the right and drive all the way down."
When he said "all the way down," he wasn't kidding either. The parking structure seemed to be about the size of 50 city blocks. Before we hit the end of the garage, we passed the beginnings of several aboriginal races that were beginning to evolve inside of the building.
After we parked, we noticed that not only were there no apparent markings telling us which way the entrance to the convention center was, but there was also nothing suggesting even how to get out of the parking garage.
So we walked until we hit the first door that we found. It was, you know, a parking garage door. A big rusty slab of metal with a push bar on it, surrounded by acres of dark, soot covered asphalt and cement. We walked through the door, and stepped into a brightly lit, carpeted, air conditioned dealer's hall.
What da? I mean... shouldn't there have been some kind of buffer zone or something? A bit of outside, or an entrance hall, or something?
Apparently this architectural shortcoming had not gone unnoticed by the convention organizers, as we were immediately stopped by a security guard who wanted to see our tickets.
me: We don't have any tickets... I mean... the parking lot is right...
Guard: I know. You'll have to go back out and come in through the front entrance.
me: Okay. How do we get to the front entrance then?
Guard: It's right over there. (Points across convention floor.)
me: Thanks. (Begins to step.)
Guard: Whoa! You can't go in there without a ticket.
me: But I... you just said...
Guard: You'll have to go around the outside and come in the front.
me: Okay, how do we get there.
Guard: I dunno. I just work here.
So Gary and I turned to leave the building in defeat. As we walked back towards the door, I could see somebody coming up behind us with his arms full of boxes. We absent-mindedly stopped and held the double doors open for him as he walked through.
"Thanks guys," he said, as he walked nonchalantly between us.
We looked at each other in shock and mild disbelief.
"Who was that?" Gary mouthed to me silently.
"Mutant Biker Dude!" I barely whispered back.
"What?!" Gary replied, perhaps a bit too loudly.
"Come on!" I said with a gesture, and we followed him back to his car like two little stalkers.
Although I didn't know his name at the time, I did recognize the man as none other than Michael Berryman, best known for his roles as "That freaky dude from The Hills have Eyes," "That freaky dude from The Hills have Eyes II," or as I remembered him, "That freaky dude from Weird Science."
We followed him to his car, and we had this conversation with him, that I swear I'm not embellishing or comedy-ing up:
me: Excuse me, I don't mean to bother you, but didn't I see you as a mutant biker once?
Michael Berryman: No, I think you have me mistaken for somebody else. You must have seen me at school.
me: No, I was at this party that my friends Wyatt and Gary were throwing, and I'm pretty sure I saw you there.
Michael Berryman: You should have been at home doing your homework.
If you don't think that was pretty awesome, you need to watch Weird Science again.
Anyway, we asked him if he knew how to get to the front door, and he didn't, so we parted company and wandered around aimlessly for another hour or so.
When we finally managed to find the front door and pay our $20 to get in, Bruce Campbell was right at the end of his Q&A session. The room that it was being held in was about 30 feet wide, and about 270 yards long. Try to imagine what it would be like if you were an ant, and you crawled into the end of a Bic pen. It looked something like that... except square, of course.
Bruce was at the front of the room, on a stage, and we were about four rows from the back of the room. I couldn't have hit him with a softball from where I was sitting. Then again, I do throw like a girl.
Anyway, this is the only anecdote that I remember from the few minutes of the show that we were privy to. I'm paraphrasing, so don't post this to your blogs as law or anything, you freaks:
Audience member: (Unintelligible something something) Evil Dead video game (something words and something) sucks! Bruce Campbell: That reminds me of when I was working on the movie Serving Sara. Matthew Perry was always coming up to me and saying, "Hey, you know that Evil Dead game on Playstation? It sucks!" Well one day I said to him, "Matthew, why do you think the game sucks?" And he said, "Because I can't beat it!" So I said to him, "Matthew, does that mean that the game sucks, or that you suck? That was my last day of filming, and I never saw him again. I don't think that was a coincidence.
Hahaha! Good times. Anyway, after the Q&A was over, it was time for the autograph session. The part I had been waiting for all those months. A nasally voice broke over the PA system and moaned, "Due to time constraints, Mr. Campbell will be signing ONE ITEM ONLY from each person, and NO PERSONALIZATION!" No problem. I didn't need him to write a book for me, I just needed to finish my collection. So I moved towards the front of the room. The nasal voice returned, "We will be lining up people to see Mr. Campbell in a row by row basis. Please remain in your seats." Okay, fine. By that time I was about halfway up the Bic pen, so I just took a seat and waited. After about an hour and thirty-two minutes, a gray haired old convention volunteer asked to see my seat ticket. Wha? I explained that I didn't have a ticket. She informed me that the "front rows" were for VIP ticket holders only, and if I wanted to wait for an autograph, I had to sit behind the reserved section. Front rows?! I was still far enough from the stage that it would have taken me five minutes to get there by moped! So we moved back about 40 rows. An hour later, the same old woman came to me... and asked for my seat ticket. Why you withered old... THIS is VIP seating?! Where does this so-called "VIP seating" END?! Turns out it ended about where I was sitting in the first place. In row 40,000.
By the time that we finally got to go to the big table to see Mr. Campbell, there were only about six people still in line behind me, and 3,000 goth fanboys all blowing on wet Sharpie ink scratched on their Evil Dead posters.
me: Hey Mr. Bruce Campbell! Bruce: Hey guy! me: How's your arm doing? Bruce: It's doing fine, pal. (Scribbles a numb-fingered scrawl on the last empty spot on the autograph page.) There you go. me: Thanks! You were the last star of the movie that I needed to sign my book! Bruce: Oh yeah? In that case gimme that back, I've gotta write this... "You're now DONE!" Congratulations!
I'm glad that he told me what he was writing, because in his name-signing exhaustion, it really looks like he wrote "You're now DONG!" There's no telling how many countless nights that would have kept me awake. "I'm now DONG?! What does he mean by that? After all of those other freaks that he met today, why am I the dong? Does he think that I look like Gedde Watanabe or something? That makes no sense. Well, you know what? If I'm a dong, then you're like, Grand Master King Dong, okay? *sniff* ALL I EVER DID WAS LOVE YOU!" But when all is said and done, and I look at my little pathetic book of autographs, I realize that after all of this low-stakes loser questing, whether he meant it or not, he's totally right. I am dong.
All content © 1999-2007 misinformer.com. You're now DONG!
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