Confessions of a Celebrity Stalker

Editor's Note: The following is a work of fiction.
This blog is in no way affiliated with the I Hate Celebrity Club blog.

Confessions of a Celebrity Stalker

I started the I Hate Celebrity Club two years after I moved to New York City, and two minutes after Jennifer Aniston cut in front of me at the Sixth Avenue Starbucks. I was late for work, and caffeine deprived, but did Jennifer Aniston care? No way! Her perfect butt was already sitting in the taxi by the time the baristas stopped gawking long enough to make me my tall non-fat latte. Couldn’t she have gotten it delivered?

And how, you might wonder, did that little act of hubris lead me camp out in Tom Cruise’s closet? And who would have ever suspected it was a 24-year-old woman, and not Cruise himself, who was waiting to be let out of the closet?

To be fair to most people’s favorite “friend” my vendetta against celebrities started well before the Starbucks incident. On March 24, 2005 my brilliantly researched and potentially award-winning investigation about foreign adoptions for Vanity Fair was “killed” because the editor wanted to run a Q&A with Meg Ryan (!) instead. I asked the editor what interesting questions he had for Meg Ryan. Did she also want to gouge out her eyes rather than watch her own films during cross-country flights?

The 25 percent kill fee amounted to half my utility bill that month, and I was forced out of freelancing and into a corporate communications job. The job for which I needed incredible amounts of caffeine just to keep breathing.

Sipping my latte, squished between two fat Italian tourists on the subway, I hatched the idea for the I Hate Celebrities Club. As soon as I emerged from below ground in Midtown I dialed my friend Briton.

“We’ll do annoying practical jokes,” I said. “We’ll find ways to disrupt their perfect, comfortable existence.”

“Maybe we can pay the Falong Gong protestors to hang near Aniston’s hotel,” he offered. “Or we can send Kabbalah braclets laced with itching powder to everyone in Hollywood.”

“You keep brainstorming, I’m going to find us some more members.”

I shut myself in my 34th story office (with views into the 34th story offices across the street) and by noon I had launched the I Hate Celebrity Club blog.

“They have perfect hair and perfect teeth and perfect bodies.” I wrote. “They’re the perfect people to hate.”
Anna from Seattle was the first to respond at 1:15 p.m.:
“I agree. It’s bad enough that there are these people who are telling all the rest of us what to wear and what to eat…now they want to tell us how to act and what to think?

Brandee from Long Island wrote in at 1:20:
Cool site. I’ve made myself so crazy trying to be as perfect as the people on TV. I’ve spent so much money on clothes I’ve had to move back in with my dumb parents to pay off my credit cards. My exboyfriend told me it was my fault I don’t have enough confidence. But it’s hard to feel good about yourself when they are so thin and pretty and on the covers of every stupid magazine.

What a bunch of losers! I didn’t want comraderie with the Low Self-Esteem Movement, I wanted revenge. I was sick of being pushed aside by the Jennifer Aniston’s and Meg Ryan’s of the world. The latte incident stuck in my craw like a three day old scone.
But as much as I hate celebrities, I recognized that each has a counter-terrorism network which would have put the CIA to shame.

Sure when Donnie e-mailed me the photos of Nicole Kidman’s cold sore I passed them around the office. (he had been paid to touch up her latest movie, and erase the coldsore from the film) And yes, I took some pleasure in the “Oh, gross,” responses from my co-workers.
But I stopped actively trying to derail celebrity’s lives. I adopted a “live and let live” philosophy. Shaudenfraude was one thing—(and was absolutely acceptable), but plotting anyone’s career or relationship demise was off limits.

I was only too aware that in New York City I might be faced with a Celebrity Encounter at any moment. Coffee shops and music stores were the biggest hot zones. But there were a few empowering techniques I could use to limit Exposure. I tried to avoid all celebrity news—which meant canceling my subscriptions to all publications(including the Sunday Times) and unhooking my cable! I spent the money I was saving hanging out with Briton in bars….and yes, you guessed it, a few too many late mornings cost me my job. My boss slipped the number for AA in my box of personal items as I headed out of the office.

Now I was really in for it. As an unemployed adult, there was no way to avoid the onslaught of celebrity gossip—isn’t the great benefit of unemployment getting to watch TV all day? I had no choice but to rehook cable. I had no job, for God’s sake, people !

I was having a relatively unproductive Monday, surfing the Web, when I flipped on the TV and watched as Tom Cruise preached about Scientology and dolled out mental health advice to America. I watched as the man who became famous at my Junior High School for tongue kissing Mimi Rogers in Top Gun, looked into the camera with his big brown eyes and begged America to swear off prescription drugs.

It was soon after I recovered, a few hours later, that I revived the I Hate Celebrities Club. This time the club had a greater purpose. This time the club would succeed with its mission, because the mission was simple: the mission was to stop Tom Cruise.

“It’s mission impossible,” Briton said, when I called him the next morning. “You’ll never get close enough to him.”

I called my friend Mel(who worked at People) to find out where Tom was staying. “The W Hotel” she told me. “Why? What are you going to do?”

I had no time to lose. In 15 hours Tom would be on a flight to Paris and my opportunity to help save Western Civilization would pass. I pulled out my map of Manhattan, and synchronized my watch. It was 10 a.m. My plot required speed, resourcefulness and at least three different disguises. The maids outfit was easy, I had a slutty version in my closet from Halloween three years ago. The alien costume required a trip to the East Village.

“It needs to look completely convincing,” I told the clerk.
“Convincing to who?” he asked. “The other aliens?”
I headed to Madison Avenue and maxed out my Mastercard on a $350 outfit that would get me through the door of the W.

At 1 p.m. I strolled into the lobby and booked a room on the 10th floor. By the time I switched into the maids outfit and walked up the 14 flights to the penthouse, it was 1:45 p.m.. You’ve seen the movies. You know what happens next. I got the card to Tom’s room off the maid’s cart and snuck in. The room was totally immaculate. My third costume change took some more time.

I had the green scales to glue to my face. I wasn’t sure I could get the body armor on without help, but I leaned against the wall near the bathroom and twisted my arms around back like a pretzel. It was 3:00 p.m. by the time I was finished and camped out in the closet. I inhaled the cologned shirts of my nemesis mixed with the fumes of the body paint I had smeared on my face.

I practiced the monologue I had written on the subway.
“Tom Cruise, I am the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard.” I whispered. “Oh, shit that sounds too much like a Christmas Carol.” I tried again.
“I am the reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard. I have chosen you to visit, because you are the most special of my disciples. You have had a tremendous career, a tremendous life. This is a great day for us, Tom. Today, you can stop your mission. Today, you can focus again on making movies, on entertaining people. You no longer have the burden of spreading my words. I want you to stop. Tom. I never want you to speak of Scientology again.”
Armed with my carefully prepared speech, I waited in the closet. I waited for three hours. I was ready to pass out from heat and hunger when I heard the door open. And I heard giggling ( Get out Katie, get out!!)

I took a deep breath and flung open the closet door. “I am L. Ron Hubbard, Tom. I am L. Ron Hubbard!” I roared.

The shocked eyes of Britany Murphy stared back.
Briton told me later that Tom was at the Waldorf, not the W! Too late I remembered Mel had failed her reporting class at J-school. Never trust a copy editor to do a reporter’s job!

I am in jail on trespassing charges. Tom Cruise is still out there, free.