More Musings on My Robbie Williams Obsession

Strange, very strange. For weeks now, I’ve been stealing time at the office to surf the Internet for any information about Robbie Williams. If there’s a lull at work, and there is on most days, I’ll sign onto the new chatroom: http://www.lyricalbar.com at around 4 p.m. Why? What's come over me?

The odd part is that there is no doubt that what I know of him is just a projection of millions of fantasies, mine included. I suppose he exists somewhere to those who love him and to those whom he loves back, but I will certainly never be included among them. I know that.

Yet, why do I find myself investing in this unsuspecting young man my own personal interpretation of his perfection?

In my fantasy of him, he talks with great erudition about world and national politics; books, and movies; all the things I love. I imagine after hours of stimulating discussion on these and other topics, we make love, and such lovemaking it is, the details gleaned from countless published accounts offered by his unusually talkative sexual partners. He is described as thoughtful and considerate lover whose pleasure is derived from the pleasure he gives his partner.

In the chatroom, depending on who’s there, we discuss these findings in endless detail. At other times, we avoid these topics because many of the obsessives feel he would not appreciate our talking about his personal life. I honor these sensitivities, but I do not understand them. He is often photographed in the nude, and jokes about being gay, a signal to me that he welcomes such speculation. I think he must be an exhibitionist on some level. His casual sexual partners often post intimate details of their encounters to Internet bulletin boards or give interviews to tabloids. He rails against them in his lyrics, but he often divulges accounts of picking up girls, bedding them and subsequently abandoning them in his own interviews.

I feel guilty for my interest in a stranger’s sexual habits, but I am also gladdened by the thought of someone, somewhere having this kind of pleasure in this life, even if it has never been me. I also realize that this evidence contradicts my fantasy about this perfection. He’s obviously just a plain, ordinary human with the same contradictions and faults each of us has. I have no doubt that he is highly intelligent and certainly ambitious, but erudite? Probably not. Well-read? Doubt it. He dropped out of school. What would we talk about if we met? Him? Probably.

As for the sexual thing....who knows?

All I know is that I'm still obsessed and it seems to grow.

I think the reason for my obsession is really very simple: escape. In the freaky alternative world of Robbie mania, no one knows who I really am. I am just a nickname. A cyber -- literally. My real life is far from that chatroom. My sorrows, my sickness, my disappointments, my failures, my fears are far, far, far from Robbie World. I can pretend that I haven't got a care in the world.

During Christmas this year, there was a radio concert Robbie performed at Abbey Road that was simulcast on the Internet. All of us in the chatroom listened to it together. It was early evening in London and late afternoon here. The Londoners were listening on their radios at home; I was listening over the Internet. We chatted back and forth as each song was sung, thrilled by his silly banter between numbers. It was glorious. I was actually laughing from the sheer joy of sharing that experience with my cyber community.

No one in the chatroom knew or cared that I had just spent my Saturday in the nursing home with my sister; or that before I left her I had to help her on and off the toilet so she could catherize her remaining kidney. No one knew that I cry almost every morning, afraid of what more this disease will take from my sister. No one knew that everything in my apartment reminds me of my sister Sharon's life before multiple sclerosis and how angry I am at G-d for doing this to us.

No one in the chatroom knew or cared. What we cared about was Robbie. The fantasy Robbie who I imagined would care if he knew; or maybe he wouldn't. It doesn't really matter anymore. The obsession has a life of its own now.

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