In mid-July 1993, my beloved Poppop died, and naturally I was devastated. I needed something ridiculous to pick up my deflated spirits, because nothing was working. The ordinary diversions, like TV or reading or shoes, were of no help, and I didn’t want to eat myself into ob(ese)livion. So when I learned that David Cassidy would be in Philadelphia (where I lived then) for the VH1 "Back on the Bus" tour, I knew I'd found the diversion I so desperately needed.

Although about 20 years separates me from my mild admiration of Keith Partridge (I never really regarded David Cassidy as anything other than his sitcom character), and although this admiration was nothing compared to the way I dug Greg Brady, I'm still hip to checking him out.

He's appearing somewhere on Delaware Avenue. He'll be arriving on the bus, and then coming off the bus to have lunch with a fan who had won some sort of contest, after which he will be signing autographs.

I don't think there will be that much of a crowd. Surely no one really remembers this guy, or, even if they do, anyone silly enough to dig him 20 years earlier will have buried that admiration under two decades of real life. But when I arrive, I immediately see that I'm mistaken. The crowd is quite large and includes mostly women, around my age, some younger (who I never would have thought would know anything about him), many of whom clutch posters and old Partridge Family and David Cassidy album covers (albums!) (covers!) ("Cherish"!), barely able to keep themselves from flipping their wigs or at least their big hair that resembles wigs. Despite myself and my sneers, I can't help but be giddy as well. I kind of wish I'd known about this event sooner, so I could have gone to my mom's house and unearthed some of my own memorabilia.

These chicks have taken off from work, some of them even closing down their businesses for the day, some of them even hauling along their kids, for a chance to see their long-time idol. Most of them have never seen him up close and personal, but some had seen him in concert. All, however, are excited to the point of near hysteria. They've waited two decades for this.

After what seems like an additional two decades, the multi-colored bus (complete with diamond-shaped panel on the back declaring "CAREFUL – NERVOUS MOTHER DRIVING") pulls up into the parking lot. And even though we cannot yet see "David!!!!!", almost everyone is screaming as if they can.

Because this guy's such a tease, though, he waits for quite some time before getting off the bus. I know he gets off on the heady power he has over these fans. Finally he slinks down the steps, touches his stardusty boots onto the blacktop, and of course the girls go crazy, like he’s the second coming of Cassidy, and start jumping up and down much as they would have done 20 years ago at one of his concerts. He nears me, and I must grudgingly confess to a fair level of excitement. Nothing like when I saw Keanu within arm’s length (a story for another time), but pretty close. As he passes by me, he looks right at me and grins, and I think, "Shit! David Cassidy is a fucking shrimp!"

He still wears his hair in the signature shag that my brother tried to emulate back in the heyday. He wears groovy hiphugger pants tight on his tiny ass. His eye-twinkly smile is still there, too, with faint traces of eye-crinkly that I suspect would appear even when he's not smiling. However, since he has a perma-grin plastered on his face, you can't really tell. You can tell, however, that his skin is stretched so tightly across his face that it looks like it might split if he grins any more desperately.

After having lunch inside the restaurant, away from the crowd, the autograph portion of the afternoon is upon us. Cassidy's people give the crazed crowd a whole host of instructions about how to conduct the serious business of autograph-signing. We are to pass any paraphernalia to be signed up to him through the open window of the bus, at which time he will sign it, and pass it back down to us. We are not, under any circumstances, to get on the bus.

Things are going reasonably well, until somehow a couple of people manage to get on the bus. However, their attempts to touch their idol are met without a shred of humor. Instantly he starts shrieking, and the pair of maverick intruders is ejected from the bus almost as forcefully as if he had pressed a button, landing them in the parking lot once again.

"Oh come on!" he yells through the still open window. "That's it! I'm not signing anything! I'm not doing it! No one is allowed on the bus! You're not supposed to get on the bus!"

Within moments, the bus speeds away ("Nervous Mother Driving!") down Delaware Avenue. And with that he is gone. We are all left standing in the parking lot, dazed and amused.

Okay, so I'm the only one amused. Everyone else is standing mute and on the verge of a meltdown. Arms that have been proudly holding up posters or album covers in expectation and excitement remain raised for a few moments and then slowly lower. Tears of thrilled anticipation are replaced with tears of disappointment, heartbreak, and disillusionment.

Just like before a thunderclap, where you just wait for the roar and the ensuing lightning, everything is silent.

And then —

"He’s — he’s — such an — an — an ASSHOLE!" a woman next to me shouts, tears streaming down her cheeks, mascara streaks trailing.

Irate fans starts tearing up their posters and album covers. Paraphernalia that they have held onto for two decades all of a sudden lose meaning and importance. Whereas before I suspect they would have chosen these items to take with them to a desert island or removed them from their houses in the event of fire, now they are discarding them as if they were bags of dog shit.

I, apparently alone, am unmoved to tears. I stand there, slawjacked, wide-eyed, laughing at this ridiculous turn of events. "He IS an asshole!" I say. "He should be happy anyone knows who the hell he is anymore, let alone wants his goddamned autograph! What a fucking loser!"

And then, almost as quickly as their idol zipped away, Keith Partridge and David Cassidy devotees, like the walking dead, drained of 20 years of anticipation, make their shuffle-footed ways home.

I have since come to realize that perhaps the real problem was with the name of the tour itself. Had it only been called "Back Off the Bus, Bitches", at least the fans would have known what to expect and stayed home, leaving this petulant pussyboy alone in a parking lot with nothing to sign but a restaurant check.

I do have to sort of thank him, though, for picking up my spirits in a way I never anticipated. So for that alone, I must say to this whiny, pint-sized spoilsport, "Hey, I think I love you!"