When I was a little girl, posters of Andy Gibbs, Shaun Cassidy, and Leif Garrett adorned my walls, and I daydreamed about them regularly. In my twenties, I became fixated on Johnny Depp, and I confess I’m still carrying a bit of a torch for him and his chameleon-like acting skills. (That just reminded me that I actually had a chameleon in my teens, and I used to try to confuse it by putting it on my psychadelic 70’s bedspread. It sorta goes along with the teenage idol posters, but I digress…)

Today, I am a die-hard fan of Carolina Liar, a new band that released a debut album this summer and recently toured with One Republic and Rob Thomas. I am nuts about their music. I pour over their website, made them a Facebook friend, and receive regular twitters on my Blackberry. I’m obsessed. Really.

Their New York concerts were sold out, so I snagged two great seats on Stub Hub for half a fortune, and I really didn’t even feel terribly embarrassed when I stood in line to shake their hands and get an autographed CD. Shameless. Oh, and I got a t-shirt, too.

I tried to be cool and not gush too much, but I really just wanted to tell the rest of the crowd to get lost, and that there has never been, nor will there ever be, a bigger fan of their band, that the rest of those girls were merely star-struck imposters and probably didn’t even have all of their songs memorized, that I quite literally have played the music nonstop since I downloaded the album from iTunes in July and may be the first person ever to wear out a digital track if such a thing can happen, and that perhaps they should consider giving me some sort of job promoting them.

Or maybe they’d even let me sing. I did study vocal performance for 3 years in college.

They shook my hand. I’m never washing it again. I swear.