I get invited to a lot of stuff. Concerts. Games. Tournaments. Championships. Dinners. Lunches.

I realize I’m pretty spoiled. Rarely am I standing in lines, fighting for a place to pee, or sitting on a bleacher.

Typically my tickets read Chairman’s Lounge, Owner’s Suite, SkyBox, VIP Box, Premium Seat, blah, blah.
Like many of you in this business my monthly schedule becomes highlighted by my collection of used event lanyards in my desk. I really need to throw these away.

Beyond the nice seats, free booze, limited access restrooms, and hit or miss food selections… the best part of these seats are the people. First and foremost my hosts, and then other industry people, and then the random people you meet. I can count dozens of industry colleagues that I originally met at an event.

This year I’ve developed a new habit at these events. I’ve become a groupie. And I am somewhat ashamed.

I didn’t used to be a groupie. Outside of eating dinner next to Courtney Cox and Jennifer Aniston one night in Chicago, so long ago that Courtney was the bigger celebrity than Jennifer. (Remember those days? Hard to believe!). That night I was a major groupie.

But something has happened to me. My groupie gene has suddenly emerged from the depths of my fat cells. Somewhere this 227-pound, balding, middle-aged man has become a groupie.

In 2010 I have leapt over tables, pushed aside children, and cut off hard working volunteers for all sorts of pictures, handshakes, and maybe even soon an autograph request. Although I haven’t gone there yet.

Al Michaels. Richard Branson. Chris Collinsworth. Alexandre Bilodeau. Seth Grodin. Stephen Harper. Donovan Bailey. You name them… I’m posing with them.

What has happened to me? Why am I posing for pictures that I spray out to my family and friends and then forget about in two days? Do I really think my poor Mom wants to see me with a goofy grin on my face, while some famous person recoils from the grip of my arm and the aroma of a man who definitely needed another pass of his Old Spice stick??

I don’t know.

On Sunday at the Honda Indy (Toronto version), I had another opportunity. I was seated in a box right at the Start/Finish line, courtesy of the race owners (Green Savoree), and also right behind the pit of Dario Franchitti. Better known as Mr. Ashley Judd.

You have to understand the very front row of our suite was VVIP “reserved” for a movie star, according to the catering staff. So when Ms. Judd appeared in her husband’s pit… my mind was racing. Could it be? Would it be? Was I about to snuggle up for a Blackberry close-up, with the number one fan of Kentucky Wildcats basketball? I couldn’t wait to tell her that I was at the 1997 Final Four in Indianapolis. I saw her there too. I was only 280 rows behind her. Do you think 13 years later she would remember?

You’ve probably guessed I have a little Ashley Judd crush going. It probably coloured my thinking on Sunday.

So instead of the race, I got on the Ashley watch. She was wearing a sun hat (remarkably like one my wife has) and a green summer dress that matched her husbands paint scheme for the race.

She entered the pit and grabbed a race control radio. I thought this is perfect, when she meets me, she can tell her husband about it! Or not.

Then she sat on some tires. Two pit guys made small talk with her.

One offered a bottle of water. She declined. Another offered a swig from his energy drink. She had a dry heave.

Then she got up and surveyed the pits. Hmm… was she looking for the stairs up to the suites so she could sit next to me?

She moved three feet under the canopy to check the monitors. What IS the delay?

Then some important people came by. Two got hugs, one got a cheek kiss. I still hadn’t gotten my picture. Frustrating.

The race began. Hey Ashley your husband is moving. You should too. Like up here!

The race had a yellow flag. Hey friend, Dario can’t do anything right now but drive in circles, why don’t we talk about my injured knee if you’re bored?

The drivers got to pit. Ashley didn’t help with anything. Maybe she isn’t as happy with her man she seems. Then again those pit guys move pretty quick.

The race resumed. Hubby was in second. I’m sure she would have a better view from our suite. She has to be hungry, the skinny little thing.

The laps ticked away. Every click of the lap counter excited the race fans looking forward to a big finish. I was scheming new schemes at every lap.

Oh boy. Two laps to go. I give up. Took a picture of her back. I didn’t think screaming “Stella” at this point would have gone over well with my hosts. I emailed it to my best friend. Too ashamed to share with my family. He replied I was a loser.

He’s got it wrong. I’m a groupie.