Never mind that by the time you read these words, the new NBC situation comedy starring Al Franken, "Lateline," will have debuted on television. As I write these words, it has not. But I had a dream, see. And in my dream, Al Franken, whom I have admired for years, knocks on my door. And he asks for my help. And he says, "Sarah, I don't know ... a new show? Do you think I can do it? Will people watch?" And in my dream I tell him that, yes Al, the show will be a big hit, that any show with him in it will be a success. Because in my dream I'm a very tactful person.

In my dream I do not bring up "Stuart Saves His Family," a real flop Franken starred in a few years back. In my dream, Franken needs cheering up. So I remind him that he is the author of "Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot," which is a marvelous title and a book I very much enjoyed. But Al Franken is still a little nervous about whether "Lateline" will be a success. So you know what I do for Al Franken in my dream? I poster for him. Like for my friends' bands in college. I go to Kinko's, make a gazillion legal-size copies of a poster announcing his show's date, air time and information. I hoof it all over town with a staple gun, attaching these posters (they're hot pink!) to telephone poles on the North Side, on the South Side, on the West Side and in between.

Most likely, Al Franken doesn't really care whether I dream of helping him or his show. I know that. The only real way I can help him or his show is if I commandeer a Nielsen box. So I help him in my dreams, which is a lot more than anyone did for Dana Carvey. But do you know why I dreamed this? Because I am a fan. And do you know what fans want? Not to be entertained, or at least, not only to be entertained. Fans want to feel needed. We want the objects of our adulation to know that we'll pitch in during their hour of need.

I have told several people about that dream. And each time I mentioned it, I got the feeling they wished I would not have. But I kept telling it anyway, if only to find out why it made them uncomfortable. Was it because the dream starred Al Franken, a perhaps not traditionally dreamy sort of actor? Or did such somnambulistic hubris make them nervous? As in, "Who does she think she is, postering for Al Franken in her sleep?" Or did they just feel sorry for me because I actually believed I could make a difference?

What these skeptics forget is that fandom is irrational. Fandom is almost a dream state, a perfect world that is all about liking. Fandom is one-sided, but it doesn't feel one-sided. When an actor or a drummer or a writer or whatever does something for you, you want to do something back. It's one of the reasons I and countless others found Kurt Cobain's suicide so hard to stomach. He gave us all so much strength, and we didn't return the favor.

What can a fan do, really? Indulge in minor, backstage gift-giving in the form of cocaine, blow jobs, etc.? Such fleeting contributions. Occasionally, you'll hear about an incident such as when the blind Canadian girl testified on behalf of Keith Richards when he faced drug charges in Toronto. Or once, my friend Chris was at a Jonathan Richman show in Montana and Richman and his band needed a ride to Salt Lake City, so Chris drove them south out of the goodness of his heart, listening to Jojo jokes all the way down, one of which was "What kind of keyboard do they play in Russia? A communist synthesizer."

There is one story I can't get over. It's one of those very small stories stuck in your head like a broken record, stuck on sweetness. Not that one normally associates the heavy metal band Judas Priest with sweetness. I heard this one on MTV news. When vocalist Rob Halford quit the band Judas Priest, the remaining members of Priest began auditioning replacements. As it happens, band members were given a videotape by one of their friends of a Priest cover band from Ohio. For a laugh. But the band liked the singer so much, they flew him to England for a tryout. Tim Owens got off the plane and insisted on auditioning on the spot, since he'd be too nervous to sleep. These were his idols. The guys whose songs he'd been singing in bars. How many times must he have studied their records, trying to become them? How many times had he performed their songs in crummy little Midwestern dives, night after night, year after year, for little money and even less glory? How many times did he watch himself in the mirror practicing "Breaking the Law," holding a hairbrush mike, like a clown, like a girl?

Well, Tim from Ohio got the job. According to Judas Priest's official Web site, "After performing just one song ("Victim of Changes") he won the lead singer vocalist role in the world's greatest heavy metal band!" The site goes on to say that Owens was given the nickname "Ripper" by his new bandmates because of his "spine chilling performance" of the aforementioned song.

The MTV cameras followed Owens as he went on his first tour with his favorite band. They interviewed all his old friends from the cover bands, who liked him so much they weren't jealous at all, just ecstatic that their friend gets to live his dream. There's charming footage of Owens' mother in the back row at Judas Priest's Cleveland concert. Watching her son storm the stage, Owens mère thrashes her head to the beat while holding up one of her arms in the devil sign. Parental pride is a powerful thing, but perhaps the story's most delightful moment was when Ripper's showing off the tour bus. With nearly teary eyes, he gazes toward heaven and describes the bus's finest feature. He can watch the Playboy channel on the bus, and it's free. At home, in Ohio, he had to pay for it. Sounds silly, but you should have seen the guy, smiling like a hometown guy with a whole new life.

It was a fan who saved Judas Priest. As their page puts it, "Now more focused and unified than ever, the band are out there touring the world and proving that once and for all there is no metal like PRIEST METAL!" We have a lot to offer, we fans. So you know what, Al Franken? There is no encouragement like MY ENCOURAGEMENT! There is no staple gun like MY STAPLE GUN!
SALON | March 20, 1998