I’m Rob Bloom. This is my Roblog.

1. The first time I remember being really disappointed by a celebrity was in 1984. Reagan was in office, The Hoff was talking to his car, and Michael Jackson was king.  “Thriller” had just come out and the mini-movie music video for the album’s title track had millions of fans in awe. Late in the year, my parents managed to snag tickets for the four of us to go see Michael in concert. But this wasn’t just any concert. It was the Victory tour, meaning MJ would be appearing alongside his brothers Tito, Jackie, Jermaine, Marlon, Greg, Peter, Bobby, and Shecky.

We drove from Ft. Lauderdale to Jacksonville for the show and when we arrived at the giant stadium, I was blown away by the spectacle of it all. This was, at that point, unquestionably the biggest thing that had ever happened to me. And then I saw the giant signs outside the stadium:

DUE TO LEGAL ISSUES, MICHAEL JACKSON WILL NOT BE PERFORMING “THRILLER” TONIGHT.

Ow.
 

2. It’s 1989. My Michael Jackson obsession has long been replaced by a fascination for professional wrestling. Not the stuff where two guys in singlets roll around on a mat in front of 20 people, mind you. I’m talking about the stuff on Saturday mornings: two guys in spandex rolling around in a ring in front of 20,000 people. My favorite, of course, was Hulk Hogan. “The Hulkster,” with his pledge of “train, say your prayers, and take your vitamins, brother,” was truly larger than life. Plus, he did the impossible by bodyslamming the 500+ lb. Andre the Giant at WrestleMania 3. Clearly, I had to meet this guy. Well, after years of cheering his name, wearing his merchandise, and playing with his toys, I was going to get my chance.

I won a contest, sponsored by Orlando’s NBC affiliate and Domino’s Pizza. To win, all I had to do was figure out how many large pizzas it would take to equal the weight of the 303 lb. Hulkster (no, I don’t remember the answer). So anyway, I won and, for the next six weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about meeting Hulk at the upcoming WWF show in Orlando. The day of the show arrived. My family drove to the arena and security ushered us backstage where I was FINALLY going to meet…

Dusty Rhodes?!? Now granted, Dusty was a pretty big star at the time but where was the Hulkster? “He couldn’t make it,” a security guard said. I was crushed. Particularly since Hogan “made it” to the building in time for his main event match later that night.
 

3. 2006. Sylvester Stallone is in Philly to film Rocky Balboa. To say I’ve been a lifelong fan of the Rocky movies would be like saying I was only a little disappointed by the Jackson and Hogan fiascos. So when I heard that Sly would be in my own backyard to film, I knew I had to meet him. Hence my three-part plan. 

Part I: I auditioned for a part in the film. By “auditioned,” I mean that I stood in a mile-long line with thousands of other insane people, waiting to get inside the casting studio. Oh, and by “part,” I mean “extra.”

The result: I was never called.

Part II: Go to the set. Thanks to various newspaper articles and websites (with names like rockylover.com and yoadrian.net), I was able to find a few of the shooting locations. Unfortunately, so did the rest of Philly. This meant I was standing in a group of people who, for the most part, were:

a) Diehard Rocky fans
b) Philadelphians curious to see a movie being filmed
c) Completely and totally drunk


The result: No Sly encounter but I did meet his brother Frank who was more than happy to pose for photos, sign autographs, and talk about how great the movie was going to be.

Several weeks went by. With the filming coming to a close, I was disappointed that I hadn’t yet met Sly. And then it happened. My wife called me at work to tell me the film was being shot two blocks from our apartment. I drove home and raced to the set. And there he was: SLY. Yep, there he was…walking away from me, back to his trailer, surrounded by three very large bodyguards.

Part III: “Do whatever is necessary to meet Sly, even if it means standing outside in 18 degree temps, wearing a short-sleeve shirt because I didn’t take the time to go back to my apartment and grab my winter coat.”

So I stood outside. In the cold. Without a damn coat. That’s the bad news. The good news was that I was the only person there, which meant I had a clear view of Sly’s trailer and, what would be, a clear path when he emerged.

And he did emerge. Ninety minutes later. Sly, surrounded by massive bodyguards who could’ve very easily passed for buildings in the Philly skyline, came out of his trailer and was walking right towards me. I had a clear path and I walked it.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stallone,” I said. “Can I please get a photo with you?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. 

This was it. My big chance. Now all I needed was for somebody to take the picture. I asked the bodyguards. No response. I asked a cop standing nearby. Nothing. Then it happened.

“There he is!”
“Sly!”
“Rocky!!!!!” 

People started running, like cockroaches after you turn on a light, towards Sly. They came from everywhere: streets, stores, alleys, sewers, you name it. Seconds later, the crazed mob had completely engulfed Sly…and steamrolled over me. Sly signed a few autographs before his guards ushered him away. 

The result: Another celebrity disappointment.