There’s no way of putting this without sounding creepy, so I’ll just spill it: All through Grade 12, Patty Smyth was the last person I saw every night

She took up most of the wall by my stereo, strutting her pouty lips and baring that midriff like all the singers in the mid ‘80s did. This gigantic poster wasn’t available in stores, which made it even more of a prized possession. When I saw it at Sam the Record Man in downtown Windsor, I asked – pleaded, actually – for the manager to sell it to me once they were finished with it. Perhaps seeing the fanboy desperation in my eyes, he grabbed a ladder, unpinned it from the wall, and handed it over. “There you go,” he said, basking in the glow of another satisfied stalker customer.

That’s how it was back then. Before you could download everything, before every image and song and intimate detail was available online, you had to work to obtain ‘stuff.’ Finding that specific poster or album took some effort. If they didn’t have it, they’d order it for you. If they couldn’t do that, they’d call other stores.

If nobody could get it for you, you’d spend months – sometimes years – hunting it down. If you were a big enough fan you did it with a purpose.

And I was a huge Patty Smyth fan. Pat Benatar was my queen, Stevie Nicks was second-in-command, but Patty was in the ballpark. And for a year that poster was my pride and joy.

Which is why, almost 30 years later, there was that twinge of anxiety expecting Smyth’s phone call last week for an interview. This is the weird part about being an entertainment writer – to be one, you had to grow up with this stuff. Obsess over it, actually. Inevitably, especially in the twin casino town of Niagara Falls, you’ll interview one of those objects of your affection.

There’s no template for this. You can prepare for hours, come up with ten probing questions, but deep down you’re still a fan. And the fan can still get nervous. It gets worse when the interview gets off to a rough start: Smyth had that ‘let’s-get-this-over-with’ tone from the get-go, and wasn’t in the mood for small talk. After about a minute, she dropped the bomb: “Have you not prepared for this interview, John Law?”

Ouch. I don’t know what rattled me more: That she referred to me by my full name like a disappointed math teacher, or that she assumed I knew nothing about her and was just winging it. In actuality, I had more questions than she had time to answer. I own every record she ever made. I was a Patty Smyth fan long before her breakthrough album in 1984, The Warrior. But 30 seconds of poorly-timed chit chat doomed me. I was shooting at the walls of heartache.

The silver lining? She’s at the Seneca Casino Saturday night, where I might get a chance to sheepishly explain myself. And … uh, get that six-foot-tall poster signed (can’t wait to explain that one to customs). If not, well, Goodbye to You will sting for awhile.