One recent afternoon I was taking a homework break with some TV, trying to find something wholesome to watch. I settled on celebrity gossip. The show was cookie-cutter—lots of big boats and cupcake-sized rings—but then the “experts” on the screen turned to fashion faux pas. My favorite! Because I know I’d never wear my Dolce leopard-print rain galoshes with a royal blue baby doll dress.

The experts’ biggest no-no on the red carpet? Tan lines. Seriously. God forbid our icons go on vacation or step outside for a walk wearing anything with straps. They might come back with a little color around their perfect edges. And that would make them like you and me. That would make them, like, real! Oh, baby. We cannot have that.

And remember what got Jennifer Love Hewitt the most publicity she has quite frankly ever had? She was photographed by the paparazzi while on a beach—wearing a bikini. Because cellulite was visible on her five-foot-two-and-a-half-inch, size-two frame, she was labeled fat. Well heck, that puts me, a size four at five-foot seven, one In-N-Out run away from having my stomach stapled. The average American woman is a size twelve, so I guess we’re all pretty lucky we can still walk to our local restaurants for some fried chicken, being so fat and all. But I digress. Slightly.

So why are we so obsessed with celebrities and their maintained or slipping perfection? Do we feel better about ourselves knowing that our ideals can exist in human form à la celebrity? Do we look to them for answers? Why does a “Britney Watch” exist? Perhaps celebrities are the new religious icons of America.

In 2003, psychologists Lynn McCutcheon and James Houran coined a psychological disorder, Celebrity Worship Syndrome, from which one third of us suffer. Those claimed by the disorder fall into one of three obsession categories: “entertainment social,” or partaking in casual celebrity gossip; “intense personal,” when we feel personal connections to our favorite icons; or “borderline pathological,” a stalker-like phase hitting the ten percent of our population who might answer ‘yes’ to a question like “I have frequent thoughts about my favorite celebrity, even when I don’t want to.” Creepy. Psychologists also note that celebrity fanaticism has grown tremendously over the past few decades, serving as a sort of escapism, filling a void left by our fast-paced world.

But San Francisco, with its protective blanket of fog, is separated from all this Hollywood, no? Usually the answer is “kind of yes,” but lately the film bug has taken us by storm. How? Milk of course. You know, the biopic of Harvey Milk directed by Gus Van Sant being shot in San Francisco till the middle of this month.

A few weekends ago Nicole Baptista, an editor of this fine publication, and I took a trip to the set, mesmerized with the idea of seeing a film in action. And maybe with hopes of seeing Sean Penn, even though I’m not obsessed with celebrities. Pinky swear. We got an insider tip that they needed extras and showed up with a thousand other townies.

After a couple hours of waiting on the corner of Market and 12th Streets, things started to pick up. Gus Van Sant climbed atop a platform to make a speech and inspire the crowd of drag queens and ordinary citizens, and Gilbert Baker, designer of the infamous rainbow flag flying at the intersection of Market and Castro, spoke about his friendship with Harvey Milk and his memories of the real-life events being recast in the film. The production assistants told us to get ready, because soon we would be marching down Market, recreating the candlelight vigil that took place in 1978. Nicole and I looked at each other—we had forgotten to wear our ‘70s ponchos and cut-off shorts. Oh well, we said, we’d do this anyway!

So up the street we walked, just to turn around and silently walk back, trying not to wince as wax dripped down our white church candles and onto our fingers. The camera was on the crowd’s left, right next to Nicole and me. And what? Who was that we just walked past standing in the middle of the crowd, tears rolling down his face? James Franco! I mean, James Franco. He’s no Sean Penn, but he’d do as far as a celebrity citing is concerned. We shot the scene twice, I peeked at the monitor to see if Nicole and I could be made out in the shot, and then it was down to business—getting a picture with James Franco as proof we had been on the set. And because he’s cute. But not because he’s a celebrity.

Nicole elbowed her way through the blockade of production assistants, calling over her shoulder that I, and my camera, had better hurry. She touched James Franco’s elbow and asked for a picture. My camera was ready. “Sure,” he said quietly, smiling and waiting for the flash. “Now me, Nicole,” I said, handing her my camera and bottles of set-provided water. I walked up to the 1970s version of Mr. Franco and waited for him to wrap his arm around my shoulder. I could have said a million things to him—“Spider-Man was kinda lame,” “that mustache is very becoming,” “are your pants uncomfortable, because they’re very tight”—but I was speechless. All I could manage was a smile.

We were quickly escorted away from James by a production assistant who had a crush on Nicole (I think he was jealous), and we made our way up the street to catch a cab. We couldn’t stop giggling and looking at the pictures we just took. I suddenly understood that even though I talk smack about celebrity worshipers, it’s hard not to admire famous people when you’re in their presence. You are, after all, meeting someone who a billion people would like to meet, and you realize that the situation is pretty lucky.

So sure, San Francisco may be removed from the Hollywood scene by the lack of physical celebrity within our city borders, but we have Gavin Newsom and he’s kind of scandalous. And I like to make random drive-bys of Robin Williams’ house, but only because I like the ironwork on his gate. Al Gore has a penthouse downtown, too. Oh, and if I only knew which block Danielle Steel owned with her big ol’ house! It turns out we aren’t that detached. We are a city filled with Americans after all, many of whom have no friends and need celebrities to fill their emotional needs.