The Land of Broken Dreams

Man, when it rains, it pours. First the dirt on Ron Howard, and now, well, you'll see...

Today was Valentine's Day, so of course I went to the Science Museum again. I made the usual rounds -- I shouted at the dinosaurs, I saw "Gentle Ben" the dead bear, I inquired in the gift shop about buying a real human skeleton, etc. It hadn't been a bad trip, but it was really nothing special, until I saw the man himself, John Stamos.
Now, any celebrity sighting at the museum is a sure sign of a red-letter day, but Stamos was something special. I thought it was great seeing Cecil Fielder there a couple years ago, but John Stamos had always been something of an idol to me. I know the last few years have probably been kind of rough for him, what with Rebecca Romaine-Stamos and him splitting up, but to me that's all small-potatos. He will always be Jesse Consapolis to me, the coolest uncle in the world to cute little Michelle, beautiful DJ, and skanky Stephanie Tanner. He was by himself, too, so I followed him around the museum.
It was really great at first -- I pretended that Uncle Jesse was giving me a personal tour of the museum. It was neat just watching him, even if I didn't really understand some of the things he was doing. When we were down in the Weather Gallery, though, the day just went down hill. He was "standing" by the big Tornado Machine, and a museum security guard came up to him, and sort of pulled him away from the display. Naturally, I ran over to help him out.
"Sir," the security guard said, "I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave the museum."
I told the guard that "sir" was entirely inappropriate. "Sir Stamos" would be better. John and the guard just looked at me, but they didn't do anything. I took that as acknowledgement that my input was appreciated.
Anyway, John Stamos just sort of stammered in a very suave way, and asked why he had to leave the museum. The guard said that he's rather not say why out loud, but I insisted that he did, for the honor of John Stamos. I just got looked at again, but the guard said that he had seen Mr. Stamos rubbing up against several of the exhibits in what he had deemed an "inappropriate" manner, and when Mr. Stamos rubbed against the Tornado Machine it was the last straw.
John Stamos said that he never had done that, and I said that it didn't matter if he did, because it is a free country, and the guard said that there were aproximately forty-five minutes of security camera footage of John Stamos rubbing against exhibits. I asked, then, what was so inappropriate about rubbing up against a Tornado Machine, and what was it for if not that. So I started rubbing up against the machine in the same way I had seen John Stamos do.

Have you ever done this? I thought I was being both noble and logical, like that Down's Syndrome alien on Star Trek, but when I started rubbing against that Tornado Machine, it wasn't like that at all. While it wasn't entirely unpleasant, it sure as hell wasn't entirely pleasant either. And it was still warm from John Stamos, which was very upsetting to me. I never thought someone could fall so far so fast from my good graces. But John Stamos did.

"He's all yours," I told the security guard. The guard tried to grab John Stamos again then, but ol' Uncle Jesse pulled away from him and ran to the other side of the Tornado Machine, where he started rubbing again. And then he kind of started crying, and he kept saying, "But it's Valentine Day! Valentine Day! Rebecca! Rebecca! It's Valentine Day!" And then another guard showed up, and they pulled him away. He was still rubbing away at thin air when they got him to the elevator.

I'll bet that's the last time I'll see John Stamos outside of a rerun. If I wasn't so upset by the Tornado Machine experience, I sure would feel bad for the guy. I mean "Rebecca! Rebecca!"? That's pretty rough. I just wonder if he was talking about Rebecca Romaine-Stamos, or Rebecca, his wife from Full House. Because he and TV Rebecca always had such chemistry together.

Well, goodbye John Stamos, until we meet again at the big Beach Boys concert in the the sky (and, Brian Wilson, keep him away from the amplifiers!)

And to the rest of you, Happy Valentine Day!

The Den of The Red Lobster

Doesn't that sound scary? It does! "The Den of the Red Lobster!" But you don't know the half of it. It's not just the lobsters there that are scary (lobsters are scary, alive and dead), but the people at Red Lobster -- they're skinheads!

I'd always thought that the skinheads were all dead -- all that anger is bad for your heart, so your average skinhead has a life expectancy of about thirty days -- but was I ever wrong. They're all at Red Lobster. I don't know if it's a breeding population or what, but they're there, and they all wear those lobster-print shirts, and they're mad as ever (which probably has a lot to do with the shirts).

I was at the Red Den this weekend, using a gift card I recieved from my great aunt. I was wondering just what the menu meant by "surf and turf," so I started yelling for a waiter. Along comes this shining-headed young man, with a lobster-red face. He had a lot of pins on his shirt, most of them swastikas, or at least alluding to naziism. I mean, how many ways can you interpret "Nobody's Perfect, But I Keep Trying!"?
Anyway, I asked the little facist my question, and right away he says, "It's steak and lobster, bitch." And that was a weird thing to say, because I'm not any kind of bitch. I tried to tell him that I knew it was steak and lobster, but I wanted to know exactly what it was, when he interupted me to say "We don't serve your kind here."
Now, I assumed that by my "kind," he meant "aristocrat." That's obviously an oxymoron, because we are served everywhere. I tried to explain this, but his face just got even redder, and he practically shouted (it was hard to tell, because everybody shouts in Red Lobster) "No! I meant... Koreans!"
I don't know exactly where "Korea" is, but I'm pretty sure that's not where I'm from (unless it's in England -- Chesterton is an old and respected English family). Nevertheless, I was very indignant, and I took my giftcard and left. I left that little goosestepper sweating and spitting all over the table. I think he might have been having some kind of seizure, but after everything that had happened I felt no obligation to help him out. Plus, I realized that the giftcard was homemade, and it was for a batch of my great aunt's "famous" sugar cookies, so I figured I should get out of there.

Let this be a warning to everyone, though. The skinheads are alive and well, and they are canoodling with lobsters in every major city. Bring your crucifixes, bitches.

Frankly, I'm not surprised - they killed Galileo for less.

Well, this might have to be quick because I have to pee like crazy, but do y'all remember my mailman?
Remember? My mailman? Prancing little guy who verbally assaulted me and who I punched and tried to capture in self-defense? I knew you'd remember. I believe he was last mentioned in an entry titled something like "The worst day ever." Check it out if you want to know just what sort of snake we're dealing with here.

Anyway, he's up to his old tricks again, his tricks being assault, rat-like treachery, and trickery.
Our relationship became a bit strained after the last incident. He still brings me mail, and I still wait by the mailbox, but there's suspicion there. Suspicion and ill-will. Mostly on his part, I would say.

Now, before you hear otherwise from some nancy public servant, I want to clear something up for you. I know for a fact that it is illegal to damage or destroy someone's mail. Don't ask me how I know, it's just something I used to do. So, obviously, it would be the very opposite of illegal (legal, or super-legal) to try to protect the mail. And that's just what I've been trying to do (this is the point of contention between the nancies and I). Since "the incident," I have been putting mousetraps, and sometimes rattraps*, in my mailbox. This is to protect from mice, and sometimes rats, because mice, and rats, love paper and glue. They love to eat it, and they love to make nests out of it, and both of these actions count as damaging or destroying the mail. So I am acting under the authority of the super-legal. My mailman, apparently, has misinterpreted these actions as attempts to damage or destoy him (which, as far as I know, isn't even against the law). The snake reported me, and before I know it, there are some gentlemen with badges and sportcoats hanging around my mailbox, fiddling with my defense against mice, and sometimes rats (which, as far as I know, is protected by the second amendment).
As soon as they saw me, they came barging into my porch, full of questions. After many "What do you know about this"s and a few "Your mail carrier is very concerned"s it was eventually brought up that my traps were found to be covered in poison. Well, DUH!! I made it myself, after all.
I explained all of that to them, and they suddenly got these "Oh, I'm super important and scary" faces, and started telling me what a serious situation it was.
I told then that I knew it was a serious situation, because I take my art (poison making) very seriously myself.
They said that the mailbox was not the appropriate place for me to be practicing my "hobby."
I said that it wasn't just a hobby, it was art, and therefore they were oppressing both beauty and free speech by not letting me display it.
That's when the whole "poison isn't art" debate started up. You've all heard it before, I'm sure, so I won't go over it entirely, but let it suffice to say that the old "If you ate the damn Mona Lisa you'd probably die, not to mention Michaelangelo's David, but they're still considered art" argument was used by me, and it was entirely over their heads. And when I offered them each a drink, all they did was call a squad car and basically run away crying. That's what's wrong with law enforcement these days.

I was able to barter my way out of the situation with the uniformed officer (he accepted the drinks, along with some home made mace), but the whole experience left me feeling mighty sore, and even less inclined to forgive me mailman. I swear, when the ground thaws enough for me to dig some tiger-pits in my yard, that man is in trouble.
I don't mean tiger-pits literally, of course. I don't even know where I could get my hands on a real tiger.

Man, I don't think I have to pee anymore.

*Did you know "rattrap" spelled backwards is "rattrap?"

The death a dream...

A wise man (Ghandi) once asked, "What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a Raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore -- and then run?"

I used to not be able to read this all the way through, because the thought of a runny, festering, raisin was just too gross for me (I still taste a little throw-up in the back of my mouth when I see it), but now I think I truly understand what that anorexic old Indian was getting at...

For as long as I can remember, I've been hoping that, someday, an eccentric millionare would randomly decide to adopt me, and give me all the money I wanted. Money and things.
I don't think it's too much to ask. I mean, there are lots of millionares.

But it's not happening.
No matter what I do, no matter how many banks I stand outside of, looking sad, the millionares aren't interested. Except, once, I got propositioned, and that was horrible.
No, my friends, this is a "dream deferred." An ice cream dream. A burst-at-the-seams dream. A laser-beamed-dream. A raisin... in the sun.


Also, on a side note, who has festering sores!? Oh my God. Ick. I would rather die than go to India.

God be with you... and maybe also with you

Do you know what I hate about the South?
Of course you do. I hate the same things about the South as you do, and the list is too long, and too full of "y'alls" to repeat here. End of story.

Or is it?

See, that all is the sort of thing I'd have said up until, well, about last week. But now I have this new found love of the Great South.
Do you know what I love about the South?
No, of course you don't, and that's why we probably aren't friends. What I love about the South is their tremendous sense of Respect. They are full of it.
Sure, they don't respect minorities, or hygiene, but they do respect something more important that those things: me.
That's right. There's a southern woman at the DMV (a little hangout of mine) who has taken to calling me "Mr. Dandy." Isn't that precious? Mr. Dandy!! Not even Mr. Chesterton -- Mr. Dandy.
This is clearly a term of endearment, and of utmost respect (or "respeto," as some of you might prefer). She, like all Southerners, knows how to treat a gentleman like a gentleman. The Chesterton name is treated properly here: Southerners think of it the same way you or I might think of a piping hot piece of a pot pie. It's something you desire oh-so-much, but you know that if you were to put it in your mouth it would burn you like lava. So you Respect it. Southerners know that to let "Chesterton" pass their lips at any old time would be to sully it, and to risk second or third degree burns to the mouth.

Man, who would have thought that a land originally populated by penalized Dutch Sodomists would eventually hold such a special place in my heart.
Mr. Dandy.


dutch criminals