Monday, October 18, 2004

The Adventures of Chester the Molester

Inevitably, if you name your child Chester, he will be called "Chester the Molester" thoughout his life. Just as inevitably, if I get a chance to awkwardly interrupt someone's dinner in order to take a portroid, sure as shootin' I'll do it (after lingering uncomfortably nearby for an inordinate amount of time).

I added four portroids yesterday to the gallery. The first is an unofficial picture of Robert Redford. He wouldn't really acknowledge me, so I just took his picture with no hope of an autograph. This goes in the UNAUTHORIZED files. Previously, I took an unauthorized and unsigned portroid of Hugh Jackman, but I gave it away, for it shamed me. These bastard photos have no place in my album, but just like every illegitimate child, they're gonna show up sometime or another on some white trash talk show talkin' bout "who's my daddy" and "where you been at" and "give me money" and "I know you just di'int". Talk to the hand, I tell them, just talk to this old hand.

The second portroid will have you asking (pleasantly flabbergasted), "Are you f***ing kidding me?" No, I'm not, and watch your language. That's right, it's Soleil Moon Frye, TV's Punky Brewster. She made a documentary film about Alzheimer's and I saw it and she was there and she was really nice and friendly and a little hugsy. Her movie made me cry and I'll never forgive her for that. Now everyone will declare me a "pansy" and they'll throw clods of dirt at me as I pass. That too will make me cry.

Here's where I tie into the first paragraph (not the Chester the Molester part, but the other part about being a lingerer and dinner-interrupter - OK, the Chester the Molester part too, since you asked). I stood by Kevin Bacon's table like Chester the Molester stands outside a playground, waiting for my chance to get what I want no matter how uncomfortable it makes the other party ("Uncle Chester, I don't like it when we play games like that." "Yes you do"). I missed plenty of appropriate opportunities (like the few times he walked right by me, or when he was just sitting and staring), but thought it best to move in when Mr. Bacon was engaged in a quiet conversation with his tablemates. "Excuse me, may I take your picture?" I meekly asked. He replied with an "of course" and posed halfheartedly. "Could you sign it also?", I pushed my luck. It was my lucky day though, and he did sign it (see? I ain't no liar!). As I was walking away, I congratulated him on the award he had just won, and he melted. No longer was I taking advantage, now we were chums. He smiled, thanked me, and erased the hatred from his soul. Then he taught me how to dance, and we danced the night away. We cut footloose.

The final portroid of the night was of Kevin's lovely and talented wife, Kyra Sedgwick. She was easily approachable and gracious to the last. She asked me if I intended to sell the picture I took. I promised her I wouldn't (so don't even try to offer me any money for it, cause it just isn't for sale (unless you've got like $10)). She then softly said, as she started to walk away, "not that you'd get much for it anyway." And, that is when I started to cry again. Oh Kyra, don't be down on yourself, you are the greatest!

As I walked away, chunks of earth pelting off my sobbing shuddering frame, I looked through my new assortment of portroids and fondled them softly (like so many children at the hands of Chester the Molester).

Handily Yours,

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