Stamos

I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to John Stamos. Because, you know, I'm sure that Stamos reads this blog.

About 12 years ago, I was in Manhattan on a college trip and I was tooling around the city with my good friend Dogbutt. (Yes, that's a nickname. No, it's not an insult. You'll have to take my word for it. Dogbutt, by the way, writes a lovely and frequently touching blog here.) Anyway, Dogbutt and I were wandering around NYC, going to galleries, digging the artwork and doing all the stuff two art students do when they're in NYC. At the beginning of the day, we had decided that, come hell or high water, we were going to see a celebrity. We had no specific requirements for the type of celebrity we wanted to see... Anybody cool would do.

A fine goal, but one that, six hours later, was completely and utterly unfulfilled. We had gone from Central Park down to Soho, and along the way had spotted absolutely no one good.

Man eating his own boogers? Check.

Crazy hobo speaking in tongues? Check.

Anybody we even vaguely recognized from stage or screen? Nada.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a total dork-tourist. I've spent plenty of time in New York and I'm not particularly that into celebs. It's just that, on this particular day, we had a freaking goal, you know? We had a mission.

Now we were walking down a side street in Soho, and our feet hurt, and we were tired, and we were depressed that we had seen not one famous person, and to add insult to injury, we had just found out that a bunch of our friends had seen (and actually talked to) Eric Idle at the MOMA.

Eric. Freakin. Idle.

I'd kill to meet Eric Idle! As a pal of mine used to say, I'd knock my mother down to meet Eric Idle. God hated me on that day, my friends. Everybody else got Idle, and Dogbutt and I got zippo.

And that's when it happened. We were trudging past this little pub when Dogbutt sort of half-heartedly points to the window of the bar and in this utterly dejected voice goes "there's John Stamos."

I looked, and sure enough there in the window having drinks with some buddies was John Stamos. We both stopped and stared at him in this totally let-down "this is all we get?" sort of way, and he looked up and saw us standing there staring at him. Staring at him like he was the celebrity sighting consolation prize, which in a way I guess he was. "Thanks for playing, sorry you didn't meet Eric Idle... Here, take a Stamos on your way out..."

It must have been several seconds that he stared at us, staring at him with that sad look on our faces, and then he waved. And without returning the gesture in any way, we both just turned and trudged off.

I'm sure that John Stamos has had plenty of worse moments than that. I'm sure he went back to his beer and his friends and didn't give the pair of us a second thought. But I have to admit, I've always felt a little rotten for dogging Stamos like that.

And so, Stamos, I'd like to apologize for acting like a douche. You're a fine actor and hell, you're Uncle Jessie, for crying out loud. You deserved better. If I ever see you again, I promise I'll run up to you, screaming your name and crying in joy, and I'll plead with you to sign my hairy man-breast or something.