Jimbob's Journal

Reflections of a Celebrity Stalker
by Jim Harris

In July 2000, I was arrested and charged with stalking, breaking and entering and corrupting the morals of a Poodle. My subsequent "Letter from the L.A. County Jail" will soon be enshrined in the Smithsonian (if they would just return my phone calls). It is hereby presented for your edification.

First, let me take you back to where it all started. May,2000; I'm watching the "Tonight Show". Oh look, Deke Foster, the brooding young anti-hero, pruned, preened and fluffed to look authentically cavalier. I recline yet another notch in my Lazy-Boy and pop open a family-size pouch of low-fat, organic mesquite nachos. What delightful tidbits of personalia will we be privy to this lovely evening?
Oooh, he's added a 1929 Doosledorfer to his antique car collection (applause). Just finished a movie - Blood of Death - in which he had a torrid love scene with Francina Del Foochie (salacious hoots & whistles), AND his wife's just had a baby! The audience now goes nearly mad with glee. It's so gratifying when celebrities breed successfully. He explains how this blessed event has forever changed his life (in a very special way that we little people could probably never understand).

Suddenly, inexplicably, I am not finding vicarious living as fulfilling as it used to be. Deke seems to be smirking. I bet he's not cavalier at all. I bet he's got bodyguards and financial advisors and everything. My financial plan centers around following armored cars in case a bag falls off. My wife has pre-traumatic fatigue syndrome, my daughter is living with a guy who has a tattooed tongue and communicates only through grunts, and my car has killer bees nesting in it. Nobody cares if I make babies. I want to be loved by millions. I'm a good person. I deserve it.

How, I wondered, could I bring the world a bit more into balance. Several options presented themselves;

1) Become a celebrity myself (Too much pressure. Fickle fans, crazy paperazzi)
2) Become part of a celebrity entourage (Good idea, but how do I meet celebrities?)
3) Break into Deke Foster's home and steal stuff

Number three seemed to be on the right track, but not quite parasitic enough. What I finally decided to do was to hide somewhere in his house, then come out in the wee hours, eat leftovers and bathe in the sink. "Why the hell not", I thought, "You have to go for the gusto in life".

By July 4, I had hitchhiked my way to Deke's California villa and taken up residence in a modest doghouse near the kitchen door. I wasn't able to gain entrance to the main house, but I was finding enough to eat nightly from the canine buffet, and bathing in the swimming pool . Of course, I first had to establish a pecking order with the incumbent residents, a couple of toy poodles. "Tuck" seemed initially confused by my presence, but gradually came to accept me as a brother. "Nip", however, never acknowledged my right to be there, and we had it out quite a few times. It was during one such late-night tussle that a spotlight came on, and a silhouetted figure shouted, "Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?"

I was eminently prepared for this. I immediately explained that I was looking for my pet mouse, "Lothario", who had jumped out of the car while I was in the restroom at a service station on route. . OW! Before I could fully present my elaborate fabrication, the shadowy figure jabbed me in the groin with what I think was a ski pole. Doubled over in pain and unable to speak, I then laboriously produced a note (a clever forgery) from J. Edgar Hoover giving me authorization to be anywhere I wanted. While the man looked at it, I turned to run but tripped over a poodle and landed face down in a bowl of Dog-Chow. My glorious adventure had finally come to an end.

So here I sit. Although incarcerated, I feel that my life is finally gaining some real importance. I have the National Enquirer headline proclaiming, "Deke Foster Captures Bizarre Dog-man" hanging on my cell wall. Dog Man, that's me - forged in the fires of consternation and discontent, fighting back for the forgotten little people. My celebrity lawyer is tenaciously perusing his legal rhyming dictionary in search of just the right couplets to lionize my cause. Dan Rather has just finished a lovely jailhouse interview. I think we really bonded. I understand he has a big ranch on Route 66 just outside of Dallas.
All in all, I think I have had a positive effect on the flagging American spirit and on the economy as well. My daughter's boyfriend (I can never remember his name) is doing quite well selling authorized Dog-Man T-shirts, requests for interviews and photo shoots are coming in faster than my agent can process them, and Nip and Tuck have landed major roles in an upcoming Al Pacino movie. Alas, poor Deke, he had a nervous breakdown shortly after our star-crossed encounter, but I understand he's entered an ashram and is growing spiritually at twice the normal rate. Perhaps he needed a small dose of humility. I'm sensing a world more in balance.

I guess if I have a message, it's this; In America, any idiot can become famous, furry animals can earn millions of dollars, and Dog Chow tastes surprisingly good.

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