So chances are that, like me and mostly everyone else, you missed the opening day of the Major League Baseball season last week when the Oakland Athletics squared off against the Seattle Mariners ….

…. in Tokyo, Japan.

Yeah, that’s right. For reasons known only to MLB, rather than embrace the pageantry and notoriety that comes with an official celebratory Opening Day game (traditionally played in Cincinnati or Washington), it was decided to start this season of America’s past time with a whimper on the other side of the planet with two teams that have absolutely no national following and both of whom had losing seasons and finished more than 22 games out of first place in their division.

[*yawn *]

And they wonder why baseball is losing fans. According to the National Sporting Goods Association, from 2000 to 2009, participation in youth baseball has dropped from 15.6 million to 11.5 million, a drop of better than 25%. The TV ratings also continue to decline—the 2001 World Series averaged 24 million viewers a game; a decade later, less than 16 million per game tuned in to watch the Fall Classic.

For me personally, baseball flops are nothing new. Although I played for years, my moments of shining on the little league diamond were few and far between, to be generous. I remember one time swinging at a pitch that was so close, the ball actually hit my thumb and split it open, and although I was bleeding, I had struck out. (On a side note, the umpire, after seeing me bleeding, actually took my thumb, sucked off the blood and said, “Okay kid, you’re still out, no go back to your bench.” The pre-AIDS 70s were a very different world.)

I can also vividly recall one of my cheapest hits (in a “career” that was littered with them). I was standing in the batters box when the pitch came in directly at my head. I ducked down to avoid getting beaned, but in my haste to save my skull, I left my bat aloft, which the ball struck and bounced off … directly into the short infield. The pitcher, catcher and I were all momentarily stunned before I realized by the umpire’s reaction that the ball was in play! I threw down my bat and scampered down to first, easily beating the throw. I’m pretty sure Babe Ruth used to swat ’em like that …

Anyway, growing up, I was also a passionate New York Mets fan, which meant plenty of baseball heartache, especially during my formative years of the late 70s and the early 80s. Living only an hour or so from Shea Stadium, my friends (particularly my buddy Milo) and I were able to attend games, and those excursions were often quite entertaining independent of the on-the-field action.

So many Metsie Metsie Metsie memories at Shea—like going on the field on Banner Day with an Ellis Valentine banner and then waiting after the game at the player’s exit to see his reaction as we waved it wildly as he sped past in his Porsche. Or the time Milo’s father and his uncle took us to a game; they imbibed their share of beer and even bought a few for us although we were underage. Milo’s uncle also had a few too many and got lost, and it took us forever to find him after the game, like the Seinfeld episode in the parking garage. (Also like in that clip, there was a “creative” substitute for a real highway rest stop.)

Another time we went to a game with our best friend Higgy, who decided on that evening that it was his mission to make life (more) miserable for Mets left fielder Darryl Strawberry—unfortunately for Straw, the stadium was practically empty so he (as well as the rest of the evening’s patrons) could hear Higgy’s taunts loud and clear as they carried through August night. Funny to us, but I’m pretty sure I saw Darryl shed a tear.

As mentioned, after games we would go back to where the players exited the stadium, and would often ogle their cars as they departed—my boyhood favorite Rusty Staub drove an expensive foreign auto with a steering wheel on the right side!

Ah, Rusty!

If you don’t know of “Le Grande Orange”—so dubbed by his fans in Montreal because of his bright red hair—he was a very good (not great) player who made his name in dramatically leading the Mets to their surprise appearance in the 1973 World Series.

Of course, I had his baseball cards and even named our cat after him. I was heartbroken when he was inexplicably traded to the Detroit Tigers in 1976. Fortunately, he came back to the Mets in 1981, and it was awesome to be able to root for him again. It was later in his career, and he had settled into the role of pinch hitter extraordinaire. By then, he was also a bit more “husky” than he had been in his younger years, so we affectionately would chant “Roast beef! Roast beef!” instead of “Rusty! Rusty!” when he came up to bat.

Despite being a big fan, I never got a chance to meet Rusty as a kid, but an opportunity came later in life. I’m sure many of you have forgotten, but for a short stretch in the late 1990s, the New Haven Ravens used to play at Yale Field, and one night, Rusty was scheduled to appear at a game for a fan meet-and-greet.

I went to the game and brought with me an old picture of his that I had taken out of a yearbook with the dream of having him autograph it. To the picture I had taped a newspaper clipping from a game that Rusty had won with a bottom of the 9th pinch-hit walk-off home run—it had stuck out in my head because I was home sick and had watched the whole thing, even keeping score, and then to have my favorite player win it had made it special. His signing it would be icing on my memory cake.

So when I got into the stadium, I went straight to where Rusty was. His appearance was sponsored by a TV sports channel, so he was stationed behind a table festooned with the channel’s logos, signing autographs for fans.

My shyness and the possibility of actually meeting my childhood baseball idol instantly turned my knees to jelly, but I eventually was able to talk myself into getting into the line with the other fans.

Eventually, I got to the front of the line, and there, live in the flesh, was Rusty Staub—looking right into my eyes and saying, “Hello!”

Trying to not be too starstruck, I pulled out my old picture and clipping (drenched with nervous sweat by this point) and began to explain to how I was a fan and the relevance of my keepsake. Before I got too far, however, he said, “I’m sorry, but I can only sign this,” and he slid across the desk a photo emblazoned with an obnoxious logo from the TV sports channel.

Remember from “A Christmas Story” when Ralphie finally makes it to Santa? Rusty didn’t tell me that I was going to shoot my eye out and kick me down the slide, but it was that same sort of crushing feeling. I took the photo, mumbled “Thanks” and sullenly started to walk away but stopped.

I turned around, half caught Rusty’s eye and said, “For what it’s worth, I never forgave the Mets for trading you for a washed-up Mickey Lolich.”

Rusty stopped, turned directly to me, smiled and said, “Me, neither! Worst trade ever, right?”

And although he never did sign my picture (oh well!), he did chat with me for the next five minutes while still signing for other people. Not exactly Mean Joe Greene throwing his jersey to a kid, but still a good memory for a kid who used to spend his afternoons playing baseball on what’s now a soccer field next to John F. Kennedy Elementary School.

So as I detailed earlier this week, my daytime gig Connecticut Magazine has moved its offices to the New Haven Register building at Long Wharf in New Haven. As such, we arrived on Monday morning to a whole new world …

Speaking of which, we should’ve made this kind of entrance when arrived …

Or better yet, we could’ve gone for what this clip was based on, the grand entrance of Cleopatra coming into Rome. (I would’ve embedded the clip, but it’s nine minutes long. You get the picture, though …)

Too subtle?

People who know me now often don’t remember, but I am painfully shy at first. Sure, once you get to know me (or read my blog, where I don’t have to stare you in the eye), I open up, but from a cold “start,” not so much. My first year at Connecticut Magazine, I made one “friend,” and she left for a new job after six months. I didn’t even start talking to my work wife Marisa until I had been there for two years. I’ve tried to get better at introducing myself to new people, but it’s still a tough struggle for me.

I remember when I moved to Connecticut from Brooklyn, New York. Talk about culture shock! I had only been here once before—to my aunt’s house, which was on the far side of Milford—and all I knew for sure was that there was a lot more trees and grass. I knew absolutely no one, and the first few days at the new house on Linwood Street were lonely. I sort of wandered down the street, and then just scurried back to the yard. I was the new kid on the block, and it would still be over a decade before that might even be considered cool. I was hangin’ tough at that point.

As you can imagine, the first day of school was tough, although I totally lucked out. I don’t think I talked to anyone until later in the afternoon when the kid sitting next to me in Mrs. Morrison’s class looked over, took pity and said, “Hey, my name is Kenny. Want to come over after school and play?” “YES!” I think I probably shouted. Turns out he lived on Sassacus Drive, which is right off of Linwood. From there, he introduced to me most of the other kids in the neighborhood, and I took it from there.

[Before you ask: Kenny and I were friendly until high school, when life took us in other directions. Haven’t seen or heard from him since, but I still owe him a huge thanks!]

Anyway, as we start in the new office, I do have a benefit in that I have my old friends from Trumbull with me, but we are still totally the new kids on the playground and stand out like a sore thumbs, if I can mix my metaphors. People have recognized us as strangers and introduced themselves, but it’s been awkward at times.

As such, I’ve been brainstorming a few ideas that we could use as icebreakers to make new friends …

An introductory PowerPoint presentation –

Parking lot barbeque cookout – The quickest way to make friends is to share food, and nothing says “hey, you!” like smoked hunks of animal flesh slathered with messy sauces, right? Throw in some corn on the cob, and you can have a fun, conversation-starting corn race the next day in the bathroom stalls.

Random pranks – “Who lit off a stink bomb in the publisher’s office?” “Another rubber chicken in the cafeteria microwave?” “Who sent the letter with the mysterious white powder to the mail room? Awww, must’ve been the wacky new people. Those madcaps!”

Impromptu playground games – Nothing will force an introduction like running into the random cubicle of someone you haven’t met yet, hitting them in the face with a banana cream pie, yelling “Tag! You’re IT!” and scampering away.

Midday movie club – Set up a screen in the cafeteria, pop some popcorn, whip up some strawberry slurpees and you have an event that might be conducive to social interactive. Of course, it depends on the movie, and I don’t think there’s anything that would make for a better icebreaker than this award-winning flick.

Panty raid! – All right, it may not be the most politically correct activity in the work place, but I have to think that an orchestrated surprise snatching of the undergarments of your new co-workers is a great way to learn more about them in the most fun way possible. Besides, who wouldn’t want to instantly make friends with the person running around the office with a pair of boxer shorts on their head?

Honey badger time – Releasing the “m0st fearless animal” on the planet [NSFW language] in a new workplace may sound “dangerous” to some, but it will quickly bring people together and force new relationships against a common, angry foe. Also, a crisis will help identify the cliques you want to get into, be it animal lovers or problem solvers, and obviously, you will make friends with someone while you’re cowering together in a broom closet until the SWAT team arrives.

Improv @ The Caf – Sure, taking your tray and trying to slide into the empty seat at the cool kids table is always an option, but why go that route when you know all it well get you is a dumped lunch and an old school pantsing? Here’s a chance to serve up a heaping helping of ha-ha—and who doesn’t instantly want to become friends with the funniest guy in the room? Start out with some simple insult comedy (“Hey, do you get a free bowl of soup with that prosthetic leg?”), maybe work into some observational humor (“What’s the deal with all these stupid sexual harassment laws? Takes all the fun out of making copies of your butt, am I right?!”), and then finish it with some topical jokes (“What’s the difference between Rick Santorum’s political views and those of a cave man’s? The cave man isn’t running for the most important job on the planet!”). They’ll all be begging for seconds, and they’ll be lapping the funny—and friendship—straight out of your palm.

Two words: Keg party – Let’s be honest: Liquor is quicker when you want to make friends. Bars are where people meet, but why wait and hope you get invited to a Happy Hour when you can just make it party time any time in the office. A few rounds of beer pong, flip cup or quarters is a sure-fire way to lower inhibitions, break down social barriers and seem more attractive—in a “hey there new friend” sense—to others. When you think about it, it’s probably the only fool (100) proof method on this list. What could possibly go wrong?

So I guess that’s what we should plan—a raging kegger in the parking lot. Now who’s doing the first funnel?

Here in Connecticut, Sunday was one of the best weather days of 2012 so far—sunny and clear, temps in the high 60s and it’s not even the first day of spring yet …

Yay, global warming!

So as I was running around the house doing my normal Sunday chores—laundry, ironing, dishes, writing—I couldn’t help but notice the sunshine from outside streaming through the windows and on the four young boys (two of whom were my own) who were sitting on my living room furniture, heads buried in laptops, cell phones, iPod touches and other sundry electronic devices.

“Hey guys,” I said, putting my neatly folded laundry down for a moment. “I think you all need to take a break from games and go outside for a little while. It’s a gorgeous day!”

Well, that’s what I thought I said. By the reaction I received, it apparently sounded a lot more like, “I think you all need to go out through the monsoon to the salt mine out back and break rocks for a while. And don’t come back until you’re dead from exhaustion.”

Seriously.

[*hikes up pants, takes a deep breath*]

Ahem. Back in my day—

[Hold on a sec. Before I go too far off on this Old Man rant, I’d just like to point out that I told the kids to get ON my lawn, rather then get off of it. Just sayin’.

Okay, back to my rant, already in progress…]

—UP HILL IN THE SNOW WHILE FIGHTING OFF SABER TOOTH TIGERS THE WHOLE TIME. BOTH WAYS!!

Anyway, I guess them days are gone. Between so many electronic distractions and helicopter parents who don’t let kids go next door without a signed permission slip and a certified lifeguard on duty to monitor the sandbox, the majority of kids just aren’t into spending their days outside roaming around the neighborhood and exploring the world beyond the sheltered end of their cul-de-sac.

I’m sort of torn on this. Part of me wants to go off on a rant about how my friends and I used to spend hours playing baseball and football without (gasp!) coaches, running around in the woods, going unsupervised into abandoned construction sites and other moderately dangerous mischief we used to find, and how we turned out okay. By the same token, I realize that it’s a new world now, that kids are smarter, more savvy and mature, and still playing together, just in digital domains. Of course, they are a bit fatter than they used to be …

Maybe I need to do a list featuring the pros and cons of each. Let’s give it a shot:

Inside

Pros:

• Climate controlled
• Access to electronics, the internet and all the pleasures associated with them
• Fewer bugs that will sting you
• Low chance of sunburn
• General absence of clowns

Cons:

• Recycled air keeps circulating other people’s germs until they can finally latch on to you
• Too much electronics = brain cancer (I think Rick Santorum said that, although that could be a lie)
• Higher chance of carbon monoxide poisoning
• Unless you’re on Team Edward, no one likes pasty skin
• If clown appears, fewer opportunities to escape

Outside

Pros:

• Plenty of fresh air
• Many opportunities for physical activity and recreation
• Better appreciation of nature and the beautiful world around us
• Bright sunshine is good psychologically
• More places to hide dead clowns

Cons:

• Snow, rain and cold, as well as the constant threat of locust
• Less likely to stumble across celebrity flesh surfing at the beach as opposed to surfing the web
• Ticks, mosquitoes, bears and rabid goats don’t usually live in houses, you know
• Too much sunshine = skin cancer
• More places for zombie clowns to hide

Well, I’m not sure that really solved anything.

[*glances out window, notices abundant sunshine*]

Oh well, I think it’s time to accept the wisdom of our greatest American actor (pound for pound). (Clip contains some NSFW language.)

Later!

You know, I don’t know how to really start this other than showing you this: a concert performance by Japanese pop superstar Hatsune Miku —

As you may have noticed, everyone at this real performance is an actual person—the guitarist, the drummer, the thousands of screaming fans—with the key exception of Hatsune Miku herself, who is a completely computer-generated creation.

Actually, to be technical, she is (as gleaned from Wikipedia) “a singing synthesizer application with a female persona,” developed by Crypton Future Media using Yamaha Corporation’s Vocaloid 2 synthesizing technology. Her name is taken from Hatsu (初, first), Ne (音, sound), and Miku (未来, future) thus meaning “the first sound from the future,” while her physical representation is typical Japanese anime—you know, stylized borderline pedo school girl art. Her voice was sampled from a real Japanese voice actress, but what gets done with it is up to the person using the program. Anyone can write music for the Hatsune Miku program, as there are over 100,000 songs out there, and her concerts feature tunes written by at least 20 different people.

Oh, speaking of which, “she” just sold out all four of her Tokyo shows—10,000 tickets—in hours at about $76 a pop.

Not a bad job for something that doesn’t actually exist. Then again, organized religions have been successfully peddling a non-existent product—pick your favorite god—for centuries, so is this really any different?

Some of you may already know of Hatsune Miku, and with my vast capacity for worthless pop culture and other unusual things, I’m trying to figure out how I never heard of her until the other day. Frankly, I’m embarrassed that this wasn’t even a blip on my raydar.

I didn’t realize that I was looking for one, but then I started thinking that Hatsune Miku might make the perfect mascot for rayality—a virtual, pop culture-friendly icon for representing a place that really doesn’t exist anywhere except in the ether of the intrawebz. But then I realized something very important:

I HATE EVERY SINGLE NOTE OF HATSUNE MIKU MUSIC!!

Really, I tried listening to a few different songs, and you would think with that many there’d be at least one decent tune in there, but no, it’s complete and utter crap to me. Crap! (And for the record, I do enjoy some modern pop music, but this is just sounds like auto-tuned dreck. Now get off of my lawn!)

Thus, I realize that if I want a mascot for rayality—and really, I think it might help with my branding and marketing efforts as well as provide an opportunity to create synergy in market shares in key demographics and whatever other douchebaggy faux business speak that no one understands but sounds impressive to potential investors blah blah profit margin blah—I need to search elsewhere.

A few obvious choices come to mind, among them:

A Melon Head – Let’s see if they are a match for me: Misunderstood creatures with potentially large brains? Check. Preference to live away from people in a Unabomber-like shack. Check. Tendency to abduct unsuspecting strangers for bizarre and possibly horrific purposes. Uh …. hmm … let’s see … I guess for the most part, no check. Next.

Bigfoot – A ‘squatch might be a good physical match—you know, aside from the big feet, height and purported strength. I also share the same “shyness” as the reclusive creature, i.e. we both don’t care for being captured on film, nor do we like people all that much. Now that I’m making those trips to the salon, however, the hirsute part of the equation is now lacking. And although I enjoy bacon, I’m not a fan of beef jerky. Next.

Nessie – The mystery creature that ignited my interest in everything curious and weird. I just don’t like sea food. Next.

Mr. Met – Okay, he’s already the mascot for another organization, but he does bring instant recognition and, and he also takes on outside gigs from time to time, such as ESPN SportsCenter commercials, “30 Rock” and even the occasional wedding. Actually, he might be too high profile for me. Next.

Perry the Platypus – Well, he is a semi-aquatic egg-laying mammal of action, and probably one of the coolest characters out there, you know, just like me. But he is also owned by Disney—there’s a good chance I could be getting a cease-and-desist letter from Mickey’s legal team for just even mentioning the idea. Next. Quickly.

Alien gray – I’ve been told that my brain is probably not of this world, and I’ve been probed at least once. I definitely love all things space—I’ve been reading Mary Roach’s Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void. Unfortunately, I’ve learned that although space travel sounds cool, there’s a lot of things that sort of suck about it: no showers, and no normal toilets, which is a problem if you’re as regular as I am. Next.

Zane’s “You Are Not” “YAY!” character – An obvious choice as it would make sense to take something from my most popular post ever—and by “most popular,” I mean I went viral and about 14 people saw it. The problem is that Zane is talking about a “substantial” rights fee for the future use of his characters, and that he knows an excellent attorney who would take his case against me. Next.

Senior Smoke – Hmm … no known pictures of my biggest fan/critic exists, and at this point, he hasn’t dared to show his face around here, so that might be the choice. A non-entity of a mascot for a place that doesn’t really exist. Winner winner chicken dinner?!

Of course, like Wisconsin, this is a pseudo democracy, so please feel free to vote for your favorite (in the comments), or to share any ideas, and I will pretend to consider them!

Thanks.

So the other day I was at Shadowland in Wallingford, a “very unique store” filled with oddities and curiosities, as well as unusual music and books. This was my second trip to the shop; at Eric the owner’s behest, I had returned to drop off a few signed copies of Connecticut Curiosities: 3rd Edition for him to sell there.

As I was chatting with Eric and browsing around the shop, admiring the unusual artworks, taxidermy critters and other assorted weird items, I started having flashbacks to my college days when I used to regularly house sit for one of my professors.

I’ll never forget the first time Dr. Hawkins asked me to come to his office after class to discuss “a job opportunity.” On the desk of his windowless office in the basement of Engleman Hall was proudly displayed a baseball autographed by Pete Gray. I took one look at it and immediately asked, “How the heck did he sign it?” Dr. Hawkins’ delighted smile instantly told me that he knew I was the right man to watch his house and the cache of unusual items contained within. (You know, because it was back before the interwebz were a gleam in Al Gore’s eye, and I didn’t need Google to know who Pete Gray was.)

The “Hawk’s Nest,” as my buddies Steve and CC dubbed it, was the closest thing I’ve seen to a real-life Addams Family house. It was a dusty, musty Victorian throwback, a three-story edifice with long uneven hallways, period fixtures and ornate wallpaper. The cramped rooms were chocked full of vintage furniture, old paintings and pictures, unusual memorabilia, marble busts, taxidermy and other odd baseball-related items that the eccentric Dr. Hawkins—an antiques dealer and huge baseball fan—had collected over the years. Like many old homes, there were constant creaks and cracks, and it even had a giant grandfather clock would even bong loudly on the hour.

Zoinks, right?! I would’ve liked to have a box of Scooby Snacks the first night I stayed. I “slept” with the TV on—really, turned and tossed until dawn is more like it. On another occasion, I was awakened in the middle of the night to find Dr. Hawkins’ cat at the side of the bed, bathed in the electronic glow of the TV, tail and hackles raised, staring intently at a nondescript spot on the wall. It didn’t move for about 10 minutes. Like, totally freaky.

Of course, there were other “charms” of the place. I had probably house sat for a half dozen times before one night I found myself staring at the red velvet curtain hanging on the wall behind the TV at the end of the king-sized bed. “Hey, that’s an inside wall!” it finally dawned on me. “Why does it need a curtain?”

I got up and pulled back the velvet …. and discovered the entire wall was covered with Victorian-era pin-ups and other vintage (although fairly tame) girlie pictures. Ah, the bachelor life!

Still, even though it was a bit creepy at time, it was still a good deal for me—within walking distance of campus and a great place to crash after hanging out with my friends who lived on campus (Dr. Hawkins went away to public speaking tournaments many weekends). And I was being paid!

Of course, I always welcomed company when house-sitting at the Hawk’s Nest. A number of friends stayed with me on different occasions, which didn’t seem to bother Dr. Hawkins, except once.

On the Monday after he returned, I went to check in with him in his office. When I arrived, there members of his public speaking team there, but when he saw me at the door, he stopped talking to them and said, “Well, well, hello Ray! Did you have a good weekend?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, immediately uncomfortable as I noticed that the guys and gals assembled seemed to be giggling a bit. “Any problems with the house?”

“No, not at all,” he said, handing me a brown paper bag. “Although you left these behind on the nightstand.”

Quizzically, I took the bag and reached into it. Without thinking about what I was doing, I pulled out a pair of obviously feminine earrings. My face went bright red as the laughter burst out around the room.

“Uh, wow,” I stammered, desperately wishing to disappear on the spot. “My favorites! Thanks.”

Good times, good times. Still, I watched the house for years, and was very comfortable to the weirdness of it all—maybe a sign of curiosities to come.

Oddly enough, the last time I saw Dr. Hawkins was at his wedding, held at the oldest Quaker meetinghouse in New York City and where he was marrying a woman half his age and seemingly twice his height. He sold the old house and moved to Minnesota (without the new wife, apparently), where he’s found a new home and may possibly never read this as he apparently eschews everything electronic.

Still, this wasn’t my only experience with the bizarre and freakish in my college days. I used to work at a grocery store in Milford, and there used to be a … “family” who came in regularly, seemingly just to torture me.

They can be described vividly in many terms, but I’ll just go with inbred mutant unwashed white trash freaks. People joke about the Melon Heads comin’ to get them, but these … folk … were Deliverance incarnate …..

Or so they seemed to me. In retrospect, they were probably a poor, uneducated bunch who meant well, but over the years, my overly imaginative brain has added a bit of hyperbole to the memories. Let’s just say they were a bit “unusual.”

Regardless, for reasons I’ll never quite understand, they “loved” me. They had one wild-eyed daughter who especially smitten and would stalk me though the aisles of the store, sharing cringeworthy stories of her sexual awakenings. The father would make comments to the effect that he couldn’t wait for me to … “join their clan.”

[*shiver*]

Their old Buick LeSabre (with the snow tires on year round) is burned vividly into my mind’s eye—I still get a little queasy when I think about the day they almost ran me over in the parking lot while I was gathering shopping carts, how they had all the windows down, were bangin’ on the doors, hootin’ ‘n hollerin’ about how they almost got me that time. Like baggin’ me was worth big points on some sort of hillbilly bingo card.

Or maybe they were just glad to see me and they were just trying to be nice in their own, sorta weird, way. Who knows?

You know, in all my imaginings about my end, to this day, I still think it somehow ultimately involves them.

In my fevered nightmares, I’m walking along an abandoned road when that old LeSabre comes whizzing past me, then pulls around to a screeching halt. The whole clan is in the car still, hootin’ ‘n hollerin’, the little freak girl now all growed up, bouncing up and down in the backseat and ready to take a mate. The door flies open, and the father’s grizzled cackle fills my ears as I get in. The door slams shut and they take me to their dilapidated trailer-filled compound deep in the woods on Melon Head Road, where they chain me to a radiator and make their brood queen. And I’m never seen or heard from again …

A fitting odd end for an oddity magnet.