It is a little creepy, watching a movie you loved when you were 11. A movie that you once believed starred the best batch of studs to ever cram themselves into a pair of straight-legged Wrangler jeans.
Seventy-five percent of the young boys in "Stand By Me" had their Teen Beat poses (leaned against a wall, hand in pocket, peering out of one eye beneath a swath of what we now recognize as hockey bangs) plastered to my Trapper Keeper/closet door/wall of my super secret fort under the steps next to the Christmas decorations. But it was Wil Wheaton that I claimed as my numero uno during the slumber parties of yore.
I think I picked well. In 2010, Wil Wheaton strikes me as someone I could be friends with, moreso than Corey Feldman, who is the human equivalent of a soul patch, or Jerry O'Connell, who always strikes me as Jason Bateman's deformed twin brother -- the one that got all the leftover, freaky parts that the fetus Jason Bateman rejected into a womby scrap heap. And River Phoenix, well ...
When I say that Wil Wheaton and I would be friends, I don't mean it quite the same way that I used to mean it when I would say, emphatically, Matt Damon and I would be friends, if only we could just meet! No. I now recognize that would have been the kind of friendship where I call him at 3 a.m. and slur loosely rhyming couplets into his voice mail, while he hides in a dark room Googling "restraining order"on his smart phone. And anyway, I'm over him now.
I like Wil Wheaton. He's geeky, genuine and charming, and seems to be a nice person. He's not hilarious, but even his LOLDOGZ tweets are okay by me. It stopped being a crush back when he was wearing the futuristic body condom on "Star Trek: TNG." Now I feel about the same way toward him as I do toward my freshman year Homecoming date.
I caught about the last 15 minutes of "Stand By Me" tonight on TV Land, admittedly I went looking after he Tweeted this. I got there just in time for the pig-pile-turned-leach-fest and was stunned that I could remember every facial expression, and every word that Gordy LaChance says. I must have studied him harder than I studied for my ACTs. It has been at least 15 years since I've seen
this movie. And oddly enough, on Sunday I skated over some train tracks and saw a light in the distance and said his famous elongated, mouth-distorted cry of "Trrrraaaaaaiiinnnn!" in my head.
It's a little ookie to look at Wil Wheaton as a freshly minted teen, wide eyed and noodle armed, with nothing on his person suggesting that he will ever be touched by puberty, and think: "I used to think you were so mint." Especially since when I look at him now, my first impulse would be to say: "Hey, kid. Get out of my yard." Adorable, yes. But cut his picture out of a magazine, open a glue stick, and slap this toddler on a binder so I can stare into his dreamy eyes during Social Studies? It's freaking bizarre.The good news is that I'm not a pedophile.
And while we're here: I can't be the first person in the world to notice that Teddy Duchamp:
... Grew up to be Chuck Klosterman: