Diary of a Low Budget Superhero

Two movies started about an hour ago, at midnight. I was supposed to be working on an essay, but as I glumly sat, freshly showered and staring down a blinking cursor that was all but mocking inspiration, I couldn't stand the deafening silence. Treading empty pages makes for a lonely night, dudes. So I reached over and mashed some buttons on the remote. And here I am, an hour later.

No surprise Lost Boys is on right now. Corey Haim died four days ago. Wow, what to say about Corey Haim dying at thirty-eight. No really, what to say? I don't have a poignant eulogy or even anything remotely erudite. As a tweenybopper I didn't pin up his picture, I didn't run out to see all his movies, "Mrs. Corey Haim" never appeared scribbled on my schoolbooks. He seemed so innocuous with those clear wide eyes, round little mouth and puffy hair. He never seemed to have any grain to him. Sneakers. Jeans. If not for being paired with Corey Feldman, who I always thought fiery and compelling and just a little insane, I doubt I'd have taken much notice of Corey Haim at all. In the eighties I was more into Brit rockers in eyeliner, boys in heels and paisley, leatherbound freaks with long hair and earrings. Corey Haim was more like the fresh-faced boys in my homeroom. There were Corey Haims everywhere riding their ten-speeds and running around the soccer field. In Lost Boys, what teen aged girl was looking at Corey Haim when wild-eyed Kiefer Sutherland in that long black coat was facing off with Jason Patric who was doing that smoldering stare thing and murmuring, "Look at my square jawline and sexy leather jacket." Corey Haim, well, he was just this guy, you know?

But still, something like a veil of nostalgia falls whenever anyone around my own age dies, an extra layer of sorrow when the cause is avoidable and self-inflicted, something stupid like drugs. And where was I that I didn't even know Corey Haim was among Hollywood's notorious drug users? I didn't know that! Robert Downy Jr., Andy Dick, Charlie Sheen, Danny Bonaduce -- these are the wild boys who come to mind whenever talk turns to LA's snorting & boozing elite. But Corey Haim? He seemed so pure. It's like hearing that Kirk Cameron or Ralph Macchio succumbed. I bet at least a couple of people, when told about his death, said, "Are you sure it's not Corey Feldman?" Feldman was always so vocal about his problems, his party life was as cringe-inducingly obvious as his Michael Jackson fandom. But now I'm hearing that reality show the Coreys did was wracked with drug issues, and that means people knew he needed help, and that makes it just such a waste of a young life. That's mostly what I feel, that it's a terrible waste of a young life.

Remember when we lost River Phoenix? I was 23. So was he, and boy did I adore River Phoenix. He was like a shimmering young Adonis, seemed so self-assured and destined for greatness to the degree that it didn't seem possible that he should be walking around on the planet with the rest of us mere mortals. Twenty-three years, that's all he got. Oh, River.

No surprise The Cutting Edge is on right now. It's an ice skating movie, and after the winter Olympics one out of every two people is a durn fool for ice skating. Is it you? No? FINE, it's me! God I love this movie!

When it came out the tag line was "The ultimate love/skate relationship." I am able to agree that it's stupid, but must also insist that it's TEN KINDS OF AWESOME. DB Sweeney plays a hotshot up-and-coming college hockey player who gets his head slammed between the ice and some large Germans, so then he has a blind spot in his eye, which effectively kills his pro hockey career. Moira Kelley, who I LOVE, plays an impossibly snotty champion figure skater whose talent is as giant as her ego. If I were as corny as the script writers I'd pen some line about her personality and ice, but let's leave that alone for the sake of, um, not sucking. Let's just say she's such a bitch that she has run through all the available skating partners, so her coach recruits DB Sweeney. He hates figure skating, they hate each other, but they manage to skate their way to the 1992 Olympics. I tell you, it's awesome. There are sequels, though. Ignore.

So that's what I'm doing instead of writing, flipping between the vampires and the figure skaters. Pretty simple avoidance measures. Skating and vampires. Somehow it works, in a weird way.

"Maggots, Michael. You're eating maggots. How do they taste?"

"Spindler say before he skate with her, he wear garlic from neck and sleep with cross. Who is left?"

"You're a vampire Michael! You wait 'till mom finds out, buddy!"

"Pairs means TWO. You have no partner. You are skating nowhere!"

"Death by stereo!"

"There's only two things I do really well, sweetheart, and skating's the other one!"

"How much do you think we should charge them for this?"

"Toe pick!"

Avoidance, avoidance. What is it that I'm trying so hard not to think about?

After the hubbub died down and things were quieter, Joe's mom contrived to get me alone, because she had something very important to tell me.

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Forgive the badly-barely-punned title, it's too nice a day and too gloriously lazy to come up with anything clever!

I'm poolside at Joe's parents' place in New Jersey, it's a gorgeous afternoon. And this is the actual "first taste of summer" we've yet had.

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