The Bad Corey

I used to have a special gift for finding the biggest project in the room.  The insufferable, destructive ass hat.  The one that was equal parts narcissist, emotional trainwreck, unemployable, and leather pants.

Any time a guy would walk into a party backwards, still peeing on the front porch, zip up and drop a cigarette from his mouth onto the carpet, and grind it out with the heel of his boot while yelling, “It’s not my fault you were dumb enough to put white carpet in here!” my ass hat spidey-sense would go off and the little hairs on the back of my neck would stand at attention.

Then some random girl would walk up to him, throw her drink in his face for some unrelated reason and storm out the door, and I would think, “Well, this is obviously the guy for me.”

Had I known back then that I could cut out the middle-man known as “Misplaced Hope”, I would have just walked straight up to any of these types of guys and said, “So where do I fill out an application to worship you, pay all your bills, have you steal money from me and then cheat on me with one or more of my friends?  I am accustomed to disappointment from every man I’ve ever known and, on a subconscious level that I won’t uncover for many years, your brand is as comfortable and familiar to me as a mother’s perfume is to her child.  Maybe I can fix the past by fixing YOU!”

Like so many girls who sprang forth into adolescence headfirst down a hole of despair and emotional depravity, it all started with The Bad Corey.

This may come as a big surprise to you (except not at all because hello), but in the late 80s I was all the way into The Coreys.

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That would be Corey Haim and Corey Feldman, in case you’re not familiar, and if you’re not familiar, I don’t even know where to start with you.  Maybe somebody is offering Remedial Corey classes at your local night school.  I highly suggest you bone up on this information, because it will be on the test.

Calculators are only permitted for the “Box Office” portion of The Coreys Test, where you will have to figure out how much money the “Meatballs” movie franchise lost when they cast Corey Feldman in “Meatballs 4″, a classic sequel to a sequel to a sequel, as the “hottest water-skiing instructor in town.”

I don’t know how that conversation went around the producers’ table, but I assume it started and ended with, “Let’s do this thing!  Oh god kill me now please please kill me what has my life become.” <sound of Drano being chugged>

It’s not one of the better Corey movies.  All Corey movies are graded on a curve, by the way.  It’s not fair to grade them against “other movies”, or what some people refer to as “good movies”.  It’s only fair to grade Corey movies against other Corey movies.

Were you your best Corey in this film today?

Could you have Corey-ed it up some more?

What did I learn about Corey in this movie that I didn’t already know?

I tell you what, though, and I seriously, seriously am not even remotely kidding here.  Corey Feldman should have won the goddamned Oscar for his performance as “Teddy”, the abused kid with the burned-off ear in “Stand By Me”.

When he calmly informs the junk man, who’s insulting his father for being crazy, “My father stormed the beach at Normandy,” before eventually exploding into threats and tears as the boys drag him away from the junkyard, it GUTS me.  Give it a re-watch and see if you can make it through the emotional complexity of that really terribly abused kid actually defending his abusive father without wanting to just die inside.

Yes, of course I read his autobiography, “Corey-ography”, so knowing how badly Corey Feldman was abused in real life as a kid, that scene makes me want to curl into a ball on his behalf.  That may have just been a scene in a movie, but that abused kid in that scene was very, very real.  That’s a hell of a big ask for a kid on a movie set, and I can only imagine how tapping into whatever he had to tap into to pull off that scene must have torn him to shreds.  He was just a kid, for god’s sake.  That would have hurled most adults into a 72-hour hold.

Hey dramatic departure!  Let’s lighten it up a bit, huh?

You didn’t really have a choice in the matter when it came to loving Coreys in the 80s – they were everywhere.  You would never ask a twelve year old girl if she was into The Coreys.  You just asked her which one.

Now, you would think with all my gushing over Corey Feldman in “Stand By Me”, that would mean that my Corey of choice was Corey Feldman, but you’d be wrong.  Despite being the long-haired Corey, the bad attitude Corey, and the damaged Corey, there was someone far, far, far more damaged.

Someone who seemed to be a shiny, jangly, pretty boy, who later turned out to be a bottomless pit of screaming, soul-ripping darkness.

Corey Haim, for his pretty boy face and the adorable smile that made America fall in love with him in movies like “Lucas” and “The Lost Boys”, would surprisingly end up becoming The Bad Corey.

I always liked cute Corey, sweet Corey, Corey who just wanted to take Heather Graham out on a nice date in “License to Drive”.  I liked him just fine.  But the moment The Bad Corey publicly emerged?  Goodbye to Sandra Dee.

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Tell me about it, stud.

I remember the moment it went from a “like” of Corey Haim to a “love”.  It was in the old movie theater down the street from my house, watching “Dream a Little Dream”, and my formerly sweet-faced, blonde highlighted Corey Haim, the one with the cute smile where his lip kinda curled up at the corner like Elvis (and don’t even get me started on Elvis), the Corey with the clean jeans and high-tops, appeared onscreen before me, looking like this:

sdjf

Smoking cigarettes?  Check.  Hair dyed an unnatural color?  Check.  Ludicrous clothing and accesssories?  Check.  Foul-mouthed?  Oh god.  Check.  The pasty, lifeless complexion of a person who is clearly on drugs?  (angel harp music) Check.

My Corey?

My Corey had blossomed into The Bad Corey.

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I got chiiiiiiiiiiiills, they’re multiplyin’. And I’m loooooooooooosing control-olll.  ‘Cause the power, you’re supplyin’, it’s electri-OH MY GOD LET ME SAVE YOU FROM YOURSELF.

What was that?  LET ME SAVE YOU FROM YOURSELF?

You know that’s the one, right?  That line?  That’s the one that leads so many women down that road.  “Fixing the broken guy” road.  “Giving him a reason to live” road.  “Being the one who makes him see that the love and devotion of a woman will make him stop destroying himself” road.

The alternate name for this road is, “You will spend a lot of time and money in therapy after this guy has ruined your life.  You cannot fix a broken past by breaking your future.”

I don’t know if I can adequately express to you just how much I do not recommend this road, especially when “Nice Guy Who Doesn’t Snort Prescription Diet Pills Because His Coke Dealer is in Lock-Up” roads are also nearby, and won’t cause the kind of wear-and-tear on you that will leave you stranded on the side of life’s highway with an empty wallet and a vaguely itchy crotch.

I’m not going to tell you these roads are always easy to find, sometimes you just have to get lucky, but as my therapist told me in not so many words many years ago, they’re much easier to find if you stop driving your car in circles around Sodom and Gomorrah with a bullhorn out the window shouting, “Free girlfriend, money, psychiatrist, and laundry service here!  Standards nonexistent!”

And I won’t even charge you a co-pay for that bit of counseling, sister.

The 40-Something Ridiculous Crying Thing

It took me by surprise when I went to have a tire patched at Pep Boys last year and drove home from the experience in full, wailing, sobbing, freak-out mode.  Because as much as I have banned myself from ever crying with eye makeup on, it turns out my desire for mascara-free cheeks is no match for 40-something hormones.

I had a nail in my tire, and it was deflating quickly, so I needed to stop by Pep Boys.  When I got to the service desk, they told me it would be about an hour.  An hour later, they told me another hour.  An hour later, they told me another hour.

Meanwhile, everyone in the waiting room around me was watching videos on their phones of TruTV or something similar, where the shows consisted of people screaming and being chased by the police, and for some reason, all of them had the volume cranked to 10, on phones that were seemingly made entirely of broken speakers.  It sounded like a room full of robot parts being dragged across a floor made of chalkboard.  You know, in a bad way.

(Oh, hey, side note:  When watching a video on your phone in a public place, turn the volume down to a respectable level, you goddamned animals.  Literally NOBODY wants to hear it.  Also, don’t say, “Oh man, you gotta see this!” and then make someone watch a five minute long video on your phone when you’re just out to dinner.  NOBODY wants to have an unscheduled five minute long video thrust upon them when they’re sitting at a restaurant.)

I’m hypoglycemic and my blood sugar was starting to get really low, so I reached for my emergency snack in my purse only to find it wasn’t there, so I had to make do with eating sugar packets from the free coffee station in the waiting room.  As I tossed back the sugar packets like someone throwing handfuls of dead mullet at a sea lion’s gaping maw, I couldn’t help but feel it was a classy move by a classy lady.  /brag

When the service guy emerged from the bay three hours later, he handed me my keys and sent me on my way.  I pulled out onto the road and immediately made a wrong turn, which meant I would then have to make a U-turn.

That was it.

I immediately burst into tears and started sobbing like I was having a nervous breakdown.  This went on for the entire thirty minute drive home. I cried so hard that I had burst capillaries around my eyes the next day.  I cried so hard my neck muscles were sore.  Because making that wrong turn was just IT.  Five minutes after I got home, I was fine.

A few months ago, I got into my car after work and burst into tears for literally no reason.  Then I cried even harder because I couldn’t figure out why I was crying and sobbed and shouted at myself, “I don’t know what’s wrooooonng!!!!!”  Five minutes after I got home, I was fine.

More recently, my boss emailed me a couple follow up questions on a long project I had just turned in.  He asked nicely, as always, because my boss is actually a really fantastic boss.  So anyway, he asked nicely, and then the tears started welling up in my eyes, and I had to leave the office to go collect myself in the ladies room before I completely fell apart.  Because he asked me a couple follow up questions.  Nicely.  Five minutes later?  Fine.

One day I was watching a duck waddle across a street, and I burst into tears.  Totally fine five minutes later.

I have melted down in the past year because the dishwasher had clean dishes in it, because that meant I had to put them away, and I was not emotionally prepared to put the dishes away right at that moment.  Sure, theoretically I could just put them away later, but in the meantime I would sit on the couch and it would just gnaw and gnaw at me that I was lying around doing nothing when there was work to be done.  Basically, I cried over clean dishes because I have a really good work ethic.

To summarize, these are the situations that will make me cry in my 40s, along with a visual aid of Dawson from Dawson’s Creek to demonstrate the crying scale:

(1) Making a wrong turn:

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(2) No reason at all:

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(3) Being nicely asked a couple follow up questions:

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(4) Ducks:

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(5) My own work ethic:

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The only thing they have in common is that five minutes later, I’ll be fine.

40-something hormones?  You figure that shit out.  I have to go make sure that in the past five minutes I haven’t started growing a mustache and a dumpster ass like Mike Ditka.

Let’s Talk About 80s Hair and Your Lie-Brows

I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering what the next 80s hair will be.

I suppose an “inordinate amount” of time on that particular subject would mean that I spend five seconds a day on it, because it’s not something anybody should spend any time thinking about.  I mean, it’s a pretty good use of my time, but only because I’ll do just about anything to avoid having to do actual work.

Isn’t it the most fun to look through old photos from the 80s and say, “I can’t believe everyone teased up their bangs like that!  What were we thinking?!”

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You know this looks good.

We all thought it looked awesome at the time – the bigger the hair, the better!  Nobody ever thought big hair would fall out of fashion, but of course it did.  It’s fashion.  That’s the nature of it.

The 80s hair of the 90s, of course, was the Rachel haircut, the cropped denim vest over the prairie dress, and lug-sole pumps worn with anything.  It was a sassy look if you wanted to look like the mom on Beverly Hills 90210, or Brenda on 90210.  Or Donna.  Or literally any woman on 90210 except for Emily Valentine, who was my personal style icon on that show.

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Emily Valentine = ICON

The 2000s brought us 80s hair in the form of the stupid “trucker hat” that I wanted to knock off of the head of every person I saw wearing one, and lip “plumpers” that felt like someone sprayed pepper spray on your lips, but it was worth it, because then you looked like someone punched you in the mouth, and women’s dating books will tell you that men find “vulnerability” highly desirable in women, and what could look more vulnerable than having recently been punched in the mouth?  Also, by “men”, I mean “gross men”.

The 2010s have brought us “contouring”, where you spend a ton of money on various face powders to make your face look like a cross between Max Headroom and the giant ball thing at Epcot.  That still seems to be a thing, but I feel like its popularity is waning now that people are realizing that faces should look more like a human and less like the computer-animated guys in the Dire Straits “Money For Nothing” video.

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We got to install microwave ovens.  Custom kitchen deliver-ay-ay-ayyy.

I realize this may be an unpopular opinion, and please feel free to disagree with me because, honestly, who really cares, but I believe women’s current eyebrow fashions are today’s 80s hair.

They’re scaring the crap out of me.  Why are they so…harsh?

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Uncle Leo was ahead of his time on the eyebrow thing.

And the more “skilled” the applier, the more harsh the eyebrows become.  Any time someone shows me wedding photos or bachelorette party photos where they had a makeup artist do everyone’s makeup, I have to restrain myself from physically recoiling, yelling, “Shit!” and then driving my car into the ocean.

Granted, as a fair-haired type, I have what can best be described as “no-brows” or “ghost-brows” that I have to fortify with tinted eyebrow gel just so they’ll be semi-visible and I won’t be mistaken for Bob Geldof when he cut his eyebrows off in Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” (which I was forced to sit through by my 25-year-old boyfriend when I was 16 and I HATED EVERY SECOND OF IT because it was SO BORING).

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Still somehow less disturbing than that guy I dated/was the victim of.

Pro Tip:  If you want to entertain your Lolita girlfriend, don’t make her watch your boring, weird, dewd movies that are only suitable for druggies who were alive during the Johnson administration.  What you should do, is make her watch the police take you to jail because you’re a pervert and a criminal because oh my god why are you dating a 16-year-old.

That would have been far, far more satisfying than watching Bob Geldof take off those eyebrows in “The Wall”.

I swear, any time I walk around the makeup store these days, everyone there looks like this:

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You look really…uhh…uhh…virile?

And I don’t get it.

I mean, if you naturally have thick, caterpillar-like, squared-off eyebrows and are happy with it, more power to you.  Frida Kahlo it up.  Rock that shit.  But when you’re going out of your way and spending hundreds of dollars on products with names like “BoyBrow” and having eyebrow hairs glued to your face to look like Captain Caveman on a testosterone replacement regimen, that’s where you lose me.

Your eyebrows are a lie, which would be fine because so is my padded-bra chest, but your eyebrows are a weird lie.  They’re weird, weird lie-brows.  They’re weirding up the joint. They’re freaking me out.  They’re frightening children and small animals and, like Simon Cowell telling the person who has a terrible voice that they can’t sing, somebody needs to tell you:  Ease up on the eyebrows.

And one day, mark my words, you will look back at those eyebrows in photos and say, “What the hell were we thinking?!”

If you disagree, please write your dissenting argument down on a piece of paper, seal it in a jar, and then bury the jar in your backyard as a time capsule.  When you dig it up in twenty years, you’ll be like, “Maggie was right.  100% right.  If only she were alive to see it and hadn’t been shot and killed by Donny Osmond’s personal security team in 2030.”

“Oh my god you’re so judgey!”

Have you met me?

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