Ah friends, it’s not you. It’s me. I think I have something chronic that sucks all my energy away. I mean besides the Turnip. Anyway, the gloriously revered Madame Fabu bestowed a tremendous favor upon me yesterday (saving me at least two hours and sizable grief and anxiety out of my day) so I promised I’d blog for her pleasure.
Speaking of the turnip. Project normal sleep pattern is a colossal FAIL. I was lying to myself and saying it was just the weekend that threw him off until he woke me up at 1am today by poking me with the laser tag gun saying “You took my teddy, Now me goings shoot you.” and laughing maniacally.
I confess I did not watch the Golden Globes. I don’t usually watch those shows (except for the Oscars which is more about socializing with my cousin litchick and our friends Sherman and Ray. Sherm, if you are reading this, I’m still committed to our Oscar musical number involving Winnie the Pooh characters on ice. I think we are onto something groundbreaking with it…). However, the post-Golden Globe buzz on twitter (ok pretty much since i only follow a handful of people, the buzz consisted of twitters from my cyber-stalkee Trelvix and my beloved Lucy) indicated that Mickey Rourke was not the hip happenin’ comeback kid that the IMDB has been implying as of late (I think Trelvix best captured the essence of what’s become of the man with “I took a crap and Mickey Rourke was in it. I wrote the part for Nicolas Cage but we could never agree on a believable toupée for the turd.” and “This probably won’t come up but – just in case – my safe word for today is “Mangina O’Rourke”)
Friends, I’m embarrassed to admit this but The Crseum is nothing if not about full disclosure (when I feel like disclosing that is). I had a horrible crush on Mickey Rourke back in the day. “But Crse! He’s hideous!” you are probably exclaiming right now. True dat, gentle readers, and for those of you younger folks, don’t bother google imaging him. He’s always been hideous. But by unfortunate chance, I happened to become sexually aware about the time the movie “9 1/2 weeks” came out. I won’t go into graphic details about how the movie played into my first disturbing forays into sexual experimentation (in the context of a relationship that should have probably ended with me pressing charges but that’s neither here nor there) but I will say this; I thought the movie was so hot at the time that the male lead could have been played by a plastic faced clownish looking man and it still would have been hot (oh wait, it was played by that guy…).
I could blame the crush entirely on 9.5 weeks, but then friends? Then came my next phase of sexual identity development. As summed up in the movie “Barfly”. Because where does a healthy red-blooded American girl go after being psycho-sexually manipulated? How the hell would I know where she goes? My particular brand of dysfunction, however, led me directly to the brilliant and witty, yet completely falling apart and emotionally unavailable alcoholic. In my defense friends, it was “what we did” in my social circle (Can I get a whoo-whoo on this Luckybuzz? Lainie? Roxie? ) My friends and I, we all had our Charles Bukowskis back in the day. Different ones for the most part. (Friends familiar with My Town know that there is no shortage of underachieving brilliance wrapped up in hot little packages of self-loathing here in my city and surrounding burbs.) Anyway, at the time, I saw absolutely no correlation between my romantic choices and the way Mickey Rourke still managed to look (in my opinion) sexy and piss-stained all at once. I went through an absolute “Barfly” phase friends. I could recite Faye Dunaway’s lines ad nauseum. (And “fortunately” for Luckybuzz, I did).
Mickey Rourke dropped off the radar about the time I met Gill. Ah friends, we did try to bring him into the relationship. We rented “Wild Orchids” and “Angel Heart” (and Lucy I agree, Lisa Bonet did indeed carry him in that film!) and Im sure we “enjoyed” them both. Still, he had no context in our world. We were getting married, he was being arrested for spousal abuse. We were pursuing educations, he was making direct to video films. We were raising our little family, he was being arrested for DUIs. Now, when I look at Mickey Rourke, all I see that turdish mangina as described by M. Trelvix.
I guess you could say that I was lucky he did fade lest I find another repugnant character of his to model my sexual ideals after, thus missing out on my chance at a (relatively) sane happily ever after with Gill. I don’t see it like that however. In fact, the megalomaniac in me can’t help but wonder if somehow my withdrawal of devotion ultimately did lead to the trainwreck he called a career (and let’s face it, personal life) in the 90s. You know, like the butterfly effect? Of course, we’ll never know but in any case? You are welcome for that America.
Anyway, it’s time to face the day. I still mean to blog about my CPR class last week. Because it’s not often I get to watch a large woman wearing far too much yellow feel herself up in front of a room full of people after snubbing me repeatedly only to realize that ultimately she had a girl-crush on me the whole time. Oh yes friends, I still haz it….