To my great pleasure, Can’t Buy Me Love was on last night. If you’ll recall, this is the flick featuring a nerdy-but-intriguingly-sexy early-days Patrick Dempsey (pre McAnything, thank you lord) who goes from “geek to chic” and then back to geek (or is he?) on the wings of a dastardly plan (the kind only a nerd could come up with, involving a riding mower, a high-powered lady suit, and some unfortunate red wine stains) to get the neighbor girl/cheerleader to fall for him/make him popular/destroy yet bring him, in the end, to life again.
The movie is punctuated with many great scenes and much hilarious styling (How does Bobby get his hair to do that?). And then, of course, there are the dance moves, which “inspired” only barely hints upon. Remember the African anteater ritual? Kinda reminds me of the floogle, another ill-forsaken oldie but goodie. That I, um, created.
You know it’s the day after your birthday when you wake up and reach for the glass of water upon your bedside table and swig its remains hastily to rid the fuzz from however-many-Gruners from your debauched tongue but instead find your mouth infused with a fiery liquid that clears your sinuses, singes your nosehairs, and might explain why you were a little bit drunk on the subway this morning.
The morning-after-birthday Scotch. Welcome to 34. ‘Sa gonna be a good year, ya wee bairns.
