YUD’s mother would like to point out that, in fact, she could NOT be Ali McGraw’s older sister unless there have been at work some bizarre time-machine machinations involving a DeLorean, a large supply of plutonium (compliments of your friendly neighborhood plutonium-suppliers), and, of course, the elegant brilliance of the flux capacitor. Or, at the very least, a time-traveling phone booth. That would so rock.
Perhaps I didn’t know him, exactly, but I did tear many a page featuring his boyish visage from the pages of my Tiger Beat and/or Bop magazines, and I stuck them to my walls (all the better to gaze at) despite my parents hating that they’d eventually have to repaint my glorious seafoam green room.
It’s true, Wil Wheaton was really my youthful crush of choice, and then of course I went the hair band route (in an attempt to bring me back to earth my mother once told me that my great unrequited love, Sebastian Bach, probably had so many zits that he couldn’t see himself in the mirror for all the pus he’d squeezed onto it. Thanks, Mom, for that!).
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.