Posts Tagged ‘The Breakfast Club’

Let’s Dance

January 12, 2016

I’m always down for dancing.


When I’m not.

David Bowie has passed.

I am listening to his last album, Black Star, as I type.


Thinking about the crush I had on him in high school.

Along with.


Wait for it.



Mikhail Baryshinikov.


And let me not forget Michael Hutchence from INXS.

Good lord.

There was something about David Bowie, though.

My first album of his is not the one most folks would have chosen.

Never Let Me Down.

From his Glass Spider tour.

I have absolutely no recollection why I bought that one, but it makes sense, time wise for me.

That must have been when I had my Columbia Record House membership.


Remember those?

I remember how exciting it was to get that package of tapes in the mail.

I mean, talk about waiting for something with baited breath.

I don’t remember all the albums I got, but David Bowie’s Never Let Me Down was in there, also INXS; Sting’s Dream of The Blue Turtles: REM’s Out of Time; Madonna’s Like A Prayer; and I am completely unabashed to admit this one, hahahaha, Simply Red.


Good gravy.

There were others, I am sure.

Now that I have had a moment to reflect on it, I bet I got the David Bowie after watching The Breakfast Club:

And these children that you spit on, as they try to change their world, are immune to your consultations.  They’re quite aware of what they’re going through.

Granted, that quote is from Changes, but if I recall, you couldn’t always get the album you wanted from Columbia Record House, they didn’t have the entire discography of the artist.

It was sort of, you get what we got, and that might be why I had the Simply Red Album.



Complete honesty.

I think I saw a video on VH1 that was on somebody’s cable when I was baby sitting and I was attracted to the lead singer?


I had my moments.

I still do.

I don’t think I was the only girl in the world with a crush on Mick Hucknall when it comes down to it, but I may be the only woman currently willing to admit it.

I also had a minor crush on Thomas Dolby.

I was lucky in some ways, now that I think of it, I got exposed to interesting music and then I also dated guys that were into music and I got a lot of exposure to bands and groups that I probably wouldn’t have.

I am thinking of one boyfriend in particular.

Although he did not expose me to any music in general, he was the person I thought of when I heard that David Bowie had died.

His name was John.

John Morgan.

I have looked for this guy a few times, owe him an amends as it were, and probably a hug.

Never found him anywhere.


He was a love.

Someone that in hindsight I loved so much more than I realized and also some one whom I was not capable of being with.

I just had too much shit happening in my life.

My sister, homeless, pregnant, her felon (ex)husband, my niece, my crazy dad, my crazy mom.

And crazy me.

I had met John on State Street in front of the arcade Challenges.

It was right next to the coffee shop Espresso Royale.

I have many fond memories of sitting in that coffee shop drinking vanilla lattes and smoking cigarettes.


I had my tastes.

Thank God they have changed.

I don’t know how I struck up the conversation with John.

I don’t remember.

I do remember his eyes were blue, he was a little on the heavy side, but not fat, just solid, big, he smoked, but he tended to roll his own cigarettes and yes, indulge in a pipe.

Affectation anyone?

But I found it adorable.

And he smoked cherry tobacco.

He was a virgin when we met.

Not for long.


The stories.

There’s a lot of them.


He was a dear, kind, sweet soul, who went above and beyond, helping me out in some tight places and also loaning my sister and her ex money.

If you know a John Morgan from Cambridge, let him know I’d like to pay him that money back.

I hated asking for it.

It was to bail out my sister’s ex.

They ended up jumping bail and leaving John sitting with the bag.

I didn’t do much better.

I broke up with him and then left and hit the road with his room mate and traveled down to Florida.

Where things got even weirder.

And all this when I was 19.

Sometimes I wonder that I made it out alive.

Living, squatting really, in a house on Monroe Street with my dad, who was gainfully in his cups and dating the daughter of the woman who owned the house (who was younger than me, ew dad) who was an alcoholic, self-admitted, who slopped around in house slippers and would drink her beer in a sippy cup with a straw.


Oh my God.

I can’t believe I remember these names.

And the daughter’s name was Faith.

Of course it was.

And her brother Noah, an alcoholic, psychotic who would constantly bum cigarettes from you.  He was like a honing device, anyone, anywhere, in that house, from the second floor to the basement who might, might, have had a cigarette, he was there, slouched up right next to them.

“Can I bum a smoke, man?”

He was always damp, with a shank of dark hair that would fall into his eyes, and his eyes were dark, pale skin, five o’clock stubble at all times.


Of course I slept with him.

I was drunk.

And it was one time.


That never happened again.

I digress.

John bailed my ex brother in law out of jail and I broke up with him when I demanded more from him than he could give.

I had this unreasonable idea, too much reading the Princess Bride, too much, or too little, I suppose, patterning of relationships on my mom and missing dad, of what love looked like.

It did not look like this sweet kid who gave me socks for my birthday.

“Socks?!”  I was appalled when I opened the package.

“You gave me socks,” I almost hollered.

“You don’t have any,” he said baffled, the pleased with himself look fading off his face rather fast.

“I just thought, you must have cold feet all the time,” he added, now chagrined and blushing furiously.

“My feet are not cold.” I said and stuffed the socks down in my bag.

(My birthday, mind you, is in December and I was living in Wisconsin, and it’s not exactly warm there, my feet were probably always cold.)

I remember the color of the socks, I remember the feel of them, they were expensive and heavy and wool and had multi-colored stripes.

I threw them away.

(Aside, that just made me tear up, poor girl, being offered love, not knowing how to take it, spitting on it, not knowing what this was, this kind of sweet regard and tender taking care of.  I had never had it.  How was I to realize what was being offered?)

I break my own heart.

Then break his.

Then leave for months and not tell anyone where I am going.



It just keeps getting better.

I end up homeless outside of Miami, Florida with some crazy low level hill billy mafia crack head who was nine years older than me and was named.



Billy Ray.

I do not make this shit up.

Long and short of it.

Which it was.

Horribly long and thank God, awfully short too.

Billy freaked out on me, threatened to kill me, and basically I hitch hiked to a Greyhound station with a paycheck from a gas station/convenience store I had worked at for a week in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina.

This blog is getting long.

But goodness, there is so much rich material here.

David Bowie.

Get back to David Bowie.


I made it back to Madison, I was crashing on the couch at my mom’s house, my sister had just had a baby, it was not good, my mom’s room mate was not happy, it was a bad idea to try and stay with my dad at Patty’s, but I did for a couple of nights, and then my sister tells me about the plan.


Let me just say this.

I did it.

One time.

It did not go well.

I did it to a medley of David Bowie songs.

Blue Jean.

China Girl.


Let’s Dance.

By the time I was at Let’s Dance the top was coming off.

The floor was black and sticky on the stage, the lights were hot, John was there for moral support.

We got back together for a weekend.

His face in the club, a halo of blond hair, his spectacles pushed up the bridge of his nose, his blue eyes wide watching me.

It is one thing to dance for your boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, in the warm afternoon light of a flat on E. Johnson Street with David Bowie crooning in the back ground.

It is quite another to do it at Visions Night Club on East Washington Street.

I remember him mouthing “smile” at me.

I remember not being able to take any of the money being held out to me.

I remember a lot more.


Like I said.

The blog.

She gets long.

All the things I used to do that I don’t do any more.

All the music, the soundtrack to that wrecked part of my life.

David Bowie.

Thanks for the memories.


All the glorious music.

It made my life.




And always.





Bring Me Judd Nelson

September 23, 2012

But only the Judd Nelson of The Breakfast Club.

I bought tickets to go see one of my top all time favorite movies at the Paramount Theater in downtown Oakland for next Friday.

I am quite excited.

I may wear some dark eye liner, “I like that black shit,” and channel myself a little Ally Sheedy.

I never did really quite connect with Molly Ringwald’s character.

Sheedy’s though, I got her real well.

The first time I saw the movie was at my cousin Arielle’s house.  She and my sister were really quite tight.  I felt like the third wheel, but once the movie started I did not care who was there.

In fact, I don’t remember anything else about the company I kept that night.

I was enthralled.

I watched it twice.

Once the first time with my sister and my cousin, and then the second up late, with the volume turned down low after every one had gone to bed.  I must have been up until three in the morning.  My first late nighter as a teenager.

I was a pretty good kid.

I did not drink.

I did not do drugs.

I was not a truant.

I toed the line.

I was rebellious in ways that were quiet and under the radar and most likely annoying to a lot of the people around me.  I was a know it all, a book-worm, a debate team captain.

I was smart, but not smart enough, is how I always looked at it.

I could not figure things out.

And I missed a lot of things like dating and slumber parties and boys and gossip; hanging out at the mall or going to the movies with girl friends.

When those things did happen, they felt so momentous that they are almost entirely etched into my memory.

Watching Beaches with a car load of people at the drive in on outer East Side of Madison.

Going roller skating with Jim Bloomer at the Roller Drome.

Man, was I embarrassed by Jim.  He was cute, he was one year older, he kissed me quite well my junior year, but he was a dork.

Despite the lessons I learned watching The Breakfast Club, I did not really learn anything.

Watching that movie was an ethereal experience as it had absolutely no bearing on my life or my experiences in high school, but I was still marked by it.

The fantasy of being like that.

The fantasy of dating.

What that looks like.

I have a date for next Friday.  This will be date number three.  We have been to dinner twice–Flour and Water and Plum–and now it is time for the movie.

Will we hold hands?

Do I lean into him?

Aren’t movie theaters were you go to make out?

I went on a movie date with Jim once too, with friends of his, I don’t remember the girl’s name, but I think his friend’s name was Jeff.

Jeff and his girlfriend made out the entire time.

I could not tell if I wanted to make out with Jim or not.

I did, but I did not want to be ostracized.

Jim was the towel boy for the football team.

I was scandalized by the thought of the further ostracization that would happen to me if anyone knew I was on a date with Jim.

I am not the mature woman I am today.

And Jim is married with babies and a wife, so I am certain it all worked out the way it was supposed to be.

But I remember the taste of guilt in my mouth.

That taste of want and need and desire.

I had friends who had gone all the way.

Shit I had a sister who had already been pregnant once and was preparing to get with child yet again (that niece just turned 20 this month).

Yet I could not reconcile my hormones, Jim’s hormones, and the social level I would have slunk to had I gone on a more public date with him.

We watched Pet Semetary.

It was awful.

I was really disappointed.  I had read the book and I loved Stephen King.

How come all his movies have translated so poorly?  They really are schlock.

Jeff and his girlfriend were the real horror story at the theater.  I could barely take my eyes off them to see what was happening on the big screen, which was not scary in the least and annoying in the most.

Did Jim even try to hold my hand?

I do not recall.

The last time I went to a movie with a boy I slept with him that night.

Ok, so that probably will not be happening.

It was also the last night that Shadrach was alive, if you can call being in a vegetative coma alive.  It was the night before his parents were to be informed that there was no hope for him, that the coma was going to be permanent, he would not be waking up, and they needed to decide what to do.

I was exhausted.

It had been a week of very long days, very long nights, bouts of crying that shook me until I fell asleep.  Haze.

I remember the fog falling over Twin Peaks and the light of the sun spilling gold and yellow on the grass in front of General Hospital.

I went to sit quietly for an hour and I cried the entire time.

Some friends were going to see a movie after I they invited me.


Rick invited me and Jim and another friend went.

I was so tired.

I leaned into Rick’s shoulder and just soaked in the warmth.

I should have gone home that night.

Who knows what could have happened.

To this day I wonder if I actually would have ended up dating him had I not slept with him that first night.


Maybe not.

But I needed comfort and I took it.

I remember most the warmth of his shoulder.

The sex was not memorable.

Neither was it horrible, it was just what it was.

That was five and a half years ago.

I have been to movies with guy friends and girl friends and fellows.

But I have not been on a date with a guy to go see a movie in a while.

I’m up for holding hands right now.

Maybe a good night kiss.

Maybe a shoulder to lean on.

I am excited to see the movie and to see how I have moved on, forward, and out from that place I was in over twenty years ago when I first watched the movie and completely fell for that circle of kids, angst ridden and rebellious and golden in celluloid time.

Because when I think about it I can see that I am just like them at the end–I have shed some skin, a lot of it, and have embraced my true self–it may not look like Molly Ringwald–but it does look pretty wonderful.

And just a tiny bit French.


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