to the season of abstinence -- Ash Wednesday (on which I ate no meat but didn’t abstain from any of my other naughty behaviors…another year down the tubes only hours in…) -- and, of course, the season finale of the food porn extravaganza, Top Chef (which I will be recapping in detail...particularly my dirty love of Germanic taskmaster, Stefan...). Not to mention that the very first installment in my succession of 34th birthday (go with me here…) celebrations is taking place this weekend…at Christos Steak House in Astoria…back to the scene. And the celebration is a full week early to accommodate my jet-setting Mom and Dad who are off on a jaunt to Longboat Key. You know, my parents being away on my birthday has been a running theme throughout my life…when I was a kid there was some big giant important trip that Dad made annually in his role as EVP of Anything & Everything at Mer
rill…Mom always by his side, Gramps in charge of RJ and me for the week. So, I am used to the celebration and honoring of my miraculous birth taking place weeks early or late, with or without cake…one time my Mom forgot to get me a cake and my Dad sang to me over an Oreo instead…I swear to G*d. But one year Murph and Allison made up for my ever-shifting birthday celebration with a ring-and-run style birthday cake ambush on my actual 18th birthday…singing to me from the bushes obscuring the front door at 766 Butternut…see, we weren’t always Mean Girls…Anyway…getting off point again…my head was spinning this week with all the activity, and honestly, I was thisclose to taking a break from writing…but that is just way too out of character for me. So, I am beginning where all great stories do….with Mickey Rourke.
My thoughts on Barbara F&%$ing Walters and her safe and boring celeb interviews are w
ell-documented…and you know, even on Oscar night with her big ultra-promoted, in-depth, “groundbreaking” interviews…even then, she bores me to tears (and I think she might actually be segueing into dementia about now, but hell, her Chanel suits are still on point). At any rate, I had to give her props for securing a guaranteed hot mess and ratings grabber with her deep dive into the comeback of Mickey Rourke with The Wrestler. Now, you know that I love nothing more than a gritty comeback story…and you know I saw the movie and that I covered my eyes throughout most of the fight scenes, wincing with phantom sympathy pains. And I cried and cheered and my heart went out to Mickey’s character…and I saw the parallels to Mickey’s own life and career…all that jazz. And I knew it was an amazing performance…but I also knew that I couldn’t possibly be the only one in the audience who was thinking: Wait a minute -- isn’t he just playing himself?
So with that in mind, fast forward to this past Sunday and Babs’ inane Oscar night sit downs – The Jonas Brothers (pride of Wyckoff!); Anne Hathaway (still firmly planted in the closet); and our man Mickey, busted face and all. And the interview hit on all the points I discussed above as well as covering the tragic recent death of Mickey’s 18-year old Chihuahua, Loki (just an aside…what is the deal with all these tough guys and their toy dogs all over the place…if I see another manly man running around with twin Maltese/Pomeranian/Papillon or w
hatevers skipping behind him, I am going to start questioning all I know to be true…so what if I am the mother of a 12 and a half year-old pug named after a gay cartoon character…). So anyway…Mickey covered all his hard times and how he threw away his promising career by disrespecting the professional process and the other actors; and eschewing authority and direction. And if that wasn’t enough, then his marriage became all twisted and obsessive and possessive and unhappy...yada yada yada.
Well, well, my friends…another great one to claim as our own…and just in time for Lent. And really, did he even have to identify himself as a Catholic…I mean, despite having a name that makes him sound like some Depression-era street thug, the typical Catholic martyr/stiff upperlip/hide-the-pain themes run rampant throughout his words…
And it occurred to me afterwards that Mickey’s whole public life and career were playing out like the coming of age of some willful, devilish little Catholic school boy gone awry. You know…we all went to school with them…and we know them now…they are in our homes and of
fices and neighborhoods…and they are always the most fun ever, life of the party (we Catholics love to have fun…nothing wrong with that...). But they are also that guy who will never ever reveal himself to you fully…you know, they kind of hate handing over control…and forget it – he will never open his heart and admit he is loving/sad/scared/vulnerable/needy...and if he does slip and tell you that he loves you, he'll be sure to follow it up by mentioning some astronomical amount of beers he drank prior to saying it (well, maybe that's just the Irish-Catholics...). You know, because we Catholics have a difficult time growing out of that stubborn self-preservatuon and our deep-seeded desire to challenge authority...our need to tell anyone and everyone that you’d rather throw away your life, your love, your career than be told what to do. Frankly, I think it comes from those batty old nuns slapping us with rulers (or in my case, crushing my hand with a huge history textbook…).
And you know...the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this little professional and personal rise and fall and detour and reemergence that Mickey took is not at all unlike the final 40 days of the life of Christ....Ok, I know my parents are reading this and freaking out at my turn as heretic...but I see it more as loosely applied allegorical thinking (Mo Morin would probably sleep with me now, no?)...But you know, Christ's whole journey into Jerusalem and being exhalted...just like Mickey's early promise and skyrocketing career, right? And then Christ's miraculous acts being overshadowed by His harsh criticism of the rabbis and Roman government...just like Mickey's amazing talent and brash outspokenness...you with me still? And then His betrayal, cruxifiction and death...paralleling the fall of Mickey's once bright shining star....And then three days later, He rose again...and so, it only took Mickey 10 years to follow suit...but he got there. So....I guess this can only mean one thing:
So, my friends, grab your sh*t and meet me at the doorway to hell because there is no way I am throwing it all away to start praying at the altar of Rourke...You see....this is precisely why I can't bring myself to participate in those Lenten rituals...Soon enough Christ will return and he will be carrying a Chihuahua/Maltese/Pomeranian/Papillon, cig dangling from his lip, wearing some $1,800 designer eyeglasses and a vest without a shirt underneath...Man, I don't think I could give up enough chocolate and swearing and glasses of wine in a lifetime to atone for my sins nearly enough to make eternity with Rourke a palatable option...so, it's settled then, back to sinning I go...
Go with God my fellow heathens....Suz
Photo 1: My favorite day of the year...you can look like a freak and no one can laugh at your sorry a**....
2 comments:
Okay so being a horn-sportin' Christ-killing Jew (and now feel equally Pilate-ous if I slander Mr Mickey) I am surprised at your omission of Angel Heart to support your argument -- plus having sex with Lisa Bonet in chicken blood has to be some kind of saintly act right? Oh but what I truly HATE you for -- and I'll atone for that on our holiday where we just skip lunch and POOF sins gone -- is that your dog thing reminded me of my work with Mr Winkle. Truly the creepiest thing ever: http://www.mrwinkle.com/. Thanks as ever Suz!
Another great post...like the Mickey spending 40 days in the (movie industry) desert part....
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