In the Queue
“Through the magic of motion pictures, someone who's never left Peoria knows the softness of a Paris spring, the colour of a Nile sunset, the sorts of vegetation one will find along the upper Amazon and that Big Ben has not yet gone digital." -Vincent Canby
I once owned a TalkBoy, which G and I would carry around religiously. We even brought it to Manhattan, the scene of Kevin McCallister’s latest caper, and carried it through FAO Schwartz. On that first trip to FAO Schwartz, I tried to play Heart and Soul on the floor piano like Josh Baskin but minus the creepy fortune teller machine to turn me into a 33 year old overnight.
Come to think of it, I never thought that I could turn a beast back into a prince, be a live pawn on a board game or that mermaids could learn to walk (but I did believe in mermaids). And yet, I will admit to clapping so that Tinkerbell could fly and seriously deliberating what would happen if my father shrunk us in a science experiment gone awry.
Garrett and I forced the padres to purchase a tree house, so we could conjure up imaginary meals and scream ‘Rufio’ at the top of our lungs. Our neighbors? Well, they were rarely seen and I’m quite sure that their eldest son was the perfect likeness to Sloth – bald head, giant fucked up eye and all - but finding him would never lead to any lost treasure. And sadly, Corey Feldman – hunk that he was – wouldn't be there either.
To this day, I have a serious and unrelenting fear that a clown will murder me and that a psychotic, red headed doll will come out of its package and bludgeon me to death. If I could look those two up, I would, but I would like to sleep with the lights off tonight.
I was even most certain that my father, with the aid of latex and a body suit, could turn himself into a convincing – yet ass ugly - female nanny to care for us while my mother worked.
Just last night, my ice cold, tar black heart turned into a giant pile of mush; my eyes welled up with tears as I got that all too familiar lump in the back of my throat. If Noah and Allie could find each other again, then surely there is hope for me. Next week? I’ll believe and begin praying for a guy with a boom box (or I suppose an ipod or XM) and an ugly trench coat to stand outside of my window and profess his undying love for me.
Therein lies the beauty of a movie…that magic and power to make a small child believe that a baseball team will come out of a corn field (I was totally convinced) or that every girl will find her own Lloyd Dobler and live happily ever after.