I was flipping through my latest issue of Bon Appetit yesterday and came across an article on Ireland (March issue, after all; the masses will be clamorin’ for the cabbage any time now, dontcha know?) written by Andrew McCarthy. The travel writer and actor, Andrew McCarthy, it said. The Brat Pack Andrew McCarthy I wondered? Pretty in Pink, Less Than Zero, St. Elmo’s Fire, Andrew McCarthy?!?! Yes, indeed. Turns out he’s a regular contributor to National Geographic Traveler, as well. A travel writer. Sigh. My dream job. But back to Andrew.
The Breakfast Club made me fall in love with Judd Nelson, also a member of the Brat Pack, (and my husband’s doppelganger on his Facebook page, interestingly enough) and some decent eighties music. My first marriage was to a man eerily like fellow Brat Packer (oooh..that doesn’t sound so good, somehow…), Rob Lowe. But seeing Andrew McCarthy’s name I dreamily thought of those beautifully troubled eyes of his and St. Elmo’s Fire. His role as a lovelorn writer was irresistibly appealing to both me, and Hannah in those crazy days of the early eighties– a surprise to no one, I’m sure. On a weekend visit home from college one night Hannah and I settled ourselves down in my parents’ living room and popped the movie into the VCR, and watched it unashamedly, murmuring appreciatively at all the Brat Pack eye-candy projected from the bulging TV my father managed to incase in the heavy mahogany entertainment center that survived a trip from D.C. to Japan and back to the states again. There’s a scene in the bar they all hang out in when Andrew’s character is on the phone leaning against the wall and he says “Oh, you know…” takes a slow, sexy drag on his cigarette, “It ain’t easy being me.” And we both squeal in delight, and I grab the remote and rewind the tape to watch it again. Squeal!!! Rewind. Squeal!!! Rewind. Squeal!!! Rewind. Then my dad, Mr. Fuss Budget, forever on the prowl making his domain the most comfortable, safe, well-lit space it could possible be, is in the doorway with a perplexed scowl on his face. Press forward to Play.
The funny thing is that a few weeks ago Andy, Hannah, Joe and I went to see Sherlock Holmes, and everyone pretty much knew it was so Hannah and I could soak up some Robert Downey, Jr. and Jude Law-ness. And we squealed and moaned and I was mentally rewinding again and again, even during the previews for Iron Man II, with more Robert Downey, Jr. and (me jumping up and down in my seat) Mickey Rourke. Nearly 30 years later and we’re still at it. But you know, ironically, neither Hannah nor I are very fond of candy or sweets, so what’s the harm in a little for the eyes?