It Could Be Corey

From Mer:

I think the quintessential reason to like Coreys is because they make you
feel better for who you are.

Loser who works at Barnes and Noble under one Daisy Morton? Dude, could be
worse: you could be doing coke off of a tranny in East Harlem with Corey.

Writer's block threatening to derail your nascent (fuck, prenatal) career?
Hey, man, you could be on the floor of the Viper Room, sucking gin martinis
out of the carpet since your credit card just bounced and you can't even
convince Tara Reid to buy you a double in exchange for some nasty, back of
the SUV oral, just like Corey.

Have gonarrhea? Hey, so does Corey! The antibiotics work, he says, no need
to cry.

Hurricane Katrina buttfucked your house, school, career, life? You could be
bent over a casting couch, getting pegged by a D-level producer who thinks
that maybe he can find a place for you in next summer's blockbuster "Wet
Coeds 2: Bikini Beach Patrol." You and Corey.

See? See how this day is so vital to America? Because no matter how
bushwacked our own lives seem, we could be in the stinking morass that is
known as the life of being Corey. Thank you, brave Coreys, for living the
life that we don't even want to read about in US Weekly. Amen.

Corey is Dead.

There is a place I go in my head when I must conjure Corey. As Corey Thunder Dome 2005 approached I went there, dear reader. I went to my special place to bring them forth to celebrate this day that honors them, gives them the respect they long fought for and so deserve. As they are shy, I spoke with tenderness. I called to them in soothing tones. Corey, are you there? Corey, do you hear me? I beckoned them in, gently at first and then with great force. I threatened. I cajoled. I cried out, my voice echoing emptily in the night. I sang a stirring, a cappella rendition of “Dream a Little Dream” ending with a Corey Heart medley, consisting only of “Sunglasses at Night” over and over, a broken fucking record. A golden stud in the wrong lobe. The Coreys, they did not come. The Coreys left me alone in my bed, in my head, wringing my hands and tearing at my clothes. I read through the Thunder Dome archive. I spoke Corey quotes aloud.

Could you take the car out of neutral? We just got passed by a street sweeper.

Silence.

An innocent girl, a harmless drive. What could possibly go wrong?

Silence.

Don’t switch the blade on the guy in shades, oh no.

Silence.

I wept quiet tears. And then out of the darkness, slow and with great bravado came sweet music. A gravelly voice. A drunken slur, underlined with blatant sexual innuendo. “I’m a cop, you’re a crook,” he spat. “Nothin’ worse than a bad cop.” He hissed it, tickling the inside of my ear. Nolte, hair wild. Nolte, in handcuffs. Smoking a cigar. Handling the truth. Issued a restraining order. Accompanied by Eddie Murphy? Nolte in my special place.

Alone no longer, I am free. I am his.

Corey is dead.
But Nolte, so very much alive.

Corey Feldman Is . . .

I can't think of a better way to get started than to visit Googlism.

My love for the Coreys goes back to Corey Feldman. We flirted a little in Stand By Me, but we didn't get down to the heavy petting until the Lost Boys. So I wondered what Corey's been up to since we looked him up last year . . .


corey feldman is pretty sure he knows what you think of him
corey feldman is my man
corey feldman is out of the pictures
corey feldman is a secondary player in this one
corey feldman is still alive
corey feldman is a god
corey feldman is to wed
corey feldman is one of the few celebs who's still kickin' it
corey feldman is as eventful as a hollywood high school reunion
corey feldman is cresting on his angry young man
corey feldman is still the better corey
corey feldman is a very vivid memory
corey feldman is in town
corey feldman is revealed here as one of the ugliest young actors in hollywood
corey feldman is cast
corey feldman is crazy teddy duchamp
corey feldman is excellent as a teenage neighbor observer who sits on his porch and invites his friends over to watch the would
corey feldman is good
corey feldman is in this film
corey feldman is excellent
corey feldman is also in this film
corey feldman is also reported to be helping his friend corey out in his time of need
corey feldman is a true class act
corey feldman is okay by me
corey feldman is meanwhile shaving his head
corey feldman is trek in team knight rider
corey feldman is back
corey feldman is sooooooooooo sickening
corey feldman is actor
corey feldman is available
corey feldman is my arch nemesis
corey feldman is 31
corey feldman is also a writer

Coreydome 04

It started here, last August.

For the rest of last year's ponderances on All That Is Corey, check the archives for August 25th, 2004.

The pictures are gone, but there's an awful lot.

"That thing is so hell of wispy a spider covets"

Seriously, go read Achewood.

Chapter Two: Clouds Over Oklahoma

100 miles from Iowa City, and the tidings were grim.

"Hey, I'm a friend of--"

"What?"

"My name's Matt, I'm calling for--"

"I can't hear you."

"I was--can you hear me?"

"Yeah. Who is this?"

"My name's Matt, I'm on my way from--"

"Ohh, yeah. Yeah. Call back when you're closer."

We did, to little improvement. The place of our first rest was filled with silently smoldering angry eyes, inadequate jukeboxes, and one-way streets with no exits. After a short conference we opted for further nighttime driving and unseen campgrounds. Apologies were offered on both sides, and promises made to do better on the other side of the adventure. That particular outcome remains a mystery.

We drove on, across Iowa and past Des Moines (DES moe-EE-nez). We consulted our handy atlas, easily the handiest atlas I've ever known, and we spied a campground not too far from the highway. Our sleepy destination: Winterset, Iowa, birthplace of John Wayne. Time: 4AM. We set up camp in the drizzling rain, in the dark, on a hill, one campsite removed from what looked to be a friendly biker who was pulling an impressive wagon behind him. We were awake again by 8AM, our tent leaking and wet, our sleeping bags a little damp. We drove on.

The rest of the day--a solid 12 hours' drive--took us out of Iowa (not as kind to us as Wisconsin, by far), through a corner of Missouri (where Kansas City was found to be a dreary-looking place, akin to Cincinnati in its grays and browns, though occasionally capable of producing impressively pointy buildings:
















), and across the length of Kansas before the rain found us again. Rain, you ask? Rain! Sheets of it, mounds of it, jars full of it, pounding down on us as we raced across the plains. We stopped, twice, and us!, brave exploreres that we were, to let the rain pass us by.

When we at last arrived in Oklahoma City, where we were greeted by our ally Coach Carter, we were tired and eager to shower. Coach Carter welcomed us, offered us food, gave us knives.

Knives?! Ah, dear reader, have faith; all will be explained.

Next: my horsey knife is laughed at.

Bring Us Your Comfy, Your Well-Fed, Your Hyatt

From Yahoo News coverage on the halted Superdome evactuations:

At one point Friday, the evacuation was interrupted briefly when school buses pulled up so some 700 guests and employees from the Hyatt Hotel could move to the head of the evacuation line — much to the amazement of those who had been crammed in the Superdome since last Sunday.

"How does this work? They (are) clean, they are dry, they get out ahead of us?" exclaimed Howard Blue, 22, who tried to get in their line. The National Guard blocked him as other guardsmen helped the well-dressed guests with their luggage.

The 700 had been trapped in the hotel, near the Superdome, but conditions were considerably cleaner, even without running water, than the unsanitary crush inside the dome. The Hyatt was severely damaged by the storm. Every pane of glass on the riverside wall was blown out.

Mayor Ray Nagin has used the hotel as a base since it sits across the street from city hall, and there were reports the hotel was cleared with priority to make room for police, firefighters and other officials.

Chapter One: A Good Beginning

The day when I last knew the day was Friday. I hefted my bag over my shoulder, hoping I hadn't brought too little (I had not, by far), or too much (I had, by far--not a comic book was cracked). The journey began seperately, on foot, a walk through Uptown and meeting at the Army Supply Store. It was a fitting place, though by the end such a scene would have made me roll my eyes and make a mental note to blog about it later, how it was all about conflict, or the safe illusion of it. We bought last minute supplies--a new belt, lighter fluid--and my partner of the next two weeks, Halloween Jack, and myself set off for grilled cheese sandwiches and train to the north country.

On the train--the first train--we stood near the doors, holding our bags, ready to hop out. A suburban mom stood beside us as we neared a stop (not ours) and announced, "Which way to the doors open?"

Jack and I looked to each other. I was suspected she wanted us to answer. He was frowny and uncomfortable.

She said it again, "Which way do the doors open?" this time turning to face Jack.

"Well, I don't know," said Jack. "I suspect it's either this way," and he nodded his head behind us, "or that way," and he inclined his head before us.

She sniffed derisively and Jack and I avoided eye contact.

He disembarked from the train deep into the suburbs, which is not the sort of place you want to disembark anything, for any reason. We were to wait here for the Deuce, who would be taking us to meet our third traveling companion. We stepped from the train and looked around for the Deuce's machine, the Forest Moon of Endor, but it was nowhere in sight. We sat down on a grassy knoll and let the world happen around us.

A couple biked past, through the parking lot that flanked the train tracks on either side. They were on a bike, one of those two-seaters, the dude in front and his lady behind him. At first I thought it was typical, the male feeling the need to take charge. Then I thought it was funny, and I pictured the lady with an imposing strap-on, leading her man where she wanted to go. He was a pudgy red-headed lad, hiding his face behind wrap-around sunglasses. She was thin and blonde. She waved at me.

"Hello," I said, though she couldn't hear, and wiggled my fingers.

"She waved," said Jack. "At you."

"It's a good beginning," I said.

The Deuce and the Forest Moon arrived and we drove to Madison, Wisconsin. It was a few hours, but nothing compared to the next two weeks--compared to the ultraday awaiting us down the line. We met Jack's folks, who had brought our #3, the Coyote, down to meet us:
















We thought of food, but no . . . the open road was calling. We shook hands with the Deuce, with Mr. and Mrs. Soiree, Jack introduced me to the Coyote, we loaded up our gear, and we were on our way.

* * *

Dodgeville was our first port of call. We saw the signs for Pizza Hut, and we said to one another, yes, Pizza Hut is precisely where we wanted to be. Dodgeville is small Wisconsin town, if a town is even what it is. It's a hilly conglomeration of restaurants and gas stations, the sort of place made precisely to accomodate nighttime travelers. We walked in, we sat down, and Jill, our waitress, approached. She was blonde and smiley and plump.

"Midwestern Stout," Jack told me.

"What's goin on tonight, fellas?" she asked.

What luck! Our first stranger, and already an excust to tell our story!

"Why, we're on our way to the ocean!" I said.

"The ocean?" We were far from the ocean, and Jill knew it.

"We're going to California," I said.

"What for?"

"Adventure!"

Jill was tickled. She was glad to meet us, she said, happy to have been a part of our journey. "I've never met anyone going to California before," she told us.

My gut said we should invite her along, by god . . . but no. The Coyote had not room for a third, and besides, there were would be many friendly strangers on our path, I was certain. Our pizza was delivered, we ate it, and Jill undercharged us. She was reprimanded before we were even out the door.

But out the door we went! Iowa City was our next destination, and in our path would be twisting county highways, pickup trucks with testicles, and phone directions by hosts who did not want our company.

Next: Our Story Takes a Turn