another bootleg column ../... To begin this week’s follow-up to last week’s magnum opus, we’ll turn – as we so often do – to classic cinema; in this case, “The Breakfast Club,” still the finest high school movie ever made. Sure, you can make a case for “Rebel Without a Cause” or “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” or maybe “Dazed and Confused,” but when the banter hits the fan, it’s “The Breakfast Club” that satisfies. It’s got it all: memorable characters, amazing chemistry, intellect and humor and soul ; primarily, it’s brilliantly written which, as you can imagine, is its greatest attribute, at least from my point of view. It looks so easy, doesn’t it? Character A says this to Character B who replies with this, to which Character C chimes in with another sentence. Try it sometime; seriously, the next time you have an interesting conversation with a stranger or a soul-mate, just write it down. Trust me on this. It won’t translate. Not because you weren’t able to get it all; if it were that simple, every legal stenographer who ever lived would be famous. Instead, none is. That’s what made John Hughes, who wrote and directed “The Breakfast Club,” a force of nature, a gift from above. Somehow, some way, he was able to make a movie that actually felt as if the viewer were right there, serving a Saturday detention with those five flawed and fantastic kids. My favorite’s always been John Bender: he’s the outcast, the hood, the one who just doesn’t care about anything, or so he’d have you believe. All of them -- Bender and Claire and Andrew and Brian and Allison – are honest and almost perfect ... they make this movie eternal. And that’s the thing: “The Breakfast Club” is that rare movie that absolutely cries out for a sequel or a prequel, but that won’t ever happen, I hope. Then again, they tried to mess up “The Graduate.” Thankfully, that one died a slow, painful death. “THE WORLD’S AN imperfect place,” Bender says early on. “Screws fall out all the time.” And, once again, he’s right. So when I pack for a week on the Outer Banks, I know I’m going to leave something important behind, which is not to say that I don’t try my best. I do. But my wife, as faithful readers will recall, is and always will be a fanatic about packing for vacation; I, on the other hand, am a slacker. It can make for interesting collisions. This time around, however, I’ve decided to subsume my predilections and go with the flow. Let’s face it. All I really need is at the cottage on the beach: a deck, a walkway to the water and a place that gets radio reception. The rest is all gravy. As the sign says: “If You’re Lucky Enough to be at the Beach, You’re Lucky Enough.” That’s in keeping with the spirit of “The Breakfast Club,” whose main message is “Don’t Worry So Much, OK?” Teenagers love to worry and fret and act out and generally, they (we) come to regret those hormonal bouts of emotional excess. I remember, back when I was maybe 16, feeling hideously guilty about the fact that I’d driven Dad’s Ford Country Squire more than 100 miles an hour on some rural country side road. The whole stupid thing – from accelerator stomped down to brake pushed to the floorboards – couldn’t have lasted more than 30 or 40 seconds, yet I still regret even doing something that stupid. Did I get away with it? Yes. But was it ignorant to do it? You know the answer to that one. It’s an imperfect world. When I pack for a trip, I don’t care about anything but the essentials. If my shirt “matches’ my shorts, that’s a happy accident. If I forget Neil Young’s “On the Beach,” I’m never without “Exile on Main Street.” If it rains ... heck, we’re at the ocean. Who doesn’t expect to get wet. Certain things, though, I don’t travel without: an electric fan, the aforementioned XM radio, my cooking supplies and, of course, a cooler. The rest, as they say, is window dressing. BUT THERE’S ANOTHER thing about traveling this time of year. I call it a Carolina Tweener. It’s not quite summer and it’s not yet fall, so when you’re packing for the coast, you have to allow for the extremes. Could be 90 at noon. Could be 40 at dawn. You just never know. I realize that almost no one cares how I’m dressed, but my wife does and every guy out there knows what I mean when I say, just say yes. As I write, our departure time is about 15 hours away and every single article of clothing that my spouse wants me to sport is safely packed away and ready to roll. It’s a small price to pay, actually, when you consider the risk/reward theory of marital bliss. If I say, “I won’t wear that, period,” well, I’m simply being a moron. If, however, I say, “Wow ... can’t wait to wear that,” well, I’m smart. I like being smart. After all, it’s an imperfect world. But gearing up for a week in a beach cottage ought to be very easy. Often, it’s not. So my best advice is to make sure you have an extra bag, somehow, something that doesn’t take up much room, but something that can accommodate your indispensables. With me, it’s a backpack with lots of pockets. It’ll be the last item I finish stuffing, er, mean packing, in the morning. Before I close, I just want to make sure that you understand one thing. A week on the beach is great, but a week on the beach with my wife is perfect. I know what Bender’s said about living in an imperfect world and believe me, I understand what he means about screws falling out. I’ll update you on the condition of my 1991 Honda Civic next time. But still and all, every day (and night) is a gift and I’m not about to waste this one. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive. Find him on Facebook and you might enjoy that experience, as well.
Posted on: Sat, 14 Sep 2013 22:48:28 +0000
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