yearzerowriters

The Three Coreys

In jenn topper, Uncategorized on March 18, 2010 at 12:00 pm

coreys three

It’s not that the world needs another Corey Haim (or Corey Feldman or whoever the fuck just killed himself) nostalgic piece of schlock, but it’s those personal experiences that can sometimes be compelling. Those stories you won’t hear about on Access Hollywood or read on TMZ are the ones that, well, right, there’s a reason you won’t see them there and you’ll see them right here at Gupter Puncher.

It was the summer of 1993 and Sixth Avenue in the West Village hadn’t been regentrified quite yet in Giuliani’s “quality of life campaign”. No Urban Outfitters, no Barnes & Noble, and no fucking Starbucks in existence. Just pure crackheads, schizoid homeless bag ladies, and a New York version of NAFTA set up along the street with people selling anything they could: string, used tampons, keys, sequined jackets, mismatched Adidas size 12. Those were the days.

We spilled out of the bar at kickout time, 3:45 am, when they turn on the ugly lights, in search of food–the usual routine. Aching for something fruity after 7 hours of drinking yeasty, we agreed on Grey’s Papaya King for a papaya drink and 2 hot dogs, the recession special at $2. Making our way through the crowd of hustlers, drunks and cops we grabbed our order and a couple of stools at the counter to enjoy the show. And that’s when we saw Corey.

First, it’s like 85 degrees outside and this dude is wearing a black leather jacket, pants and white socks and black shoes. Second, he’s nodding out, slumped over his papaya drink and drooling a just a little. He’s got his own stool in the corner. As we scarfed our dogs and slurped our gross room temperature drinks, we took bets as to whether that was really him. His face was all pasty; hair was nappy and over-blacked. Couldn’t tell if it was pommade or just dirty, greasy hair. Either way it wasn’t appealing. And wait, what’s with the white socks and black shoes thing–and the Michael Jackson jacket? Seriously?

We’re drunk. We must be drunker than we think because there is no fucking way that we are sitting here at 4am on 8th street at an all night hot dog joint blowing straws at Corey Haim. Or Feldman. No, it was Feldman. And yes, way, this dude was absolutely without a doubt, one entirely fucked up, nodding-out, crack-dance, strungout Corey Feldman-dressed-up-like-Michael-Jackson on a hot, summer night in New York City, slobbering all over himself and this shithole of a place.

“Excuse me, Mr. Haim?” my friend said.

“No dude, that’s not Corey Haim, that’s Corey Feldman, you dumbass,” I corrected him, not so authoritatively and kind of in a whisper.

“Oh shit–Mr. Feldman,” my friend slurred.

“What the hell are you going to say to him?” I asked, genuinely wanting to know what he thought he might gain by talking to a heroin addict–famous or not.

“I don’t know–see if he’s ok? If he needs something?” he drunk-whispered.

“Oh, fine, that’s just fine,” I said sarcastically and then burped a nasty hot dog-papaya burp, “Because I just wanted to be sure you weren’t going to ask for his autograph.”

“Wait, I shouldn’t ask for his autograph?”

“This guy can’t even hold his head up, you think he can hold a pen? And what the fuck do you want an autograph from a crackhead for? He’s done, you loser.”

“Ok, so I’ll just ask him if he’s ok,” he said sheepishly.

“No, asshole, you WON’T ask him for shit, because he’s clearly not ok–or really, really ok, depending on how you look at it–and if he needed anything he’s got everything he needs right here at Grey’s Papaya King. So just keep your fucking mouth focused on the sauerkraut you’re dripping rather than talking right now,” I barked with all the authority in the world.

By this point our stupid, drunk bickering caught the attention of the silly celebrity who shuffled up to us with his caked-up face all scrunched up like he was going to start something, finger lazily pointing kind of at us. I was kind of scared for a minute–you never know what these people are capable of. And I was way too drunk to move quickly or make any judgment calls with respect to my own safety.

“Yoooouuu, ffffffu, fffffuuuu, fffucckkingggg, sssllllluuu–”

And then he shuffled outside to the corner, where he did the famous New York City crackdance, right there in front of the late-nite crowd, knees bent, leaning over, defying gravity.

So don’t tell me to remember the ’80s with a sentimental glimmer in my eye, because that naivete just doesn’t make for a good story.

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  1. Nice anecdote.

    Did you follow him home or wherever he went next?

  2. I’m really loving these ugly slices of life we’ve all been writing lately. So ugly their beautiful.

  3. Can’t even fucking spell. So ugly they’re beautiful.

  4. Loved this because it brought to vivid detail my old stomping grounds. NYC, not the boozing or drugs (heh). I have seen people do the crackdance and it does amaze that they can stay in that bent over squatting position for a long time.

    So sad Corey’s choices brought nothing beautiful. Even the end was ugly.

  5. Did you even stop to think that maybe he is still mourning the loss of his best friend? No matter how fucked up things got with Haim….he was still a person. Yes, like many of us, he had problems and unfortunately lost his battle with them. I hope you are as perfect as you sound because we will one day need a replacement president. Oh nevermind….you are probably a liberal too.

  6. Wow….I really must apologize for my post. I seriously didn’t realize that you were referring to an incident that occurred back in 1993.
    I can however, see Feldman being in that sort of shape now since the loss of Haim.
    Again, please forgive me for the rude and obviously ugly post.

  7. It’s okay, I have the power to unpublish your post, haimsterlover4ever.

    Not that I will.

  8. Shit. If you haven’t gotten high on crack and then half told strangers that they’re fucking sluts before forgetting what you were saying and wandering off, you haven’t lived.

    I relish what little memories I can drag from the mists of time in which I behaved in such a manner.

    Oh, and I’m not actually kidding at all.

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