Table of Contents
John Ross Bowie
HEATHERS
JOHN ROSS BOWIES writing has appeared in Go Metric and New York Press. His acting credits include the films What the Bleep Do We Know? and Hes Just Not That Into You, and several TV shows, including The Big Bang Theory, two of the three CSI series, and Glee. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.
also available in this series:
They Live by Jonathan Lethem
Death Wish by Christopher Sorrentino
The Sting by Matthew Specktor
The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training by Josh Wilker
Lethal Weapon by Chris Ryan
Heathers
Who is going to want to read a book about Heathers? Its not the sort of film that scholars around the world have celebratedbut neither is it so left-field that its never been critically written about before. It is neither Battleship Potemkin nor Bio-Dome. The official Heathers fan site (heathersfilm.tripod.com) has, as of this writing, not been updated since 1999. Why am I spending all this time on such a niche project, I asked myself. I have kids to feed, for fucks sake. So I took a respite from self-doubt to poke around on some of the political websites to which I am sadly addicted. The lead on Firedoglake, a funny lefty blog founded by columnist and ex-film producer Jane Hamsher, was on former Colorado congressman Tom Tancredo, whod just spoken at the National Tea Party Convention. In a subsequent interview with the Dutch newspaper NRC Handelsblad, hed cast barbs at Sarah Palin (I really dont have this feeling that shes presidential) and John McCain (nasty, mean... particularly unstable). The Firedoglake columnist, who goes by the name Watertiger, had this to say about Representative Tancredo: Oh, snap! Who died and left Tancredo Heather Chandlers red scrunchie?
That last phrase was helpfully hyperlinked to Heatherss IMDB page, for the benefit of readers who didnt respond to the reference with a smug chuckle. Smug but surprised: It was a reference to a cult movie, twenty-one years after the films release. A cult film which, by any estimation, tanked in its initial distribution. The same IMDB page indicates that the film still has not made its money back (this is likely untrue, what with video rentals and such, though difficult to confirm since the production company is now defunct. That production company, New World Pictures, which had been founded a decade before by Roger Corman, went under after one more film with a similar box office performance). Yet here it is, referenced on a progressive political blog that, after analyzing Tancredos questionable conservative credentials, further wonders, I guess well have to wait and see whether the Tea Party bestows the red scrunchie on someone more... politically pure.
Apparently, given its status as a catchphrase in the popular lexicon, I will not have to spend any time discussing the symbolism of Heather Chandlers red scrunchie.
If you put three or more people in a room, there will eventually be gossip, politics, coalition building, and backstabbing. And if there is gossip, politics, coalition building, and backstabbing, there will be a connection to Heathers, a vibrant and vicious satire that speaks not just to me, but to anyone who steps back a little and looks at the weird and horrible things people do to each otherin politics, in show business, in families. And the universality of Heathers is the subject of this book, as well as how it got deep under the skin of a kid growing up 500 huge miles away from the movies setting among the suburban lawns of Ohio.
The Natural Answer to the Myriad of Problems Life Has Given Me
Built in the 1920s, it was a dank, sooty, six-story building with an American flag waving from its roofuntil an ex-girlfriend of mine stole the flag. There was a coal-burning furnace in the basement, which few students ever saw, but those of us who did were certain that the school was built on a, if not the, mouth of hell. Somebody once took a dump right in the middle of the northwest stairwell, and it sat there for hours.
Having said all of that, I still enjoyed high school quite a bit. Bayard Rustin High School for the Humanities, located in the Chelsea district of Manhattan, is named for a prominent gay socialist Civil Rights leader and was at the time of my attendance one of the most ethnically diverse schools in New York City. We didnt have a football teamfew schools in the city do. (Where would they practice?) None of the kids had that suburban status symbol, the car. (Where would they park?) And while I was certainly not among the beautiful people who went clubbing at the Tunnel or Limelight, I had friends, felt a sense of community, and avoided violence (for the most part; more on that later). In the tenth grade I had my first serious girlfriend to whom I lost my virginity the following summer, and had girlfriends of varying degrees of seriousness thereafter. I didnt go dancing, but I went to see bands at clubs like the Ritz or CBGB pretty religiously, from which I came home at ridiculously late hours. I have vivid memories of walking down 44th street at 3 AM when the only other life on the street would be a sewer rat and a Hasid getting a hummer from a bewigged hooker (probably a guy). My mom fought these late night excesses with curfews that I pushed and pushed until they just gradually evaporated. My huge bargaining chip in these negotiations was that I didnt drink, and was in fact aggressively, obnoxiously, self-righteously straightedge. So my hours were crazyterrifying in hindsight, especially now that I have kids of my ownbut I never came home drunk or high, which bought me a lot of leeway.
For a big chunk of tenth grade, I wore a backbrace to arrest my kyphoscoliosis (not correct, mind you... merely arrest). Honors student? Thank you, no. I spent far too much time listening to records and working on stage crew to hold down anything better than a B to C average. I played no sports. I passed gym solely by making the teacher laugh: Mr. Pedroni admired my Keatonesque (both Buster and Diane) pratfalls as I attempted to leap over the pommel horse, and gamely gave me a B. Thanks, Mr. Pedroni, wherever you are! Wait a secondyou got fired for messing around with some of the more athletic boys, and thats why Ive changed your name for the purposes of this story? Well, thats just as well.
So, yes, in the national nomenclature of the time, probably a nerd, sure, but these tidy classifications didnt seem to apply in New York. Sure, I was nerdy, but girls would have sex with me. Sure, girls would have sex with me, but I was the guy who fixed the VCR when it died in class. Sure, I was the guy who fixed the VCR, but I was cordial with a lot of the popular kids, the children of respected actors and artists, stunning girls in black tights, athletic guys who dressed in Benetton chic.
My key social network was stage crew: I had joined in the tenth grade, drawn to this specialized corps that got to miss classes, wear cool walkie-talkies, and carry keys that could open most of the rooms in the building. Enter Patricia, also on stage crew, bookish, thick, busty, and awkward; we fell in love, had weird, sweaty, virginity-extinguishing sex while watching, of all things,