I was reminded in the grocery store the other day, and again in an elevator the next week, and again a week later. I thought maybe God was trying to tell me something. Something like, remember your old boyfriend, Cory Hart? He was following me, telling me to “never surrender”, and that he wears “his sunglasses at night”, which I now think was a nod that he didn’t really want to tell anyone he was gay. In fact, all of my heart-throb loves turned out to be gay, and I guess that means I’ve always liked unavailable men, or some such thing. I even asked my husband, early into our dating life. He was super cute, not a complete slob, and ate with his mouth shut. Not only were these the main things I was looking for, but could possibly mean that he was gay. He was not, he informed me, to my relief. Here was one I could have a crush on and possibly date, too!
But we all had one, the super-crush, the ultimate super-hunk., coinciding with the onset of hormones. A friend recently sent me a link to “Where are your rock stars these days?” and it was ghastly pictures of what hard living had done to them. It didn’t explain what jobs they had now, which for some reason I always picture to be completely out of their rock realm, like teaching remedial mathematics at the local community college. If anyone thinks I am poking fun, let me just say, I took remedial mathematics at the local community college. Anyway…
Cory. I had posters, I had tapes, I listened to “Sunglasses at Night” and thought he was generally the hunkiest dude around. He was young… I could be his girlfriend one day, surely. I just had to gain about six years for it to be legal. This was about a year before I discovered punk. Before punk, there was Cory, and I wrote away to join his fan club, so I could get my official fan paraphernalia and let him know I was completely and totally serious about him. I waited and waited. And one day, it all paid off. I received a letter in the mail with the return address of the Official Cory Hart Fan Club. I opened the letter with trembling hands. Inside…a signed photo, an official “ backstage badge” of some sort, and a handwritten letter. HANDWRITTEN LETTER OMIGOD IT WAS FROM HIM OMIGOD!!!!
I turned it over and it was signed… “Cory’s Mom”.
This was disappointing. But, then I used a twelve-year olds fast thinking logic: this was the person Cory loved the most, probably anyway, so this was the second best thing and OMIGOD I GOT A LETTER FROM CORY HART’S MOM!!” and the excitement was back on! If only I had kept this letter…but the gist of it was that Cory was on tour right now, and he was very appreciative for the support of his fans like me, etc. I was elated.
If you haven’t already guessed, I was a serious dork at this time. I had pink earrings that looked like ruffle potato chips dipped in Pepto-Bismol. They were my favorite. They matched my baby pink cable knit vest that I wore endlessly. All that’s missing in your mental picture are the feathered bangs, sprayed just so. Later in life a boyfriend dubbed this look “mall quail” which I still think sums it up completely. You could find us flocking in droves, hovering around the Benetton store, hoping to buy the same damn cardigan that everyone else had. This was before my true hormones hit and my parents and I still spoke to each other with civility. Give it six months, and it would be over. And why? Because of one friend. I loved this friend, she was weird and wacky and a complete dork as well, but she had a secret weapon. She had a sister that was cool. This sister took pity on us, and decided that with some work and a little schooling, we too could enter the world of coolness. She told me the truth. Cory Hart was lame and if I wanted to go anywhere in life, I needed to listen to college radio. See what can happen? One person, one fell swoop, and your heroes are cast aside.
The break up was unceremonious, the tapes shelved and the posters cleared. Cory and I were officially over. It’s a good thing too. If I hadn’t gone down the wrong road, I might have studied more; I might have bought more cardigans instead of tapes. I might never have found my true hunky Canadian, who loves music, still eats with his mouth closed, and also just happens to be a mathematician.