Friday, May 04, 2007

Girls, Girls, Girls

Part 1: Heaven's Cates

Although not as often associated with the supernatural these days as, say, San Francisco or New Orleans, New York City still manages to project its fair share of mythological allure -- it being, after all, America's one and only true "gotham," as well as the home of the Ghostbusters. Yet in spite of a past steeped in creepy mystery and a present littered with the East Village-Stygian, Anne Rice-a-Looney goofballs who find themselves drawn to such nonsense, my adopted home has never presented me with a paranormal experience worthy of note -- unless of course you count the tendency of my credit card to inexplicably disappear at some point every Saturday night.

No matter how much magic this city may hold, it's just never shown me any of "that old, black" variety.

That is until this past weekend.

Contrary to what you may have been led to believe by the aforementioned Ghostbusters, the true superconductive antenna for psychokinetic activity in New York City isn't a foreboding art deco-style apartment building on Central Park West -- even though it was directly in front of one such building that Yoko Ono incomprehensibly dodged five bullets taken by John Lennon; it is in fact a small and rather unassuming boutique, bas-relief etched into the face of one of the many tony, monolithic pre-wars along the Upper East Side. Inside this quaint little shop, the laws of time and space are nothing more than mercurial afterthoughts, infallible clairvoyance is commonplace, and grown men can be reduced to desperate, hyperventilative sobs in the face of the kind of religious experience that makes Saul's road-to-Damascus conversion look like a dizzy spell.

The shop is called Blue Tree.

It is owned and operated by Phoebe Cates.

As in that Phoebe Cates.

As in THAT Phoebe Cates.

For those of you who, A) aren't heterosexual males, and B) didn't come of age -- and given the subject matter, you'll forgive the pun -- in the early 1980s, the overwhelming magnitude of what I've just implied will no doubt escape you; the rest of you -- the straight men my age -- understand precisely of what I'm speaking and, as such, I'll give you the few moments necessary to properly collect yourselves.

A lot's been made over the years of the monumental impact that Phoebe Cates's seminal scene -- once again, you'll pardon the pun -- in 1982's Fast Times at Ridgemont High had on an entire generation of men. I have nothing to add to the discussion, simply because I can't; the singular import of that thirty seconds of film -- its initial and continued effect -- cannot be overstated. I still look upon the act of Phoebe, as sex kitten Linda Barrett, unclasping her red bikini top in slow-motion to the hypnotic purr of the Cars' Moving in Stereo with more reverence than my first real sexual experience; they each lasted about the same amount of time, but the girl who unwittingly took part in the former was Phoebe Cates -- whereas the latter involved a slightly overweight fifteen-year-old who would, a month later, surprise me by running out of her house, suitcase in hand, as I pulled into her driveway -- then spend the next hour begging me to help her run away while her heavy metal brother threatened to destroy my car with an aluminum baseball bat.

Phoebe offered no such threat of bodily harm or imminent arrest though -- she was just the perfect girl exposing for me and the rest of my generation her perfect, perfect body. The fact that the overactive imagination of Judge Reinhold's character in Fast Times was the very reason for Phoebe's nudity in the first place created what to this day remains one of the greatest meta-reality moments in film history -- with poor, put-upon, Pirate Brad both standing-in for every male member of the audience at the time and creating the very masturbatory fantasy we'd all take with us to the grave.

To this day, I still fantasize about Phoebe Cates, and that one glorious scene. Like almost every single straight man my age, I long to watch her rise up out of the pool and say the words, "Hi (insert your name here), you know how cute I always thought you were."

I want her to stride toward me in the slow, fluid motion that resembles nothing less than one long, orgasmic sigh -- pull open her bikini top -- and kiss me passionately.

I've wanted this for twenty-five years.

And you know what? Phoebe Cates knows this.

My wife and I had just spent the afternoon taking a leisurely stroll through Central Park -- literally, walking from the zoo at 60th street, all the way up to 91st and 5th Avenue -- when we stumbled upon Phoebe's little boutique. We were both tangentially aware of the shop, having read in one magazine or another a profile which mentioned Blue Tree and its noteworthy proprietor, and so, finally being in the neighborhood, we decided to stop in.

Of course I'm making this decision sound like a much more nonchalant affair than it actually was. The reality is that my heart was in my throat before my hand even touched the door; by the time the thing actually opened and I felt the rush of cool air from inside, I had devolved into a thirteen-year-old again; and when I glanced across the store and saw her -- well, you could've cleaned me off the floor with a bucket and a mop. As I stepped inside and heard the door whisper shut behind me, I suddenly felt as if I'd just downed three shots of Absinthe. Possessing both a preternatural forethought and an unparalleled concern for my well-being, my wife actually turned to me as I floated down the steps into the store, gave me an amused smile, and asked, "You gonna be okay?" I'm pretty sure that I attempted to answer but nothing translatable came out -- the words I'd put together in my head escaping my mouth in the form of two or three feeble, high-pitched squeaks.

As Phoebe walked out from behind the register stand and I finally saw her -- head to toe -- I almost collapsed. She looked, she looks, as if she hasn't aged a day since turning twenty-five. She's as beautiful and youthful now as she was in 1982 -- a fact which is more than a little spooky. She's gorgeous, she's thin -- she remains perfect.

Time indeed seemed to slow as she moved toward me, the music coming from the shop's overhead speakers not the Cars, but something even more narcotic: Fleetwood Mac's Gold Dust Woman. She wore a tight black sweater and matching black pants rather than the red bikini I'd dreamed of most of my life. Still, she flashed that flawless smile as she squeezed past me, en route to help a customer who'd gotten her attention -- and when we looked directly into each other's eyes, that's when it hit me.

I'm the naked one.

There are very few times in life that a person can literally read another's thoughts -- that someone can be reduced to the proverbial open book. In that moment, not only did I realize that Phoebe Cates knew exactly what I was thinking, I understood that she was capable of pulling the same trick day after day, hour after hour -- with almost every single man she meets.

She knows what they're all thinking -- every one of them, without fail. She knows they're all exactly like me, and in a twist worthy of a Hollywood ending, the guys who once ogled her nakedness are now the ones exposed.

The realization was enough to make me look away quickly -- feeling no small amount of embarrassment -- before finally turning back to face her again, smiling and nodding at the exquisite irony of it all.

Phoebe Cates read my mind.

Later that night, my wife and I were lying on the couch -- comfortably draped across each other -- watching Helen Mirren's flawless, Oscar-winning performance in The Queen, when that familiar feeling dawned on me again: something bordering on love. I remembered becoming enraptured with Helen Mirren the first time I saw The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover.

I understood that Phoebe Cates was the first woman I fell for from afar, but she certainly wouldn't be the last.

Maybe it's time I paid a little respect to all those beautiful, brilliant, strong, funny, cool, sexy, remarkable women I still put up on a pedestal -- with good reason.

Next: The Actresses


Anonymous said...

Ok. first I hope I am not the first to offer my two cents here.

In sum, Phoebe was hot. She turned this latent homo str8 for a few minutes, until I went UGH, and was thinking about banging Arnold in the back of Captain Hooks. Sorry fellas just being honest.

"To this day, I still fantasize about Phoebe Cates, and that one glorious scene. Like almost every single straight man my age, I long to watch her rise up out of the pool and say the words, "Hi (insert your name here), you know how cute I always thought you were."

Jayne, if this was my bf talking about banging Rob Lowe in his 1983 "Class" I would be worried. However, it appears you got Chez under control!

namron said...

I am 25 years older than you, and I can readily appreciate the power of the red bikini scene. Thanks for the updated picture of Ms. Cates. I can now enjoy my own fantasies without feeling as if the "Dateline" production crew has just pulled into my driveway.

Anonymous said...

Awesome post...

As you indicate, that scene is indelibly etched in my memory forever. As a bonus, any time I hear Moving in Stereo I get to relive it.

You know, I can't even decide if I actually like that song for itself at this point. It doesn't matter... they're impossible to separate.

Anyway, here's to the lovely, talented, awesome ladies...

VOTAR said...

I keep trying to have Kevin Klein killed.

But my minions keep losing their Meggido Daggers and dying in suspicious accidents.


Guess I have to go do it myself.

girl with curious hair said...

It took me a while to figure out who Phoebe Cates was--I thought she was cult leader or something. As you explained, I felt a little better since A) I'm not a heterosexual male and B) I never saw Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

When you said you were waiting to publish something substantial, I was expecting something COMPLETELY different.

Oh, and Jayne seems very generous.

Julie said...

Although I am not a heterosexual male, I can see your point. Simply because if I ever came within 10 feet of Ed Norton I wouldn't be able to even process a thought except for, "yay!". Anyway, I just wanted to say that I bet there's guys out there who have your wifey on a pedestal like that. She definitely can take the humor in your lust for Phoebe.

Chez said...

Believe me, it's not a cop-out, nor is it in any way an attempt to protectively cover my ass when I say that my wife tops Phoebe and just about everyone else for that matter.

No one puts her on a higher pedestal than me -- it allows me to look up her skirt.

Jayne said...


rasaustin said...

After a encounter like that, you'd need some Helen Mirren to act as Naloxone to Phoebe Cate's Heroin rush.
How did you manage to walk back the 30-some-odd blocks back to your house with that MegaBoner?

(props to the Steve Martin SNL reference, BTW)

Nick said...

amazing post.

since i wasn't born until '83, my Phoebe infatuation manifested at age 4-5, starting with Gremlins, where she played almost the antithesis of her Fast Times character. even as a barely developed asexual child, i could only think "wow she's preeeeety" (at that age i felt the same way about Elvira and Winona Ryder...i think i'm still chasing those types; fair skin, dark hair, soft facial features, in Elvira's case boobs and bad jokes).

Robert said...


Not as memorable as the red bikini but ohhhhhhh

TK said...

Oh, man. I'd forgotten about the carrot scene.

Thanks for a little bit of (albeit semi-dirty) nostalgia. It was a seminal moment for us all.

Except for the crazy girl with the curious hair. Please, run, do not walk, RUN and rent Fast Times this weekend.

A Bowl Of Stupid said...

Hey, have you ever considered, as I have for countless hours, just why, among other things, Phoebe Cates looks exactly the same as she did 25 years ago, and why she can read your mind?

Because she's clearly not human!! There is no way that level of perfection could exist. She is obviously a goddess sent by Xenu to lead the human race towards the next level of evolu ...

Err, ... was that out loud?

What I meant to say was: "wow, she still looks great! Nice story."

VOTAR said...

It's noteworthy that after reading this twice, I still don't know what Phoebe sells in that store.

I'm guessing you can't even remember.

p.s. You what day this is...

keenEddie said...

Having been exactly the right age (15) when I first saw "Fast Times..." in the late summer of '82 (the best summer of my life, btw), that movie -- and that scene -- defined what I wanted my life to be like at that time: the music, the friends... and Phoebe emerging from the pool.

I had a thing for her for a long time and, when I was in college, dated a girl who could have been her double. No lie.

Had I known about the store before I moved from NY to the remote corner of the planet I'm in now, I would have stopped in. But you're right, she would have known what I was thinking, too.

Al said...

I owe her and Judge Rhienhold a debt of gratitude beyond words. That scene was formative not only to my adolecence but to my forearms. She provided inspiration, while he provided hints as to technique and discretion that my young brain had not quite composed yet.

/No Mr. Hand gag Chez? Too obvious?
//Damn, now I want pizza

anutherwun said...

I don't understand your comment about Yoko Ono, which I can only comprehend as a gratuitous swipe. I call bullshit here, and it takes away from any other point you make in your post.

Ono is a well respected, successful artist that spends a lot of time and resource supporting other artists, particularly up and coming women.

Do you really think she should have died when her husband was murdered in front of her, on their doorstep? You are too young to have been part of the Beatlemania "Yoko destroyed John" contingent, unless your 16 years in journalism represent a second career and you seriously photoshop yourself. So are you parroting what your dad had to say about Yoko breaking up the Beatles, or is this really what you think?

Falling in love with Phoebe Cates doesn't mean you have to casually villify a strong independent woman who was equal to her man. Your point would have been better made without this stupid denigration of one of the best artists of the 20th century.

Chez said...

Oh man, that is just great stuff. Really. Just Colbert-esque brilliance. I honestly believed there for a minute that you actually do think Yoko Ono was a misunderstood genius.

"One of the best artists of the 20th Century."

That is just priceless.

Oh wait, you're serious?

anutherwun said...

Oh wait, thats right, I forget that nobody really knows anything about art outside of the inbred world that has Matthew Barney on one side and Jeff Koons on the other?

But thanks for the Colbert moment of confusion. I'll take a complement where I can find it.

I don't think Ono is a misunderstood genius, just that people like to take potshots at her that she doesn't deserve. You are welcome to scorn, but she is considered in company with Joseph Beuys, Allan Kaprow, and Nam June Paik. You know, that Fluxus thing? Were you expecting Norman Rockwell and Thomas Kinkade?

Yeah, nobody cares about this crap I know.
And you, Chez, are obviously finding yourself with hands full I'm sure with the slashdotting etc. So I'm surprised you commented back. I hope it is providing some off the wayside entertainment.