Hollywood Square

In fact, the very mediocrity of these movies was somehow reassuring. The ’80s encouraged a more intense lifestyle than ever — “Just Do It,” “Be All You Can Be.” Normal, non-athletic people began taking aerobics classes; my mom, who ran her own bookstore, started watching Hawaii Five-O from atop a new StairMaster. “Eye of the Tiger,” the epitome of ’80s motivation-rock, ascended the Billboard charts and nearly won an Academy Award. I vaguely remember being terrified by all this. I wasn’t interested in such rabid ambition. I wanted a life like the films that I loved: predictable and mildly amusing.

My affection for these films stuck all the way through college. As my friends were turning to Bertolucci and Kurasawa, and getting high while watching 2001, I was getting stoned by myself and watching Collision Course, the story of two mismatched cops (Jay Leno and Pat Morita) who are made partners to hilarious effect. I’d sneak out of Hollywood Video with Brain Donors shoved deep into my messenger bag and hide it in my nightstand under the porn. I never dared let a crush see my stash of shame.

In my mid-twenties, I began to feel bolder. I started dropping hints. “Sorry I’m late. That cab ride was like Arnold Schwarzenegger learning to drive in Twins,” I’d chuckle nervously, glancing to the side.

I don’t remember the first guy I actually forced to watch one of these movies, but I do recall an early incident — one that made me realize how tough being a shitty-comedy lover was going to be. He was a pretentious doofus with thick-black-rimmed glasses and, as if parodying himself, a philosophy major. We were at his apartment, and he was cooking something exotic and spicy that required three burners. I’d been tasked with renting the night’s movie, which was in the pocket of my Army jacket. It was — how do I say this? It starred Whoopi Goldberg. It costarred Ted Danson. It was Made in America.

Made in America is not a film you want anyone to know you’ve seen, least of all a philosophy major from the University of Maryland whom you’re trying to have sex with. I knew, even as I was walking the box to the Blockbuster counter, that I was torpedoing the date. I could have rented a Cassavetes or a Schlesinger, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was going to make him watch this, dammit.

Am I using these movies to sabotage my love life? I don’t think so. There are more effective methods, and I’ve employed most of them. That’s not what this compulsion feels like. It’s an unsquelchable need to share the most humiliating side of myself. It’s a misguided attempt at intimacy.

You should have seen the look on his face when I pulled that box out of my pocket. I think we sat on

opposite ends of the couch for the duration of the film. He liked me, so he tried to guffaw his way through it for a while, but after thirty minutes I could tell he was dying. I wanted him to like this movie so badly, which, of course, was impossible. Which, of course, was why I wanted him to like it.

I think we went on one more date after that, but it was basically a goodbye date, a get-together so we could wordlessly acknowledge that this wasn’t going to work. He’d gotten a glimpse of my dark side, probably briefly considered whether it was something he could live with, and then pictured introducing me to his philosopher friends and watching in horror as I let slip a She-Devil reference.

That’s the most frustrating thing about this fatal dating flaw of mine — it’s like the hairline crack on the Hubble telescope, undetectable until after the whole thing has launched. On the outside, I appear to be safely in the Wes Anderson/Sophia Coppola demo — people think they know what they’re getting into. It’s not until I adamantly insist we rent Once Upon a Crime (John Candy) that my crush realizes exactly what unspeakably tasteless scenario he’s about to be embroiled in. And it’s not until he catches me watching him out of the corner of my eye to make sure he’s enjoying the movie that he starts to contemplate actually bolting for the door.

I’ve managed to carry on long-term relationships, despite my little secret. There are guys out there who are willing to tolerate my obsession, though I’ve yet to meet one who actually shares it. All these shitty ’80s and ’90s comedies — if only dating were so simple and predictable, we’d be living in a mildly amusing Carl Reiner paradise, assured of a feel-good conclusion.  n°

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Will Doig writes for all sorts of fabulous and exciting magazines. He was
raised in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. Today he lives in Brooklyn.