The Mickey Rourke bandwagon is making the rounds, but I already hopped aboard long before all this Wrestler hullabaloo. Hollywood is working the comeback angle on tough guy Mick who may win an Oscar this year. But the real moral of this story is simpler: being a bad boy is a lousy life choice. Loving one is even worse. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Back when my high school's handsome quarterback wouldn’t notice me, Mickey Rourke came to the rescue. After encountering his chaotic sensuality in The Pope of Greenwich Village, I was maniacal in my pursuit of all things Mickey. I fast-forwarded through Diner to get to his scenes. I suffered through Angel Heart to luxuriate in the sound of his heartbroken voice. And 9 ½ Weeks I watched on repeat until the VHS tape split in two.
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The quarterback was the wholesome boy of my dreams. But what I really lusted after was a sexy screw-up with a movie star face, the soul of a brute, and the emotional maturity of a bratty, six-year old girl.
And along came Mickey.