Interview with Corey Haim
Corey remembered it—as if it were a series of Hollywood flashbacks. As though he were remembering a dream within a dream. Rather than the real thing—which was his demise up above.
It wasn’t just one single actual event. It was as though he’d gone through a series of deaths—one within the other. Beginning over & over again.
Yet now he could see it—as one single flashback. From one Apocalypto POV. An aloof point of view. As if he were detached—a disembodied observer who might have been there. But who really wasn’t—at least it didn’t seem that way.
Blurring rapidly—there’d been no sound. Only a quick atomic flash—and then a series of quick emergency news casts. A deadly denouement—then a series of dreams one after another.
He couldn’t breathe—the pneumonia grabbed his lungs in one final fatal squeezing fist. He’d been standing in his mother’s bedroom—he felt himself fainting and losing consciousness. He fell slowly down onto the floor—everything blacked out.
All of this seemed like a memory—a memory of somebody else. Somebody who wasn’t him—just a run-of-the-mill happy-go-lucky young vampire on the make. It didn’t seem like it was actually happening—the end of his days as a happy bloodsucker.
But now for some strange reason—he was back in his own body. He opened his eyes—looked up at the ceiling. He was back in his own POV again—actually, unevenly, breathing again. Feeling his lungs working like they used to again—as a doctor turned sideways listening to his lungs.
It was then—Corey intuitively realized the truth. That there hadn’t been a series of disconnected deaths. Like pearls on a necklace—shiny, beautiful, one after the other.
There’d only been one death—from pneumonia in Hollywood several years ago. His Hollywood comeback career had just started—after years of jaded staying high and doing nothing. He was back again apparently—and he was Corey Haim alive again once more.
Accidents, natural deaths, drug overdoses, murders, DOA ambulance arrivals—all of his past caught up with him suddenly all at once. He noticed the lovely green swimming pool like light—dancing and reflected up on there on the ceiling of the hospital room he was lying in.
There was a swimming pool outside—he could hear it through the sliding patio doors. It wasn’t exactly a hospital room—it was more like a swanky resort somewhere. And he was the guest at the spa…
Why had they waited so long—to revive him? What kept them so long—in the ambulance. Why the delay giving him artificial respiration—jolting his stopped heart with the defibrillator? Why the strange illusion—of some kind of strange serial Thanatos? Instead of sleeping forever—why was he alive again?
Something told him—that things weren’t the way they seemed. And that after a dozen deaths or so—well, maybe nothing was true? It was some kind of weird flashback time—his whole life passing in front of him. Like people who drowned or who got hit by lightening—and lived to talk about it?
He’d been given the chance—to pause a moment. In some room somewhere—maybe like this one? Inside some pearl-like beaded present tense moment—like this one.
Was this just some kind of temporary thing— some kind of ironic Bijou matinee intermission? One last risqué ironic looking back. A laconic disembodied point of no return—a reconnaissance both sweet and sour. And then poof!!! It was all over?
Corey Haim didn’t know what to expect—but somehow he felt relaxed and ready to enjoy the luxury of his last picture show. A Bijou balcony melodrama—a casual flashback before the long goodbye. The last of many Saturday afternoon matinees over with—one last fading movie going, going, gone?
His mood of calm floating above it all nonchalant reconnaissance—a slow flyover view from Pompey’s cynical Head. It all rudely came to an abrupt halt—when the young doctor told him to breathe deeply. He was taking Corey’s pulse and blood pressure—then disconnecting him from the tubes and wires.
“You’re all right, now,” the young doctor said. “Rest a few minutes and try to stay calm. Do you know your name?”
Corey could breathe again—he was beginning to feel like himself again. “Well, of course I know my name. WTF are you?”
Corey remembered it—as if it were a series of Hollywood flashbacks. As though he were remembering a dream within a dream. Rather than the real thing—which was his demise up above.
It wasn’t just one single actual event. It was as though he’d gone through a series of deaths—one within the other. Beginning over & over again.
Yet now he could see it—as one single flashback. From one Apocalypto POV. An aloof point of view. As if he were detached—a disembodied observer who might have been there. But who really wasn’t—at least it didn’t seem that way.
Blurring rapidly—there’d been no sound. Only a quick atomic flash—and then a series of quick emergency news casts. A deadly denouement—then a series of dreams one after another.
He couldn’t breathe—the pneumonia grabbed his lungs in one final fatal squeezing fist. He’d been standing in his mother’s bedroom—he felt himself fainting and losing consciousness. He fell slowly down onto the floor—everything blacked out.
All of this seemed like a memory—a memory of somebody else. Somebody who wasn’t him—just a run-of-the-mill happy-go-lucky young vampire on the make. It didn’t seem like it was actually happening—the end of his days as a happy bloodsucker.
But now for some strange reason—he was back in his own body. He opened his eyes—looked up at the ceiling. He was back in his own POV again—actually, unevenly, breathing again. Feeling his lungs working like they used to again—as a doctor turned sideways listening to his lungs.
It was then—Corey intuitively realized the truth. That there hadn’t been a series of disconnected deaths. Like pearls on a necklace—shiny, beautiful, one after the other.
There’d only been one death—from pneumonia in Hollywood several years ago. His Hollywood comeback career had just started—after years of jaded staying high and doing nothing. He was back again apparently—and he was Corey Haim alive again once more.
Accidents, natural deaths, drug overdoses, murders, DOA ambulance arrivals—all of his past caught up with him suddenly all at once. He noticed the lovely green swimming pool like light—dancing and reflected up on there on the ceiling of the hospital room he was lying in.
There was a swimming pool outside—he could hear it through the sliding patio doors. It wasn’t exactly a hospital room—it was more like a swanky resort somewhere. And he was the guest at the spa…
Why had they waited so long—to revive him? What kept them so long—in the ambulance. Why the delay giving him artificial respiration—jolting his stopped heart with the defibrillator? Why the strange illusion—of some kind of strange serial Thanatos? Instead of sleeping forever—why was he alive again?
Something told him—that things weren’t the way they seemed. And that after a dozen deaths or so—well, maybe nothing was true? It was some kind of weird flashback time—his whole life passing in front of him. Like people who drowned or who got hit by lightening—and lived to talk about it?
He’d been given the chance—to pause a moment. In some room somewhere—maybe like this one? Inside some pearl-like beaded present tense moment—like this one.
Was this just some kind of temporary thing— some kind of ironic Bijou matinee intermission? One last risqué ironic looking back. A laconic disembodied point of no return—a reconnaissance both sweet and sour. And then poof!!! It was all over?
Corey Haim didn’t know what to expect—but somehow he felt relaxed and ready to enjoy the luxury of his last picture show. A Bijou balcony melodrama—a casual flashback before the long goodbye. The last of many Saturday afternoon matinees over with—one last fading movie going, going, gone?
His mood of calm floating above it all nonchalant reconnaissance—a slow flyover view from Pompey’s cynical Head. It all rudely came to an abrupt halt—when the young doctor told him to breathe deeply. He was taking Corey’s pulse and blood pressure—then disconnecting him from the tubes and wires.
“You’re all right, now,” the young doctor said. “Rest a few minutes and try to stay calm. Do you know your name?”
Corey could breathe again—he was beginning to feel like himself again. “Well, of course I know my name. WTF are you?”
.
The young doctor smiled—looking down at him.
“My name is Nobuzane Fujiwara. I’m a Japanese Anime Surgeon. We’ve brought you back to life.”
Corey Haim looked at the young Japanese doctor. So it’s true—he said to himself. I actually did die—and now this must be heaven or hell.
“Not heaven or hell,” Dr. Nobuzane Fujiwara said, smiling at the former Hollywood child star.
For some reason, Corey knew the young doctor was telepathic. Somehow he’d expected it—knew it was true.
“I’m Corey Haim,” Corey said.
“Very good,” Dr. Fujiwara said, turning to another humming machine beside the bed.
“Well,” Corey said to himself. “I’ll be able to finish that crummy TV series with Corey Feldman. It hadn’t been going very smoothly lately. Many bad memories and old resentments had come up with their mutual up & down so-so LA pasts. They’d both changed a lot—since “The Lost Boys” had been filmed back in 1987.
“Please tell me what’s goin’ on,” Corey said, lifting himself on one elbow. The room looked more like an airport air traffic control room—with radar screens and computers all over the place.
“Be patient,” Dr. Fujiwara said.
Fujiwara was hooking up a web-cam to the bed to record what Corey was saying.
“Now then, there’s some things you’ll just have to take for granted for awhile. You won’t understand them—but it will become clearer over time. Things have changed a lot—since back then. Please bear that in mind.”
“Well, like how long have I been out of it?”
“The date,” Dr. Fujiwara said, “is 2161. You died in Burbank, CA on March 10, 2010. You were 39 years old and you died of pulmonary edema. Nothing remains of your body—it was cremated later that weekend. When the Apocalypto Disco War began. And LA was flattened along with lots of other cities.”
Corey was stunned. He’d died after all—it wasn’t just his imagination. His flashback had been some kind of strange DNA high-tech development—and now he was back again. A mind-fuck transplant—into the future. It was all too much—he needed a drink.
“You’ve been genetically re-engineered into the present,” Dr. Fujiwara continued.
“Your body is a living breathing clone—of who you once were back then. We did a DNA analysis from some autopsy lung cells—in the LA coroner’s office. How are doing, Mr. Haim? Feeling okay?”
“And where am I?” Corey asked, still in a daze.
“This is the bunker sub-basement of Warner’s Premiere Studios—beneath the former city of LA.”
“Former?” Corey asked.
“Yes, this is the Era of the Post-Apocalypse End Times. After WWIII—when LA was flattened. We studio doctors and technicians are the only ones left—we reconstitute actors like you. So that Warner’s Studio—can do Hollywood remakes for the remaining underground masses. In various cities around the world. Or what’s left of them.”
“What’s left of them?” Corey said, looking incredulously out the window.
“The window’s fake. And so are all the movies we make now days. It’s the only entertainment that exists commercially today—after the war. The surface is too radioactive—for habitation. We still have YouTube though—and the Internet. We transmit old movies and news clips—throughout the world from here in Southern California. Underground USA flicks, that is.”
“So there’s still a demand for movies now—despite the end of the world,” Corey said, trying to be ironic.
“That’s close—but not quite how it is,” Dr. Fujiwara said. “But that’s close enough. For now.”
A door opened. The perfect clone of Cecil B. DeMille walked in. There was a slight jerky motion to the way he twisted his head—as if there were something missing. A misfiring clone vertebrae or spaz android reflex. He was slightly cross-eyed and had a lurid smirk on his face. Corey didn’t like his looks.
“A success, Nobuzane?” Mr. DeMille asked. “Well, well—Congratulations.”
“The cinematic protocols aren’t quite fixed yet,” Dr. Fujiwara said. “His memory is clear, though. We can start filming by tonight is my guess.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. DeMille. “I want a Norma Desmond close-up shot as soon as possible.”
“A movie?” Corry said, looking up in amazement.
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Haim,” said Mr. DeMille. “I have the pleasure of informing you that we decided not only to bring you back to life from Forest Lawn. But that we’ve decided that you’ll play that same wonderful chicken role you had earlier. Back when you portrayed Sam the young vampire kid—so vividly and vivaciously in “The Lost Boys” back in 1987.”
“You mean as young Sam? But I’m much too old for that role again, Mr. DeMille. I’m in my thirties now.”
“Take a look at yourself, Mr. Haim,” Mr. DeMille proudly said.
Dr. Fujiwara held a hand mirror up for Corey to see his face. He was totally blown away.
He was sweet sixteen all over again—gone the ravaged face and aging lines of the dope addict that he’d become later on. He was young and innocent once again—just like the virgin days back when “The Lost Boys” was first filmed along the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk beside the Pacific Ocean.
“There’s been lots of calls for you to come back again,” Mr. DeMille said, leering at Cory’s new-found chicken goodlooks. “We’ve got Lost Boys plans for you, sweetheart. The fun and games have just begun, Pretty Boy.”
Corey felt a shudder of disgust go up & down his spine—he hated DeMille’s louche decadent leering look. He knew the type—Hollywood was full of crummy old casting couch queens.
And yet, looking at Dr. Fujiwara’s smiling face—Corey felt somehow better. He could feel the thrill of being a young Lazarus—born-again and raised from the dead. He was alive again—and not only that. He was young again—and had a second chance at the game.
He reached under the clean crisp sheets and felt himself up. He was more than pleased to find himself totally erect down there—not only erect but somehow more endowed than he remembered before. He was twelve uncut inches—all runny and ready to get it on again.
Dr. Fujiwara smiled telepathically—he winked knowingly at Corey.
“Let’s leave Corey alone now,” Dr. Fujiwara said quietly to Mr. DeMille. “The kid’s got some catching up to do—let’s give him some privacy and some time to himself.”
Mr. DeMille acted somewhat disappointed, but reluctantly agreed. The pneumatic doors hissed close behind them—and the lights went off.
The young doctor smiled—looking down at him.
“My name is Nobuzane Fujiwara. I’m a Japanese Anime Surgeon. We’ve brought you back to life.”
Corey Haim looked at the young Japanese doctor. So it’s true—he said to himself. I actually did die—and now this must be heaven or hell.
“Not heaven or hell,” Dr. Nobuzane Fujiwara said, smiling at the former Hollywood child star.
For some reason, Corey knew the young doctor was telepathic. Somehow he’d expected it—knew it was true.
“I’m Corey Haim,” Corey said.
“Very good,” Dr. Fujiwara said, turning to another humming machine beside the bed.
“Well,” Corey said to himself. “I’ll be able to finish that crummy TV series with Corey Feldman. It hadn’t been going very smoothly lately. Many bad memories and old resentments had come up with their mutual up & down so-so LA pasts. They’d both changed a lot—since “The Lost Boys” had been filmed back in 1987.
“Please tell me what’s goin’ on,” Corey said, lifting himself on one elbow. The room looked more like an airport air traffic control room—with radar screens and computers all over the place.
“Be patient,” Dr. Fujiwara said.
Fujiwara was hooking up a web-cam to the bed to record what Corey was saying.
“Now then, there’s some things you’ll just have to take for granted for awhile. You won’t understand them—but it will become clearer over time. Things have changed a lot—since back then. Please bear that in mind.”
“Well, like how long have I been out of it?”
“The date,” Dr. Fujiwara said, “is 2161. You died in Burbank, CA on March 10, 2010. You were 39 years old and you died of pulmonary edema. Nothing remains of your body—it was cremated later that weekend. When the Apocalypto Disco War began. And LA was flattened along with lots of other cities.”
Corey was stunned. He’d died after all—it wasn’t just his imagination. His flashback had been some kind of strange DNA high-tech development—and now he was back again. A mind-fuck transplant—into the future. It was all too much—he needed a drink.
“You’ve been genetically re-engineered into the present,” Dr. Fujiwara continued.
“Your body is a living breathing clone—of who you once were back then. We did a DNA analysis from some autopsy lung cells—in the LA coroner’s office. How are doing, Mr. Haim? Feeling okay?”
“And where am I?” Corey asked, still in a daze.
“This is the bunker sub-basement of Warner’s Premiere Studios—beneath the former city of LA.”
“Former?” Corey asked.
“Yes, this is the Era of the Post-Apocalypse End Times. After WWIII—when LA was flattened. We studio doctors and technicians are the only ones left—we reconstitute actors like you. So that Warner’s Studio—can do Hollywood remakes for the remaining underground masses. In various cities around the world. Or what’s left of them.”
“What’s left of them?” Corey said, looking incredulously out the window.
“The window’s fake. And so are all the movies we make now days. It’s the only entertainment that exists commercially today—after the war. The surface is too radioactive—for habitation. We still have YouTube though—and the Internet. We transmit old movies and news clips—throughout the world from here in Southern California. Underground USA flicks, that is.”
“So there’s still a demand for movies now—despite the end of the world,” Corey said, trying to be ironic.
“That’s close—but not quite how it is,” Dr. Fujiwara said. “But that’s close enough. For now.”
A door opened. The perfect clone of Cecil B. DeMille walked in. There was a slight jerky motion to the way he twisted his head—as if there were something missing. A misfiring clone vertebrae or spaz android reflex. He was slightly cross-eyed and had a lurid smirk on his face. Corey didn’t like his looks.
“A success, Nobuzane?” Mr. DeMille asked. “Well, well—Congratulations.”
“The cinematic protocols aren’t quite fixed yet,” Dr. Fujiwara said. “His memory is clear, though. We can start filming by tonight is my guess.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. DeMille. “I want a Norma Desmond close-up shot as soon as possible.”
“A movie?” Corry said, looking up in amazement.
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Haim,” said Mr. DeMille. “I have the pleasure of informing you that we decided not only to bring you back to life from Forest Lawn. But that we’ve decided that you’ll play that same wonderful chicken role you had earlier. Back when you portrayed Sam the young vampire kid—so vividly and vivaciously in “The Lost Boys” back in 1987.”
“You mean as young Sam? But I’m much too old for that role again, Mr. DeMille. I’m in my thirties now.”
“Take a look at yourself, Mr. Haim,” Mr. DeMille proudly said.
Dr. Fujiwara held a hand mirror up for Corey to see his face. He was totally blown away.
He was sweet sixteen all over again—gone the ravaged face and aging lines of the dope addict that he’d become later on. He was young and innocent once again—just like the virgin days back when “The Lost Boys” was first filmed along the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk beside the Pacific Ocean.
“There’s been lots of calls for you to come back again,” Mr. DeMille said, leering at Cory’s new-found chicken goodlooks. “We’ve got Lost Boys plans for you, sweetheart. The fun and games have just begun, Pretty Boy.”
Corey felt a shudder of disgust go up & down his spine—he hated DeMille’s louche decadent leering look. He knew the type—Hollywood was full of crummy old casting couch queens.
And yet, looking at Dr. Fujiwara’s smiling face—Corey felt somehow better. He could feel the thrill of being a young Lazarus—born-again and raised from the dead. He was alive again—and not only that. He was young again—and had a second chance at the game.
He reached under the clean crisp sheets and felt himself up. He was more than pleased to find himself totally erect down there—not only erect but somehow more endowed than he remembered before. He was twelve uncut inches—all runny and ready to get it on again.
Dr. Fujiwara smiled telepathically—he winked knowingly at Corey.
“Let’s leave Corey alone now,” Dr. Fujiwara said quietly to Mr. DeMille. “The kid’s got some catching up to do—let’s give him some privacy and some time to himself.”
Mr. DeMille acted somewhat disappointed, but reluctantly agreed. The pneumatic doors hissed close behind them—and the lights went off.
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