The year was 1981, and I was a freshman at an all-girl’s Catholic school. I’d been absorbed into the preppy world of Polo shirts, crew-neck sweaters and headbands, but still retained friendships with the “burn-outs” in my neighborhood. I had a history with these girls. At 13 I’d watched Cory hang out the window of her childhood clubhouse and puke up a mixture of Bacardi and speed. Each time Paula broke up with Billy Trupiano we cried as if our own hearts were breaking. We stood by and cheered as Rochelle beat the richly deserved hell out of Pam Decker. The girls had dragged me home, barely conscious, after my horse ran me into a tree. Even if I was wearing penny loafers, they were still my peeps. 

Paula’s eighteen-year-old sister Terry had this great boyfriend, Flynn (last name, not first—God knows what that was). He was way more amused by us than she was (Terry never found us amusing, not ever, not once). One night Flynn decided it would be fun to take the three of us with them to the movies.

“What?!” We yelled.

“What?” Terry yelled.

The film in question was “The Final Conflict”, which I was completely down with. I was nursing a bit of a crush on Sam Neill so no one had to ask me twice. The Sam Neill crush marked what I’d come to see as part of a disturbing trend: anti-Christ crushes. For the most part, my crushes had been intergalactic. First Guy Williams on “Lost in Space”. Then William Shatner (“Star Trek”—he trumped Williams because had a starship, and was able to boss around someone other than his family). Then Harrison Ford (“Star Wars”—he had a Wookiee, for God’s sake). Gil Gerard (“Buck Rogers in the 25th Century”--he had, well, he had Twiki). I worried I would wind up with a car fetish. After all, I seemed to consistently be drawn to men with space ships or access to them. But between Ford and Gerard there was a brief crush on Jonathan Scott-Taylor (which was derailed by a crush on an actual flesh-and-bone boy at my grade school who, to my knowledge, was neither evil nor had a space ship). Now here was yet another anti-Christ. Damn. Now I’d have to go to Confession. Again. 

“They can’t come with us,” Terry reasoned, “The film is rated R.”

“We could get them in,” Flynn said confidently. That was his big appeal, you see. Lots of confidence. Very cocky. 

Paula knew how to get to her sister.

“You have to be with a parent or a guardian. And you aren’t responsible enough to be anyone’s guardian.”

“I’m responsible!” Terry snapped, striking her pot pipe against the palm of her hand for emphasis. “Dammit, I’m responsible!”

Apparently the girl at the ticket booth thought so, too, because, dammit, we got in.

It was our first “R” rated movie. We sat directly ahead of Flynn and Terry (who stole beer from her father’s stash and snuck it inside her enormous purse). We slumped low in our seats, giggling and elbowing each other. 

Looking back, I only remember bits of the movie experience itself. I remember the ambassador shooting himself. I remember thinking how cute Sam Neill was (even if he was acting like a total d*****bag). I remember all the minions swinging into action, and Barbara’s barbequed baby hallucination. I remember either Cory or Rochelle saying, “They naked!” in a loud, hoarse whisper. We hated Peter. We decided there should be “Omen 3” action figures, just so we could strap firecrackers to Peter and blow him up. 

I remember cringing every time I heard a beer can tab pop off behind me, convinced the sound would summon an usher. 

“Stop worryin’ so much,” Flynn slurred in my ear. To think I was concerned about my spaceship obsession leading to a car fetish and the Anti-Christ crushes. My first husband would be a--wait for it, kids--cocky drunk. 

Who drove an old Fiero.

“The Final Conflict” is not my favorite of the original trilogy, but what it has is it is attached to an experience. It was my first “R” rated film and, in a way, it was the end of an era. I went with a group of friends I was seeing less and less of. A group of friends who I was having increasingly less and less in common with. Just as I cannot hear David Soul’s “Silver Lady” (yes, David Soul—“Hutch”, as in “Starsky and…”) and not think of sitting in my friend Jill’s living room (Jillie loved her some Hutch). Just as I cannot see JST-as-Damien or “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band” (yes, I know) and not think of the summer of 1978. For me, “The Omen Trilogy” is simply part of the fabric of my youth.

Sadly, so is David Soul’s attempt at a singing career. More than I’d care to admit. “Come on Silver Lady, Take my word / I won’t run out on you again, believe me / Oh, I’ve seen the light / It’s just one more fight / Without you…”

Sing it, people!