by Fish

I am a child of the 80s. Push my button and, like any good Generation Xer, I'll say, "Go, Joe!", or maybe "Math is hard." When I refer to one of my sister's high school friends as "her 'Ducky'", I'm not trying to be funny; I'm simply being descriptive. I pity the fool. I just say no.

And, of course, I want my MTV. I remember when we first got cable and I saw the listing for "Music Television", and assumed it was like the empty channels, when they'd play the radio and show the time and temperature. You know, music. On your television. I was pleasantly surprised to find instead it was three-minute clips of weird British bands in weirder clothing. I was captivated. After school, for hours, I'd soak up the New Wave acts, acts that still serve as my musical influences.

In the 70s, as a wee little kid, I'd had to live through my parents' generational nostalgia for the 50s, from "Happy Days" to "Grease" to Sha Na Na and Billy Joel's "Innocent Man". In the 80s, I'd watched my friend Justin don tie-dye clothing and start listening to hippie music. So I saw it coming, even if I didn't believe anyone would want it: Nostalgia for the 70s? Really? Reviving the worst clothing ever made by humankind? Sure enough, it returned, albeit with less polyester and fewer leisure suits. (We had indeed learned a few things over the previous twenty years.) I gritted my teeth and endured the bell-bottom, and came to accept the boot cut.

That's why I looked forward to the advent of 80s nostalgia. Maybe not the neon clothing, okay, or the vinyl Michael Jackson jackets, but the music couldn't come back soon enough, and it did; my CD collection bloomed with bands who owed more to Erasure or Joy Division than Led Zeppelin or P-Funk. I set TiVo to grab any and all variations of "I Love the 80s". I remember hearing a song come on the radio and being unsure whether it was the Cars or Rick Springfield, and then being delighted when the vocals began and I recognized it as Fountains of Wayne.

February 11, 2006. The day nostalgia punched me in the face.

Macy's bought Filene's, and as our local mall had one of each store, the Filene's was doomed. That weekend, Filene's marked down everything in the store, a sale too good to pass up, as I needed a few new pairs of pants. The place was mobbed by people of all ages.

As I walked past the odious perfume counters, I passed two particular people, and did a double-take. On the left: a guy in an aqua polo shirt with the collar turned up, and a pink t-shirt worn over the polo. On the right: blue lightweight cotton jacket and sunglasses. Sunglasses. While inside. In a department store.

And these were high school kids.

I realized then what my parents must have felt watching younger generations attempt to ape the styles of their youth. These two kids weren't even born during the 80s, or at best were from 1989, so for them, such a style of dress wasn't even nostalgia; it was making a statement. Unfortunately for them, those of us who lived though the 80s know that said statement is "I'm a dork with a bad sense of color who can't wear a collar correctly." Those of us who were there know that it's one thing when an actor or musician adopts the worst fashion elements of that lost decade, because those people are professional entertainers who have a need to draw attention to themselves. But when a teenager does it, it's just embarrassing. Embarrassing because those kids probably think they're sporting retro cool. Yet those of us who were there know they look anything but.

In college, I use to joke that I could see my kids, thirty years thence, saying they were going to a "90s party": "I've got a bunch of mom's clip-on earrings for all the extra piercings, and I figure I'll draw on some tattoos, and I have this old flannel shirt. Do you have any old Nine Inch Pumpkins t-shirts in the attic, or whatever?" I've now decided I'm going to hang onto my shirt from Lollapalooza I. If my kids are going to attempt ridiculous 90s nostalgia, I'm at least going to send them out of the house looking decent.