Over the long weekend I watched far too much television, specifically too much of VH-1's "Behind the Music" which I find impossible to turn off even if I don't care very much about the featured performer. Consequently, I have a television hangover, chiefly detectable as a vague dissatisfaction that I must give in to boring necessities such as food, sleep, and using the toilet. You know it's bad when you grit your teeth and squeeze, promising your bladder just one more minute and then you'll take care of business, you just have to see this bit where Dr. Dre talks about how he felt when Easy-E died even though previously you have never heard of Easy-E and think it sounds more like a laxative than a rapper. In my defense it was a miserably wet, cold weekend. No snow, but several rounds of hail and high winds, and almost constant rain. No sane person would have braved the weather for anything less than near-starvation or a video rental return. So I stayed home to watch tv, and consequently I became overwhelmed by a tsunami rush of nostalgia for the 80's. There was a special on Huey Lewis and the News, you see, and then one on Journey, and if that wasn't enough to get me all verklempt over my own youthful San Francisco days there was a "Behind the Music" on a specific year: 1984. There was no holding back the stroll down memory lane at that point. 1984 was an enormous year for me, the year when my whole life changed. I started dating John, I went overseas for the first time, I lived in London and New York, I went into therapy, I got a real job, I straightened up and flew right after years of drifting. Everything I did was set to a soundtrack of perky synthesized music. I had a battered Sony portable tape player and I took it everywhere. I loved 80's music. It was fun, it was danceable, it was quirky, and it didn't take itself seriously. MTV was God, and we watched the video industry invent itself right in front of our eyes. I was mad for Romeo Void, Siouxie, Cyndi Lauper, Big Country, the English Beat, Tear for Fears, Bananarama, Cocteau Twins, the Bangles, Hunters & Collectors, Crowded House, and numerous forgotten bands who had one great video and then fell out of rotation. I loved 80's fashion, too: shoulders pads turning every woman into a linebacker manqué, hair so big it had its own zip code, sexy smoky eye shadows and fuchsia lips, Doc Martens worn with everything, the whole look exaggerated, exuberant. Some of those styles still look good to me. I've never given up the tight leggings and oversized shirts, though now I rarely wear them outside the house. I've got most of my shoes from that time, they haven't gone out of fashion at all. I can't fit into my miniskirts, my parachute pants would get me laughed out of town, I'll never wear my leather corset in public again, but damn if I didn't grow a bit misty eyed looking at the clothing in the Huey Lewis videos remembering when I looked exactly like those girls. It was so much fun back then. Even when it was bad it was good. Because some of it was bad, of course. Young adulthood is almost as bumpy a ride as adolescence, only no one is around to rescue you when you screw up. Those were the days of living in rented rooms, moving every three months or so, scraping by on short term jobs that paid me under the table, eating more beans and rice than anything else because it was cheap and easy to fill up on, making bad decisions about who to trust and who to rely on, observing what ravages drugs could cause, quitting jobs rather than deal with the boredom of responsibility. I wised up pretty fast, though. The economy boomed and I boomed right along with it. I met friends for cheap drinks and free hors d'ouevres after work instead of having dinner; dinner was too much of a commitment. Salad bars were the latest lunch craze, and chardonnay was the only wine anyone drank. My friends and I searched out the best dim sum in the narrow streets of Chinatown, explored dark, smoky bars in Little Italy, shopped for clothes at Nana's on Haight Street, walked miles to save bus money, clustered leather-clad and mousse-haired on street corners waiting for cabs late at night after the clubs let out. Getting a tattoo was still quietly rebellious. I was in love with San Francisco and my own life. Everything was explicitly designed to cater to my tastes, or at least that's how it felt. It was such a relief to be having giddy fun after the monotonous dreariness of the 70's. During the day I worked as a paralegal, the quintessential 80's career for bright, unmotivated humanities majors. Nights were devoted to finding the action, partying like it was 1999. I can't say it was innocent fun. Often the laughter was slightly edgy and just a little too loud, everyone wondering if Reagan would push the Big Red Button in a forgetful moment, or reacting in horror, denial, and sometimes vicious glee to the onset of AIDS as it devastated friend and stranger alike. I can tell you exactly where I was when the Challenger blew up. People embraced a voracious status symbol race; anything with a designer name and an outrageous price tag was desirable, so women talked about their Calvin Kleins instead of their jeans to make sure you knew they weren't wearing just any old pants. Those who didn't give in to rampant consumerism scoured thrift stores and second-hand shops for cheap vintage clothing. Funky and geeky were cool. I personally owned dozens of colored jelly and black rubber wrist bracelets, and if that's not funky geekdom personified I don't know what is. The 80's ended just when they ought to have in 1989. In the aftermath of the Loma Prieta earthquake getting out of town started sounding pretty good. Having been downtown during the quake and gotten the fright of my life I wasn't totally adverse to the prospect of moving across the country when John accepted a job at Vanderbilt, though previously I'd hated the idea. John and I were married in October. In November I quit my crappy temp job vowing to figure out what I really wanted to do when I grew up. In December we moved to Nashville and I left my old life behind quite literally as the decade ended. Listening to the sweet tenor of Steve Perry last weekend I was mesmerized, watching but not entirely focused on the story of Journey from blow-dried beginning to sleek end. I was really watching the movie of my life, wandering once more through the noisy, redolent alleys of Chinatown, hurrying to work along the windy urban canyons of the Financial District in my navy blue suit and white cross-trainer shoes, dancing in the latest hot club on the wrong side of Mission Street long before anyone dreamed of gentrification. I remembered what it was like to be young and reckless and completely independent. I remembered the intoxicating sense that San Francisco was the most alive city in the world and I was a vital part of it. I loved the 80's. I like now a lot, don't get me wrong, but it was the one time in my life when I felt in step with the world. I may have been wearing a sweatshirt with the neck ripped out, but I had my finger on the pulse of the zeitgeist.
Man. This television hangover is a killer. Anyone got any Zima?
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