September 21,2011

You may be one of those whippersnappers whose image of the Eighties looks a lot like Arnold’s Drive-In: Richie, Potsie, and Ralph Malph sitting around sipping cherry cokes concocting crazy schemes on how to get to second base with girls who sadly lacked the benefit of reliable birth control. The most dangerous person they know … a diminutive “grease monkey” named Fonzie who rides a motorcycle … occasionally drops by, smiles, gives them the thumbs up and says, “Ayyyyy.” Why is he so happy? Because even though he’s a high-school dropout, he’s at least smart enough to date slutty girls who know how to French kiss. Anyway … yeah … that was the Eighties. Pretty much. There were some notable exceptions, of course. In the Eighties, the drugs were much better and more plentiful – not just the aforementioned birth control (knucks to Planned Parenthood on that deal) but even funner drugs like Ecstasy (I love you, maaannn!), expensive drugs like cocaine (I can take your fucking bullets!), dangerously addictive drugs like crack (I’ll suck your dick for a dollar!), and, of course, what may end up being Time‘s “Idiot Drug of the Century,” meth (Dude, what happened to your teeth?!). Despite the Partnership for a Drug-Free America’s inspired frying egg PSA (“This is drugs. This is your brain on drugs.”), sales were up in the Eighties. If anything the PSA should have said: “This is your egg. This is your egg on progesterone.” Yes, people were doing staggering amounts of drugs in the Eighties, but they were also getting it on like chinchillas, and the pill certainly had its part in greasing that orgy of mindless, irresponsible sex, metaphorically speaking. In the early Eighties, the worst consequence of having unprotected sex was herpes. Sure, there were other diseases that would rot your crotch with greater rapaciousness, but ultimately they were all curable … well, after you made the obligatory series of embarrassing phone calls demanded by the clinic. Herpes however, while lacking the flesh ravaging spectacle of say, syphilis, was incurable and permanent – like an obnoxious personality. Herpes was (and still is) a one-way ticket to the Island of Permanently Damaged Toys. However, most people find that once they get there, island living isn’t so bad, and given that one in six Americans has genital herpes, it’s a bumpin’ party – both figuratively and literally. However terrifying the prospect of herpes might have been, it was no deterrent whatsoever to the roiling, drug-greased clusterfuck of the early Eighties. Fortunately, there were other deterrents that had some success in that area. For instance: Preppy fashion made a valiant attempt at covering America’s Me Generation hedonism with a respectable Victorian veneer. Call it a reactionary backlash against the buckskin-halter-top, free-love hippie days of the Seventies, but Eighties preppy style drove sex off the runway and back into the bedroom where it could really get freaky. The only thing remotely sexy about walking shorts, wool sweaters, or Weejuns was how desperately you wanted to take them off. It’s understandable that preppy fashion couldn’t keep America’s libido caged for long. Soon enough America began a torrid affair with ripped clothing and spandex. The emergence of spandex as a fashion statement will very likely someday be considered a prime indicator of the decline of Western civilization. Initially a revolutionary synthetic praised for its utility and elasticity in a variety of applications, this once-worthy fabric quickly became an easy way to show off your junk without having to walk around in trench coat. Not surprisingly, this aspect of spandex was fondly embraced by rock musicians who wanted a way to showcase their biggest and perhaps only muscle. Soon enough, spandex became the go-to look for rock bands of the Eighties, some of whom, it could be argued, had little else to offer. Not so of the band Queensrÿche, who managed to fuse spandex, musicianship, and skillfully crafted heavy metal arrangements into a career that spans three decades and includes 20 million in worldwide album sales. You can’t go back and live the glory days, but fortunately Queensrÿche will bring them to you this Sunday in a fist-pumping, devil-finger-throwing rock concert at Emo’s East. Expect an arena show that’s in your face … and maybe a mooseknuckle or two.