I heart the 90s

I miss the 90s. There, I’ve said it. I realize that this marks me as a heathen, an amoeba possibly. The 90s are perhaps the least revered decade (at least in strong contention with the 70s). You say: What about the horrible colors in fashion – black, gray, brown? God, brown was a lipstick color. The music was all boy band pop, all the time.

What about the 80s? the 60s?, you say. There were leg warmers, slap wrist bracelets, synthesizers, hippies, beehives, doo wop; in short, real substance, you argue.

But let’s not forget the other 90s.



There was neon. There were platform, six-inch heels. There was flipped hair and colored sunglasses.

One word could define it: simple. Yet another could: fun.

There was also the fashion spurred on by never-do-cares like Kurt Cobain. Baggy flannel shirts, tight wife beaters without bras, cargo pants, Doc Martens. Everyone ran around dressing like grunge dykes. No one gave a fuck. It was hot.


I salute you, 90s, for not giving a fuck.