My generation plays a game that goes: If you could live your prime through any era, which would you choose?
Katie belongs in the late Eighties, nursing on brat pack movies through her high school years – fresh from the theatre, not crystallized in HD. She’d flirt wildly with the notion of moving to NYC, spending five hours on her makeup before dashing out to outlaw parties at the local Burger King dressed in skin and sequins. The rest of her life could be spent telling outrageous stories she couldn’t quite remember because of all the chemical drugs.
Andrew would wake up just a few years earlier and fritter his quarters away in the arcades. All his favourite tunes would still be on the radio.
And me, you know I couldn’t be happier anytime but the Sixties, when the wind blew hard enough to move people, to tear things down. When fashion was political, not corporate, and there were causes to dies for in good company. Chain me to a tree or lock me in a school and I’ll play you the five chords I know.
Fun game, but it always leads to the inevitable, terrifying question: given the chance, would I? Would I run away to clubland? Would I join the revolution?
And then: when I look back on this era, what will I have missed being a part of?
It could be worse. Sometimes I thank God for the Internet, and for 9/11 – the only things that kept this decade from being as lame as the Nineties.
Photo by S.Sgt. Albert R. Simpson, October 21, 1967
Your turn: If you could live your prime through any era, which would you choose and why?