You may have noticed that the cinematic adaptation of Fifty Shades of Grey -- a Fear Street novel about knots -- made money hand over butt plug this past weekend. And recently, I've been watching the Fifty Shades of Grey trailer over and over in my darkened apartment like it's the Zapruder film. Not because I'm excited to see the film -- I'm not excited to see the film -- but rather that the film's hype, marketing, and message has beckoned me back to the forgotten time of 1997.
A pre-Internet-porn time, when this excitement would have made sense.
I had just turned 13 when the Vans Warped Tour rolled into my hometown featuring a then-unknown Blink-182 and Limp Bizkit. They played "Dammit," folks slam-danced, and a young me desperately clung to the outskirts of a cultural identity like it was a tiger-occupied lifeboat. The next year, I was there all over again, falling in love with The Vandals as they sang a song that would later be inexplicably quoted by Vin Diesel. Being a punk in middle school wasn't fun during those few years, but it got even worse when my bullies started dressing like me after Enema of the State became the best-selling punk rock album ever. Suddenly, 1999 became a wave of copycats and social alphas blasting nasally shit-anthems like "My Own Worst Enemy" while bitter pubescents like myself indignantly clung to even more nasally Dead Kennedys albums.