So last night was the night all my prepubescent dreams came true. First of all, the concert freaking rocked. The New Kids on the Block may be in their forties, but they still put on an amazing show. Sure, their fan base may be older, more sedate, and drive minivans instead of being dropped off in them. No one rushed the stage or was trampled. Everyone was surprisingly polite and, for the most part, well groomed. But, wow. Wow. Not only did I get to see NKOTB, but the Jabbawockeez 
(of America's Best Dance Crew fame) opened for them, which I somehow didn't know until I got there, but they were incredible. Humans just shouldn't be able to move like that. It was like they didn't possess joints. Crazy. I'm just now getting my hearing back.
(of America's Best Dance Crew fame) opened for them, which I somehow didn't know until I got there, but they were incredible. Humans just shouldn't be able to move like that. It was like they didn't possess joints. Crazy. I'm just now getting my hearing back.The minute five spotlights shone on the stage, the audience (more on the audience later...let's just say I would have gone just to people-watch) came completely unhinged. Behind me was a woman in her thirties, with two children with her, both between eight and eleven years old. She was wearing what I think of as a "mommy uniform": polo shirt, light-colored jeans, sensible shoes.(This is, of course, completely different from my "mommy uniform" of whatever shirt is cleanest, paired with whatever jeans have the fewest tiny knee-level handprints, and flip-flops. This is the reality of being a Beta Mom. Also, my hair usually gives me away. People can tell that if I didn't have a baby, I'd have twelve cats.) She had a respectable short haircut and sophisticated glasses. She was a bona fide grownup. I would guess she teaches third grade. Well, the second they started singing, she lost all semblance of respectability and screamed her head (sensible haircut and all) right off. Then this crazy girl with huge curly hair started screaming, and her husband cruelly took pictures of it. It was a great show. Even though they are in their fifties, they danced, jumped off platforms, and sang for over two hours. That's an amazing feat in itself. So I gave up, dropped the ususal "I'll enjoy anything, but with an air of detached superiority" attitude that I usually sport, and had a blast.
And you know what? I'm glad I had to wait so long to see them. I am confident enough now that I can, without any shame, declare that that concert was, in a word, sublime. It was everything I always dreamed it would be, but now I have everything I wished I had when I was eight. If that makes sense. I went to this concert with high heels, cleavage, lipstick and pierced ears...all things I coveted when I was eight. I was with a boy who bought me stuff and leaned over to whisper (well, let's be honest, scream...it was pretty loud in there) in my ear that I was beautiful. I didn't have a curfew. I was, for about three seconds, the girl dancing on the Jumbo Tron. I waved my hands in the air, oh yes, like I just didn't care.
Because you know what? I didn't. Sure, it may be super lame to get a babysitter AND miss rehearsal to go see New Kids on the Block. It may be lame to look forward to it for a month in 
advance. And yes, it may be lame to jump up and down and squeal, "Omigodomigodomigod" when Joey takes the stage to belt "Please don't go, girl," but he was in Wicked on Broadway, so that was a totally legit thing to do. And that boy can SING.
I think I enjoyed myself a lot more at 26, watching these sixty-year-old men trying to convey street cred than I would have as an eight-year-old, in the shadow of older relations, with my pink plastic glasses and Dorothy Hammill haircut, certain that even if, my some miracle, I got to meet Joey, there was no way he would even want to talk to me, much less bring me up onstage and serenade me. So sad.
I think the reason they, in their seventies, are still able to draw a crowd, after fifteen years of being the punchline of a forgotten joke, is that most of those women are women just like me. Women who didn't stop loving them when they stopped being cool, and have been in the closet about it ever since. Maybe those short years that they were popular were the only time most of those women (myself included) liked anything mainstream. I think 1992 was the last time I was able to strike up a conversation with any of my peers about something popular. Sure, it's easy to talk to theater kids, or speech team dorks, or other moms, but someone assigned to sit next to you on the bus for a field trip to the science museum? Forget it. You might as well be drinking that lukewarm can of soda you were allowed to pack in your lunchbox all by yourself, sister, because nobody in the third grade knows jack about Sondheim or Shakespeare. And maybe they'll beat you up or call you names because you do.
My first introduction to NKOTB was, as all things contraband were, through my older cousin. She was the holder of all things cool. She wore Malibu Musk and jeans th
at were intentionally ripped. I idolized her. The second she placed those headphones over my (UNPIERCED) ears, I was part of something cool. Spending the night with her, I was allowed to stay up and watch them appear on The Arsenio Hall show (minus Jonathan, which was a shame). For a few years, I was cool. Well, not quite cool, but at least I knew what was cool. Then, all of a sudden, it was lame to like them. Sure, I had the Jonathan doll (with that awesome cardigan? and the earring?) but I wouldn't bring him out when my friends came over. When my cousin and my brother torched the posters they had made to take with them to the concert (yes, the one I wasn't allowed to go to...and yes, I'm still bitter), I knew I couldn't like them anymore.
But now. Oh, yes, now.
They're a wonderful thing we call RETRO!
advance. And yes, it may be lame to jump up and down and squeal, "Omigodomigodomigod" when Joey takes the stage to belt "Please don't go, girl," but he was in Wicked on Broadway, so that was a totally legit thing to do. And that boy can SING.I think I enjoyed myself a lot more at 26, watching these sixty-year-old men trying to convey street cred than I would have as an eight-year-old, in the shadow of older relations, with my pink plastic glasses and Dorothy Hammill haircut, certain that even if, my some miracle, I got to meet Joey, there was no way he would even want to talk to me, much less bring me up onstage and serenade me. So sad.
I think the reason they, in their seventies, are still able to draw a crowd, after fifteen years of being the punchline of a forgotten joke, is that most of those women are women just like me. Women who didn't stop loving them when they stopped being cool, and have been in the closet about it ever since. Maybe those short years that they were popular were the only time most of those women (myself included) liked anything mainstream. I think 1992 was the last time I was able to strike up a conversation with any of my peers about something popular. Sure, it's easy to talk to theater kids, or speech team dorks, or other moms, but someone assigned to sit next to you on the bus for a field trip to the science museum? Forget it. You might as well be drinking that lukewarm can of soda you were allowed to pack in your lunchbox all by yourself, sister, because nobody in the third grade knows jack about Sondheim or Shakespeare. And maybe they'll beat you up or call you names because you do.
My first introduction to NKOTB was, as all things contraband were, through my older cousin. She was the holder of all things cool. She wore Malibu Musk and jeans th
at were intentionally ripped. I idolized her. The second she placed those headphones over my (UNPIERCED) ears, I was part of something cool. Spending the night with her, I was allowed to stay up and watch them appear on The Arsenio Hall show (minus Jonathan, which was a shame). For a few years, I was cool. Well, not quite cool, but at least I knew what was cool. Then, all of a sudden, it was lame to like them. Sure, I had the Jonathan doll (with that awesome cardigan? and the earring?) but I wouldn't bring him out when my friends came over. When my cousin and my brother torched the posters they had made to take with them to the concert (yes, the one I wasn't allowed to go to...and yes, I'm still bitter), I knew I couldn't like them anymore.But now. Oh, yes, now.
They're a wonderful thing we call RETRO!
Thank God for that term, "retro." It gives me an excuse to wear leg warmers and listen to Vanilla Ice. Who, by the way, I would totally go see as well. Even though he doesn't conjure up warm fuzzy feelings of nostalgia for me like NKOTB, I would buy a ticket to see him. MC Hammer, too. I, for the record, am thrilled that 80's fashions are back. Huge plastic earrings? Bring them on. Leggings? Those of us with awesome calves (I can't boast much about my body, but I do have awesome calves) are crazy glad that we can wear them again. In the late nineties, stick-straight, sleek hair was what you had to have, and I was at a loss. And, I'm sorry, but I really, really hate Dave Matthews. A lot. One good song. That was it. One. And the Backstreet Boys? They were no New Kids. And I think most people would agree that Abercrombie and Fitch is something we could all do without. At least, those of us who find it apalling that they sold a training bra emblazoned with the word "yummy." A TRAINING BRA. That's a whole other discussion, though. The late nineties and early thousands brought us very little in the way of cultural advancement. It brought us reality TV, Monica Lewinsky, and killed off Princess Di. Yes, I'm going to blame the nineties for that.
But the eighties brought us Joey, Jordan, Jonathan, Danny and Donnie...
Sure they're in their eighties, but I can still scream my head off in not even a remotely ironic way when they sing Cover Girl. It's funny how when you get older, you just stop caring what other people think. At one point, while waving one arm in the air during Hangin' Tough (if you're a true fan, you know when to wave your arm in the air), I turned to my husband, who was smiling a sort of "I'm humoring this woman because I love her and I'm a little bit scared of her" kind of smile, and I screamed (not because I was angry, but because it was REALLY loud in there) "Don't you even THINK about judging me!!" That's going to be my mantra now, for all time. You don't like how I'm raising my kid? You think I need to lose weight? Sorry, sister, it's not your place to judge. I've worked really hard, and overcome some huge obstacles to become who I am today, and while that may not seem like much to anyone else, it's a huge deal to me, and no one has any right to take that away from me. Sorry. I just had to get that off my chest. It had relatively little to do with my concert-going experience, but it's been bothering me for a while.
But the eighties brought us Joey, Jordan, Jonathan, Danny and Donnie...
Sure they're in their eighties, but I can still scream my head off in not even a remotely ironic way when they sing Cover Girl. It's funny how when you get older, you just stop caring what other people think. At one point, while waving one arm in the air during Hangin' Tough (if you're a true fan, you know when to wave your arm in the air), I turned to my husband, who was smiling a sort of "I'm humoring this woman because I love her and I'm a little bit scared of her" kind of smile, and I screamed (not because I was angry, but because it was REALLY loud in there) "Don't you even THINK about judging me!!" That's going to be my mantra now, for all time. You don't like how I'm raising my kid? You think I need to lose weight? Sorry, sister, it's not your place to judge. I've worked really hard, and overcome some huge obstacles to become who I am today, and while that may not seem like much to anyone else, it's a huge deal to me, and no one has any right to take that away from me. Sorry. I just had to get that off my chest. It had relatively little to do with my concert-going experience, but it's been bothering me for a while.
It was nice, to see these faces from my past, mostly unchanged, clearly enjoying themselves so much. You could tell that Donnie had really missed the spotlight. And I was glad people were screaming for them. I 
was glad the concert had sold reasonably well (it was not Styx, REO Speedwagon, Def Leppard draw, but still...) and that everyone there bought a t-shirt. I expected it, honestly, to be a little sad, but it wasn't. Not at all. It was surprisingly uplifting. I guess I was treating this kind of as a joke, but it turned out to be a really poignant experience for me. It meant a lot more to me than even I knew until I was there. Squealing. Jumping up and down.
Last night, I let go of all inhibitions. I drank a really watered-down Bud Light while watching this guy trying not to enjoy himself. I totally bought a Cover Girl tank top. I forgot every horrible thing anyone ever said to me about being a dork, a nerd, ugly, or stupid. I forgot every eye that ever rolled in my direction, every nasty thing said behind my back.
And I shook my long hair and I danced.
was glad the concert had sold reasonably well (it was not Styx, REO Speedwagon, Def Leppard draw, but still...) and that everyone there bought a t-shirt. I expected it, honestly, to be a little sad, but it wasn't. Not at all. It was surprisingly uplifting. I guess I was treating this kind of as a joke, but it turned out to be a really poignant experience for me. It meant a lot more to me than even I knew until I was there. Squealing. Jumping up and down.Last night, I let go of all inhibitions. I drank a really watered-down Bud Light while watching this guy trying not to enjoy himself. I totally bought a Cover Girl tank top. I forgot every horrible thing anyone ever said to me about being a dork, a nerd, ugly, or stupid. I forgot every eye that ever rolled in my direction, every nasty thing said behind my back.
And I shook my long hair and I danced.
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