Doc Martens

Who wouldn't get in line to purchase overpriced footwear once associated with skinheads and gangs of the 1960s and 70s? There's nothing like taking a ripe piece of subculture and mainstreaming it to the popular kids. How exactly the Doc Martens people ever convinced hordes of Abercrombie-wearing, gum-chewing, Backstreet Boy CD-purchasing teenyboppers that these grungy workboots were the height of cool is a mystery best left to professionals. There was clearly a force bigger than all of us urging all of these head cheerleaders and lacrosse team captains to beg their parents to shell out for these pricey shoes.

It may be fair to theorize that the rise of Doc Martens fell somewhat in step with the rise of grunge culture, but it's also relatively safe to say that many of the middle schoolers sporting Doc Martens in the mid-90s didn't know Kurt Cobain from Adam. It would be easy to shove the blame for this trend onto a reputable cultural phenomenon, but the horrifying truth was that these clunky shoes had a following entirely separate from their initial 90s grunge roots. No, many of these kids actually had the gall to like these shoes on alleged merit alone. To many of us, there was nothing sexier than seeing a potential mate clomping around in a charming pair of 12-pound clunky rubber-soled boots or sandals.

Truthfully, Doc Martens' popularity crested at the point of contact between grunge chic and preppy Clueless-style fashion. Lost and confused, we were eager to fit in but perplexed by the wide range of wardrobe trends to which we could feasibly subscribe. Like a deer in the headlights, many were so blinded to fit in that they were willing to forsake principles in their fashion choices and don a mishmosh of incongruous trends. Thankfully, Doc Martens were also available in styles I like to refer to as "Doc Marten Lite." This set of equally cumbersome but less counter-culture-esque footwear included sandals, mary janes, and ordinary-model shoes in lieu of the more in-your-face, take-that-authority style boots. It was as if kids were saying, I like the idea of these badass shoes but I also am concerned about completing homework assignments in full and not arriving tardy to homeroom.

In a time where name brands were king and no brand emblazonment was too brazen or tasteless, Doc Martens neatly filled a void in the shoe department with its easily recognizable signature stitching. The truly punk-rock or grunge among us liked these shoes for what they stood for, but the more shallower (read: the majority) of teens wore these because they were hopelessly lemming-like and wanted everyone to know exactly what brands they were sporting. There were countless imitation DMs on the market, but none of them could achieve that glorious undeserved sense of self-worth achieved by having a pair of shoes with thick yellow stitching just above the soles. Mainstream kids could breathe a sigh of relief that their yellow-stitched stompers would not go unnoticed.


These shoes weren't exactly cheap, either. Many of us were forced to deliver formal presentations to our parents convincing them of the merits of shelling out over a hundred bucks a pop for these babies*. Our in vogue classmates often had more than one pair so as to give their loud foot-stepping some visual variety, so parents came to know these shoes as a steep monetary endeavor. You could claim all you wanted that this was an investment and that you would wear them forever, but I challenge you to find more than a handful of 90s children who can recall the fate of their once-beloved Doc Martens.

Doc Martens weren't just iconic in the 90s for their presence, but for the inexplicable ways in which their bizarre trend was manifest on adolescent feet nationwide. One of the most curious exhibitions of Doc Martenry was the odddly sought-after socks-and-DM-sandals look. While just a few years ago we may have chastised our fathers on vacation for sporting a similar look to match their fanny pack and passport holder necklace, this look was suddenly all the rage. We're not just talking any socks here, either. No, the fashion-conscious knew it was specifically white socks--that is to say, those most closely tied to the dreaded tourist-father-with-straight-bill-baseball-cap look--that made you a genuine style maven.

While the shoes were certainly comfortable and functional (aside from the inevitable drag associated with carrying the equivalent of two-ton bricks on each foot), they could not remain in the fashion spotlight forever. Much to the I-told-you-so style castigations of our parents, so too did this trend eventually end up lost somewhere in the back of our closets next to the piles of plaid skorts and convenient 43-pocket cargo shorts. For those of you lucky enough to have preserved your shoes properly (if like me, your shoe store threw in a free tin of Doc Marten shoe shine balm!) there is still hope yet that these shoes will live to see another day outside the circle of gardeners and neo-Nazis who favor them today.

Quirky-styled supermodel Agyness Deyn has been seen all about town sporting these old standards, poising them for a comeback. For those of you who have been eagerly anticipating the second coming of these shoes (in your lifetime, at least), you may just be in luck.



Then again, she's also sporting white leggings, a sweater miniskirt, giant blue hair bow, and leather-and-shearling coat complete with multiple non-functional belts, so this trend may not quite be ready for the masses yet. Lucky for you, there may still be time for you yet to recover your old Docs.

But this time, let's lose the socks.





*Was this really just me? Because I must say I had some pretty penetrating pie charts.

Lunchables

In the late 80s and early 90s, the Oscar Meyer company was out to prove that they were more than just a catchy jingle and a Wienermobile. At this point, we were all fairly aware of Oscar Meyer's way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A. We were relatively proficient in identifying our bologna by both its first and second names. We even had general affection for ingesting the aforementioned mysterious lunchmeat daily. What more could they want from us?

Perhaps they were upset were were packing non-Oscar Meyer brand products in our school lunches. Maybe it was that sometimes we favored Jennie-O Turkey Breast over our old mystery meat pal bologna. Or possibly they were just concerned we weren't meeting our daily sodium level potential. Whatever the instigator may have been, the quest to streamline the lunch-packing process had begun.

When it came to the 1990s elementary school cafeteria, brown bags and insulated coolers were out and prepackaged boxed lunches were in. Suddenly the height of cafeteria coolness revolved around snack-like, nutritionally devoid, candy toting yellow boxes. To pull out one of those signature Lunchables boxes at lunch time was to declare yourself party to the latest in food trends and blatantly flaunt your parents' reputable recalcitrance for wholesome nourishment. Those of us whose parents insisted on packing us a food pyramid-inspired balanced meal were forced to hang our heads in shame at our lack of preboxed lunchtime delights.

The Lunchables roster certainly expanded over the years, but it began with a simple savory formula: crackers, adorably miniature slices of lunchmeat, and overprocessed and suspiciously orange cheese slices. Later models included such awe-inspiringly nutrition-void amenities as Capri Sun drink pouches and a fun size portion of candy. Some of us, though I won't say who, learned the don't-put-metal-in-the-microwave lesson the hard way via the addition of the metallic Capri Sun pouches. Her parents may or may not have frozen Lunchables for posterity and future lunchability, and she was not quite patient enough to let it thaw. Again, I'm not naming names, but she may or may not have broken her family's brand new microwave through this ill-fated Lunchable venture*.



Lunchable varieties became increasingly questionable with each successive incarnation. Each model stayed true to the original formula of a collection of spare lunch parts complete with assembly instructions, but Oscar Meyer certainly weren't afraid to experiment with creativity. They churned out pizzas, nachos, mysterious forms of "dunkers," tacos, and nearly any other fathomable junk food-based product. Naturally (or as the case warranted, by means of artificial flavoring) it was only a matter of time before anti-childhood obesity groups and health advocates stormed the Lunchables bastille in the name of all things overly salty.


Yes, these salt-packed snacks were tasty, but it's largely due to the fact that they were often packing a whopping three quarters of a daily recommended value of sodium for an adult. Mind you, these were mainly consumed by children, so it's fairly simple to deduce that the sodium content more than exceeded their healthy daily dosage. This preservative-rich snack boxes came under fire for their absolute defiance in the face of rising health consciousness. Essentially, researchers looked on in horror as morbidly obese children waddled to their lunch tables, inhaled a Lunchable, chased it with the fun size candy, and went into a salt coma. These were kids walking through their elementary school hallways single file not out of obedience to teachers but out of necessity to fit through the cafeteria door.

The Oscar Meyer/Kraft people could only hold out for so long. There was really no adequate defense for the remarkably low nutrition levels of their products, other than that children adored them and their junk-foody contents. As long as there was a consumer demographic of parents still willing to poison their children with dangerous sodium levels, there was no reason for them to make any sort of adjustment. However, as the pressure from nutrition advocates mounted and led to devastatingly bad press for Oscar Meyer/Kraft, the company quickly changed their salty tune.


It may be a bit harsh to say they sold out, considering the admittedly poor levels of nutrition in the original product. However, they did oblige to their opposition and began offering options such as fruit juice and yogurt. While these new additions may have had some grounding in health food, it's pretty safe to say they didn't significantly alter the overall caloric content. Regardless, as long as the juvenile salt-related cardiac arrest subsided, they were able to quietly continue packing children chock full of delicious artificial additives.

That said, it's important to note that some of their current releases are highly questionable. Take this disturbingly fizzy pop-rocks knockoff meat+candy creation.It just goes to show you that change does not necessarily equal progress. To its credit, however, the packaging does herald the excellence of the meal's calcium content. Calcium or not, the whole thing seems pretty suspicious. It's safe to say that while contemporary children may not enjoy the same levels of salty deliciousness, Lunchables continue to outrage parents everywhere in a distinctly kid-pleasing manner.

And isn't that what really counts?






*In case you failed to gather from the heavy hints, this was clearly me. I never did own up to breaking the microwave.

Body Glitter

Many people are slaves to fashion. They will blindly follow the trends presented to them as the height of attractiveness, regardless of the actual appeal. Or at least, one can only assume they do it blindly. There's not much of an excuse for those of us with fully functional vision to jump on the bandwagon.

Body Glitter is a prime example of this lemming-style following. We sheepishly (yes, sheepishly) look back at our complete lack of individuality and low sense of self as we wince and grimace over old photos of us sporting the most absurd of fashion statements. It was so obviously unbecoming, unsubtle, and unsightly, but we begged our parents to buy us great pots of the glittery goop nonetheless. We weren't picky about its form; it could be semi-gelatinous or congealed, liquid or solid, roll-on or spray mist, lip gloss or nail polish. If it sparkled, we were desperate to get our hands on it.

Not even top 90s teen celebrities were immune to the allure of slathering their stomachs in glitter

For young girls growing up in the 1990s, glitter was like a broad-point neon highlighter. We assumed that if there was something we wanted to call attention to, the only viable solution was to douse it in sparkles. How were middle school boys ever going to notice your stunningly feminine clavicle bones if not for carefully calculated application of glitter to that area? How, I ask you?

The glitter was ubiquitous. If there was some appreciably visible surface on our bodies, it was subsequently slathered in glitter. No bodily territory was sacred. We didn't so much treat our bodies as temples but as fun-houses. Cosmetic companies produced all fathomable forms of the stuff. You could paint it on your nails, gloss it on your lips, smear it across your chest and shoulders, or even spray or comb it into your hair. If there was an area you wanted glittered, cosmetic companies were eager to oblige and feed our frenzied desire to ensparkle every inch of ourselves.

Makeup companies like Hard Candy and Urban Decay capitalized on our vulnerability to sweeping trends and presented us with an unending array of glitterizers. They knew we were eager to indiscriminately smear glitter all over our faces, and they were properly prepared with plenty of sparkly ammunition.

Hard Candy supplied us with sugary-sweet candy-colored glittery nail polishes with names like Sunshine and Sky.


In contrast, Urban Decay provided us with an endless palette of of shimmery eye shadows with such charming designations as Asphyxia and Acid Rain.


Oddly, these companies marketed to the same demographic and we consumed them both with little thought of subscribing to two absolutely incongruous cosmetic-producing forces. As middle schoolers, we weren't much for irony. It is pertinent to mention that these companies are now owned by the same parent corporation, presumably stuck together with all the remaining mucilaginous glitter residue in their respective R & D departments.

With respect to our aimless glitter consumption, the problem was not so much in the shimmering. Sure, it can be nice to bring focus to some key areas through the subtle use of mainstream cosmetics. However, as sixth graders, we lacked this global perspective on socially acceptable makeup and instead sought out more age-appropriate incarnations of our earlier childhood EZ-2-do bedazzlers. It seemed harmless enough. What was the worst that could happen? So we sparkled for a few hours, and then we could rinse it off.

Or so we thought.

There's one serious problem with glitter that middle school girls of the 90s failed to foresee.

It. Never. Washes. Off.

Seriously. Never. If you don't believe me, consult Demetri Martin and/or this t-shirt (available here):


It never washes off.

It does, however, behave in some other notably unfortunate ways. I'm not sure if you're aware, but bodies tend to sweat, especially when thrust into a mid-90s rave-type setting (before they were all busted by Dateline NBC, that is.) While 250 young girls are out in some abandoned warehouse taking ecstasy, listening to techno music, and waving glow sticks, the carefully preapplied sparkles at the corners of their eyes and on their shoulders are beginning to gelatinize. There was no more disgusting visual as curdled, clumpy body glitter. Fortunately for the precendent ravers, they were fortuitously swathed in the incessant flash of strobe lights. Less lucky for us girls caught in such a dilemma at say, a bar mitzvah party or a junior high dance, where we were decidedly SOL under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the synagogue auditorium or school cafeteria.

Despite our knowledge of the semi-permanent consequences, we pressed on in our quests to out-sparkle our peers. While "body glitter" is a fairly unobjectionable blanket term, some of the products housed under that broad umbrella were downright revolting. Those of us with the most minor of flairs for subtlety would opt for a tub of glitter gel or a misting glitter body spray, but the major attention seekers in our 7th grade classes were blatantly envelope-pushing. They would paint it on their nails, only to realize they would remain in that fossilized form for years to come. These girls weren't content with shimmering Bonne Bell Lipsmackers like the rest of us; they had to resort to full on chunks-of-glitter in their lipsticks. They were also the targets of one of the more loathsome and confusing products to be launched by mid-90s cosmetic corporations.

Say it with me now: glitter hair mascara.


But wait, you say. Isn't mascara for eyelashes? What on earth is it doing in your hair?

Well, we were wondering the same thing. Unfortunately for us, our impressionability to peer pressure at that age left us powerless to stop this force. Yes, we dutifully combed glitter into our hair, only to find ourselves completely and utterly cemented to our pillows the next morning. But dammit, did our hair sparkle.

Whether you were a glitter dabbler or devotee, one thing was for certain: if you chose to apply it to your body, you were in for the long haul. As chemists project the glitter to have a 10 year half-life*, you're probably still scrubbing yourself raw in an effort to remove it.

Of course you're not alone. You can seek help here, here, or here, though there are no guarantees.

And if that doesn't work, well, you'll always have your sparkling memories firmly adhered to your cheekbones.


*This scientific fact is completely made up. Get it? Made-up? Makeup? Okay, fine, don't come along with me for that one. Either way, it's not true.



Check it out:

A website fully devoted to the sale of all things body glitter
The ultimate horror: a make your own body glitter kit