I am glad to have been born in 1971. Being a kid in the 70s was wonderful, and high school in the 80s, while unspectacular, did allow me to move to New York when I was 17 in 1989. The early 90s were the perfect time to be on my own in New York City. Gay culture flourished and clubs were undeniably fun. Kids who move to NYC now, while luckier than the vast majority of the world's populace, are not as lucky as me.

My generation is the greatest generation. World War II cronies? Ha! They are sexist fatties. A generation's worth can be measured by its women, and everyone knows that a woman's worth is based on one thing: the height of her hair.

Mine is the greatest generation to have ever walked the face of the Earth.

Here is undeniable, apocryphal proof from my 1989 yearbook:




Behold the glory of big hair!

I revel in the ambition of these girls. Easy, flat hair? Hell no!

Pity the grunge generation and their yearbooks... girl after girl wearing flannel with dirty, matted down garage hair. What's to look at there?

I used to sit in study hall studying the big-haired girls as they teased their hair and applied layer after layer of violet, purple and blue eyeshadow  - sometimes six shades at once! Years later, an embryonic Diabolique was born.

Actual Jersey Girls.

Young Diabolique.