Once in a blue moon, a temporary wormhole opens up on this earth that transfers us back to a happier, more innocent time. An age of neon shirts, big hair and leggings. An era where boy bands ruled the airwaves and young high school girls truly fell for the contrived personalities of each member. A time when you knew anything was possible, even marrying the cute pop star who explained to Tiger Beat that his ideal girl had the same attributes as… well, you and 30 million other starry eyed females. Last Thursday night, a kink in the space time continuum resulted in this magical transportation to the past. What was this wild shifting experience that could alter Einstein’s trusted theories of relativity? New Kids on the Block and Back Street Boys returned to Louisville for a killer concert, of course.
Men beware. When a boy band performs again in a small city after an over 15 year hiatus, women of every age, size and relationship status will follow. A male walking through downtown that night must have felt like Hercules stranded with the Amazons. I have no idea why more men wouldn’t want to attend a NKOTBSB concert. In the words of Maverick , this is what I call a target-rich environment. Yet only few dared to cross the turnstile into the pop band battlefield.
Once inside, female hormones drenched the humid air. It stuck to my cotton sundress, infusing it with a mixture of musty rubber bracelets and a twinge of Calvin Klein’s Eternity cologne circa 1990. After only three hours in the amorous arena of estrogen, I’m pretty sure at least ten transsexuals spontaneously transformed into biological women and no longer needed their sexual reassignment surgery. Indeed, much like the Grinch’s heart, my breasts grew three sizes that day. That’s the raw power of a New Kids on the Block/Back Street Boys audience.
Concert time finally arrived with elaborate explosions of fire and gentle sparks cascading down on a phallic shaped stage. The boys, if you can call 40 something men boys, did a wonderful job entertaining the audience. Most every song was accompanied by either a pelvic thrust, crotch grab or shirt lift. I don’t remember these little nuances when I first saw them in concert back in high school. But I guess they know the virginity train left the station on most of their fans a while ago, so they must up the proverbial ante. How better to make a married women of 10 years scream in ecstasy than to shake your bottom like a bottle of stuck catsup? And the women did go wild. But it was slightly sad seeing my favorite teen band reduced to a PG-13 version of the Chippendales. Worse yet, my best friend refused to let me hold up a bright orange neon sign that said, “I’m now legal”. My slogan was much more truthful then all the “New Kids Forever” declarations by the weathered divorcees.
All and all, the mega concert reinforced two facts. I really don’t like being one of a several thousand frenzied women watching only nine hot men sing. I much prefer being in a room with 100 men and only me. That’s why I visit my friend in prison so often a la Silence of the Lambs. Plus, how do I stand out in that sea of bouncing breasts and massive curls, other than streaking the stage and getting arrested myself?
And two, sometimes memories of our childhood loves should just remain memories. People age and grow up. And although Jordan Knight still has “the right stuff”, the magical spell that he cast over me long ago has worn away. Ok, maybe not entirely. But now I’ve at least figured out how to make my husband rehearse some of those thrusting dance moves, grab a baby bottle for a microphone and lip-sync “I’ll Be Loving You Forever”. Oh, what an adventure through the looking glass this might be.