The Totally Sweet ’90s: From Clear Cola to Furby, and Grunge to “Whatever,” the Toys, Tastes, and Trends That Defined a Decade (9 page)

Although invented in the 1980s, Dunkaroos might be the
most 1990s snack there was. It's easy to find a nineties kid with fond memories of wolfing these down in front of ABC's TGIF block, with a six-pack of Crystal Pepsi at hand to wash them down.

P
oor
Ken could never compete with the glamour and glitz of girlfriend Barbie. Mattel was so determined to ensure he was nonthreatening that they went over the edge and made him just plain goofy, encouraging Barbie to zoom off in her hot pink Corvette with GI Joe or the Six Million Dollar Man doll instead. And then, in 1993…Earring Magic Ken.

Mattel surveyed girls to determine if Barbie should get a new boyfriend, and the little ladies said no, but that really, Ken should look a little cooler. The toy giant somehow translated “cooler” to equal “Castro District resident circa 1988.” Earring Magic Ken featured two-tone hair, a pierced ear, purple mesh shirt, shiny lilac
vest, and, weirdly, a circular necklace that commentators such as Dan Savage instantly declared to be uh, an intimate pleasure device.

This Ken was all set to perform a rousing chorus of “Y-M-C-A!” or take in the latest Liza Minnelli theater show, but he was perhaps unlikely to be interested in hitting the prom with Barbie. The doll quickly became a hot collectible with gay men, while the toy company quietly discontinued him.

W
hat
kid didn't crank up the sniffles, fake a fever, and tell their parents they couldn't go to school because they were pretty sure they had the Ebola virus? And why wouldn't they? In the '90s the exotic illness was everywhere, thanks in large part to Richard Preston's horrifying—and all too true—bestselling book,
The Hot Zone
. We figured if the microbial menace killed more than a thousand people in Africa, then why couldn't it make its way to Albany or Annapolis?

With its graphic tales of people's insides liquefying, the book was more terrifying than anything Stephen King cranked out. And especially freaky for a kid with a vivid imagination: One minute you were jamming along at Super Mario, the next you could be bleeding out of every orifice and staring up through an inch of Plexiglas at doctors wearing hazmat suits all because you played with a monkey that one time. Stupid monkeys. As if we needed another reason to hate Marcel from
Friends
.

I
n
1990, Brandon and Dylan from
90210
sparked a sideburn resurgence, and sure, we could handle their too-cool-for-school cheek accessories. But soon misguided real-life males decided that if a little bit of facial ornamentation was good, more would be better. They figured wrong, and so began the Decade of Unfortunate Facial Hair, with whiskers sprouting from every facial pore. Colonel Sanders goatees. Alt-rock soul patches. Color Me Badd-ish geometric mini-beards. Razor blades wept at the prospect.

Some guys tried to emulate boy-banders A. J. McLean from Backstreet Boys and Chris Kirkpatrick from 'N Sync by donning a pencil-thin beard, but could only sprout puffy, patchy fluff. They ended up looking more like fuzzy-faced pro-wrestling manager Captain Lou Albano. Others relied on facial hair to define a chin where there was no chin before.

Brandon and Dylan eventually shaved, but the terrible trend they spawned continues to sprout stubbly, scraggly hair disasters on faces from coast to coast, leaving a generation looking like they're either on vacation, unemployed, or Kevin Federline.

H
ey,
anybody happen to have a ham sandwich?” “Why, yes, I've got one right here in my fanny pack, next to a half-eaten roll of Sucrets and an old comb.” Gross, yes. But, oh so convenient! The perfect companion to Bermuda shorts and black socks, fanny packs quickly became synonymous with out-of-place tourists around the world. Worn under the belly, they were like an out-of-fashion belt that swallowed an even more out-of-fashion suitcase.

Originally—and legitimately—used by bikers, skiers, and big-city denizens who wanted to keep their valuables away from pickpockets' grabby fingers, the convenient pouches soon were co-opted by people who simply thought carrying things was too much work. Millions of people did their best impersonation of slightly nerdy kangaroos, and suddenly fanny packs became the must-have
accessory. The upside: With the flick of a zipper, you had your wallet, passport, or sub sandwich within easy reach. The downside: They added six inches to many folks' already considerable waistlines.

A
w,
geez.” In
Fargo
, the Coen Brothers' 1996 gem, the Minnesooohta accents were as thick as ice on Leech Lake. The dark-as-a-winter-night movie introduced the world to a specially creepy corner of the upper Midwest, not to mention pregnant small-town sheriff Marge Gunderson as she headed from Brainerd, Minnesota, to the big city of Minneapolis to solve a triple homicide.

Fargo
is filled with tiny moments that stick with you like a tongue to a frozen flagpole. The scene where William H. Macy's Jerry Lundegaard frantically scrapes at his ice-covered windshield as he realizes his plan is falling apart. Marge interviewing two Minnesota-Nice hookers (“Go, Bears”). The delightfully random scene where Marge has a drink with pathetic high-school classmate
Mike Yanagita (“You were such a super lady”). And we'll never look at a wood chipper the same way again. Poor Steve Buscemi.

Is
Fargo
one of the finest flicks about the ice-covered, complicated, and quirky Midwest? You betcha.

F
rom
the first moment Steve Martin stared lovingly at his daughter and her gigantic eyebrows, it was clear as a diamond engagement ring that the 1991 flick
Father of the Bride
was a mush-fest of epic proportions. Thankfully for the sarcastic kids in the audience, though, the sentiment factor was tempered by Martin's trademark shtick. Who else but the Artist Formerly Known as the Guy with the Arrow Through His Head could pull off a scene where he dangled outside a window while his soon-to-be in-laws chatted away unaware inside?

The plot was simple: Martin, as beleaguered suburban dad George Banks, fretted about his daughter's (fuzzy-browed Kimberly Williams) impending wedding, while Diane Keaton and Kieran Culkin tried to keep him from having a nervous breakdown. But
the real star of the show was Martin Short as Franck, a diva-esque wedding planner with a marble-mouthed accent who chased after swans and goofed up the valet parking. His best bit was mispronouncing “cake” so it sounded more like something that you'd find in an erotic bakery.

The thing is: Now that some of us who watched this 1991 flick with our eyes rolled back in our “What. Ever” heads have daughters of our own, we get it: Growing older can be a mixed bag. Damn, Steve Martin—you taught us a valuable lesson, wrapped in something borrowed, something blue, and a whole lot of slapstick.

E
eee-ooooh!
Before email, before text, the only real way to communicate quickly with people you didn't want to actually talk with was to send a fax. At first the ultra-high-tech method of communication was embraced only by office jokers, who sent pictures of their butts flying across phone lines. But soon everybody with a document they needed to send bypassed the post office and instead jammed their boring quarterly report into a
gigantic, mechanical beast that ate rolls of paper and gulped down toner.

It was hardly foolproof. People regularly tried to fax something to a regular phone, and whoever picked up got an earful of screeches and screams. “Hello? Hmm…sounds like the Tallahassee office is trying to send us that contract. I can't quite hear the final paragraph, though. Also, are my ears supposed to be bleeding like this?”