The Totally Sweet ’90s: From Clear Cola to Furby, and Grunge to “Whatever,” the Toys, Tastes, and Trends That Defined a Decade (12 page)

“Got Milk?” spawned an entire industry of unfunny parodies, from “Got beer?” to “Got MILF?” But nothing touches the original. Milk is always missing, people are always tortured for the want of it. In the world of empty milk cartons, the lactose intolerant is king.

P
lenty
of '90s movies were perfect for watching and rewatching until our VCRs spat out the tape in disgust—but only one did the rewinding for us:
Groundhog Day
. When his alarm clock flicked over from 5:59 to 6:00, Bill Murray rolled out of bed to the strains of Sonny and Cher's “I Got You, Babe” and quickly realized that he was trapped in the same day over and over again. He'd interact with the goofy denizens of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania (“Bing!”), hit the hay, and when he woke up the next morning, it all started over again.

Once he realized nothing he did had consequences, a snarky and bored Murray embraced his inner hedonist, stuffing a whole piece of cake into his mouth while sucking down a cigarette, and using his repeating reality to charm a hot townie into the sack. Eventually, Murray started to warm to the townspeople, realized he was being a jerk, and used his superpowers to help them rather than take advantage. Bing! The curse broke—along with Murray's crunchy outer shell.

Critics praised the flick for its spiritual take on the nature of existence. We loved it because Murray kept his trademark smarm even as he became a better person. The film couldn't have been cast better. After starring in 2006's horrible
Garfield: A Tail of Two Kitties
, doesn't Murray of all people deserve a do-over?

T
he
poppy, bright sounds of '80s music gave way in the '90s to the blunt, honest notes of grunge, pouring like rain off the damp streets of Seattle. The music was pulled together the same way the musicians assembled their flannel-heavy, thrift-store wardrobes, with disparate elements of punk, metal, and alternative music all forming an uneasy alliance. It seemed to spring straight from the hearts of the ignored kids who slouched in the back of the gym during school assemblies, who never showed up for football games and proms.

The lyrics, when you could understand them, freaked parents out. Rest assured, the Beach Boys never led off a song with “load up on guns, and bring your friends,” and Duran Duran probably never felt “stupid and contagious.”

The genre had style, sure, but it was a complete rejection of what had passed for rock chic in previous eras. Hairspray and carefully feathered locks felt fake and showy next to built-for-comfort flannels and white-boy dreads. Who needed to bathe in a tub when you could bathe daily in your own angst and ennui?

Nirvana's Kurt Cobain, who would become the marquee name of the genre, represented every kid who never fit in, whether due to a broken home, crappy school experience, or just a messed-up
self-image. Cobain himself once expressed shock that the fans he saw wearing Nirvana T-shirts were the same kind of kids who'd once beaten him up.

Grunge soared high and burned out fast, with Cobain's 1994 suicide marking an end point for many. But it was in its time the perfect soundtrack for a generation raised with low expectations, coming too late to a party that was making them no promises.

E
ven
kids who grew up in the uber-organized sports leagues of the 1980s eventually mellowed out enough to embrace the unofficial sport of the '90s, Hacky Sack. Oddly enough for a nation that has long hated soccer, American teens welcomed this sport with open feet, despite the fact that it's really just soccer with a smaller ball and less of that sweat-inducing running.

Almost every guy who was in his teens in the 1990s, from football captain to D&D nerd, can look back on at least a few sunny
hours joyously wasted kicking a little beanbag around their high school field or college quad.

Speaking of “wasted,” is there a Hacky Sack anywhere on the planet that does not reek of pot smoke? If there is, it almost certainly smells of spilled Mountain Dew Slurpee and barbecue potato chips. Hacky Sack embraced its stoner vibe proudly. If there was a game you could imagine Shaggy from
Scooby-Doo
playing, this is it.

I
t's
just a minute and a half long, but the “Happy Fun Ball” commercial parody that aired on
Saturday Night Live
in 1991 is a classic that can sit right up there next to Dan Aykroyd's Bass-o-matic or Bad Idea Jeans.

You remember: The innocuous looking red ball comes with an unending list of warnings, delivered in the soothingly dulcet tones of Phil Hartman. “Happy Fun Ball may stick to certain types of skin.” Its liquid core should not be “touched, inhaled, or looked at.” And then, the big revelation: Happy Fun Ball's ingredients “include an unknown glowing substance which fell to Earth, presumably from outer space,” and it “is being dropped from our warplanes on Iraq.” And the line everyone remembers, quotes, and repurposes: “Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball.” If this didn't lead you to envision the carnage that would ensue if you disobeyed, you, my friend, have not read nearly enough Stephen King novels.

Happy Fun Ball was simple and ingenious. Even though the skit's two decades old, it's worked its way so deep into our pop-culture fabric that no amount of taunting will remove it. Not that we plan to try. We might have that certain type of skin.

T
his
series of futuristic AT&T TV commercials were a mix of completely whacked and utterly prescient. Featuring the soothing narration of Tom Selleck, each ad demonstrated three not-that-far-off scenarios and bragged that they would soon be delivered by the communications company.

Some were nuts. “Have you ever sent a fax from the beach?” Good Lord, who wants to? This segment also had no idea that faxing was about to become as outdated as smoke signals.

But others were scarily right on. “Have you ever had an assistant who lived in your computer?” Hello, iPhone's Siri. “Have you ever crossed the country without stopping to ask directions?” Thank you, in-car GPS. “Have you ever watched the movie you wanted to, when you wanted to?” Video on demand or Netflix streaming, anyone?

Sure, not all of the eventual breakthroughs came from AT&T, but still, watching these ads was a little like sitting in 1993 and getting passed notes from Future You in 2013. It was a damn shame you couldn't send along lottery numbers or stock picks while you were at it. Get on that, Future You.

Y
es,
back in the 1990s, the tale of an eight-year-old boy left alone in his house while criminals tried to break in was considered hilarious fodder for movies. In real life, the story would have led the nightly news, and ended with a Macaulay Culkin–shaped chalk outline on the floor.

But in 1990's
Home Alone
, it was a hoot. Yes, we suspended disbelief as little fishy-lipped Kevin McAllister took on robbers Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern using nothing more than his ingenuity and a few items he found around the house, MacGyver-style. Where did Kevin get his elaborate booby-trap training—the CIA? He also showed pretty severe psychotic tendencies and more than a little bloodlust. Pesci and Stern were trying to break into the house, but Culkin was trying to
kill
them, with a blowtorch to the head, a hot iron to the face, a BB gun to the pants, and Micro Machines beneath their feet.

We kids luckily never had to deal with a robber taking us on mano a mano in our own house, but after this movie, man, we dreamed about it. If only Mom and Dad would forget about us long enough for us to set up an uber-complicated network of traps
of our own. That Avon lady, cookie-peddling Girl Scout, or pesky guy selling aluminum siding would never know what hit 'em.

H
ypercolor
heat-sensitive clothing made people into real-life mood rings. Don a purple Hypercolor shirt and have your friend slap you on the back…voila, pink handprint.

It sounded cool when you bought the shirt, but Hypercolor was a pretty weird technology. Hey, nice pink spots in your sweaty armpits, dude! Is that a pair of Hypercolor pants or are you just happy to see me? Nerds would sport a Hypercolor shirt in the hope that the cute girl in math would be unable to keep her hands off them, but let us be frank, that never happened. Instead it was your own friends and the occasional hallway dork who smacked you or, worse, rubbed their snotty nose on you to make the color change.

Sadly or thankfully, once you washed the shirt enough, it
would no longer do its little trick, and you could resume sweating with impunity.

F
irst,
in 1985, there was Laura Numeroff's popular picture book,
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie
. But then the food-items-to-animal giving took off in a big way, and soon pigs were getting pancakes, cats devouring cupcakes, moose receiving muffins, and the original cookie-taking mouse was going to school, the movies, and heaven knows where else. Hopefully a bakery, where he could buy his own damn cookie.

This book format was quickly memorized by every kid, parent, and babysitter in the 1990s and beyond. Once the animal received their treat, they started to get demanding. The mouse wanted milk to go with his cookie; the cat, sprinkles to accompany her cupcake; the pig, syrup for its pancake. And if you think it's a good
idea to give such potentially mess-producing items to small mammals, think again. Milk will result in demands for straws, sprinkle requests will somehow turn into beach visits, syrup will lead to baths. Where will the greed end?

Yet the narrators of these books never learned. They continued the unrestrained giving! This only led to disaster, with pigs seeking out tap shoes, and eventually building elaborate tree houses that for whatever reason required eight metric tons of wallpaper. We're still not sure how working out at the gym inspired the cat to want to go to the park and then the science museum, but ours is not to reason why.