Columns, Opinion

HOFBERG: 90s night

I can’t decide if going to ‘90s night at Common Ground last Friday night was the best or worst decision of my life.

I had no intention of venturing out of my heated house that night. My idea of a fun Friday night usually consists of nothing more than sitting on the couch with my cat, Lars, with a Domino’s pizza and a box of Oreos until I crawl into bed at about 9:30 p.m.

But what was supposed to be a quiet evening of watching “Rob & Big” reruns and painting my nails with my roommate turned unexpectedly and spontaneously into a sloppy cameo at the Allston bar scene.

It all started with one glass of wine from Trader Joe’s finest $3 bottle of cabernet sauvignon and a YouTube playlist of everybody’s favorite “old school” music videos, including Outkast’s “Hey Ya” and Britney Spears’ “Toxic.”

I dare you to tell me that this generation of music videos doesn’t excite some feelings of nostalgia in you. Even I, the Heavy Metal Princess of Boston, can’t help but burst into a fit of uncoordinated dance moves and a butchered recitation of the words of the pop soundtrack of my awkward junior high school years.

If you pour me enough wine, I think I’m the world’s best singer. Anyone with functioning ears can tell you that’s not the truth in the slightest, but with my third glass of wine my living room transformed into my stage. Bless my roommate’s heart for having the patience to sit there and listen to me shriek the words to “Lady Marmalade” at the top of my lungs into my television remote-control-turned-microphone.

To make the dreadful experience more tolerable, she poured herself another glass of wine and trying to keep up with my roommate who is three years younger than me, I followed suit and also poured myself another glass.

After watching every Spice Girls music video ever created and polishing off two and half bottles of excruciatingly cheap wine, the brilliant idea of taking our night of reminiscing to the next level at Common Ground’s 90’s night suddenly popped into our heads.

A more genius idea we never had — without a stitch of makeup on my face and in an outfit that some would confuse with pajamas, we headed excitedly to Harvard Ave.

From there, my memories of the night start to blur. I remember something about being overly enthused about the DJ playing Smash Mouth’s “All Star”, dancing a sloppy version of “The Macarena” and an unbelievably expensive bar tab. How could it be that I spent $30 on two Bud Lights? Or was it four Bud Lights? Who can remember?

Obviously, not me.

Unfortunately, I am learning the older I get, the harder it is to recover from a night of drinking. That’s why I hardly ever spend my weekend evenings away from my couch.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, not only was my head pounding with the Ace of Base beats that I couldn’t get out of my head, and a red wine/Bud Light induced hangover, but also I woke up with a huge scratch on my face and a nearly broken knee.

Damn you, ‘90s night!

How did this happen to me? To anyone who can solve the mystery of my physical injuries, I’ll pay them handsomely with apologies and thank yous.

But despite all the physical injuries I sustained that night, the pictures on my iPhone suggested I had the time of my life. I even made new friends! I wish I could remember the name of the man in the cowboy hat who showed up in almost every picture from that night, but unfortunately, all I can remember is being impressed that he knew all the words to Dee Lite’s “Groove is in the Heart.”

So maybe I did have an incredibly fun night of recklessly dancing the night away to my old ‘90s favorites. Maybe it was so much fun to sing a long to every song the DJ played.

But was worth the agonizing pain I felt the next morning when I had to hobble on one good leg to the medicine counter in a desperate search for Advil? Did I have enough fun to justify the scar on my cheek that makeup won’t cover and that probably won’t fade for a week?

I want to say no, but to quote my personal favorite band of the late ‘90s, B*Witched, “C’est la vie.”’



Kate Hofberg is a graduate student in the College of Communication. She can be reached at[email protected]

Comments are closed.