Terry’s JNCO jeans ballooned around his skinny legs, their bones slapping against the thick material of the pant like a broomstick beating dust from a door mat each time he pushed his skateboard down the street. Frankie wasn’t far behind. He weaved through traffic in his new-to-him pair of vintage B.U.M brand denim that he’d found on eBay. They swallowed the lower half of his body, shrouding whatever was inside of them, the swishing of the pant legs having an almost hypnotic effect. They created an entirely new bodily motion, a dance unobtainable by the masses that struggled to fit themselves into the persistent skinny jean trend of the aughts.
The boys had learned through Instagram and YouTube that the ‘90s were not just the golden era of fashion, they were its zenith. Aesthetic perfection. The decades leading up were all just lessons, messy trial and error that then informed a eureka moment of a decade almost by accident, like mold in Fleming’s petri dish. Everything after had been a mistake with no benefit. A veering off course so severe that Terry and Frankie were certain they were only moments away from being driven into a quagmire of yoga pants and all-over prints that would suck them into it’s hideous, tacky depths.
But there were pockets of light in the dark. Every lone bowl-cut they’d see on the street was a beacon against the Alt-Right, Nazi Youth styling that had taken hold. Then eventually––b’gosh! nostalgia brought back the overall, a hallmark of better days. Soon more began to come around, like the fog had lifted, like their minds had been unplugged. Opened. Freed. When DC Shoes reissued its ‘90s staple, The Lynx, it was clear that the blinds had officially been raised and those golden-era rays poured back into Terry and Frankie’s lives. Well, they’d actually been born in the early ’00s, but they recognized the true path and they didn’t want to stray again.
They immersed themselves further in a culture they’d only ever Googled: Home Improvement, Kriss Kross, Dunkaroos––they wanted a future that was right for them, so they became the past that they believed worked. Together they only watched skate videos on VHS, bought track pants in excess to give to their friends and read up on their now favourite trilateral trade bloc:
“Imagine how much corduroy has been exchanged between Canada, Mexico and the United States since all of those pesky trade and investment barriers were lifted?! Thanks NAFTA!” They shouted in unison.
But for Frankie, this ‘90s renaissance was for more than just he and his friends. He envisioned a time when he’d get a gentle tug on his chain wallet and look down to see Frank Jr., his long, parted JTT-esque locks tussled by a sharp autumn breeze, the sleeves of his Coogi sweater hanging long past the the tips of his little fingers. He wanted his children and generations beyond to be safe in the knowledge that what they’re wearing, reading or listening to was the standard. That they would never have an awkward stage or look like a kook because this was where the bar was set and held, by them. Forever. House music the constant, throbbing anthem for this movement that would make the nation look good again and help the nation remain “Fly.”
Words by Cole Nowicki