COKE CLOTHES: C-C-C-CATCH THE WAVE

Ok, unless you're a total Eighties Lady (and proud of it!) like me, you probably won't remember the whole "Max Headroom" ad campaign for Coca-Cola... nor the clothing line that they came up with in the late 80's. But take my word for it: Cokewear paired beautifully with the Swatch in all it's Swatch-Guarded splendor, ultra tight-legged jeans and hightop tennis shoes back then. My all-time favorite was my Coca-Cola Rugby shirt... which I esteemed to be even cooler than the Coca-Cola sweatshirt my parents brought me back from Macy's in New York in 1987. And that's saying something, because I thought a shirt from Macy's was "way rad" at the time.

But what conjures all of these memories is that today Robert is celebrating his 22-year anniversary with J.B. Hunt... and Mikey G challenged everyone to think back to January 5, 1987, and tell what we were up to that day.

Hmmm... this date in 1987? Let me think back... Ah, yes, yes, I remember it now.

It started as any usual day for me. I was a junior in high school and woke up 30 minutes late, just like always... We lived in Witter (ten miles south of Huntsville) and so I was in a rush to get to dear ol' HHS by the eight o'clock bell. I hopped in the shower; lathered my hair in Apple Pectin shampoo and applied copious amounts of mousse in an attempt to get the David Coverdale look-- a hairstyle that completely eluded me all throughout the 80's, despite my unwavering devotion to AquaNet. I donned my Coca-Cola brand rugby shirt and cropped Guess jeans with ankle-zippers, grabbed a cherry Poptart, a can of Diet Coke, and a pair of thick "scrunch-socks" to run outside bare-footed and throw my books and shoes into the passenger seat of my '79 Monte Carlo. I hopped in, fired her up and punched the heat knob repeatedly in a desperate attempt to reach a respectable temp above freezing as I raced down highway 23-South. As I drove, I ate the poptart, put on my socks, Velcro'd on a gleaming-white new pair of Reebok high-tops, and applied pink L'Oreal lipstick and electric-blue mascara in the visor mirror--- all to the pounding bass of Def Leppard's Hysteria cassette. Finishing the make-up, I grabbed the can of AquaNet from under the front seat and gave the hair one last spray. By the time I got this close to school, my lacquered-into-place-side-wings had already fallen... *sigh*

I parked illegally, not wishing to risk another "tardy" mark in first period English, and rushed to my locker to grab my lit book and folder and engage in some quick chit-chat with friends. I shuffled to class, took my seat and proceeded to hone my own literary skills by writing notes to my girlfriends: "Brad Moppin is sooo fine. We went to see Mannequin Friday night at the Fiesta Square 6, ate at Pizza Hut and he held my hand the whooooole night. I hope he asks me to prom!!! JM + BM = TLA... blah-blah-blah. Oh, what did you do over the weekend?" Repeat six times (at least one 4-pg note for each class in the school day). Each of my girlfriends got roughly the same note, the only variable being the pictures I drew, making fun of a different social outcast from each class. In between, I laughed to loud and too much... was dared (and accepted) to jump in a trashcan in the middle of the courtyard on break... botched the apron I was sewing in Home Ec... and tried to avoid the Stoner Sisters--- who I was certain wanted to kick my butt, because I had mocked them in caricature when penning notes to my friends.

Before you knew it, it was 3:20.... time to head to the Dari-Hilite for cheese fries and more Def Leppard on the juke box. By the time I hung out there a couple hours, made a few loops down the one-way, turned around at the old hospital and waved to the guys at the DX station, it was time to go home--- I was late for dinner. Again. And would probably get grounded. Again. There would be a few stern words followed by a few tears, nothing too major. Then I would retire to the den with my folks and spend the rest of the evening watching McGuyver (via the gigantic satellite dish in the backyard). I would be "doing my Spanish homework" (read: writing notes about the incredible Brad Moppin) while spending QT with the parental unit. Shirley would be on the phone, talking to her sister and cleaning up the dinner dishes... my dad would be sitting on the hearth, blowing his cigarette smoke up the fireplace insert. And this domestic bliss would continue until 10:00 or so, until it was time to pick out my Coca-Cola shirt and acid-washed jeans for the next day...

Looking back, I guess my routine hasn't changed all that much. I don't spend as much time thinking about my hair... or thinking about Brad Moppin (who now has 8 children, incidentally). But I still write notes-- lots and lots of notes, just not on ruled paper ripped from a spiral notebook and folded intricately into Origami-like shapes. Nope. These days I type out my notes. On a flat-screen HP. And now it's called blogging.