1990: I start using hair gel, still trying to perfect my irritatingly soft curls, an impossible task in the year-round humidity of South Florida. I favor a brand called Stiff Stuff. My resulting hair crunches like dry leaves.
Not to get all cane-shaking about it, but what do the disaffected youth watch today, without a young Christian Slater to be the smirking antihero who shows them how to defy authority and destroy everything?
"Titanic" is as much about 1997 as 1912 as a touchstone of the hubris and optimism of an age; forgive me for saying so, but I believe it is much more difficult to make an earnest, naïve love story like this today.
In this semi-regular series, we’ll talk about our favorite books related to somewhat specific topics and themes. It’s like a cross between the New York Review of Books and a book club, minus any pretense or guilt.