Watching a certain 80s drama, with it’s men-brooches and moussed hair, has got me thinking back to my 80s drama, with its men-brooches and moussed hair.

Living back in the town where all my (early-mid) 80s drama happened is always a reminder: driving down 50 in Rosslyn—that’s where Jason lived; walking Connecticut Ave on a blustery fall Sunday—that’s where me and Michael would duck into Timberlake’s to drink and watch the Redskins.

It’s odd familiarity.

This show didn’t let go off its babyboomer roots so there’s no 80s beats playing in the background, its always gotta be some cheesy Procol Harem or some shit playing. I’m throwing some Scritti Politti into my background.

And it’s more than the fashions that are throwing me back too. It distinctly reminds me of driving these (now familiar) streets of DC, going to places I’d never been, so that Jason can pick up shit from his old boyfriend’s apartment. It reminds me of dinners and cigarettes with Michael before we laughed ourselves down the street, knowing onlookers were jealous.

Now these streets are so familiar that sometimes I don’t recognize them anymore. That’s not true—they’ve become all to familiar. Which is a good thing; there are new memories now, built upon the foundations of the old. Sometimes I will point these memories out to friends but most of the times I won’t. At times I want to keep them to my own 80s self.