Sometimes I wish I could go back in time. Not in a sappy way like this new movie, The Time Traveller’s Wife, but in a cool way like Back to the Future (even if you hate to watch it when it airs on TBS). I’d hop into my flying machine or DeLorean (whatever) and decide to have the time of my life in the 80s, hang out in soda fountains in the 50s, or go naked on lawns in the 60s. Time travel will no doubt jade me about the future because of recession, obsession and lack of pension. So where would I choose to stay? Surely, there’s good and bad in every decade. I mean, the 50s, while a “simpler time” was also wrought with gangs, Mother’s little helper / underground drug use, and violent car crashes thanks to a little game called “chicken”. The 60s were no better with its race riots, assassinations, and political turmoil. The 70s were jam-packed with Serpico-like unrest, bad fashion and disco dives. I guess I’d just stick with the 80s partly because I lived through it and partly because I had a wonderful time. It was time where Worry—that evil creep that came around with the invention of credit cards and Bernie Madoff—didn’t reside. Things were less about war and more about neon. It was a time when Michael Jackson reigned as King of Pop, Pop Rocks ruled, and you didn’t look like a weirdo if you decided to wear Raspberry berets, spandex, mile long scrunched-up tube socks, tutus, leotards or nautical outfits in the middle of Times Square . Anything went as far as fashion. Yes, even shoulder-pads.