I REACHED ADOLESCENCE in the mid ’90s, when all there was to do was ride our bikes to Blockbuster, rent videos and eat pizza. At birthday parties we summoned the dead with homemade ouija boards and played Murder in the Dark. It was a time for backyard bonfires and going to the movies with a boy you liked and sitting in coffee shops pretending you were Ross or Rachel or Phoebe or Joey. The internet was a baby – a magical thing you used on the family computer, waiting through trills and pings for a connection, only to send a one-line email to your friend Kate who wouldn’t be able to reply because her brother was playing Minesweeper or her sister was on the telephone. It was innocent and wholesome and slow and fibrous, and still our parents found things to panic about. 

Our childhood was disappearing at an alarming rate due to the satanic music of Marilyn Manson. When we weren’t at risk of abduction, we were watching too much television, rotting our brains. Ecstasy and speed were killing us. Mortal Kombat. South Park. Rap, for Godssakes. My mother had a particular vendetta against low-cut jeans and Courtney Love, and a lingering suspicion of Kylie Minogue. I was never, ever allowed to watch The Simpsons. It was a wonderful time to be alive.