1995-Land
ESPN is once again awesome and apolitical as shouts of ‘Boo-Yah’ and ‘NOONAN’ echo from the southeast corner of the park.
1995-Land is a fairground frozen in era, its acreage beholden to the end of history. A place where the world as it was remains within these confines and defies the progression of time.
Sam Goody slings CDs as the line wraps around Blockbuster. Seinfeld promotes the middle-aged singles life on boxy televisions posted throughout. Another SD set shows Clinton preening prior to his public fellatio as the OJ Verdict loops on the screen beside him.
Jolt Cola and Surge are sold at every refrigerated cart prowling this retroactive expanse. Drinks are cheaper here, like gas in 1995, as the final wails of grunge shed their angst from Peavey speakers.
Jordan is back and the park staff fashion is cheerfully cheesy, reflecting a fun decade that was far from perfect. Maroons paired with hunter green, like a downshifted Christmas theme, except worn year-round and forever after.
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“The Olympics are Coming to Atlanta” one sign advocates, sponsored by Coca-Cola. “The MLB is Back” states another, with inherent desperation.
There are no smartphones and no towers tethered to them. The Internet here is clunky just like any other baby. The world spins in the same direction, but things are seen differently. “In 25 years, we’ll all be living on Mars” is not a bold claim. Crows are counting and cawing “Mr. Jones and Me.”
Freeze-dried Astronaut Ice Cream is sold at five dollars an ounce, and no one complains. Everyone here seems to have money, in the best economy of the 20th century. Enough for everyone to buy all the Dunkaroos they want.
Joe DiMaggio is still alive, signing autographs within earshot of Keith Olbermann and Craig Kilborn. In the Cinema 6 across the way, Ice Cube smokes down on a Friday as Tom Hanks revisits the Moon and Robert DeNiro wears 45 different suits to a casino.
In the live theater, Chris Farley is at the height of his SNL fame, reprising his role as the explosive Matt Foley: Motivational Speaker.
The messages of 2Pac and Biggie are spun to rhythm, rapping about California Love and Welch’s Grape. Their beats rock the windows of a computer café, where Windows 95 dominates. Bill Gates is young again and still a terrible dancer, perhaps grooving to the imminent demise of Netscape Navigator.
In other cafés, stacks of Pogs are slashed by slammers while Magic the Gathering is played between friends and surrounded by the nascence of Goth. One of these cafes is a burgeoning Seattle coffee company, fomenting the future of Type 2 diabetes through Frappuccino.
You leave this café, stop and spin around. The world here is just how we left it, except it never rains. There’s no need to open the hood on your Starter jacket. The mementos are true to nostalgia and forever captured beneath the sun, immune to the erosion of time.
