Specifically, I was still listening to Top 40 while Maggie and Jake were rocking out to Sinead O'Connor and The Pixies. I lived in a boring neighborhood in the Bronx and couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. They lived in Hollywood, and Maggie captivated her perpetual audience by singing "California Dreaming" and Paul Simon's "The Boxer" with a certain inimitable and alluring "je ne sais quoi."
Their clothes were dope (obvi). And they were always one step ahead of everyone on the make-out circuit, it seemed. I thought I was keeping up, since I let a random 13 year-old boy wearing rolled-up sweatpants and reeking of Drakar Noir touch my left boob over the shirt. Whatever. Lame!
Tonight, the internet informs me that one or both of the Gyllenhaal siblings has won some sort of prestigious award? On this same night, under the same moon, I am scrubbing streak marks out of my kids' underwear and eating a peanut butter brownie the size of the King James bible for dinner while hiding in the bathroom.
So all I can say is, the more things change, the more they stay the same.