I don’t know exactly what this says about me, but it’s true. I’m waxing nostalgic one month before my thirtieth birthday. Don’t get me wrong. I have no desire to return to the 80s, my decade of adolescence. Growing up gay in a small southern Delaware town was much too painful to want to relive. Then again, if I could grow up again knowing what I know now, I might give it a shot. Maybe I’d perform in drag at pep rallies and at the homecoming football game halftime to the mad applause of the Woodbridge crowd. Besides, wearing pumps with jeans is back in style.

My nostalgia started about a month ago. Being unemployed and all, I spend a lot of time "Goodwill hunting" for fabulous, cheap drag clothes. With plans of a new car out of the picture, at least for now, I began to pick up vintage music tapes (remember those?) for one dollar each to play in my CD player-less car. My 80s and 90s tape collection is really growing! So far, I have Bette Midler, Richard Marx, Tracy Chapman, Extreme, Arrested Development, Nelson, Annie Lennox, Bon Jovi, and old school Mary J. Blige. I even have Wilson Phillips from before Carnie had her stomach stapled, Whitney Houston from before she got whack on crack, and Cher from when she still rocked, shunning synthesizers for real guitars. In the 80s, you could still light up a Marlboro Red near Cher’s face without melting it.

You won’t believe me when I tell you whose tapes I have more of than anyone else. GUNS ‘N’ ROSES!!! In ninth grade, I had the hots for Axel Rose like you wouldn’t believe. His overwhelming stage presence, his multi-octave smoker’s singing voice, and his spandex biker shorts got my pubescent panties wet more times than I care to count. Seriously, Guns ‘N’ Roses wrote some incredible songs before their break-up after the release of the double album Use Your Illusion, and before Axel got his face fixed like Cher. I must be the only drag queen in the world who knows all the words to "You Could Be Mine," "Welcome to the Jungle," "Patience," "Civil War," "Paradise City," "Don’t Cry," and "November Rain." I’d probably still do Axel if I weren’t romantically attached. Does that make me an honorary gay groupie of a defunct, washed-up 80s rock band? Add Brett Michaels, Richie Sambora, and Sebastian Bach to that list. I’m guilty as charged!

The second step I took down the road to rank reminiscence came when my boyfriend and I attended a recent Cyndi Lauper concert, in celebration of our first anniversary. I was never a huge Cyndi fan during high school and college. Madonna was my diva mainstay. At one point in college, I counted 29 images of Ms. Ciccone decorating my dorm room. In recent years, though, I’ve come to realize that the Girl Who Just Wants to Have Fun boasts more raw talent in her little toenail than the Material Girl has in her big buff body. When you’re a true diva, you don’t make an effort to reinvent yourself. It comes naturally.

Cyndi’s musical maturity has progressed over the years in leaps and bounds, while Madonna drowns her voice in crushing keyboards and her acting career in trite roles. Madonna has become a ridiculous caricature of herself, while Cyndi has become a solid crooner, a fine songwriter, and a master of many instruments. At the concert, I was entranced by Cyndi’s pitch-perfect, haunting voice. Her theme song reminded me of how, as a child, I often felt more like a girl who wanted to have fun than a boy who wanted to have a baseball. "She-Bop" jilted me back to when I first discovered my lust for other men. "Time After Time" and "True Colors" raked up tender feelings about old lovers and friends. It’s amazing how music calls up old emotions like soldiers of the soul, fighting an endless battle against numbness and ambivalence.

When I recently rediscovered my adolescent addiction to video games, I almost completely regressed to childhood. For my mother’s upcoming birthday, I bought her one of those new Namco "Atari’s in a joystick" that are spreading like wildfire in nostalgic households across America. My high-strung mother always adored Ms. Pac Man, even if chasing down those annoying ghosts did cause obscenities to flow from her mouth like a drunken sailor. Anyway, when I called my brother to brag about the great birthday gift, he informed me that he bought her one a month ago. I had a tough choice: I could go to the trouble of returning the video game, or greedily keep it for myself. My boyfriend’s back at college and now I pass many lonely nights with those damned Ms. Pac Man ghosts.

Ms. Pac Man reminds me of happy memories of my mother and me, laughing and losing it when we lost the game. Music from my younger days reminds me of friends, good times, and lost loves. Recalling your past, you run the risk of raking up the pain along with the happiness. For that reason, too many people snub a sentimental walk down memory lane. Still, more often than not, when I wax nostalgic, I’m reminded of the great blessings of love and joy in my life, and a smile spreads across my face. I guess you can’t ask for more than that in this crazy life.