How Boy Bands Directly Breed Dysfunctional Adult Women and Better Memory

Rania Ayyoub

Have you ever wondered how much of your brain’s storage capabilities are taken up by song lyrics? Today, while sitting in my cousin’s car, we listened to two entire Backstreet Boys albums. Every single word, every synth solo, every “baybehhhyaa” poured out of us from a reservoir within ourselves that we didn’t know existed; like riding a bike or finger memory. We instinctively swayed to the beat, singing blindly words we couldn’t recall until after they’d floated past our broad grins.
We were in the fifth grade again, in our segregated cafeteria, the tables split between those of us who adored the backstreet boys and the misguided souls who listened to Nsync. It was viscous. We all lost friends over this preteen, cult like obsession, exchanging glares behind our binders covered in gel pen graffiti, declaring our allegiance. These were our colors. It was a turf war and, goddamnit, we were here first. And every girl had a favorite. We could sip our juice boxes, washing down stale French fries, and argue over who was the cute one for eternity past the allotted 32 minutes for lunch. And really, in retrospect, I think which ever member of our beloved boy bands made you quiver in your training bra essentially spoke volumes about which kinds of dysfunctional relationships you would wind up having in the near future…. Allow me.
Brian. The sweet one. If you often dreamt about him sweeping you off your jellies, you’re first boyfriend was probably the… sensitive type. He played guitar, A-fuckin-coustic, and wore a shell necklace. He only ate dolphin safe tuna, he thought your smile was “like the rosy dawn gently kissing dew covered leaves on the first warm day of spring,” and after high school, he dumped you for Tibet but you consoled yourself by dwelling on the memory of your shock after the first time he crymaxed.
Nick Carter…If his high octaves made you swoon, I bet you went for the self-proclaimed “hard” suburbanite pretty boy. The one who just moved here from out of town because his parents got divorced and now he’s in your fourth period English class were he sits in the back, practicing his rough-hardened-exterior-face beneath a blonde bowl cut. He may look young, but you know he’s wise beyond his years, he’s told you so; never mind that his hands are softer than yours, his hair smells of Johnson’s and Johnson’s No Tears Shampoo and that he rides his Razor home after gym class for his early afternoon breast feeding.
Then there was good ol’ AJ McLean. He sulked. He had an earring. He wore his sunglasses indoors and we, at our tender young ages, couldn’t have known that it was probably so as to hide his dilated pupils and bloodshot scaleras but we did know he was doing something socially unacceptable. He was…dangerous. And this danger gave us a confusing feeling like butterflies in our stomachs (only lower) and we didn’t know why. I’ll admit, I’m guilty of the nurse curse. We love the rebel with the heart of gold. Give me a guy with an ‘07 Honda Accord, a job and relatively good credit and I’ll be snoring before the waiter brings him our bill. But give me a boy with a neck tattoo and what we call a “drinking problem” and it’ll be my pleasure to give him a ride to his arraignment. The jurors just don’t understand him the way I do. He doesn’t care what happened in my history, as long as I’m here with him… in like, five to ten. How romantic…
Kevin. The strong silent type. The unattainable artistic genius. Or at least you thought so until years later you came to understand that he was not, in fact, uber introspective but rather a “deaf mute.” Also, I’m pretty sure he was at least 42 years old by the release of their second album. I imagine he went on to join the priesthood. Well.. that’s all of them. The whole lot-- no? Oh yea. There was that other guy…
“Howie,” which I’m pretty sure is as boy-bandable as “Howard” can get. So, kudos, early 90’s image consultants, you did it! Lets face it though, no one was attracted to Howie. Just like us, what with being on the threshold of womanhood and all, Howie was short, awkward and had long greasy hair. I like to think he still has the ponytail. And also a vast collection of pornography. If you grew to have a relationship modeled after this backstreet boy, you were probably kidnapped and held in a cellar against your will until your skin grew pale and tongue atrophied from lack of human conversation.
So maybe I don’t have enough room in my brain to remember the periodic table and there wasn’t any space left for the preamble of United States Constitution but let me tell you something… I know the meaning of being lonely. I can melodically beg you to quit playing games with my heart (my heart). But perhaps, most disheartening, every time I fall into the snare that is a semi committed relationship with someone who should be committed, I can remember why. I can look back at this rag tag group of characters and recall how their poorly orchestrated harmonies and frosted man bangs’ affect on my life, or rather, my psychosis, was Larger Than Life.