Pac-Man fever had driven me crazy. I wondered aloud whether I had shot J.R. In the confusion, my skinny tie had come loose and my leg warmers were beginning to chafe. I was a maniac, a maniac on the floor, and I was dancing like I'd never danced before.

Then, somewhere between Cyndi Lauper and Ross Perot, the eighties ended. We remained born in the USA, but after NAFTA, we were manufactured elsewhere. A kinder, gentler Mr. T had compassion for the fool and not just pity. And the Teflon President gave way to a president who has likely purchased a lot of product from the latex industry.

The eighties, despite the label the "me decade," was a time of obvious evils like greed and Def Leppard albums. The nineties, on the other hand, has become a decade in which your mother might put you in the back seat of the Volvo and drive into a lake.

Trust no one, lock your door and for god's sake, keep your hand on your wallet. Frankly, I'm a little scared, and I'd like to go back to a time when the bad guys lived in Russia and our jones for entertainment resulted in watching a lot of 'Family Ties' and Michael Jackson videos.

Oh, we still want our MTV, but A-Ha, Huey Lewis, Phil Collins and the rest of the eighties music staples have given way to Puff Daddy, 'The Real World' and Jenny McCarthy's ample bosom. Whereas we used to get Footloose, take up residence in the material world, and at worst, leak bodily fluids on Eileen, now we want to [expletive that rhymes with muck] you like an animal.

The eighties entertainment world even had nicer invaders - lovable aliens who came to earth mostly to hide from the neighbors and shill for Reeses' Pieces. Sure, E.T. got drunk once, Mork spent a lot of his time seducing Mindy and Alf ate cats. But those transgressions seem minor when measured against the Independence Day creatures who killed millions of people, destroyed the White House and let the Fresh Prince escape unscathed.

But the greatest legacy of the eighties comes from the enduring power of its celebrities. Instead of gracefully fading off into limbo-land (say hello to Anson Williams for me), eighties stars cling to fame like Rush Limbaugh to the last Twinkie.

Whereas older stars had 'The Love Boat,' eighties stars have tabloids. No sitcom or movie deal? Rob a convenience store, pose in Playboy, or be found muttering incoherently on the street somewhere. None of these things bring too much money, but they can at least keep you famous.

Fame for eighties stars has become somewhat like being a member of modern-day British nobility. In today's England, a title no longer means the ability to rule over a herd of peasants. Instead, nobility confers a bit of upper crust on people who may lack the cash to pay for the pepperoni and cheese filling. Sure, they've got something on us, but is it something we really want?

But, while the British nobles face an indifferent, if not hostile, public, eighties celebrities have been swept up by a wave of nostalgia. Maybe the decade will come back - and not just in late-night infomercials hosted by Nina Blackwood, or UPN sweeps specials. Until then, I'm waiting with a New Coke in my hand, a Yugo in my driveway and my Members Only jacket zipped up tight. After all, those cold wars can get awfully chilly.