This post is about the Gills. Yeah Johnny, my old ass is new jack swingin over here, brushing up my 90′s dance move knowledge and loading up my crates, preparing to DJ with Kool Kear and PQ at Hot Jamz, Brooklyn’s illest 90′s dance party, this Saturday at Southpaw (125 5th Ave,) at 10pm.

But like I said, this post is about Gills. But not the ones that sharks and fish breathe through. Do you remember them? On the back of your neck? Back in the day round here, when you said something stupid, wrong, or reprehensible, someone would immediately proclaim “GIMME MINES!” and you’d catch a quick, slap-grab-rub on the back of your neck. That is not what Johnny Gill is singing about. Didn’t happen in your region? Don’t believe me? Urbandictionary.com knows what’s up:

Sometimes, people would also call “Open Neck” or “Open Neck Season” and it was just a free for all. Your best bet was to retract your neck like you were a turtle, and get the hell out of there, lest you end up with an actual factual red neck. That act seems to have survived the ages. It never gets old.

Reminiscing over you, my god,
Susan Z. Anthony