Summer, This Is Why It’s Not

Well readers, it’s that time again: the second half of the spring semester. Essentially a slow speed crawl towards a summer of resume-padding redundancy, the post-spring break weeks are usually filled with class skipping and frequent teases that hint the end is near. Ironically, things in the substance-lacking pop culture world are also grinding to an atypical halt as gossip mongers nationwide hold their breath for the most irrelevant paternity test of all time (Was there really any doubt that Larry is the father?)
As a result of all the inactivity, the portion of my brain usually dedicated to analyzing the shallow antics of the famed and fortunate now found itself bathed in an uncharacteristic idleness. Even the sure-fire thrill tornado of 24 was becoming a repetitive montage of nighttime pursuits and high school squabbles. Finally, I actually set aside time to watch Redeye, a film that had always enticed me with its appealing stars but simultaneously managed to repel me with its poorly edited trailer. Sadly enough, the planeside antics of McAdams and Murphy still far out-thrilled the nonstop torture parade of Jack Bauer. What was the world coming to?
Sure there were still the dependable entertainment news bites chronicling Britney’s on-again-off-again flirtations with rehab, Lindsay Lohan’s slow transformation into her own mother’s hypothetical older sister, or Nicole Richie’s death diet. But it seemed that Nicole wasn’t the only one skimping out on quality nourishment. Come on, Hollywood? Is there really going to be a month-long dry spell while I do a physical calendar countdown to summer blockbuster season and the inevitable mountain of bikini nip-slips sure to accrue from a rise in temperatures?
Questions motivated by an overwhelming sense of incredulity kept surfacing. How the heck does E-40 manage to rhyme “door” with “go?” When you fill your Facebook profile with the names of obscure bands, are you subconsciously submitting an application for a Medal of Authenticity from the King of Indie Cool? Do you really think that tights can double as pants or that a wide belt can magically morph into a tube top or that accessorizing your mop of unruly shaggy hair with skinny jeans will exclude you from the social category of the “hygiene challenged?”
Was that retarded “This Is Why I’m Hot” song from the self-lauding MIMS really the number one song in the country for two weeks straight? For me, its chorus with its impeccable logic of, “I’m hot ’cause I’m fly/ You ain’t ’cause you not,” had always seemed to be the perfect answer to a challenge of, “Can you write a song using only monosyllabic words?” Luckily, MIMS has the answer and I’m not sure if he actually means to be ironic when he declares: “I don’t gotta rap/ I can sell a mill saying nothing on the track.”
Even the upbeat darling of my current iPod playlist can’t escape the jaws of lyrical homicide and it brings a stricken expression to my face every time I must endure the odd lines of “She’s got a smile that would make the most senile/ Annoying old man bite his tongue” when I listen to “Cupid’s Chokehold.” In the long run, however, it’s still a far cry from 50 Cent’s classic simile of “I love you like a fat kid loves cake” or Gwen Stefani’s emphatic advice of “Take a chance you stupid ho!”
Though I must admit, music is far from being the only offender. The deadly drought of creativity has been responsible for other monstrosities such as Norbit or the recent follow up to Ice Cube’s Are We There Yet? aptly titled, Are We Done Yet? or even the career of people like Celebrity Big Brother winner Chantelle Houghton, whose claim to fame lies in her striking resemblance to Paris Hilton. Perhaps it is a debilitating case of senioritis or perhaps it is merely my pathetic dependency on all things trashy, but if the wonderful world of entertainment doesn’t get it together soon, I might have to start developing an actual personality. After all, I have watched nearly everything that the CW has to offer in this most desperate of times.