The Teenybopper Takeover
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This summer, I opted for one last summer break free from hardcore internships and academia. This summer, I gave one big silent middle finger to The System and chose camp counselor-dom. Yes, I spent eight wonderful weeks wearing white polos and khakis all for the sake of being a glorified babysitter. You learn a lot by hanging out with seven to 11 year old girls for two months. Firstly, who knew that my beloved Hanson had been replaced by the Jonas Brothers? Who knew that Crocs, the worst thing anyone ever did with plastic, are “in,” especially when they have widgets in them? Not widgets! Jibbitz. Gosh.
What I want to know is, what the hell is the difference between Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus? Is it the same person? If so, does having two names mean two times the income? What could possibly make the Jonas Brothers so gloriously hot that an 11-year-old cried when my co-counselor called them “emo?” What I really want to know is, why did I get blank stares when I put on the Spice Girls and started dancing some very fine choreography to “Spice Up Your Life?”
Step aside 20-something-year-olds! The horrible bands that we adored as youngsters are all old farts now; it’s time for the new generation of horrendous pop music to grace society. In another decade, when the youngest of the Jonas Brothers could have potentially (gasp!) graduated from college, it’ll be someone else. They’ll be old geezers and we’ll be…starting families. And that will make us the equivalent of decaying mummies.
It is abundantly clear that the little ones are staking their claim in pop culture; teenybopper artists are specifically targeting the “tweens” of America. But what happens when that initial love for bubble gum pop transforms into their general belief that all music is age appropriate? In truth, there are even songs that make me blush; ahemm, excuse me Soulja Boy, please “Crank That” somewhere else, you stole my ear virginity when I learned the true meaning of superman-ing a ho.
Still, Soulja Boy may be the least of our problems. At least the lyrics are cryptic enough to conceal their actual definitions. While inevitably there will be a seven-year-old girl singing “Watch me YOUUUUUUU!!” somewhere in a wealthy suburb while she jumps rope, at least the chances of passersby knowing how to superman a ho are about the same as a freshman discovering the library before prelims (I hope I didn’t just out Uris and Olin).
What really inspired this rant about the generally ridiculous influence of popular music on elementary school kids is Katy Perry. First of all, when did famous people’s names start getting so lame? Even P. Shitty, I mean Diddy… I mean Fluffy…I mean Puffy had a good run with new-name ceremonies and what have you. I’ve always wondered what his driver’s license looks like; if the man has enough power to convince people to purchase plain t-shirts that say “NO BITCHASSNESS,” surely he worked something out with the government to have his alias flavor-of-the-week on official documents. All I’m saying is, Katy Perry should take a lesson from Portia de Rossi. Now that is a sweet name. Could be a luxury vehicle, could be a French dessert, I’m not really sure. Either way, I want one.
Beyond anything else, the real beef I have with Katy Perry is that she’s making a buttload of money from a completely inane song, which informs us that she kissed a girl, and she liked it. Don’t you wish you had the brilliant idea to turn a drunk lesbian make-out into a check that makes you laugh all the way to the bank? It’s like those paintings at MoMA that consist of a single square circle on a white canvas, or the ones that were clearly created by someone who overdosed on caffeine and then threw buckets of paint at a wall. [Editor’s Note: I love Mondrian and Pollock, their art is genius.] We all probably drew the exact same thing when we were in pre-school, but no one ever picked it up and complimented our five-year-old genius. Katy Perry took an every-weekend college phenomenon and turned it into some prolific Benjamins.
The day I came into camp and there were nine-year-olds singing “I kissed a girl and I liked it!” my preexisting dislike for the song transformed into a festering loathing. The last thing I needed was one of them to go home and sing that song to mommy. I could hear the conversation now:
“Where did you hear that?! Don’t sing that nonsense!”
“But mooooom, my counselor let me sing it!”
That would be fabulous for my counselor career.
It is unclear exactly what the long lasting effects of Perry’s lyrics will be on American younglings. Perhaps the lyrics will fade entirely or perhaps they are all now just a little more numb to the general belief that drunk lesbian hook-ups aren’t the most moral of activities. All I know is, the only one I ever want to hear say “go on and kiss the girl” is Sebastian the Crab. Ultimately, pop culture has catapulted the younger generation way ahead of where we were at their age. I didn’t know what it meant to superman a ho until I was 20 and a ten-year-old told me that if I spelled “IHOP” and then said “ness,” it would be funny.