Recently there’s been a spate of old codgers crawling out of the woodwork of kottu, to nag about “teenyboppers”. Teenyboppers are a strange phenomenon. They’re the little humans who’ve just gone through a decade of wishing with all their fist clenched might to grow up faster, and are now on the cusp of actually going through with it. They are yet to figure out that once you do cross that line, all you ever want to do is stop growing older.
Generally, the term is applied to the more obnoxious bunch from that age group. The ones who write about rebellion on their iPads. I’m sorry, but you can’t moan about how much your life sucks if your biggest problem is that there aren’t any starbucks outlets here.
Every generation has teenagers. We all were teenagers. We all did things all the older people looked at and gossiped about. If they had blogs back then, they’d make mediocre blog-posts about it too. Complaining about it is the same as your parents complaining about you doing something they didn’t like. Playing the music too loud, going out with someone, skipping class. Whatever.
Being all high and mighty about it is just as pretentious as those kids who wear Che t-shirts they bought at Odel. “We were such good kids, with such good taste in music.” Bull-n’syncing-shit. None of us can claim to have been the picture of obedience, sitting at home like a nice little sacrificial virgin listening to our Cliff Richard cassettes.
We listened to obnoxious music. Every generation has music the next thinks is obnoxious; and if you think your taste in music was “better” than everyone else’s back then, well congratulations bub, you were one of these “rebellious teenyboppers” you claim to detest. You were just mediocre enough to want to differentiate yourself by listening to crappy progressive metal. What all you closet conservative grandmas can’t seem to understand is that this happens to every generation. You’re just playing your part by being the set of grownups who always nag the kids about things from what they’re wearing to how they make cereal.
Let them go to jazz sunday, let em wear hair that looks like dead cats. Heck, doesn’t it make sense to keep them all at jazz while we go do stuff that’s not eyeball gouging-ly boring without all these damn preteens around, messing up our mojo?
P.S – And yes, I’m allowed to act all grown-up now that I just turned 22 last Friday.