What's Hot with the Kids These Days II

I know you all count on me to bring you the latest trends in teenybopper-land, so I wanted to share with you a recent discovery of mine. (The fact that it is a recent to me does not mean it is recent, of course. I usually pick up on things anywhere between 6-12 months after thirteen-year-olds pick up on them. That said, I pick up on them about a year before regular adults would, so this is still a valid service I'm providing.)

Here is what I've discovered: Miranda Sings.

That's her in the red sweatpants. You may notice she has her arm around THEE Jerry Seinfeld. Jerry Seinfeld is with-it.

I first learned of Miranda Sings on Halloween when one of my students dressed up as her (the basic look is bobby pins, sweat pants, and a lot of red lipstick). Then last week someone turned in a video assignment doing an impression of Miranda Sings, and everyone went crazy for it. So I investigated.

Miranda Sings is a character created by an actress named Colleen Ballinger. She started making YoutTube videos as "Miranda" where she sings pop songs poorly. People started following her, and now she makes tons of videos as Miranda doing all sorts of things, like this one: http://youtu.be/zTnXw0F_iYY.

I am drawn to Miranda for reasons I cannot explain, but what put me over the edge was her recent appearance on Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee hosted by comedy icon Jerry Seinfeld. Why would Seinfeld have her on, when other guests have included Larry David, Kevin Hart, and Sarah Silverman? Surely Miranda is not yet up to that level? Do you think he was just looking to cash in to the younger audience? (Most "MirFANda's are middle-schoolers). Or is he really a fan? Tell me!!!!

Also, why doesn't Jerry Seinfeld read this blog and ask me to be his friend?

So there you have it. Miranda Sings is a THING. It's a thing you should know about. And that's why I'm here. 

What the kids are into

I'm sure you're already all over this, but this is what all the kids are singing/talking about these days. It's a big deal for middle-schoolers.

I don't want you to feel left out.

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Midwesterners: They're Just Like Us!

The other day my husband and I were watching a show in which the main character encountered someone from the Midwest. Here is a pop quiz.

The Midwestern character was:

   A) sarcastic and tough
   B) gorgeous and aloof
   C) pudgy and dimwitted

The answer is C. How do I know? Because it's always C. Whenever there is a character from "the Midwest" on TV or in the movies, they are pudgy and dimwitted.

(Option A is from New York City, and Option B is from Sweden.)

Here is the problem: I'm from the Midwest and I am sick of being misrepresented by people who have no idea what they're talking about. If these writers visited Minneapolis, or Madison, or Ann Arbor, or Omaha, or any Midwestern city, they would probably realize that the Midwest is just like the rest of America, only with fewer shark attacks.

I mean I get it. There are more farms here than in cities with their own "Real Housewives" franchises. But does everyone in the Midwest live on a farm? No. And besides, farmers aren't pudgy and dimwitted. Farmers could kick your ass.

And what is with the term Midwest? Logically, that would mean the middle of the West, like, Wyoming. But it doesn't. The real Midwest is actually just the top-middle of the country. It makes no sense.

No one knows for certain why it's called the Midwest, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that people from coastal states are terrible with US geography. Zing. (No, but seriously, if you are from one of the coasts, can you name each state in the above picture?)

Moving on. To illustrate the many untrue and unflattering stereotypes of the Midwest and its inhabitants, I have an anecdote. True story:

A few years ago I was in NYC visiting friends. We went and got cheap tickets to the musical "Rock of Ages" which, at the time, was starring Constantine Maroulis from American Idol. It was kind of dumb, but entertaining. I liked it.

Later that night we were back at my friend's apartment in Brooklyn, having a drink in his back patio when his landlord/neighbor came down to visit. He asked about our evening and I told him about the play, making an offhand comment about Constantine's performance.

Immediately this guy went off about how disappointing it is to see Broadway whoring itself out by putting reality TV show contestants in productions just to bring in a "Midwestern audience."

Translation: the only thing that would bring simple-minded Midwesterners to see a Broadway show would be the presence of familiar reality TV stars.

Perhaps I'm overreacting, but I definitely wanted to punch that guy in the face. I wanted to tell him that I don't even watch American Idol (except that one season with they guy with grey hair), but there was no point. Plus I was kind of tired.

And by the way, I'm sure noooo one in cool, classy Brooklyn watches American Idol. No siree. Not there. They are too busy visiting museums and drinking fine wine.

Barf.

My mission today is to set the record straight on the Midwest. We are a normal cross-section of Americans who are no more, nor less, stupid than the rest of the country. We have the internet. We have people of different races, socioeconomic backgrounds, religions and cultures. There is crime here. People do drugs. We have museums, and theater, and Greek yogurt. We know what sex is.

And the pizza is good, too.

Seacrest out.

What's Your Sign?

In this day and age, mass communication is literally at the tips of our fingers. If I want to invite sixty people to my house tonight, I can do it in a matter of minutes (I'm not doing that -- don't come over). If I want to tell the world I love brownies, I can just tweet it. Then, in an instant, all three people who follow me on Twitter will know I love brownies.

It's amazing.

And yet, even with this technology being so accessible, when we really want to make a statement and share it with the world -- I mean really get it out there -- we go old-school. Like, old-old school. We get out the magic markers and make big signs.

Going out in public and physically standing next to your message is a lot more powerful than posting it next to your picture on Facebook. There are no privacy-control settings on a poster board -- anyone can see it.

This is why I am often so surprised by the ignorant things people write on signs.

According to signs, God hates so many things. Lately, he seems to hate gay people and gay marriage in particular. I wonder, where are these sign-makers getting their information? Whenever I ask God what he hates, he says genocide. And pistachios.

Of course there are other, less hateful reasons to make a good sign. For example you might be supporting someone during a marathon, or panhandling.

I once made some pretty amazing marathon signs . . . but that is a topic for another entry. We don't have all day, guys. You need to get back to work.

Instead, here are some tips for sign-making. Refer to this entry the next time you are attending a political rally, or running for student-council president:

1. First, you need to go to Walgreens and buy the poster board. I don't know why, but Walgreens always has poster board. If you're really serious, you might want to pony up the extra dough for foam core. It will hold up better if people throw stuff at it.

Did you think you could just tape some regular pieces of printer paper together? Are you an idiot?

2. Once you have the canvas, you'll need the paint. This might mean literal paint, or a chisel-tip sharpie, or large words from the printer cut and pasted. No matter what, your objective is clarity. If they can't read it, they can't heed it! Am I right?

3. Important: spell-check! I can't tell you how many hardcore sign-holders have blown their cause by lack of proofreading. I mean honestly. If you hate gay marriage enough to make a sign about it, maybe look up how to spell marriage.

4. Finally, once your sign is complete, you need to get out there and hold the crap out of it. Some people like to wear their sign, which can be easier on the arms and shoulders, but can also look lazy; use your best judgement.

Note: If you've been hired to draw in more customers for Little Caesars, then you're going to have to do some spinning and dancing. That's advanced-level stuff.

A lot of people don't care about anything enough to go out in public and hold up a sign about it, for example me. So to the people standing on street corners asking me to honk for peace, I respect you. But to the people religiously condemning others for their life choices, you should know that the only thing God hates is genocide, pistachios, and probably your sign.

Though I couldn't say for sure.

Scuffgate

I mentioned my high school trip to Spain yesterday and it brought back some memories. I realized there is a story from that trip that is perfect for the tone of this blog; meaning it's embarrassing and about me.

My high school organized a trip for students taking Spanish to go to España as a way to learn first-hand all about the culture. For the first half we stayed with host families, and for the second half we traveled around and stayed in hotels. It was awesome.

My friend Mary and I were assigned to the same host family. While we were staying there, we embraced the experience by hiding in our bedroom and speaking in English to each other. Sometimes, we would go to the homes of our friends' host families and hide in their bedrooms and speak in English to them. It was muy bueno.

One afternoon, Mary and I were hanging out at our friends' host family's home, having a great time. We were sharing stories about various uncomfortable interactions and communication gaps we'd been experiencing, when someone said something so funny that I fell off the bed laughing.

Prior to falling off, I had been lying on the bed with my shoes up on the wall. [Because that's polite.] So when I rolled off the bed and onto the floor, the black sole of my running shoe left a long, black, scuff mark down their clean, white, Spanish wall.

It was a problem.

We knew the mark was bad, and we went to work trying to get it off. I don't remember what methods we tried specifically, but I am sure they were stupid. Nothing was working, so someone tried to gently scratch it off with the hard side of a toothbrush. (Because when you scuff someone's wall, what you want to do is damage it further, to show them you MEAN IT.)

Eventually, we attempted a lame cover up with some awkwardly-placed pillows and got out of there. We were leaving soon, so maybe they wouldn't notice . . . ?

Well they noticed. And they were mad. Consequently my friends were mad at me because their host-parents were yelling at them in Spanish while I was back at my host family's eating delicious paella.

A couple of days later, we were on the bus getting ready to leave the city of Salamanca and our beleaguered host families when my friends came to tell me that their host mother wanted to see me. They said she wanted to tell me that it was okay, and not to feel too badly about the scuff mark. She wanted to make peace.

I got off the bus and went to find the woman. She flagged me down, and said hello. I said "Hola" and then, to be extra charming, I added: "Lo siento mucho." 

What happened next is a little blurry, but I can tell you she screamed at me in Spanish for a while. I didn't catch most of it, because it was more complicated than what we'd been learning in school. (Why wasn't "You are a spoiled American brat and your parents should be ashamed" on our useful phrases sheet?)

Once they noticed what was happening, one of my teachers stepped in and ushered me back onto the bus. There, in typical annoying-teenage fashion, I was met with hoots and hollers and general peer approval. It was great. I went around the rest of the trip, intentionally scuffing famous historical landmarks and various Platha Mayors. I told you this story was embarrassing.

When I got back to the US and told my own mother the story, she informed me that we could have just rubbed off the scuff mark with our fingers.

Now I know for next time. And now you know for when this exact same thing happens to you.