LookAtMeLookAtMeLookAtMe -- What Are YOU Looking At?

When raising children, particularly teens, there are plenty of debates over what substances are required to keep kids alive.

When I was just growing into my pimples, Sugar Pops was one of the basic food groups.

But parents have been wrong all along about what serves as the necessary kid fuel.

From watching television (which is still my favorite multi-media encyclopedia), I have learned that food isn't needed at all.  

You know what every teenager desires and demands, and is the most critical staple for their continued existence?

Attention.

Also known as "drama."

I know this because my youngest daughter watches endless amounts of MTV, which is the arbiter of all things young.

However, this shouldn't come as news to any parent, regardless of the era.

In the 1960's, teens let their hair grow long, figured out that being able to count to two on their fingers was a cool talent, and basically embraced anything that could be deemed "weird." 

In the 1970's, we traded in the beads and sandals for stacked platform shoes, perfectly coiffed hair, and white doubleknit leisure suits.

Then the 1980's arrived, with girls dressing up like prostitutes who weren't sartorially equipped to pass muster on skid row (thanks to obsessions with "virgins" like Madonna).

In the 1990's, guys lined up to get buzz haircuts with interesting messages and designs carved into the sides (thanks, Vanilla Ice).

Every generation has its own outrageous method of screaming "look at me!"  And because there are more people on the planet with every passing crop of offspring, the screams have to get more and more obnoxious to be heard above the din.  Idiots in the fashion world (which is redundant) refer to the social annoyance as "style."  Okay, if they say so.

The funniest part of all these extremes comes after a kid pierces every visible patch of skin on his or her body (and a whole bunch of pieces we don't get to see, and don't want to see), gets the oddest tattoos on places that were never intended to be inked, combs its hair with a garden rake, and then irons his or her clothes by throwing them in the middle of the street so they can be run over by garbage trucks and UPS semis; then, when they go out in public and a shocked elder (anyone over age 25) dares to look at them in wonderment, the sixteen-something fires back with "what are YOU looking at?"

Trust me, odd little human, we don't know either.

Unfortunately, these aberrations now have an international forum to give them credibility and an even bigger audience to answer the "Look at me!" call.

It's called "reality television."

MTV shows a variety of these half-hour train wrecks, including "Teen Mom," "16 and Pregnant," and "True Life."  The fact that "Music Television" now shows a steady diet of these inane 30-minute instruction manuals on what NOT to do with your life instead of music videos is an admission by MTV that there simply ISN'T any music left worth showing on television.

The sad part is that teens just don't get it.

They see these disasters from the shallowest end of the biped gene pool and embrace them as heroes instead of cautionary tales. 

Once upon a time, when asked what they wanted to be when they grow up, teens would respond with "president" or "fireman" or "doctor" or "astronaut."

Today all over America, there are 13 year olds going "when I grow up in two years, I want to be gay, pregnant, addicted to kratom, and in an abusive relationship while battling an eating disorder."  Or in other words, "I want to have my own reality TV show."

And who can blame them.  Reality TV stars make big bucks to go with their dysfunctional fame.  For example, cast members on one show that features nightly bacchanals of binge drinking, wanton sex with multiple, faceless partners, and high-drama ER-bound arguments in fractured English over who left the lid off the ketchup bottle, earn more than $100,000 per episode.

Maybe I'm just jealous.

If MTV offered me a chance to star in my own reality show featuring all of my weaknesses and peccadilloes, I'd jump on it.

I'm just not sure fans would tune in to watch a fat guy muting farts in a recliner while eating high-cholesterol foods in front of a TV set showing Family Guy reruns.

Now if I could become anorexic, develop an addiction to Restless Leg Syndrome medication ropinirole, and begin lusting and having impure sexual thoughts about dining room furniture, I suspect the producers from MTV, A&E, and Bravo would be lining up outside my hoarded door.

Sometimes, I just hate being normal.