How you know you are getting old

So I was watching Extra and/or Access Hollywood and/or E! Online and/or TMZ and/or… you get the point: I like trashy celebrity news shows. Anyhoo, I was watching one of these respectable bastions of celebrity knowledge and found out that Justin Bieber had suffered a concussion. The video showed girls chasing after Justin Bieber as he exited a hotel or something– so I assumed that he’d gotten hurt while being pursued by fans and/or the paparazzi. Having lived in LA for a period, I know that those paparazzi are no joke.

Then I heard that it had happened during a concert… that he’d walked into a pane of glass… ok… So yeah, that’s kind of a dumbass move. THEN I find out that this is not the first, not the second, but the THIRD time that he’s walked into a pane of glass. And not because he was being pursued by fans and feared for his life. He has now walked into three glass doors from simply being a total tool incapable of walking in a straight line.

(Here btw is him doing it the first time. Here is him doing it again.)

Ok, and I get that accidents happen and being accident-prone myself, I really ought to be sympathetic. I mean, if there was a video camera on me at all points during the day, there is no limit to the number of embarrassing things that would potentially be broadcast on national television for all to see. But part of me thinks: really? This guy sets tweens’ hearts a-flutter? This is today’s teen heartthrob?

One way that you know that you are for sure getting old is that you fail to see the appeal of teenage pop stars. During my elementary school years, New Kids on the Block were bomb but hmmm, I never really did get that much into them (though I will admit that I DID go to their reunion show a few years ago and that it was AWESOME– particularly when Jordan Knight took his shirt off during a serenade. No, this is not a video that I posted, but yes, I was screaming during most of that performance– as a mature woman who appreciates a full-grown man gyrating while covered in a silky layer of body oil.)

I will also admit that in my lifetime, I have gone to an N*SYNC concert. I have also been to a 98 Degrees concert (this was waaaay back in the day when Jessica Simpson was the band’s opening act.) So yeah, I have had my fair share of exposure to boy bands. But I have never been the type to cry or faint or stalk boy banders. So perhaps some of it is that I just don’t tend to become overcome with ardor for uber-manufactured all-male singing groups.

But honestly: Justin Bieber? Everytime I see that I kid, I just don’t get it. He looks like he’s 14 years old. He talks like he’s from the streets, but he’s actually from the suburbs of Canada (eh?) And I just don’t get the hair at all– it’s all pushed forward in some kind of supertweaked comb-over. Kids these days– they be crazy.

There are two other big boy bands out of England: one is called One Direction and one is called The Wanted. On yet another super educational celebrity program, they were breaking down One Direction– because as everyone knows, there is a time honored recipe for creating the perfect boy band. You have to have the bad boy. The sweet boy. The craaaaazy boy. The shy boy that is baritone and therefore hangs out in the back, all rueful and whatnot, and only later, when he’s come out as being gay, you think back and realize, aha…. now it all makes sense.

So they showed a picture of each “flavor” of the boy band. And they pointed to a kid named Harry as being the “cute one” and I looked at the picture and thought, “This one? This one is the cute one?” The picture is displayed at the left and I guess looking at it now, yeah, sure this kid is somewhat adorable. But he’s got that crazy forward swept Art Garfunkel hair and I dunno… I mean if this is what young girls go for these days, I guess…. But clearly I am much too old for these shenanigans and I just don’t see these boys’ appeal.

So that’s pretty much all for now. I feel myself becoming increasingly ornery and cantankerous and I am hoping to very soon embrace my state of total curmudgeon-ness (curmudgeoneity?), Easy Spirits and all.

— DOA

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