Tag Archives: teenagers

Dear Stephen Colbert (an homage and a plea):

9 Dec

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Dear Stephen Colbert or shall I call you “Dreamcrusher™?”

The Boy started watching your show about three years ago and since then he has spent every waking moment wishing away years of his life so that the day when he was old enough to attend a live taping of your show would arrive and he would not only score tickets and play his guitar for you, he would also meet Jack White and ultimately become legend among the 13-17 year-old crowd in Upstate, NY.  (Well, maybe not every waking moment.  There were those times where he went to school, played outside, slept, did chores, breathed oxygen, slept, did homework, ate food, slept and wrote songs.  And slept.)

Impossible?  Not for this kid who once overcame having no Monterey Jack cheese in the house by crafting his own grilled cheese using nothing but domestic Brie, pear slices and day old baguette.  The Boy is a warrior.

Now you may ask “what kind of parent encourages a kid to dream so big?” and to you I reply: “a really lazy and/or disengaged one.”  And in a follow-up question to you, Mr. Colbert: “what kind of grown man wears a white daredevil suit, for any reason, ever?”  (Answer: “Stephen Colbert.  Hell, I would too if it meant taking over for Letterman.  Well played, sir.”)

Nation, (note: if there were a “camera two” of writing, here’s where I would turn and face it.  Sadly, all literature has to offer is the paragraph).

Nation, I’ve watched Mr. Colbert during some sweet, sweet eras of comedy when the jokes practically wrote themselves.  Shooting ducks in barrel, if you will.  Or, if you’re Dick Cheney, shooting anyone, anyone at all, in the face.  I also hung in there during some lean moments like when Mr. Colbert kept musician Michael Stipe on a shelf on the set of The Colbert Report.  I’m sure that Mr. Stipe was thankful for that shelf as rents in Manhattan are out of control and R.E.M. record sales aren’t what they used to be.  For what shelf space costs today you used to be able to get an entire bookcase worth.  I’m not saying that Stephen Colbert is without heart.  He’s just without a big heart.

And so I ask you and your heart, Stephen Colbert, to help make one of The Boy’s dreams come true. (All his other dreams involve Sofia Vergara and a diving board.)

Invite The Boy to appear on your new show.  He will play his guitar and tell jaunty tales of eleventh grade life (and also discuss how Elvis Costello often seems to sing in iambic pentameter so if you wish to invite Mr. Costello to appear at the same time, that’s fine).  He will help himself to all the swag and citrus fruit in the green room and make googly eyes at any female with a pulse.

Mr. Colbert, I’ve paid my dues.  I sat on my behind and watched your show for years.  I’m an American, damn it.  Sitting on our behinds and watching TV is one of the things we do best.  (See also “face-shooting,” and “cage-fighting.”)

You owe me.

You owe The Boy.  (Note: if I could raise one eyebrow, I would do that here.)

Don’t make me get out of my chair, Mr. Colbert.  (Because I won’t.)

But you can at least give The Boy some room on your couch.  (Assuming that your new show will even have a couch.  If it’s just people sitting around on shelves, talking, you may want to invite John Mellencamp as he’s small and somewhat dusty too.)

Imagine how a Colbert Bump could alter the destiny of a teenage boy and then do it anyway.  (He has so little to lose.  I’m his mom, I can say that.)

Mr. Colbert, won’t you help a boy, like The Boy?  Or even the actual Boy?

Do it.  Do it now while you are still popular.

#BumpTheBoy

or via email at: BumpTheBoy@gmail.com

(PS: if you need writers for you new show, try emailing BumpTheBoysMom@gmail.com.  Sounds weird but we all thought a spin-off from The Daily Show wouldn’t make it either.)

Best Wishes~

 

Don’t You Forget About Me

26 Sep

blog image breakfast club

Raising a teenager is hard.

Even if yours is kind, giving and even-tempered.  Mine is not.  But maybe yours is.  That’s why I said “yours.”  (Oh my, and don’t I just sound like a teenager right there myself?  All I need is to refer to myself with a lower case “i” and I am Ally Sheedy in “The Breakfast Club.”  Look it up, kids.  It’s a 1980’s classic where Judd Nelson, aged 45, portrays an 18-year-old.  Smoke up, Johnny.)

Any parent knows that prying information from a teenager is like trying to open a Diet Dr. Pepper without breaking a nail- nearly impossible yet so full of delight (and caffeine)- you must persist.  Get a pen cap or a dirty fork from the break room if you have to, but get that truth (and caffeine) out.

One of the best ways I have found to glean information from The Boy is by taking a nice, relaxing car ride where the possibility of eye contact is non-existent yet the probability for good music is high.

It was on one of these recent trips where The Boy, having been loosened up by listening to The Clash and then being comfortably lulled into spilling his guts by A Flock of Seagulls, (what can I say?  The 80’s were weird.  Like, David Hasselhoff weird) revealed that he “always thought that you,” meaning me, “would have become more.”

First of all, what 15-year-old has “always thought” anything?  As far as I know, kids don’t even think until they’re like, 6, and then it’s mostly caveman stuff like “fire hot,” “Judd Nelson overacts,” etc.

Now I’m not officially a child-rearing expert but I would imagine that the only thought a 15-year-old has always had is something like: “how is it possible for my dear mother to love me so much?”

Second: become “more” what?  Because if it’s more “me” he’s after, he’s about to get a dose of crazy the likes of which make Courtney Love look like Betty Crocker.  (Side note: Betty Crocker, along with White Castle, is featured in the 1986 Beastie Boys classic LP: “License to Ill.”  Are all of my references from the 1980’s?  Why would anyone do that?)  Oh, I can out-crazy the best of them.  Just tell me that we’re out of Nutella and see what happens.

Finally, I know that The Boy was complimenting me in there somewhere so I tried not to take it personally.  Given that he has forever felt this way and all.

I said I tried; I didn’t say that I succeeded.

So have I signed up for night classes since The Boy’s revelation?  Cracked open my knock-off “Josetta Bone” language CD’s and begun reinventing myself?

Nope.  Instead, I am practicing what all of my meditation studies suggest- doing less.  Because “less is more,” right?  (Examples include: having The Boy wash his own laundry, having The Boy schedule after school doctor/dentist/haircut appointments and having The Boy make dinner.)

PS: his cooking is good although it could use a little more.

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