Latch key kid part deux, a cautionary tale

The freedom of being a middle school latch key kid in the '70s occasionally had its consequences. I did nothing to jeopardize those freedoms in sixth and seventh grade when I was a clueless nerd (6th grade) and a nerd who, at least, washed her hair regularly (7th grade). But by 8th grade, I'd finally gotten my wings to "work" (ie. my Farrah Fawcett hairstyle feathered back successfully). I had my Dr. Scholl's and my satin roller skating jacket. I was on the margins of popularity; not quite there, but it was within reach.

Hoping to clinch the deal, I threw a party. My mom was home, but stayed upstairs because she trusted us. Big mistake, as it turned out. The popular kids showed up, some of them already intoxicated, and I stood idly by while they raided our bar. My logic: If I did nothing while they drank all of my parents' alcohol, maybe they would invite me to sit at the cool table at lunch.

After Billy, one of the cutest guys in school, threw up all over our couch, I finally went to get my mom. Of course by then I was all, "hurry! hurry!" Mom made Billy clean up the couch, called everyone's parents, and I was not allowed to have another party again until my senior year in high school...I'm still waiting for the invitation to the cool table.


Popular kids displaying items from my parents' bar.

Fred on I-Carly tomorrow

I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Fred's made it big-time.

My 13-year-old's going to watch Fred on Nickelodeon tomorrow, but I can tell it all feels a little bittersweet for her. After all, she has been watching 15-year-old Lucas Cruikshank on Youtube even before there was a Fred. Back in those old, pre-subscriber days, he was "retainer boy" and a kid hamming it up in a sequined jumpsuit to Miley Cyrus's "Nobody's Perfect." My daughter had received the "Nobody's Perfect" video as an email attachment from a friend. She'd done her part, virally, by sending it all her friends.

If she feels a little Svengalian sadness about Fred's celebrity, it's understandable. After all, she helped make him.

Hackin' good times on Youtube

I know who Fred is, and it’s all because of my oldest daughter.

My daughter is 13 and a fan of Fred Figglehorn, a fictitious six-year-old who has anger management problems, an alcoholic mother, and a crush on a girl named Judy. She's been following Fred’s trials and tribulations on Youtube for some time now. Or should I say, we’ve been following Fred.

I know about Fred and all of her other favorite videos on Youtube because I’ve always kept close tabs on her internet usage. I am usually not far away when she is online, so I often get a “Hey Mom—you’ve got to come see this” call. I’m sure she would rather have someone her own age to share it with. But sometimes, you have to take what you can get—even a forty-three-year-old woman with a dish towel in her hand.

As a result, I’ve gotten to know my daughter better. In the way that I used to connect with my grandparents when we’d sit around the kitchen table playing cards, I’ve connected with my oldest daughter through Youtube. We’ve learned that we share the same warped sense of humor.

Together, we’ve marveled over the popularity of the “Numa Numa” video, in which a chubby guy enthusiastically lip synchs to the now-ubiquitous Euro-dance hit.

We’ve been charmed by the two British tots of the widely viewed “Charlie Bit My Finger” video. We love it how the big brother puts his finger in Charlie’s mouth—a total set up—and then is shocked by how hard his baby brother chomps down on it. We love Charlie’s gleeful laughter, and the bitter tagline: “Charlie bit me—and that really hurts!”

Then there’s the other Charlie—“Charlie the Unicorn,” which gets better with each viewing. We love Charlie’s fat, scowling eyebrows, his crankiness, and his New Jersey accent. We enjoy the deceptively cheerful unicorn duo who leads him on a variety of adventures on the way to candy mountain. We love, “Oh, God, what’s that?” “It’s a neopluradon, Charlie. A magical neopluradon.”

As a sign of his popularity, they’re now selling Charlie the unicorn t-shirts at tween superstore, Hot Topic.

Wait a minute, I knew about something before it was in at Hot Topic? A few years ago, I wouldn’t have even gotten the reference on one of their t-shirts.

We were watching the Fred videos long before CNN finally got around to breaking the story about them. The last time I was half this edgy, I had an asymmetrical haircut and Modern English was playing on my cassette deck—not serving as background music for a hamburger ad.

My daughter knows all about Modern English, the B52s, the Cars and the other bands of the late ‘70s to ‘80s when I came of age. We watch their videos on Youtube as well. She is appalled/mesmerized by the over-the-top theatricality of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which I told her that I once went door-to-door singing with my best friend. I like to show her the odd ball things that somehow help define an era—like the dancing dwarf dream sequence on Twin Peaks, a show I adored as a young married.

At 13, my daughter has entered the demographic that advertising execs in trendy glasses are paying millions to understand. And I’m right there—me, middle-aged bag with the dish towel-- totally getting it.

Are we having fun yet?

My 9-year-old gets upset when she hears about all of the great playgrounds of the 1970's. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a rocketship slide, a maniacally whirling merry-go-round, or a swing that can zoom sky high. Hot summer days are just not the same without a triangular, metallic slide to burn your behind on.

I am looking for examples of these lovely-but-potentially-dangerous classic playgrounds. In the meantime, I have found one to drool over: the adventure playground at the Berkeley marina, where kids pick up saws and hammers and build their own jungle gyms and swing sets. Check it out at:

http://www.ci.berkeley.ca.us/Marina/marinaexp/adventplgd.html

Confessions of a Latch Key Kid

My oldest daughter is in 7^th grade. Often, I hear grown-ups complaining that children in today's generation grow up too fast. But by comparison to my 7^th grade, growing up in Houston, my daughter's living the life of an overly chaperoned Jane Austen character.

I was a latch-key kid in middle school and I loved every minute of it. After we got off the school bus, my friend Lynda and I would walk up to the U-Totem. We would play pinball for awhile, then walk home, usually eating a candy bar and drinking a Dr. Pepper. As we walked around the neighborhood, we saw kids we knew. Sometimes we would say hi, other times—when cute boys were involved—we would wait to see if they would say anything. Everyone in our neighborhood went to the same school.

We hardly ever had homework, so we had a lot of free time on our hands.

As we got older, a couple of times we played Spin the Bottle with some neighborhood boys. Or Spin the Comb, or whatever spin-able object that we had on hand. The first alcoholic beverage that I remember drinking was a mixture of Nesbitt's orange soda and some whiskey pilfered from my parents' bar. Lynda was with me, and neither of us knew anything about making a mixed drink.

We also smoked a "Texas-sized" cigar, which Lynda had purchased at a local amusement park called Astroworld. In the summer between 7^th and 8^th grade, we had season passes to Astroworld. One of our parents would drop us off in the morning, then another pick us up at night. We would wait just outside the gates.

There is very little in the above narrative that I would let my child do today. I even cringe at the simultaneous Dr. Pepper and candy bar (think of the sugar!). As a parent, I'm happy she's safe. But looking through the lens of a 13-year-old, I feel bad for her, because she's missing out on a lot of fun.

I can't imagine her having the opportunity at any time in the near future to play "Spin the Bottle," for instance. The events she attends are over populated by parents. Yet, as these children's exterior world has been restricted, they are meeting electronically.

The other day, my daughter said a boy in her class asked her friend for her phone number. "That's silly," I thought, "He could find it in the school directory." It wasn't until later that it occurred to me. It was her cell number that he wanted—a fact that she confirmed. Because of our need to always keep tabs on our children, they are all equipped with cell phones. Now, apparently, they are using the phones to have secret conversations, text, and, in later years, plan spontaneous parties.

Good for them for doing something sneaky.

Astro world circa 1978: Candy cigarettes, new friends, and the Texas Cyclone.