Nnekay.com

I’m heated.

Seriously, really ticked off.

Why?

This: The Dumbest Generation: how the digital age stupefies young Americans and jeopardizes our future (or, don’t trust anyone under 30). By Mark Bauerlein

http://www.dumbestgeneration.com/home.html

Simply put, Mark, you are a dick.

Me, trying to see the tongue and cheek nature of this title, thought, “Well, hey, maybe this is a book that grabs the attention of bitter old farts who don’t understand the InterWeb, but in turn convinces them that the younger “y” generation is indeed a group of charming individuals who can and will eventually run the world.”

Then I read this bullshit:

“According to recent reports from government agencies, foundations, survey firms, and scholarly institutions, most young people in the United States neither read literature (or fully know how), work reliably (just ask employers), visit cultural institutions (of any sort), nor vote (most can’t even understand a simple ballot). They cannot explain basic scientific methods, recount foundations of American history, or name any of their local political representatives.”

Mark, this doesn’t apply to me, but if you insist that my friends and I are an anomaly- then you might want to direct the finger back at you and your self involved generation. I don’t know if you know this, Mark, but children don’t acquire information on their own. I didn’t wake up one morning, and proclaim, “hey I think I understand the Protagorean theory! Awesome, I’m five!”

No.

We learn from adults, yep the previous fucking generation. Our parents, our teachers, or community leaders- so for you to call this generation the dumbest generation is not an insult to my peers and I, but to YOUR slacker ass generation who failed us as children.

I guess I lucked out, Mark, my parents and educators actually believed in me, and you know what? They still do. You know why? Because they spent the time to read to me- which taught me to appreciate literature, imagine that?

They are the ones who insisted I get a job at 16, so I could learn proper work place etiquette- which seems to be useless now, because YOUR generation fucked up Wall Street due to greed, and now those on the brink of creating their adult lives are up the creek without a career paddle.

They took me to museums, plus taught music and art in school- but wow, looks like these culture enriching programs are being cut, because YOUR generation can’t seem to figure out city, county, and state budgets- instead padding the pay in higher government positions- so they can send THEIR kids to private schools- widening the gap of the ”have” and “have not” even further.

Nevermind, it was my generation who campaigned, rallied, and came out in droves to help elect our first black president– I think we know our way around a ballot, Mark.

My parents were great, but what did YOU do to help the up and coming generation of idiots? Hmmm? Oh, you earned your doctorate at UCLA… You wrote some books that only reach selective intellectual graduate students… You became an english professor at Emory University- helping to educate the already wealthy upper crust of society. Wow, Mark, you’ve done nothing but help your damn self, and those who aren’t really needing the extra push.

Now, you get to turn around and call us dumb?!?!?! Worst yet, you’re blaming it on computers?!?! Soooo… because I played Oregon Trail and Carmen Sandiego in elementary school- I’m a fucking moron… that makes so much sense, doesn’t it?!

Damn you computer time!!!!!! Because of those 30 minutes sessions, I cant rite gud.

If you decided to pay some extra taxes to fund our schools, volunteered at an after school program, or pulled your head out of your ass to see the lack of support we as a country are providing to our youth, you might see that my generation is not the dumb-dumb MySpace Drool fest you paint us to be.

You know what, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you are doing something to help the future generations… I mean, you are a professor and all. I bet you spend a majority of your time inspiring your students to strive towards greatness?

“The worst professor I have had at Emory, by far. If you don’t mind giving up your dignity as a student for an easy grade, go for it. Irresponsible, self-absorbed, and generally oblivious. Strong bias against contemporary and non-Western literature” - Rate My Professor

oh. hmm…

I have to say it again, Mark Bauerlein you are a dick. A 49 year old dick, and apparently, you should look at some of the statistics on your own generation before pointing your ego inflated finger.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/12/05/AR2008120502601.html

I know, your damn book is meant to shock and stir up controversy- how else are you going to get the big bucks- let’s just hope that you put some of the well earned cash you gained by degrading a generation towards bettering the next, because according you, we’re a lost cause.

dick.

Back in the Day….

 When I was a silly little ho… I used to think house parties where the shit. My friends and I would persuade the older chap of the dorms to buy us a 40 or 2, then we would bus our little Freshman behinds to some random party usually located within a student house off campus. These houses usually had dumb names like: the cube, the barn, or any ridiculous monicker you could think up while stoned,

“heeeey… duuuude, your house looks like a cube…”

“whoooaaa, no way…”

Once we got situated at the party, a bunch of posturing, slight dancing, and eye contact would ensue until you found that one person to mack on. Ahhhh the mating dance of those 16-20, the perfect primer for the bar scene.

I used to think this was fun.

Now, I don’t.

Recently, I’ve been to a flurry of house parties, and realized that pouting my lips, leaning on a wall, and trying the catch the eye of the skinny artist type across the room, just isn’t my barrel of monkeys. I like to talk to people, and at these shin digs, the majority of the party goers stick to themselves and avoid all eye contact from anyone who might remotely be a stranger. What’s the fucking point of parties if you’re not going to talk to people?!

Thank Jebas, I recently went to a party with a bunch of (shock!) friendly people! It’s known amongst ladies, that women are generally not pleasant to other women at parties- particularly stranger women. It’s like a territory thing, if you’re head bitch in charge of this friend circle, you don’t want anyone else peeing on your corner. So you can imagine my surprise when a sunny faced lady came up, introduced herself and continued on with pleasant conversation. Throughout the night, I met plenty of people, and finally felt the cold coat of jaded I had been wearing around for the past 2-3 years slide off my back.

Then it happened.

I was standing in a tight hallway milking a Red Stripe beer, when a pleasant enough guy came up and introduced himself to me and my friend. After saying my name, he proclaimed, “Oh man… are you Jamaican?!” This knocked me off track for a minute, because… yes, I am… but Nnekay is not a Jamaican name. There are a couple of misconceptions about Jamaican culture which I’ve had to correct on many occasions: Black people are not native to Jamaica and there is no such thing as a native Jamaican name. Jamaica was a British colony therefore a majority of Jamaican names have three parts and sound incredibly stuffy (i.e. Montgomery Clifford Ford III). I proclaimed an excited yes, and asked how he could have possibly guess my heritage. Apparently, he was an expert, because he had just returned from a trip to the island. I walked away still kind of baffled until my friend pointed out that I was drinking a Jamaican beer.

Realizing that guy was full of shit, I discarded the incident and continued on with the party.

Then he found me again.

This time, he plopped himself across from me and inquired, “Well! How long have you been in the country?!” Which is weird, because I basically sound like a ditzy Mallrat from the Valley. Which is a something I desperately wish I could change… but have begrudgingly accepted as my vernacular fate.

Having gone to UC Santa Cruz, the whole fascination with Jamaica would pop up from time to time, where I would have to bat off some white guy with dreads, rambling about Jah and how awesome it was that I had Jamaican heritage. So I delivered my pre-constructed line of,

“I’m not from Jamaica… my grandparents from my Dad’s side, and some parts of my Mom’s side are.”

“So you’re not a real Jamaican… I could have sworn because you look like you’re fresh off the boat.”

HOLY SHIT, my eyes and ears nearly popped off my face a la Mr. Potato Head. No Senor Faux Hawk, I’m a fake wooden puppet Jamaican… just waiting for my Fairy Rasta Godmama to come and grant me true Irie. I looked at my roommate, Heather who matched my quiet shock… then turned to this sad sap and said,

“What the fuck?”

Then the back peddling began… “no, no, no… I shouldn’t have said the FOB thing, but I mean you’re totally rocking that blah blah blah blah ….” I had stopped paying attention, took a heavy sigh and decided that I would have to break it down for him.

“So, what are you?”

“You know white…”

“Well, where are your Grandparents from?”

“Croatia.”

“Do you identify with that country.”

“Yea… ahhh I see what you’re saying.”

And it was done, the light bulb clicked, and the short moment of idiocy was over. I can’t get mad at the situation or that guy. Honestly, he was willing to learn and change his perceptions, which some people have been shockingly resistant to. I just can’t always be the ambassador of island culture… you know, not being a real Jamaican and all.

Paris Hilton’s New BFF.

The previous night, I had been seek-ed out in a club and asked to audition for this brain sludge of a program.

There are many “reality” television shows out there, most of which require some sort of skill, cooking, fashion design, interior decoration… even the horrific STD infested “love” shows require the contestants to be convincingly whore-y by maintaining the ability to make out with sag face leftover “celebrities”. That takes skills, I know… because I don’t process those attributes.

But Paris Hilton’s New BFF… what the hell skill do you need to be Paris Hilton’s friend? A lack of shame? Basically. So why in heaven’s name was I clutching a card which looked like Lisa Frank farted pink sparkles all over it, prompting me to call, and potentially get cast? Apparently, I look like someone that possesses the skill of no shame…

As I sat at my desk contemplating this card, I couldn’t help but revel in how golden the story was from the previous night… I had already told pretty much the majority of my friends about my club discovery- and every single person seemed to be incredibly entertained by the fact that I and Paris Hilton could be mentioned in the same breath. I love telling stories and this seemed like the making of another good one. So, I thought, what the heck, and called.

Thinking I would get a recorded message, I was utterly surprised when I was greeted by the cheerful voice of a live human being on the other end. The phone call was a whirlwind of information, and somehow, with out having said much of anything, I ended up with an appointment at 11 am the next morning.

Obviously, I knew that I would be wading knee deep in phoniness, because I was about to audition to be the “Best Friend Forever” of a celebrity I could give a flying two shits about, who’s previous Best Friend Forever wasn’t forever, because they are currently casting for season two. Yet, I was surprised by the direct phoniosity, when the casting director told me that I had to appear as if I were between 21 and 28. Meaning I could be some old hag, and still participate in this glittery little girl princess fiesta show as long as I looked like I was born during the Regan administration.

Weird.

The next day, I strapped on some platforms, stuck a flower in my hair, and teetered my way to fame. The office was located on the 7th floor, and as I rode the elevator I noticed two very short businessmen staring at me (or rather my boobs). I smiled back, to which one responded, “nice flower.” I knew this was code for, “you have an awesome rack.” but I let it slide, I mean honestly, wasn’t this the type of reaction I wanted to get before I tried out for this caca show?

I entered the office and was greeted by a very friendly, very made-up young woman. Full face of club ready make up, black knee high boots, patent leather thick black belt that synched her already incredibly tiny waist. “Hiiiiii! Are you here for Paris?”

“Um, yea.” I grunted.

It felt semi-dirty to admit that this was the show I was auditioning for. She showed me to a black leather couch and shoved a thick packet of questions for me to answer. The questions started easy enough… name, occupation, address, all of which I read to myself in my normal everyday reading voice. Then I came across this:

21?! _______

It looked simple enough, but from that point on each question was voiced in a high pitched teen-bop screech.

“OMG! Why would you and Paris be like, such good friends?!?!?!”

“Okay, seriously, like have you made out with like anyone of the same sex?!”

“Hey Girl, Paris sang this song last year called ‘Jealousy’ remember that shizzz… well, why would you be hecka jealous of this bitch?!”

“So like, for reals… If Paris was your fairy godmother, what three wishes would she grant you?!”

*minus my teen girl accent… these are in fact, some of the questions I had to answer*

I honestly tried to answer some of these short bus questions with a straight face, until I just couldn’t handle it… it was almost like a force outside of myself took over when I reached this question:

What is your favorite accessory?

Bracelets, earrings, purses, men… the answers were endless, but somehow I watch my hand scrawl:

A bra.

Paris is always on the cover of Tabloids, why would you get on a tabloid?

Beat up some bitches.

Why do people want to be like Paris?

The money… duh.

 It went on and on until the answers no longer made sense, and my IQ level dropped about 6 points.

After signing away my image and life to MTV, I sat at the wall and wondered why I was here.

Then THEY came in.

Two bottle blondes, the friend and the interviewee. As they sat across from me and sipped their Starbucks, they interrogated me while obnoxiously elongating the last syllable of each phrase,

“So are you here for Parisssss?”

“K, so what do you do in Alamedaaaaa?”

“You’re a Librarian?! OHMIGOD! Do you reaaaaad?”

At that point, I figured it wasn’t worth it to get to know my competition. I politely began to ignore them and return to staring at the wall, which was both visually and mentally more stimulating.

When I FINALLY got called in to the second office (after about an hour wait). Pictures were taken after I was prompted to “do something sassy” which only really consisted of me putting my hand on my hip and pouting a lip or something- I figured my normal thumbs up pose wouldn’t cut it for Paris. Then came the video, I was told to think of the questions I answered and tell them to the camera, for instance, “Hey Paris, I wanna be your BFF because… blah blah blah.”

Shit.

I was in deep at this point, either I give it nothing and make the whole situation awkward or give it everything and feel like a dirty fame whore after the whole lot was over.

What did I do? I played it up of course! I don’t exactly remember what I said, but I do vaguely remember flailing a lot and saying that I was better than all the “breezies on the previous show, because I’m smart.”

Also, I might have mentioned that me and Paris would be good friends because “we both like to party.”

Oh… something might have been said that I would be a true friend due to the fact that I wouldn’t mind if Paris came over to my place after a break up and, “cried and got boogers all over my shirt.”

I sincerely don’t think that I’ll be cast on this show anytime soon.

 As I teetered my way back to Real Reality, I couldn’t help but notice how tired I was. I had exerted an enormous amount of energy trying to convince a non responsive camera, that I- not my music, not my acting, not my beauty, or any other type of talent to hide behind- was awesome. Reality television, as much as I would like to admit is a lazy profession, is truly not. You have absolutely nothing, but yourself, basically your personality to promote, and that’s hard. To convince someone that you’re hot shit, and to actually stand out on camera and compete with outlandish fictional characters portrayed by professional actors in non reality shows… you have to rev up your own personality to at least 200%. To sustain that for 15 some odd minutes, caused me to take a 4 hour nap.

Real reality is boring, it’s the whole reason we have TV to start with, so to make something we ultimately want to escape interesting is quite a feat.

So, as much as I think reality TV “stars” are retarded monkey children of the night, my experience has managed to create a tiny itty bitty glimmer of semi respect for these people who are trying their darnedest to stretch, manipulate, and mold their drab reality into something interesting to help me escape mine.

Like any red blooded American Woman, I like to get my dance on. In fact, I probably like to dance a lot more than the average red blooded American Woman, but that’s besides the point.

Last week, I was doing my thang at a night club, and decided to take a small break to refresh my parched mouth with a frothy brew. While I was standing at the bar I noticed that there was a woman eyeing me. Now, not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m familiar with being eyed, and she wasn’t eyeing me in a way I was used to in a night club setting. When I finally got my beer, I tried to make a quick dash to avoid the prying eyes of this woman. Unfortunately, she was faster than I expected and wedged herself in between me and the waiting dance floor.

“Heeeeey, you’re beautiful.” She coo-ed. I’ve never had an easy time with the way people perceive my appearances, especially if it’s the opening line- sorta makes me feel that I might get roofied or propositioned for a  “swinging night” with some saucy couple.

“Thanks… ha. ha. ha.” With that I tried to maneuver my way around her.

“No, wait! I’m with MTV and I think you would be perfect for this show that we’re in the middle of casting for.”

Hold up. This had potential. I decided to slow down and see what this lady had to offer. Could it be a new modeling show? Did they want to do a MTV True Life: I’m beautiful and I like to dance?

” Yea, so we’re casting for Season 2 of Paris Hilton’s New BFF.”

Oh. Lord.

Now, I have previously imagined myself on various reality TV shows, Paris Hilton’s New BFF not being one of them. I honestly have only watched one and a half episodes of this moronic show, because there was a feisty lady-man who scrubbed the toilet with some vacant bitch’s toothbrush. After that I got bored- and that’s sad because this is a woman who has watched pretty much all episodes of any reality free-fall dating show on either MTV or VH1. Hey, who remembers when VH1 showed things like Pop Up video?

The woman with the prying eyes handed me a sparkly pink card with, “WE WANT YOU TO BE PARIS’ NEW BFF!!!!” emblazoned beneath a picture of my future Amiga looking coyly to the side. I said my thank yous, stuck the card in my back pocket, and tumbled over to my friends practically bursting at the seams to tell them what had just happened.

To my surprise, all my friends actually thought it would be a good idea to at least try out for the show. Well there was the exception of one who dryly added, “If you actually went on the show, I don’t know if we could still be friends.” I assured her that I wasn’t retarded, and this fact would probably be a strike against me being cast on the show.

Feeling semi flattered and fully buzzed, I continued to dance and proceeded to let the incident fall slightly from my mind, better left for the morning to make the ultimate decision to try out for this hot mess or not.

I think people who read while walking are show off phonies.

It’s impossible to truly read while walking somewhere. In order to walk, you need both eyes… it’s called depth perception. I’ve never understood why Pirates where such good swords men- have you ever worn an eye patch and tired to grab some chips from a bowl? I have, and it took two tries before I made it in. 

You don’t necessarily need two eyes to read, but no serious reader can concentrate on something entirely different than the book, and get all the text has to offer, and if you’re walking while reading… the image you desire is that of a serious reader.

Oh yea,  human eyes don’t move independantly of each other, we’re not chameleons (yes, their eyes move crazy style, the color change isn’t the only cool thing about that lizard). So, it doesn’t really matter if you can walk skillfully with one eye, because when you’re walking while reading you are either looking at the book or looking at your suroundings… so no matter what one is geting neglected. Peripheral vision can only do so much…

To read while walking is to says, “I’m such an intellectual, I can’t wait the 5 seconds it takes me to walk to a seat… I must devour this book now.” Phonies.

To me you just look a like a douche who wants to appear smart, not to mention a hazard waiting to happen. Just wait till you sit down before you start reading. Really, the only person you are performing for is yourself, and honestly if you want to look like a smarty that bad- get some fake glasses.