One week ago today I was getting drunk, listening to spoken-word poetry and loving life. Tonight, on the other hand, I'm on my makeshift bed, sober and watching a spoiled Hialeah Princess demand a brand new Lexus at the age of 15, hire an amateur singing group (ironically the jokers went to high school with me), and turn South Florida's Parrot Jungle into a playground for the children of the wannabe-rich-and-famous.
MTV's hit show "My Super Sweet 16" encourages parents to spend hundreds-of-thousands-of-dollars so that their son/daughter can be featured on a half-hour television show, expose their truly arrogant personalities and, with any luck, get a seat on next season's "reunion" show.
As these high school sophomores loose their fake id's on South Beach or miss the list at Paris Hilton's release party in Vegas, they are left with no choice but to spend 3-years of their guardian's earnings on a single night of extreme decadence, obviously.
My brother just attended a similar party that didn't make the MTV cut. The over-the-top shin-ding was held at the same location where the aforementioned Princess held hers, featured a popular hip-hop artist and had a guest list the size of my...well, you get picture. But why didn't MTV care to televise this person? Simple. The people who can actually afford these parties, and are appreciative of the fact their parents sacrifice a new car, or vacation plans, or whatever, feel in unnecessary to have a perverse camera crew in their private bedrooms at 8 in the morning.
The saddest part of this phenomenon is not the fact insecure girls are documenting their destructive paths; the saddest part of this phenomenon is that it is one of my guiltiest pleasures.
Let me stop 'blogging,' as the cool kids say, and illegally download Paul McCartney's new song before I admit any more guilty pleasures.
Cheers,
Victor
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