Remember the days when getting your basement or backyard cleaned up and decorated with balloons and streamers was a good look? Landing your older cousin to act as the designated DJ if you begged hard enough? When the idea of refreshments were limited to a lineup of Hawaiian Punch, Fanta, Welch's grape and Pepsi? Clearly, times done changed. Behold the phenomenon of MTV's hit reality series, My Super Sweet 16. The basic formula for the show is as follows: loaded parents who elevate their pint-sized prima donnas to Branch Davidian proportions of idol worship rather than discipline + bratty, demanding tweenyboppers = a ratings bonanza.

If you needed any further evidence that the stigma of beating your offspring's head to the white meat should be removed, tuning in wipes away all hesitation towards corporal punishment as a deterrent. I kept hearing about this show but never tuned in all the way through to see what the buzz was about. That is until this past weekend on Sunday afternoon when the infamous second season premiere from mid-August repeated. Jets-Dolphins wasn't till 4:15 and I still had another hour till the Yanks-Blue Jays at the Stadium. Something, anything would've been cool just to pass the time.

Enter Sophie Mitchell. The National Hurricane Center has already pegged Stan as next in line should another storm appear from the warm-watered Atlantic, but after seeing Teenzilla in action, they may want to reconsider a new namesake. Clearly, being a force of nature leaving an illogical path of self-possessed destruction makes her the perfect candidate for disaster christening. This 15-year-old biracial demon spawn of a well-to-do veterinarian from West Palm Beach, Florida on the cusp of her 16th birthday. Suffering from total detachment from the real world as she fancies herself as "not a star, I'm a diva!" looking like who shot John and forgot to kill him in a messy blowout from hell and waddling around in painfully unflattering preshrunk terrycloth sweats. To see the extent of her antics carried out over a 30 minute span requires a high tolerance for spoiled wenches who didn't get acquainted with the hard end of a belt buckle early on in life.

"I'd just say we're socially enhanced. A lot of people don't like me because I'm a bitch. But a lot of people would like to be me, because I'm blessed."

I suppose the loose translation here is keeping a spineless White woman in check who doesn't have the slightest inkling on how to put her damn foot down being the source from whom all blessings flow.

As part of her dutiful requirements of being the submissive variant to this equation, her mom agrees to bankroll this shindig to the cost of... (are you ready to have your jaw hit the floor?)

$180,000.

I shit you not.

Complete with a personal stylist hired for a cool 10 G's, the episode begins with Sophie looking for the perfect dress to wear on her big night. Mother and daughter head for the Betsey Johnson boutique to brainstorm through pastels, ruffles and chiffon. Being an irrational force of nature doesn't buy people who will tell you the truth. Betsey Johnson doesn't design clothes for girls with curves in mind, especially when the girl in question is shaped like a Hillshire Farm kielbasa straining to get out of its plastic casing.

The mid length halter number Dawn - the hired gun - allowed her stamp of approval on broke so many fashion laws, an extradition should've been in order. The little darling winds up resembling a cowbell with unsupported flapjack tits hanging around her armpits at the bodice. The effect was far more Miss Piggy than Marilyn Monroe. When her mom offers her input on suggestions and tries to come into the dressing room, Sophie pitches a shrieking tantrum in the middle of the store. Rather than hitting the butterball in the throat and dragging her into the parking lot empty handed, she scurries off to the sidelines and takes the verbal assaults without assuming any semblance of authority. Call it playing the race card or whatever, but it's too easy to see how Sophie's the shot caller with a non-Black parent at the helm.

The theme proposed from the hired party planners is Moulin Rouge brought to life with circus performers, can-can girls, bartenders serving up non-alcoholic drinks and an over-the-top birthday cake.

Of course prior to fast forwarding to the main event, more gleeful bitchery lies ahead with wittling down the names for the guest list. Like Noriega without the Nicaraguan accent and secret CIA backing, she takes pleasure in taking a wrecking ball to supposed "friends" feelings on determining who's in and who's OUT. And when the time comes to hand deliver the invitations, showing up to school in a white Rolls Royce only seems fitting for a girl's who's never had to work for anything. A fawning audience of peers gives Little Miss Sophie a feeling the Mission: Get My Classmates Buzzing has been accomplished. The monkey wrench comes when a girl who made the dire mistake of being on our princess's shit list wound up with an prized envelope.

Oh yes, it was about to be a what? A girlfight... brimming hotter than peppered chorizo off Collins Avenue, corotid arteries pulsing in full Valley girl rage, what could beat watching her sprint for the red feathered invite like an offering of Dunkin' Donuts (which she threw a damn tantrum over)?

And to think young men and women from the most poverty stricken areas of America are dying daily in Iraq to protect the lard asses of the world like her. The gray hairs must be coming faster and more furious than I thought because even at my most vapid moments as a teenager, I could always count on the open handed slap of reality from a West Indian mother who didn't play that shit. On a scale of 1 to 10 on the Richter scale, my worst hysterics would register as a mere ripple in comparison.

Since abortion's the new endangered species thanks to G. Dub's pending Supreme Court appointments, this damning piece of evidence should be compelling proof why the procedure needs to remain legal. The best ways to offset eroding abstinence club pledges is to make mandatory viewership of what's awaiting you 15 years after deciding that spreading your legs in the backseat of a '97 Honda Accord is more convincing than the old hat speeches from the parents will ever be.

Labels: MTV, My Super Sweet 16, teens

With Kanye West sprawled languorously on the throne of self-promotional fellatio across all media outlets, you'd think the salary cap of pointless excess has strained past the breaking point. Damn, I couldn't even type that shit with a straight face. C'mon, who are we kidding here? Even a category 5 natural disaster can't derail an excuse for downtown VIP soirées and yacht arrivals. The time has come again for the tradition of lackluster performances, contrived hijinks and enough celebrity cockstroking to earn Astroglide corporate sponsorship - it's the 2005 MTV Video Music Awards in all its faux-"we're gonna fight, for our right...to paaaaaaarrrrtttty!" glory. The irony that a video channel which now relegates the bulk of its music video programming to the early morning hours just puts the nail in the coffin for how irrelevant the VMA's have become. Since they struck gold in the early 90's with original reality-TV programming, pop stars have taken a backseat to photogenic "real people" who agree to have their lives taped in exchange for their 15 minutes of fame. Remember the glory days of Courtney Love chucking a compact at Madonna, Tabitha Soren unable to hide her "please Black man, don't hurt me" expression alongside [enter random name] rappers for the uneasy fish-out-of-water Q&A, Alison Stewart making even idle red-carpet chatter seem earnest, Kennedy dishing mic techniques for the future Monica Lewinsky's of the world alongside then-mayor Rudy Giuliani or a blue-plate special of bitchiness served up from that grande dame of deadpan, Kurt Loder? Now we're stuck with Sway — monotonous Turban Boy, the ritalin study dropout Suchin Pak and John Norris proving that queers just wanna have fun even if they resemble a 50 yr. old meth addict on the way to a Frankie Goes To Hollywood tribute night at Culture Club.

Each year, I make a semi-coherent promise to myself not to watch, but like all disasters live and in Technicolor — you just can't seem to turn away. So I figured the real test would be to make it through this 3+ hr. testament to bloated ego while sober. But even that seemed too big a challenge, so I settled on taking a shot every time a morally bankrupt musician began their acceptance speech with "First and foremost, I'd like to thank my Lord and savior, Jesus Christ..."

Since they've uprooted the locale from NYC to Miami, the bullshit levels taken a seismic increase on the Richter scale of excess with everybody and their baby's mama spreading the Crockett & Tubbs-inspired motifs thinner than a g-string on South Beach. This year kept the Russ Mayer homage of Faster Asskissers, Kill, Kill! alive and well. And who better sums up style over substance than Puff Daddy, um, Puffy, er...P. Shitty...I mean...Doo Wah Diddy.

In spite of his empty promise "to witness something you've never witnessed before," the soggy opener coupled with a dance-off with Omarion, donating his six-figure costing watch to the United Negro Consumer Fund, the unnecessary fashion challenge that made over master pimp extraordinaire Magic Don Juan into a Dr. Claw knockoff right down to his own personal Mad Cat just highlighted the fact this entire production was one waterlogged mess.

Burning questions that remained unanswered:

How many arbiters did Kelly Clarkson have to gang bang in order to upset Gwen Stefani for Best Female Video? Shockingly, the hollaback girl was snubbed entirely in the major categories and had her clip wins banished to the minor leagues for Best Choreography & Art Direction. That diss and dismiss is bananas... B-A-N-A-N-A-S. I demand a recount.

When is Diddy going to finally allow Biggie to rest in peace? Mr. New Negro, this wasn't the Oscars and your bucktoothed ass sure ain't John Williams — so what's with the orchestral medley of Ready To Die? Yes, the remix of Warning with Snoop was kinda tight, but that aside: there's a time and a place for everything. It was appropriate seven years ago. Now the current generation has a blank stare because the Notorious B.I.G.'s known as "like, some fat guy that got shot, right?" and the rest of us who know better see you as the buzzard pecking the bones for the last shred of sympathy left. I know Jay-Z threw a Kanye-like tantrum backstage since he was snubbed from indulging in his favorite pastime - reciting old Frank White lyrics aloud.

Paging Missy Elliott: I know Bow Wow's about the size of a hobbit, but the game to 1, 2 step Ciara out of her draws could've been a bit more discreet. She had the Venus fly trap deathgrip on the poor girl's hand like whoa. Props on her two moonman wins, though. Lose Control was another wacky visual trip that was one of the few truly distinctive videos in contention all night.

Memo to Bang 'Em Smurf... er, I mean John Legend. Just how were you able to breathe with that belted Bebe blazer in a smedium on? And you really think the ploy from the Usher playbook of renting out an anonymous "supermodel" throws off the scent of gaydar wafting all around you? Come on now. The journey out the closet doesn't need to be so difficult. Just "take it slow, oh oh oh... this time just take it slow..."

Since Green Day grabbed the lion's share of moonmen for Boulevard of Broken Dreams, the headlines are likely to christen this as "the return of rawk!" but overall this was more of hip hop's retirement home with cameos from fossilized relics like MC Hammer, Grandmaster Flash and Luke.

Such a nice gesture of MTV to allow Kelly Rowland and Michelle Williams to wave their goodbyes to the spotlight because once the Destiny's Child promotional farewell tour grinds to the final halt, it's a wrap for these two dead weights. You could almost see the light behind Beyoncé's dim eyes light up in anticipation. We're it not for the constant member merry-go-round, would we even give a damn? — the 30 second retrospective could've been canned entirely without the blink of an eye.

The good: In a word, Shakira. No extras, no backing troupe of dancers, just the kind of hip movements that are probably outlawed west of the Mississippi and electric chemistry with collaborator Alejandro Sanz on La Tortura. This bitch is fierce with a capital F. Isn't it telling that a Colombian pop singer has clearer enunciation than a gaggle of hometown high school dropouts masquerading as 'hood mobsters?

The Louis Vuitton Don & Jamie Foxx brought some much needed energy with a hyperactive rendition of Gold Digger. I could've done without Jamie losing steam to just rip open his shirt and segue into Hype Man-ville, but Kanye's stage presence can't be denied.

Jeremy Piven ribbing Lil' Kim (who apparently had to stoop to raiding Donatella's bargain basement in the same Versace duds Madonna sported 3 seasons ago in her GoodFellas layout) while presenting the award for Best Rap Video. "You know, she's about to go to the big house, for lying,'' he said. "I'd like to place a call to the warden and upgrade your situation.'' Don't think she'll want to hug that out, bitch.

Fat Joe going for the jugular in his ongoing feud with 50 Cent with the slyest jab of the night: "I feel so safe tonight, with all this police protection courtesy of G-Unit." Talk about defecating on ya microphone. Ice cold.

The bad & oh-so-ugly: Fitty gettin' all Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome in the wake of having his panties exposed for the world to see by Don Cartegena earlier. We all knew retaliation was imminent, but if you're wearing a man halter, pecs hoisted at full salute with Maidenform support in pleather pants coming off a wack ass medley with assorted lackeys and the phrase "pussy boi" is the best you can come up with as a retort? You might as well wave your wifebeater in surrender. What a cowardly backslide into the abyss of coonery.

There's no way the most bizarre one-man reenactment done "live" could go by without a mention...of course I'm referring to every father's worst nightmare: R. Kelly. Three words come to mind: What. the. fuck?! If I wanted to see the sequel to Shelly Garrett's Beauty Shop, I'll pay my way at the Beacon Theatre box office with the rest of the Mama, I Wanna Sing Because At Night I've Prayed And A Woman's Fed Up chitlin plays. Clearly the withdrawals from the underage poontang is driving this nigga over the edge since he was blatantly miming 4 different parts as if chapter 7 of Trapped In A Piss Soaked Closet was really high art.

Mariah Carey mistaking the National Hotel's poolside as the relocation of Miss America's talent competition. This vapid twit didn't disappoint with a gown straight outta Frederick's of Hollywood's seasonal liquidation sale and Tourette's hand motions. Her whole Krystal Carrington vibe is so yawn-inducing, I'd rather pluck my nose hairs while thumbing through a back catalog of Fingerhut. And when is the lie of "biggest-selling female artist ever" going to be untold? This heifer has more conflicting press releases on her sales stats than the department of Homeland Security.

And how fitting that one desperate tramp introduced another with the tragically overexposed Eva Longoria in a preshrunk ruffled one-piece that only put undue emphasis on her prepubscent figure. Didn't you see where trying to slink into J.Ho's double stick tape territory got Toni Braxton at the '01 Grammys? "I wasn't about to let a little hurricane keep me from wearing my bathing suit," - nice way to show your sensitivity towards the victims left in Katrina's wake. Honey, you're one more misstep away from selling oranges on the freeway...your clock's at 10:43 and counting.

Is it too much to ask that Tweedledee and Tweedledum better known as Bow Wow and Paris Hilton be forced into a South African landmine face-first? The display of carat jockeying over who had the better bling was textbook asshat pandering between a Teen Beat thug and a whorebag no one takes seriously.

Reggaeton must be stopped NOW. Was it really necessary to have Joey Crack give a long winded intro about a "historic showing" of the three leading stars in Don Omar, Tego Calderón and Daddy Yankee (who briefly put a charge into American Airlines Arena with his ubitiquous smash, Gasolina) and they didn't even perform together? And why waste props on these three when El General did this bigger and better already like a decade earlier? Haven't dancehall diehards suffered enough thanks to the likes of Lumidee and Nina Sky desecrating the Diwali & Coolie riddims respectively? Ricans will always find the loophole to be the proverbial roach in the cereal box every fuckin' time.

Who did Ashlee & Jessica Simpson really think they were kidding? Their attempt for street cred in "knowing what soul is all about...take it from two girls from the dirty South," rang about as hollow as the vacant space in between Jess's ears. These hoes must've had a peroxide drip because they wouldn't know rhythm & blues from a can of Bumble Bee.

Overall the best moments of the show were so fleeting, if you blinked you missed it. Like Paulina Rubio shaking off the crunk when Lil' Jon tried to get too cozy or Kelly Clarkson busting her ass during her ode to Waterworld in the closing performance. The air of unpredictability was unapparent in its premiere, so you can cross off sitting through a repeat devoid of the slipped 30-second delays and up-to-the-minute stage beef. The "who shot Suge" cliffhanger is more interesting than all the crumpers you can fit in a box. eMpTyV has gone the way of the Hunts Point crackhead - still delusional in believing their best days are still ahead when the evidence is clear they're more than a day late and a dollar short.

Rewatchability Grade: D

Labels: award shows, MTV, music