Title: Out-Of-It Dad Gets Lesson In Teen Spirit
Source: The Commercial Appeal (Memphis, TN)
Source: NEIGHBORS, Pg. SE1
Date: October 5, 2000
Topic: Other
Pick: Yes
Aaron Carter is hot.
Or at least that's what I was told.
So was I after three hours in a late summer afternoon sun, but nobody wanted my autograph.
That's the difference between Aaron and me - he's the target of adulation, and I was just the source of transportation. Such is the cruel fate for the father of a teen daughter. And with seven years to go before my newly turned 13-year-old exits the teen years, I can only assume the abuse will get worse before it gets better.
Let's back up:
It all started when Mallory said she had to go to Wal-Mart the next day, right after school.
Since she had never expressed an uncontrollable urge to hang out at Wal- Mart, I asked what the big attraction was.
"Aaron is gonna be there," she blurted, unable to hold in all that quivering emotion.
"Hank Aaron is coming to town?" I asked, getting a little excited about Wal-Mart myself.
"Who?" she asked in a voice that only accompanies a total lack of comprehension. "What are you talking about?"
"What are you talking about?" I asked with equal bewilderment.
"Aaron Carter," she responded, obviously confident that no further explanation would be needed.
"Oh," I said. "Does he work at Wal-Mart?"
"Dad," she said in her exasperated voice that makes "dad" a three-syllable word. "Aaron Carter sings. His older brother is in the Backstreet Boys."
"I don't know if I want you going to see some boy whose brother is mixed up in a street gang," I informed her.
That's when she threw her hands up in disgust and stomped away, informing me just to be ready to go when she got home the next day. And don't ask questions.
I've learned from experience that that's the wisest course of action with all the women in my house, so I was ready the next day. Soon as she got home, Mallory and a friend loaded into the car, and the three of us headed off for an afternoon at the Wal-Mart garden shop.
It turned out to be a small, understated affair - just Mallory, Jennifer, me and several hundred screaming girls, who took turns standing atop the lawn tractors to catch a glimpse of the back of Aaron's head as they waited in line.
The parents passed the time talking about memorable concerts from our youth. The girls passed the time by blowing holes in their parents' stories, noting that there was no such thing as concerts in prehistoric times.
Finally, after only three hours of standing in line beside sacks of manure, we got to Aaron. Five seconds later, we were in the parking lot. Mallory and Jennifer were clutching the autograph of a kid who has a promising career in medicine if the legibility of his handwriting is any indication.
"Thanks, Dad," Mallory told me when we got home.
"That's OK," I answered. "Glad I could do it."
I knew I might as well get used to it. This probably wouldn't be the last time I'd burn several hours waiting on her and some boy.
