So, I have seen the regular version. And I have seen the sing-along version. And I have seen the dance-along version. And if there was a smell-along or a 3-D interactive video game with hip-degrading properties, I’d probably have seen that, too.
I have the songs stuck in my head. I have talked about my favorite characters. Hair styles. Outfits. Surfers vs. bikers. How makeup could stay on perfectly in summer humidity.
I have hummed along. I have tapped my toes. I have refrained from making faces like I’m about to lose my lunch. I have not lost my lunch.
All totaled, it makes me either a 7-year-old girl, or a geek-dad extraordinaire. Thanks “Teen Beach Movie.” Thanks a lot.
I asked a co-worker who has kids if he had seen it. You know, Disney’s TV movie with Ross Lynch — that super-hot singing Disney kid. He was in “Teen Beach Movie,” which parodies 60s surf and biker movies. All in the same flick! It attracted 8.4 million viewers. It spawned a hit iTunes album and has little girls all over the world swooning and shimmying and wondering why more people don’t live in the 60s. There is a version where you can learn the dances. Or learn the songs. Or learn how to make bee-hive hairdos. I think my daughter wants one now.
My colleague just stared at me. Blankly. “Never heard of it,” he said. “My kids are too young, I guess. They don’t watch anything that isn’t animated.”
That’s when I realized something: I’ve made the transition. I’m into a new realm. Toddler-sized cartoons that teach reading skills or being kind to neighbors or that fuzzy little animals can grow up to be princesses are out. In are hot boys, trendy clothes, catchy tunes and high-pitch screaming that causes the dog to move out.
Whew boy!
And here’s the catch. Here’s the part that befuddles me: I don’t actually mind it.
I haven’t fought it with every ounce of my being. I haven’t screamed, “You can take my liberty, but you can’t make me watch brightly-colored, campy adolescent musicals!”
I actually watched “Teen Beach Movie” willingly. Slightly catatonic, and with a couple beers, but of my own free will.
I remember doing something similar to my dad. Maybe not bee-hives and dance numbers.
Probably “Star Wars” and “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” I dragged my dad to Indiana Jones so many times that a doctor warned us the theater seats were causing life-threatening calluses on our derrieres.
Or “Grease.” You know, hot rods and Sandy and John Travolta in pants so tight it explained that uncanny ability to hit Everest-sized high notes. I watched it a million times. I copied all the moves. (Not well — I had no rhythm and my strut looked like I had been hit by a car.) I put Crisco in my hair. Couldn’t get “You’re the One That I Want” out of my head. (Couldn’t get Crisco out of my head!)
My wife said the other day she thinks “Teen Beach Movie” will be my daughter’s “Grease.”
Every generation has one. What was yours? Or that big-screen crush you drooled over? I’m still waiting on Olivia Newton-John’s answer to my marriage proposal. What about that, Olivia?
All through time dads like me have sat through them. It’s called “daddy endurance” — a clinical term describing the ability to see something over and over again without complete annihilation of brain cells, or respiratory failure from repeating, “Oh no, not again!” I imagine my dad is smiling right now, thinking to himself, “Payback is hell, Indiana.”
But I’m learning we all survive it. That it helps if you tap along. Go with the flow. Don’t fight it. Try the dance moves. (Even if you can’t get that fist-pumping, chest-popping thing!) Try a little swooning. Try a few high notes. And be glad we’re not living a place called the 60s with Crisco in our hair.