AVANT MOI OUTA HERE!

Going through tween/teen-hood with my son reminds me occasionally why I want to be avant garde. Last night, the reason is to get away from the insidious weapon of the bourgeoisie: cheerleaders. Here they are for the team that played Michael's school:



One of the carpool Moms wondered to me whether our boys would play as well in the game; they might be distracted by the 'ettes above.

Well, let me put it this way: last night, Michael's team lost by ... ONE POINT.

'Twas a tension-riddled game indeed. And as I sourly proclaimed to my side of the bleachers, It's really obnoxious to be forced to watch cheerleaders when our side aren't blessed by similar hair-ettes. Michael obviously agreed as, at one point, I had to stand up and glare at him, Stand Down! when I could see that he was thinking of sticking out a foot to trip a couple of 'ettes raucously running down the side of the court.

Really, people. Why raise your kids to cheer for someone else? Shouldn't we raise them to be the one achieving something? Don't give me your Alan Alda spiel about cheering another being an admirable achievement. I'm not in the mood. My ears are still ringing from those adolescent inarticulate cheers; my eyes are still hurting from watching tweens do a would-be dirty dance involving pathetic circular hip action by non-existent hips; and last but not least, Michael's team -- containing several key players jousting with hormones -- lost by ONE POINT!

I should be paying attention to the Giants...