A reader asked me to explain why I don’t like Tavi, and while thinking this over I wondered: Is it okay to not like her? By “okay” I mean, politically acceptable, if not politically correct.

I just don’t like her! Sue me!

Trying to examine the dislike is akin to examining why I don’t like cream cheese.   It’s an immediate reaction, a matter of taste. Does it have to go deeper, I’m wondering? Is it so weird to not like a precocious little teenager that it calls for analysis?

I once took issue with her over the notion that she should identify herself as being on the autistic spectrum. That didn’t go over very well. I don’t even agree with myself at this point. People are free to self-identify or not, as gay, autistic, bi-polar, what have you. I’m past giving a shit. Sorry! to everyone who took offense.

Here’s an idea:

I will use this photo to illustrate my opinion, Taviwise. She is a kid who finds herself   ironic. Her discussions of her schoolday strike me as full of self-irony disguised as faux innocence. Her stance of “Who me? I’m just a kid!” is contradicted by hiring a very effective publicist to put her in front of our eyes on an almost daily basis. She approaches these people to be part of their projects. She’s a brand seeking brand recognition.

In this photo, she was asked to model the Ralph Lauren breast cancer awareness shirt, and she chose to style it with the famous ribbon hat, nudge nudge, that bothered some fashion editor. She’s too young to reference herself, but she’s doing it anyway. It’s irritating.

I don’t even get why grown ups are supposed to want a kid telling them about fashion or anything else. If your all-time favorite TV show is “Daria,” and your all-time favorite magazine is “Sassy,” you need to stay in school and gain some perspective! Or get a show on Nikelodeon!

Remember when she turned down an invitation to be on Oprah, “because that’s just not a crowd whose eyes I want on me?” Oprah is just too pedestrian. Screw Oprah. Oprah wouldn’t get it like Rad Hourani or the Rodarte girls.

Is this a good enough explanation or am I just a big mean horrible old wrinkly meanie?

When I first saw this photo of Tragic Fashion Boy, I felt a mixture of outrage and sorrow. It’s part of some fashion shoot but it looks like child pornography. Is it the bony little torso that makes it upsetting?

Here, he looks healthier. Sort of.

Tragic Fashion Boy as Twiggy, part of a boys-as-girls editorial in Candy magazine.

Here is a teenager who wanted to be part of the high-fashion scene, and has clearly achieved his goal. Is he being exploited, or is this a success story? What is your first reaction?

Whenever I hear the word “institutionalized” my brain starts playing the old Suicidal Tendencies anthem. All I wanted was a Pepsi!!!!

Lately, someone has been exclaiming, “Sister Wolf was once institutionalized!” I assume this refers to the time I entered the juvenile justice system after running away from home. It’s a part of my life and my history as a rebellious teenager. It’s also a badge of honor that affirms how defiant I was, and still am.

In October 1967, my “husband” and I went to Washington DC along with thousands of other hippies whose aim was to gather at the Pentagon. In the background of the photo above, you might be able to see the National Guard lined up.   But never mind about them, just look at my fringed bag and my hippie love beads! What a time to be young and out of control!

Eventually, while hitchhiking in another city, we were questioned by the police and I couldn’t remember some dates on my fake birth certificate. I was taken to the local juvenile facility and held there until arrangements were made to fly me back home. All I remember about that place was the fried chicken and grits.

Back in California, I still refused to stop seeing my “husband,” who had valiantly hitchhiked his way across the country to be with me, risking a jail sentence.   My mother gave up and I was sent to a correctional school for girls, where we wore little uniforms and learned to accept authority. Some of us were cunning enough to pretend to learn it.

After a few months, I was allowed to spend weekends at home with my mom. I was usually relieved to get back to the school, where people were predictable and not bi-polar.

At 15, I went straight from the correctional school to London. During the day, I took my mom’s diet pills and scurried around Kensington Market. At night, I danced for hours on end at a disco bar in Earl’s Court.

Ah, I could write a book, couldn’t I? But that was my only brush with an “institution,” I am sorry to reveal to those who wanted more than a Pepsi.

Uh-oh.

My sister found this photo a couple of weeks ago.   I am thirteen, standing on the street with a cigarette, obviously looking for trouble. I found it, but that’s another story.

I was a child of the ’60’s, but god knows why I thought it was good to look like this. I remember the place in Venice where I used to buy long silk-velvet gowns for $6. I didn’t wear underwear or shoes, but eye-make-up was a priority.

Can you imagine being my mother? What a nightmare it must have been for her. She sometimes screamed at me, “I only hope one day you have a child just like you!” I’ve tried not to hurl this same curse at my own kids, but teenagers tend to challenge one’s patience and sanity.

At thirteen, I insisted that I was adult enough to do whatever I wanted, but in reality I was a complete idiot. Thinking about Tavi now, I see how focused she is. At least she knows something about something, even it’s all about runway fashion. I was an empty vessel, rebelling against authority with all my might, with no other interests or concerns.

I used to blame my parents for how defiant and out of control I was, but now I’m thinking that teenagers have to be awful, if for no other reason than to break away and live their own lives. If they weren’t awful, you might not encourage them to move the hell out of the house.

But some teenagers are more awful than they need to be. Were any of you as awful as me? Or even more awful? Do any of you have an awful teenager of your own to try not to kill deal with? Please share with the class!

In my youth, Max Blagg played a key role, which included my introduction to Astral Weeks.   He was my first “boyfriend” when I moved to London. To a 15 year old juvenile delinquent from L.A., Max was the essence of English allure.

Max was always larger than life, one of those people who emote at high volume and always teeter on the edge of elation or dark despair. He seemed always to be yearning for another environment, another notebook or another woman. He once spent several weeks bitching about his futile search for a Victorian nightshirt. And I once risked his wrath by secretly borrowing his pink corduroy Levi’s, even though I could barely stuff my fat ass into them.

Max lives in NYC now, where he is a poet and man-about-town. I’ve only seen him once in the intervening years. But every time I hear certain records from 1969, I recall the indescribable joy of being free to do everything and everyone, and those memories usually contain an element of Max Blagg.

I missed out on high school but I racked up an education. Some of it was rough but mostly it was thrilling. It’s the kind of shit you can take pride in once you’re a boring housewife with costochondritis.

Happy New Year, Max! I’m glad you’re still around. In my heart you’ll always be 20 years old and the hottest thing on wheels.

Let’s say your teenager acquires a huge wooden plaque adorned with enormous animal horns. And he decides, “These horns would make a great Viking hat.” Then, he goes to an army surplus store and explains why he needs a helmet. Then he borrows an electric saw from the nice new neighbors.

You’re thinking, Jesus Christ, this will never work, why can’t he see that?!”

The thing to do is stand back and let fate take over. They’re going to do what they’re going to do, and it might end up with a gigantic Viking helmet.

Still under the influence of bad hair, I was informed by KOS of an online fashion mag whose editor is 15 years old. Sure enough, it’s all about high-priced ‘avant garde’ designers and models whose hands are THIS CLOSE to touching their faces, with text like “combining armorial pieces with organic materials…”   Wait a minute, do they really mean armorial, which means “pertaining to heraldry” or do they mean “armor-like?”

Take a look at the young Sister Wolf, a poor little hippie girl at age 14. Check the velvet thriftshop dress, the crown of daisies, the elegant cigarette.

Do I know what I’m talking about, people?!

All you horrible teenage fashion girls, listen up. Stop blabbing about Rodarte and Rad Hourani and your fucking shoes and your mom’s shoes, go out and smell the roses! Put them in your hair and buy a pack of fucking cigarettes! Find a new way to be pretentious, for the love of god!   I hate all of you!   This is why it’s so hard to get a babysitter!

These girls are too busy talking about “leggy cashmere playsuits” and not spending enough time experimenting with drugs. Better to be sexting with their BF’s than squandering their precious youth on being epic in their fierce wedges and expounding on the timelessness of the Birkin bag.

Two words for you girls:   Shut Up. (I was going to say “Try Anal,” but then I thought better of it.)

Thanks to the diligence of Palingates, I’m now aware of The Candie’s Foundation, the organization that hired Bristol Palin as a poster girl for teenage abstinence.

If there’s not enough hypocrisy in Bristol Palin telling teenagers not to have sex, The Candie’s Foundation is the work of Candie’s CEO Neil Cole, who wants to cover all bases. While his company flogs trampy high heels to young girls, his foundation reminds them via tight tank-tops ($15) to “BE SEXY: It doesn’t mean you have to have sex.”

Hahaha! Is everybody crazy now?!? Is there a way to apply the fox in the hen-house to this situation? If not, can any sane parent condone these idiotic t-shirts for their poor jail-bait daughter?

Bristol, the jig is up! You got knocked up! Go home and take care of that sedated baby of yours.

Neil, you stupid whoremongering Capitalist Pig, just sell your crappy shoes and drool over teenage poontang with that fucker from American Apparel, without bothering the rest of us.

Teenage Girls, stop giving blowjobs beind the cafeteria unless HE DOES YOU FIRST.

I am really, really mad.

But not at my house! I woke up to a wonderful gift from my Webmaster…a 2-CD recording of Prince’s performance at Coachella last week. Not only a high quality recording but a track list and everything.

You know how fussy Prince is about copyright infringement, and I don’t blame him, as long as I can still get what I want. I have loved the Little Prince since the first time I heard “Dirty Mind,” many light-years ago. Once, a Prince video from that era was playing on my sister’s TV, and her teenage son ran from the room, shrieking “That’s gay, that’s gay!” His terror only confirmed the rebellious, uninhibited brilliance that is Prince.

Prince, don’t be mad! Remember how we paid a thousand bucks to see you in Vegas? And you didn’t come over to sit in my lap? Now we’re even!

Anyway, I’m listening to the concert as I write this. His version of “Creep” is beyond amazing. Try to get your own Webmaster to burn you a copy.