Friday, August 27, 2010
A Point, Everyone's Got One
Yesterday the boys introduced their sister to Scooby Doo. It was like a rite of passage, a cultural initiation. They love Scooby Doo, as a nostalgic touchstone, and as a supreme example of horrible animation and storytelling... so bad it's good. They watch for the cell when Fred and Shaggy's heads swap. They count the number of times Daphne's eyes change, cross, shrink, and go inexplicably wonky. Face sizes morph like they were made of jello, and Shaggy's arms sometimes extend well below his knees. Why do those groovy kids party on desolate beaches? How many malts can they suck down? Do they know anyone else besides criminals, and ghost impersonators? How stoned were Hanna and Barbera?
Yes, I was a re-run fan when I was in grade school, but on our lunch-box size BW TV, the glaring badness of it was less pronounced. Occasionally an adult would berate us kids, remarking "Your generation watches cr@p." My impulse was to remind said adult, "Your generation produces cr@p." Ahh... the seventies.
Where was I?
Oh, yes, randomness...
So, cartoons? On a school night?
The boys are awesome. So is Maria.
I was summoned back to the grade school for a... uh... back-to-school night. Parents get the low down on schedules, plans, ideals, philosophy, PTA, and money, or lack of money, and how we can help bring back the money. It had sweet moments. But mostly I wanted to be back-to-home.
Back at home William, Alex, and Max were keeping everything safe and pleasant. Max was completing homework too. They are the best, most reliable, considerate babysitters ever. And I am comfortable with them taking initiative in educating Maria about the unique sensibilities and nuance of bad television. We cannot shelter children, not really.
Wow. This really is pointless.
Mostly I just started writing in an attempt to avoid thinking about the day ahead, but now I have tackled the most objectionable part of the day, the dreaded part, and having survived, I am wondering what the heck this post is about.
I may actually be pointless. And not for the first time.
Plus I am a bit stressed, and sleep deprived.
I bet if I tried to dance right now, on a desolate beach, I would look as stiff as Daphne, with huge crossed eyes, staring vacuously, for twenty frames, then I would inexplicably fall through an abandoned mine shaft.
Let's just forget I wrote any of this. Shall we?
Except for the part about the wonderful children. They really do make me happy and proud. That is important. Write that down.