A ”DJ” who is god to his plastic toys and their diorama, and a questionable cycloptic thing–one might say, disturbingly ”pickle-evocative”–character.  Did the creators think the bumps make the cyclo-dill look any less like an adult-oriented object?  Check it out.  I kid you not, it is diabolical:  Yo Gabba Gabba.   

I didn’t intend for the boys to watch that.  I didn’t intend for my home to be sullied with the bad rays, but it was dinner, Blues Clues was over, and there they were…  I don’t know much about early childhood development.  I don’t pretend to understand the theory behind the children’s programing (other than it is definitely programing), but I cannot believe that a group of educated, well-meaning people could come up with some of these shows.  The character shapes are the least of my issues with the above show.  My bigger issues come with the notion that everyone must be overly medicated/happy all the time. 

When I was a child, it was the idea that any dissention from the group was a bad thing.  All of the cartoons said so.  Go along with the group, or bad things will happen to you.  Now, it’s hyper-optimists who decide that they need to “fix” the “unhappy” character.   I can’t imagine living in that world. 

When I was in middle school, a group of very popular girls got together and created a fund for an “unfortunate.”  It wasn’t a fund to feed her family (I don’t know many impoverished folks living in Eureka/Los Alamos.  No, the fund was to “fix” her, because obviously everyone wants to be stylish, they just can’t afford to and/or don’t have taste.  Their sights set upon their prey, they planned, they seized their moment, and they pounced. For a brief spot of time, I think the poor girl thought she had gained friendship from the “it” girls, and her spirits seemed lifted.  However, as the gang set-to, and she discovered what it was all about, all manner of terror, teeth, wasted makeup, flying glitter, ripping threads, tears, and mentally debilitating moments ensued.  Girls are horrifically cruel (particularly when we seem to be “playing nice”). 

I am at a loss to understand a world wherein a “maverick” is seen as somebody who simply declares that’s what they are, a place where a notion of “perfection” is not only strived for, but faked when we fail.  That, my friends, is a world totally devoid of art.

Bringin’ the Helmet, and leavin’ the leathers,

Pru