Television reflects society. Society is really screwed.
With Boo now pushing three years old, I’m nervously taking steps into the world of kids’ entertainment.
Among other sad discoveries, we’ve found that Winnie the Pooh has moved to the Hundred Acre Sanatorium: all his friends have major mental health problems but there’s no talk therapy in sight.
In one story, Rabbit, Pooh, and Piglet decide to take Tigger into the deep woods and ditch him there, thus teaching him a lesson for all that bouncing. (The incessant bouncing has gotten ridiculous, too: if ever a cartoon character were a candidate for Ritalin, he’s it.) So Tigger’s friends scare the shit out of him, then get lost and scare the shit out of themselves.
Bad? The next week came the story in which Eeyore throws himself into the river because he’s depressed about everyone forgetting his birthday.
Yipe. I spent ten minutes explaining to Boo that the ladybug she squashed wouldn’t be coming back. How the hell do I cope with suicidal toy donkeys?
Switch channels. Donald gets upset that he traded his chicken to the giant for magic beans, so he, Mickey, and Goofy just nick it back. It’s OK, though — the giant’s an idiot! As long as you steal from stupid people, there’s no problem, right?
We’re left with few options: I could buy the vintage Sesame Street DVDs, but the “Adult Content” labels scare me.
We could go TV-free, but… um, no.
So for now, it’s Iron Chefs making Arctic char ice cream and vintage Speed Racer cartoons on YouTube for me and Boo.
And, if they take my advice, some serious therapy for Pooh and friends.