Okay, so I know this blog is supposed to be about running and fitness, and whatnot. And typically it is. However, today I am going to allow myself a digression; as the father of a 7-year-old and a 3-year-old, television show choices are a common and oftentimes contentious topic. In hopes of helping you, my dear readers, avoid having to navigate these pitfalls, I offer the following assessment of a number of shows. Please note that this list may or may not closely mirror the shows which cause great puling and importuning in your children; it is based upon my daughters' current and past favorites. And, after all, it is my fucking blog...
We will start with that old standby (and current favorite of the youngest), Curious George. This is, as I'm sure you are all aware, a show about a man with a fanatical predilection for all things yellow and his ostensibly endearing monkey sidekick. Between their apartment in the city and their country house, they manage to have all sorts of wacky adventures, including going both into space and to the bottom of the ocean. These episodes typically involve some sort of mishap, of the sort that could easily be avoided with the slightest bit of common sense or foresight. However, as George seems to possess neither, he blunders onward, creating situations from which he, or one of his seemingly endless list of friends (who seem to have limitless patience for his idiotic hijinks) must extricate himself. This is a show for the id. This is a show about poor impulse control. This is a show about what would happen if a two-year-old had the physical wherewithal and manual dexterity of a full-grown monkey. This show is fucking terrifying.
"Little ones can learn a lot from George" begins the program description on Netflix. I should bloody well hope not. I, for one, do not want my little ones to learn that it's okay to steal all the dogs from a dog show, or explore a construction site about which they have already been warned, or release a hutchful of rabbits into the wilderness. Most of all, I definitely do not want them learning that, no matter what you do, no matter how badly you fuck things up, all will end up well if you are cute and engaging and can climb well and use your feet like hands. Got news for ya, kid: you're not a monkey. You try any of this shit, and you will be a ward of the state so fast it'll make your head spin. Really, the down-east accents of some the country bumpkins, and the inexplicably-named rabbit Herbert Nenninger are about the only redeeming characteristics of the show. Even the love story, between Mr Yellow Pants and Dr Wiseman is nerdish and gawky. Just get it on, already. Send George to stay with Hundley the anal-retentive Dachshund and the World's Richest Doorman for the night and have awkward, shameful geek sex. It'll relieve a lot of the tension...
Next up, straight from the Great White North, we have Max & Ruby. The story of two anthropomorphic rabbits without parents. No one knows quite what happened to them; perhaps hasenpfeffer replaced poutine as the dish of choice in Canada, maybe they wandered into Mr McGregor's garden and did not emerge, maybe they just plain got sick of their kids and ran away to run a convenience store in Vancouver, selling President's Choice and ketchup chips to pierced, sweatered hipsters and thanking their lucky stars they got out. Couldn't blame 'em. Whatever the reason, the pair seem to live alone (maybe someone should notify the Department of Health and Rabbit Services). Luckily, they have their giggly, spry grandma to watch over them.
Good thing, too...these kids (kits?) are utterly hopeless. Ruby, the older of the two, is overbearing, schoolmarmish, insufferable, and smug. Imagine a completely uninteresting, dull, non-brilliant Sheldon Cooper. As a female rabbit. Okay, that's a bit of a stretch... She always wants to get her way and has seemingly little patience for her little brother's antics. Which is a shame because, to put it bluntly, Max is a shit. He is a monosyllabic, cunning little terror who serves as foil to Ruby's attempts at order, crafts, and tea parties. The show's writers have decided that he will be given only one word or phrase to speak each episode; this could be a pathetic cry for help regarding their own obsessions. Sad.
Each episode follows the same formula: Ruby plans something, Max's escapades make things go horribly (and, presumably, hilariously) awry. Ruby fusses about it. Max pulls something out of his ass and saves the day. This show is so predictable, it makes The Lone Ranger look like an episode of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. The only mystery is with which of Max's strangely-incorrectly-named toys he will play. For example, his SkyMaster Stealth Jet very clearly has two propeller engines. Then again, what else would you expect from two prepubescent rabbits living alone in a house that has sombrero wallpaper in the kitchen?
The final entry in this chapter is fucking Caillou. The show whose name I cannot say (or, apparently, type) without using profanity. This is a show about the fucking titular character, a whiny, bald, grabby little 4-year-old fussbudget who lives in the Land of Primary Colors (a badly-disguised Canada) (Surprise!) with his mommy Doris, daddy Boris, grandma and grandpa and little sister Rosie. I'm not sure exactly what it is about fucking Caillou that makes me despise it with the intensity of a thousand supernovae, but I do. Maybe it's because he is just so incredibly fussy, so pettish, so self-absorbed that you just want to strangle the little bastard. It could be because of the twee, cutesy theme song. And yes, I am proud to say that I have made up objectionable lyrics for it. Not tonight; maybe some other time. Perhaps it's because of the annoying way the narrator (fucking Caillou's paternal grandmother) expresses his thoughts and emotions, which would be obvious to even the dullest of viewers. "(Fucking) Caillou felt sad." Well, no shit. He's a puling, milquetoast-y, over-sensitive little wretch. "(Fucking..okay, I think you get the idea) Caillou didn't want Rosie to come along." Duh. He's a self-entitled little prick.
But no, the real reason for my loathing is that the show is so correct, so painstakingly sensitive, so terrifyingly fair. There are days when mommy takes the car and days when daddy takes the car. There is very little mention of anything differentiating; indeed. mommy and daddy possess the same fashion sense, hairstyle, body type. No one is left out, at least not for long. Leo, the little ginger in the stupid green overalls, goes from bully to best friend in one freaking episode, for fuck's sake. There is dissent, but it's in the style of Rosie-wants-ice-cream-and-(fucking)-Caillou-wants-cake. Pretty vanilla stuff. He possesses a veritable United Nations of friends: Clementine is black (and not orange as I had so desperately hoped); Sarah is of Chinese ancestry; Leo is the aforementioned lost Weasley child; Emma is diabetic; Andre' has the distinct handicap of being French. The even-handedness is enough to cause Dear Abby to loose a string of invectives that would blast the paint off a submarine. Assuming submarines are, indeed, painted.
In the end, though (which is exactly where the little jackass can cram it. I'll leave it to you to decide which end), it is all about the children. To teach them, at their impressionable ages, about fairness and wonder and discovery and wearing the same damned outfit every day and being a whiny little snip and...
Sorry. That was piling on.
I will conclude by mentioning a study done at the University of Virginia and published in Pediatrics: three groups of preschoolers were engaged in, respectively, watching Spongebob Squarepants, watching Caillou, and drawing pictures. After nine minutes, each group was tested on their cognitive and attentive function. The picture-drawers and little-grousing-puke-watchers both scored significantly higher than the SBSP-watchers. There is a lesson to be drawn from this. Please, parents. For the love of all this is good and decent in this world, please make your children draw lots of pictures.
