Monday Chat #3 – Kid Shows Take on Reality

While this is not what I promised the next episode of Monday Chat would be about, but I did go on one hell of a weird tangent this week. For these past seven days I have been looking up a bunch of cartoons and advertisements from my childhood, seeing if I recall anything that I’ve forgotten or gotten some nostalgia boost out of it. For the most part, I didn’t – I did get Heroscape, though.

And while I did not discover anything crazy from my childhood, I did discover something else… something that I could have only discovered as an adult now. And that’s the way kid show’s try to take on serious topics in order to teach kids about them.

From what I’ve seen the greatest example of this – and the first example I’ve found – is Sesame Street. Sesame Street deals with so many topics like these at the onset its kind of hilarious. I mean, canonically within the Sesame Street Universe, Elmo received PTSD at a very young age. Also, his Uncle Jack died “in the war” (what the war is we’re never actually told) which then later causes Elmo’s dad and his neighbor Ricardo (Eduardo? I don’t actually remember his name) to join “the war” and when they come back Elmo and his father’s relationship is stunted not to mention that Ricardo doesn’t have fucking legs anymore. And beyond the deployment trilogy, there’s also other small tidbits here and there – Gina is apparently given death threats for being in a mixed-race relationship, Mr Hooper (who’s store burned down, thus giving Elmo PTSD) is later found dead, and Lil Oscars father is apparently incarcerated. These revelations just lead to more questions – what is this so called war? What are its combatants? Does that mean there’s a greater world outside of Sesame Street? Is there prosthetics in the Sesameverse? What about funerals? What is Sesame Street prison like? If there’s racism and incarceration, does that mean that there’s a Sesame Street Aryan Brotherhood? Sesame Street, however, leaves these questions up to the imagination.

But when you take the videos into the context which they are actually meant to be taken, it is equally interesting. The method of trying to teach a kid about things like death or war or racism are hard for anyone to do, so it is interesting that these cartoons and other children shows have decided to step in and help in describing such things in a way kids will understand.

Sometimes they aren’t so blatant as Sesame Street, though, and are instead worked into the plot of the show itself in which the characters directly are impacted, and their responses are used as guidelines for the children watching. Such is the case in Why, Charlie Brown, Why?, where Linus’ playmate Janice is diagnosed with leukemia.

I prefer this method (though it is more difficult) because you’re enhancing the narrative while still giving people – including kids – something to think about. These serious moments in children’s TV can help teach people how to cope when dealing with a troubling situation like this while also help develop characters and story that will engage the audience.

Of course, Janice never actually appears outside of that episode. A more appropriate example in this case would be in Doug, where Doug’s crush Patti ends up falling into an eating disorder due to constant media outpouring on how the ideal female body is unnaturally slender – a problem that was very real at the time that the episode came out.

Throughout the episode Doug struggles to get help for her from other adults, though merely throw it off, also falling into the ploy of the media. This all escalates when Patti actually passes out during a track and field match, in which the previous satirized adults now take the topic very seriously. Doug in itself is full of moments like these – which may make it good for a full analysis on its own.

And, of course, this topic as a whole has more to be discussed as well. These are just three examples of such introspection in kids shows that I find the most poignant. Of course, there’s always the lighter side of cartoons to – what makes the best ones accessible to kids and adults alike – and that might be a topic for later as well. I know I’ll probably continue this binge into next week, so there might be some sort of continuation then, but for now this has been this week’s topic for Monday Chat.

Currently listening: I have spent about 90% of my listening time this week dedicated to Scum Fuck Flower Boy and my honest opinion is that it’s just as good as any of Tyler’s other albums. I’m one of the music rogues who really did heavily enjoy WOLF and Cherry Bomb (not Goblin though, we don’t talk about that) so I’m mostly just glad that most other people now have the respect for him that I already had. I honestly can’t really tell the quality difference between this and other albums he’s done, other than that the songs are much more catchy this time around. A solid 8/10, as always. Favorite songs: See You Again, Pothole, Boredom, I Aint Got Time, 911.

Currently watching: Uh… late 2000s ads? Honestly I had a bit of an existential crisis when I found out my childhood years happened then. 2007 still seems real damn recent – I mean, I guess it was, in the grand scheme of things – but I still feel pretty comfy watching them, so I guess I’ll keep doing that. In other news, Twin Peaks and Game of Thrones is tomorrow (I am once again writing this not actually on Monday). I honestly would have dropped GoT by now since the episode was in fact exactly like the leak, but the action sequence brought me up just enough that I felt some weird purgatory state with the episode itself (which really can describe my entire feeling with the show), so this time I’ve decided if I hate the next episode OR feel “meh” about it I’ll probably drop it. I also think I watched like, half an episode of House of Cards before I remembered why I dropped it.

Currently playing: Mostly been Skyrim and Age of Empires II this week. Not that I dropped Rome Total War, but as fun and hilarious as the elephants are to use it does kind of get old of being so easily able to wipe out a massive enemy army. There’s also the fact that the game crashes 66% of the time with them in it. Mistakes were made.

Currently reading: Nothing new. I am a very slow reader and all the books that I’m reading are 500+ pages – what did you expect?

Last Stand of Buckweed Ranch

Let me tell you now the tragic tale of Buckweed Ranch.

Back in Texas, during the Great Depression, there was a wave of crises that involved landlords going to the farmer's home in order to evict them from the property in the fear that they could no longer produce profit. This caused a wave of terror among the farmers themselves, calling for the government to amend these so called discriminatory violations and be able to stay in the place they raised their families. And yet, despite all this anger and fear that developed out of these unplanned evictions, all of the families ended up leaving – begrudgingly or no. All of them, except Walter Forsen.

Walter had always been the stubborn type. Ever since he was born he had lived on that Ranch, he had a strong devotion to it. As men and their families began to be evicted, Walter had barely batted an eye. Even Lando Holmes, the owner of the ranch and lifelong friend of the Forsens, begged Walter to leave early, offering him large sums of money to go live in a more stable area. He told Walter that it wasn't him, but the banks that were throwing Walter off. Walter didn't listen.

At it was in February of 1932 that Lando himself was finally forced to come down to the ranch with a tractor and force Walter off the land. He got all the way up to the door and prepared to knock when Walter opened the door himself.

From the beginning the last Forsen's disposition seemed incredibly odd. Whereas he had been sending Lando crude and hateful replies to his letters from that point on, at the door the man seemed eager to see him and completely oblivious of what was about to happen. He welcomed Lando in, told him to sit at the kitchen table, and then wait while Walter went to go finish something up. The way Lando sat at that kitchen table meant he was facing the windows of the kitchen with the door behind him – meaning he was completely ignorant when Walter fired the two shots from his revolver straight into the back of his head.

They say Lando didn't die at first, but rather fell off the chair and began convulsing on the floor for a few moments before his official death finally came. It didn't matter to Walter. The man he had once called a friend was now a significant threat that needed to be eliminated. As all men know, property is valued more than friends.

It didn't take the police too long to gather what had happened to Lando. They had warned Lando of Forsen's speech before, when he had first began sending the letters. Lando, in his ignorance, refused to believe them. He believed that he was the only man who could convince Walter to leave that place. Now, everyone knew no one could.

They send the entire Alberton county police department to that farm. The cop cars were perfectly lined up around the perimeter so there was no escape. They wanted to bait him out, so they waited. Waited until the man himself finally appeared at the second story balcony.

He was only able to shoot the rifle once before a flurry of bullets decimated his body. The one shot was actually quite interesting; the bullet was a long way off from hitting any of the policeman. This is the shot where the story tends to differ. Some say Walter Forsen was just a bad shot. Some say that the rifle he was using was old and worn out, and so the bullets trajectory was much different than Walter probably anticipated. Others say that he wasn't trying to hit the police at all, but rather for they to hit him.

Buckweed Ranch never had an occupant since. The Depression wore it out, and its newly found dark history destroyed it. Some men in Alberton county believe that's what Walter wanted – for it only to ever be a Forsen ranch. To some men in the county, Walter is a pioneering hero. To others, he is the ultimate fear, and the ultimate villain.

Fat Man, Little Boy

When I first got across the street, I didn't quite understand what I was looking at. There was a grand group of people all surrounding a small little pocket of shadowed area on a sidewalk. Two bikes had been discarded nearby. An older man ran across to a cul-de-sac right around the corner. In all honesty I don't like moments like these getting to me – whenever there's a moment that draws peoples attention I always look away. Keeps me more focused than those around me. Yet this time I couldn't help but be curious. I figured I might as well check it out; I had to go down that path eventually.

As I got closer the figures which I had only been vaguely able to discern became more and more clear. All these people, for which there must have been seven, were all surrounding one boy. The boy was only slightly younger than I was, with much more fat. One of the men handed him water. He took it silently. They asked him questions, but he said nothing.

But perhaps the most interesting feature about the boy was the blood peppered across his body. It wasn't streaming, or dripping, or falling. It was merely there. In the time I looked at the kid, although brief, I couldn't find any source to where the blood came from. In fact, it some ways it even looked fake. The blood had mixed with the sweet and became much lighter, giving off the impression of a used marker rather than blood. Hell, the only reason I did know it was blood was because the group had mentioned it so.

I didn't get that long of a chance to look at the boy. The second I took a peek his eyes instantly found me, even with all the others around. They looked, expectantly. What they were expecting, I never found out. I continued on my way.

A few days passed before I saw him again. The crowd of people were no longer there. He was still laying down under the shade of the same tree. The blood was now gone. I took another brief glance at him. Part of me was tempted to ask him what had happened but I never did, reason being is that he gave me the same eyes he did during our previous meeting. Expectant eyes. He wanted something from me, something I wasn't giving him.

After that second meeting I became fully engrossed in the boy. What did he want? Was it something only I could give him? I tried thinking of someone he might have reminded me of, but came up with nothing. I searched around campus for him but the trip turned fruitless. I asked a close friend if she had heard of any accident that happened on that street recently. She shook her head.

Those next few days I went across that street fully wishing to see the kid again, to ask him what I had not gained the courage to ask before, but it was to no avail. It was only after, when I had begun to become frustrated, when I began to doubt myself, when I had forgotten about the fat boy entirely, that I saw him again.

My initial reaction was anger. Was he taunting me? Did he in some way know that I was looking for him and plan accordingly? I got right up to his face. He gave me expectant eyes. I didn't bother wasting any time.

“Do I know you?”

No answer, though for the first time he did look away, trailing off towards something in the distance before looking back up to me. I knew he wasn't deaf. He could hear me.

“Why do you keep showing up here?”

Once again there was no response, but the focused look on his face began to fade. Whatever I was saying, it was weakening him. I decided to go deeper.

“What happened to you last week? When you were bleeding?”

Then, he stopped looking. Just stared off into the distance. Into nothing. I asked a few more questions. Repeated some others. Now, nothing changed. He just stared. I started getting angry again.

“What the fuck do you want?”

The answer was nothing. It was the answer I expected, but not the one I wanted. I got closer to his face. He didn't react. I could feel myself rising in fury but I didn't want to do anything. So I left. I didn't want to leave, but I had no other choice. I took a long look behind me and he was still there. Hadn't changed position at all. I stopped turning around by the time I had reached the next block and just kept going.

I never saw him again.

It was only a few years later that I finally found out what was the deal with the little boy. It turns out, unlike what I thought, he didn't suffer from an accident. Rather, he came home to his father – a father who had a history of being particularly violent. The two had an argument, and the father hit him until he was unconscious. They say the father spoke These will make sure you don't talk again when he used the scissors to snip out the boy's tongue. They say the father only realized what he did when the tongue continued to move and slip within his hand, as if controlled by an act of God. They say it was the tongue, not the boy, not the argument, and not his life, that made him kill himself not long after. They say that ever since his father's death the boy, at some hour of the day, will go sit down by the shade of the shadow of that tree and just wait. Occasionally someone will come back and he would just stare at them. Stare at them expectantly. No one could ever really find out what the boy was after. Perhaps he was looking for someone to love him. Or perhaps someone to blame. Perhaps he wasn't looking for anything at all, he just sacrificed his own life to become an observer in our world, looking up at us expectantly to make some sort of move. Or perhaps, perhaps he was looking for someone to finish the job.

INCIDENTAL EVENTS

Picture this: a highschool sophomore. Lost in the world. Younger than most of his classmates. Male. Brown shaggy hair with the same color eyes to match. The school day had just ended, he didn't learn anything. Review in math and chemistry. In English he spent the entire hour staring at a girl he was sweet on and then got yelled at by the teacher for not paying attention. The rest of the classes didn't matter because he spent the rest of the time focusing on thinking about the state of life. He was thinking about it just then, when he saw the girl.

The courtyard was empty, save for her. To the boy, she was ugly. But that's not what drove his attention. The girl was kneeling down, face in her hands. She wore a black weather knapshack and typical gothic clothing. A nicely crafted beanie sat atop her head. She was crying.

As the boy approached, he thought out the scenario in his head. What if he were to talk to her? Pat her back and say, 'Why are you crying'? How would she respond?

Perhaps she would say it was a personal conflict. Maybe she lost a friend. A good friend. A best friend. Or maybe it was more romantic. Maybe at a point earlier in the day she had a relationship, but it's second half said it just couldn't be. Maybe it was something more material, like a bad exam grade. Maybe it was just depression. Whatever it was, however, it would cause the two to talk. He would tell her the story about the teacher, how she yelled at him and caused him to feel embarrassed. He would say how he felt the rest of that day: betrayed. Betrayed by the teacher, betrayed by the girl he spent the time looking at, betrayed by himself. And maybe the ugly crying girl would understand him, and he would understand her. And then they would talk different subjects, different things, different thoughts. The girl would stop crying, and the boy would stop thinking.

But then he got scared. What if they got to know each other very well? What if he stopped thinking she was ugly? What if they fell in love?

What would happen to the girl in English class? Would he never have a chance to love her again? Would his colleagues laugh at him again, now that he had to settle with this girl? Would he look worse to them than he already did?

From their the conflict drove from the girl to the boy's own head. He almost cried, too; but he managed to hold in his tears. He was close to the girl now. He had to make a decision and his subconscious made it for him. He steered clear of the girl and went on his normal way out the school. At first, he was ashamed of his decision. But by the time he had reached those school gates he managed to convince himself that it was the right move.

After all, what was the point?

The Lonely Road

Four boys make their way across a desert using an old used sedan. The road is long – the desert goes on in all directions, and the only sign that it does have an end is the mountains off in the distance. The road isn't, however, lonesome; occasionally an 18-wheeler or a family RV come out of seemingly no where, keep up with them for a few moments, before going on and passing by.

The boys didn't care. They were in full spirits, making joke and comments to pass the time while one of them kept his focus on the road. The boys were old enough to drive but young enough to still be called boys. Old enough to start thinking about life, but young enough to not yet understand death.

But one did try to make the effort that very night. While the others stayed oblivious, he put his face to a cold car window and thought deeply for the first time about the world without him. It was a strange idea. A foreign one, one he didn't particularly like. And yet he kept thinking of it, kept trying to piece it all together.

“What do you think happens after we die?”

The question was just loud enough to stop the other three from laughing. They turned to the companion who had made their lighthearted romp reach a morbid conclusion.

“What are you going on about?” One of the boys pepped out.

The philosopher shrugged. “I'm just curious.”

The conversation would've ended there if it wasn't for his curiosity also infecting one of the boys who was driving, even though he didn't necessarily understand the question.

“I mean its a safe to say that we probably go to some place like Heaven, right? Well, maybe not Heaven exactly, but something like it. Like a place where people can all hang out with their previous generations.”

“No, I didn't say where we go, I said what happens.”

“What's that question supposed to mean?” The original skeptic pointed out. “I mean, we die, we're no longer in the world, that's it.”

“But, I mean, people miss us, right? Our families miss us, our friends miss us-”

“Hey,” the driver spoke up again, motioning towards the fourth member who had not yet spoken. “Think Lisa from 5th grade would miss you if you died?”

“Oh, I don't think so.” Though the fourth gave a definitive answer, he shrugged. “Well, I don't know. I mean, how is she gonna figure out I'm gone anyway?”

There was a moment of silence that followed in which each of the members of the car digested those words. Gone. Died. How could they apply to them? Then again, don't they apply to everyone?

“What made you think of this, anyway?” – That would be the skeptic's last question.

The philosopher, just like before, shrugged. “I've just been thinking out it. It's weird, y'know? I mean, when some old dude dies, its expected, there's just some family gathered around, but if it happens to one of us.”

The fourth now vocally addressed his opinion on the subject. “Can we stop talking about this, please? Jesus, it's like you're out to jinx us or something.” That didn't stop the philosopher from continuing.

“I just wonder like, have we done enough in the world to warrant us being of any real importance? Or maybe our deaths would be more important, cause a lot of people we know about are still around-”

The driver, one of the philosopher's original allies, now spoke against him. “Hey, maybe it's not the best time to talk about this, okay? I don't want to be stuck on this long car ride talking about this.”

And so the philosopher finally quit, but the car ride never did quite get back to the positivity they had beforehand. Now, they all had death on their minds. Their own deaths.

They say that, near your death, you begin to take these things into consideration. No one knows how the body and mind are able to predict these events, nor does anyone know whether it's really true that they can. Only one thing is for sure – a hell of a lot of men on their deathbed tend to find God in those final moments. You can only wonder why. 

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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
Facebook: facebook.com/CodexofAegis 

 

The Atmosphere of Souls

On a business trip I once made my way up to the Chinese province of Tibet. The place was, in my opinion, completely beautiful – richly decorated sculptures, murals fashioned in exorbitant detail, and fanciful shrines carved out of the stone of the sturdy Himalayan mountainsides. One day, when I was visiting one of these grand religious monuments, a local beggar stopped me in my steps and asked me, incredibly in English, if I could spare him some money.

“And what reason would I have to do that?” I replied to him.

“Because, I know within my soul,” the man gave a pump to his chest with his hand, “that you are a good man. And I know, within my soul, that I am a good man. And I know, within all our souls, all people are born good, and when their soul is still good and not yet soured, they commit good deeds.”

It sounded like a scam, so I laughed and took advantage of the moment to see if I could take the conversation down an entertaining path. “So, you believe all men are good?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe I am good?”

“Yes.”

“And so you believe that I should give you money, because I am good?”

“I am not saying that, because of the purity of your soul, you are required to do me any service. Indeed, I did not beg – I questioned. I asked you, 'Do you have a dollar to spare'? I understand in your country that can be taken as a demand. But here, to me, it is the truth.”

“You still did not answer my question – what do you have that will make it worth my while to throw away my money to you? How do I know you aren't the town drunk, or a rambling madman?”

The man stopped, and looked at his chest. “Because I know that you can see the good in souls too. I know you are hesitant, but I also know that you know what I would do with the money.”

“And what would you do?”

“Give it away.”

“And what if the person you give away my money to isn't worthy?”

“Well, it isn't your money anymore, is it not? You have no reason to worry.”

I gave a chuckle. The old man was clever, but not wise.

“So, you believe everyone has a kind soul?”

“Yes.”

“And what of those with evil souls?”

“Anyone's soul can be persuaded to evil, just as any evil soul can be rehabilitated back to good.”

“But don't more souls turn evil than evil to good?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, stories of men turning evil are much more common than those of evil men turning good. If you are true, shouldn't men be able to convert back to good at the same rate that they turn evil?”

My question caused the old man to think for a moment. “Evil souls are turned evil by the atmosphere. If the atmosphere does not change, they stay evil. If the atmosphere does change, they turn back good.”

“So people do not change atmospheres often?”

“They can't change atmospheres often. Not many souls have that ability.”

I began to understand the point the man was trying to make. “So the money you want to give, isn't to the good souls...”

“...It's to the evil souls, to change their surroundings.”

“And you don't need the money, because your surroundings are clean?”

“Of course.”

I smiled. “Well, my friend, I'd say you won me over.” I pulled out a few silver coins and dropped them into the man's outreached hands. He eyed them carefully, and just as he made his revelation, I continued to speak: “They aren't currency. They are better than currency. There's a man who runs a restaurant not to far from here, by the bay. Give these to him, and he'll give you what you want.”

“And what is that?”

“A chance at changing the atmosphere of souls.”

The old man was reluctant at first, but eventually he clenched the coins within his fist and dropped them into his bag. “I know I can trust you. I can see your soul is pure. May we meet again, my friend.”

“May we meet again.”

Later that day, I went back to the restaurant at the bay. The owner, cleaning off one of the tables, turned and greeted me when he heard the entry bell ring.

I asked him, “Have you had any new customers?”

“Yes, indeed I did. One came in today.”

“And what did he look like?”

“Old, hunched back. Tattered clothes.”

I smiled again. As it turns out, the old man did come straight to the restaurant as he had said he would, and didn't give away the coins. I continued: “So, where is he now?”

The man I had partnered with continued to put his brush to the table. “On the path to Morocco. I still have a repayment to Fariq – when I saw the man it was the first thing I thought of.”

“What will he be used for? He's old, bony, frail, and has a bit of an attitude – he seems more of a liability for laboring work.”

The man stopped cleaning tables, and partially turned his head toward me. “I never told you, did I?”

“What?”

“The truth.”

“What truth?”

“Fariq doesn't use his slaves as laborers. He has his own hired force for that. Instead, the man has a bit of a special interest.”

“What interest is that?”

“The consumption of human flesh.”

The image of it gave me a chuckle – Fariq, an old, fat, stout king nibbling on the legs of a hunchback while the frail wiseman rattled off some line from Confucius, Fariq barely listening. I suppose that is the fate of those who get their philosophies wrong.

Later that day, I went to explore another temple.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
Facebook: facebook.com/CodexofAegis 

Gone

One could say that at some point in the process a little recognition lost was a little recognition gained – but that was no longer the case. The man now had nothing, was nothing, felt nothing, believed nothing, saw nothing, and heard nothing. It is incredible to think – that at one point, a man could have such an important purpose in this world only to be simply cast off by another, younger generation as someone without meaning. Who this man is, is not important. You would have not heard of him, and likely the only reason you would be interested in knowing is seeing if you recognized the name. Sure, he was a major figure, but this was a long time ago in a very distant place. Even though he had changed history, history had not kept him in the record books.

What may be a valid question to ask, however, is where the man was now. Certainly he was long dead, but no one exactly knows where his body is. It had not been received by any cemetery, and the last of those who knew him lost contact with him long ago. I am not one of those men. I never knew who this unsung legend was until very recently in my life. Indeed, in many ways I am not qualified to write this long awaited eulogy, but I feel as though it must be done. 

There is something about this man. Something in which I can connect with, and something I think everyone can connect with, in our own special way. It is not uncommon to fear being forgotten. It is not uncommon to fear being gone. I, too, have this fear. A fear of turning into this man – a fear that, though I may do something great, I could be forgotten the second public ideology changes hands.

Indeed, sometimes a little recognition lost is a little recognition gained. Sometimes one must make a hard decision everyone at the time may despise, to help those in the future. Sometimes one must sacrifice individuality to help the community. Sometimes those who are hated the most are the ones who saved the world. But those who play by this rule walk a thin line. And one day, eventually, all recognition is lost, and nothing is gained. And no one is remembered. And the world stays the same.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
Facebook: facebook.com/CodexofAegis