Skip to main content

Pop: A Memoir

 As my son approaches his 2.5 birthday, I find our lives are overwhelmed by Cocomelon.


This is a series of scripted televised songs for children. I don't know how the songs entered our lives, but they won't leave. They're like crack. You have pulsing rhythms and a literally nonstop chorus of soft giggling. (The giggling is just a little creepy -- and it makes me think of porn, the way the quiet sighing is added on top of the visuals, in "post-production.")

The baby-protagonists in Cocomelon have large "Charlie Brown" heads, and they walk in clumsy ways, as actual toddlers walk.

If Cocomelon has a plot, that plot concerns the small crises in the life of JJ, a tiny kid with issues. These are his issues. His mother shows up late for a special school edition of "Winter Show and Tell." He feels nervous on the first day of Kindergarten. He has a friend who struggles with the jump-rope. ("Someone's in my head, saying NOT A CHANCE! Someone's in the mirror, telling me I CAN'T!")

A part of me admires Cocomelon, because crises aren't minimized. When JJ goes to the doctor, the chorus doesn't sing IT WON'T HURT! Instead, craftily, the chorus says YOU MIGHT NEED A SHOT. BUT DO NOT FEAR....IT WON'T HURT....A LOT..... (Someone on the writing staff deserves a Peabody.)

Also, JJ's first day of Kindergarten isn't a full success: The writers really linger over the painful moment when Mom leaves. JJ gets teary, and we have to confront that. As JJ works through his day, I imagine a Sondheim tune plays in his head, a song of ambivalence: "You're sorry.....grateful....regretful.....happy...." And that's life.

Do I need new hobbies? You said it, not me. This is what presently fills my day.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more