Disney Shows Present Some Odd Philosophical Problems

I'm trying to decide what I should let my kid watch on television. She's young enough to where really I could watch what I want and just hope she picks up some words, but old enough to where she's begun to count and I didn't teach her that outside of threatening her to come here right this instant or else.

Since she has become well practiced at ignoring me and any form of leadership I try to present, it's safe to say she's getting her "1, 2 and 3" from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, not Daddy's meaningless threats. That has to be a good thing, right?

Right?

Why it's probably Not:

Let's talk about Pluto, Mickey's lovable yellow canine companion. But before we talk about Pluto and his antics, let's point out the obvious:

Mickey and Minnie are mice.

Donald and Daisy are ducks.

Goofy is a dog.

Who is dating a cow, Clarabelle.

Pete is a cat.

They all talk. They all wear clothes. They all have homes and they seem to  have various interests and jobs they perform or pursue. They are basically humans, just as animals. In art this is called, anthropomorphism. To Disney this is called profit.

This is super cool and all except that they all own pets. You know? Other animals.

Pluto is basically some kind of weird slave companion to Mickey.

I'm willing to let this go because I didn't notice it until I began to watch a show for children as an adult. Honestly, modern day facebook probably has me too 'woke' to such things to be healthy anyway.

But then...

Mickey Mouse Roadster Racer's come along.

Now let's immediately toss out the wacky world of cartoons. You can ignore the fact that Pluto can drive but can't talk (when needed) or that car accidents rearrange cars into comical, yet functional, versions of the same car. No one dies in these races, which might set a bad precedent for your child when they come of age and get behind the wheel, but it's a safe bet that the driver's test won't have loop-de-loops and shower-powered vehicles. I think your kid will survive.

But let's get down to brass tacks. Money. No one ever uses money. In fact, the "Happy Helpers" is a clearly defined business where two unprepared, inexperienced young women go do random jobs they  are wholly unsuited for...and somehow always succeed!

And then never get paid!

I'm not sure I want to set a precedent for that. Value yourself, girl! You do the work, you collect the bill.

Lastly, Puppy Dog Pals. This is a world where dogs take themselves to the dog park, go to Egypt in the morning because their owner said something that hinted at the Pyramids, go to France to find some bread, etc. So I think we can go on a limb.

But then there's A.R.F. Now this is an robotic dog who can clean the house in a variety of ways, so long as the dogs make the mess, he can fix actual holes in the wall. He runs on some kind of black hole technology, this thing can clean up literally any mess, with no downtime, and never has to dispose of the waste afterwords.

Where A.R.F. becomes a problem is in language. Bob, the owner of the pug puppies, invented, built and programmed A.R.F. Bob does not know how to speak "dog." He speaks English. The show makes this clear when we see the dogs talking to him in "dog" which we, the audience, hear in English, but when it cuts back to Bob he just hears them barking. Meanwhile, A.R.F. can talk to the dogs just fine.

So how did Bob program "dog." It would be pretty easy for an English speaking programmer to program Spanish or French, there are already programs in those languages, not to mention massive dictionaries, etc. But the same can't be said for "dog."

A.R.F. can learn.

This is how you get Skynet people. Wait, does Disney own the Terminator series now?

Hand Sanitizer and a Mother's Worst Fear

I was at Disney recently, and not exactly by my own choice, but the story there gets hazy and is full of cartoons and roller coasters and there's no real reason to go into further detail. We'll begin and end the Disney segment with this: I was at Disney recently, and not exactly by my own choice.

A reality of theme parks and public places in general is their near uniform lack of cleanliness (on the germ level.) You can pay people to walk around picking up trash and wiping down glass...

Smiles? Here, sir. Anti-bacterial spray? He didn't show up for work, sir. Damnit, forget him boys, we'll do this with brooms and trash scoops alone. Once more into the breach, gentlemen.

...but in the end, every park goer, mall goer, boardwalk walker and roller coaster enthusiast, is touching every park surface, every bathroom faucet and every single one of those roller coaster line railings. Just running their hands all the way along them. All the way along.

I give you for evidence, my dear ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, Exhibit 1.

So it should be no surprise to a country full of scared mothers that those very same women who help perpetuate those germs, are terribly afraid of them, in a deep and lasting way. Germs scare mothers on more than one level.

a) They're gross. You touched this, and you probably went to the bathroom this week. And you probably didn't wash. (And mothers have this talent for saying words like "probably" so they sound more like "definitely." And they're so good at it that you actually begin to feel guilty.)

b) Germs can get their kids sick. And there's nothing a mother hates more in the entire World than anything that harms her baby. Unless of course it's the fact that she had kids in the first place, a lot of mother's seem to hate that. Under their breath, to other parents, when their kids aren't looking, or are so young to not hear (or rather, understand) the insult.

c) When kids get sick it's really inconvenient. Work has to be called in. Schoolwork has to be sent home. Lots of driving. Lots of appointments at lots of doctors. Waiting in waiting rooms, waiting in line at the grocery store for soup, waiting in line at the pharmacy, watching the same cartoon movie four times in as many hours, and when the child is finally asleep, not being able to think of anything other than that damn cartoon the rest of the evening.

At the end of my Disney day, I was sitting with my friend on a bench, waiting for our bus to come take us back to the car. We were settled in right next to a couple and their young daughter. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon and the mother and father were watching their child run around with open surprise. I could see the question floating through their heads, "What did she take to get this kind of energy and where can I get some?"

The daughter kept running over to a bench, touching it, hitting it, and sprinting back to her mother. And like clockwork, her mother would demand of her daughter, "Show me your hands." With a sullen obedience the girl would put out her hands, allowing her mother to put anti-bacterial on, before she sprinted off to explore our little corner of Disney.

After about five minutes of this the mother just had her hand sanitizer at the ready, and the daughter would sprint over with her hands out. Time savers, all.

Finally, the young girl runs over to me. She says something along the lines of "Diiiiiisneeeey" before running over to the trash can. This was the last object in our space that she hadn't explored. She hadn't touched.

But the carrot was on the string. The apple had been seen. Temptation is a cruel bitch.

Her mother looked on with a kind of distant horror, I would describe it as a pure understanding of the fact that nothing good could come of this. Her daughter continued to look at the trash, so she said, "Come here, honey. Why don't you play with your toys!"

Without even a look at her mother the little girl grabbed both sides of the trash receptacles opening, and shoved her entire head inside.

The mother's head mimicked the girl's motion, but instead of into a trash can, into her lap.

Dear God, why do I bother?

Finally the father got up, fighting a smile, and pulled his daughter's head out and hands off of the trash can.