The Playground

There must have been something fundamentally shallow, sparkly, and affected missing from my adolescent pop cultural experience. As a late-twenty-somethings adult, I find myself curiously drawn to the Disney channel, even at 2:30 in the afternoon when my kids are deep in cozy nap time. I become hypnotized by the purples and pinks and glittery makeup and teenage superficial love affairs. Walls painted in unrealistic cartoony colors; vapid characters and dialogue; embarrassing pseudo morality lessons. I mean, you've seen it.

I'm casting about for somewhere to place blame for my jaunt through the airway slums, and I keep snagging the only possible cause: No cable - then or now. The truth is, I simply have no choice. I've methodically worked my way through all the loaner DVDs from friends whose entertainment tastes I envy and am now anxiously awaiting a refresher load. Today, even my backup Netflix disc was a bust, um, literally. Something had sawed it right in half.

I've managed to retain a modicum of self-respect as I haven't tested the worlds of amnesia, demon-possession, resurrected previously unknown siblings, and I don't know what-all kinds of devices á la the Day Time Soaps. Good for me.

In the meantime, Disney is poisoning me.