Thursday
6/17/04
Cautionary Tales.
Always a fan of cinematic kitsch, I ran across a specimen a few years ago that is, in my humble opinion, one of the finest examples of the genre: "I Accuse My Parents". First brought to my attention by Joel and the Bots in the Satellite of Love, "I Accuse My Parents" is a cautionary tale of neglectful parents, organized crime, and the redemptive love that a chubby, middle aged fry cook has for our protagonist, Jimmy.
Jimmy is, in short, a spectacularly stupid teenager who gets himself involved in myriad shenanigans until the climactic courtroom scene in which he lets loose the titular phrase and waves an accusatory finger at his neglectful, card playing folks. Jimmy’s parents are properly mortified and remorseful… as were, I would imagine, the overseas GIs to whom this film was sent and dedicated in 1943. I’ll bet my C-Rations that Maudlin’s Willie and Joe would really have preferred a few dames instead of this cinematic potboiler, thank you very much.
In any case, on the off-chance that anyone actually reads any of these entries, they’d know that I have a habit of quietly sneaking up on my point from behind before beating it senseless with a healthy dose of hyperbole.
But, as is the case yet again today, I occasionally lose my bearings and aimlessly wander the literary landscape as I blather on about old movies or laundry or the kids or whatever. What I’m trying to get at is that today, although you would never guess it, I have a cautionary tale of my own. There, that was simple enough.
So, my cautionary tale is this: Hey! You younger at-home-dads out there! Stay in shape. Seriously, no kidding. It can be all too easy spend a few years on the floor with your kids when they’re little and then on the couch with them when they’re bigger. Then one day when the weather turns nice you’ll find yourself chasing a Frisbee around the back yard between rounds of basketball in the driveway… and then you’ll learn the meaning of Achilles Tendinitis. Ouch. I won’t even go on about the other sore muscles or the suspicious thumping noises coming from my chest.
So, having recently fallen victim to a little of this and that, medically speaking, along with the approach of a certain birthday, I’ve come to the realization that for me the health boat is getting ready to sail, and I had better be on board. After all, it would be pretty lame if something bad happened and all I could come up with is "I accuse my parents."
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Cautionary Tales.
Always a fan of cinematic kitsch, I ran across a specimen a few years ago that is, in my humble opinion, one of the finest examples of the genre: "I Accuse My Parents". First brought to my attention by Joel and the Bots in the Satellite of Love, "I Accuse My Parents" is a cautionary tale of neglectful parents, organized crime, and the redemptive love that a chubby, middle aged fry cook has for our protagonist, Jimmy.
Jimmy is, in short, a spectacularly stupid teenager who gets himself involved in myriad shenanigans until the climactic courtroom scene in which he lets loose the titular phrase and waves an accusatory finger at his neglectful, card playing folks. Jimmy’s parents are properly mortified and remorseful… as were, I would imagine, the overseas GIs to whom this film was sent and dedicated in 1943. I’ll bet my C-Rations that Maudlin’s Willie and Joe would really have preferred a few dames instead of this cinematic potboiler, thank you very much.
In any case, on the off-chance that anyone actually reads any of these entries, they’d know that I have a habit of quietly sneaking up on my point from behind before beating it senseless with a healthy dose of hyperbole.
But, as is the case yet again today, I occasionally lose my bearings and aimlessly wander the literary landscape as I blather on about old movies or laundry or the kids or whatever. What I’m trying to get at is that today, although you would never guess it, I have a cautionary tale of my own. There, that was simple enough.
So, my cautionary tale is this: Hey! You younger at-home-dads out there! Stay in shape. Seriously, no kidding. It can be all too easy spend a few years on the floor with your kids when they’re little and then on the couch with them when they’re bigger. Then one day when the weather turns nice you’ll find yourself chasing a Frisbee around the back yard between rounds of basketball in the driveway… and then you’ll learn the meaning of Achilles Tendinitis. Ouch. I won’t even go on about the other sore muscles or the suspicious thumping noises coming from my chest.
So, having recently fallen victim to a little of this and that, medically speaking, along with the approach of a certain birthday, I’ve come to the realization that for me the health boat is getting ready to sail, and I had better be on board. After all, it would be pretty lame if something bad happened and all I could come up with is "I accuse my parents."
