Roll, Pitch and Yawn
My cousin brought her little baby over this weekend. He's so cute. She laid him on his back on a blanket on the floor and there he lay, kicking his tiny legs in the air. He's at that age where he can almost roll over but not quite. That age where he almost feels he can explore his environment -- but not quite. Then he began those little whimpering cries -- you know, the kind infants make when they're trying to tell you they need input (think Johnny Five, "I need INPUT!"). So we tried wobbling various things over him. Things /we/ like. Things /we/ think he might like. No go. The whimpers turned to crying. Poor helpless thing lying on his back with no control over what is held over him for entertainment.
And like a shot it dawned on me. Things never change. Here I am 47 and I'm still lying on my "back" in front of a TV with no control over what is shown me. They show me things THEY like. Things THEY think I will like. And when I try to tell them what I want, they act like I'm speaking baby gibberish and feign lack of understanding.
I'm not speaking baby talk. I want to see the original, true Battlestar Galactica. I want to see the people and characters that entertained me then and would entertain me now. Not this icky mini with gratuitous sex and very little to tie it to what I fell in love with so long ago.
There's one difference between me and that baby. I can roll over. And all the pitches in the world won't move me.
Except to make me yawn.
Affectionately and respectfully,
Muffit
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