Paging Ruth Buzzi

The very grumpy little boy who just climbed up the stairs this morning and got into my bed to watch the Cartoon Network has informed me he does not want to be tickled, he definitely does not want to be kissed on the forehead, and lacking the verbal sophistication to tell me outright, "take two steps backwards, sit down and worry about your blog," uttered a low, contemptible growl before turning his attention back to Pokémon: BW Rival Desitinies.

What the hell is Pokémon: BW Rival Destinies?

I mean, theoretically I know. Don't get me wrong. I'm not living in a cultural void of fuddy-duddiness with my Bing Crosby records and my Florida orange juice. If you yell out "Pikachu!" I'm not going to say God bless you and hand you a tissue.

What I mean is, why the hell is there so much of this anime crap cluttering up our cartoon potential? Back in my day (and I say that with the appropriate, accompanying old man voice), Saturday morning lineups were sacred. We had Wonderbug. We had Ruth Buzzi and Jim Nabors messing up the universe in Lost Saucer. We had Far Out Space Nuts and Dr. Shrinker. We had Electra-Woman and Dyna-Girl, for pete's sake. Now look at the crap kids have to gag down. Beyblade: Metal Masters, Redekai, Samurai 7. Everybody has a sword now. And big, teardrop anime eyeballs that look like those large brown almonds you get in the bulk bins at Whole Foods.

I know what you're thinking. Number one, anyone who can conjure up Ruth Buzzi's TV bio without a Google search has no business raising children. And you're probably right. Adam and I entered parenthood as late bloomers, 47 and 46 respectively, which means our kids have just enough time to graduate college and God willing give us grandchildren before they put us in a nursing home.

Number two, Dr. Shrinker and Electra-Woman weren't really cartoons, so I'm comparing apples to oranges. Point conceded. We had a lot of those live-action shows. Shazam, Isis, The Hudson Brothers Razzle Dazzle Hour, Sigmund and the Sea Monsters. Oh, Zephyr winds which blow on high, we had some doozies. I think it all started when H.R. Puffinstuff first hitched up his blue sash and his white boots and it got progressively freakier from there. I'm sort of secretly relieved my children will never have nightmares about H.R. Puffinstuff and Witchy-Poo. That shit left scars.

But hey, we had us some fine cartoons, didn't we? We had Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids. We had Looney Tunes and Scooby Doo, which alone was worth its weight in gold, even when Hanna-Barbera jumped the shark and invented Scrappy Doo, who we universally hated, and Scooby Dum, who in today's world would have to be called Scooby-Developmentally-Special to get on the airwaves.

But we were old school. When we said Ghost Busters, we meant two words, not one. And we weren't talking about about Murray and Aykroyd. We were talking about Larry Storch and Forrest Tucker. Dude, we gave everybody a job. Scatman Crothers needed work after Chico and the Man lost Freddie? We made him Hong Kong Phooey.

Hong Kong Phooey, number one super guy.
Hong Kong Phooey, quicker than the human eye.
He's got style, a groovy smile, and a bod that just wont stop.
When the going gets rough, he's super tough
With a Hong Kong Phooey chop. H-yuh!

Let's see you Pokémon-loving Beyblade: Metal Masters go three rounds with Hong Kong Phooey and his mean cat. You'd be spitting out teeth.

Justin, at 6, is mostly oblivious to my nostalgic television yearnings. Although he does dearly love himself some Scooby - in fact, that's my nickname for him, "Scooby" - the rest of my childhood TV oeuvre might as well be a trip to the Natural History Museum with all the other fossils. To test that theory, I put in a DVD of some old school Land of the Lost episodes the other day and when the first Sleestak came on, Justin yawned once, looked at me like I was out of my mind and toddled off to play Friv on his laptop.

Right now, he's on my bed multi-tasking. He's playing something incredibly loud on his computer and occasionally glancing up at the TV to watch yet another anime-looking crapfest called Beywheelz. I did not know the name of that show by rote, incidentally. I had to push the info button on the Tivo remote, which might as well be linked directly to Japan for all the variety it offers in children's programming these days. Again, I say that in the curmudgeonly old man voice I usually reserve for "you kids get off my lawn."

It's a strange world Justin lives in. Entertainment everywhere and a lot of it's junk. Of course, that comes from a dad who, once upon a time, sat with his little cousin Smedley on the living room floor from seven to noon every Saturday morning eating Cheerios and thinking Jim Nabors and Ruth Buzzi were the cat's pajamas. So, all in all...pot, kettle, black.

From the future of time they came to see
How the world used to be
But something went wrong deep inside
And they can't get off this crazy ride

Where are we going in the lost saucer?
Somebody help us in the lost saucer.
Where are we going in the lost saucer?
Somebody help us in the lost saucer.

Suffering from anime overload, Justin just came rocketing off the bed, climbed up the back of my chair, and somehow managed to scramble up onto my shoulders where he's now perched precariously, squeezing my head between his legs and giggling like a madman as I struggle to type this and keep us both from collapsing through the window in front of me. He's showing enormous faith that my 46-year-old neck won't simply snap under his 55 pound body like a twig, both physically and metaphorically so.

I have no idea where we're going on this lost saucer of ours, kiddo. But on mornings like this, I get a glimpse into our future, and I know that spinning out of control with you is very special indeed. Especially when you giggle like that. Especially.

Jinkies, I love you, Scooby. Let's go make some breakfast.