I don't care what country you're from, in the streets, you gotta be careful, you know? All kinds of bad things can happen out there. You need to keep your eyes open, stay sharp, or frosty. Or both. And if things get really bad, you might even have to call in the Regulators and mount up. Assuming, of course, someone interferes with the consumption of evening skirts.
And there's one street in particular, where you better be extra cautious, because you can end up on your butt before you even know what hit you. One street that's in my neighborhood, and yours too. It's quite possibly the toughest street of all.
It's called Memory Lane.
After inexplicably (to her) having to drag me to the movies (this is the first time in the history of my life this has happened, I'll admit), my wife was fairly (and surprisingly) pissed that I didn't love one of her all-time favorites, Mary Poppins. Showing downtown for one night only!, the Saturday night screening was the first time I had ever laid eyes upon Disney's beloved, fifty-three year old classic, and while this is apparently blasphemy, I thought it was terrible.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Before you punch your screen in the face, put down those lube-covered bed knobs and broomsticks and hear me out, will ya (wrong movie, right?)? This is not a movie I was indoctrinated into by the unquestioning dead-eyed, smiling Disney humanoids you likely call(ed) parents. My folks had no known reverence for any of the flicks from Walt's vault. My older brothers showed me the classics. And it wasn't a spoonful of sugar that made the medicine go down. It was friggin' Rocky fighting Apollo, microwaving Gremlins, or a dancing Ferris Bueller that made me feel better, you know?
I didn't even spill my Kool-Aid, dammit. I wasn't offered any in the first place.
And there's one street in particular, where you better be extra cautious, because you can end up on your butt before you even know what hit you. One street that's in my neighborhood, and yours too. It's quite possibly the toughest street of all.
It's called Memory Lane.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Before you punch your screen in the face, put down those lube-covered bed knobs and broomsticks and hear me out, will ya (wrong movie, right?)? This is not a movie I was indoctrinated into by the unquestioning dead-eyed, smiling Disney humanoids you likely call(ed) parents. My folks had no known reverence for any of the flicks from Walt's vault. My older brothers showed me the classics. And it wasn't a spoonful of sugar that made the medicine go down. It was friggin' Rocky fighting Apollo, microwaving Gremlins, or a dancing Ferris Bueller that made me feel better, you know?
I didn't even spill my Kool-Aid, dammit. I wasn't offered any in the first place.
