‘TIs the season in which major cable networks re-invent the image of Jesus Christ the protestant lord and savior, in hopes of improving their ratings amidst the masses. I admit to finding the historical applications interesting, but it tends to feel contrived and cheapened by the underlying subjugation of christian devotion. In other word, the presentations prey on insecurity or sensitivity of believers rather than stand upon the merits of their ability to document and reinforce historical accuracy.
Yeah, I think someone has spent too much time evaluating cable offerings too.
When I was shopping in one of those deep discount stores, we all love to hate, but secretly solicit because, deep down we know it has replaced the manufacturing sector as one of the U.S’s most valuable employers, in spite of the fact they intentionally short worker’s hours so they won’t have to cover the cost of health insurance benefits, I noticed aisle after aisle of prefabricated Easter baskets, and it made me a little sad.
The Easter Bunny My mother, used to assemble a hodgepodge of chocolate bunnies, candy, little plastic holiday crap, balsa wood airplanes, punching balloons, stuffed animals and/or collectable beer steins (yes, really) into our baskets for Easter morning. They were personal, and I looked forward to them each year.
The prefabricated baskets at grocery and department stores came to represent what I believed to be baskets for kid whose parents didn’t share the same bed, or kids from broken homes, or kids whose parents worked really hard, but didn’t have enough of themselves remaining after five thirty on a Friday afternoon to say, “I love you”.
And yet plastic baskets covered in cellophane laced with action figures don’t really mean any of those things at all. They mean some marketing genius was trying to take advantage of working parents from all walks of life. But at the age of eight, I couldn’t visualize it for what it really was, capitalized convenience; I could only view it as some form of loss. I’m older and I understand things are not always as they seem, but it’s difficult to convince the inner eight year old.
