I know that you, like me, were imagining what terrible fate had befallen Vincent—he who paves the road.
You know. A pleasant, refreshing bicycle ride through Melbourne's eastern suburbs, the air thick of goodness in the lungs. Birds squawking love and hate from the eucalyptus boughs.
Then: a dumptruck brim-full of banana peels, from nowhere! A screech of tires piercing the aforementioned air. A widening of eyes, and wobbly correction of direction, too late!
A siren sounding, louder and louder. People gathering on the asphalt. Cars honking their horns in the distance.
The siren dies. Efficient paramedics assess the situation. Then the siren blares out again. And suddenly: grey walls rushing past, men and women talking altogether too loudly. It's a blur, and when the world stops spinning, it's all cardboard meals and pretty nurses and superfluous soap baths and too much daytime television.
But no. (Although that might explain some things.)
For the last three weeks, Vince has been busy watching children's television. He is concerned that an icon of his youth verges extinction at the whim of a company barely freed from Eisner's terrible hand. To quote:
Now for that day of action stuff I mentioned: I call on the 18 to 29 year old demographic that visits this site to boycott Playhouse Disney. The ratings will plummet.
It's all here: hell's paving stones--Nothing is sacred.
Joseph | 13 Mar 2004