Watching Saturday morning cartoons, when I was a kid, was like a big play dough bowl of artificially flavored, sugary imagination, exploding in every direction, in a kaleidoscope of primary colored super heroes, and mystery solving, talking dogs, and wabbits and puddy tats, splattered with educational nuggets about a place called the Conjunction Junction, and commercials selling me everything I thought I ever wanted, with aluminum foil covered antennae, and a vertical hold knob, beaming the universe into my living room, one ludicrous scenario after the next, making me smile, teaching me to dream about things higher than my ceiling.
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