Had an awesome signing last night at Schuler Books in Lansing. Super cool, although they served wine and I ended up signing a bunch of stock, "Legalize it!"
So, this morning I'm nursing my hangover (no, it wasn't just the wine... the fishbowl of Margarita at La Senorita was a contributing factor to my delinquency) and enjoying Pocoyo with my daughter.
What is Pocoyo, you ask? Only the single most soothing thing on the face of the motherfucking planet.
It's a Spanish show that was dubbed into English and narrated by a super enthusiastic Stephen Fry. When we discovered this show on Netflix on XBox Live, I thought, "This will distract the kid for a while, so I can make a poo in peace, without her leaning her chubby elbows on my knees and engaging me in a babbling discourse about something only she has a clue about. But once it started, I couldn't look away. I just kept staring at the screen.
I suppose one could say that Pocoyo's world is a nightmarish white void of possibility, and that Pocoyo represents our Id, materializing desires from thin air in a realm of limited responsibility and resulting in his ultimate destruction, but I choose instead to enjoy the quiet simplicity of a child of indeterminate gender cavorting with various animal pals in an easy-to-digest format.
But for a long time, something about Pocoyo, himself, was puzzling. I could have sworn I'd seen him somewhere else. Where was it? It seemed like it wasn't in a particularly nice context... where had I see him before?
Oh, yeah. From one of my LJ friend's icons:
The internet ruins EVERYTHING.