Forget the Birds
My whole life I’ve basically botched the essential message of Mary Poppins, and I never stopped to realize the cost. I’ve walked around with this idea of “go fly a kite” as some unquestioned Zen truth, a mythical DMZ of family togetherness. Only recently have I learned how much this kite has flown. That’s bad. What’s even worse is the emotional heart of the film, contained in the three-word title of that schmaltzy ballad: “Feed the Birds.” This one song, and its nihilist ethos, has sullied the image of global capitalism and bears some responsibility for the current catastrophe plaguing the world’s financial markets.
My whole misunderstanding probably is exemplified by the fact that only within the last two years have I learned what a 401(k) is. Not knowing, I never had one, and thus was unable to lose what I didn’t know existed. So, being that know-nothing kind of guy who sometimes found himself on the overdraft side of the tracks, I was content to fly my kite of ignorance and pay the $30 fee. However, a year ago I found myself in line at a bank, where I was closing my account for fear the bank should end belly-up. I strode through the streets of Manhattan with a thin wad of cash to another bank where I deposited the sum of my existence. Two weeks later, the second bank bought the one I removed the money from in the first place. Oh, the irony. About that time the world economy crapped out, the entire Jenga structure collapsing to the bemusement of all the partygoers.
The response seemed to be something like a man committed to a barbecue trying to ignite the charcoal. In this case, he has poured hundreds of billions worth of lighter fluid onto his ill-constructed pyramid. One would expect lighter fluid of that magnitude to at least produce an initial blaze before petering out. The wait continues. Let’s pour a few hundred billion more.
All this is happening and I get this desire to watch Mary Poppins, but not to retreat into the pastures of childhood. Been burned too many times, crossing my fingers that what I once loved does not now suck. (The early John Cusack vehicle Better Off Dead, a casualty.) I rent Mary Poppins because somehow I recognize that this is no ordinary picture. Embedded in my neural hardware: Must to feed birds. Seek kite flying.
We think we’re familiar with the story. Mr. and Mrs. Banks are two proper parents in Edwardian England. He’s a banker and she’s a suffragette. Jane and Michael are the children, and unfortunately, they’re a bit fond of mischief. It appears the only one who can set them on the straight and narrow is the nanny from the clouds, Mary Poppins. So far we have the plot of a reality TV show, with a few supernatural elements thrown in to spice it up.
