In an age of lowest-common-denominator shows being churned out to retain that valuable streaming fee, Bluey stands out by being slow, and deliberate, and thoughtful.

Each episode is just 7 minutes long, but uses all the tools of story-telling in the best possible way - to be entertaining and relatable, and possibly teaching you something along the way, but — and here’s a critical part — without being preachy in the slightest.

Bluey is an Australian show that’s been running for 3 seasons now. It’s mainly focused on 6-year old Bluey Heeler, her 4-year old sister Bingo, and their parents Chili and Bandit.

We chanced upon it on YouTube about a year ago, and have been hooked ever since. From the first episode, it sucked us in with its humor and relatability. Many of the situations that the show talks about are those that every parent goes through - fussiness around food, bedtime, sharing, arguments with other kids.

But in addition to these more common issues, Bluey isn't hesitant to address more "serious" issues too - infertility, conflict between parents, aging grandparents.

But you notice I said these are more serious issues? But are they really? They're serious from my perspective, as a grown-up. But from a child’s perspective, icky food, unnecessary sleep and lack of certainty around personal possessions are more immediate, and therefore more important, than abstract parental concerns like safety, or ageing, or dissatisfaction with career choices.

But where Bluey stands out from other TV shows is that neither the adults' nor the kids' concerns are treated with more gravitas than the other. Both play out in parallel, both have to be addressed and dealt with. Just like in real life.

Since this is ostensibly a “kids’ show”, the child-centered storyline is at the forefront, and the parental drama happens as Plot B: not subservient, just not the focus. Which is exactly how it should be, since that is how we all experience life. To paraphrase Adam Smith’s famous observation, "A man would lose more sleep over the loss of his little finger, than the death of a million people in a faraway land."

Which is an important lesson for parents, especially those of us who wonder why our kids don't care about the things we want them to care about.

Here are eight other reasons that Bluey is worth watching, no matter your age:

1. It doesn’t pander to children, by making the young characters superheroes, or the center of the universe. But the concerns of the kids are taken seriously, no matter how frivolous they may seem to adults.
2. Emotional Intelligence: This is a label that has, over the past decades, come to mean almost everything — and therefore very little. But Bluey tackles topics like sharing, collaboration, and empathy, fostering emotional intelligence in young viewers without being preachy about it. There’s an episode where Bandit is trying to teach his kids to persevere, and Bluey is outraged: "Hang on, are you trying to teach us something? Why do you keep trying to teach us things we don’t want to learn!?"
3. The parents aren’t idiotic, incompetent or inane. Watching Peppa Pig often made me want to throw Daddy Pig onto the grill, toot suite. Putting such a model of laziness and overall nebbishness as an adult figure into a children’s show was more harmful than any number of naked women or cigarettes that the censor board rushes to limit.
4. The parents aren’t perfect. They’re figuring things out as they go along. They make mistakes, they get tired and cranky. But they put in the time and effort to understand, to change, to grow.
5. Subverts expectations in the best way.
   There is an episode in which Bandit tries to teach Bluey and Bingo how to play chess because "Smart people play chess". Chili, however, thinks the kids are too young for chess. Soon enough, the kids are increasingly frustrated at the weird names and rules of chess ("Why is this called a knight? It’s a horsey!”), while Bandit is increasingly frustrated that at the weird names and rules his daughters make up. Chili intervenes on her daughters’ behalf and starts playing chess with Bandit, while monologue-ing.
   In any other show, Chili would have wiped the floor with Bandit, showing herself to be a superior chess player, and then saying that chess skills don’t matter.
   But in this episode, Chili shows a keen insight into Bandit’s intentions, while losing the game. Which shows Bandit that skill at chess really isn’t that important, since Chili “turned out fine", even though she’s a terrible chess player.
6. There are other families than the Heelers, each with their own unique dynamic. Parents quarrel, there are single-parent households, and it shows how each family has different priorities and rules.
7. There are episodes that show the parents — Bandit and Chili — when they were younger — an element that most kids shows elide over. Young children tend to think the world is always as it was when they were born.
   My son cannot conceive of a world where the internet was not always available on tap, just as I cannot conceive of a world that did not always have electricity or water on tap.
   That their parents and even grandparents were once young is a strange, unnatural concept. The past is not just a foreign country to them, it is a fantasy. A fiction that takes an effort of will to accept.
8. The biggest difference between Bluey and most modern animation geared towards kids is the lack of fast cuts, stutter edits or energetic music hooks - all the tricks that everything from Cocomelon to TikTok use to grab your attention, but slowly kills your brain cells.

Bluey is the third-best thing to ever come out of Australia. Just below penicillin and Google Maps, and right above Hugh Jackman and Tim Tams.

If you’re going to spend time in front of the TV together as a family, I can’t think of a better way to do it than with Bluey.

The best analogy for the current Twitter-Elon Musk drama I’ve seen is from the climax of Lord of the Rings.

Over the past few years, my social media use had switched over almost entirely to Twitter, and I’d become increasingly dependent on it for all my news and updates.

• Someone messages me that Shinzo Abe has been shot? Check Twitter first to find out if it was true.
• Earthquake in the middle of dinner? Check Twitter, while the windows are still rattling, to immediately find out magnitude and epicenter.
• Bored in the loo? Quick timeline refresh.

Someone once said that Facebook showed you the lives of people you went to school with, but Twitter shows you the thoughts of people you wish you went to college with. It was like a direct line into the brains of the smartest, funniest and most accomplished people in the world. Or, depending on whom you followed, it could be a window into the ramblings and ravings of the stupidest, vilest and most cruel minds too.)

It was the closest that humanity had yet come to building a global, interconnected mind that anyone could plug themselves into.

In what first seemed an unrelated occurrence, I found that my attention span had gradually decreased to that of a goldfish.

When I was younger, I could easily read a 300+ page book in a single sitting, ignoring meal times and parental urging to get my nose out of Harry Potter, go outside and play with my cousins.

Nowadays, I can’t read half a page without my mind wandering, without a visceral urge to reach for my phone. I don’t have a reason to unlock it - but I find the phone in my hand nevertheless, as I mindlessly double-tap and swipe, swipe and tap, like a gambler at a slot machine.

It took me far too long to make the connection between my reduced attention span and constantly consuming bite sized, short-form nuggets that demanded constant emotion-switching. And it took me even longer to accept the connection.

Despite Twitter’s advantages and attractions (or rather, because of its advantages and attractions), it has become increasingly clear that the site is not conducive to developing the brain’s ability to focus. In fact, every time I scrolled a timeline of disconnected posts, I was training my brain to not focus.

At the climax to the Lord of the Rings, an exhausted Frodo stands on a cliff above the fires of Mount Doom. Everything has led up to this moment. All he has to do now is drop the Ring into the fire, and Sauron’s power will be destroyed. He holds the Ring over the edge, a fraction of a muscle twitch away from destroying it forever.

But Frodo has carried the Ring for longer than any mortal was meant to, and he’s drained, weak. And the Ring whispers to him, the seductive whisper of power unimaginable. And he cannot make himself let go of it. He turns back from the edge, his eyes glazed over, hypnotized by the Ring. He slips it back on his finger, tapping into its inhuman power once again.

Whenever I consider deleting my account, I find myself fighting a similar internal battle as Frodo at the top of Mount Doom. I’ve been on Twitter for a long time, for far too long. I’ve been helped by it, but I’ve been simultaneously warped because of it.

And I know that I should stop using it, let go of it decisively and irrevocably, because only therein lies some measure of salvation, some possibility of clawing back my focus from its clutches, to return to some version of who I once was, however grayer and diminished.

But before I can click Delete Account, Uninstall App, Block Site.. It asserts its dark power once again, and I clutch it ever closer. I whisper to myself, “It’s mine..! I can handle it, I’m strong enough not to be corrupted by it, I can make it work for me!”

And as I stagger back from the edge and slip back into the overpowering stream of global mental effluvia again, a tiny part of me knows that that choice was not the one I should have made. But I’m simply not strong enough to fight the all-consuming, malevolent power of something that is too powerful for any mortal to wield for any length of time without it changing them.

It has always fascinated me how Tolkien posits that Frodo’s greatest enemy — the one that defeats him — is not external. It is not Sauron, or Saruman or Gollum. It is his own desires, warped by the Ring.

A lesser story would have the conflicts all be external — Gollum, Saruman, Shelob, ring-wraiths, orcs, the treacherous journey across Mordor would have all provided sufficient points of tension for the story.

A lesser movie might have changed Frodo into someone strong enough to slam dunk the Ring into the fires at the end — the sort of self-aggrandizement that the recent Rings of Power TV show indulged in, and is contrary to the heart of Tolkien’s philosophy.

Tolkien understood human nature as well as he did the structure and nature of storytelling and of languages. Our greatest challenges, and the ones we fail most often, are the battles we wage against our own warped desires and inclinations. Frodo failing to destroy the Ring because of an internal struggle rings true with what we know of human nature.

Suddenly, Gollum appears out of nowhere and leaps onto Frodo’s back. He manages to grab Frodo’s arm and chomp his finger off, along with the Ring. In the ensuing struggle, Gollum loses his footing and falls into the fires, clutching the Ring, screaming and cursing at Frodo - and carrying the Ring to its destruction.

Elon Musk buying Twitter and speed-running it into the ground is inadvertently helping accomplish what I wanted to do so often and should have done long ago, but was not strong enough to — free myself of its algorithm-driven, engagement-maximizing, attention-colonizing embrace.

As Elon rants and raves, blocking users on Twitter who make fun of him while Twitter implodes into a racist hell-site that can’t financially support itself, you can’t help but feel that you’re watching him self-destruct, falling backward into the fires of Mount Doom in glorious slow motion.

The destruction of the Ring had some local negative impacts too, of course: Frodo had to suffer the agony of having his finger bitten off; Middle Earth came to the end of an Age and the tremendous glory and power of the Elves faded away.

If (When?) Twitter is destroyed, there will be negative impacts too — many of us who got used to the uniquely centralized and accessible platform it provided are going to have to find alternative ways to accomplish things that we took for granted, things that made our life easier in many ways.

But if the blessed, serene Shire that was once home — and the only way of life we knew — survives because of it, it’ll all be worth it.

(Wait, Mastodon? What's that? And how do I sign up??)

Since then Donald has been relentlessly attacking her, her looks and her success — most recently at the Presidential debate, where he said she “deserved” whatever he said about her.

A rule in comedy is “Always punch up, never punch down.”

The idea being that it isn’t funny to mock the disadvantaged, the underprivileged or those who can’t fight back. Of course, comedians often do break this rule, because the best humour is meant to subvert expectations.

Personally, I find the rule more useful not as a comedic standard, but as a general human criteria — if you pick a fight with someone who is below your weight class, you’re clearly a bully, and not someone I want to be around.

When Rosie mocked Trump, she was punching up — calling attention to the shameless behaviour of a man who had higher considerably higher social status and privilege than she did.

When Trump responded with a decade of hate, and calling her out as being someone who “deserves” to be mocked in front of the whole world, he was clearly punching down.

Or so I thought.

Rosie wrote this (reproduced below) on her blog a few days ago, after she met Trump’s daughter at a restaurant. Read it for insight into the painful impact that the kind of bullying and shaming that Trump specializes in can have, and the humanity that you can retain nevertheless.

When you read this poem, you will realize that, in his childish obsession with O’Donnell over the past decade, perhaps Trump was the one punching up — mocking someone with far greater class than he will ever have.

8 million to one

i saw 4 cops — security i thought
well dressed
jovial — handsome — “yo rosie”
“wasssup men” my common reply

we walk toward one of the quiet booths
behind the stairway
i am tired
this is the first time i have been out

out of bed really — to be honest
since the debate
i have been sleeping a lot
depression clings to me

it’s hard to walk
to shower
to try
to care

i see a couple
sitting close together
in a small corner booth
directly across from me

i watch them
stunned by her face
and his calming charm
they were definitely a THEY

obvious for all to see
oblivious to all seeing them
love works like this
i thought

two
so connected
alone together
in a crowded corner

“that is the most beautiful woman i have ever seen”
i say aloud to dana
she turns to look — turns back at me
“that’s ivanka”

can’t be i said
no it can’t be
it is –
she reassures me

what r the chances i say to myself
as dana walked to the hostess station to ask
i stared at the young couple
as they ate — unaware

i was captivated by her beauty
it blinded me so
i didn’t realize it was even her
til dana walked back to the table –

nodding slowly
yes
she said
it was

dear god
i prayed
guide me
out of here

we stood to move to another table
but i knew i could not stay
my heart i worried
would break again

it did 4 years ago
i won’t survive another one
change ur life
is the prescription

i walked the 5 steps toward her table
introduced myself
she smiled genuinely
her husband was warm and gracious

i told her of my children
some truths about myself
my pain and shame
she was absurdly kind

“i just wanted u to know”
i said in a shaky quiet voice
i then made my way down the large wooden stairway
into my waiting car

the entire encounter
start to finish
was 4 minutes
max

i wrote a book once
about bashert
the concept of
meant to be

it has comforted me
on my darkest days
when my inner voices scream
u deserved it

as her father has
same as my own

~ Rosie O’Donnell, October 6, 2016

It is past 7 pm after a long day at the office. I strap on my gloves and helmet before I mount my cycle, mentally preparing for the 8-kilometre long obstacle course that lies between the workplace and home. My heartrate is a steady 73.

As I leave the office complex and merge into traffic, a dusty Hero motorbike heading the wrong way on a one-way street screeches as it misses me by inches. “Careful!”, I call out, as I mutter a reflexive prayer for both our mortal lives. My heartrate has climbed to 75.

I take a right turn after the traffic lights. As I bank, a man steps onto the road from out of nowhere. “Careful!”, I call out, an edge in my voice as I swerve slightly to avoid him. My heartrate has risen to 82.

I quickly upshift the gears as I barrel down the straight road. Just as I hit 30 kmph, I am blinded by twin searchlights punching into my face. A high-beam from the car opposite me. How typical, I think, as I curse the driver under my breath. Heartrate: 87

I pant my way up the flyover, a flyover on which for some reason the streetlights are not lit. The roads are cloaked in an uncharacteristic darkness, and I try to recall the locations of the larger potholes from countless sunlit trips past. Suddenly, a dust-coated bus overtakes me from the left — inches away from my handlebars — a giant armoured Leviathan from The Avengers. “Careful!”, I yell at the driver, perched smugly safe and deaf behind 20 tons of metal and lumbering momentum. Heartrate: 92

As I level off after the flyover, I see another cyclist ahead of me. I smile in warm fellowship towards a fellow road warrior, and speed up to overtake him. He suddenly turns his head to the right, and lets loose a globule of spit. I swerve slightly to avoid the perfect parabola heading straight towards me, all feelings of brotherhood immediately displaced by a miasma of red. “Careful, dummy!”, I snarl at him, as I subconsciously request the appropriate fiery destination for his immortal soul. Heartrate: 97

“Hey!”, I hear a voice drawl from behind me. I ignore him, like I do most opportunities for conversation on a busy road.

“Hey!” he calls again as he pulls up alongside me, a tree-trunk of a man astride a growling Royal Enfield. I cannot see his face behind the helmet and a pollution mask. I raise an impatient eyebrow at him. ‘Yes?”

“You shouldn’t wear those shoes when you cycle.” he says, nodding at my black leather office shoes, incongruously formal compared to the rest of my bright and stretchy riding gear. “I used to cycle, too”, he continues. “Those shoes aren’t safe for cycling.”

For a moment I am lost for words. What kind of city spawns both drivers who have zero consideration for others who use the same roads, as well as those who would notice something as minor as the mildly inappropriate shoes of a fellow cyclist, and take the effort to caution him?

I smile at him. “Thank you, I’ll be careful.” I say.

He nods at me and speeds off, hot tubers of Enfield exhaust popping harmlessly against my shins.

My heartrate is back to normal as I glide into the parking space at home.

Perhaps the city isn’t going to hell, after all.

Image from here.

• The Death Star would have been left half completed. The official report would state that this was because the vaastu was misaligned with the orientation of the vanaspati chakra, and construction had been halted to avoid offending the gods. However, those in the know would know that Kay Jay Georje thought the Death Star would spoil the view from his fifteen-bedroom penthouse on the moon, and had bribed the local contractor to hold up work.
• Darth Vader would probably never have existed — Anakin’s mom would have sent him for JEE (Jedi Entrance Exam) coaching from the time he was six.
• IT employees across the city would rush to become Storm Troopers. Although they would have to wear a uniform, the new job would be considerably less mind-numbing, and offer significantly higher job security.
• Han Solo would brag, “I made the KR Puram run in three hours.”
• Astrologers would set up shop on every street corner, with boards saying “Strong in the ways of the force, my parrot Yoda is.”
• Han Solo would refuse to fly to Alderaan because Obi Wan approached him after 8 pm, and the silly old Jedi would not agree to “one-and-a-half meter, saar”.
• The Millenium Falcon would have a valid pollution control sticker, but its fumes would be visible from the other side of Quadrant Nine.
• Jabba the Hutt would have to seal Han Solo in silicon, since the trucks bringing in carbonite from Ratnagiri had been stopped at the border.
• Princess Leia would have used Facebook to organize a candlelight march at Town Hall to protest Vader’s atrocities and rampant misuse of power. Meanwhile, Stormtroopers from across the country would attack her on Twitter and call her a Paki agent.
• Times of India headlines would focus on how Leia’s bikini was an insult to Indian culture and heritage, for making a depraved Western garment out of gold (which, as everyone knows, is the Indian national metal).
  Meanwhile, Bangalore Mirror headlines would focus on how the most Googled person in India that year is Sunny Leone.
  No one would think that there’s any contradiction between the two news items.
• Luke’s last minute shot into the heart of the Death Star would have failed. Later investigation would show that it had been blocked by an illegal housing project that had come up on the path three years ago, and no one from the Imperial army knew how. No one from the BBMP had authorized it, funded it, turned a blind eye to it or made money from it. Pinky swear.
• Darth Vader would not have escaped the final explosion however, since his ship was stuck at Silk Board Junction. However, it wouldn’t be clear whether he died in the explosion, or of old age.

Illustration by Philip Bond.