I recently attended my granddaughter’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. I anticipated this event with as much glee as I did for my last prostate exam.
My memories of Chuck E. Cheese are saturated with visions of children, out of control, running through the endless maze of loudly clanging rides, demanding more tokens all the while riding a Coca-Cola sugar high that lasts about two months. I remember parents with the look of doom hopelessly trying to keep up with the adolescent frenzy of movement that soon blended into a whirlwind of sound and movement that left young mothers with the look of a strung-out meth queen.
Even though I was not part of the first line of defense for my granddaughter’s birthday party, I cringed as I drove in the pouring rain — perfect weather for such an event. The parking lot was full. I could see the movement inside. There appeared to be two thou— no — 10,000 kids running amok, as if dancing to some evil sadistic ritual, probably circling the