My son is under the mistaken impression that predatory man in the story of Beauty and the Beast is named "GaStorm." When I attempt to correct him, he's insistent.
"Mommy! It's GaStorm! Not Gaston. You know, like Jackson Storm."
Jackson Storm, as far as I can gather, is a sentient and possibly disturbed vehicle from a shambolic Disney or Pixar dynasty called Cars. My son hasn't seen the films, but school is a cultural Petri dish, and what grows, it seems, is anthropomorphized Hyundais.
I'm a stickler for accuracy, but I sympathize. For what is my kid engaged in if not the noblest of human endeavors: wedging the crampons of what we know into the cliff of what we don't, rocketing our small scraps of knowledge into the vast galaxies of our ignorance?
I let GaStorm ride. He's got more elan than Gaston, and I harbor a vague hope he knows how to drive stick.
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