Sesame Street On My Mind

I just finished doing a most enjoyable portrait shoot and the results are downloading.

Meanwhile, for no particular reason I'm thinking about "Sesame Street," a show from my childhood that was not so much popular as omnipresent. We watched it at home, we watched it in school. We had "Sesame Street" toys and sheets and bedroom slippers and books and tapes. I think there was also a breakfast cereal, but we were strictly a Rice Krispies and Cheerios household.

Do you non-American readers know "Sesame Street"? I'm thinking perhaps you do. I know Basil Brush and "Blue Peter" and Babar, so maybe Big Bird and the rest also have an international following.

"Sesame Street" was, in general, a brilliant educational show. Perhaps it still is, but of late I've not been watching. The aim was to teach basic reading and numbers skills, along with a smattering of ethics and manners. It taught me most of what I know about comic timing, and instilled in me a love of ridiculous lyrics and overblown production numbers that persists to this day. Rare is the morning when my line-up of shower songs does not include a heartfelt rendition of "C is for Cookie" or the club anthem of the National Association of W* Lovers.

Sadly though, some recurring segments didn't quite pack the same wallop. Two come to mind.

The first was a film montage of...something. Usually an animal. Let's say, a cow. There would be various shots of the cow in tight-close up, never revealing more than an ear, or a nostril, or half an udder. Over these shots would be played the extempore rantings of unseen schoolchildren, all trying to guess what the thing was, even though it was painfully obvious. "It's a dog," one would say. "No," another child would counter, "It's a centipede!" At last, after two minutes of this, there would be a full shot and a simultaneous, surprised shriek: "IT'S A COW!"

What a shocker. Hand me the smelling salts.

I always wondered where the hell these little geniuses were from. We lived in suburban Tucson, Arizona and my closest personal experience of a cow was the one in my Play-Skool farmyard set, and yet I could recognize an udder without undue strain.

And then there was the interminable perennial "One of These Things Is Not Like the Others." In case the title's not explicit enough, let me walk you through it.

You are watching a screen that has been split into four equal segments. In each segment is a child. Three of the children are doing the same thing, like sleeping. The fourth child is doing something else, like jumping up and down on a pogo stick or singing "Celeste Aïda."

Over this, the following ditty plays:

One of these things is not like the others.
Come on, can you tell which one?
Can you tell which kid is doing his own thing?
Now it's time to play our game,
It's time to play our ga-ame.

I'm not sure, but I think the lyric is by Ira Gershwin.

Then a voice-over would guide you slowly and carefully from one square to the next. See, this kid is sleeping. This kid is also sleeping. And this kid is...sleeping! But then this kid is making bobbin lace! He's not like the others!

Congratulations all around.

The creators of "Sesame Street" were known for being market-savvy and I can't imagine "One of These Things Is Not Like the Others" would have been repeated in every episode if it had not proven itself popular. But with whom? What person, even at age five, needs four minutes, a jingle, and personal coaching to be able to tell a kid playing ball from a kid eating ice cream?

It might have been interesting if they'd upped the ante. Say, three Sunnis and a Shiite. Or three genuine Rembrandts and a forgery. Or three Republican presidents and an elephant's butt. Never happened.

When either of these gems popped up on the screen, I took it as my cue to go to the kitchen for a glass of milk. I figured maybe they were aimed at the girl in my class who used to space out during storytime and eat her own boogers.

*The letter. Not the president.