For all of those who grew up completely surrounded by friends from Sesame Street (myself in the 80s, not the 60s when it originally premiered)--read this article from The New York Times published Sunday and tell me what YOU think:
Here's a little outtake: Man, was that scene rough. The masonry on the dingy brownstone at 123 Sesame Street, where the closeted Ernie and Bert shared a dismal basement apartment, was deteriorating. Cookie Monster was on a fast track to diabetes. Oscar's depression was untreated. Prozacky Elmo didn't exist.
I was highly amused and then upon realizing the truth of it all, highly saddened (high and sad? is that even possible). It made me think of a recent conversation with a friend (a new mother) and the differences between our collective childhood and what we hope for her son.
Not that our childhood was bad, we even prefer some of that over today's stimulation overload and the whole obsession with taking away the power of imagination.
Again. Something for you to think about (and discuss?)