the moon sometimes looks like a C, but you can't eat that

The news about the change to Cookie Monster's repertoire really has me conflicted. I share the writer's affection for Cookie Monster and Oscar the Grouch; they were my far my most beloved Sesame Street characters. So what's next, I wonder? Will Oscar the Grouch be going metrosexual, and getting a cleaning service for his trash can. On the other hand, Sesame Street's inclination to encourage children who are trending towards increased levels of obesity to eat in a healthy manner is a good one. But let's really examine whether Cookie Monster is a major offender:

"A round cookie with one bite out of it looks like a C
A round donut with one bite out of it also looks like a C
But it's not as good as a cookie"

See, our buddy the Cookie Monster is not blindly advocating that we eat every bad treat on earth, he's just partial to cookies. And, um, he's a monster. Had you asked me when I was six if Cookie Monster was setting an example I should follow, I would have said no. And then proceeded to eat a cookie. That's what six year olds do. Especially when they're contrary and spazztastic like I was. The only difference is that my mom got tired of me bouncing off the walls, and let me loose to go play kickball with the neighborhood kids.

On the flip side, this very Bay area story amused me to no end: Berkeley elementary school children are now getting gourmet breakfasts. Yes, yes, Berkeley is really leading the fight against childhood obesity with this campaign to promote healthy eating at school. But let's face it- they're also rearing the next generation of pain in the a** foodies. I can just see a little congregation of varmints selling "Meyer Lemon Granita" at a stand around the way.

Yep, I'm blogging about the really important things now. Truth be told, I am very much distracted at the moment. Without exaggeration, I have undertaken five "projects" this week, stupid projects, but projects nonetheless. And then there's the little matter of that pesky thing, oh yeah, my job. In an attempt to get out of the doledrums, I felt it best to go on a mission. Except it turned into five missions. But I make progress every night on each. And it feels me with a false sense of calm and purpose- but I'll take it. In fact, I need it.

Weekly note to the makers of Lost: thanks for not killing off Veeny. But please, no killing crazy Yoda mofo either, okay? And tell Jack not to steal Yoda's catch phrases- that sh*t is wrong, man.

Now I must go home and comfort my brother with cookies (yes, in our family comfort = food, and we're not going to therapy for it). He's still licking his wounds from the defeat of his not-so-fighting-after-all Illini. I'd make some throwaway remark about men and attachment to sports, except I've been known to brood in a similar fashion over a team loss, so I'd be an even bigger hypocrite than usual.

And a big, special (shaking my fist angrily at the screen) damn you, Blogger!! Gah...