The inherent evil of capitalism converting holy days like Christmas into its high feasts is obvious. We're obligated to exchange gifts in compliance with the social code that keeps us from being ostracized by those who dismiss or ignore the ethical and social implications of buying crap from a big box retailer. What's worse is how that same pressure creeps into the (un/sub)consciousness of those of us who would never, ever enter a Wal-Mart. Having a child in the United States becomes a capitalist high feast that we often don't even realize we're celebrating. I'm guilty of shopping at Babies"R"Us for diapers and other essentials, fully aware that I'm padding the coffers of Kohlberg Kravis Roberts, Bain Capital Partners and Vornado Realty Trust. I can't bring myself to buy those "hybrid" gDiapers, which require a cloth insert or a certified 100% biodegradable gRefill, at Whole Foods. Yes, I am painfully aware that Whole Foods, which trades on the Nasdaq as WFM and has a market capitalization of $14.63 billion, isn't a moral exemplar of retail giants. Guilty as charged for buying a bulk of our groceries at Whole Foods because it's so much cheaper for organics. But I essentially absolve myself of these consumer sins by admitting the hypocrisy of creating a lesser evils list of acceptable behemoths. What irks me is when I let the herd lead me into thinking I'm making a good parenting decision and end up being duped by the capitalist claptrap.
Today Mike and I took Michael Alexander to see "Sesame Street Live: 123 Imagine! with Elmo & Friends" at Madison Square Garden. It was less spectacle than we'd expected for the ticket price. We got a discount for decent seats, but some poor saps shelled out $164.95 to be close to the stage. That's a whopping $494.85 for two adults and a toddler. But our criticism of the show would be moot had Michael Alexander enjoyed it. He was entertained for a few minutes and cheered when Elmo, the high priest of nearly-2-year-olds, made his first appearance. But a performer (ahem) dressed in a furry red monster suit wasn't enough to maintain Michael Alexander's attention, and a major meltdown made it clear we weren't sitting through this half-assed production. We left during the intermission, knowing a break wouldn't whet his appetite for more of the lame. At least we were seated near parents nice enough to not flinch when Michael Alexander wasn't amused along with what Mike called the "robot" children who were pacified with $6 popcorn. As Mike put it "our son doesn't like crap."
Somehow this was a revelation? Mike and I are proud to admit that our sometimes-precocious, always-boisterous son has sophisticated tastes for a toddler. And we're to blame for raising him in Manhattan and exposing him to celebrity chefs and posh parties. Call us snobs. But we're not above abandoning our comfort zone if we think it will please our son. What we apparently forgot when planning this outing is that Michael Alexander is our son, and we prefer the superb acting and timely interpretation of "Timon of Athens" at the the Public Theater over the clawingly camp overdone schmacting of "The Importance of Being Earnest" at the Roundabout Theatre Company or the so-much-less-edgy than South Park "The Book of Mormon" at Eugene O'Neill Theatre, which was watered down to be quaffable for the lowest common denominator: the flyover country tourist. We expect little more than blah from Broadway's pandering to people who tote bags of sugary sadness from miserable Midtown's execrable M&M's World, so why on Earth would we imagine that an exploitation and misrepresentation of PBS's consistently creative 41-year-old children's television series would wow our fastidious (Mike's modifier) son? I still enjoy the snark and snappy social jabs woven into the dialogue of the show that played a key role in my own childhood. Minneapolis-based VEE Corporation, which has been peddling the production of Sesame Street Live since 1980, is to PBS what Velveeta is to Valençay (OK, sharp Vermont cheddar; I've only ever eaten the commercially produced version of the Napoleonic nosh known as Pyramide.) As Children's Television Workshop co-founder Joan Ganz Cooney said, "Without research, there would be no Sesame Street." Suffice it to say I don't expect the producer of the lackluster Live to be inducted into the National Women's Hall of Fame along with Ganz Cooney.
Mike and I chalk up the debacle to living and learning. We need to seek out the same caliber of entertainment for our son as we do for our too-rare adult nights out. We laughed at ourselves as Michael Alexander led us out of MSG at warp speed. We escaped the eyesore of Manhattan and took Michael Alexander to the park, which Mike pointed out is free and infinitely interesting to our hyper-social, uber-active son. We'd expected him to burn off some calories and steam at the much-touted Play Zone, emphatically advertised as "a fun new way for children to experience their favorite street!" Those mindless money grubbers at VEE Corporation promised: "Children can sit in Big Bird’s nest, twirl in Zoe’s dance studio, visit Elmo’s World and more. You never know who’ll make an appearance!" Ugh, no. Children can line up for photos with character cutouts and press a red button that mutters a one-liner. Weeowee! There's even a LET'S ROCK Elmo! in a glass cage, as if he's doing time in The Rock (Get it? Alcatraz? My mind's been mauled by today's dumbing down.) That's nice! Nearly every 2-year-old in the free world got one of these for the December High Feast of Capitalism, so this was a super special treat! The Play Zone was nothing more than a pop-up mall where we were *forced* to buy a light-up chunk of plastic made by children in the third world to keep our son from snatching one from a far-more-easily appeased owner of this $15 hunk of junk that barely beguiled Michael Alexander for two minutes. The worthless wares were hardly a surprise disappointment. It was the other parents that ignited my passion for fleeing to France or someplace where fake fingernails are frowned upon. A six-or-so-months pregnant baby-making machine from Long Island demanded I "Get him (MA) out of the way!" as she used 15-year-old flip phone technology to snap a shot of her three offspring clad in matching red sweatshirts. I must be applauded for my restraint, as I limited my response to "Maybe your children will learn 'please' from someone else" and took our gorgeous son out of the frame. I sure hope she stopped at Jack's 99¢ Store to get a frame befitting of her photo.
