During last week’s presidential debate, Republican challenger Mitt Romney was asked what spending he would specifically cut in order to slow the federal deficit. He mentioned the small subsidy for PBS as an example of our government borrowing money to support things it can’t afford. Romney especially singled out Big Bird for a pink slip.
It’s about time. Big Bird has been living large on taxpayer money since the early ’70s. As much as kids may love him, he simply has never pulled his own weight. He can’t fly, he doesn’t work, he gets people’s names wrong and for a long time he even had hallucinations. Surely the public’s money can go to support more reliable birds. Like Woody Woodpecker.
But our yellow friend is not the only one on “Sesame Street” who may be corrupting the system. At the rate Grover keeps falling down, he’ll be on permanent disability soon. Elmo has psychological problems and claims to live in his own world. Oscar the Grouch’s government housing is a trash can, for crying out loud. And you can’t tell me that Cookie Monster isn’t subverting the First Lady’s campaign against obesity.
This puppet welfare has gone on long enough, and if President Barack Obama is re-elected, Big Bird will probably get a grant and a 4 percent raise. So I fully agree that desperate times call for dramatic budget cuts. However, if Romney prevails on Nov. 6 and “Sesame Street” is forced to earn its own keep, I do hope Congress will set aside a tiny pension for the Count.
Long before Bella and Edward, before Anne Rice and definitely before we found out that Abe Lincoln was moonlighting as a Vampire Hunter, there was Count von Count. No pale, T-shirted lover boy, the Count is a healthy shade of purple, dresses in style with a cape and monocle, and is too busy counting to stress over relationships. He has fangs and pointed eyebrows, but, perhaps wisely, the show has never dwelt on any habits of drinking blood and whatnot.
His motto is, “I am the Count, and I love to count things.” While other Muppets bumble around on the public dole, the Count has actually worked for 40 years, counting everything in sight. He counts the bats in his castle. He counts the blocks in Ernie and Bert’s playroom. He counts snowflakes. He has even counted himself. Every enumeration is followed by a thunderclap and the Count’s distinctively maniacal laugh: “Ah, Ah, Ah.”
His enthusiasm for numbers is infectious. As a small boy, I idolized the Count. I wanted to be just like him. So I made myself a cape and stalked around the house announcing, “I am the Count,” and taking inventory in an obnoxious Transylvanian accent: “One — one window. Ah, Ah, Ah.” “Two — two curtains. Ah, Ah, Ah.” “Three — three chairs. Ah, Ah, Ah.”
This went on for about three years. I now realize why my mother never gave me more than one cookie at a time. Adults can only take so much “Ah, Ah, Ah” in one day.
You would think that with this intense numerical background I would have gone into math instead of English. But at the time, all I wanted was to be an actuarial Dracula. I even had a T-shirt with the Count on it that I wore almost every day. Had I been smart enough to make a Last Will and Testament, I would have insisted upon being buried in that shirt.
I eventually outgrew my Count impression. I don’t remember exactly when it was, but it must have been before high school when I nearly failed Algebra 2B. The Count never covered algebra on “Sesame Street.” But he did instill a love of numbers into several generations of children. Think how many 40-year-olds would have no idea how many friends they pretend to have on Facebook if they hadn’t learned the basics of one-two-three from the Count.
I thought about him when I read that Jerry Nelson, the veteran puppeteer who gave the Count his memorable voice, died in August at the age of 78. That voice was an essential part of my childhood repertoire. Like most kids, I tried out lots of different voices in search of my own. It’s an essential part of growing up — what Wordsworth called “endless imitation” — in which we patch together an identity based on the mannerisms of people (and characters) around us.
Much to my family’s relief, I didn’t settle on my Count voice. But in the brief time that I acted out that role, I felt important. There were things to be counted everywhere, and I thought somebody had to get the job done. So thanks, Jerry, for lending me an Eastern European accent, and a way to make myself count. I owe you one. “That’s one — one favor. Ah, Ah, Ah.”
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