Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street

Sunny day - Sweepin’ the clouds away,
On my way to where the air is sweet.
Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street.

Come and play, everything’s A-OK
Friendly neighbors there that’s where we meet
Can you tell me how to get
How to get to Sesame Street

It’s a magic carpet ride. Every door will open wide.
Happy people like you. Happy people who.

Like a beautiful sunny day sweepin’ the clouds away
On my way to where the air is sweet
Can you tell me how to get,
How to get to Sesame street, how to get to Sesame Street, How to get to . . .

Once upon a time, way before the age of that scary giggling purple dinosaur, kids all over had, at some point in their lives, lived on Sesame Street.

The last time I saw them on television was at least more than 10 years ago, when silly things like MTV took over my TV time. Have I, like so many others, forgotten how to get to Sesame Street?

The 40th anniversary of this childrens' educational show saw people of all ages and all walks of life revisiting what once used to be their favourite street, renewing their friendships with big birds named Big Bird, Counts named Count who count, and that grouchy Grouch in a bin.

Who could forget their adventures in ABC's with lovable, shy Grover, or laughing at Ernie and Bert's antics, or counting everything in sight with Count von Count the Count, (ha-ha-ha), or kowabunga-ing with the cookie-loving monster? How many of us can boast of never having been driven away by Oscar the Grouch, or forget the first "dirty" words he taught us?

Some things you never forget.

"It is I, your furry pal, Grover! "

"Kowabunga!"

"Now leave me alone and get lost! Scram!"

"Greetings! I am the Count. They call me the Count because I love to count things. "



"Rubber Duckie, you're the one, You make bathtime lots of fun, Rubber Duckie, I'm awfully fond of you"



"XOXO"

Prairie Dawn

Elmo

Couldn't find a decent picture of Harry Monster. What, wasn't anyone else fond of Harry Monster?

Egad! It's Sherlock Hemlock!

Happy (belated) 40th Birthday Sesame Street! May kids follow Sherlock Hemlock the neighborhood detective on many wild goose chases to come, share cookies with Cookie Monster and learn important lessons in life with Kermit the Frog for the years to come.

Our parents loved you, we love you, and you can bet our children will, too.

Another Peter-ian weekend

St Petersburg is my Hotel California. I can check out any time I like, but I can never leave.

On weekdays I stay in my little castle under the watchful eye of Mechnikov, and my home becomes my school.

But on weekends...on weekends things are different. On weekends I run joyously into the warm embrace of this city, and rejoice in her ever-changing beauty.

Autumn is coming to a slow and graceful end. My last one here in Russia.

A bit of self-confidence always does you good. "So what if my wreck of a car has a non-existent bumper, backlights that are mangled beyond repair, and looks as if a hundred kids have played basketball on the roof? I've got decal on the sides and that's all that matters. I'm still selling this baby for 18,000 rubles. " Russian thinks.

Polytechnic Institute.


Inside the Mariinsky Theater Concert Hall

They were playing Mozart's "The Magical Flute" that day.

A walk down "Potseluev Most' " (Kissing Bridge)

Read more about Love Locks here.

Dropped by the Dolls' Gallery because it just seemed right.

And it did seem right.

Hey Stupid Kids

Dear Canis and Gang,

The reason we still smile in the face of your mindboggling idiocy instead of smashing that squashy face in is because our mother taught us better than that.

Yes kids, I said our mother.

So what? You have a problem with people whose mothers actually care enough for them to TEACH them something worth learning? Poor pathetic little children. Stupid as anything yet you think you are so cool.

Cool is so much more than that, braindeads.

Cool is, for example, having family members who care for you enough to wanna talk to you.

If the people who gave birth to you can't even tolerate your ugly face to want you around in the house you are so NOT COOL despite what your equally braindead friends think.

And the reason you can't get girls, is, well, maybe they can't tolerate your frying-panned face long enough to actually hold a conversation without running off to the toilet to throw up...or worse?

I don't know, see, I never had that happen to me. You are the experienced one, aren't you?

You, yes you, stupid kid with the face like a pig's and a brain to match that - you know you're gonna end up in the gutters of life one day, aren't you, the rate you're going?

Yeah, just thought I should warn you. Your brain (or that mush of gooey stuff you THINK is called your "brain", the hilariousity of that) is probably too primitive to process that kind of information I suppose, but do consider yourselves warned.

Just so you know, I am on his side EVERY STEP OF THE WAY and even if he makes the mistake of s******* y** a** u* one fine day, I wouldn't be going too far if I say now,

"You probably deserved it anyway."

XOXO,

From Strawb, and the person who calls him that.

But mostly from the person who calls him that,

because Strawb is too cool to care.

Strong as Stone

Dear Friend,

The first time around, we awkwardly stood around you in your room, watching you silently as you put on your bravest face. We didn't know for whom you were brave. Was it for us, the intruders into your private moment of grief? Was it a mask you put on to fool yourself, to delay the inevitable setting in of the truth of your loss?

Or was it for her, the biggest part of your heart, that had left you forever?

I don't remember how you looked that day, because I didn't dare look at you. I was afraid you would see the helplessness on my face, to hear the meaningless words of condolences I never found the courage to say.

Today, a little after two years since that horrible day, we are once again gathered around you, forming an invisible little protective circle around you our friend, whose heart, or the pitiful remains of what used to be your heart, was shattered into pieces. None of us will ever understand.

Today you seemed like a stone to me. Through your grief you stand strong and brave as we timidly search for things to say to you. We end up stupidly blabbering on about flight tickets and phone numbers because none of us had the courage to go up to you and say,

"Cry if you want to, there are 8 shoulders here for you tonight."

So you didn't cry.

You might never hear us say such things to you, but do remember that this is what went through all our minds today.

You don't have to be strong all the time, you know. Everyone needs someone else sometimes, we know this is one of the times for you.

Keeping you in our prayers,

Group 77

End of an Era

I was filled with wonder the first time I saw snow in Russia. I bundled myself up in a thick sweater, made myself a hot cup of tea and looked out from the window of my 7th floor room to the billows of wind churning up the flakes into towering monsters, rapping on windows and howling at doors.


Now 6 years later, I still greet the last of my First Snow the way I did the first time. The first of my last winter here in St Petersburg stirs in me a longing I know will quickly pass into a memory. Am I ready to leave this place yet? Am I ready to see each thing, place and people for the last time and embark on a new journey, perhaps occasionally looking back and saying to all that would listen , "St Petersburg was my home." ?



Winter came early this year.

Pictures. Taken not because they sell calendars, but these tattered old buildings and crooked roads are how I will remember my St Petersburg by.

Hello winter my old friend

The Demon Within

Cancer is so limited.

It cannot shatter hope.

It cannot corrode faith.

It cannot cripple love.

It cannot destroy God’s peace.

It cannot kill friendship.

It cannot suppress memories.

It cannot silence courage.

It cannot invade the soul.

It cannot conquer the spirit.

It cannot steal God’s gift of eternal life.

Cancer is so limited.

As Dr Dyomin started our first Oncology lesson with this poem, I felt a bitter sourness rising to my throat. These simple lines reawakened an emotion I thought I had buried too deeply to ever find again. To be bitter and angry is simply too easy.

I remember a fourth stage breast cancer patient we interviewed last year. Her frame, what was left of it, was a sadist's joke of a body. She must have been once beautiful. A dying shadow of her former beauty still clung onto the papery skin that was her face. Her few remaining strands of hair were kept in place with a headscarf. She covered her chest self-consciously as we entered the room.

The examination that day wasn't easy. Regret and frustration dominated the conversation as we asked her history. She had never done any self-examinations, and disregarded the early symptoms. By the time she finally visited a doctor it was too late - her cancer had progressed to the final stage.

As I read the poem I thought of her. Of this woman whose acquaintance I made for 10 minutes of my life, who probably is not with us anymore. Of my beloved grandparents, taken from us too soon. Of a friend, a young lady who succumbed too quickly to the beckoning of that black-robed Reaper. Of an uncle - a young father with a 2nd baby on the way. Still holding on.

As my thoughts turn to this family half a world away from me, I feel closer than ever to them. There is so much I want to tell the people I have lost, and those still fighting this demon within. Words about hope, and faith, and love. Yet words fail everytime, crumbling into helplessness.

Maybe we don't need too many words.

Love - Kids understand it.

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