Shame on you, Tony Tiger. Shame.
I consumed cubic tons of sugared, artificially-colored cereal as a kid. I gobbled bowl after bowl while staring at Saturday morning cartoons, a slave to the commercials, a cult follower of Fat Albert, The Archies, and Batman. I slurped my milk in the bottom of the bowl when it was petunia pink, bile green, and that blue that always tasted like freshly-washed sidewalk.
And you wouldn’t let me in.
My hotel in Battle Creek is one block away from Cereal City, USA. I planned to use my break today to discover the fruit of my childhood food, to stroll the simulated Cereal Production Line, to squeeze Kellogg’s themed merchandise. I walked there all a-quiver, my body ready for a sugar cereal buzz. I was feeling grrrrreat.
Your doors were locked. Only open on the weekends in March. The cruelest month.
So close, yet so far.
I’m disappointed, Tony. And you wonder why I defected to oatmeal.
In other news, the kids at the middle school were fun, and we had a nice crowd at the library tonight. Tomorrow I have to rent a car and drive a bunch of places (no public appearances), winding up in Kalamazoo for what should be a raucous evening with some librarians and teachers in Kalamazoo.