Yep, I too would fear the Caped Crusader if he were the size of a standard Vienna sausage

In keeping with yesterday's post, here are Spidey and friends in finger form.

Etsy eats up more of my time than Facebook, trying to find my keys, and local bureaucracy COMBINED.

They can be your own, you know.

Pride and Prejudice ... in finger puppet form

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a classic novel of great merit must be in want of finger puppets.

That's right. These are Pride and Prejudice finger puppets, available on Etsy. From left to right, you have Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth Bennet, Jane Bennet and Mr. Bingley.

Clearly Jane Austen (who, by all accounts, never posted even once on Etsy) died too young to realize that true creative greatness lies in another art form.

This is Your Brain in Training

I'm happy today, because according to the New York Times, nothing I do is actually my fault. I feel I can trust the Times over other city publications, which is frankly silly. What is the real difference between the Times, and, say, the N.Y. Post? Frequency of use of the word "sicko," that's all:

Times: Man Kills 3 in Bronx
Post: Sicko Kills 3 in Bronx

Times: Israeli Officials Weigh an Imposed Palestinian Border
Post: Sicko Officials Weigh an Imposed Sicko Border

Times: Crossword Puzzle
Post: Sicko Puzzle

So, yes, I have confidence in the Times, and this confidence is at an all-time high now that they've gone on the record as stating I cannot be held responsible for any of my actions. Why, you ask? The answer lies with our bud neuroscience. Let us consider the brain:



Whoops! Ha ha. Wrong brain. I meant this one:

SOURCE: Duke University Medical School

Anyway,  the reason I mustn't be held responsible for any of my actions is because according to neuroscience, my personal brain, age 24, is still in training. IIII KNOW! AWESOME, RIGHT? I have this on the authority of a Times article entitled  "What the Brain Says About Maturity," written by no less than Dr. Laurence Steinberg, a professor of psychology at Temple University. According to Dr. Steinberg:

Significant changes in brain anatomy and activity are still taking place during young adulthood, especially in prefrontal regions that are important for planning ahead, anticipating the future consequences of one’s decisions, controlling impulses, and comparing risk and reward. Indeed, some brain regions and systems do not reach full maturity until the early or mid-20s. (NYT, May 29, 2012)

That's right, fellow young adults: your brain is a trainee brain. It is the equivalent of a bepimpled teen boy named "Zack" who is on his third day at the Regal Cinemas up the street, learning to scoop popcorn, yet not quite mastering it with 100% accuracy.

However, there is hope for progress (I mean for my brain; I am not so sure about Zack). According to neuroscience, one day soon my brain shall grow up, in a peppy montage with Timon and Pumbaa at its side. Or maybe I am thinking of Simba. No matter. My point is, my young adult brain will become an old adult brain, and then I will be responsible for my actions. That will be a dark day indeed, because at the moment, whenever I say or do something asinine, I have only to go, "HA HA! THAT WAS JUST MY BRAIN FORMING!" or, "WHOA THERE! THAT PREFRONTAL REGION SUUURE IS A WORK IN PROGRESS!" and it's all taken care of. Everyone will instantly forgive you everything including cannibalism, except if you live here in France, where you can legally be sentenced to death for asking if there is a public restroom.*

In fact, let us divert to this important issue for a moment. There are exactly two locations in the Republic of France featuring toilets.** One of these is my former host family's house, although if you come to France (motto: "Liberté, Égalité, A Frightening Lack of Bubble Thé"), I do not recommend you use their toilet. First of all, you are not invited, and if you were to enter the house you would surely be licked to death by a vicious tiny dachshund. Second of all, the toilet is extremely volatile, which I interpret as strong finer feelings regarding who uses it. Sadly, the toilet has no say in this matter, and is thus reduced to silent passive-agressive measures such as blocking up for the hell of it. This was always enormously effective and resulted in the near-constant presence of the family's hardy plumber and general all-around fix-it man, a guy named "Serge" whose mysterious omnipotence convinced me he was also secretly running the government, possibly while wielding a plunger.

The other local toilet "hot spot" is my school, Paris III, which is admittedly hard to access given that it is surrounded at any given moment by a billowing mass of carcinogens. In France there is a firm law that smokers must keep a strict .000000000000005 cm distance from a building. In the event you DO get to the Paris III restroom, the health risk, without getting into indelicate detail, is significantly greater than if you were to just let your bladder explode.

But back to my original topic,*** which is: my brain-in-training. Young adults with young adult brains, if you are out and happen to do something such as the following:

1. While sitting at lunch across from individual you wish fervently to impress, attempt to
utter a sophisticated witticism, which is probably actually stupid, but whatever.

2. Follow this with a demure sip of coffee.

3. While taking demure sip, accidentally let loose a 7,600-decibel snort at your own witticism and spray coffee in your own eyes.****

Then just remember what neuroscience says: you didn't actually do it. Then feel free to go forth and commit all manner of atrocities, such as arson or buying the National Examiner. Your prefrontal regions are simply too pre-frontal to know better.

But that's not to say the conscientious (meaning "weenie") among us can't take certain measures to check our impulses. For example, you could take up a hobby. Just make sure it's a worthwhile hobby that contributes to your mental abilities (example: world travel), and not a dangerous hobby that ensures your brain's swift atrophy until all you have left up there is Hamburger Helper (example: college).

And for the rest of you brain-in-training young'uns, live it up, enjoy the moment, and - from the bottom of my heart - don't tell me about it. Oh, and above all, if you do decide to take the world-travel route, and you come to France, and while here you simply MUST use a bathroom, then I assure you - in all seriousness - that it IS okay to use one. In Ohio.





* Answer: No.
** Source: Fodor's
*** Did I have one?
**** Not that this actually ever happened or anything.

Kid Zone

I received the following e-mail from my father. I figured it needed to be shared:


"While choosing cereal at Target yesterday, I heard this dialogue from over the shelf.  This is unedited.

Child's voice: You want it?

Smaller child's voice: Yes.

The two children (query and response, back and forth): You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.

Woman's voice (presumably the mother):  STOP IT!

The two children (giggle mutually, then, without missing a beat): You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes. You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes. You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.

Woman's voice:  STOP IT!!!

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Woman's voice: STO-O-O-O-O-O-P IT!!!

(repeat the above ad infinitum)

As we walked across the parking lot, I imagined:  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...Yes.  You want it?...

(Sound of automatic weapon tearing through the shelves and displays and the flesh of shoppers, general shrieks of agony, blood spattering the inside of the glass door enclosure...then.....silence.)

(pause)

Little voice:  You want it?...

Other little voice:  Yes...

(giggles)"

A Pain in the Montparnasse

On behalf of all American expatriates (motto: "Loudly Noting the Bad Manners Abroad Since 1828"), I should like to clear up certain grave misconceptions concerning my adopted country, France (motto: "Proudly Producing Stronger Odors Than YOUR Country Since 1543"*). Here goes: contrary to what you may have heard, France is not a bureaucracy-ridden, administratively corrupt bloodsucking death maw filled with enough leech-like, paper-pushing, flesh-eating android cockroach bureaucrats to colonize Asia. No, this is not an accurate picture of France. On the contrary: France also lacks Burger King restaurants.

Now I don't mean to be harsh here. I'm only stating the facts, though I admit I state them with a tinge of regret. I've spent a long time being very fond of France, thanks to its sterling cultural offerings, such as:

• Cereal, especially chocolate-flavored cereal. This one is going to cause me DEEP withdrawal issues when I return to the US this summer. When people ask, "But aren't those just Cocoa Puffs?," there is no choice but to chuckle gently and hit them in the face, because stupid people should not ask questions. The gulf between American and French cereals is vast. How vast, you ask? To give you a concrete index, mathematicians at Harvard calculate that in comparison, the planet Jupiter is only "pretty vast". My theory is, the difference can be summed up as follows: American cereal is made from cereal ingredients, whereas French cereal is made from heroin. Back in my earliest times here, when I lived with a host family, many was the day I would retire to my room and "do some cereal", always peripherally terrified one of my host brethren would open the door to find me up to my forearms in the cereal box, crazedly digging out handful upon handful of cereal pellets even though at any given moment my mouth was already filled with 10,695 of them. I should really just start taking it intravenously.
• A strong and healthy cultural aesthetic appreciation for attractive naked people.
• High-class comedy in the form of presidential elections featuring nail-biting contests between individuals who appear to be the illegitimate children of sadistic chipmunks and/or Far Side characters.
• On a related note, the Paris metro features two stations called "Ourcq" and "Picpus".
• Also, a foreign language is spoken here, possibly French.

So we can see that France has many fine qualities, but if you ask me, none of them - and I INCLUDE the naked people in this statement - make up for the qualities that suck, or as we say locally, "les qualités qui suckent." Yes, I'm cranky, and you would be too if you'd spent the past five months embroiled in mortal combat pitting you against ... well, against negative space, actually, because the bureaucrats you WOULD be fighting are way too busy ignoring you to have time to fight with you. You understand how it is: there are only so many hours in a day.

I should explain. Let's roll back, as so many Wal-Mart prices have done before us, to last December. Ready? Wheeee!** Okay, so, here we are: last December. Following a brief and peaceful Christmas vacation in the US, I returned to France fully rested and fresh as a daisy. Here is a picture of me in December:

BEFORE

Whereupon I learned that:

• The local immigration office had not properly validated my visa, which was my fault as per France's Law of 16 January 1851, which states, "Everything is your fault."
• My insurance company had never actually given me the insurance I had paid for, which was my fault as per the Law of 7 June 1927, which begins, " 'Twas brillig ... "
•  My school had no record of my having ever submitted various important forms, or possibly existing, which was my fault as per the Law of 28 December 1901, which states, "Also, your school shall always have toilet paper in all stalls except the one you personally have just used."
• Therefore, in accordance with French law, they were going to take my lips

And so, faced with massive gobs of French bureaucracy, I did what any sensible person would do: I enmired myself in more French bureaucracy. I did have a good reason, though. It turns out that in order to engage in an artistic profession such as theatre, glass-blowing, spray-painting stick figures engaged in obscene acts on nursery school buildings, playing "Für Elise" on the accordion in the metro,*** etc., you need what is called a SIRET number. SIRET is an acronym; it stands for, "Of course we do not know what zis stands for and of COURSE zat is entirely your fault, DUH." So I got myself a SIRET number, only to find that now I had a new problem:

• I had a SIRET number

Thus, long story short, in the past several months I have encountered a certain amount of bureaucratic finger-wagging and document-losing and stone-walling and document-losing and insult-snarling and document-losing, and by "a certain amount," I mean it has basically never stopped, except here and there for an hour or two (obviously, the bureaucrats have to take breaks sometimes, to have lunch, or shed their skin). So now I look like this:

AFTER

I was able to wrangle some of these problems into order over time (not the SIRET one; I finally had to cancel my account, which basically obliged me to go through a long and elaborate process of begging not to be allowed to work). But I did finally get my visa properly validated, despite what I suspect would be classified as a "chick fight" between myself and the snot princess administrator I had to deal with. I admit I started it. I was upset and tense about the situation, and as a bilingual person living here since 2010, I did not wish to be spoken to in officious English. I wished to be spoken to in officious French and that cow was gonna KNOW it:

SNOT PRINCESS ADMINISTRATOR: Zis document it is what?
ME (through gritted teeth): It's my landlady's electricity bill. The one you requested.
SPI: Zis is not good enough as document. It does not have original thumbprint of St. Francis of Assisi. You go away and come back anozzerr day wis ozzerr documents.
ME (cracks appearing in teeth): I speak French.
SPI (in French): Oh, well if your French is SOOOOOOOO good, perhaps you would like to LEAVE and go talk to FRENCH people OUTSIIIIDE.

In fact, I did eventually get that situation straightened out, although I hit new roadblocks when, mere weeks later, I was told I had to RENEW this same visa in order to stay in France and finish my studies. Only the Bureau of Random-Ass Excuses told me I COULDN'T renew, because - I swear this is the real reason they gave - I was going to the US over the summer. Which I was doing because, well, because my visa was running out in the first place. But I understood, of course; you can't be too careful with Americans who go spend time in America. You never know what sort of shenanigans they might get up to there. For example, they might go to Burger King restaurants.

Still, I'm cheered by the fact that, however outrageous these stories are, other expats' are far worse. I talked to an American classmate from whom the immigration bureaucrats had actually taken documents out of his renewal application and thrown them away with the express purpose of telling him - get ready - that his application was incomplete. He claims they did this right in front of him, although I'm sure they actually used much more subtle techniques, such as pointing the other way and shouting ("LOOK!"). This is how they get their jollies at the Bureau of Random-Ass Excuses. You can't blame them for trying to enjoy life.

Compared to that guy, I feel I got off easy. The worst thing that happened to me was that they told me I had to get a new identification photo taken, which normally costs 5 euros, only the Photomaton machine somehow managed to eat about 15 or 20 of mine before I got wise. Then the bureaucrats took 30 more in order to tell me to go to hell (you can't get that at the five-and-dime anymore these days).

Therefore, France, I'm sorry to have to do this, but you drive me to it. Due to my conviction that turnabout is fair play, I'm going to have to reveal national secrets:

1. First, let's discuss La Marseillaise, the so-called national anthem. Don't believe the propaganda: the supposed "lyrics" are not the real lyrics. Generation after generation has learned:

Allons enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé !
Contre nous de la tyrranie
L'étendard sanglant est levé ... (etc.)


Whereas the REAL lyrics are as follows:

Allons enfants de la Patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivé !

We're gonna do the Twist

We're gonna do the Twist

We're gonna do the Twist and it GOES LIKE THIS

(Mention this to any high-ranking member of state, and you will get a free Popsicle.)

2. French cuss words do not work. It turns out that when you are moved to curse - and I can attest to this from personal experience - you default to English cuss words. I am thinking here of one particular instance: once, having arrived early for a meeting at the Théâtre de la Ville, I decided to go around the corner and visit the puppies at a pet store. I made the acquaintance of one Jack Russell puppy who frolicked around before me being all adorable until CHOMP suddenly I was left with a seeping gash on my finger, whereupon I was heard (probably as far away as your house) to yell "OWW!! WHY YOU LITTLE (VERY BAD ENGLISH CUSS WORDS)!!!!" It never even occurred to me to use French. So don't try to tell ME this isn't a national secret.

3. The secret to getting your visa renewed smoothly is to breakdance while burping the Poké Rap. Backwards.

But I didn't know that last one until I had already gone through it all the hard way. So this is where I stand these days: the insurance company won't reimburse my health costs unless I  bring them the heart of a gryphon topped with a fried dodo egg; professionally, I cannot really work unless I ally myself with an association (which is fine except for the part where you have to ally yourself with an association), which I could do in order to enjoy the privilege of being taxed 45%; and my school found my documents, called me to congratulate me, and has now forgiven me. I'm so happy we're on speaking terms. I'll even be able to speak if France gives me back my lips.

In other words, everything has pretty much calmed down now, just in time for me to go back to the US for the summer. Everything has calmed down, that is, unless you count the incident this afternoon where a vending machine ate my euro. I have no doubt this was related to everything else; it was probably in league with the Photomaton machine. And if you don't agree with me, well, that just so CLEARLY means you haven't been living here. I, for one, know how to think in local logic. 'Twas brillig.



* Generally translated as "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité."
** Was it good for you?
*** I have actually heard this rendition in the metro more than once. As a sensitive and thoughtful listener attuned to the details and nuances of classical music, I would describe it as "stupid."

Game if You Are

My digital childhood, in a picture.

Scarcely a day goes by you don't see one of those doomsday articles about children and computer games. You know the articles I mean - they're the ones that appear in USA Today in the same section where they publish their latest hard-hitting exposé on celebrity buttock trends for fall.  The headlines look something like this:

STUDY: COMPUTER GAMES MAKE CHILDREN THE ANTICHRIST AND ALSO FAT

As a young modern hip hep "with it" texting tweeting Facebooking Skyping youth of the Digital Age, I take offense. I say, computer games have enormous civic and creative value that is in no way compromised by the fact that they make you the Antichrist and also fat. So there.

Know how I know? I was a child who used computer games, and besides the fact that I can count on one hand the number of times I was the Antichrist, I learned many valuable skills, such as how to give a supermodel open face sores on Cosmopolitan Virtual Makeover. This is the sort of thing that good old-fashioned playing outside will frankly NEVER teach you.

Of course, like any good academic, I must back up my findings with evidence from sources. Otherwise, Columbia University - which is sitting behind me as I speak drumming its warty, icy cold fingers on my shoulder and breathing threatening words* into my ear - will rescind my diploma. Of course this would not be any great shame, because - little known fact ahead - the Columbia "diploma" is actually just an elaborate recipe for stuffed peppers, translated into Latin. Since I don't want to break any hearts here, I'm not even going to get into the translation of "summa cum laude."**

So, for a Primary Source, I chose my sister, whose expertise on the subject of The Computer Games of Our Youth stems from the fact that she grew up in the same house as I did and occasionally got into great snarling fights with me over the accusation that I had looked at her artwork when in fact I had only moved my eyeballs over it a little.*** But despite this unhinged world view of hers, I still solicited her opinions on computer games.

For example, I was trying to remember a game called "Hello Kitty Big Fun Piano," which gets its name from the fact that it is about the Oregon Trail.  I can remember nearly nothing about Big Fun Piano, which we played when we were about 7 and 3. I did, however, manage to find this picture on Amazon:

Which gives the impression that the program was designed as a tool for musical formation.  At first I had my doubts about what kind of effect this would have on your piano technique, but then again I've since learned that Franz Lizst used one of these.  

My sister recalls that you could write a song, then manipulate it to make it sound as if it was being barked by dogs or meowed by cats. Frankly, I think it is nothing sort of a tragedy that Liszt did not incorporate this into his own works - who knows what untapped greatness he might have realized.

I also have many fond memories of ...

... "Kid Works 2," which gets its name from the fact that it is neither Kid Works 1 nor 3 and also has to do with the Oregon Trail. Among the many sterling features of this program was a digital drawing pen that, all the while you used it, would play a loud and unpleasant 3-second tune that continued on infinite loop into the next ice age, cheerfully destroying the brain tissue of all within a 10-mile radius.

But far and away the best feature of "Kid Works 2" was: the Story Writer. This was a part where you could (SPOILER) write a story. But this isn't the good part yet, oh no. The good part was that there was ... this voice.  This voice that read your story aloud. I believe the voice was named Ralph. He sounded like Marvin the Paranoid Android on steroids. Furthermore - and this was simply the best thing  ever**** - Ralph pronounced virtually nothing correctly. For example, "Go to bed with your bear," which I remember because it is a sentence we actually typed,***** became "GO-TO-BED-WITH-YOW-WER-BEER," which at the time caused us to shriek with laughter for approximately six weeks nonstop. If I am not mistaken, this was the occasion on which my young bladder was inadvertently voided on my dad's then-computer chair. I assume I am now forgiven, although I have not expressly checked. 

Another entertaining feature of Ralph was his extreme literalness. For example, say you typed a row of the letter i. Ralph would respond by reading, and I quote (and for best effect, you have to imagine this is the funniest thing you have EVER HEARD IN YOUR WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE OH MY GOD EEEEEEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA CAN'T BREATHE):

Ready?

I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I

So instead of sounding like Marvin the Paranoid Android on steroids, Ralph now sounded like Marvin on steroids having a grand mal epileptic seizure.  Needless to say, we felt compelled to replay this sound 10,258,520,692 times per day, which needless to say went over big with certain unnamed cartoonists and musicians trying to work in the house:

(Quiet in the house. Sound of youthful typing.

Giggling.

Brief silence.)

RALPH: I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I

ME AND MY SISTER: SHRIEEEEEEEEEK HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA

MY FATHER: TURN THAT OFF!!!

ME AND MY SISTER: OKAY!

(Giggling.

Brief silence.)

RALPH: I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I

ME AND MY SISTER: SHRIEEEEEEEEEK HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA

MY FATHER: TURN THAT OFF!!!

ME AND MY SISTER: OKAY!

(Giggling.

Brief silence.

Repeat as desired)

I have to admit, I miss those days.

But of course even the combined powers of Big Fun Piano and Kid Works 2 do not add up to a well-rounded classical education. No, if you really want to go all out, you will also need:

I speak of old school Rosetta Stone, that is to say before it became a multi-skajillion-dollar industry with kiosks in every airport and Westfield Shoppingtown megacenter, manned by snazzy young men with names like Dustin.  I don't know what nouveau Rosetta Stone is like, but back in the day, it was a "must-have" for one extremely crucial educational language-learning reason: it made funny sounds when you got the answer wrong.

For example: say you were learning Italian,****** and you got shown two pictures, a little girl and a car.  If the Pleasant Voice said, "una bambina," you were supposed to click on the girl, whereupon you would get a sunny yellow check mark, accompanied by a happy jingle of congratulations. Whereas if you clicked on the car, you would get ... THE DREADED RED X, accompanied by the following sound, which I reproduce faithfully:

weeeeeee-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

So needless to say upon learning of this feature, we never clicked on the right answer again, ever since which discovery we have lived in happy ignorance of "other" languages. The sole exception is my second language, French, which I speak with such fluid precision that the other day someone took me to be from Poland.

For a really really really complete education, I'd say you need only one item more. This item was part of the "Best of Entertainment" mega-pack of games that came with our Windows 95 computer, nicknamed "the Diplodocus." The game was SkiFree, a program of utterly no point whatsoever, which my sister succinctly and accurately sums up as follows:

"In this game, you control a guy who skis down a hill randomly for awhile until a monster comes out of nowhere and eats him."

Yes, computer games teach us Vital Life Lessons, and not only about how to prepare for life in Corporate America. They also teach us how to run away from asteroids. I am thinking here of a time in 1999, when my sister was about 7 and we went to visit my dad's sister and her family. I hung out with the grown-ups while my sister and our cousin Steve, age 8, ensconced themselves down the hall with a game called "Space Rocks."  The point of the game, as far as I could tell, was to pilot a spaceship and try not to get hit by asteroids. But those two always got hit, as evidenced by the fact that every 15 minutes or so, they would come careening down the hall screaming, "ABANDON SHIP!!!!!" 

It doesn't matter if it's language-learning or asteroid-dodging. I say this is a perfect example of the most pivotal truth computer games have to teach us: it is WAY more fun to lose.

I can hear you Concerned Childhood Educator-types out there now. "But Nicola," you are saying, "don't you realize that by spending so much time playing computer games, you missed out on a REAL CHILDHOOD? WHAT ABOUT GOOD OLD-FASHIONED PLAYING OUTSIDE FOR GOSHSAKES???!!" To which I say, well, yes. Frankly, I did miss out on good old-fashioned playing outside. But it wasn't because of computer games. It was because my childhood occurred in southern Florida, where playing outside was not exactly, let us say, wreathed in fun. For example, I seem to recall that when I took my Sun Colors Pocahontas doll outside one summer, she promptly burst into a ball of flame.  

But rest assured, my sister and I had completely enriching and stimulating childhoods despite it all. When we weren't shrieking helplessly at the vocal stylings of Ralph or running away from asteroids, we were engaged in other merry childhood pastimes, such as riding the Tilt-a-Whirl at the county fair while singing, at the top of our lungs - this is true - the songs of Gilbert and Sullivan. I swear we really used to do this. Perhaps this is why we remain friendless.

* "Hey, MEAL PLAN BUTT. Wanna come BACK???"

** "Add salt to taste." 

*** Okay, who am I kidding: this still happens.

**** So you had to be there.

***** This sentence may not be reproduced in any form or else I am gonna HUNT YOU DOWN.

****** Italian is funny.

How to Perform for Children

Some actors think performing for children must be less difficult than performing for adults, but in fact, this is false. On the contrary, performance for children is fraught with great peril, such as the very real chance that one of your public will bite you on the leg.

This really did happen to me the other morning. I had just finished a puppet show and was standing there before my spectator, age 2, when suddenly, totally without warning, there came CHOMPPPP the sensation of approximately 3,527 baby fangs sinking into my right thigh.

The mother apologized profusely, impounding her giggling child in his stroller. "I'm so sorry," she said. "If it makes it any better, it means he likes you."

This was of course a revelation, accompanied in that moment by the confirmation of something I have long suspected: virtually no one has ever really liked me.

But rest assured there is more to performing for children than fending off thigh bites. No; you should also become versed in the use of a tranquilizer gun. I present as explanation the following authentic transcript of one of my puppet shows this past summer in Boston. The text was Rudyard Kipling's The Sing-Song of Old Man Kangaroo, a story with beautiful words that needless to say nobody got to hear:

ME: Not always was the Kangaroo as now we do behold him, but...
SMALL CHILD IN AUDIENCE: blablabla
SMALL CHILD'S MOTHER (at 8,600 decibels*): TYRONE!!!
ME: ... uh ... so he ... he uhh ...

But of course this is all part of the exciting, "by the seat of your pants" aspect of performing, an expression which derives from the fact that, at some point during your performance, you will almost certainly wet the seat of your pants.  Nevertheless, as a Seasoned Theatrical Professional,** I always keep going:

ME: ... uh, so he was a different animal, with four short legs. He was grey and...
SMALL CHILD: blablabla
MOTHER: TYRONE!!!
ME: ... and he was ...
SMALL CHILD: blablabla
MOTHER: TYRONE!!! THE LADY'S TRYING TO TALK!!!!
ME: ... and he was woolly and ...
MOTHER: TYRONE!!! AM I GONNA HAVE TO COME OVER THERE AND WHUP YA???!!!


Frankly, I think she was on the right track with the whupping idea, save for the tragic fact that no one volunteered to whup her. I would have courageously volunteered, only I had puppets on my hands, which somewhat hampers your whupping abilities. ("Madam, don't make me come over there, or I shall whup the living doody out of you with this cuddly kangaroo.")

This is why I propose - to you and to the MacArthur Fellowship jury alike - the invention of the Whup-o-Matic, a giant automatic whupping apparatus that you could keep on hand during performances and other special occasions. You could operate it secretly from a tiny remote control concealed somewhere on your person. Say someone started talking during your show; all you'd have to do is oh-so-quietly press one tiny button and (WHUPPAWHUPPAWHUPPAWHUPPAWHUPPA) (SCREAMMMMM) (SUDDEN BEAUTIFUL SILENCE) order would be restored. This would surely be the best news for the theatrical profession since Disney's Beauty and the Beast closed on Broadway, although granted it will be playing in theatres with names like the West Uvula Regional Players until the Nuclear Holocaust.***

But I digress. My point, for all you actors out there who perform for children, is this: despite the immaturity of your public, it's all worth it in the end, when - as you finish the last triumphant flourish of your performance - they squirm around on the floor and cry about random non-issues. This is incredibly prevalent at puppet shows. In fact, I have a pet theory**** of childhood that goes, the amount of anguish a child experiences at an event increases in direct proportion to the event's "fun" quotient. And if you don't believe me, consider THIS made-up statistic: for fiscal year 2010, elementary-school birthday parties were responsible for a solid 92% of world anguish. What's more, when you factor in trips to Chuck E. Cheese, this figure flat-out doubles.*****

Therefore, in order to combat this harrowing state of affairs, here are my

FIVE TIPS FOR PERFORMING FOR CHILDREN:

1. Wear protective thigh gear.

2. Never talk down to the kids - it's the parents who are total morons.  Only kidding, parents! Ha ha! Or am I?

3. Therefore, if the kids talk during your performance, just understand that this happens.

4. On the other hand, if the parents talk, you are legally within your rights to impose the death penalty.

5. I don't know what 5 is because Tyrone's mom yelled over it.

Quite frankly, I think you have a beautiful future in children's theatre if you just follow these simple directives and take enough narcotics to maintain your smile. So I highly recommend that you enter the profession, and if it turns out not to suit you, and you find you need someone to commiserate with, I urge you strongly - from the bottom of my heart - don't choose me.  Besides, I'm out of commission until these danged thigh wounds heal.

* Although this show occurred in the U.S., I have since moved back to France, thus all figures are in Celsius.
** With headshots, a variety of dialects, AEA eligibility and also measurements. Please contact my agent for further information. I have great hair. I once read most of a play.
*** When cockroaches are the only form of life left on Earth, you can be sure that among their number will be a small but dynamic group belting out "Be Our Guest." Needless to say, these individuals also have headshots.
**** It has a little theory collar and eats Purina Theory Chow.
***** And if you don't believe me, tough.