Princess Alice and the Beets

Butterfingers.  

There Smarty Pants.  Admit it.  The very word is tantalizing.  See if you can resist the real thing.  

I know, I know.  You’re not supposed to buy your favorite candy for the Trick or Treaters.  You’re supposed to buy something you yourself, the self-possessed adult, won’t eat.  Like liver.  Or beets.   

Because honestly, I’d have eaten candy corn if I’d bought it instead, even though it has plummeted from one of the happiest Halloween acquisitions of my early youth – so fun for precision consumption, from white cap to orange body to yellow tip – all the way to the pit of disdain, in the misguided “strategic” thinking of one trying to delay the inevitable.  

These are the consequences of severe, self-imposed restrictions:  One will binge when in the possession of Halloween gold.  So I bought the Butterfingers.  As a mature adult, I refuse to over-eat bad candy. 

Halloween’s a once-a-year holiday after all and the Trick or Treaters will never miss the fun-sized bites I snarfed down in batches of three or five over the very few days between my ill-fated trip to Raley’s and All Hallows Eve! 

And what’s the fun in giving out candy that even I don’t like?  Kids assess things pretty quickly and when they’re disappointed, they can be vengeful.  Especially the little ones.  One pouty faced Tinker Bell can ruin your whole happy time. 

I don’t want to be known as the neighborhood health nut either, though currently that scenario seems remote. 

This whole Halloween thing puts me in mind of a troubling tendency among adults for trying to explain themselves by conducting investigative studies with children as the subjects.  Consider the “Marshmallow Experiment”:  A test supposedly created to measure youngsters’ ability to delay their gratification.   

Making the research rounds for over 40 years, I call it a classic method for shaking off the doldrums when life slows down in the torture chamber.  Hey watch this!  Will this hungry little kid eat one Sta-Puft now or hold out for two later?  

Another experiment shown on CBS Sunday Morning recently demonstrates how a child’s inclination to cheat can be ameliorated by an invisible being.  Oh yeah.  That’s some sick scientific shenanigans. 

First a group of six-year-olds are shown a Velcro dartboard and given little Velcro balls to toss at it.  The rules of the game are that they must stay behind a line on the floor, turn their backs and throw the balls onto the target over their shoulders.  An almost impossible task designed by fiendish “scientists” to thwart and torment the innocent.  

The “researchers” then observe through a one-way mirror as one-by-one the kids become frustrated and cheat.  Almost to a sweet tiny person, they face the target, step across the line, and in some cases walk right up to the dartboard to plant those sticky orbs, creating a perfect bull’s-eye. 

Then, and here’s where it gets really interesting, the lab geeks change the scenario.  They place a chair in the room and tell their next group of torment-ees that Princess Alice is seated there.  She’s invisible, you understand.  You can’t see her.  But she’s going to watch the game.   

Now the kids are skeptical, bless their cheating little hearts.  They immediately approach the chair, inspect the air around it, run their hands over it and tell their captors that as citizens of a democracy they owe no allegiance to royalty.  Yes I know, says He in Control.  But she’s there. 

Then, the kids each have their turn alone in the room with the dartboard, the balls and the chair.  And guess what?  They don’t cheat anymore.  

Weird, huh?  But cool in a way.  

I like it except as it applies to me and my pagan holiday.  Why do I feel guilty about my Butterfinger transgression?  It’s Princess Alice! 

She sees me when I’m sleeping.  She knows when I’m awake.  She knows if I’ve bought Butterfingers or beets, so get beets for heaven’s sake. 

There it is.  A grown person can’t even enjoy her own personal bull’s-eye of an evening without Princess Alice shaking her head and saying “tsk, tsk.” 

Fine.  My husband will spirit the remainder of the chocolate-coated flaky peanut butter morsels away to his office.  We’ll see if the Princess has gone corporate.

Power Napping for Self-Improvement

I’m not asking for a thump on the head.   

But some guys have all the luck, don’t they?   

Maybe you saw that guy on CBS Sunday Morning who took a knock to the noggin and woke up with a talent for playing the piano.  And he can really play - not just “Heart and Soul,” either.   

He woke up from a mild concussion, felt the urge, sat down, composed and played like a son-of-a-gun.  He says now he sees the notes, not just on the page, but also in the air.  That’s a big payoff for a small smack.  Hooray for him. 

But it’s irritating to those of us who deal with the simultaneous impediments of trying to learn to play the piano past the point when our synapses have ossified, coupled with an aversion to taking a hit.  

My husband offered to help me out with this, but I think he was making fun.  Something in his eyes.  Too eager.  He salivated.  I can only hope he’s not planning an “accident” to do me a favor! 

Here’s the dilemma:  I want to play, but all that study and practice – whew!  I just don’t know if I have it in me. 

It’s like that quote I saw online the other day:  “I’ll do anything to lose weight – except diet and exercise.”  

Then there’s that other guy on the Science Channel who had a stroke and came back an artist.  

Since coming home from the hospital, this guy has painted every surface available to him.  Literally.  He’s on his fifth layer.  And he’s not using antique white.  He maps out poster-sized sections of walls, ceilings, floors, furniture and countertops, and creates.  His living room looks like a mob of muralists threw up on it.   

The mystic in me can’t help wondering if he ever wished he could just paint all the time instead of being a day trader or whatever his regular job was.  Rod Serling warned us about that sort of thing. 

Doctors speculate that his stroke created an imbalance between the excitation processors and inhibition suppressors in his brain.  Painter excitation is winning and this poor schmuck can’t stop himself from artistic expression.  I don’t think I want to go that far.  

Of course no one in her right mind would go to that length, even for her art.  But a slothful person does look for miracles. 

That’s why I read with interest the new research saying that imagining practicing the piano, or shooting baskets, or “virtually rehearsing” just about anything produces improvements in that skill approximating those accrued from actual practice.  Really.  If only that could apply to housework.  Cause I can visualize a clean house and it’s nice.  Smells good, shines and everything.  But I don’t like to visualize the actual cleaning.  That must be why we’re all caked over. 

To get the full benefit of your imagination, you have to visualize the activity for the same amount of time you would put in to doing it.  What’s the good in that?  If a person has to visualize practicing her scales in order to procrastinate practicing her scales, well, that little chore just lost its appeal.  That’s like the commuter stuck in traffic who takes a 20-minute detour to avoid a five-minute delay. 

On the other hand, innovative dream researchers have now demonstrated that reflection on a task while asleep and dreaming produces the same brain waves as actually completing the task.  So, if we dream of playing onstage at Carnegie Hall, it boosts our ability to play there one day.  This is the ultimate in multi-tasking.  Lucid dreamers hone their talents while catching their z’s.   

One can extrapolate that gainful achievements await the daydreamer, the blank stare-er, and the while-er away of time.  At last!  A regimen that plays to my in borne aptitudes.  I’m feeling excited about my potential accomplishments! 

I could start the day by picturing some time on the treadmill.  My chair at the computer is comfortable enough to accommodate reverie on the memoir I’m writing.  Next I’ll nap next to the piano.  Laundry?  A mental rehearsal!  Soon, it’ll be time to envision dinner.   

I’m liking this.  It fits my lifestyle.  It’s the next generation of armchair quarterback:  naptime artiste.

Handwriting on the Cyberspace Wall

It worries me that consumers are complaining about the newest iPad.  Reports are that it heats up, becoming too warm to handle after prolonged use. 

That’s right.  Too warm to handle.  My fragile constitution cannot withstand the warmth.  Help me!  Help me!  It’s so warm!  I can hardly fling another bird. 

That’s what we’re coming to!  What would John Wayne think?  Or Amelia Earhart? 

It puts me in mind of “Wall-E,” the futuristic 2008 Academy Award winner for Best Animated feature.  Finding earth’s environment toxic from the overflowing refuse of hyper-consumerism, humans have abandoned the planet.  Once evacuated, they live out their years aboard the star liner Axiom, circling, waiting for their home to become habitable again.   

They’ve been in outer space so long, with every need attended to, that they never stand upright, never leave their recliners.  Meals and drinks and light and darkness, entertainment, all provided without exertion or effort.  

They’re obese, of course, but in a cute way.  They all have such amiable dispositions after all.  Nothing ever becomes too warm, so what’s to get upset about?   

As the story unfolds, we see an x-ray of the captain of the ship and discover that his bones, like those of all the recumbent residents of the Axiom, have become disjointed and float like so many pretzels suspended in jell-o.  All this the result of generations of life reliant on the screen. 

Recoiling from the warmth of the new iPad, we’re taking another step toward this dystopian utopia, you and I.  It’s all good and all bad all at the same time.  It pampers us.  It gives us everything we ask for and takes away everything we need, step by imperceptible step. 

Oh yes, the iPad is too warm.  How will we ever Draw Something?  

Our chubbiness is not so cute as it is in the movies; but we press on, exerting less, demanding more.  Next logical increment – elevate our preoccupation!  That’s right; make it respectable:  Video games aren’t just games any more.  We'll call them art!  And right on cue, according to CBS News/Sunday Morning, the newest exhibit at the Smithsonian’s American Art Museum is "The Art of Video Games." 

The Smithsonian!  Case closed.  No argument.  Video games are art. 

“I’m engaged in a cultural expression, Honey.” 

Forget about the decline of humankind, I can tell you it won’t play well with my husband.  He already exhibits a persistent skepticism about how I spend my afternoons.  “Retirement, schmretirement!” he’s been known to mutter, shaking his head, carrying dishes to the sink in demonstration of how he does everything around here. 

For that reason I quit Bejeweled cold turkey.  He came down the hall and found me too many times, mesmerized, mindlessly matching purple gems .  My credibility sagged.  I had to reestablish trust.  But now I have the Smithsonian on my side. 

Our national archive extolls video games’ images as reminiscent of Japanese woodcuts and compares them to the work of M.C. Escher.  Why I’m deepening my appreciation of fine art by staring at it on the screen, moving my mouse over it, cursing at it, throwing up my hands in triumph!   

And it's not just how video games look that makes them works of art, says the venerable museum; it's also how they engage the imagination and stimulate players to think about what moves to make.  

Yeah!  That’s it!  Imagination!  Moves!  I hardly even notice that my joints are stiffening and my back is curved.

"[Video games] can help us find connections with deeper questions we may have inside ourselves," says game developer Chris Melissinos, who curated the show.  Huh?  Deeper questions?  I must be playing the wrong game.   

"We're able to create worlds and environments that just don't exist in the real world.  We're able to open our imagination, and it's boundless, it's limitless.”  Melissinos again.  I think he’s feeling pretty important.  Curator and Champion Rationalizer. 

Pandering to our passive personalities it’s certain they’ll develop an iPad potholder.  They’ll create an award for the most Asteroids smashed, or Grand Autos stolen.  Partying with Mario will be tantamount to an inaugural ball at the White House. 

We’ll lean in closer.  And when it hurts our eyes, they’ll make that OK too.  No need for distance vision any more anyway.  Crow’s feet will be the craze.  

Mark my words.  And pack for a long trip.