Powering the Blackbird up smoothly toward the light I downshift into second and time it perfectly, easing through and avoiding the first-gear blues. Up ahead on the right is our target, Houston Academy—private school of choice among this town's well-to-do. The roadster eases into the parking lot like a small fish among sharks and I navigate around the massive SUVs favored by professional moms everywhere.

Running through the shut-down routine, I begin to seriously regret not shaving and wearing a tie. It was a toss-up, since I didn't know what kind of Friday hours they keep at the school and I desperately needed to interview some teachers. I head toward the cluster of grayish-blue buildings and find myself drawing alongside a younger blondish mom exiting her minivan. Adopting my least-threatening body language I smile and turn on my not inconsiderable masculine powers.

"Hi," I say, drawing it out, "Would you be able to tell me the way to the administration building?" Jeans, loafers, and no socks is not the right look here.

"Sure, I'm heading that way myself." She tilts her head indicating that I should follow her. Es senor Raven realmente macho? Si!

Something about walking through a grade school makes me feel like Gulliver (the tiny chairs) and also like a kid again. We pass displays of schoolwork posted on boards, and then come to a courtyard where the remnants of the Halloween activities are scattered about. The scarecrows the children had built with old clothing, straw, and carved pumpkins for heads are in states of decay and they look like corpses sprawled about and rotting.

"Do you have a child here?" my guide asks me.

"Ah, no. I'm a psychology student at the university."

I realize this raises more questions than it answers but we've come to the Administration Building and we part with cheery waves and see-you's. I enter and approach what looks like the receptionist's desk and on the other side of the room are several older children slumped in chairs. I ignore them and focus on the woman behind the counter. She's busy ignoring me.

We can play this game awhile—the International Man of Leisure has the patience of 10 men. I take the opportunity to study her and from the lines on her face I conclude that she does not smile often. Finally, she looks away from her computer screen and scans me briefly, her expression making it clear that she is not happy with what she sees. Senor Raven es mucho scruffico.

"Can I help you?"

I smile more brightly and in my best clipped diction explain that I am a "stew-dent" of "psych-cah-logy" and need to interview a few of the instructors to obtain "day-tah" for my "pro-ject." She hands me a sheet of paper and a pen and appears to take enormous delight in informing me that I will have to obtain "the prinicipal's permission" and of course, "she's not here."

The Master Psychologist heads back to the parking lot and along the way I pass a group of very small children being escorted somewhere by a harrassed-looking teacher and it occurs to me that they have so very much yet to learn.

6:39:57 PM       

An LA Times staff writer was looking over the Pulizter Prize awards for criticism and noticed that the only art critic to ever win was Emily Genauer, who did it back in 1974. An investigative type of journalist, Chris Knight dug around a bit and discovered a media survey that reveals something interesting: art critics don't criticize. Now, if you're a book or music critic, you have a fairly free hand, but the world of art is a snooty, incestuous, and angry world of big egos and short tempers. The Professional Art Critic learns to smile and make appreciative noises—and file innocuous copy.

In fact, of five aspects of reviewing queried in the survey, making judgments ranked at the bottom.

Americans don't much like art, so a bunker mentality can prevail in the art world. (It's us against them, and a critic better be with us.)

"I refuse to accept any responsibility for anything anybody might claim to have learned from my criticism."

The Heat Is on the Street

The Federal Trade Commission has just unleashed their new cybercrime mascot—Dewie the Turtle.

Somehow, I have a hard time picturing the hackers and Russian criminal masterminds out there shaking in their Adidas because Dewie's on the case.

Dewie is meant to be a reminder to consumers about how to stay safe online and develop a "culture of security."

Dewie's wired, but carries his security shell no matter what he's doing on the Internet. Even though turtles take their time, Dewie crosses the finish line first because he takes the appropriate steps to avoid a disaster.

All one has to do is to type "hacker" into a search engine, and someone who doesn't know a floppy disc from a Frisbee can figure out how to write a hacker computer virus.

10:34:52 AM