Playing pretend can be confusing, even for cockroaches, computers and celebrities. Sometimes, for ordinary people, it can be deadly.
 
Researchers created teensy robots that look a little like Matchbox RVs, and found they could influence the behavior of real cockroaches. At least, they could once saturated with a little Eau de Cockroach to make them more alluring.

More interestingly, the cockroaches were able to override the comput-roach's programming 39% of the time, according to today's Journal Sentinel.

Meanwhile, Angelina Jolie, who has never been know for her modesty or demureness, told the press that her nudity in the new film sensation Beowulf made her blush. Nevermind that it's virtual nudity brought to us by Animatrix technology.  Somehow, it's more real than real nudity.

Perhaps that's because the animators fleshed Jolie out to make her more sensuous. The discovery of breast falsification can be embarrassing, as anyone who was exposed for fraud in the era of home-style bra stuffing can tell you.

As to glamming things up, I've read Beowulf, and I'm telling you, Grendel's dam (mother) did NOT look like Jolie. But I guess if I were the mother of a monster trolling the banquet halls, swamps, and movie theaters, I'd pick Jolie to be my avatar, too.

Those stories seem odd and amusing. But the next story of electronically-mediated pretend is much closer to experiences we can relate to. And it's stomach-turning.

One month ago, Megan Meier, a not-quite-14-year-old, hung herself in her parents' basement near St. Charles, Missouri, when Josh, a boy she'd met in MySpace, stopped courting her and started saying cruel things. At first, he said he didn't want to be friends because people told him she wasn't nice to her friends. Then the whole piranha subculture among teens smelled blood and swarmed in to finish her off.

Distraught, Megan told her mother, "They are posting bulletins (surveys) about me. Megan Meier is a s***. Megan Meier is fat." It can take a long time to learn to handle those killer words, especially if one of them is true: Megan was fat. (As to the "sl" word, it's apparently so lethal that this blog software won't permit it to be written.)

She also struggled with depression. And the adults who made up Josh, neighbors and parents of a former friend, knew that.

From the police report of Megan's ex-friend's mother's statement:

"(She) stated in the months leading up Meier's daughter's suicide, she instigated and monitored a 'my space' account which was created for the sole purpose of communicating with Meier's daughter.

"(She) said she, with the help of temporary employee named ------ constructed a profile of 'good looking' male on 'my space' in order to 'find out what Megan (Meier's daughter) was saying on-line' about her daughter. (She) explained the communication between the fake male profile and Megan was aimed at gaining Megan's confidence and finding out what Megan felt about her daughter and other people.

"(She) stated she, her daughter and (the temporary employee) all typed, read and monitored the communication between the fake male profile and Megan …..

"According to (her) 'somehow' other 'my space' users were able to access the fake male profile and Megan found out she had been duped. (She) stated she knew 'arguments' had broken out between Megan and others on 'my space.' (She) felt this incident contributed to Megan's suicide, but she did not feel 'as guilty' because at the funeral she found out 'Megan had tried to commit suicide before.'"

If we can only be accountable when we are ourselves, it's time to stop playing pretend. A little dose of authenticity, anyone?

(I just invented the acronym MAWBT--Might As Well Be Tosa--for places on the edges of our community where we like to go. It gives me an excuse to write about them here.)

This is a summer of blues legends. First there was BB King at Summerfest, and Thursday I heard bluesman Johnny Winter at the Times Cinema. In case you didn’t know, the Times has taken to hosting live music performances along with old movies. Next up is the Philip Walker Band (July 22), followed by Canned Heat and the Jim Liban Blues Band (July 29).

The live performance venue is mainly a good thing—if the audiences can manage to behave themselves and not drive the neighbors mad. Winter (the season, not the guitar man) will cure the noise and outdoor loitering, but while it’s warm the worried management will continue to flutter about, reminding even 50-year-old fans to go easy on the Smirnoffs and Miller.

Winter is the oldest 63-year-old I’ve ever seen. Of course he’s always looked a little spooky, bleached and skeletal, his mouth opening into silent Os between phrases. But hard living and injuries in a house fire have made him bent and wraith-like. It’s a wonder that he’s still traveling.

Maybe that’s part of living the blues, being a traveling man as well as a guitar man.

His band was fabulous, especially bass player Scott Spray, who watches Winter carefully, even lovingly, and lead guitar Paul Nelson, who left the stage most of the evening so people could concentrate on Winter. Winter’s still a master, and his voice was stronger than I’d have expected.

The great thing about the blues is that it’s the music of life. You can fake technique and passion, as rock often does, but you can’t fake life. It’s music in which an old man sitting in a chair can still teach the young, and it was good.

Back to the fans. I’ll just say this, mainly to the guys but also to the women in full merchandise display attire and shouting about menopause while dropping toilet paper rolls in the toilet: six of anything in a bottle is too many.

“Ma?”

“What?”

“Um, are you watching American Idol?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it with you moms?”

“Huh?”

“All the moms in Tosa. They’re watching American Idol. Matt’s mom’s watching American Idol. Berto’s mom’s watching it. You guys are strange. Is that Sanjaya dude still on?”

Apparently my son does not like American Idol. Instead, he likes to blast to blithereens, a word I’m inventing for the occasion, big hulky bad guys (I assume they are bad guys) who race incessantly along stone ramparts planting bombs, blowing people up and being blown up, and such. I ask him the name of the game: he refuses to fess up.

“You’ll just make a fool of yourself, Mom.”

Well, dur. “I do that every day, George. It’s my job.”

“Why do you like it?” The question is sincere.

I like American Idol because it’s about hope and striving, getting better, and there’s a triumph at the end. The American Dream. Never mind all the tears along the way: that’s life.

There's lots of silliness too, of course, and not very believable intrigue, and really bad singing along with the good. And there's the compelling puzzle of the odd taste of American voters.

I like it because of three amazing young women, all in two digit dress sizes, with voices to raise you to heaven. And a handful of forgettable but sort of sweet guys who’d never show up in video games.

“Why do you like that?” I ask of the video game violence.

“Cause I’m an American boy,” he replied, on his way out the door to the Y.

“But you’re grounded,” I yell. There's a mountain of clothing in his bedroom to be climbed--or an entrepreneurial sister to be bribed to do it for him--before he can have a life again.

“You won’t keep me from getting exercise, though,” said Geo. “You’re an American mom.”

He had me there.