I'm reminded of a great story. After finishing sixth grade, I was forced to repeat it, because my mother, the greatest woman of all time as well as a professor of art history at Bryn Mawr College and most recently the dean of graduate studies, was spending the semester lecturing or something at Melbourne University. So, anyway, there's a lot to tell about this trip, but we'll limit it for now to a visit we made to a zoo while we were there in Australia. At this zoo there was a gorilla exhibit. The enclosure, which consisted mostly of dust and rocks, as far as I can remember, was surrounded by a water-less moat that led up into a fence that was made of a fine mesh. There was a sign in front of the fence that said something to the effect of: "Do not talk loudly or otherwise taunt the gorillas. It upsets them." Well, when we got there, there was quite a din going on and, immediately upon seeing the sign, I feared there would be trouble. The gorillas were sitting there in their enclosure, which was arid and boring in the extreme, hanging out. I watched as one or two of them crapped into their hands and then nibbled at the sweet results. As I sat there losing all faith in the future of the human race, the gorillas began to grow agitated. Instinctively, I moved away from the fence. And just in time. Because the head honcho silverback ape began to make comical sideways runs across the front of the enclosure, feces brandished menacingly in hand. And later ... the conclusion of our story: "Too much gorilla shit is not necessarily a good thing."