Postcards From Paris

The boys went on a trip to Paris, recently.  They packed all the necessities;  a tape measure (because, no one knows how long a meter is), a stuffed turkey (one should always bring a long some of your native fare), a nerf gun with the suction cup tips (Jerry Lewis approved), several books (including one on tsunamis, perhaps a day trip to the coast is planned), a compass (sure, especially if you don't have a GPS), several small basketballs (I think they are trying to get to French fired up about the game), several non-essential silly bands (in the interest of cross-culturalization) and a pair of scissors (to cut French things I can only assume).

Not long after they let, these "postcards" arrived for me, delivered by a backwards-walking postman who just chucked them over his shoulder, weird:

"We just got here and we are having fun."  "Hi dad It is aLLmost diwner (the "w" is silent) here in paris."


It's nice that they write when they are on vacation.  I guess the point here is simply the power of imagination.  What's important to realize is that this all transpired in the most serious and natural way you can imagine, I mean they really were in Paris.  Honestly I have known adults who were less talented improvisationalists.  When do we lose that?  When do we lose that ease of imagination, that sense of fun and silliness?  And why?

From Marci's '...things you don't expect to hear from the backseat...'

Z:  "Look, I made butter."
N:  "No, actually, that is fertilizer."
Z:  "Oh.  I made fertilizer."


When you're in an improv, adjust quickly.  That's just good advice for you right there.