There has been some concern, apparently, that the bin Laden tapes may contain hidden codes, instructions for terrorists, private messages or a combination thereof. Also, a spokesman for CNN (who asked not to be identified) feared that Americans might become “hippum-mo-tized” — as he put it, making little quotation marks in the air with his fingers — by the charismatic zealot.

Is bin Laden hiding coded messages in these telecasts? Are they evidence of his growing isolation and desperation? Could they, in fact, be both?

Recently, an intuitive psychic (who asked not to be identified), trained in deciphering videotaped diatribes, played bin Laden’s speech backward through a device of his own invention, which he calls the “Esperantizer.”

This is the result, a transcript of what bin Laden may have really said. You be the judge:

“This is Osama bin Laden, speaking to you through my mind! Hi fellas! Any ladies in the room, put on the veil, and scoot. Because I can see through your clothes with my mind! Hijab got nothing on me, OK? Go on now. Go knit an afghan.

We alone, boys?

Cool. First off, don’t be taken in by my stern visage. I’m cracking up here. Sometimes I have to hold my breath to keep from getting the giggles. It’s like a ventriloquist with a dummy, you know? The dummy says the craziest shit, but the ventriloquist has to act like nothing is unusual. I really don’t know how they keep from losing it. Or moving their lips. That shit is fucked up. We’re all agreed on that. It’s a symptom of Western decadence, along with show tunes and styling salons.

Second, wow, hats off to whoever dreamed up that whole anthrax thing. That’s some evil shit, man. Big thumbs up, I mean it. The Americans are jumpy as a Jedi in a force disturbance.

Except hold the phone, time out — we’re the Jedi, OK? And we’re not jumpy. We’re, uh, we’re long-suffering, devout and we got the sword of, you know, whatever.

It’s like that last “Star Wars” movie. Stay with me on this. The Trade Federation is the U.N., and Darth Sirius is Bush, OK? And we’re the Jedi, helping people out in the desert. We’re not jumpy! That movie blew chunks anyway. America will pay for that.

Hey, did you check out my cam? It’s the bomb. Compact, great color, and it can handle the elements. That’s important. If you come on down to the caves, I’ll put you on TV. Plus: Halvah and Perrier for everybody!

And let me hip you to this: Afghanistan has the best hashish in the world. Had a pipe before the broadcast myself; it’s why I’m a little spacey. One more reason for you to join me here. Mr. Cat Stevens on the headphones. Nothing better.

We will prevail. We have the sword of, uh, you know. What do they have? Smart bombs and night goggles. Pathetic, man. So join us here in the caves this winter as we tear the infidels a new one. Gonna be hot.

If you can’t make it over, that’s cool. Hey, I got money! I’ll give you some if you go to America and drive into a bridge or something. I hate bridges. We don’t have bridges or postal employees or senators, why should they? You know?

Did you hear something? Sounded like a helicopter?

So, yeah, the bridges. Get those out of there. And anchorwomen. Whatever. You can make your own list. Think it real hard, I’ll pick up on it with my mind, send you a check. Wish I still had e-mail and my cell, but hey, don’t blame me, blame America.

And listen, all that stuff about you going to heaven when you die a martyr’s death? I wasn’t shining you. That’s all true, man. It’s in the Quran, man. Virgins and disco balls, anything you want. Jordache jeans. Air hockey. I know many of you enjoy air hockey. Nothing wrong with that. A man’s got to have his little pleasures, unless they’re wrong.

Me, I picture heaven looking a lot like Las Vegas, not the new Vegas, with the kiddie rides, but the Rat Pack Vegas. Now that was desert living. I’d love to see Dino and Sammy and Frankie and that English twit do their thing. At the Sands. I would definitely check that out. And then I would blow the fucker up.

What?

They did?

That shit is really fucked up, man. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is they’re gonna do a remake of “Ocean’s 11.”

They are?

With George Clooney?

No, I like George Clooney — he kicked ass in “Three Kings” — but he’s no Frankie.

Did you hear that? Like thunder? They’re just doing this to mess with me. Damn Trade Federation. Gotta split, my brethren. Keep the jihad flying, and I’ll see you on the Strip! Later!

Hey Major, a quick follow-up to the meeting. Loved the whole blindfold/undisclosed location thing you threw at the group. Very Army, if you know what I mean, and I know you do. The stretch humvees and lattes were also a nice touch.

So OK, how about this? Just spitballing, you understand.

Bin Laden leases a bunch of Saturns, OK? His cronies, disguised as marketing execs, stall them on the freeway at the height of rush hour. Calmly walking to the nearest mall, they charge thousands of dollars worth of video equipment. They cart it all out to the parking lot, where they force soccer moms at gunpoint to take them to the suburbs.

There they set up the equipment and make a soccer mom (Meg Ryan) watch bin Laden speeches until she’s cranky and irritable, open to suggestion.

Flash forward to the “Gas Masks for Puppies” bake sale that the Moms have organized. The brainwashed Meg puts opium powder in the masks, under the hypnotized delusion that it’s baby powder. The fiendish plan is to get America’s puppies addicted, so that withdrawal will make them cranky and irritable, open to suggestion.

As part of their scheme, the terrorists aren’t paying their credit card bills. This is forcing credit managers to work overtime, making them exhausted and jumpy. One of them (Tom Hanks), crunching numbers late at night, puts two and two together. The video, the baby powder, the abandoned cars can all only mean one thing: There’s a terrorist cell at work in Lawndale.

But when he calls the FBI (Tom Sizemore) they tell him they need proof. So he disguises himself as a Federal Express employee and infiltrates the neighborhood. Through a window, he sees a group of suspicious-looking men in turbans and Cub Scout uniforms carefully placing rabies in Christmas ornaments.

He discovers that terrorists have also infiltrated the high school, where they have formed an elite clique of basketball players who shun unpopular students, making them sullen and withdrawn, unable to shop. Some terrorists have even disguised themselves as eighth-grade boys, who plan to travel to Washington secretly, to place tacks on the chairs of Congress, and short-sheet the president’s bed.

To his surprise, he discovers bin Laden himself (a David Schwimmer type, only with gravitas, evil gravitas), dressed as Santa Claus on a street corner, handing out suspicious packages marked “Christmas kitten surprise. Do not open!” Following him back to his coven, we learn that bin Laden is just one of many bin Laden robot replicas, some of them alien in origin.

Obviously, Tom needs help. Enlisting the aid of crusty Chuck Norris, he breaks his old buddies out of prison for one last job. This time, they’re playing for keeps.

In the meantime, Meg has learned that her children have been replaced by terrorist clones, who have formed a boy band called N’Ladz, who plan to stage a concert at which they will perform songs with a special coded message urging us to be fearful and get Israeli tanks out of Palestine. They also plan to infect themselves with a nagging flu virus, and sneeze upon their preteen admirers at a preordained signal.

Luckily, Meg discovers a magic door in her ranch-style home which allows her to enter the mind of Osama bin Laden, and thus learn of his plan to enlist a top secret society of normal American joes who hate their jobs, and like to punch each other senseless in alleys and basements under restaurants. These men will become unwitting dupes in a plan to assassinate 10 random U.S. mayors, using the Plagues of Egypt.

Bruce Willis and Steven Seagal, battling their way through formerly Communist shock troops, learn that bin Laden is a clone with the power to bend metal with his mind. He and his minions have the ability to create giant toddlers with enormous destructive abilities. Hooking up with Jean Claude Van Damme and Brad Pitt, they realize they’re helpless in the face of this new threat. They have the simulation of the master plan right there on their computer screen. Las Vegas. The Mall of America. Disney World. The space program. Are they doomed?

Now only five teenagers with mutant powers stand between a lean gang of annoying zealots and world domination. But when these hotties get hot under the collar — Watch out, Taliban!

For weapons, all they have is a pack of gum, a hairbrush, dental floss, a book of matches — and guts. A lot of guts.

And let’s not forget Tom Hanks. Or Meg Ryan. Yes, the kids have them too. Thanks to their courage, know-how, determination and split-second decision making, bin Laden meets his maker in a fiery conflagration just above Orlando.

We close on a kiss. Now little Tommy has a mother at last. Snow gently falls on the runway as the sun rises on a new tomorrow.

Well, OK, the bit with Palestine and the Israeli tanks may be a bit too Sorkin, if you know what I mean. And we need to check the avail of Chuck Norris. Oh, I was meaning to ask. Does bin Laden have to be a terrorist? Can we lose that? I mean, that’s kind of played, isn’t it?

I was there, with my daughter and her friend, to see Britney in person. We had about an hour to kill before the gates slid open. All around us, 8-year-old girls clutched homemade “I luv you Britney” posters. Magic Marker tattoos — “I heart Britney” — appeared on every other arm. Behind me, a suburban mom dialed out on her cellphone: “We’re in line at the gate. We’ll see you inside.” On my left, two Latino boys, maybe 14 and 10, braced Britney pictures against the gentle breeze and the sway of the crowd. One of the sponsors of the event, I-Zone, had set up a huge banner, about 12 feet by 6. We were encouraged to autograph this banner, which presumably would be presented to Ms. Spears for storage in her hope chest. A typical entry: “Hello Britney, I’m John and I would love to meet you.”

I-Zone makes little cameras that produce sticky photographs — kind of a Post-It/snapshot combo — that young people can plaster on book bags and clothing. But since these photos are only slightly larger than postage stamps, any identifying characteristics of the people pictured are lost. This somewhat diminishes their value as mementos. Still, the banner was covered with these little snapshots, giving it, despite the bright colors and logos, a somber air — the kind of artifact one gives to a grieving family after a funeral service.

My daughter has the door to her bedroom plastered with pictures of Britney. The door, in fact, is called “The Britney Door.” In the middle of her collage is the written statement, “I’m not obsessed with Britney. You just don’t understand the concept.”

In my case, that’s true enough. When I was her age, was there anything even remotely resembling Britney? We had Annette, I suppose, and Hayley Mills. Sandra Dee. That sort of thing. If they made personal appearances, they were at car lot grand openings in Encino, Calif., where they’d wave at the crowd, then move on to the next “event.”

Some of them made records, and probably toured behind them. But teen events back in my day were afterthoughts — held in high school gyms or the auditorium at the Elks Club. The teen market was not the focus of the entertainment industry.

Britney is miles beyond that. She has sponsors. Besides the sticky-pictures people, she had Youtopia.com. An alarmingly healthy young blond woman was passing out postcards on its behalf throughout the crowd. On its front was a picture of Britney (of course); on its back was a list of the “cool stuff” available on the site, including “live virtual experiences with Britney,” “chatting with Britney,” “virtual dating” and MUCH MORE!

Britney’s tunes were playing over the loudspeaker. Everybody knew the words to every song. Moms, dads, teens, preteens — all of them were mouthing the words. Eight-year-olds were doing gesture-perfect imitations of Britney’s moves.

Behind us, the DJ was saying, “We need to see some moves up here.” A 4-year-old had taken the stage. I couldn’t see her, but she was wearing a fairy princess hat and a pink cone with a ribbon at its tip. As she sang along with “Baby One More Time,” I could see the top of the pink cone wobbling just above the heads of the crowd.

Herbal Essence was another sponsor, as was the “Got Milk?” campaign. Pictures of Britney endorsing these concepts looked down on us as we moved forward. Signs warned us that weapons and illegal drugs, among other things, were not allowed inside. Rounding the pathway, coming around the hill, the amphitheater beckoned on the left, and on our right: souvenirs, beer, bratwurst, lattes and Radio Disney. The DJ there kept shouting at us to “make some noise” as we walked by. He also claimed to offer “awesome” prizes, many of them Britney-related.

I-Zone and “Got Milk?” had partnered up in that irritating new-economy way. They had a booth in which you could be photographed next to a life-sized poster of a milk-mustached Britney. You were provided with a milk mustache of your own: a piece of white tape. Walking by, I noticed half a dozen or so unclaimed photographs lying on a table. The show was emceed by a fellow named Slam (he spelled it for us), who was also Britney’s drummer. After the obligatory “Wassup!” he reinforced the benign but firm zero-tolerance attitude of the facility by asking us to buy the blue and green glowsticks being sold and hold those aloft, instead of the potentially dangerous cigarette lighters, matches or cigarettes (forbidden, of course).

Not having the benefit of binoculars, it seemed to me that the opening acts were all the same procession of tiny people wearing shiny pants, moving around energetically, if not always appropriately, to pop songs. From time to time, I retreated to the rear of the amphitheater to watch the sun go down. We were stationed on a blanket on the lawn in the general seating section. Each time I returned, I had to step over dozens of homemade Britney signs, which would be held aloft when Britney finally hit the stage, and which Britney would never see.

There was perhaps a 45-minute lag between the time the last opening act left the stage and Britney Spears took it. Every time a song would end on the sound system, the huge crowd took its cue to chant “Britney! Britney!” Or “We want Britney! We want Britney!” As the wait wore on, the crowd became restive. A 7-year-old behind me would groan “Urg!” whenever Britney did not appear. At one point, a vast moan went through the audience — with a distinctively female preteen timbre to it — as though an entire generation of girls had simultaneously and spontaneously tasted despair.

But this was not a lasting despair, if such it was. Soon enough, the big screens lit up to show Britney commercials — one for Herbal Essence, and one for “Got Milk?” Strangely, the audience did not seem irritated by this.

Then Britney’s head appeared on the screens — rather, a starburst with three Britney heads in it, shooting through a tunnel or swirling vortex. The crowd was screaming so loudly, it was difficult to make out what the computerized Britney heads were saying, but I did hear: “You have accessed the Britney Spears experience.”

And so we had. The lights went down, the Britney heads blinked out and blue lights appeared in the monitors, mirroring the blue and green glowsticks waved aloft in the audience.

A glowing silver disco ball, accompanied by gyrating dancers, descended on the stage. Britney emerged from it and began to sing and dance “Crazy,” to the delight of the audience.

Regarding Britney’s career so far, my daughter has ventured the opinion that her first album presented the teen crooner as a needy mess. The only thing she wanted out of life was for her boyfriend to come back to her.

On her second album, however, she’s her own woman. “Oops! … I Did It Again,” the title tune from that CD, is the singer’s half-hearted apology to a poor sap who keeps falling in love with her. Britney keeps forgetting herself (“To lose all my senses/That is just so typically me”) and seducing the guy. She’s just too absent-minded. It’s not her fault.

Onstage, she did her revised version of “Satisfaction,” in which she complains that, while watching her TV, “A girl comes on and tells me/How tight my skirt should be/But she can’t tell me who to be/I’ve got my own identity.” The impact of this mild outburst against being misunderstood was undercut somewhat by the fact that she was sitting on a throne while she was singing it, flanked by two dancers who were fanning her with giant feathers.

OK, she went from angst-driven loser to angst-driven teen queen in one short year. Maybe there hasn’t been an image revision this major since Dylan went electric. I’m not qualified to judge.

Yet, watching her frenetic performance — full of her trademark groans, growls and even a few Michael Jackson yelps thrown in, and exhibiting her distinctive, somewhat eccentric choreography — it’s still hard for me to imagine just who she is. A more interesting question, though: Why does she tower above her competitors, the Mandy Moores, the Christina Aguileras and the Hokus?

One of her new songs proclaims, “Baby, what you see is what you get.” But what are we seeing? This is simplicity itself? Her show is a cross between a public appearance at a county fair and a Las Vegas extravaganza, full of dancers and explosions, and enhanced by video monitors as big as SUVs.

At one point, video footage of ‘N Sync appears, and the members “ask” four audience members, who’ve been pulled onstage: “What would you do to meet Britney?” These four are then asked to bark like a dog, flop like a fish, belt out a Britney favorite and walk like a chicken, respectively.

The winner (the chicken imitator) had his picture taken with Britney on her Toon Teen bedroom set, and then was whisked offstage as she launched into “I Was Born to Make U Happy,” one of several “my boyfriend left me and I’m worthless” laments from her first CD. Supposedly, certain segments of our culture — those segments that are required to worry about this sort of thing — wonder if Britney is a bit too sexy for the room, if you know what I mean. I can report that Britney closed her show with “(Hit Me) Baby One More Time,” dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl (kind of). At one point during this song, she flashed her panties at us. (This may, however, have been just another spin on “What You See Is What You Get.”)

I don’t know. There is a certain calculated “wholesome” look to her: what used to be Playboy magazine’s version of “the girl next door.” (But in what neighborhood would that “next door” be? None I’ve ever lived in.) Aside from the panty-flashing moment, there was nothing even remotely sexual about the show. It was mainly athletic, I guess. Some men may have fantasies about her, but I doubt in real life you could get her to sit still or pay attention long enough to fulfill them. She’s a busy gal. She’s got her tour. She’s got photo sessions. She’s got products to endorse. She’s got rehearsals. She’s got image makeover consultancy sessions. She doesn’t have time for us as sexual beings. Or for herself either, I’m betting. She is only 18, after all.

At one point, Britney stood at the top of a staircase, in a gown whose glittering train trailed down 20 feet or more. Reeking of a showbiz insincerity that seemed so false it may have been genuine, she said, “Oh my goodness. I would give anything to hold this moment, to see all your smiling faces. You have blessed me SOOOOO much.” (How she could see our smiling faces beyond her lights is another mystery.) Then she launched into “Don’t Let Me Be the Last to Know,” an overblown piece of Shania Twain twaddle that she worked like a pro.

Her encore, of course, was “Oops! … I Did It Again.” Its chorus, firmly embedded in America’s back brain by now, ends with “Oops, you think I’m in love/That I’m sent from above/I’m not that innocent.” This encore ended as flames shot out from center stage, and Britney was sucked down into them, as if into the very bowels of hell itself. And that was the show. Good night, everybody!

Waiting for the cars to clear out so we could make our long way home, my daughter, her friend and I discussed what we’d seen. They were grateful to have seen Britney, but expressed a little disappointment, particularly in her treatment of the current single “Lucky,” Britney’s “Sunset Boulevard”-ish song about a movie star who seems to have it all, but cries herself to sleep every night.

The tune had been staged in the Toon Teen bedroom set, with Britney singing verses into a hairbrush and bouncing on her bed as though she were a typical teen pretending to be Britney singing the song. And there were dancers swarming all over the room — her imaginary friends? Beats me.

Then they all ran off, and came back dressed like sailors. Then Britney ran off, and reemerged dressed like a Gilbert and Sullivan admiral, as American flags appeared on the monitors. By any reckoning, the presentation was bizarre. Any connection to the song itself was tenuous at best.

Then there was the question of, shall we say, “emotional distance.” Britney grunts and growls and sweats and seems to put her heart into her performance, but there’s something a little off about her. It’s as if she’s thinking about something else, no matter what she’s doing, some little chore she forgot perhaps. She’s vague, distracted. Between songs, she seemed a little dreamy. My daughter said she was going to her “Britney place.”

Huh? Maybe that’s it. Britney, after all, doesn’t even seem like a teenager any more. She looks about 30, and not a very interesting 30 — a parody of a teen. She’s a teen, but a teen deprived of typical teen experiences. Instead, she must provide those experiences for us.

She reminded me of a very competent flight attendant, really talented, there to amuse us until it’s time for our plane to take off. Only there is no plane. There’s just her. And she knows it. Sooner or later, her antics will fail to amuse, and we’re all going to drift away from the terminal, back to our cars and homes. And so will she, if she has a home to drift to.

As we sat in the parking lot after the show, all around us 12-year-old girls were dancing around their motionless vehicles, working up spontaneous routines, mimicking Britney’s moves. A car rolled by, filled with 18-year-old girls, hitting the horn and shouting, “Honk if you love Britney!”

Car horns echoed in the hot summer night. I thought of a pre-Disneyfied Britney, if there was such a person, bouncing on a trampoline, lip-synching Madonna songs and mimicking her moves. And where is that little girl? Wearing the fairy princess cone, I suppose, lost in a crowd of screaming heads, in a world where every event is sponsored to the nines, and every prize is awesome, even if it’s not.\

But in San Francisco we have choices. What do you want, Mr. and Mrs. Concerned Parent? Public or private? Expensive or cheap? Jesuits or Rudolf Steiner? College prep or art-intensive? Global or personal? Freewheeling or disciplined? Diverse or exclusive? Religious or secular? Democrat or Republican? Computer skills or pottery? It’s a cornucopia of choices, a pedagogical feast. Unfortunately, there’s only food enough for 10, and there are a thousand hungry minds in line.

This fall, my daughter, my former wife and I attended the San Francisco High School Fair, an event that is supposed to help us make the right choice. I don’t know what we expected to find. I guess I hoped for some festivity — pig races, prize-winning vegetables, a fun house, a merry-go-round. Instead, I found myself in a sea of parents and gawky young people with braces; the only roller coasters in evidence were emotional ones.

Every private high school within a 50-mile radius was represented at the event, along with a smattering of “alternative” public high schools, each with folding tables lined up in a generic middle-school gymnasium. Some tables were piled high with brochures; some just had stacks of single photocopied sheets. (A fellow parent remarked, correctly, that the glossiness of a school’s brochure bore a direct correlation to the height of its tuition.)

The high schools that chose not to present themselves at this event were, of course, the high schools that none of us wanted — the dreaded public schools so loathed by pundits of every stripe. They were the default schools, you might say, the ones our children would have to attend if we stood by and did nothing — the overcrowded, troubled schools administrated by idiots and attended by drug addicts and snipers. Their very absence at the high school fair amounted to a presence of sorts, like unseen barbarian hordes hunkered over the frozen border during the final days of the Roman Empire.

We clutched our brochures, talismans against this vast, invisible malignant force. I’m no psychic, but it wasn’t difficult to know what thoughts were rushing through our teeming brains: The teachers in these default schools are lifers who don’t care about their students unless they set off the metal detectors. Their edifices are held together by duct tape and their infrastructures are dependent on the whims of those who choose to play the California lottery.

Teachers in these places must pay for their own supplies. If a student feels bad about failing a class, that student will be passed anyway, just to boost his or her self-esteem.

And there are no prayers in these schools, no values. Students will be forced to read only obscure, poorly written books by persons of color. Mark Twain’s oeuvre and Shakespeare’s efforts will be thrown in the dumpster. Our children will learn nothing and will be sent off into the world armed with half-formed ideas gleaned from television programs. They will have an inflated sense of self-worth with no foundation in reality.

That is our nightmare, with slight variations depending on politics, about the public school system. And here, at the high school fair, under the high banks of fluorescent lights, our alternatives to the educratic dystopia had gathered.

Clutching our protective brochures, we formed a huge sluggish stream that flowed out the doors of the auditorium to the various classrooms, where the representatives of better high schools would pitch the pedagogies that would be our salvation.

Being more than a little debt-ridden, my preference (gasp!) was for a public school, but we attended presentations by several private schools just so we could feel, for a fleeting moment anyway, as though we were among the beneficiaries of the new Internet economy.

Our first stop was the presentation by the exclusive CitiZen High School (not its real name). The admissions director greeted us and told us a little bit about CitiZen’s educational philosophy, which was to provide students with an inspirational environment and foster self-motivation and enthusiasm.

Four seniors had accompanied her, as case studies, I suppose. The cutest one, who bore a striking resemblance to the young Ricky Nelson, wanted to be a doctor. The others were cute too, in a vaguely self-satisfied, humorless way. They reminded me of a Gap ad, or the cast of “Dawson’s Creek.” You could see soap operas erupting around their stylish dreamy heads. They seemed self-motivated, all right, but not very enthusiastic.

Then we attended the pitch for Kwick Preparatory. (All of these names are false, by the way.) I’d heard good things about this private school, which was introduced with much pep and perkiness by its admissions director.

Again, two students were trotted out. Now these kids were enthusiastic and self-motivated. An undernourished hyperkinetic girl gave us an oration that sounded roughly like this: “I’m editing the yearbook, teaching myself how to play the oboe, mastering the Kwick Web site, taking calculus, early English literature, advanced physics and wood shop. In my spare time, I’m tutoring freshmen and teaching them time and stress management.”

From the conversations overheard after the session, I found that most parents were excited about this school, which promised to fill their children’s days with so much work they wouldn’t have time to become crack addicts. But a couple of us noted that these children seemed to be on the verge of massive nervous breakdowns.

Because time was limited to four presentations only, we only had time for two of the so-called charter public schools: Artmore, the “arts” school, and a new school, Portal. Artmore’s presentation was unusual in that there was no perky admissions officer to greet us. Instead we were treated to an appearance by the principal himself, who bore a strong resemblance to Jerry Stiller. There were no students. (I guess they had too much homework.) He told us how excited he was to be the principal of this school, though he didn’t seem very excited. He seemed worried. His face was as gray as a sidewalk.

At Artmore, each student must have an area of expertise. Students may focus on vocal, piano or instrumental music; they can choose technical theater, dance or acting. They can become visual artists or filmmakers.
But they cannot cross over and they cannot change their minds. Actors can’t sculpt and flutists can’t sing. I suppose that’s all right (though how many kids know what they want from life when they’re 14?); but then the principal stressed that most of these students don’t even go on to a career in the arts after graduating. So what was the point?

Portal offered us a principal, a perky admissions officer and two students. We liked them all immediately. The principal was a tweedy man with a fading Boston accent. He was witty, in a self-effacing way, and I embarrassed my daughter by laughing at his jokes. The students seemed normal; that is, they didn’t seem self-conscious, overstimulated or overworked. They rolled their eyes at the principal’s jokes, but said nothing. This seemed like appropriate behavior.

The school’s philosophy: “We believe that each student is uniquely talented and that a quality school should make it possible for each child to express his or her genius.” Individual students, sayeth the Portal philosophy, learn best in different ways. Another of their precepts is that students and teachers treat one another with decency and respect. Hard to argue with that. Glad to have it in writing.

As we stood around in the parking lot after the event, waiting for the traffic to clear enough to drive ourselves home, our choice became clear: Portal or Artmore.

To help parents decide, each school hosts an open house. Prospective students can also go to a high school and follow a student around to see if the school is a “good fit.” In November we attended Artmore’s open house. We were greeted by Artmore’s principal, who had to shout above the orchestra tuning up behind him as it rehearsed for a concert that night.

A sophomore media maker escorted us through the halls of Artmore. We saw vocalists warming up, actors yowling in a circle and sculptors sculpting. In one classroom, students were building a theater prop out of papier-mbchi and chicken wire. On the blackboard someone had written, “Sucky Sucky Ducky Anus.”

Our guide told us that there was some drug use on campus, but nothing to worry about. There were 300 students there, she said, and perhaps six or seven users. She herself did not do drugs. In the media room, where there were two video-editing decks and not much else, she told us that all the equipment had been stolen the year before by a couple of recently graduated seniors.

Perhaps it was just the day we were there, but Artmore seemed to be in a state of semi-controlled chaos, where genius was expected to thrive, and then upon graduation, just go away. Sucky sucky ducky anus indeed.

Portal was next for the up-close treatment. My daughter audited a history and theater class and decided it was truly the school for her. Because it is so young (just 2 years old), she figures she can “make a difference.”

So Portal it is. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem to be very high on the list for most other high school hopefuls. Even so, the prospect of getting in is somewhat daunting. The problem in San Francisco, thanks to growing dissatisfaction with the school system, an explosion in the number of kids and the sudden prevalence of parents who have the money to spend on private schools, is that there are as many as 30 students applying for every open slot.

The application process is therefore somewhat rigorous. There are forms to fill out, interviews to take, test scores to crunch, portfolios to gather. In addition to good grades, high test scores and talent to burn, your child must have the social skills of Miss Manners. And if, after the interviews, the applications, the review of scores, the personality profiles and the careful consideration of diversity mandates, my daughter manages to get in, it isn’t necessarily a done deal. If there are too many acceptable applicants for too few places, their names go into a hopper and they are selected for admission by lottery.

So there you have it. After months of anxiety and hard work, the question of where my daughter will go to high school may boil down to the question, “Go on, punk, do you feel lucky?” And even if we win, the school we’ve chosen, I noticed at its open house, will still be held together by duct tape.

Some educational principles, I guess, are eternal.