Every picture tells a story

2009-05-30T13:12:00.002+12:00

Hello everyone.

Due to technical difficulties I've had to move my blog to Wordpress, so you can now find me at:

http://godlessmonkey.wordpress.com

The One True Religion

2009-05-30T03:00:00.000+12:00

As the bells pealed loud and clear one crisp autumn Sunday the faithful came quickly, filling the stadium for the weekly gathering. In their brightly colored regalia, holding icons and banners, they took to the stands in an orderly fashion. It was once again time to worship at the alter of the Team Spirit.

It was a particularly joyous day. A buzz had gone through the town that there would be a guest speaker this day. Everyone hoped it would be the one they had waited for these many months, but no one dared utter the name for fear of jinxing it. As the stands quickly filled, a wave of excitement raced through the crowd in anticipation of the rousing strains of the band striking up the opening chords of the call to worship.

As the cheerleaders took to the field, their uniforms spelling out the name of the saviour in capital letters the worshippers rose to their feet in reverent praise of the blessing about to be bestowed upon them.

Striding purposefully onto the field and mounting the podium, Pastor Montana cut a dashing figure, his slight limp reminding the crowd of his selfless dedication to the holiness of The Game. He raised his hands to the heavens and all could see his lips moving in silent supplication and thanks. Many were moved to tears.

As the buzz faded he looked about and smiled. "I am so very grateful to have you all here today once again," he intoned into the microphone, "Praise be and glory in the highest. Another touchdown for Jesus!"

The crowd went wild, hooting and shouting praise. He motioned for calm. "My friends, it is a special day today. I am honored to announce that we have a very special guest today who has graciously made time to be here to deliver today's sermon."

Again the crowd was on their feet, their excitement more than they could contain. The word on the street was true, the one they had hoped for, indeed prayed for was here. Their prayers had been answered.

Pastor Montana continued. "We will open the service with a hymn. You all know the words. Sing along, please."

The organ began, and the band on the field responded as the worshippers rose and broke into song.

"Glory be, glory be, a Hail Mary pass, then a touchdown please. The game and the quest, we toil for the best, the blood will be rife, drop kick us Jesus through the goal posts of life..."

As the hymn wound down there was a resounding amen and everyone sat down again. Pastor Montana bowed his head for a moment in reflection and then spoke into the microphone.

"My friends, without further adieu, I give you the man you've all been waiting for. The great, the only, John the Maddening!"

The roar that filled the crowd as the adored one trotted onto the field and up to the podium was deafening. The crowd were beside themselves. Without a word, John raised his arms, fingers extended, indicating a touchdown. Again the crowd went wild. He grinned broadly and leaned into the microphone. "Praise be! Glory in the highest!"

When the roar had died down he put on a serious look and began. "My fellow worshippers, I am so very proud to be here today to share your joy and to join you in praise of Jesus and the divine game."

Murmurs of assent ran through the stands. "For what are we, if not followers of the Way?" He looked meaningfully at the crowd. "My friends, we are the ball, Jesus is the wide receiver and God is the quarterback. Amen!"

Erupting in enthusiast applause, the crowd shouted his name, interspersed with calls for sainthood and tributes of everlasting love and adoration. John led them in another hymn, the marching band doing an elaborate routine that ended with them in a cross formation, drawing yet more applause from the stands.

The remainder of the service proved a big hit, and Pastor Montana and John thanked the attendees and prepared them for the game to follow.

"Thank you all again for being here, my fellow travellers," Pastor Montana intoned. "As soon as we clear the field the game will begin. As you know, we will be playing Satan's Army today, may the best team win!"

The crowd erupted into enthusiastic chanting. "Death to evil, doomed to fail. Satan's Army, back to hell!" It was yet another Sunday in the Church of the One True Religion.

The Missing Link - Found At Last?

2009-05-29T03:00:00.000+12:00

I always knew it was just a matter of time. Eventually the "missing link" would be found, and now it's believed that the day has come. If it really is the holy grail of evolutionary science, it's going to have profound implications.

I can just hear the howls of protest now from the creationists. They will insist it's a hoax, or worse, a conspiracy. The absence of the link has been their slim hope that Darwin was wrong, and now it looks like that's finally being taken away from them. In case you don't know the facts behind all this yet, it's like this:

An almost perfectly intact specimen of an unknown creature was discovered in 1983(!) by a team of amateur fossil hunters inside a mile-wide crater outside of Frankfurt, Germany. The crater it was discovered in is believed to be a volcanic caldera where scores of animals from the Eocene epoch were killed and their remains were kept remarkably well preserved.

The pit has been a major source of fossils over the years, but the inexperienced archaeologists didn't realize the value of their find. Years after it was found it was bought by the University of Oslo and studied in secret for two years. The researchers who studied the fossil, led by Jørn Hurum of the University of Oslo's Natural History Museum, nicknamed her "Ida." It is apparently the remains of a roughly 9-month-old female that probably looked a lot like modern lemurs.

Apes, monkeys and humans all belong to a group called anthropoids. Debate has raged for decades about the origins of this group. It is believed by most that anthropoids likely sprung from either the extinct omomyids or the tarsiers (large-eyed primates with living relatives in Southeast Asia).

Jørn Hurum and his team advocate the minority hypothesis that in fact a third group, adapids, eventually gave rise to monkeys, apes and humans. They argue that Ida, whose scientific name is Darwinius masillae, is an adapid, and has features more closely aligned with anthropoids than with lemurs, which are thought to be adapid descendants.

Already the drums of dissent are being beaten. Fox News couldn't wait to jump in to the fray, running out to find "experts" willing to deny this is the missing link, even though they haven't been anywhere near the find. There will be more of the same in the months to come from the superstitious who would love to drag us all kicking and screaming back in to the dark ages of fear and acrimony before reason took hold.

I have no idea if this thing will prove to be what the member of the team in Oslo claim it is, but I for one am willing to keep an open mind and watch this thing unfold. This could be the greatest scientific discovery of the 21st century. Let's just hope the forces of darkness can't keep that from being recognized if it is, in fact, true.

A Weekend At The Lake

2009-05-28T03:00:00.002+12:00

While Eric and Sam unloaded the car, Dave took Alan down to the lake to show him around. Dave had bought the cabin a year ago and was proud of it.

"Isn't this fantastic? We picked a great weekend for this getaway, are you digging this weather, or what?" Dave was grinning away.

"It's awesome, man. How's that water for swimming?"

"That's the best part, man. Nothing like a night swim here. The water is plenty warm after a hot day like this. We should take a swim later tonight."

"That sounds great."

They went back to help with the rest of the unloading and getting the cabin set up for the weekend. Taking Eric aside, Dave made sure Alan was out of earshot.

"So you brought your snorkel, right? I've baited the hook; he's keen to have a swim after dark. This is gonna be a great prank. I'm glad you thought of it."

Eric was smiling. "Oh yeah, I've got it. He's gonna get the fright of his life. Hope he's got a good sense of humour."

They spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing and telling stories. After awhile Dave drove into town to get some steaks for the grill and to stock up on beer. Eric and Sam decided to make sure Alan was still keen.

"Hey Alan, Did Dave mention how nice the lake is for swimming? You brought your trunks with you, didn't you?"

"Yeah, sure did. Should we go now?"

"No, let's wait till after dark, it's great out there in the moonlight."

The rest of the day was round after round of male bonding, great food and copious quantities of beer. After sundown Dave gave a sign to the others to put the prank in play and the game was on. Eric got up and stretched.

"Hey guys, I'm gonna make a quick run into town, I'll meet you guys in the lake. I think it's time for that swim."

He left the cabin and the others changed and headed for the lake. Dave and Sam could barely contain themselves. They all dived in, and as promised the water was warm and inviting. They swam around for a while and then stood waist deep and just basked in the warm evening moonlight and talked.

Alan was looking around. "Hey, shouldn't Eric be back by now?"

Dave brushed it off. "Hell, he's probably chatting up some chicks in town, trying to get them to come out to the cabin. He'll be here soon."

Alan was about to respond when his eyes went wide and he screamed and fell into the water. He was kicking frantically and yelling for help. Dave and Sam did their best not to bust out laughing and waded over to where Alan was thrashing around.

"Hey, man, what's up? What's all the screaming about?" Dave did his best to sound concerned.

"Oh my god! Something grabbed my ankle. I was being pulled down. I kicked it with my other foot and it let go! We gotta get outta here!"

Scrambling for the shore, Alan didn't see his friends high-fiving each other before they got out of the water. They all headed back to the cabin. When they got there Alan was white as a sheet.

"Man, that was insane! What the hell could it have been? I could feel fingers around my ankle, and when I kicked it, it was slimy. Glad I wasn't alone."

Dave put on a concerned face. "This is weird man. Nothing like that has ever happened. Wonder what it could have been?" He smirked at Sam when Alan wasn't looking.

Alan was shaking. "I don't know, but I'm glad it's over. I'm gonna go take a shower."

When he left the room Dave looked at Sam.

"Wonder where Eric is? He should have had time to dry off and come in by now."

The door opened and in walked Eric with blood running down his face from a cut on his forehead.

Dave ran to his friend. "What happened man? Did he kick you in the head?"

Eric shook his head. "What are you talking about? I went out around the back way to sneak into the lake through the woods and I tripped over a root and hit my head on a rock. I've been out cold for I don't know how long. I just came to a minute ago. Where's Alan?"

Dave and Sam stared at each other, each feeling icy fingers stealing up their spines, Dave wondering how much he could get for the cabin.

Only The Good Die Young? Really?

2009-05-27T03:00:00.000+12:00

Well it's not really true, then, is it. I can think of many good people who lived to a ripe old age just off the top of my head. Have you ever wondered where the expression originated though? No, no, It did not spring fully formed from the head of Billy Joel. It's a little older than that. Actually, it's a lot older than that.

It goes back to Greek mythology. In the Homeric hymn to Apollo, Trophonius, a mythological hero, built Apollo's temple at the oracle at Delphi with his brother, Agamedes. Once finished, the oracle told the brothers to do whatsoever they wished for six days and, on the seventh, their greatest wish would be granted. They did and were found dead on the seventh day. The saying "those whom the gods love die young" comes from this story. An alternative version of the story has it that they built a treasure chamber (with secret entrance only they knew about) for King Hyprieus of Boeotia. Using the secret entrance, they stole Hyprieus' fortune. He was aware but did not know who the thief was; he laid a snare. Agamedes was trapped in it; Trophonius cut off his head so that Hyprieus would not know who the body in the snare was. He then fled into the cavern at Lebadaea, and disappeared forever. Man, those Greeks could sure spin a good yarn.

Down through the years it came to be "only the good die young". So why do we choose to say something along these lines when we outlive someone younger that ourselves? I never have, but I've heard it said many times. I suppose the obvious reason is to honour them in death. Really though, isn't their "goodness" relative? How many times have you heard someone refer to a mutual acquaintance or co-worker as good when you hold the opposite view?

But we're not supposed to speak ill of the dead. Unless it's pretty much universally agreed that the subject was evil as could be. Still, it makes me wonder. I've never had any problem speaking my mind about someone who's died it I really do feel the world is a better place without them. I'm not so crass as to speak my mind in front of anyone who would take offence, but neither will I say anything good about him or her if I really can't think of a good word to say, and yes, there have been such individuals passing through my life. Let's face it; some people really do leave the world a slightly better place with their passing. There are many historical figures that could be named in this regard.

Evil bastards die young too, though. We recently had a paranoid gun-nut here in New Zealand who killed an unarmed cop and passer-by in cold blood simply because the police had come to do a search on his house. He shot the cop in the back as he was leaving to defuse the situation. He critically wounded two other cops, then barricaded himself in his house and spent two days taking pot shots at his neighbour's houses and the police until he finally turned a gun on himself. He was young. Not real young, but young. Good riddance.

There are plenty of other instances that come up in the news all the time. So the saying is patently untrue, and yet it continues to be a popular saying. Human nature, I guess. Me, I expect I'll live to be 203. :-)

The Meeting

2009-05-26T03:00:00.000+12:00

Pulling up in front of the meeting place, Artie revved the engine a couple of times to make sure they'd look out the window and see him. They did. Satisfied, he got out and went inside.

Carlos was leaning on a desk giving him the hairy eyeball and Artie knew how things were going to go down, but he had no choice. If he hadn't shown for the meet they'd have come for him, and kept on coming. There was nowhere to hide. This had to play out here and now. He walked to the middle of the room and looked at each of them in turn.

Ben wouldn't return his gaze. Harry was smirking at him, the bastard. That was Harry through and through. He'd really enjoy the evening. For a while, anyway. Artie smiled and didn't say a word.

Carlos gave him the evils for a minute longer, then spoke.

"Still got that nice ride, I see. Did you put the 350 Holley in it like you said you were gonna do?"

Artie smiled. "Sure did. Runs like a bandit. Maybe I'll let you spin it some time."

Carlos cocked his head. "Damn white of you, Artie. You know why you're here?"

"You called because you missed me?"

Carlos lost his grin. "Listen, asshole, this ain't no party. Me and the boys ain't happy about that last batch you cooked up for us. Word on the street is that it isn't up to standard. What's up with that?"

"That's bullshit, is what that is, Carlos. My guess is its Frankie putting the bad word in people's ears. He's got a problem with me, that's all."

Carlos moved around the table and put his arm around Artie's shoulder. "Artie, Artie, Artie. You wouldn't be trying to blow smoke up my ass, now would you?" He shifted and put both hands on Artie's shoulders and looked him the eyes.

"No, Carlos, I..."

Carlos head-butted him with all his might. Artie hit the floor like a 200-pound barbell. Walking around him in circles, Carlos went on. "You see Artie, I can't have my reputation getting all dirtied up, now can I?"

Artie groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Damn, Carlos, what the hell!"

Carlos reached down and pulled him to his feet. Harry came from behind and pinned him as Carlos rabbit punched him in the breadbasket hard and fast a couple of times. Artie could feel something tear, but he didn't make a sound. Ben stood to the side awaiting instructions.

"You see, Artie, you're costing me here. It's not like you're the only cook around. You've got a reputation, sure, but I can't help thinking you screwed me here. I don't like thinking somebody's screwed me, Artie.

Seeing the next punch coming, Artie rolled with it, feeling a couple of teeth loosening. He spit out blood.

"Ouch. That don't look so good, Artie. How you feelin'?" Artie smiled at Ben as best he could.

"Like a million dollars, Ben. Your girlfriend was real good to me last night."

Ben was faster than Artie had ever seen him. His fists were a blur. When he was done Artie was barely conscious. Carlos went to the desk for a glass of water and threw it in his face.

"Stay with me, sunshine. We're not through here. I want to know where the stuff is you made the last batch with. I need to see this with my own eyes."

Artie shook his head and looked up. "Sure, Carlos. It's all at my place. You remember how to get there?"

Carlos nodded. "Harry, Ben, tie him to that chair. We're gonna go for a ride."

Artie reached in his pocket and threw his keys to Carlos. "There's my house key, right next to the ignition key."

Carlos looked the keys over. "You know, I think we'll take that spin you offered, Artie. You won't be needing the car now, will you?"

Artie didn't say a word as they tied him up, he just glared at Carlos. They were laughing as they left, locking the door behind them, so they didn't see or hear Artie doing the same.

Five seconds later as Carlos turned the key in the ignition the blast blew out the windows and knocked the chair Artie was tied to across the room, smashing it and loosening the rope.

Artie got up painfully and headed for the back door. It was going to be a long walk back to town.

Papua New Guinea - An Untamed Land

2009-05-25T03:00:00.000+12:00

I have been fascinated by Papua New Guinea for several years now. It's a place I would very much like to visit, and a few years ago I did quite a bit of research into doing exactly that, only to find it was horrendously expensive. To really do it right, and that means flying into the interior, to the Sepik River region and cruising the river in order to reach the villages and really get the full experience runs in excess of $1000 a day per person.

Someday I'm going to go. In the mean time I continue to learn more about the place. I collect artefacts from there, including storyboards, masks and ancestor carvings. It is truly one of the last unspoiled, primitive places on earth.

Papua occupies the eastern half of the island of New Guinea in the south-western Pacific. It is part of the area known as Melanesia. Its capital, and one of its few major cities, is Port Moresby. Truly one of the most diverse countries in the world, with over 850 indigenous languages and at least as many traditional societies, out of a population of just under 6 million.

Papua is also one of the world's least explored regions, culturally and geographically, and many undiscovered species of plants and animals are thought to exist in the interior of Papua New Guinea. It wouldn't surprise me if future breakthroughs in cures for diseases ends up coming from there.

It has a very rugged geography. A range of mountains runs the length of the island of New Guinea, forming a populous highlands region. Dense rainforests can be found in the lowland and coastal areas. Papua New Guinea gained its independence from Australia in 1975. It remains a Commonwealth realm.

PNG is an ancient place. Human remains have been found which have been dated to about 50,000 years ago. The inhabitants probably had their origins in Southeast Asia. A major migration of Austronesian speaking peoples came to coastal regions roughly 2,500 years ago, and this is correlated with the introduction of pottery, pigs, and certain fishing techniques. Little was known in the West about the island until the nineteenth century. There are hundreds of ethnic groups indigenous to Papua New Guinea, the majority being from the group known as Papuans, whose ancestors arrived in the New Guinea region tens of thousands of years ago. The others are Austronesians, their ancestors having arrived in the region less than four thousand years ago.

There are three official languages for Papua New Guinea. English is an official language, and is the language of government and the education system, but it is not widely spoken. The primary spoken language is Tok Pisin (commonly known in English as New Guinea Pidgin or Melanesian Pidgin). The only area where Tok Pisin is not prevalent is the southern region of Papua, where people often use the third official language, Hiri Motu.

The culture of Papua New Guinea is very complex. It is believed that more than a thousand different cultural groups exist in PNG. Because of this diversity, many different styles of cultural expression have emerged; each group has created its own expressive forms in art, dance, weaponry, costumes, singing, music and architecture.

What inspired me to write about Papua today was a newspaper article from Port Moresby, the capital. Police in Kerema, on the south-western coast arrested four people, members of a cult, who had murdered and eaten a woman. Ironically, the killers were enticed to act by being bribed with foodstuffs. Cannibalism, though, has a long history in PNG, as it does in most of Melanesia, especially Fiji. Stories are told of it being the women who first enticed the men to kill other people for food, as they had grown bored with the usual fare. The odd thing about the news story is that the events took place in a city. Usually it's confined to the mountainous interior.

PNG is indeed a wild place with a culture that is still very primitive despite continual contact with the western world. I will go there one day. I must. There is no other place like it on earth.

Best Friends

2009-05-24T03:00:00.000+12:00

Taking another sip of beer, Jeff eyed his buddy over the glass and tried to find the right words, but as usual they just wouldn't come. Meanwhile, Jerry continued to wax lyrical.

"...So last night she says to me, hey, you know what? You're the sexiest man I've ever met. Can you believe that?"

Jeff nearly choked on his beer. "No, Jerry, I sure can't." Wiping his mouth, he added under his breath, "Are you sure she wasn't laughing when she said it?"

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud. So, you wanna go fishing tomorrow? I hear they're really biting out at the lake."

"Oh, man, that would be great, but I'll have to see if Sheila has anything planned first."

"What? Now look, Jerry, this is..."

"It'll probably be fine, just let me check, all right? Sheesh."

Jeff bit his tongue and changed the subject. "I wonder what the score is in the game. I'm gonna ask the bartender to turn on the set." He wandered off to the bar shaking his head. When he got back Jerry was sitting there staring off into space with a dreamy look on his face.

"You know, Jerry..."

"Did I tell you what she said the other day about my car? She said it really suited me. That only a macho guys like me look good driving cars like that. She always knows just the right thing to say. I wonder how she does it."

Jeff couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Yeah, that's some spooky talent all right. You'd think she was psychic or something." I've got to say something soon, he thought to himself.

"Anyway, I can't believe how lucky I am, you know? I mean, she could have any guy she wanted, she's so hot."

Jeff couldn't resist rolling his eyes. "Yeah, well, I guess she's just got really good taste. Or something."

"Aw, thanks, man. I'm really lucky to have you for a best friend, you know that?"

Feeling like a jerk, Jeff tried to work up his courage. "Listen, Jerry, I think you should..."

"You know what really amazes me though? The way she's always so happy. She never complains about anything. Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, it's really personal, but she's also, you know, always ready." Jerry winked at his friend.

Excusing himself to go to the bathroom, Jeff simply had to get away for a minute. Washing his hands, he gave himself a good talking to in the mirror. He's your best friend. He needs to hear the truth. But what if he can't handle the truth? He's so happy. But he's also delusional. How could he...no, it had to be done. I'm his friend; I should be looking out for him. Even if it's hard. Gotta do the right thing.

He headed back to the table and there was Jerry again with that dopey look on his face. Man, this was bad.

"Listen, Jerry, we need to talk. I..."

"You having some sort of trouble, Jeff? I'm here for you man. You can talk to me about anything. Really. What is it?"

"Well, it's just...it's about Sheila. You see..."

"Oh, wait a minute! Don't tell me you're falling for my woman! Oh man, how could you Jeff? You're my best friend, I thought I could trust you!"

"What? No. No, that's not it!" Jeff drained his beer. This wasn't going well. "Look, Jerry, I know you're really happy with her, but you need to come back down to earth man, she's..."

"She's what? You better watch what you say, man! She's my girl. Don't you start talking crap about her."

Picking up Jerry's beer and draining that one too, Jeff looked his friend in the eye. "Listen Jerry, I think you need to get yourself in to therapy. This thing has gone too far. You're in love with a..."

"With a what? A slut? Is that what you're trying to say? She's not a slut! I mean, yeah, she's always willing, but..."

"Damn it, Jerry, listen to me! If I stuck a pin in her she'd deflate! You need help, man!"

Jerry jumped up and put his hands on his hips. "You know what, Jeff? You're just jealous because we're in love. You're a cruel man, Jeff!" With that, he turned and left.

Search - It's Good For Your Brain!

2009-05-23T03:00:00.000+12:00

How much do you use search engines to find information? If you do it quite a bit there's research that shows that's a good thing indeed. That is, if you're middle-aged or older. If you're young, maybe not so much.

Scientists at University of California Los Angeles have found that for those of us who are over the hill Web searching triggers activates key brain centers that control decision-making and complex reasoning skills. It may, in fact, improve and stimulate brain functioning overall. The study is the first to assess the impact of Web searching on brain functions. Given how long the Internet has been around, it's surprising that it's taken so long for such a study to be conducted, but the results are surprising.

The head researcher on the project, Dr. Gary Small, a professor at the Semel Institute for Neuroscience and Human Behavior at UCLA had this to say: "The study results are encouraging, that emerging computerized technologies may have physiological effects and potential benefits for middle-aged and older adults. Internet searching engages complicated brain activity, which may help exercise and improve brain function."

Apparently, as we age the brain undergoes structural and functional changes. There is reduction in cell activity, increases in deposits of amyloid plaques and tau tangles, which can impact cognitive function, and even outright atrophy. Pursuing activities that keep the mind engaged may help preserve brain health and cognitive ability. That much has been known for quite some time now. I recall a study awhile back that recommended crossword puzzles and such as a way to stave off Alzheimer's disease.

In conducting the study, the team at UCLA used 24 research volunteers between the ages of 55 and 76, all with normal, healthy brains. Half of them had experience in Internet searching, the other half had no experience. All of the participants were of similar age and background.

Web searches and book reading tasks were performed by the participants while undergoing magnetic resonance imaging scans, which recorded the subtle brain-circuitry changes experienced during these activities. The scans were used to track the intensity of cell responses in the brain. This is accomplished by measuring the level of cerebral blood flow during the cognitive tasks.

There was major brain activity recorded in the appropriate centers during the book reading task, but there was a difference when it came to the Internet searches. The participants with Internet search experience also registered activity in the frontal, temporal and cingulate areas of the brain, which control decision-making and complex reasoning.

Dr. Gary Small again: "Our most striking finding was that Internet searching appears to engage a greater extent of neural circuitry that is not activated during reading — but only in those with prior Internet experience."

During Web searching, volunteers with prior experience registered a twofold increase in brain activation when compared with those with little Internet experience. Apparently the decisions required in order to pursue more information stimulate the brain more than simply reading a book. Dr. Small theorized that spending more time doing searches might well catch up the inexperienced group relative to the others. He added that the minimal brain activation found in the less experienced Internet group may be due to participants not quite grasping the strategies needed to successfully engage in an Internet search, which is common while learning a new activity.

So by all means, start searching! It's good for your brain, and it may keep you from forgetting where you left the car keys.

The Offering

2009-05-22T03:00:00.000+12:00

Trent opened his eyes and was alert instantly. The mission that had been on his mind for days took hold of him as never before. It was time. The hour was right, he just knew it. He got up and stretched and looked about. The light was beginning to fade. The shadows were lengthening and the air was still. The perfect conditions for his mission. He moved quickly outdoors and scanned the woods. Yes. This was the day. He could sense it. He would make the kill. All would be well.

It had been awhile since he had made a decent offering to the tribe. No one made a big deal of it, but his pride was at stake. He must prove himself. He was a mighty hunter, he would show them. One was only as good as one's last kill. They knew he was loyal, of course. They would never shun him; still it was the right thing to do, to make obeisance. It was ingrained in his nature, and he knew without doubt it was expected of him.

He moved along the path, his every sense on full alert. He hadn't seen his prey for days, but he knew exactly where to look. He reached the area quickly and looked about for a good vantage point. He found some heavy growth with a clear view of the place he believed the target would appear. He had run it to ground twice, and this was where it had disappeared both times. It had to live near by.

Sitting down to keep watch, he was occasionally distracted by sudden sounds all around him, but he would not take his eye off the patch of ground he was intent on. After awhile he decided to sharpen his weapons and took up position by a nearby tree.

He waited for over an hour but it was no use. There should have been a sighting, but nothing. A breeze was rising, and he was upwind of the site, and that was no good. The prey would be aware of him. He was growing hungry anyway, so he gave up the hunt and headed back home. He would return at dawn. He had much luck at that hour in the past. He would prevail, he knew he would.

He slept fitfully that night, waking when the small mysterious noises that so often come in the dark came to him. His night vision was excellent and he knew nothing could sneak up on him, so he simply drifted off to sleep each time.

Finally he sensed the first light coming through the window. He got up quietly, drank some water and did his morning ablutions. At last it was time to set out once more. He moved smoothly down the path once more, he knew it so well now that he could sense even the smallest change. Everything was as it should be. There had been no activity here.

He couldn't understand why he hadn't seen his prey for days. Usually they were plentiful, but now it was as if the were gone. Yet he knew this couldn't be true. Here and there he had seen evidence that they still lived in these woods. He would find them. He would make the kill and he would prove himself yet again, as he had done so many times before. His pride swelled as he thought of previous conquests.

He reached his hiding place with a renewed sense of determination. This time it would happen. If they had not been out all night then surely they must come out to forage now, at the crack of dawn. He hoped their defences would be down since they had not been hunted for days. It would make his job easier. As he crouched in readiness he caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. He stared intently, and suddenly, there it was! It ran quickly a short ways along the path, stopped and looked about, listening intently.

He didn't move a muscle. He waited patiently for the right moment. He would only get one chance. He needed to wait until it's back was to him to make his move. His prey sat still for what seemed like a very long time, then, just as he had hoped it turned directly away from him. Before it could make another move took aim and made his move.

George sat up and stretched. Looking out the window he smiled at the beautiful sunrise that was lighting up the morning sky. A cup of tea was in order, he decided. He would relax with his newspaper and enjoy the quiet before Martha awoke. He put on his slippers and headed for the kitchen. Before he could reach the light switch he felt something soft and squishy under foot.

Oh good God, no, he thought to himself. Please don't let it be what I think it is. He looked down and before he could stop himself he cursed a blue streak that brought a grumpy enquire from his wife, whom he had roused from her sleep.

"George, what's going on down there?"

Muttering to himself under his breath he went to get something to clean up the mess with. "It's Trent. That damned cat has killed another rat. Why the hell does he have to bring them in the house?"

Down The Rabbit Hole

2009-05-21T03:00:00.000+12:00

I've been thinking a lot about my history online lately. It's now been just over 16 years since I first got a computer and subsequently a modem, allowing me access to that mysterious thing we simply called the internet back then. This was shortly before the advent of the web and the first browser, Mosaic. Actually, a bit of research informs me that Mosaic was released on April 22, 1993, and I purchased my first computer in January of that year, and was online by March.

There was a slightly earlier browser apparently, called Erwise, but it was written for Unix and therefore not for the general public. Mosaic was the first browser to display images inline with text. Prior to that the internet was for using arcane things like FTP, Usenet and Gopher. FTP still exists, and there are still newsgroups, but I believe Gopher is long gone. Those were both simpler and more complex times all at once.

To say that the internet changed my life forever is an understatement. I live half a world away from the place of birth because of the internet, and I've formed several deeply meaningful relationships because of it. I've fallen in love with two women because of the internet, and I'm married to the second one. My best male friend would also be a stranger to me if it weren't for going online all those years ago.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg. I couldn't even begin to list all of the things that have happened to me in the last sixteen years online in this single post, nor would I want to. Much it wouldn't be believed anyway. People are still surprised when they ask my wife and I how we met and we tell them we met online. Not as surprised as they were ten years ago, but we still get raised eyebrows. If only they knew the full story.

The reason that all this is on my mind at the moment is that I've recently decided to put one aspect of my online life behind me. For virtually the entire time I've been on the net I've been involved in discussion groups of one sort and another. Indeed, I've spent enormous amounts of time involved with such, and I've been the owner of a couple of them, but I've decided it's time to move on. This blog takes up quite a bit of time, for one thing, and there are other, personal reasons for closing that chapter in my life.

Suffice it to say that people you get involved with online are often more devious than those you get involved with in 3D land. It's a sad but true fact. Many people use the cover of invisibility to pretend to be someone they are not, and others use it to do things they wouldn't dream of doing to another person face to face. For the longest time I refused to believe that was true. Sadly, I've learned otherwise over the last few years. Still, I've gained a wife and a best friend, so it's been good for me in the long run.

All things considered, the web is a wonderful place. There's a saying that came about when computers were first in common use, garbage in, garbage out, which was a play on the expression first in, first out, and it was later abbreviated to GIGO. It's original meaning was that the output of computers could only be as good as the data that was imputed, but it later came to be a comment on the nature of information available on, and interactions on the web.

It holds quite true in my experience. The trick is to spot the true quality of what's being imputed in the first place. Even for a street-wise old hand at discerning the true nature of others the web can be a minefield. It pays to be cautious and take everything with a grain of salt. Of course that's true for life in general, but even more so on the web. At least in my experience. A word to the wise.

The Pickup Artist

2009-05-20T03:00:00.000+12:00

Alan grinned as he saw his best friend coming through the door of their favourite watering hole. "Hey Joe, how's it hangin'?"

Joe sat down with a sigh. "Man, what a day. I'm beat. Sorry I haven't been around lately, I'm flat out."

"No problem." Alan glanced over at an attractive woman sitting alone at the bar and Joe caught his eye.

"She's a hottie, eh?"

"Yeah, but man, she's cold as ice."

Joe laughed. "Shot you down, did she?"

"You better believe it. Three times. She won't give anyone the time of day. Lots of guys have tried. I don't know what she's doing here."

Joe was grinning. "Maybe you guys just don't have the moves, brother. Let me show you how it's done."

Alan waved his hand. "Be my guest. You'll be back in a minute."

Alan was right. "Damn, Alan, she's untouchable. Wouldn't even look up at me."

Alan chuckled. "Welcome the club."

"A couple of good-looking executives like us, with lots of dough and nice threads, you'd think she's at least consider us. Damn."

A guy walking back from the loo stopped and turned back and walked up to them. "Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing some of that. You guys struck out with that chick at the end of the bar, eh?"

Joe looked him up and down. "Yeah, what's it to you?"

The stranger put his palms up. "Sorry, I didn't mean any offence. She does look like a hard nut to crack. Still..." He trailed off, looked at the woman and then shrugged and started walking.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alan looked at Joe and turned back to the stranger. "Hey, I'm talking to you."

The stranger turned and walked back grinning, sticking out his hand. "Sorry, my name's Stan, I didn't catch yours."

"Alan. This is Joe. What did you mean by "still"?"

"Mind if I sit down?" Stan didn't wait for an answer.

"Look, it's just a matter of technique, that's all. Some guys have it, some don't. I meant no offence, just telling it like it is."

Joe's back was up. He ordered another round and leaned across the table. "So you're saying you've got game and we don't? Talk's cheap, dude."

Stan shrugged. "Whatever. I know what I'm capable of this is all I'm saying. I don't lose, you know?"

Alan shook his head. "Man, nothing wrong with your ego, eh?"

Stan turned his drink in circles on the table and grinned at them. "What can I say, I'm good."

Alan and Joe exchanged looks again and Alan nodded.

"All right man," Joe said, "If you're all that, why don't you put your money where your mouth is."

Stan didn't look up for a minute then slowly raised his eyes and gave them a crooked grin. "Look guys, I don't wanna take your money, it wouldn't be fair. What do you say we just forget the whole thing." he got up to leave.

"Oh no you don't." Joe wasn't letting it pass. "You shot your mouth off. Put your money down and let's see what you've got, hot shot."

Stan considered for a moment and sat back down. "Well, how much are we talking here?"

Alan pulled a bankroll out his pocket. "We've got money. How about $200, or is that too rich for your blood?" He smirked at Joe.

Stan tapped his chin in thought, and then stood up again. "You know, you had me going for a minute. I thought you guys might be serious." He snorted. "$200. What a joke."

Joe reached in for his wallet and came out with a cash card. "The bank is just down the street. How about $2,000 each, hot shot? Still think we're joking?"

Alan didn't look too sure, but he nodded his head. Stan sized them up one more time and reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a wad that made their eyes light up. "Why not make it $2,500?"

Joe got up. "I'll be right back."

Alan did his best not to look nervous. "You sure you can afford to lose that much?"

Stan was still smiling. "I like to keep my life interesting."

Joe came back with the money and laid it down with a flourish. "You're up, hot shot. Give it all you got."

Stan got up and straightened his tie. "Gentleman, it will be my pleasure."

They watched him approach her, and they were both grinning when they saw her shake her head after looking up only briefly. They high-fived each other, but their joy was short-lived. As they watched, Stan kept talking and slowly the woman turned to face him and seemed to be at least a bit interested. Five minutes later she stood up and kissed him.

Alan and Joe were dumbstruck. Stan came back to the table grinning. "Her name is Barbara, and we'll be leaving now, that is, as soon as you pay up."

Joe picked up the money and handed it over grudgingly. Alan was shaking his head.

Stan and Barbara walked out and hailed a cab. "That was great, sweetheart, you primed them real good."

Barbara smiled. "Practice makes perfect. But $5,000 is chicken feed. Why do you insist on doing this every time we hit a new city to do a job?"

Stan smiled. "We can't make our move until tomorrow anyway, it's just a bit of fun. What do say we have ourselves a real nice dinner?"

I've Got A Hunch - Or At Least I Will Soon

2009-05-19T03:00:00.000+12:00

Don't know how many of you have heard of this one. Hunch.com is coming soon. You may be aware of Wikianswers.com and Yahoo!Answers, but this one is different, apparently.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, these are websites that offer information and advice based on questions you enter. On the two existing sites the answers you get are selected by the engine as the best answer to your question, or in the case of Yahoo, the best answer as voted by the other registered members of the site. I suppose their purpose is to provide information for those not adept at, or too time constrained or lazy to use a search engine. One of the authors on my recommended list, Luke Rhinehart wrote novel called Dice Man that deals with this very concept. In it, the main character decides to determine all of his actions by rolls of the dice, with some outrageous consequences.

Hunch takes the idea behind the answer sites a step further. They've created an algorithm (a set of instructions for carrying out a procedure or solving a problem) that comes up with the best answer to your question based on the information you've given them when you sign up. The whole thing is designed in such a way that it learns something new every time it's used, thus making it better. Theoretically, anyway.

This project is being pitched as the democratization of decision-making. The theory behind it is that collective decision-making is better than individual decision-making.

This is where I begin to raise my eyebrows. My first thought upon learning about this theory was what about elections? Try telling the man in the street that collective decision-making is superior to individual. There would be much begging to differ is what I think. Anyway, the co-founder of Hunch.com is Caterina Fake, who is behind the online photography bank Flickr. She was named on Time magazine's world's 100 most influential people in 2006. She describes the site as creating a "taste profile" of you and people like you, which will combine with topic specific questions to deliver a hunch just for you. She expects the site to get to know the user in the simplest way possible and then help them make decisions.

Kelly Ford, marketing vice-president for the project had this to say:

"Users tend to contribute knowledge to topics they know, and extract knowledge from topics they don't know as well, that give and take is really the whole point of Hunch; to let many people benefit from the knowledge and cognitive work of others, to help people make smart, concrete decisions."

Wow, now that's some mighty spin right there. I guess that's what marketing vice-presidents are supposed to do, but let's just hold the line for a minute. People tend to contribute knowledge to topics they know? Well, yes they do. People who don't know squat about a topic, however, seldom let that stop them from putting their two cents in. I know this for certain after fifteen years of interacting in the online discussion community. I once had a battle years ago with a twit who kept insisting that Gautama Buddha was born in China, and "everybody" knows that! I informed him that Buddha was born in Nepal, and he could look it up. He wouldn't, of course, because he "knew".

So herein lies the chink in the armour of this project. It's predicated on the idea that the people whose knowledge the database will access to combine with your profile to give you your answer will all be people who know what they're talking about. I'm quite willing to bet that simply won't be true. I've seen some truly appalling answers to questions on Wiki and Yahoo that were utter nonsense, yet those answers had been voted best by the registered members, and that's what I'll wager will happen with Hunch too. The only difference will be that the answers will be tailored to your profile, which may or may not have a positive effect.

I'll be keeping an eye on this thing as it evolves, if only for the entertainment value it might hold. I wish them well, and I hope to be pleasantly surprised. I've requested entry to the beta version so I'm waiting for the fun to begin.

Friends

2009-05-18T03:00:00.000+12:00

"So listen, Dave, I really need you to do this for me man. I've got the money, I can pay you back right away, but you gotta come bail me out. Please, you're my best friend."

Taking the phone into the bedroom so Delia wouldn't hear the conversation, Dave resigned himself to the inevitable. "Yeah, all right, I'll be there as soon as I can. Just hang tight."

"Ah, you're the greatest man. I'll never forget you for this."

Delia walked in. "Let me guess, Bill needs something."

Dave's ears were burning. "Yeah. He does. I have to go do this. I'm sorry. You know how it is."

Delia crossed her arms. "So what is it this time?"

"He's in jail. Drunk and disorderly. He's got the money, but I need to bail him first." He looked away as he spoke.

Delia stared for a moment then left the room. Cursing under his breath, Dave went after her. "Delia, I'm sorry, I..."

"Just make sure you get the money, Dave."

Grabbing his car keys, Dave headed out. All the way downtown he wrestled with his judgement. Why did he keep doing this? He was being used. But Bill was his best friend. He'd have a talk with him.

"Hey, thanks for bailing me out buddy. I really appreciate it."

Unlocking the car, Dave got in and waited for Bill to get settled. "Look, Bill, we need to talk. I have to say..."

Bill threw up his hands. "Hey look, man, just take me home. I've got the money there for you. But you're right, we do need to talk. I need to come back to the shop and start working again."

Dumbstruck, Dave just stared. Bill grinned. "Hey, it's our shop, right? I mean, I know I left for awhile, but I'm ready to come back now."

"Bill, I told you a couple of weeks ago. Things aren't going well. The landlord raised the rent again, and the street isn't getting the traffic any more. People have moved on, I don't know where. There's barely enough money for me to get by. I'm hanging on, just."

Bill wasn't impressed. "Yeah? Well maybe you just aren't doing things right. I'll come back and put everything in order. You'll see. It will be like old times." He rolled down the window and lit up a cigarette.

"Bill, I told you, there just isn't enough in it."

"You know something, Dave? You've got a bad attitude, man. Why don't you lighten up?"

A strained silence ensued all the way to Bill's place. Driving home Dave ran a dialogue in his head of how the conversation should have gone. When he walked in Delia knew.

"I take it he wasn't exactly thankful."

Dropping onto the sofa, Dave laid down and put his arm over his eyes.

"Dave, you've been making excuses for him for years. I know you've been friends since childhood, but really, don't you think it's time for a change?"

"He wants to come back to the shop, Delia."

"What?! But we're barely getting by. No way. You have make it clear."

"I did. You know what? Maybe I should just tell him to find the money and buy me out. Serves him right. He'll go bust in no time."

Thinking it over, Delia grinned. "You're right. Do it. You can find something else. You're good. Let him have it."

Steeling himself, Dave picked up the phone and made the call. When he hung up Delia was looking at him in anticipation. "He said fine. He's got a guy who'll come up with the money for a piece of the business. A silent partner. I feel sorry for the guy, but that's not our problem."

The day before the deal was to be signed Dave was still angry. All the years he had put up with Bill's antics, and now he was selling out his half of the business all because Bill wouldn't see reason. What was he going to do with his life now? He had no plan. Delia was good with it all, but he was at loose ends.

Waiting at the shop for Bill to show Dave was still in a bad mood. The appointed hour came and went and he was beginning to think Bill was off on another adventure and wasn't going to show when he heard sirens outside. Stepping outside he could just make out a large van turned on its side a block down and a fire truck arriving at the scene. As he looked a feeling of dread came over him. He raced down the block and got there just in time to see a fireman pulling Bill out of the wreck.

Dave stood there dumbfounded and then helped his friend to the sidewalk and sat him down. Bill reeked of alcohol and the sound of another siren heralded the arrival of the police. Bill tried to stand up, but Dave pushed him down.

"You're not going anywhere, man. You have to face up. Besides, it's your van, they'd find you anyway and then you'd be in worse trouble."

Bill was weaving from side to side. "You gotta come bail me out man. I've got the money, I swear."

Dave looked into his friend's eyes and shook his head. "No, Bill not this time."

He walked away as the police came over to collect Bill and he heard him cursing as he was led away. "What kind of friend are you, man? What kind of friend, damn you!"

He turned and looked one more time. "The best kind, Bill. The best kind."

Lucid Dreaming

2009-05-17T03:00:00.000+12:00

Many years ago I purchased a book called Lucid Dreaming. Lucid dreaming is all about being aware within a dream that you are, in fact, dreaming. Why would you want to do such a thing, you might well ask. That depends on several factors, but what's true is that if you can master lucid dreaming, you can do things you would not otherwise be able to do. Perhaps the most useful aspect of lucid dreaming is preventing the continuance of nightmares. Lucid dreaming is a very effective therapy for overcoming bad dreams; in fact, it may well be the most effective tool there is.
The fear you feel in a nightmare is completely real; the danger is not, and therefore if you are lucid dreaming, the false danger is recognized and the fear dissipates.

Another advantage to learning lucid dreaming is enhanced creativity and problem solving. In the dream world anything is possible. If you are aware you are dreaming you can try out problem solving techniques and ideas that you might not have the resources for in waking life, including time. If you find something workable, you can bring it into the real world.

On the other hand, lucid dreaming can simply be used for recreation if you so desire. People who use it regularly report enhance creativity. Some people use it simply for fun. Flying is a common activity in lucid dreaming. Nearly everyone has dreams which involve flying, and it's usually a pleasurable experience. With lucid dreaming you can do it at will. Any pleasurable experience can be had while engaging in lucid dreaming. I'll leave it to your imagination to figure out what you might want to do in a dream. You can even use lucid dreaming to rehearse things you have coming up in life, such as speeches and presentations.

So how does one go about learning lucid dreaming? The first step is excellent dream recall. By remembering your dreams in detail you become familiar with their patterns and features. Without this you would have lucid dreams that you wouldn't remember, which defeats the purpose of lucid dreaming in the first place. The primary step in good dream recall is to begin writing down your dreams as you have them. Yes, this involves waking up several times during the night. Lucid dreaming requires devotion to the task, so it's not for everyone. I personally use a tape recorder, it's much easier and you don't have to turn on a light.

I won't go into the rest of the exercises involved, if you're interested in lucid dreaming, books and articles are readily available. Suffice it to say the exercises are not difficult and it's mostly a matter of discipline.

What I've been talking about so far is referred to as Mnemonic Induced Lucid Dreaming, or MILD. There two other types. Dream Initiated Lucid Dreaming, DILD, and Wake Initiated Lucid Dreaming, WILD. A DILD starts as a normal dream and the dreamer at some point concludes they are dreaming. A WILD occurs when a person goes from a normal waking state to a dream state with no apparent lapse in consciousness. That is, when REM (Rapid Eye Movement) sleep is entered directly from a conscious state. There are several ways to do this. If a person can stay alert while passing from a hypnagogic state, the borderline between waking and sleeping (I personally know many people who seem to live their lives there), to REM sleep, then they will achieve WILD. This is difficult to achieve, and it involves exercises I won't go in to here.

Another method of inducing lucid dreaming is the one pictured above. It involves the used of a LDID, or Lucid Dream Inducing Device. The original device is called the NovaDreamer. It was designed in 1993 by an experienced lucid dreamer, Craig Webb, executive director of The DREAMS Foundation. It works by incorporating external stimuli into one's dreams. The device detects when a sleeper enters an REM phase and then triggers a tone and/or flashing lights with the aim of incorporating these into the sleeper's dream. For example, flashing lights might be interpreted in the dream as car headlights. There are other devices that use vibration to achieve the same end.

There is, of course, much more to all this, but that's enough to get you started if it interests you at all. I haven't tried this stuff in years; all I remember is that it's very difficult and requires a lot of persistence. I recall the first exercise being to tell yourself before you go to sleep that you must look at your hands in your dream. If you can achieve that, you're on your way. If you remember your dreams at all, you'll realize that you never see your body parts in a dream. You never see your hands or feet. Achieving that is the first step. Good luck.

The Playwright

2009-05-16T03:00:00.001+12:00

Rounding the corner Charles came to an abrupt halt. Damn. There was Tony Abbot again. Thinking Tony hadn't seen him he turned quickly to hide but it was too late.

"Hey, Mr. Brent! Mr. Brent! It's me, Tony, I've got a new script to show you!"

Tony trotted to where Charles was now rooted to the spot, cursing his bad timing, rotten luck or whatever it was that kept him from avoiding Tony as often as he'd like. How in the hell could anyone come up with as many plays as this guy did? And how could they all be so bad?

"Oh, hi Tony. A new script you say? Well I'm pretty busy now, I was just on my way to an important meeting and I..."

"I know you're a busy man, Mr. Brent. This won't take a minute. Let me just sketch it out to you and then you can look at it later, all right?"

Charles gritted his teeth. "Oh, all right Tony, what's the pitch?"

"Well, you remember how you told me once that you liked that 60's band, The Moody Blues? Well, anyway, I asked this guy I knew, he's about your age, and he started singing this song of theirs that he likes, and I really liked the lyrics, so I wrote this play about it!"

Warily, Charles inquired. "I see, and what might the title of this play be?" He couldn't imagine anyone writing a play based on a Moody Blues Song.

"It's called Knights In White Satin. See, it's the Knights of the Round Table, you know, Lancelot and those guys, and they all dress up in white satin and go off doing good deeds and such. Great idea, eh?"

Charles was dumbstruck. Recovering, he looked Tony in the eye. "Tony...are you putting me on here?"

"What do you mean Mr. Brent?"

"Well, Nights in White Satin isn't...I hate to break it to you, but it's not knights, as in Knights of the Round Table, it's nights, as in, you know, night time."

In the awkward silence that ensued Charles pressed his advantage. "Look, I really have to run. We'll talk another time. See you around Tony."

"Um, well, let me just walk with you for a minute, Mr. Brent, I have another one I've been working on. I know how much you baby boomer guys love your music, see, and I really want you to produce one of my plays, so I've been asking around about your music, and well, here's another one. You like Elton John, right? Well I'm working on a play about that guy from the television show Who's The Boss, you know, Tony Danza. Elton John wrote a song about him. I think he had a crush on that guy, so it's a gay love story, very topical!"

Charles stopped in his tracks. "A gay love story about Elton John having a crush on Tony Danza? Where the hell did you get that idea?"

"From the song he wrote about it. You know, there's that line in there, "hold me closer, Tony Danza."

Charles had to start walking again to keep his composure. "Tony, it's not...oh, never mind, I don't think you should pursue that one. We're not really ready to go there just yet." Hoping that would be the end of it proved futile.

"Well, all right, not a problem, I've got another one. I really like this Elton John guy's songs; my buddy sang me lots of them. There was that one about the girl rocker who wanted to be a success so much that she had surgery and got a weird haircut and everything so she'd get noticed, I'm working on a script for it, but I haven't gotten very far yet, but yeah, I think you'd like it."

Knowing he was going to hate himself, Charles asked anyway. "All right, Tony, sounds like you're talking about Benny and the Jets, but what's this about surgery and a weird haircut?"

"Oh, well there's those lines in the song, "she's got electric boobs, a Mohawk too..."

Feeling his head starting to pound, Charles stopped once more. "Tony, it's not electric boobs, it's electric boots and it's not...oh my. Look, Tony, I really have to go, please, we'll talk another time."

As he watch Charles Brent retreating Tony called out to him. "You're gonna produce one of my plays some day, Mr. Brent. I just know you are!"

The Swine Flu Pandemic - Yeah, Right

2009-05-15T03:00:00.000+12:00

Well, I'm still waiting. Are you? Know anyone who has swine flu? Know anyone who has died of it? No? Chances are you never will.

A week ago I offered that swine flu was just the latest in a long line of media hysteria exercises designed to boost ratings and advertising revenue and nothing more. It was, indeed, the media that started using the word pandemic, that never came from any credible medical establishment, and still hasn't as a likelihood. Nor will it, I will continue to wager.

Oh sure, the media are still running around finding medical individuals who can be led into speculating about the possibilities of unspeakable things that could possibly happen, in fact, an unnamed United States health official has told MSNBC that a pandemic could still be expected, but I've seen nothing to back that up anywhere. In fact, MSNBC also reported that the World Health Organization has stopped short of saying there will be a pandemic as the numbers to date simply don't point in that direction.

As of May 7th there have been 35 hospitalizations and 2 deaths in the U.S. Worldwide there have only been 7 deaths recorded by WHO, as opposed to the 150 being claimed by other sources. The Center for Disease Control is saying that the WHO may well raise their warning level to 6, which is the highest, and the press has had a field day with that, but what they don't tell you is that the warning level gauges how fast the flu is spreading, not how bad it's likely to be.

Let's recall here that the word pandemic, in the past at least, has only been applied in cases of a million deaths or more worldwide. There have been 7 worldwide as of May 7th. That's it. 7. And still the media continues to flog this thing, this dead horse, if you will. Last night the six o'clock news warned that we should not become complacent, because even though the flu hasn't taken off yet, it still could! Just you wait!

Yeah, right, as we like to say in New Zealand. Most people know it simply isn't going to happen. Already health authorities are saying a vaccine will be available shortly.

The press is now keeping it on the down low that this flu hits the young and strong predominantly. Hard to build a case that millions could die when it's our fittest members of society catching this thing, and recovering from it quite quickly by all accounts.

And why is the press flogging this thing so hard and refusing to let go? Anyone notice that the economic recovery seems to be under way already? Yes, there are definitely reports that it's happening. Yes, there are still layoffs happening, and other bad news, but if you take a peek at the business pages of your local paper you'll find that there is finally light at the end of the tunnel. In other words, the economic crisis, as severe as it's been in the short term, and eight months is short term in the world of economics, it's not going to be anywhere near as bad as the media led us to believe at the end of the year and the beginning of this one.

I'll say it one more time. The media can no longer be trusted. There was a time when they could, and I can't really say when the worm turned, but the media is dirty. Don't believe everything you hear. Don't even believe half of it. It's all about money. It used to be about truth, but that's gone, folks. Bet on it.

The Crossover

2009-05-14T03:00:00.000+12:00

Getting dressed for work, Bill went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. As he glanced at himself in the mirror he was jolted by a sudden remembrance of a dream. Standing with his toothbrush half way to his mouth with his jaw going slack he felt a chill run through him.

Why did I have to remember that, he wondered? It was horrible. Trying to put it out of his mind he hurried through the rest of his routine and got in the car, but the dream persisted, invading his mind like a stupid song lyric that simply won't go away. It was a bog standard nightmare, really. He was being pursued across an unknown landscape by some dreadful nameless thing for a reason he couldn't fathom. There was something about a scraping and grunting noise he couldn't quite remember. In the dream he kept telling himself not to look back, but of course he finally did. He had only glimpsed it briefly but he remembered it was enough to jolt him out of the dream, but not to wake him fully.

Cranking up the stereo he forced himself to just drive. Arriving at work he felt much better and settled into his cubicle and got down to the business at hand. Just before lunch Reed from across the hall dropped by for a chat.

"Hey Bill, you going to the game with us this Saturday?"

"Oh, I suppose I could. Who's gonna drive?"

"I'll drive. I'll pick you up at eleven." Reed turned to go then stopped. "Oh, by the way, I finally bought that DVD you recommended, haven't gotten around to watching it yet though."

His brow furrowing, Bill tried to remember what that was about, and then it hit him. Two nights ago he had a dream in which he'd recommended Donnie Darko to Reed and his wife. Or had he? He could remember it, but...

"Um, Reed, what DVD was that?"

"You know, Donnie Darko. I picked it up at the video store the other day. Strange, really, I had gone there to rent something and the clerk was putting some DVD's out for sale and he told me I should buy it. Then I remembered you recommending it. Hey, what's up man, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Uh...nothing. Nothing, Reed. I need to make a couple of calls. Talk to you later."

Leaning back in his chair Bill tried to sort it all out in his mind. He clearly remembered having a dream. Had he recommended it to them and then dreamed about it after? It didn't seem possible. Picking up the phone he tried to figure out how to ask without it seeming weird. He called Reed's extension.

"Hi Reed. Hey, I was just wondering, when did I recommend the movie to you? My mind is like a sieve these days."

"Oh, hi Bill. Well, it was..." There was a long pause. "Damn, I can't remember. Whatever you've got, maybe I've got it too! Well, you were over...when were you over last?"

"See, that's the thing, it's been quite awhile, but I had this dream about recommending the DVD to you, and now you tell me...oh hell, it doesn't matter. Talk to you later."

Hanging up the phone he picked up a report he was trying to write and started editing it. He needed distraction; the whole thing seemed silly anyway. He was deep into the report when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello, dear. Sorry to call you at work."

"Oh, that's alright mom, what's up?"

"Well, I'm afraid it's your father. He's had a stroke. Now, don't worry, they think it's just minor, but you know we're away for a few days, we took the camper van of course, and we were parked in a rest area when it happened. We didn't get far, we're at the hospital in the valley, you know the one?"

"Yeah, Mom, I know the one. Is he alright?"

"Yes, dear, he's resting. It's just, well, I was wondering if there's anyway you could get our valuables out of the van for us. I rode in the ambulance with him, and I'm just afraid we'll get robbed." She gave him directions.

"No problem, mom. The spare key is still under the bumper?"

"Yes, dear."

"I'll go get your stuff and meet you at the hospital. See you in a couple of hours."

Driving towards the valley Bill's mind kept bouncing back and forth between the dreams and his father. What a day. Could it possibly get any stranger? It was twilight when he reached the van. There was something unnerving about the area, but he set about moving stuff to his car. The highway was deserted, not a car in sight. With the last of their valuables in, he was about to go when he heard a scraping noise in the gravel behind him. Instantly every hair on his neck and arms stood straight up. In one horrible instant last night's dream came flooding back in a grotesque rush.

The scraping quickened, and just as in the dream he heard a sickening grunting noise. He began running for all he was worth, willing himself not to look back.

The Art Of Blogging And Three Great Practitioners

2009-05-13T03:00:00.003+12:00

Today I'd like to talk about blogging in general, and to highlight three blogs that are are on my blogroll.

I'm in my fifth month of this now, blogging, that is, and I've got to say it's harder than I thought it would be. Not so much the actual writing, I've been doing that off and on for a long time, but the constant tinkering, the thought that goes in to coming up with new material on a daily basis and the search for appropriate images to go with each piece.

For that is the deal I made with myself when I started this blog. That I would write a new piece for each day of the year, alternating stories with articles. The stories come rather easily to me. Too easily, I suppose some would say. I've always been blessed with a bottomless imagination. The thing that amazes me the most is where the inspiration for the stories comes from. It comes from nearly every aspect of my life. Lately ideas have been coming to me in my dreams, of all things. The story I wrote awhile back titled The Hunter And The Hunted actually came to me as I was sitting at the computer waiting for inspiration to strike. I went in the other room to draw the blinds and a huge, horrendous spider fell out of them. Presto, story idea. Manna from heaven, if you will.

The articles are another matter entirely. I find it more difficult to come up with those, especially when news is slow. Not that I write about the burning topics of the day very often, but such are always a good fall-back position when nothing else comes to me.

This whole blogging thing is generally satisfying to me, but I do find myself wondering sometimes when I don't get much feedback what I'm really doing. I didn't start all this to get an audience, it was more about forcing myself to be disciplined about writing, and for that it's been great. I write everyday, which is what I wanted to do, so in that sense it's been good for me.

I guess all I really want to say about blogging right now is that it's been rewarding, and I fully plan to continue, and thank you to all of you who take time out of your busy day to read my scratchings. I really do appreciate it.

Now, all that said, I want to draw attention to three other blogs. I've chosen them not only because they're all outstanding blogs, but also because each of these writers has a very unique style and a gift that I'm very happy they've chosen to share with the world.

The first is Titirangi Storyteller. Veronica is a very gifted writer with a warm and wonderful sense of humor and an amazing insight into the workings of the human mind. I've read quite a bit of her fiction, and hers is a unique voice, utterly unlike anyone else I've ever read. Always a delight, and if you take the time to go through the stories she's generously offered on her site I'm sure you'll find something you'll be glad you came across. See for yourself.

The second is Live Write Dream. Lou is a breath of fresh air. She writes mostly about her life, and she does it very admirably. She shares without dragging you through the minutiae that so often infects personal experience based blogs and renders them tedious. Her writing is clean and fresh and she's honed her skills well. She will hold your attention and leave you wanting more, and that is what a great does. Live Write Dream. Check it out.

The third is the aptly titled The Den Of Psychosis. I love this guy! I have no idea who he is, he keeps his identity to himself, and that's fine. I just love his style and his sense of humor. He tackles every topic under the sun, and he does it with style and wit that you will find nowhere else in the blogosphere. Well, I haven't anyway, and that's fine with me, this guy is a one-man band. Offbeat humor, wry observations on the human condition, and all the strangeness you can handle. If you like taking a walk on the wild side do yourself a favor and go visit The Den Of Psychosis. I personally make a habit of it.

The Visitor

2009-05-12T03:00:00.001+12:00

Awakened from a disturbing dream, Susan sat up in bed and slowly realized there was a persistent noise coming from the window. Rubbing her eyes, she looked over and saw a large insect that appeared to be tapping to get her attention. Deciding she must still be dreaming she lay back down and closed her eyes, but the noise continued, and when she looked again, not only was the insect tapping, but also it somehow had an annoyed look about it.

Cautiously she got up and went to the window and peered at the intruder. She had never seen anything like it before. It had four feet and four arms, for lack of anything better to call them, and a flattened head with enormous eyes protruding from either side. As if an insect tapping on her bedroom window wasn't strange enough, it now seemed to trying to talk to her. That is, its mouth was moving in such a way that seemed to indicate speech. Backing up and dropping down on the bed, she pinched herself to see if she was, in fact, still dreaming. She wasn't.

Deciding it was time to get up anyway, Susan took a shower and got dressed, trying to put the strange incident out of her mind, but when she came out of the closet, there it was, still tapping and appearing to attempt communication. Hesitantly, she went back to the window and looked more closely. It was large, but didn't seem very threatening. It was just sitting there on a leaf cluster close to the window, tapping away. Not really knowing why she was doing it, she slowly opened the window. The creature immediately flew into the room, landing on her nightstand. Pulling itself up to its full height it bowed in her direction and began moving it's mandibles again. Susan jumped as she began hearing a voice in her head.

"Greetings. Thank you very much for inviting me into your home. I was beginning to despair of you understanding me."

Her mouth was working, but no sound came from it for a moment. She gulped and tried again. "You...you're talking to me. How...?"

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Urvenius. I am from a galaxy many light years from yours. You would be most frightened of my true form, so I've taken this one, as it seems something your kind would not be alarmed by. We are much smaller in stature than your species, so I could not take a form similar to your own."

Hyperventilating now, Susan sat down on the corner of the bed furthest from the creature. "This can't be happening. An alien in the form of an insect is in my bedroom. No, it's not possible." She was speaking to herself, but the alien being tilted it's head an regarded her thoughtfully.

"I can understand your disorientation, and I don't wish to alarm you, but there are many, many species in the universe. Did you really think you were alone?"

"Well...I guess I never really thought about it." She was coming to terms now, beginning to accept the bizarre situation. "What is it you want?"

The creature hopped onto the bed and took a few steps toward her. Cringing, Susan tried to damp down her fear.

"Please don't be alarmed. We are exploring new worlds. We wish to get to know species that haven't had full contact with others yet."

"We? How many are you?"

"It's not really important. You might say we're a team of scientists collecting data. I do wish I knew what I need to do to gain your trust."

Susan was aghast, but attempted to calm herself. "Well, I...This is just all so strange..."

The creature moved closer. "Please, don't be frightened. Perhaps if you would let me sit on your hand for a moment you would feel more at ease."

"And just why would I do that? Or more to the point, why do you want to sit on my hand?"

"I can learn about you through your skin, you see? It merely speeds up the process. We can communicate better that way." It looked at her expectantly.

Cautiously, Susan put her hand on the bed palm side up. I must be mad, she thought to herself.

The creature hopped on and again bowed to her. "I wish to thank you so very much for agreeing to this inquiry. I believe I shall enjoy you a lot."

As Susan tried to grasp the meaning of what the alien had just said it opened it's maw and revealed a pair of fangs of alarming proportions, which it quickly sank into her thumb. Before she could let out a scream she felt her blood run cold and all of her energy quickly drained as she slumped backward onto the bed. Within seconds she was paralysed and her heart rate had slowed to nearly nothing.

The creature moved up her body until it was sitting on her chest and looked into her eyes. "I suppose I didn't exactly tell you the truth. We're not really a team of scientists. The food supply in our world is dwindling, and we've actually been sent to, shall we say, harvest from your world and a few others. You will be a source of nourishment for many more than you can imagine. Unfortunately for you, we require you to be alive while you are being consumed. My apologies."

Can't Sleep, Clown Will Eat Me

2009-05-11T03:00:00.000+12:00

Are you afraid of clowns? Apparently a lot of people are. Well, according to my ongoing imprecise, could well be completely wrong but it's what I've found survey, anyway. If you are afraid of clowns, then you have Coulrophobia. So now you know. Feel better? Oh well. Hell, it might come up in a trivia quiz, you never know. Apparently the term isn't used in psychology, but that's the common name for the condition.

Aberrant clowns are plentiful in modern media. Mark Dery, an American author, lecturer and cultural critic, devoted a chapter in his book The Pyrotechnic Insanitarium: American Culture on the Brink, to the subject of disturbing clowns. It's called Cotton Candy Autopsy: Deconstructing Psycho-Killer Clowns. Among other examples, he discusses the Pogo the Clown persona of the serial killer John Wayne Gacy, Bobcat Goldthwaite's 1992 movie Shakes the Clown, about a clown suffering from depression and alcoholism, Pennywise, the shape-shifting monster in the novel It, by Stephen King, which often appears as a clown, and Jungian and historical writings on the images of the fool in myth and history. Dery asserts in conclusion that the Evil Clown is an icon for our times. Now there's something to think about.

There are, of course many, many more examples of bad or evil clowns in written and visual media, and then there are the sleazy clowns, such as Krusty the Clown on The Simpsons.

But where does the fear of clowns arise from to begin with? A study at the University of Sheffield found that children are frightened of clown themed decorations in hospitals. Psychologists that have addressed the issue seem to concur that the condition probably develops out of some traumatic incident in childhood that is in some way associated with a clown. Interviewers of people with Coulrophobia have reported that circuses are often the first incidence of fear arising around the presence of clowns. I find this interesting given that most major old style circuses that I've seen advertised tend to feature clowns prominently in their advertising.

A study by Joseph Durwin, titled Coulrophobia & The Trickster found that there is a widespread hostility to the idea of evil clowns which transcends just the phobia alone and that this hostility probably arises from modern culture. He goes on examine the nature of clowning in general and the anti-social aspects that underpin it. Clowns, after all, do things that people aren't supposed to do, or shouldn't do, and there is speculation that this could be a major aspect of the phobia. The breaking of rules and regulations that are supposed to be all in good fun and meant to induce laughter could be taken as threatening gestures by some, especially children in the years where they are being taught right from wrong. If they take the clowns literally, it could be a source of fright, leading to the phobia.

Certainly this idea underpins the portrayals of bad clowns in books and movies. If children are exposed to these depictions and then see clowns at a circus, it's not a great leap to fear being the reaction. British horror writer Ramsey Campbell has weighed in on this idea saying the recurring theme of the frightening clown goes back at least to Lon Chaney Jr., who reportedly said, "There is nothing laughable about a clown in the moonlight." Campbell concludes, "It is the fear of the mask, the fact that it doesn't change and is relentlessly comical."

Bart Simpson's line "can't sleep, clown will eat me" has sold millions of tee shirts with the saying on it, insuring that Coulrophobia will continue to be with us for a long time to come.

The Good Samaritan

2009-05-10T03:00:00.000+12:00

"Toby, get back here! Toby!" Running after her errant cocker spaniel for all she was worth, Janet silently cursed herself for letting him off the leash. As he bounded over the grassy hill she despaired of ever catching up with him, but when she got to the other side, there he was being petted by a stranger.

Janet slowed to a walk and sized up the situation. You couldn't be too careful these days, she thought to herself, but while the guy seemed maybe a bit odd, Toby sure did like him, and from the looks of it, he really liked Toby. Approaching, she saw him look up.

"Yours? What a great dog. I take it his name is Toby. I'm Evan."

Extending her hand, Janet smiled. "Janet. Thanks so much for catching him for me. I really shouldn't have let him off the leash, but he's so full of energy, and I thought I could trust him."

Evan put on his winning smile. "Oh, no problem, he's a good dog." And I'll bet he'd taste really good in a stew with some potatoes and carrots, he thought to himself. "You walk him here often?"

Hesitating, Janet thought about diverting the question, but decided she was just being a bit paranoid. "Well, yeah, most days. Sometimes I take him other places for a change of scenery, but he seems to like this park."

The wheels were turning in his head. "Yeah, I like it here too." And I'd sure like to strap you to a table in my special room and test your pain threshold. I wonder how much screaming you'd manage as I slit your throat from ear to ear. I really must put more soundproofing in. "I usually ride my bike, but it's in the shop."

"I see. Well, must be on my way. Nice meeting you Evan."

"Nice to meet you too Janet, perhaps we'll see each other again." Perhaps a lot sooner than you think. I just might follow you home at a discreet distance.

Moving along the path, Evan smiled serenely at everyone who caught his eye. Leaving the park, he came across a man tinkering under the hood of his car. "Having engine trouble?" Evan enquired.

Standing up, the man wiped his hand on a rag and frowned. "Yeah, I think it's just dirty spark plugs. Keeps cutting out on me. If I can get it down to that station at the next corner I'll be all right."

Evan grinned. "Hey I can help you push if you'd like." You look like the kind of guy I'd really like to bury alive, he thought to himself. I know just the place.

"Oh, hey, would you? That would be great!" He closed the hood and steered while Evan pushed from the back.

"Thanks a lot for that, you're a real swell guy."

Evan sized him up. "You're about six-one, aren't you?"

"What? Well, yeah, why?"

"Oh, no reason. Glad I could be of help. You live around here?"

"Well, yeah. Not far. Why do you ask?"

Evan shrugged. "No reason. Just making conversation." Yeah, I've got just the place for you. I could feed you through a tube for a while; see how long it takes you to go mad before you die in the hole I bury you in.

Evan watched him drive away; making a mental note of the street he turned down. They would meet again. He was sure of it.

A few blocks down the road he came across an old woman struggling to carry a large bag of groceries. "Hi there. Boy, that sure looks heavy. Could I give you a hand?"

Peering at the nice young man who had addressed her, the woman broke into a smile. "Why thank you so much! You're too kind!" She handed him the bag. "I live just down the street here."

Reaching the door, she opened it and thanked Evan again. "Could I offer you a cup of coffee or something, you've been so nice."

Evan glanced around quickly. There was nobody on the street. Smiling, he said "why yes, that would be lovely." He couldn't wait to see the headlines the next day. They would make a nice addition to his collection.

Pareidolia - I See Things

2009-05-09T03:00:00.001+12:00

I have a strong inclination to pareidolia. Stronger than most people, near as I can tell. Most people seem inclined to it to some degree. For me it's been constant for as long as I remember. It's actually a lot of fun. I can't say that I've ever been truly bored. When nothing else is on my mind I can always fall back on pareidolia, and I do.

Pareidolia is the inclination to see faces in everyday objects. I suppose the most famous example would be the man in the moon, or if you're in the southern hemisphere it's the rabbit in the moon. The term also refers to other senses, including hearing messages in records played in reverse. The most common of that type would be hearing Paul is dead when I Am The Walrus is played in reverse, though I'm told there are many heavy metal recordings that have messages on them when played in reverse also.

Pareidolia has been a blessing to me. A great time killer, especially on a rainy day. I've done much cloud gazing in my idle moments, and I've seen some truly amazing things. I also have a painting, a still life of a vase of flowers sitting on a garden wall that I discovered has at least twenty distinct faces in it, but you have to lying down to see them. I've often wondered if they were put there deliberately, such is the distinctness of the faces when you discover them. I've read references to artists doing such things.

Another famous example of pareidolia, or I should say, the use thereof is The Rorschach inkblots. The test uses pareidolia to attempt to gain insight into a person's mental state. The inkblots used are carefully chosen, they have no actual distinguishable images in them, and whatever you see in them comes from your own mind, thus their usefulness as a therapy tool.

The instances of pareidolia that interest me the most are the seeing of religious icons or names in objects. You may recall the case of a New Mexican woman who saw the face of Jesus in the burn marks on a tortilla in 1978. She had it framed and thousands of people came to see it.

A more recent example occurred in Singapore in 2007, the so-called "monkey tree phenomenon", in which a callus on a tree there resembles a monkey, and believers flocked to the tree to pay homage to the Monkey God.

The most recent example has occurred at Las Palmas restaurant in Calexico, Mexico, on the California border. A cook spotted the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe on a griddle. Hundreds of people have flocked to the restaurant to see the image, including a group of Mexican wrestlers, as the image at the top of the post will attest.

Carl Sagan had a theory that human beings are "hard-wired" from birth to identify the human face. He thought it was a survival technique. This could explain pareilolia inasmuch as the ability to use only minimal details to recognize faces at a distance and in poor visibility conditions could also lead them to interpret random images or patterns of light and shade as being faces.

It's an interesting theory, but for me pareidolia is just a gift that I've been more than happy to use all my life.

The Consultation

2009-05-08T03:00:00.000+12:00

Pouring the tea, Vicki glanced over her should at Diane, sitting on the sofa with her head in her hands. Taking the cups into the living room she sat down next to Diane and put her arm around her. "It will happen for you. I know it will. Perhaps you should see another specialist."

Smiling wanly, Diane sipped her tea. "I suppose. It's just that I don't have a lot of time, you know? I have so much work to do, and Bill's kids are with us a lot these days. Their loopy mother can't handle them most of time, and I..."

She stopped and took a deep breath. "I just really want this so bad. Maybe it's too much. Maybe I should let go for a bit. I just don't know." Lapsing into silence she looked down at the table, lost in thought.

Vicki said nothing for a few moments, then, hesitantly, "I think you're right. Stressing over it can't be helpful. Do you have any holiday time? Maybe you could get away for awhile."

Diane shook her head. "It's madness right now. They won't let me take any leave. I'll be okay. It's just that this is the fourth miscarriage in a row, you know?"

Vicki thought about it for a minute. "Things happen for a reason, Diane. I know that doesn't sound very helpful, but I have a good feeling. You're going to be fine. I just know it."

Diane smiled and then changed the subject. "Well, I'm nearing the end of this big project at work, anyway, so that's a relief. You know they hired me to whip the team into shape and push this thing through. I'm proud of what I've done. So, hey, I should get going. I have to meet Paul soon. Thanks for lending an ear."

"You know I'm always here for you Diane. Remember, everything happens for a reason. Chin up, all right?"

With Diane gone, Vicki got out the I Ching and did a consultation. It was as before; everything would fall into place soon. She didn't know what form it would take, of course, but she had been consulting the oracle since the drama began, and she was certain events would begin to unfold more rapidly in short order. Hoping it would all work out well she put the oracle away and began making dinner.

Two days later the phone rang and Vicki knew. "Hello?"

"Vicki, I have to see you. Can I come over now?"

"Sure, Diane, come on over. I'll be waiting."

Opening the door to a very distraught Diane, Vicki hugged her and led her to the sofa. "Okay, take a deep breath and let it out."

"They let me go, Diane. They just called me in and said they didn't need me any more. I did everything for them. I whipped the team in to shape' I got the project finished in record time. I just don't understand. What did I do wrong?"

"Diane, you didn't do anything wrong. It sounds like you did every thing right. You did what they wanted you to do and now they don't need you any more. It's not fair. They should have been upfront with you." Vicki shook her head in commiseration.

Sobbing, Diane nodded her head, but she was out of words. Consoling her, Vicki began to see how things would play out. "Diane, listen to me. You need to get away with Bill for a while. Tell him he needs to take at least a few days off, and the two of you should go to the lake. Don't you have a place there you can use? Just do it. Forget about everything. Trust me on this. Can you do that?"

"Well...yes, I think he can get away. He's in between projects, and he has leave time. I'll talk to him tonight."

"Good. Just do it. It's the right thing at the right time."

After she'd gone Vicki consulted the oracle. Of course. She should have seen it coming. Brilliant is what it was. It would all be good soon.

Three weeks later the phone rang and Vicki smiled. I'll just bet, she thought to herself. "Hello?"

"Oh, Vicki, I have some wonderful news! I'm pregnant, and I can just feel that it's going to go to term this time. I don't know how I know, but I just do!"

Vicki smiled. "Yes, Diane it will. You're going to be a mother. You were too stressed at your job. Everything happens for a reason. Congratulations."

Akira Kurosawa - A Legend

2009-05-07T03:00:00.001+12:00

This is a profile I wrote a few years ago. Kurosawa is a great director.

In 1980, flanked by George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, Akira Kurosawa received an honorary Academy Award for his achievements in filmmaking. The look on the faces of two of the biggest names in Hollywood said it all. This man was a giant, and both of them knew that their own greatness was due in part to this master of the cinema. Indeed, Kurosawa’s influence on filmmaking is immeasurable by all accounts. So who was this giant of the cinema?

Kurosawa was possessed of an artistic bent from a young age, and began his career as a painter in the late 1920’s. He did illustrations for popular magazines and joined Japans Proletariat Artists' Group and associated with other young artists of a leftist political bent, often espousing Marxist philosophy. In 1936 he answered an advertisement seeking assistant directors in the studio that later came to be known as the Toho Motion Picture Company. He learnt basic filmmaking in director Kajiro Yamamoto's group for six years and wrote scripts for government propaganda films. He began directing towards the end of this period and in 1943 he made his debut with Sanshiro Sugata, just before the collapse of the Japanese army war effort. The film was the story of a judo expert who was inspired by the samurai spirit at a time when the samurai class had ceased to exist. There is a scene where the protagonist knocks down an American boxer. This was seen as symbolizing the victory of the Japanese samurai spirit against western aggressiveness. The film was a runaway hit so a second part was also made.

It was after the war that Kurosawa’s work began to take root outside of Japan, and this is what set him apart from his contemporaries. Japanese filmmakers are catergorised by the time frames within which their work appears, and Kurosawa is one of the Postwar Humanists. Keisuke Kinoshita, Kon Ichikaw, and Masaki Kobayashi are the other three. Kurosawa believed that for postwar Japan to heal, it was important to place high value on the self, and this was the guiding principal he held to in his work. To understand his early work, we must take into account the American occupation forces policy of suppressing the cultural heritage of feudalism that led to Japan's isolationism and aggression. As a consequence, several established filmmakers could not or would not create films after the war. However, the egalitarian values, altruism and universal themes of Kurosawa's films made him an ideal ambassador for Japan's cultural reintroduction to the West, a reintroduction that many did not see value in.

He achieved worldwide prominence when Rashomon (1950) won the grand prize at the 1951 Venice International Film Festival, thereby opening the way for the appreciation of Japanese cinema beyond the border of Japan, and so it was that Kurosawa came to be thought of the as the least Japanese of Japanese filmmakers within the country’s film industry. It was held that to be able to appeal to westerners, his films could not be truly Japanese, as the Japanese believed themselves to be inscrutable. This popularity was a break with the traditions of Japanese film, but did not deter him, as he himself put it " If a work can't have meaning to Japanese audiences, I-as a Japanese artist-am simply not interested." Rashomon was an apt entry into the western world for a Japanese film. It tells the story of four eye-witness accounts of a murder, all of which differ, and in the end there is no solution. It probably wasn’t intended as a parable of the war but was certainly timely in that regard. The film was made reluctantly and the studio head disliked it so much he removed his name from the credits. A major embarrassment after it won the Golden Lion at the Venice festival.

The next film to capture the western imagination was 1954’s Seven Samurai. From 1910 onward Japanese films had feudal themes where the protagonists were either samurai or gangsters (yakuza), who had a samurai-like code of conduct. Such films were called jidaigeki (period films). One of the more common feudal themes was drawn from folklore about the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries during which Japan was in a constant state of civil war and gangs of outlaws terrorized the countryside, pillaging small villages. Stories of the time had it that some villages took to hiring wandering Samurai who had lost their Lords and would provide protection in exchange for food and shelter. Kurosawa, having been born into the Samurai cast, knew these stories well and drew upon them for the script of Seven Samurai. The film took a year to make. It was the most expensive ever produced by Toho Studios. It brought them to the brink of bankruptcy before it’s phenomenal success in the West. In the mainstream jidaigeki there were many stereotyped stories and acting styles and most of them were associated with the thoughts and emotions typical of a feudal society. The manner of expression of loyalty between the ruler and the ruled was stylised to the smallest detail and was embedded in tradition. Breaking the bonds of such a stylised form was the hallmark of Kurosawa's jidaigeki. This is apparent in the fact that much has been made of the fact that the American western The Magnificent Seven is a remake of Seven Samurai, and that Sergio Leone pretty much stole the entire script of Yojimbo (1961) to make Fistful of Dollars, but Kurosawa has said that he, in turn, was inspired by American westerns in making his films.

Many of today's best filmmakers claim him as a primary influence on their work. A short list of directors he has directly influenced are: George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorcese, Francis Ford Coppola, Sergio Leone, John Sturges and Walter Hill. The slow, stylised death scenes in films by the likes of Sam Peckinpah and John Woo are tributes to Kursosawa.

Kurosawa is also known for his adaptations of western classics like Dostoevsky's The Idiot, Gorky's The Lower Depths, Shakespeare's Macbeth (Throne of Blood) and King Lear (Ran) as well as his use of elements from Kabuki and Noh theatre.
He demonstrated his independent approach and control over his medium particularly in the matter of diction. He deliberately abandoned Shakespeare's superb language, his colourful metaphors and similes in Throne of Blood (1957). Kurosawa was a strong believer in brevity. His characters spoke only when they needed to. What could be conveyed with gesture, facial expression and body language was much preferred. Some of this was no doubt due to the influence of traditional Japanese theatre, but it also known that his brother made a living narrating silent films for Japanese audiences in the time before sound films were available, and it is believed this also had an influence.

Among his many achievements Kurosawa won Academy Awards for his Siberian epic Dersu Uzala (1975) and Ran (1985), as well as Silver Lion and Lion of San Marco at the Venice film festivals and several New York Film Critics Circle awards. He is also credited with the discovery of the great actor Toshiro Mifune, who starred in many of his films. When he died in 1998 at the age of 88, 35,000 people attended his memorial service. He dedicated his life to his art and said near the end, “take myself, subtract movies, and the result is zero.” That is the essence of Akira Kurosawa, one the world’s greatest filmmakers to date

The Hitman

2009-05-06T03:00:00.002+12:00

Randall answered his phone with a grunt. "Yeah?" Grinning as he listened, he noted the look on Paula's face and turned away. "Uh huh. No problem. Address? Ok." Pulling on his tight, fingerless leather gloves, he headed for the garage to get what he needed for the job. He was sorting things into the trunk of the car when Paula came in, arms crossed. "Randall, I really wish..."

He sighed. "I know, honey. But look, it's what I do. We've been all through this."

Putting her arms around him, she laid her head on his shoulder. "I know, I know, but I worry. Look, you could go back to school, get some training, it's just that this isn't something you want to do with the rest of your life."

Pulling away, he smiled and kissed her cheek. "Look, we can talk about it later, I have to go do this thing. Don't know how long i'll be. It might get messy."

She shuddered. "I don't want to know, Randall. All this, and those guys you hang out with...I just don't want to see you come to a bad end." She hung her head and went back in the house.

Randall watched her go. Why did she have to nag him? It was what he did. He was good at it. The calls kept coming. The money was good. What the hell else could he do that would pay this much and not have him stuck in an office? The hell with it, he thought, as he slammed the lid and took off down the road.

The address was in a bad part of town, and the building was run down, an old warehouse that looked like it would be better off torn down. He didn't like it, but he'd accepted the contract so he'd see it through. He parked and got ready to go in. The door had been left unlocked for him. The targets wouldn't be expecting him, and that's the way he liked it. Best to take them by surprise. Sound was his enemy. They would scatter if they heard anything. He needed to know where they were to be effective.

About to go in, he paused as his phone rang. "Yeah? Well why didn't you tell me the first time you called?" Alright, i'll make sure it all gets done. Yeah, no problem."
He hung up. There was more to the job. Great, just what he needed. This wasn't going to be easy. He went back to the car and got more gear. No sense in taking chances.

He went in a looked around. They were here, all right. He could hear them. They sounded like the kind that wouldn't back down. He set some traps and moved further into the building. Looking around, he saw the loft was the most likely place he'd find what he was looking for, so he headed up. Sure enough, there they were. He set about letting them have it, most of them diving for cover, but it was too late; he knew just what to do. He was an old hand at this now, he had learned well.

It took longer than he would have wanted, but he went about his mission coldly and calmly, showing no mercy. These vermin had it coming to them. When he had dealt to the ones that were there he went about setting traps for the ones that would surely be back. He needed to make sure they would all be dead so his reputation would be intact and the calls would keep coming. He was Randall Jennings, and he was the best.

He went back out to his car, removing his mask, and loaded his gear back in the trunk. All the way home he knew he would have to deal with Paula again. Hitting the shower before she could say anything he stood there letting the hot water run over him, washing away the stench of the job. Maybe she's right, he thought to himself. Maybe this really is no way to live. How long could he go on being a killer?

Walking in to the bedroom towelling himself off he looked at her sitting on the bed giving him that look. "You know what, babe? I've been thinking. Maybe you're right. Maybe this isn't the life for me. Killing rats and cockroaches and ants, it's good money, but maybe I should look into going back to school."

Paula smiled and got up and hugged him.

Scylla And Charybdis

2009-05-05T03:00:00.001+12:00

We're all familiar with the expression "caught between a rock and a hard place", but do you know where the expression comes from? We use it to indicate a situation wherein a difficult decision has to be made, indeed, when we must choose the lesser of two evils, or at least the one we perceive to be the lesser.

The expression comes from Greek mythology. The rock and the hard place are Scylla and Charybdis, two sea monsters who were situated on opposite sides of the Strait of Messina between Sicily and Calabria, in Italy. They were located in close enough proximity to each other that they posed an inescapable threat to passing sailors; avoiding Charybdis meant passing too closely to Scylla and vice versa.

The story is from The Odyssey. It concerns the voyage of Odysseus. During Odysseus’ long and perilous journey home, he must pass the two monsters, Scylla & Charybdis because it is the only way around the ship-wreaking Drifters. Only one ship had ever made it past the Drifters unharmed and that was because Hera had pulled them through. That was The Argo, of Jason and the Argonauts fame. Odysseus wasn’t going to take the chance. Instead he would go through the narrow Strait of Messina between Sicily and Italy and past the two monsters.

Scylla has twelve great tentacle-like legs and six heads on snake-like necks, each with three rows of sharp fangs. She lives in a cave on one side of the narrow crossing. She makes horrible sounds and will eat any sailors that come close enough for her to snake her necks out and grab them.

Charybdis was a sea-monster, who three times a day drew up the water of the sea and then spouted it again, forming a whirlpool.

Circe tells Odysseus that he must stay out of Scylla’s reach when passing through the Strait and they must row as fast as humanly possible in order to get away before Charybdis swallows all the water up. She says that it would be better to lose a couple of men due to over exhaustion than the whole ship in the whirlpool created by Charybdis.

When Odysseus and his crew finally come to the Strait of Messina, he does not tell them what they will be up against in fear that they will all drop their oars in fear. All he tells them is that they must row as hard as possible and head for the mainland, or they will all drown. As they are trying to get away from the whirlpool created by Charybdis, Scylla strikes with the speed of a snake and grabs six men from the ship to devour in her cave.

Then Zeus punishes Odysseus’ men for eating Helios, the Sun God’s, cattle. He strikes their ships with lightning bolts and the ship is torn to pieces and scattered all over the place. All the men get lost and scattered. Odysseus climbs onto the remaining part of the ship. Then, Odysseus is blown towards Charybdis. As he comes closer and closer to getting sucked into the whirlpool, he grabbed onto a branch of a fig tree and holds on for an eternity. Charybdis finally spits the ocean back out and he sighs with relief as he lets go. He swims to the remaining ship pieces and sails past Scylla without harm only because the Gods hide her eyes from him. Then he drifts across the open sea again unknowingly headed for the island where Calypso lives.

Scylla and Charybdis have been mentioned many times since the days of the ancient Greeks. The Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley used Scylla and Charybdis in an analogy of how society is poised between anarchy and despotism in his work, in defence of poetry.

The Police referenced Scylla and Charybdis in their 1983 hit single "Wrapped Around Your Finger" from Synchronicity, as many of you will know. Anyway, that's the origin of "between a rock and hard place." So now you know. If you didn't already. :-)

The Face Off

2009-05-04T03:00:00.001+12:00

It's hell growing up in a small town, Johnny thought to himself, as he passed The Watering Hole. He hadn't been in the pub in many years, and he longed to go inside. He knew a lot of the guys he grew up with would be in there right now. A cold winter Saturday, with nothing else to do, so that's where everyone would be. Everyone except Johnny. He imagined them talking about him. He could practically hear the schoolyard taunts. Scaredy Cat Callahan, that's what they used to call him. All because of...well, never mind. He just wouldn't go there, that's all.

He continued down the street, heading for the The Lamplighter, because that's where he felt welcome. Ralph never went to The Lamplighter. Feeling the anger well up in him as he thought the name, he stopped in his tracks. Enough is enough. Maybe it was time to put an end to it all. Fingering the contents of his coat pocket, he imagined how it would be if he could just get up his nerve. Boy, they sure would be surprised if he walked in there and did it, wouldn't they? He'd be the talk of the town, he would. He'd be the man! R-e-s-p-e-c-t, that's what he'd get, and he'd get it in spades.

Hesitating, he turned the collar of his pea coat against a sudden strong, icy gust and turned and retraced his steps. Staring at the front door of The Watering Hole, he gritted his teeth, pushing his way through. The smoky room was packed, and the chatter died down slowly as people turned and saw who had come in.

Standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, Johnny looked around defiantly, searching for the one face he had avoided all this time. Ralph looked up as the room got quiet and couldn't believe his eyes. Johnny Callahan. In The Watering Hole. His mind racing back in time, a slow grin spreading.

"Well as I live and breathe. If it isn't ol' Scaredy Cat Callahan. Hey, everybody, look!"

"Hello Ralph. Can't you see they're already looking? You blind or something?" Ralph couldn't believe those words had come out of his mouth.

Ralph got up and met Johnny half way across the floor. "No, Scaredy Cat, my eyes are fine. I see you still need glasses though. Can't afford contacts?"

Johnny ignored the muted laughter, his face flushing. "Things have changed, Ralphie," he sneered. I ain't no scaredy cat anymore."

Ralph's eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah? Well you don't look so tough to me. If you're so brave, how come we haven't seen you in here before? Hell, you even cross the street just to avoid me whenever I see you in town."

Johnny started shaking when more laughter rose. "Oh yeah? Well, you're wrong, Ralph. You don't know me. You..."

"Oh, I know you, Scaredy Cat." Ralph shoved his finger in Johnny's chest. "You're the guy who ran away when the time came to put up or shut up." He turned to the room. "Hey, Al, you were there, you remember."

Al gave a nervous laugh and took a sip of his beer. "And you, Bev, you remember that day."

"It was a long time ago, Ralph, I mean, really..."

Pacing now, Ralph waved his arms. "So what? He's come in here talking all brave. You people think i'm gonna let that go? No way!" He turned back on Johnny. "So what's the deal, Scaredy Cat? You got something to prove?"

Figuring it was now or never, Johnny put his hand in his pocket and felt for it once more. "Yeah, Ralph, I got something. I got what it takes. I've got a surprise for you, Ralphie boy. I've been working on it. Working on it real good. My mind is sharp. Sharper than yours, I bet!"

Ralph got in Johnny's face. "Oh yeah? So you wanna do this thing? Right here? Right now?"

Jutting his chin, Johnny sneered, "Yeah, Ralphie. Let's do this thing."

He walked over to the nearest table and swept the beer coasters onto the floor and sat down, indicating the seat opposite. He pulled the brand new deck of cards out of his pocket and began shuffling as Ralph spun a chair around and dropped into it."

Fixing Ralph with a deadly stare, he leaned across the table. "This is War, Ralphie boy, and you're going down."

The Kings of Slapstick

2009-05-03T03:00:00.001+12:00

Today, a post about slapstick in general as a form of humor, and about the kings of slapstick specifically. Any baby boomers born and raised in America, and many others as well, will immediately know whom i'm referring to. It is, of course, The Three Stooges. First, an introduction to slapstick.

Slapstick is a type of comedy involving exaggerated extreme physical violence or activities which exceed the boundaries of common sense, such as a character being hit in the face with a heavy frying pan or running into a brick wall. While it has often been derided by those who consider it lowbrow, the performance of slapstick comedy requires exquisite timing and skillful execution. That's what I appreciate about it most, the devotion its practitioners require not just to do it, but to do it well, which means making it look effortless.

The phrase comes from the battacchio—called the 'slap stick' in English, a club-like object composed of two wooden slats used in Commedia dell'arte. When struck, the battacchio produces a loud smacking noise, though little force is transferred from the object to the person being struck. Actors may thus hit one another repeatedly with great audible effect while causing very little actual physical damage. Along with the inflatable bladder (of which the whoopee cushion is a modern variant), it was among the earliest forms of special effects that could be carried on one's person.

Building off its later popularity in the nineteenth and early twentieth-century ethnic routines of the American vaudeville house, the style was explored extensively during the "golden era" of black and white, silent movies directed by figures Mack Sennett and Hal Roach and featuring such notables as Mabel Normand, Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, Dick van Dyke, the Keystone Kops, and finally, the Three Stooges.

The Stooges began their comedy career in 1925 as part of a raucous vaudeville act called 'Ted Healy and His Stooges'. In the act, lead comedian Healy would attempt to sing or tell jokes while his noisy assistants would keep "interrupting" him. Healy would respond by verbally and physically abusing his stooges. Brothers Moe and Shemp were joined later that year by violinist-comedian Larry Fine, and Fred Sanborn joined the group as well.

In 1930, Ted Healy and His Stooges, including Sanborn, appeared in their first Hollywood feature film: Soup to Nuts, released by Fox Studios. The film was not a success with the critics, but the Stooges' performances were considered the highlight and Fox offered the trio a contract without Healy. This upset Healy, who told studio executives that the Stooges were his employees. The offer was withdrawn, and after Howard, Fine and Howard learned of the reason, they left Healy to form their own act, which quickly took off with a tour of the theatre circuit.

In 1932, with Moe now acting as business manager, Healy reached a new agreement with his former Stooges. In 1933, Metro Goldwyn Mayer (MGM) signed Healy and his Stooges to a movie contract. They appeared in feature films and short subjects, either together, individually, or with various combinations of actors. In 1934, the team's contract with MGM expired, and the Stooges parted professional company with Healy. According to Moe Howard in his autobiography, the Stooges split with Ted Healy in 1934 once and for all because of Healy's alcoholism and abrasiveness. Their final film with Healy was MGM’s 1934 film, Hollywood Party.

The Stooges appeared in 190 film shorts and five features under a contract with Columbia Pictures. Del Lord directed more than three dozen Three Stooges shorts. Jules White directed dozens more, and his brother Jack White directed several under the pseudonym "Preston Black". (In the early shorts, Curly was billed as "Curley", and also as "Jerry Howard" when receiving a writing credit.)

Curly was easily the most popular member of the team. His childlike mannerisms and natural comedic charm made him a hit with audiences. The fact that Curly had to shave his head for the act led him to feel unappealing to women. To mask his insecurities, Curly excessively drank, ate and caroused whenever the Stooges made personal appearances, which was approximately seven months out of the year. His weight ballooned in the 1940s, and his blood pressure was dangerously high. His wild lifestyle and constant drinking eventually caught up with him in 1945, and his performances suffered. Anyone viewing Curly's last dozen shorts will see a seriously ill Curly, struggling to get through even the most basic scenes.

Curly suffered a debilitating stroke on May 6, 1946. Moe Howard turned to his older brother Shemp Howard to take Curly's place. Shemp, however, was hesitant to rejoin the Stooges, as he had a successful solo career at the time of Curly's untimely illness. However, he realized that Moe's and Larry's careers would be finished without the Stooge act. Shemp wanted some kind of assurance that his rejoining was indeed temporary, and that he could leave the Stooges once Curly recovered. Unfortunately, Curly's condition declined until his death on January 18, 1952.

The quality of the Stooge shorts declined after Columbia's short-subject division downsized in 1952. Three years after Curly's death, Shemp Howard died of a sudden heart attack at age 60 on November 22, 1955. Joe Besser replaced Shemp in 1956, appearing in 17 shorts. The final Stooge release, Sappy Bull Fighters, did not reach theaters until June 4, 1959. With no active contract in place, Moe and Larry discussed plans for a personal appearance tour; meanwhile, Besser's wife had a minor heart attack, and he preferred to stay local, leading him to withdraw from the act. For the first time in nearly 30 years, the Stooges hit a dead end. On January 9, 1970 Larry suffered a paralyzing stroke, ending his acting career. He suffered another stroke in December 1974. The following month, he suffered a more serious one, and slipped into a coma. He died on January 24, 1975, at the age of 72. Moe fell ill from lung cancer shortly thereafter and died on May 4, 1975.

They are icons of my misspent youth, indeed, of every American born baby boomer. I miss them still.

Fire With Fire

2009-05-02T03:00:00.005+12:00

Heaving a sigh, Mike Collins got up and closed his office window. It was a hot day, but he simply couldn't handle another minute of the gibberish assaulting his ears from the street below. Dialling the City Council complaint line once again, he waited on hold awhile and then gave it up. I know what they're going to tell me, he thought. He has the right to be there. He has the right to spout. Well what about my right to peace and quiet? Deciding it was break time; he headed for a cup of coffee.

"Hi Ray, how's it going?"

"Hey, Mike. You look agitated, what's up?"

"Oh, it's that damn lunatic in the street again. Out there pitching salvation, as if anyone cares. He drives me crazy!"

Ray nodded in sympathy. "Yeah, i'm lucky, I can't hear him from my office, but others are complaining. Council still won't get rid of him, eh?"

Mike scowled. "No. He's within his rights as long as he doesn't use a loud hailer."

Ray looked thoughtful. "You know, I just might have an idea. Let me make a call and get back to you later."

Mike gave him a hopeful smile and went back to his desk.

Commandeering his usual spot a couple of days later, Father Jack donned his sandwich board and got out his good book and prepared to spread the word. "Hear me now, brethren! The Lord has sent me to..."

"I am here, good people! I am here to bring you dire tidings of evil among us!"

Father Jack spun around and stared across the street. There on the opposite curb stood another street preacher. He was dumbstruck and listened as the intruder carried on.

"Yes, evil, I tell you! Among you is one who is an imposter. A charlatan. A wolf in sheep's clothing!"

As Father Jack looked on in horror, the upstart pointed his finger directly at him and thundered, "There! There is the one of which I speak!"

Father Jack, feeling a righteous fury duelling with a fearsome dread within him strode across the street, tires squealing, horns honking, and confronted his nemesis. "Who are you? How dare you besmirch my name? I am anointed by God! I am his vessel!"

The other drew up to his full height. "I, sir, am the Lamb of God! I am sent from on high to warn these good citizens of the spawn of Satan that pretends!"

Father Jack began circling. His opponent stood his ground and took no notice. "Hear me good citizens. God has sent me to speak of the one true light. To lead you away from the blasphemous impostor among you!" He turned and again pointed at Father Jack.

A large crowd had formed around them, some staring open-mouthed, others grinning, openly hoping the conflict might escalate. A few began jeering; an old woman at the front crossed herself and scurried for safety.

Father Jack had heard enough. "Get thee behind me Satan! You! You are the impostor! This is my flock. These are my charges. This will not stand!" He stormed off to the police station down the street as the crowd went about its business.

Officer Johnson nodded his head patiently. "I'm sorry Jack, there's nothing we can do. He has the same right to free speech you do."

"But, I am the vessel of the Lord! Surely he has no right to slander me!"

"Look, unless he assaults you, he's got every right to speak. I'm sorry, we can't interfere as long as no laws are being broken."

"The Lord will not look kindly upon this!" Gathering what remained of his dignity, he withdrew from the premeses and returned to his station.

Noting with disgust that his opponent was still holding forth, he took up his place and spoke with all his might. "Good people! The earthly powers that be are not with the Lord. I must announce that I will carry on my ministry in another part of town. A place where Satan shall not prevail!" He looked pointed at his nemesis and strode off down the street, his head held high.

The next day Mike went to Ray's office, a big smile plastered on his face. "You, sir, are a genius. He got out his wallet and handed over some money. "Tell your friend i'd also like to take him out to dinner, i'm sure an out of work actor can always use a good meal as well as cash."

"Sure thing," Ray grinned. "Glad I thought of it. Everybody on your side of the office is thrilled."

Who's Afraid Of The Big Bad Press?

2009-05-01T03:00:00.004+12:00

Well, I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but...

Don't you just love it when someone declares something and then says "but"? It means they're about to backtrack. So I'll rephrase. I don't know that Swine Flu is a manufactured gimmick, and I don't know that the media are the perps, but I do know that they've jumped on the bandwagon big time. Just like they did with the economic meltdown, and Y2K and Sars (Bird Flu) and every other bogeyman that's come down the pike for as long as I can remember. It seems to me that the hype gets bigger and shriller as time goes on, but that's only my perception.

What we do know at the time of writing is that around 100 people have died of this flu. That's nothing in the grand scheme of things. In the U.S. alone an average of 36,000 people die each year of influenza, and the worldwide number is harder to pin down, but it seems to be around 500,000. So then, even if by the time you read this 500 people have died of this new strain, and I doubt very much that will be the case, then it will have killed one one thousandth of the number that will die of flu anyway. So what's all this talk of a pandemic?

A bit of research shows that nobody other than the media is using the word pandemic. As least not in reference to this new strain. Experts throw around numbers about past pandemics, actual ones, and those numbers are indeed impressive. Around a million dead of the Hong Kong flu in 68/69, and from 40 million to 100 million for the Spanish Flu, but that lasted for 2 years, from 1918-1920. For all of the pandemics listed, a million seems to be the minimum number. So far around 100 people are dead, so it seems a little early to even be mentioning the possibility of a pandemic, let alone speculating about how many it might kill.

Add to this the fact that they have already found with this new flu that it attacks mostly people in the 20-40 age group, the group most likely to withstand the symptoms and recover. Therefore, even if it did become wide spread it would be reasonable to assume the death toll would be lower than any previous major outbreak.

Locally, New Zealand has had it's export pork banned by India and the Philippines despite the fact that it has been established that the infection is only passed in the air. 45% of Kiwis are convinced that the whole thing is a media scam. Nightly we're shown people in Mexico all wearing face masks everywhere they go. Health authorities are saying the masks are useless, but such is fear, people wear them anyway.

At any rate, the media has a lot to answer for and it occurs to me that there really isn't anyone they're accountable to. If governments tried to put a stop to the fear mongering they would simply cry freedom of the press. That's disingenuous though, this is not a matter of freedom to report, it's a question of moral responsibility and from where I stand, the press is getting more and more immoral everyday.

This is the Fourth Estate, the people who used to put themselves forward as the guardians of freedom. Now they seem to have become the people who are free from responsibility for their actions. There is no doubt in my mind that they have made the economic crisis worse with their constant refrains of doom and gloom, and now they appear to want to start a worldwide panic over a non-existent pandemic.

I read a survey not long ago about where the press as a profession rates in trustworthiness. They came in just below lawyers. That really should give them pause to consider, but I won't hold my breath.

The Burn

2009-04-30T03:00:00.002+12:00

Chaz was grinning away as Mook sat there shaking his head.

"I don't know, Chaz. That was down and dirty, man. You think he ain't gonna do you? You don't know, man. You just don't know." Mook stubbed out his smoke and threw up his hands. "I'd watch my back if I were you."

Chaz was buzzing and couldn't be bothered. "Yeah? Well the hell with him. I'm tired of his schtick, bro. I don't care."

"Look Chaz, you burned him big time. What are gonna now? You gonna run? I mean, hell, $100,000 worth of useless powder?"

"A hundred grand will buy me a nice vacation and a new patch, that's what I think. Relax, i've got it covered. I'm gone tomorrow."

Mook stood up and grabbed his jacket. "I gotta go, man. You take care."

Firing up another one, Chaz congratulated himself again on the scam. Bernie was an asshole. He had it coming. He cranked up the tunes for a while, and danced around the house and then, grabbing another beer from the fridge he was heading for the couch when there was a knock on the door. He pulled his piece and stood alongside the door.

"Who is it?" No answer. He pulled the curtain aside an inch. Nothing. Nobody there. He opened the door a crack and peeked. He opened it wide and there on the porch was a box with his name on it. Damn. Bernie wouldn't try to bomb him, would he? No way, he hadn't told Bernie where he was living. It would take him days to find out, and by then he'd be gone. But what if somebody had ratted him out? No, he knew his friends. Not a problem at all. He picked up the box carefully and shook it. There was something loose in it. What the hell, he thought, and took it to the table and opened it.

Inside was a .357 Ruger. A very nice piece of firepower. He lifted it out and checked it. It was loaded, but two chambers were empty and it smelled of powder and something else. He sniffed it again and hit the floor as his vision went blurry.

He came to with a couple of cops standing over him. Groggy and out of it, he tried to stand, but one of them pushed him back down in the chair.

"You're not going anywhere, dude. Listen up, you have the right to remain silent, anything you say may be used against you..."

"What's this about, man? I haven't done anything. What are you guys doing here? Is this a bust? I've only got a few grams of pot, man, what gives?"

The cops looked at each other. "You're under arrest for the murder of Michael "Mook" Taylor. I'd shut up now if I were you."

"What?! I didn't kill Mook, he was here and then he left. What are you guys on about?"

They parted and looked down at the body on the floor that was being attended to by the forensics team. "He left, did he?"

One of them held up and evidence bag with the Ruger in it. "I wonder whose prints are on this."

"You wanna tell us what happened? You two have an argument?"

"Look, this is bullshit, man. That ain't my gun. Mook was my buddy. I found the gun on my doorstep in a box."

"What box might that be?"

"The one on the..." There was no box on the kitchen table. He looked around frantically. "I've been set up, damn it! You gotta listen to me!"

He thought hard. "I've got a gun, that ain't mine. Mine is..."

"We've searched the house. There are no other guns here. Your friend wasn't armed either. Looks like you shot him in cold blood."

He began to shake. "Ok, look, here's the truth. I...I burned a guy on a deal, see? $100,000. He must have set me up. The money is in a box under my bed. See for yourself."

The cops shook their heads. "We've searched the house. There's no money here. Your story won't wash. Besides, we got a phone call about you talking about how you were gonna do Mook over some falling out you guys had. You're not very bright, Chaz."

They cuffed him and took him downtown.

Werner Herzog - An Extraodinary Filmmaker

2009-04-29T03:00:00.000+12:00

Werner Herzog: Poetic genius or self-indulgent charlatan? Perhaps a quote from the man himself can shed some insight here, “film is not the art of scholars, but of illiterates." There is, perhaps, no filmmaker who engenders more debate about the vast body of his work. Well, no contemporary European filmmaker, anyway. To even begin to understand the man and his work, we need to look at where he came from and what shaped him.

Born Werner Stipetic on Sept. 5,1942 in Munich, he grew up on a farm in the Bavarian mountains and endured grinding poverty. He saw his first film at the age of 12, Tarzan, and has said that from the age of 14 he knew that he wanted to make films, and began submitting film ideas to producers. After his parents' divorce, Herzog and his mother moved to Munich where he attended High School (graduated in 1961). He produced and received prizes for two amateur shorts "Herakles" (1962) and "Spiel im Sand" (1964). Herzog studied history, literature and drama in Munich and Pittsburgh (on a Fullbright scholarship) but not for very long. He knew that he needed to see the world to develop his vision and refine his chosen craft. He travelled through what was then Yugoslavia and later Greece, worked in Manchester and was even, at one time a rodeo rider. In regards to the importance of travel to his work he has said, "Perhaps I seek certain utopian things, space for human honour and respect, landscapes not yet offended, planets that do not exist yet, dreamed landscapes. Very few people seek these images today."

Herzog’s films, as we shall see, are often fables of poverty of body and spirit, set in remote landscapes. His own childhood seems to have shaped much of his work, as childhood is another recurring theme. Shots of blowing trees, wild rivers and blank skies permeate his films. Loss and longing for redemption, often vague and undefined are much in evidence.

Shorts and small films make up the bulk of his work until 1972, when he teamed up with actor Klaus Kinski, with whom he and his mother had shared a house with in Munich after his parents’ divorce. He wrote and directed Aguirre, Wrath of God, casting Kinski in the title role. The film was not an immediate success, but it has come to be one of the defining films of Herzog’s career. Aguirre begins as the story of Spanish explorer Pizarro’s search for El Dorado, the fabled city of gold in the Peruvian Andes. His right hand man, Aguirre, mutinies against him when he decides to turn back after the way forward proves treacherous. The remainder of the story is a study of Aguirre’s descent into madness as he becomes more obsessed with finding the gold. This is yet another favourite theme of Herzog’s, obsession and longing for the unknown at any price. His casting of Klaus Kinski has long been considered a stroke of genius. Kinskis face was and still is a haunting image, and features prominently on the cover of the DVD. Herzog went on to use Kinski in four more of his films despite Kinskis reputation for bizarre behaviour on and off the set. In an interview, Herzog had this to say about his favourite leading man, "Kinski had screaming, hysterical tantrums, every grey hair I have on my head I call ‘Kinski’. My crew called him pestilence, but I told them, don't you think he has a magnificent presence? When the film is over [the tantrums] do not matter." Kinski died in 1991 and Herzog made a documentary, My Best Fiend, (1999) (a fine example of Herzog’s sense of humour) about their decades of collaboration. It is a testament to human extremity and endurance and rivalled the best of their work together. Herzog later said, "I had to domesticate the wild beast."

This proclivity for prioritising in ways others can neither conceive nor understand is standard behaviour for Herzog. His methods and reasoning have often left his cast and crew scratching their heads and wondering what they had gotten themselves into. An example of this is his 1982 film Fitzcarraldo, which was later the subject of documentary maker Les Blank's film Burden of Dreams (1982). This was Herzog’s most challenging project. Everything that could go wrong did. The film was originally cast and shot with actor Jason Robards and Mick Jagger in the lead roles, but Robards became seriously ill and Jagger had to leave for a previous commitment, meaning that a year’s worth of filming had to be scrapped. Herzog turned to his old friend Kinski and synthesised the two roles into one. The film was shot in the Peruvian jungle, as was Aguirre, Wrath of God, so Herzog was reluctant to cast his friend in the film originally because he feared he would go bonkers being cooped up in the jungle again. Herzog's fears were well founded. Once shooting resumed with Kinski in the lead role, Kinski flew into daily rages. Much of Herzog's time was devoted to holding Kinski together. Kinski became so difficult to work with that an Indian chief (who had a small role in the movie) went to Herzog and offered to murder Kinski. The Indians hated him. They weren't used to people ranting and raving at the slightest provocation. The film is the story of a man obsessed with the idea of building an opera house in the middle of the jungle. Herzog insisted on not using camera tricks and special effects, so everything was done exactly as seen in the film, including a scene of a ship crashing against the rocks in a river, which resulted in the cinematographer’s hand being split open. So maddening was the making of the film that during the making of it Herzog was quoted as saying "I shouldn't make movies anymore. I should go to a lunatic asylum.” The film won Best Direction at the Cannes Film Festival. Another example of his unorthodox ways was his insistence on hypnotizing the cast of Heart of Glass (1976), to create the effect he desired. The film is the story of 19th-century Bavarian villagers who have lost their collective vision, cast adrift and descending into madness.

One of Herzog’s best known films, also starring Kinski, is Nosferatu, Phantom of the Night (1999). This is a colour remake of the silent F.W. Murnau 1922 classic. Herzog had less trouble with Kinski on this film than any other, primarily because it took four hours to do the makeup, and Kinski was acutely aware that his tantrums would undo the work and it would have to start over. Herzog paid large tribute to Murnau with this film. Always in awe of the German New Wave directors, whom he felt he owed much to, this film was made less with the Dracula legend in mind than the tone and style of the Murnau film. He wanted to pay tribute, and once again, his casting of Kinski was brilliant. Through all the makeup Kinski was able to convey the tortured angst of a creature who longed for nothing more than to return to a mortal existence.

One more film that bears mentioning here is The Mystery of Kaspar Hauser (1975). Based on the true story of a man known as Bruno S., it is the tale of a young man who turns up out of nowhere in Nuremburg. For the next five years, he was a source of wonder and, perhaps, fear to the intelligentsia. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why had he been deprived of a normal existence his entire life? Was he descended from Royalty? His murder in 1833 only intensified the riddle. Artists and scholars continue to study Kaspar Hauser to the present day. Bruno cannot speak, and has no memory. He became a freak show attraction. This is the stuff that Herzog thrives on, and it was a natural for him. Herzog seems to have been drawn to the story because he identified with it so readily.

Werner Herzog’s cinematic vision is unique, to be sure. His emphasis on location and emotion over plot development has exasperated many, but he remains true his convictions. In his own words, ".So, you have to be daring to do things like this, because the world is not easily accepting of filmmaking. There will always be some sort of an obstacle, and the worst of all obstacles is the spirit of bureaucracy. You have to find your way to battle bureaucracy. You have to outsmart it, to outgut it, to outnumber it, to outfilm them -- that's what you have to do."

Puns - A Form Of Lowly Humor?

2009-04-28T03:00:00.000+12:00

Alexander Pope, James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, William Shakespeare, John Donne and Lewis Carroll. All brilliant writers, surely no one would argue the fact. They have more than just being great writers in common. All of them also had a fondness for puns.

Samuel Johnson disparagingly referred to punning as "the lowest form of humour", and that remark has been diligently repeated down through the years. If you've ever told someone a pun, you've surely had it said to you. I know I have, for I am very fond of puns. Well, all forms of humor, really, but ever since childhood there's been a special place in my catalogue of humor for puns. Why Samuel Johnson considered them the lowest form of humor I do not know, but if it was because he considered them simplistic, then I would have to say he really didn't know that much about them.

So what exactly is a pun? Henri Bergson, a French philosopher influential in the first half of the 20th century defined a pun as a sentence or utterance in which "two different sets of ideas are expressed, and we are confronted with only one series of words". Expressed that way, I fail to see how it could be the lowest form of humor. It actually takes careful thought to come up with an original pun, but I will concede that it doesn't seem so upon hearing them most of the time.

In fact, there are different varieties of puns, some simple, and some complex. Puns are of two basic types, homophonic and homographic. A homophonic pun exploits word pairs that sound exactly alike (perfect homophones), but are not synonymous. For example, the statement "Atheism is a non-prophet institution" substitutes the word "prophet" for its homophone "profit" in the common phrase "non-profit institution".

A homographic pun exploits different words, which are spelled the same way, but possess different meanings. For example, the statement "Being in politics is just like playing golf; you are trapped in one bad lie after another" puns on the two meanings of the word lie as "a deliberate untruth" and as "the position in which something rests".

More rarely one comes across puns that are a combination of homographic and homophonic. An example is Douglas Adams's line "You can tune a guitar, but you can't tuna fish. Unless of course, you play bass." The phrase exploits the homophonic qualities of "tune a" and "tuna", as well as the homographic pun on "bass", in which ambiguity is reached through the identical spelling of /beɪs/ (low frequency), and /bæs/ (a kind of fish).

Within the two basic types there are compound puns, a sentence that contains two or more puns, recursive puns, a sentence that contains a pun that refers to the similar sounding word: for example the statement "pi is only half a pie." (Half a circle is 180 degrees or pi radians, and a pie is circular), and extended pun or pun sequence, which is a long utterance that contains multiple puns with a common theme.

That last type includes my all time favorite pun, which I will close with. I know Easter is past now, but this an Easter knock-knock joke, and knock-knock jokes are a type of pun. So, here it is, my five-part Easter knock-knock pun:

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Ether.
Ether who?
Ether bunny!

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Nutter
Nutter who?
Nutter ether bunny!

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Stella
Stella who?
Stella nutter ether bunny!

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Cargo
Cargo who?
Cargo beep-beep and run over all the ether bunnies!

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Boo
Boo who?
Don't cry, the ether bunnies will be back next year!

The Medallion

2009-04-27T03:00:00.000+12:00

Putting the towels away in the cupboard, Jennifer was about to go downstairs when she heard her son Ben talking in his room. It seemed odd, since he was alone. She went to the door and listened.

"Oh yeah? Well I don't care. You guys are a bunch of jerks anyway, so there."

"Hi Ben. What's up?"

Turning red, Ben looked away and then said, "were you listening?"

"Um, yeah Ben, I heard you talking to yourself. Did something happen at school?"

Ben fidgeted and feigned interest in his galactic fighter pilots, then gave it up. "Well, it's just that Jeremy and Allan and those guys...they don't like me. They've got it in for me, you know?"

Jennifer frowned. "Ben, last week it was Kyle and a couple of weeks before that it was Stacey and Lou. What makes you think all these kids don't like you?"

"They just don't, that's all. They're all jerks. I don't talk to them anymore."

The phone rang and Jennifer got up and squeezed his shoulder. "We'll talk about this some more later, sport."

"Hello?"

"Hi babe, how you doing?"

Jennifer smiled. "Hi Colin. Alright, I guess."

"Alright? Doesn't sound like it. Is Ben giving you grief?"

Ben had been resistant when Jennifer first started dating again, a year and half after Ben's father died in a car accident, but he had come around in recent months, and Colin had been able to establish a rapport.

"Oh, he's still having trouble socializing at school, and in the neighborhood, I suspect. He thinks no one likes him. I don't know what to do. I talked to the school psychologist last week, but Ben puts on like nothing's happening when he's talked to. I don't know..." Trailing off, she let out a sigh.

"Hey, you know what? I've got an idea. Leave it to me. When I come over for dinner Friday just play along with me, alright?"

"Sure. What do you have in mind?"

"You'll see. Trust me. Gotta go, I've got a call on the other line."

Rummaging around on the top shelf of his bedroom closet, Colin found the box of mementos he kept there. Sifting through the debris he found the small, worn gold medal he was looking for. Smiling to himself, he put it in his pocket. I sure hope this works, he thought to himself.

Jennifer took the roast out of the oven as the doorbell rang. "Ben, would you let Colin in please?"

Colin jumped up from the sofa and let him in. "Hi Colin, how ya doin'?"

"Hey dude! Good to see you. How are tricks these days?"

Ben shrugged. "Alright, I guess."

"Just alright? Well that's no good. Maybe we can go fishing tomorrow or something, what do you think?"

Ben shrugged. "I guess." He got out plates and started setting the tabled.

Jennifer gave Colin a look and they sat down to eat. After dinner Jennifer started clearing the table, but Colin intervened. "Hey, how about if Ben and I take care of this and you go watch some television? Come on Ben, i'll wash, you dry."

Ben made a face but trudged to the kitchen. Colin followed and put his plan into action. "Hey Ben, I found an old baseball card I wanted to show you." Reaching in to his pocket for the card he let the gold medal fall to the floor as he pulled it out.

"What's that?" Ben reached down and picked up the medal.

"Oh, that's something I carry with me sometimes when i'm not feeling too good about things."

Ben gave him a curious look and turned the medal over in his hands. "What do you mean?"

"Well, this a very special medallion, you see. It's got magic." He handed Ben a plate to dry and went on without looking at him. "I've never really told anyone. But anyway, you and I are buddies, eh?"

Ben nodded and continued to examine the medal. "What do you mean magic?"

"Well, it was given to me by a very wise man when I was about your age. You see, I couldn't really relate to the other kids I knew. I felt sort of like, oh, I don't know, like they just weren't very friendly. But when I started wearing this medal, I found that I could talk to them, and when I did, they were alright after all."

Ben put the medal down and dried some more, but he didn't take his eyes off of it.

"You know what? I don't really need it anymore. Do you think you'd like to wear it? I mean, i'd be honored if you did."

Ben looked up and smiled. "Gee, thanks Colin. Yeah, I guess I could do that." He put the medallion on.

"Hey, it looks great on you. Wear it in good health."

They finished up and Ben ran to his room with a big grin. Jennifer smiled as Colin sat down next to her. "I heard all that. You're amazing, you know that? But you lied to him. I sure hope it works."

Colin put his arm around her and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Sometimes a lie is the best thing."

Riddles - They're Good For Your Brain

2009-04-26T03:00:00.001+12:00

I have always enjoyed riddles. I'll never forget Frank Gorshin as The Riddler in the old Batman television series that starred Adam West. The Joker was too comical for my tastes, and Heath Ledger certainly changed all that, but back then The Riddler was the coolest villain. He was every bit as campy as Caesar Romero's Joker, but he had a certain style that kept you enthralled. So today i'd like to write about riddles.

Probably best to start with a definition: A riddle is a statement or question having a double or veiled meaning, put forth as a puzzle to be solved. Sounds a lot like your relationship, doesn't it? Anyway, there are two types riddles, enigmas and conundrums. Enigmas are problems generally expressed in metaphorical or allegorical language that require ingenuity and careful thinking for their solution. Conundrums are questions relying for their effects on punning in either the question or the answer.

Riddles have a distinguished literary ancestry, although the contemporary sort of conundrum that passes under the name of "riddle" may not make this obvious. In the Anglo-Saxon world of the Norsemen, the wis (wise) had wisdom due to their wit – their ability to conciliate and mediate by maintaining multiple perspectives, which has degenerated into a species of comedy, but was not always a mere laughing matter. This wit was taught with a form of oral tradition called the riddle, a collection of which were bound, along with various other gnomic verses and maxims ca. 800 A.D and deposited in Exeter Cathedral in the eleventh century - the so-called Exeter Book, one of the most important collection of Old English manuscripts which has survived.

Riddles served an abstract role in Anglo-Saxon education. They taught their listeners how to track two or more meanings at once in a single semantic situation. The pre-Christian Anglo-Saxons were not inhabiting a thought-world lacking in subtlety and complexity. They were a very intelligent race. There are at least eighteen distinct Anglo-Saxon words describing aspects of cognitive skill. The god Odin was a master of riddle lore, and sparred with several of his foes using contests of riddles.

But riddles were not exclusive to the Anglo-Saxons and Old Norse; they are an ancient and ubiquitous cultural phenomenon. Oedipus killed the Sphinx by grasping the answer to the riddle it posed; Samson outwitted the Philistines by posing a riddle about the lion and the beehive. In both cases, riddles, far from being mere child’s play, are made to decide matters of life and death.

Aristotle considered riddles important enough to include discussion of their use in his Rhetoric. He describes the close relationship between riddles and metaphors: “Good riddles do, in general, provide us with satisfactory metaphors; for metaphors imply riddles, and therefore a good riddle can furnish a good metaphor”

Riddles are brain food. Here are some appetizers for you. The answers are at the bottom.

1. What gets wetter and wetter the more it dries?
2. You throw away the outside and cook the inside. Then you eat the outside and throw away the inside. What did you eat?
3. What can you catch but not throw? (This one should be easy.)
4. What goes around the world but stays in a corner?
5. I can run but not walk. Wherever I go, thought follows close behind. What am I?
6. Give me food, and I will live; give me water, and I will die. What am I?

Did you get any of them? Here are the answers:

1. A towel.
2. An ear of corn.
3. A cold.
4. A stamp.
5. A nose.
6. Fire.

A Chance Encounter At The Mall

2009-04-25T03:00:00.000+12:00

Carl sipped his coffee, and continued to feign interest in Janet's tale of woe about how inept her new secretary was. He enjoyed the occasional lunchtime meal with his wife, but he had problems of his own at work and didn't have the energy for this sort of thing. The conversation about family they had been having earlier was less boring. Janet looked at her watch and rose to leave.

"I have to get back, Carl, i've got a meeting. See you at home sweetheart."

Carl smiled and said goodbye, unfolding his newspaper. He decided he'd hang out a bit longer as it was a slow day at the office and no one would miss him. He found an interesting article and started reading, but something made him look up. A couple of tables away sat an old man with a cane he was leaning on with both hands. He was staring at Carl openly, as though studying an interesting specimen.

Trying to ignore it, he buried himself in the paper, but he couldn't resist lowering it enough to peek over the top, and sure enough, the old man was still boring holes in him. What is this guy's problem, he thought to himself. Doesn't he know how rude it is to stare? Maybe he's lonely. He mulled it over some more, still trying to read the article, but finally giving it up.

Putting the paper down, he took another sip of coffee and looked at the old man. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Continuing to stare, the old man shifted slightly and then craned his neck. He looked back at Carl with a quizzical look. "You're Carl," he said.

Knitting his brows, Carl considered his next words. "Well, yes I am, and you are?"

"Tired. I sat down because I was tired. I've been walking all over this mall."

Great, Carl thought to himself, now what. He tried a different tack. "Do we know each other?"

The old man looked thoughtful. "Well, you're Carl."

"Yes, I am. Where do I know you from?"

"Oh." The old man came and sat down at the table. "I thought you would know. By the way, I like your shirt."

Taking another sip, Carl searched his memory and came up empty. "Look, i'm sorry, you have me at a disadvantage, I...wait a minute, are you a friend of my father's?"

The old man smiled. "Oh yes. He's a wonderful man."

"Ah. I see. When did we meet?"

"Oh, I don't know. I...i'm sure Janet knows."

"My wife? She was just here, did you see her?"

"Oh, I don't know where she is. Shopping, I suppose. You know how they are."

"Know how who are?"

The old man grimaced. "It's best not to talk about them, you know. Even when they're not here they always know."

"Look, I can't honestly say I remember my father introducing us. What's your name?"

"Oh, i'm sorry, perhaps i've forgotten. Anyway, Do you think Jerry will get that new job he's hoping for?"

"Jerry? Our son? How did you know about that? Did dad tell you?"

Scratching his chin, the old man seemed to be trying to recollect. "I can't recall. Anyway, do you think he will?"

"Well, I...listen, frankly this is all a bit strange. You seem to know a lot about me, and I still don't know who you are. Where did you come from?"

"You don't know? I'm from right here!"

Glancing at his watch, Carl had a sudden urge to get back to the office, but he had to know what was going on. "Could you please tell me where you know my father from?"

The old man seemed to staring off into space and didn't respond. Just as Carl was about to ask again he fixed him with a look. "I wouldn't advise buying that new car, you should keep the one you have."

His eyes going wide, Carl leaned across the table and grabbed the old man's arm. "Now look here, who the hell are you, and how is it you know so much about me?"

"You should listen to Janet, she's very smart."

Slowly the pieces fell together. Carl grinned and sat back. "You were sitting there listening to our conversation during lunch! But why would you...I mean..."

An elderly woman wandered by the cafe looking about and then did a double take when she saw Carl and the old man. She hurried in to the cafe and walked up to the old man.

"Herman! There you are! What have I told you about wandering off?"

She turned to Carl looking apologetic. "I'm so sorry, I hope he hasn't been pestering you. He's got Alzheimer's, you see?"

Suppressing a chuckle, Carl smiled graciously. "No, no problem at all. We were just having a chat."

The woman turned to her husband and helped him up. "Well, we must be going. You have a wonderful day now."

Carl watched them toddle off and then finished his coffee and folded his paper. Life can sure get interesting sometimes, he thought to himself.

The Films Of Jim Jarmusch

2009-04-24T03:00:00.000+12:00

There are several independent filmmakers i've come to admire over the years, and near the top of that list is Jim Jarmusch. He has released ten films to date, with number eleven due out next month, which is why I thought I would profile him now.

He came on the scene in 1980 with a film called Permanent Vacation, the only one of his films I haven't seen. I really must order it from Amazon. I first became aware of him in 1984 when he released Stranger Than Paradise, to much critical acclaim. The film recounts the odd journey of three disillusioned youths from New York to Cleveland to Florida; the film broke many conventions of traditional Hollywood moviemaking, and to this day is still considered a landmark work in modern independent film. Quirky and moody, shot in black and white, it created the trademark Jarmusch style that permeates most of his films.

He followed that one two years later with Down By Law, a tale of three convicts, all wrongly convicted, who break out of a New Orleans jail and take it on the lam. That film starred a good friend of his, the musician Tom Waits, who proved that music wasn't his only talent. The film also features the irrepressible Roberto Benigni, and the always wonderful Ellen Barkin.

Next up was 1989's Mystery Train, more black and white strangeness, this time featuring three different stories. The first story, "Far From Yokohama", is the best of the three. It features a teenage couple from Yokohama, Japan travelling across America and making pilgrimage to Memphis. The girl is obsessed with Elvis Presley, and even, in one scene "deduces" that Elvis was the basis for Madonna and the Statue of Liberty. Their story follows their holiday, including an exhaustive trip to Sun Records. Their story also features a cameo by legend Rufus Thomas as an old man in a train station. The film also stars Steve Buscemi and Screamin' Jay Hawkins.

In 1991 Jarmusch came out with one of my two favorites, Night On Earth. A very clever film that tells the story of five different taxi rides taking place at the same time in five different cities. Brilliant casting in this one, with Winona Ryder, Rosie Perez, Gena Rowlands and Roberto Benigni. The Benigni taxi ride takes place at midnight in Rome and is so hysterically funny I almost wet myself the first time I saw it.

1995 saw the release of what many consider to be his best film, Dead Man, a film set in the American West in the 19th century starring Johnny Depp and Gary Farmer that has been called a Western movie, an "acid western," an "anti-Western," and a "post-Western" by various critics. The film has been hailed as one of the few films made by a Caucasian that presents an authentic Native American culture and character, and Jarmusch stands by it as such. Again in black and white, with a score written and performed by Neil Young. A very strong and engaging film.

Following artistic success and critical acclaim in the American independent film community, he achieved mainstream renown with his far-East philosophical crime film shot in Jersey City, Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai, starring Forest Whitaker as a young inner-city man who has found purpose for his life by unyieldingly conforming it to Hagakure, an 18th-century philosophy text and training manual for samurai, becoming, as directed, a terrifyingly deadly hit-man for a local mob boss to whom he may owe a debt, and who then betrays him. A good film, but not as well received by critics as his previous efforts.

In 2004 he released what is possibly the final version of Coffee and Cigarettes, a collection of short film vignettes the first of which had been shot for and aired on Saturday Night Live in 1986, featuring actor-filmmaker Roberto Benigni and comedian Steven Wright, followed three years later by Coffee and Cigarettes: Memphis Version with actors Steve Buscemi and Joie and Cinque Lee, then Coffee and Cigarettes: Somewhere in California in 1993 with musicians Tom Waits and Iggy Pop. The film was eventually released to selected theaters consisting of 11 installments featuring, among others, Jack and Meg of The White Stripes, Cate Blanchett, RZA, GZA, Bill Murray, Steve Coogan and Alfred Molina.

In 2005 he released Broken Flowers, starring Bill Murray as a man who receives a mysterious letter informing him he has a son he never knew of. He sets out on a journey to visit the only three women who could have been the mother, given the age the boy is supposed to be. A good film, a bit more mainstream than any of Jarmusch's previous works.

That brings us to The Limits Of Control, due out next month. The film will star Isaach de Bankolé and be set in Spain. It's a crime drama about a hit man, and that's all i've been able to find out, but that's the way I like it. Jarmusch films are like presents to be unwrapped when you receive them.

The Hunter And The Hunted

2009-04-23T03:00:00.000+12:00

Roger jumped back and gasped as his heart leap into his mouth. If he had ever seen a larger spider up close before he couldn't remember when it would have been. Brown and hairy, with leathery legs and a gaping maw, it seemed to glare at him with menace. Shuddering, he looked about for something to trap it with. There was no way it was staying in his house and that was that.

How in the hell had it gotten in? Which circle of hell did it belong to? It didn't matter, he decided. What mattered was how he was going to get rid of it. There was no way he was going to smash it. It would surely make a nasty mess if he did, and he didn't fancy cleaning it up. Loath to take his eye off it lest it scuttle for cover, he glanced about for a container he could drop over it while he decided how to dispose of it.

He spotted his favorite coffee cup, but it was too small for a gargantuan beast like this, so that was out. The spider continued to stand it's ground, so he walked around the room looking for something larger to trap it with. Grabbing a bowl he thought might work, he turned back around, and to his horror the spider had disappeared.

Dropping onto the sofa he stared at the spot where it had been, wondering which direction it could have gone. Not really wanting to look for it, but knowing he had to if he was to have any peace of mind, he got up, armed himself with a rolled up magazine and went hunting. Some laundry he had left on the floor seemed a likely place. It was not far from where he'd encountered it, and didn't they like hiding in things like that? Steeling himself, he lifted the clothes, holding the magazine with menace and preparing to strike, but it wasn't there.

Thinking perhaps it had gone the other way he peeked behind the bookshelf. Nothing there either. Where in the hell had it gotten to? Searching everywhere in the room now he finally had to conclude that it had gotten away from him. Feeling scared, he knew he had to find it somehow. It was still in the house. He wouldn't relax until it was gone. Deciding to have a think about it, he went to this favorite recliner and was about to sit down when out of the corner of his eye he saw it and did some wild gyrations to avoid having his butt land on it. As he righted himself the spider lunged forward and flew through the air at him. Adrenalin pumping, he jumped backwards with all his might and the spider landed at his feet and darted left and headed under the sofa.

Standing still in stark terror with his hand on his chest, trying to still his pounding heart he felt an icy chill pass through him. This was madness. He was being confronted by a demented demon spider from hell with homicidal intent! Well, he decided, it may be a big, aggressive spider, but he was bigger by far, and if this spider wanted a fight to the death, well then, by god, it was going to get one.

Striding with purpose to the hardware drawer in the kitchen he went through everything he had and considered his options. Screwdriver? Maybe. He wondered idly what color it's blood would be if he impaled it. Pruning saw? No, that wouldn't do. Ah! Twenty pound claw hammer! He held it up in triumph. Yes, this would do nicely. He'd worry about the cleanup later. This was war, and he would take no prisoners.

Returning to the scene of the last confrontation he wondered if it was still under the sofa. Only one way to find out. Holding the hammer above his head he reached down and gave the sofa a mighty shove. There sat the spider, who reared back on its rear legs and appeared ready to lunge at him, but this time he was ready. He swung the hammer and the spider jumped at the same time, forcing Roger to sidestep and bringing the hammer down on the glass coffee table, smashing it to shards. The spider landed and ran for cover, Roger in hot pursuit. It headed up the floor lamp and he swung again, but missed. The floor lamp now lay in a twisted heap on the floor.

The spider ran to the middle of the room and turned and faced him. Roger could swear it hissed at him. He advanced on it and took another swing, but his hand was shaking badly and the spider scuttled sideways as the hammer made contact with the parquet flooring, leaving a nasty dent. The pursuit continued around the room, Roger swinging wildly and the spider leading him on a merry chase. Roger heard the front door open and his daughter came in, returning from her day at school.

She surveyed the carnage with a bewildered look on her face and then spotted the spider on the floor, which seemed to be looking at her.

"Sam! What are you doing out of your box?" She ran to her room and returned with a clear plastic box with a woody habitat in it, opened the lid and put it on the floor. The spider, much to Roger's horror scuttled to the box and climbed in. She closed the lid and took him back to her room.

When she came out she surveyed the room again and said, "Dad? What have you been doing? Hey, wait a minute! You weren't trying to kill Sam were you?!"

Roger put the hammer behind his back and looked sheepish. "No, darling, I, um, well...never mind. How was school today?"

Self Acutualization And How We Get There

2009-04-22T03:00:00.000+12:00

A while back we had a debate on my Yahoogroups list about the nature of intelligence in which it was pointed out that being intelligent did not consist of how much one knows, but rather how skilled one is in obtaining information that one needs in any given situation. Certainly that comes into play in taking an i.q. test. Those who have good critical thinking skills are those who with inquisitive minds who have developed the means of acquiring the knowledge they need through self-direction.

I've been thinking more deeply about this since then and in researching this matter i've come across Maslow's hierarchy of needs. It's a theory in psychology, proposed by Abraham Maslow in his 1943 paper A Theory of Human Motivation, which he subsequently extended to include his observations of innate curiosity in humans.

He studied high achievers such as Albert Einstein, Jane Addams, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Frederick Douglass, as well as the healthiest one percent of the college student population. He acknowledged that doing so might skew his findings. In his book, The Farther Reaches of Human Nature, Maslow writes, "By ordinary standards of this kind of laboratory research... this simply was not research at all. My generalizations grew out of my selection of certain kinds of people. Obviously, other judges are needed." His reasons for doing so were, as he put it, that "the study of crippled, stunted, immature, and unhealthy specimens can yield only a cripple psychology and a cripple philosophy."

That said his conclusions are generally accepted as valid for the average person, whoever that may be. Maslow's hierarchy of needs is predetermined in order of importance. It is often depicted as a pyramid consisting of five levels, as pictured above. The lower four layers of the pyramid are what Maslow called "deficiency needs" or "D-needs": physiological, safety and security, love and belonging, and esteem. With the exception of the lowest (physiological) needs, if these "deficiency needs" are not met, the body gives no physical indication but the individual feels anxious and tense.

Only when all of these needs are met at the most basic level can self-actualization begin to occur. Certainly the things he lists as being part of that can be part of a person's life if the lower four levels are only partially met, but for complete acutualization every aspect below it on the pyramid must be happening fully.

I find this theory interesting because I know that I, and others i've known, have a tendency to think of people who lack creativity, spontaneity and problem solving skills as being if not unintelligent, as at least not living up to their potential, wasting their lives, if you will. I now believe this to be an unfair assessment. If Maslow is right, one cannot reach one's full potential without the basis, the lower four levels of the pyramid being met.

Certainly there are exceptions, and Maslow has had his detractors. It has been argued that poverty is the result of any one of these needs being frustrated, denied or unfulfilled, but I personally don't buy that. My observation of such matters is that poverty is mostly generational and due to what I call the poverty mentality, wherein thinking beyond immediate survival is discouraged, along with curiosity and creativity of any sort that doesn't meet basic needs. To me that dovetails with Maslow's pyramid, if one gets those needs fulfilled, most people will begin to rise to their potential, whatever that may be.

Near the end of his life Maslow revealed that there was a level on the hierarchy that was above self-actualization: self-transcendence. This is, of course, the spiritual aspect rising above mere religion, or if you will, superstition, to an awareness of what is beyond the self. Maslow argued that this could only occur in a meaningful way when full self-actualization has occurred.

This idea certainly rings true. When all needs are met, or at least dealt with in a satisfactory manner, and self-acutalization is pre-eminent, then the spirit is free to explore beyond itself. Something to think about, anyway.

The Perfect Society

2009-04-21T03:00:00.000+12:00

Technician JY798 stood with his hands clasped behind his back and gazed out the window at the delivery vehicle bringing in the latest batch of detainees. He was pleased to see the count was remaining steady, indeed might even be diminshing a bit. For quite some time it had been high and the workload had required much overtime. The Primary Ministry had handed down an edict many years ago that the outgoing quota remain above a set level.

This particular batch seemed more unruly than most as he watched them being taken off for processing before their souls reached the lab. Several of the severely psychotic were trying to thrash their way out of their restraints, throwing themselves against walls and spewing obscenities. He was glad he didn't have to watch the transformation process anymore. There had been quite enough of that in training. He could still vividly recall the fear in their eyes and the rage as they were prepared for the reduction chamber. It was the dirty little secret that society knew nothing about; classified and all that.

Setting about preparing the injection moulds for the spiritual matter, he inspected each one closely for any stray contamination. The medium had to be freshly made every eight hours or less to ensure maximum stability for the journey. Watching the light above the chamber, he knew it would soon be green, indicating the batch would be on it's way for lab processing. No matter how long he did this it was still disturbing knowing that only minutes before arrival the vials he was to process had been living, breathing beings.

No matter. He had an appointment later that afternoon with his life counselor. He would discuss the matter in depth then, he couldn't carry this around anymore. Finally the batch arrived and he set about injecting the contents of each vial into the florescent green medium that would hold them to be taken safely to their destination. Packing the containers into the cargo boxes and labeling them, he left them for the delivery team to attend to. Feeling no less troubled than before, he left the lab and went home to prepare for his appointment.

Arriving at the Life Complex, he took the air lift to the fourth floor and used the retinal scanner to let himself into the waiting room. Perusing a digital reader he found an article on the latest holographic amusement devices and read until the counselor called him in. He arranged himself in the seat indicated and waited. The counselor looked up finally and smiled.

"I'm sensing you are a bit more troubled than usual. What is on your mind?"

"It's work. I...well, I know what I do is for the benefit of society, but it's been more than a year now, and I still haven't adjusted to handling the...units." Casting his eyes downward, he tried not to fidget.

"I see. Is it a moral issue for you, or is it about the necessity of the transformation they must undergo to make the journey?"

"That's what I keep trying to figure out. I had to watch the process from start to finish during training, and I suppose it still bothers me. I have trouble thinking of them as being still...viable. I mean, I know that's what my job entails, making sure the souls are safely transferred to the medium, but they were walking around in bodies just before they come to me."

The counselor frowned momentarily and steppled his fingers in from of his face. "I think you may need to undergo a review of societal goals and aspirations. You know it was decided long ago that we could not progress as long as there were distruptive entities in our midst. We abolished capital punishment eons ago, and institutions simply aren't a viable alternative. This was the best solution for all of the members of the Federation. The work you and the others at the Center do is for the benefit of us all."

"I know, and i'm proud to be a part of the advancement of society. I just..."

"Yes, I see." Dictating an appointment into the system, the counselor made some notes and then returned his attention to his patient. "You will go to this address next week and attend reorientation."

"Alright. I suppose it's for the best." He got up to leave and then gave in to an impulse. "I wonder if you can tell me where these misfits are sent for rebirthing. I mean, that is the process, isn't it? They're sent to an inhabitable planet where they'll be reborn and live amongst the inhabitants as one of them?"

The counselor hesitated. It was controlled information, but being as his patient was a part of the process and troubled by it, he deemed it likely that the information might be beneficial. "You must never tell anyone, but if it will help, I can tell you the name of the place. It's a primitive planet in a galaxy several light years away called the Milky Way. I believe the planet is known to the inhabitants as Earth. It's inhabited by primitve, warrior races far less evolved than the planets that make up the federation. It was the most suitable choice for our rejects."

He waved Technician JY798 out of the office and called for his next appointment.

Sam Peckinpah – A Vision Of Violence

2009-04-20T03:00:00.000+12:00

This is an indepth profile I wrote of director Sam Peckinpah, one of my all time favorites. It first appeared in Real Groove magazine several years ago.

Born February 21, 1925, David Samuel Peckinpah became one of the most controversial directors Hollywood has ever known. With fourteen films over the course of twenty-two years he carved out a career for himself that made him both the most admired and reviled director of films in the Sixties and Seventies. He lived hard and died young, a Hollywood legend all the way. Peckinpah is best known for his unusual way of using violence in his films, and it was this characteristic that earned him the nickname Bloody Sam. So who was he, and where did he come from?

Sam Peckinpah’s main interest was in westerns. He was born in Fresno, California and attended Fresno grammar schools and high school. However, he spent much time skipping classes with his brother to engage in cowboy activities like trapping, branding, and shooting. He joined the Marines in 1943 and was soon stationed in China in supportive roles. While his duty did not involve any combat situations, much to his dismay, he was witness to acts of violence in the war between the Republic of China and Japan. After the war he married Marie Selland in Las Vegas in 1947. He completed a B.A. in Drama at the Fresno State College in 1949 and went on to earn an M.A. in 1950 at the University of Southern California. Although his choice of medium changed from theatre to film, he singularly pursued his desire to direct. After a stint as the director and producer in residence at Huntington Park Civic Theatre in California, he worked as a propman and stagehand at KLAC-TV in Los Angeles; then from 1951 to 1953 he worked as an assistant editor at CBS. In 1954 he had the good fortune to work as an assistant and dialogue director to Don Siegel, it was through Seigel that Peckinpah came in contact with the CBS series Gunsmoke and ended up writing several scripts for the show. Thus began the period of Peckinpah’s television work in which he wrote scripts for numerous series including Broken Arrow, Tales of Wells Fargo and Zane Grey Theatre. The "The Knife Fighter" (1958) episode of Broken Arrow was his first attempt at directing. He went on to direct episodes of The Rifleman and between 1959 and mid-1960 he oversaw the production of ten episodes of The Westerner. It was during his television years that Peckinpah began to assemble actors like Strother Martin, R.G. Armstrong and Warren Oates who would later become part of his "stock company".

Peckinpah was hired to direct his first film, Deadly Companions, in1961. The film received little attention, but he followed it up in 1962 with Ride the High Country, which won the Grand Prix at the Belgium International Film Festival. Peckinpah’s third feature, Major Dundee (1965), marks the beginning of his volatile relations with producers and distributors. Columbia Pictures felt the film was too long and convoluted for general audiences and made numerous cuts. , What came of that was the first of many public outbursts that continued throughout Peckinpah’s working history. He was legendary for his abuse of alcohol, and later drugs, and for his mercurial personality, which once resulted in Charlton Heston threatening him with a cavalry sabre in a disagreement over a scene in Major Dundee.

1969 saw the release of the film that will forever be etched in the memory of filmgoers as Peckinpah’s tour-de-force. The story is that at the first screening of The Wild Bunch, 32 people walked out in the first 10 minutes. The idea, he later said, was to challenge the audience through confrontation. Those who stayed were awed by a poetic ballet so brutal that nothing like it had ever been seen on screen before. It is impossible to determine whether this film is the most violent ever made up to that time, and the question is probably irrelevant. What we can say is that with the newly gained freedom attained through the development of the Code and Rating Administration and in the midst of a volatile cultural mindset brought on in no small part by the raging war in Vietnam, Peckinpah, with the help of the brilliant editor Louis Lombardo and cinematographer Lucien Ballard, developed a stylistic approach that through the use of slow-motion, multi-camera filming and montage editing, seemed to make the violence more intense and raw. Peckinpah, at the time, denounced violence and hoped that his ballet of blood would repulse people so much that peace was the only alternative. Ironically, Peckinpah became pigeonholed as a purveyor of violence. The extreme violence didn't repulse audiences; it supercharged them. The Wild Bunch set new standards of violence in film. This new style was to be imitated and drawn upon from that time on. He was an important director whose influence is acknowledged by many contemporary filmmakers, including Kathryn Bigelow, Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino and John Woo.

Peckinpah refused to let his new reputation deter him from his vision. He pushed the accepted boundaries of society even further with his film Straw Dogs (1971). Casting Dustin Hoffman as David Sumner, an odd little man out of place in the rural English farming town he inhabits on sabbatical with his wife and finds himself drawn inextricably into a violent confrontation with the locals, one man against a raging gang of seven, forced into a bloody and cathartic redemption and not, as some viewers think, revenge. The film becomes a blood-soaked trial where being a man means giving in to baser instincts and refusing to conform to a mindless, brutal society.

Peckinpah’s work between 1972 and 1977 isn’t noted for as much raw violence as he used in The Wild Bunch and Straw Dogs. He made The Getaway (1972), Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (1973), Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974), The Killer Elite (1975) and Cross of Iron (1977). These years resulted in an uneven body of work yet too little attention has been paid to how these later films evolve from Peckinpah’s earlier work and reflect the continuous development of his concerns about society. Violence was only an ornament, only a metaphoric means to an end. What he was interested in was freedom, passion, and the individual's right and responsibility to run their own life.

Although Peckinpah had many fans during his lifetime, after his death in 1984 the name and the distinctive work of the great director fell into oblivion. For the next 10 years, Peckinpah’s name seemed to have never existed. It was not until March 23rd, 1995, when a release of a renewed director’s-cut of The Wild Bunch provoked fresh interest in Peckinpah’s work that he was once again remembered as the visionary he was. The sheer amount of mindlessness violence in movies that The Wild Bunch in part helped spawn has done much to reveal the profundity of Peckinpah's achievement. His imitators missed the moral passion, the psychological depth, and the true subversiveness of his achievements, imitating only the externals. Peckinpah’s films are always character-driven and the violence is initiated by and derived from their isolation and inability to cope with their environment.

Peckinpah lived hard and full. He drank and abused drugs, producers and collaborators. Many scandalous and strange facts from the director’s life were frequently published by the critics, but Peckinpah always emphasized the fact that he appreciated humanity, courage, morals and law. Being considered for the Stephen King-scripted The Shotgunners, he died from heart failure in Mexico at age 59. At a gathering afterwards, James Coburn remembered the director as a man "who pushed me over the abyss and then jumped in after me. He took me on some great adventures". A remarkable legacy for a director who will long be remembered.

Filmography

1961 The Deadly Companions
1962 Ride the High Country
1965 Major Dundee
1969 The Wild Bunch
1970 The Ballad of Cable Hogue
1971 Straw Dogs
1972 The Getaway
1972 Junior Bonner
1973 Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid
1974 Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia
1975 The Killer Elite
1977 Cross of Iron
1982 Jinxed! (uncredited)
1983 The Osterman Weekend

A Day At The Russian Consulate

2009-04-19T03:00:00.000+12:00

Charlie bounded out of bed early Tuesday morning, excited about his upcoming business trip. His promotion had included the brief to travel to Russia to meet with business associates there to close a big deal for the company. He had obtained the necessary invite from a Russian travel agency, now all he needed was a visa. With his appointment slip in hand he headed downtown.

Parking his car in the garage and heading for the Russian consulate he was pulled up short by the line that confronted him several hundred feet from the entrance. He looked at his appointment slip again. Must be something wrong, he thought to himself, i'm on time, why are there more than a hundred people here at the same time? Inquiring of some of the others it soon became clear there was no mistake.

Resigning himself to the wait, he opened his newspaper and got caught up as the line slowly moved forward. When he got inside he took out his forms and joined a short line for the window he was assigned. Faced with a frightful looking woman with a large hairy mole next to her nose and a ratted hairdo, he tried not to stare at the mole, but she was looking at him like something she had discovered on the bottom of her shoe.

Presenting his passport and forms with a hopeful smile he bid her good day. With a silence that hung like icicles between them she examined his passport and then his forms. "Where is form 54XC3?" she inquired in a raspy voice.

"Form 54XC3? I, well, the travel agency said I needed the forms I filled out and my pass..."

"Form 54XC3! You must have! You are wishing to go to Russia on business, yes?"

"Well, yes, I..."

"Over there." She lifted her chin toward a counter next to a rack of forms. Charlie couldn't help noticing the mole seemed to be doing the pointing.

"Alright, do I bring it back here?"

"Nyet. Business visa window is window 4." She shoved his papers at him and the interview was over.

Trudging over to the rack Charlie could fee his shoulders tensing. He filled out the new form and got in line at window 4, where he was soon face to face with a new vision of horror even more severe than the last one. She perused his papers and looked up. "What business you have in Russia?"

"Well, i'm going there to try to close a business deal with a company we've been negotiating with and..."

"I see. Then you will be needing form 54XC4, not 54XC3, is over there." She indicated the rack.

"But I was told..."

"Next!" She pushed his passport and forms back to him.

His blood pressure rising, Charlie stormed back to the rack. In line once again at window 4 he did some deep breathing. A few minutes later it was time for round three.

"What is reason for visit to Russia?"

"Well, we already went through this, you told me to fill out form..."

"You will answer the question!"

"I'm going there to close a business deal. I've filled out form 54XC4, see?"

"You will be staying in Russia for how long?

"Eight days."

"So, is more than one week? You will need to fill out form SP32X7. Is over there."

His temples beginning to throb, Charlie fought for control. "Why didn't the travel agency give me that form, they knew how long I was going to be gone?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Do I look like travel agent?"

Biting his tongue, Charlie made his way back to the rack and then made his fifth trip to the window.

"Ok, here's form SP32X7, and I sure hope..."

"Nyet, form SP32X7 can only be processed at window 2. Is over there." She waved in the general direction.

Charlie could feel the room darkening and closing in on him. He made his way to a chair and collapsed, his papers scattering over the floor. The women at the windows gave each other a look.

Rising from the chair as soon as he felt able he collected his paperwork and shuffled to window 2 and got in line. He got there at last and put all of it down and said nothing. The clerk, whom he could swear must have been a wrestler or weightlifter earlier in life looked everything over and nodded, then put it all in a folder and tossed it onto a tray.

"Next!"

Charlie was flummoxed. "But, what about my visa?"

"Visa application will be reviewed, come back tomorrow after 10."

"What?! Nobody told me that. I...I..." He was shouting now, and a large security guard appeared at his side and escorted him forcefully to the door. He left the building and slouched his way to his car.

Water, Water Everywhere, But Think Before You Drink

2009-04-18T03:00:00.001+12:00

Everyone, well, most people complain about the price of gasoline/petrol, and yet i've never heard anyone complain about the price of bottled water. Those who buy it seem to do so without thought, and if there's a purchase we need to think long and hard about before we make it, bottled water is certainly one, and not only because a litre of bottled water costs more than a litre of gasoline/petrol, which is ridiculous in and of itself.

Millions and millions of dollars are spent each week on advertising campaigns to give consumers the perception that bottled water comes from some pristine mountain spring or magical underground aquifer, assuring purity and quality. However, the fact is that bottled water is oftentimes little more than just tap water in a bottle, sometimes worse! In most countries, the U.S. included, the law requires bottled water to be only as good as tap water. Around 90% of the cost of bottled water is in the bottle, lid, label and distribution. Another 1.8% is profit. The rest is the cost of the water, which in many cases is just tap water to begin with.

The bottled water industry is full of deception and questionable ethics. Industry lobbyists successfully fight every year to keep bottled water companies from having to abide by even the minimal health standards set for tap water. They argue that bottled water needn't be hampered by safely regulations at all! And yet, bottled water companies have spent billions to manipulate consumers into believing that bottled water is safer or healthier than tap water.

In the U.S. San Francisco, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Chicago, St. Louis and many other cities have recently jumped on the "ban bottled water" bandwagon, making it illegal to spend city dollars on bottled water.

Then there is the environmental impact. "It causes 60 million plastic bottles A DAY to be manufactured, transported and then disposed of in U.S. landfills. It's killing our planet, and for no good reason..."
-Eric Olsen, Natural Resources Defense Council

If the environmental impact doesn't bother you, then consider the possible impact on your health. The facts are clear: All plastic bottles leach synthetic chemicals into water, some more than others. Even the popular refillable polycarbonate water bottles are known to release BPA (Bisphenol A) into the water. The best and healthiest solution is a quality home water filter and refillable glass water bottles.

However, there are concerns about glass-bottled water as well. Hundreds of recent reports reveal that bottled water quality is grossly overrated. "While much tap water is indeed risky, having compared available data we conclude that there is no assurance that bottled water is any safer than tap water."
-Natural Resources Defense Council, Washington DC.

Virtually every independent study on bottled water shows contamination from bacteria and/or synthetic chemicals. In some places tap water is a concern as well, and as water becomes a more and more precious commodity, indeed some investors now refer to it as blue gold, health concerns about water will intensify, but bottled water is not the answer.

Perhaps the best we can do is use home water purifiers. Home water filtration is the most logical, most economical, most convenient and healthiest alternative to tap or bottled water. With home water filtration you can pick the degree of purity you want and have complete control over it. Considering the extreme importance of healthy, chemical free water, a quality home water filter may be the most valuable home appliance you can own.

So here's to healthy water consumption, and being smart about how we consume it.

A Trip To Hong Kong

2009-04-17T03:00:00.001+12:00

Jim stepped out of his hotel into the muggy heat of a Hong Kong summer in the midst of a typhoon. The cacophony of sights sounds and smells was overwhelming for a guy from Gary, Indiana who had never been away from home before. Looking around, trying to decide where to go he spied an interesting looking alley just at the end of the street and made his way there. All around him the colorful old buildings were chockablock with advertising, posters competing with neon signs that overhung the street, blocking out the sky, no patch of brick or window had been neglected as usable space. He admired the tenacity of vendors, but quickly found himself overloaded with sensation.

Finally, he ducked into what appeared to be an antique shop. Maybe he could find something to bring back to his wife. He strolled along the aisles hoping to find a nice piece of jade when he came to a counter with two strange looking animal carvings on pedestals that stood out from everything else. An old man came through a beaded curtain just in back of the counter, smiling and smoking a long clay pipe.

"Are they not magnificent?" he inquired in near perfect English.

Jim was taken aback; everyone who spoke any English at all since he had landed did so poorly at best. The old man read his face.

"Oh, I have travelled much, and I learned your language before you were born," he stated matter-of-factly. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Well, I was just looking. I thought maybe i'd find something to take home to my wife." He glanced again at the carvings. "Maybe some jade?"

"Certainly, perhaps a nice necklace?" The old man moved behind the counter and brought out a tray of jewelery.

"Maybe." Jim looked them over but couldn't decide. "What are these carvings here? How much are they?"

The old man regarded the carvings for a moment. "The Pi Xiu? Oh no, they are not for sale. They are priceless."

With his curiosity piqued, Jim needed to know more. "What did you call them pee what?"

The old man laughed. "For you it is pronounced pee-zhoo. They are mythical animals. They have the head of a dragon and body of a lion. They are very good fung shui."

"Fung what?"

"Good luck. Pi Xiu are guardians, and they attract wealth. If you believe in them and ask for blessings, they will grant you good fortune."

Jim was sceptical. Just some Chinese superstition, he figured. The old man read his face once again.

"I can prove it to you. Do you like to gamble?"

"Well, yeah, I play poker with my buddies."

"Excellent. There is a gambling parlour across the street. If I show you how to make obeisance to the Pi Xui, and you go immediately to gamble, you will make money."

Jim snorted and then covered his mouth and apologised. The old man held up his palms. "Please, not to worry. I can prove what I say. In fact, if you buy one of these necklaces, I will give you half the money back and you can go gamble it. You will win. That is, if you believe in the Pi Xiu and do as I say."

Jim was doubtful, but decided he'd give it a go. "Alright, what do I do?"

The old man became gravely serious. "You must face them and bow, asking them for their blessing. Do this with sincerity. You will not be sorry."

Jim did as he was told, bowing and asking the creatures to bless him with luck. This is silly, he thought to himself, but what the hell, i'm in Hong Kong. The old man directed him to gambling parlour and advised him to stop when he was $300 ahead and come back to the shop to report what had happened.

This is goofy, Jim thought to himself crossing the street, but he went in and did as he was told. Within twenty minutes he was $300 ahead. He couldn't believe his luck. It was as if he couldn't lose. He hurried back across the street and thanked the old man. "Wow! It worked. I just can't believe it."

The old man smiled. "Now you know the power of Pi Xiu."

Jim was still sceptical. "Why would you show me how to have this luck, what's in it for you?"

"Ah, I am a very wealthy man. The way the Pi Xiu work, I must help others to continue to receive their blessing. I haven't done so for a while. When you walked in I felt that you should be the one. Come back tomorrow and we can do this again, if you like." He turned and re-entered the back of the shop without another word.

Making his way back to the hotel Jim was tingling with excitement. He could hardly sleep that night, and went straight back to the shop in the morning. The old man seemed to be waiting for him. "You look excited. I suppose you would like to ask Pi Xiu for another blessing?"

Jim nodded his assent, and the old man gestured for him to do as he had done the day before. He did so, and the old man told to go back to the gambling den and do the same as the day before, and this time he should stop at $750. He ran across the street and returned forty-minutes later. "I can't believe it! $750! He held the money up in front of the old man's face. "Here, I want you to have some of it!"

The old man held up his hands. "No, no, it would soil the blessing. Keep it. Tell you what, how much money can you get by tomorrow? You can do this one more time, and I think you should make as much as you can."

Jim thought it through. He could bet a cash advance on his credit card, and he had a fair bit of cash with him. "Um, I can come up with $10,000, I guess, but..."

"Just do it. You won't be sorry. Go now, come back in the morning."

Feeling like he was walking on air, Jim headed back to the hotel. The next morning he was back bright and early. "Ok, I managed to get $12,000 altogether. But i'm nervous about gambling all this, you know?"

The old man nodded his head. "You must be very sincere to the Pi Xiu and all will be well."

Jim did as he was told and headed out the door. The old man watched him go and picked up the telephone and dialled.

When he re-entered the shop two hours later, Jim looked like a man who had lost his best friend. He was sweating and bedraggled. "I lost. I lost it all. $12,000. What happened? You said the Pi Xiu would bless me again if I was sincere."

The old man turned toward the mythical animals and pointed. They were no longer facing toward each other, but away. "I am so sorry. I went to the back to do some work and only came out a few minutes ago to see that they had moved. When they do this, it means they have reversed their blessing. I'm afraid they found you to be insincere. Can you really say you believed in your heart?"

Jim bowed his head. "Well, I mean...I thought..." He couldn't.

The old man shook his head. "I am so very sorry."

Jim shuffled out of the shop, wondering what he was going to tell Molly, and how he was going to get through the rest of the trip. When he was gone the old man picked up the phone and called the gambling den. "You will bring me my $6,000 soon?" He listened to his cohort on the other end. "Good. It's still the high season. There should be another tourist along any day now." He hung up the phone and repositioned the Pi Xiu.

Lateral Thinking - Brain Exercise The Fun Way

2009-04-16T03:00:00.001+12:00

I was a little stuck today for a subject to write about, and it occurred to me that I should apply lateral thinking. Then I thought, no, i'll just write about lateral thinking. Sometimes the solution is right in front of you and you just have to focus. Still, lateral thinking is great for stretching the mind.

Lateral thinking is a term coined by Edward de Bono, for the solution of problems through an indirect and creative approach. Lateral thinking is about reasoning that is not immediately obvious and about ideas that may not be obtainable by using only traditional step-by-step logic. The term first appeared in the title of de Bono's book New Think: The Use of Lateral Thinking, published in 1967. By way of explaining it he has said, "You cannot dig a hole in a different place by digging the same hole deeper." This means that trying harder in the same direction may not be as useful as changing direction. Effort in the same direction (approach) will not necessarily succeed.

With the traditional argument or adversarial thinking each side takes a different position and then seeks to attack the other side. Each side seeks to prove that the other side is wrong. This is the type of thinking established by the Greeks two thousand four hundred years ago. Plato, Aristotle and Socrates employed it to arrive at the truth of any given matter. Adversarial thinking completely lacks a constructive, creative or design element. It is intended only to discover the 'truth' not to build anything.

With 'parallel thinking' both sides (or all parties) are thinking in parallel in the same direction. There is co-operative and co-ordinated thinking. The direction itself can be changed in order to give a full scan of the situation. But at every moment each thinker is thinking in parallel with all the other thinkers. There does not have to be agreement. Statements or thoughts which are indeed contradictory are not argued out but laid down in parallel. In the final stage the way forward is 'designed' from the parallel thoughts that have been laid out.

In my own attempts at lateral thinking i've discovered it's best to empty one's mind of all preconceived notions about a situation and simply free associate. I once worked a rather stressful, repetitive job that was enlivened by a co-worker who had memorized lots of lateral thinking puzzles and gave us scenarios in which we had to arrive at the wherefore by working out what had happened by asking only yes or no questions.

Here is an example:

A man and his son are in a car crash. The father is killed and the child is taken to hospital gravely injured. When he gets there, the surgeon says, 'I can't operate on this boy - for he is my son!!!' How can this possibly be?

This one is well know, I first encountered it on All In The Family back in the 70's. The solution is simple if you stop to consider that surgeons are not all male, the surgeon in this case is the boy's mother. The point though, is that you can't arrive at the answer by adversarial thinking, you have to step outside the box.

Here's a more difficult one:

There are six eggs in the basket. Six people each take one of the eggs. How can it be that one egg is left in the basket?

Again, straightforward thinking will fail you. The way forward is to consider what limitations you may be putting on the problem that aren't really there. The logical mind will assume that if each person takes one of the eggs, they are taking the egg from the basket. However, if the last person takes the basket with the last egg still in it, then there is indeed one egg left inside. Simple, isn't it?

You will eventually arrive at the truth if you ask enough questions about the situation. Eventually it would occur to you that the last egg doesn't have to leave the basket.

One more:

A man walks into a bar, and asks the bartender for a drink of water. The bartender pulls out a gun, points it at the man, and cocks it. The man says "Thank you" and leaves. What happened?

This is a tough one. You have to consider the situation being described and ask yourself why the bartender would pull out a gun. Once you've done that, you have to consider what the act of pulling out a gun and pointing it at the man might accomplish. We know the bartender isn't forcing the man to leave, because the man thanks him for pointing the gun at him. Therefore there was no threat. So what does the act of pointing a gun at someone unexpectedly do in most cases? It surprises them. Why would the man thank the bartender for surprising him? Because he needed to be surprised. Why would he need to be surprised? Answer: He had the hiccups.

It's a wonderful way of exercising your brain, and a great little dinner party game if things are getting slow. Give it a try sometime. There are lots of "situation puzzles", as they're sometimes called, online.

Harold and Maude

2009-04-15T03:00:00.001+12:00

1971 was a great year in my life for several reasons. My daughter was born, I was master of my domain, times were easy, rents were low, jobs were plentiful, and my favorite movie of all time hit the screen. A girl who lived below us saw it and couldn't wait to tell me this was a must see film. So I did. Then I saw it again. And again. And again. I have no idea how many times i've watched it. I own it, of course. Harold and Maude. A brilliant black comedy, Zen meditation, satire and life affirming wonder all rolled into one.

Directed by Hal Ashby, who was also responsible for Coming Home and Being There, among others, and starring Ruth Gordon and Bud Cort. More on them later. I'll give a brief synopsis of the film here, but nothing short of viewing it can really do it justice. It's one of the few films I feel really can't be described well enough, it simply has to seen.

It's about a 19 year old, Harold Chasen (Bud Cort), growing up with his facile and self-involved mother in a mansion in the San Francisco Bay Area. He creates elaborate fake suicides in a desperate bid for his mothers attention, and to shock her. The film opens with him staging a hanging in a room he knows she'll soon enter. She takes no notice, she's seen it all before, and Harold is once again disappointed.

She gives him a Jaguar for his birthday, and he promptly converts it into a classy hearse. Harold has a morbid curiousity about death. He drives the hearse to the funeral of someone he doesn't know, as he likes to do on occasion, and there he meets Maude, a septagenarian free spirit who also likes funerals. She offers him some licorish and introduces herself to a reluctant Harold. The film still above is of their first meeting.

From there Harold goes from being embarrassed and put off by Maudes carefree attitude to falling madly in love with her, completely misunderstanding her live-in-the-moment and to the fullest existance. He only knows that she's everything he's never experienced before and he wants to with her always. She ends up teaching him how to live and freeing him from the prison he's made of his life. The ending is brilliant.

In between are many comedically brilliant scenes from one of the all time great actresses and an up and coming actor, Bud Cort, whom I feel never did realize his full potential. Ruth Gordon Jones (October 30, 1896 – August 28, 1985) lived a full and magnificent life. She began as an extra in silent films, made her way to Broadway, and then back to film. She won an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for Rosemary's Baby. She went on to appear in twenty-two more films and at least that many television appearances through her seventies and eighties, including such successful sitcoms as Rhoda (which earned her another Emmy nomination) and Newhart. She also guest-starred on the late episode Columbo: Try and Catch Me. She made countless talk show appearances, in addition to hosting Saturday Night Live in 1977.

Bud Cort was discovered in a revue by director Robert Altman, who subsequently cast him in two of his movies, MASH and Brewster McCloud (in which he played the title role). His success in those films led to the starring role in Harold and Maude. On Broadway, Cort appeared in the short-lived 1972 play Wise Child by Simon Gray. Cort was invited to live with the famous comedian Groucho Marx in his Bel Air mansion, and was present at Marx's death in 1977.

In 1979, Bud’s life nearly ended in a car accident on the Hollywood Freeway. From behind, he collided with an abandoned car blocking a lane into which he was turning. Years of plastic surgery, enormous hospital bills, a losing court case, and the disruption of his career ensued. Since, Cort has appeared in various film, stage and TV roles, but his career never really rose to it's potential. At least not in my opinion.

I hope if you've never seen Harold and Maude that you'll rent it. The film is number 45 on the American Film Institute's list of 100 Funniest Movies of all time, number 69 in its list for most romantic, and number 42 on Bravo's 100 Funniest Movies. In 1997, it was selected for preservation in the National Film Registry of the Library of Congress as being deemed "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant."

Down At The Dirty Dog

2009-04-14T03:00:00.001+12:00

Arnie flexed his fist and looked at it as he continued his yarn for his captivated buddies. "I told him if he didn't shut his piehole I was going to put this right into it for him." He looked around and Steve and Frank nodded and muttered their approval.

Arnie, taking a sip of his Guinness, nodded along with them and went on. "He puffed himself up and gave me the evils, but I could see he wasn't going to do anything. He knew I could kick his ass, he did."

Frank jabbed his finger at Arnie. "Damn right he did!" He slapped Arnie on the back. "You're the man, Arnie. You'd never take any shit, and that's only right. Did you punch his lights out?"

Arnie took another swig and wiped his mouth. "Naw, everybody could see he didn't have anything to bring. I made my point, you know?"

The others nodded their assent as Arnie's eyes darted among them, looking for any tells. "Anyway, I could have, and he knew it and I knew it, and so did everyone else." He put his glass down hard on the bar for emphasis. There were grunts of approval all around.

Frank rubbed his jaw, looking thoughtful. "That reminds me of the time this guy was eyeing up my girlfriend, you remember Jeannie, at a football game. I saw him looking, you know? I didn't think much of it, she is hot after all. But when I went to get some beer and a couple of dogs I came back and he was talking to her!"

Steve growled his disapproval. "What an asshole! What did you do?"

"Well, I went over and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. He said he was just being friendly, can you believe that? I told him to get back to his seat or i'd kick his ass."

Arnie grunted and high-fived Frank. "You gotta keep those horn dogs in line, man."

"So, what did he say?" Steve was leaning over his beer in anticipation.

"Well, he said there was no reason to get agro and he left, that's what. He knew damn well i'd let him have it, you bet." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Jeannie was kinda pissed off, but you know how women are."

Arnie rolled his eyes, Steve just shook his head. "Yeah, what are you gonna do?"

Frank and Arnie were looking at Steve and he didn't need any further prompting. "Yeah, a couple of months ago this guy at the airport tried to cut me off in the check in line, you know? Man, I hate it when that happens. Acted like he was there before me. I stepped in front of him and he got all bent out of shape. I put my finger in his chest and told him he didn't want to mess with me. He tried to grab my collar and I slapped his hand away and told him if he touched me again i'd put him the trash can."

Arnie was impressed. "Wow, then what happened?"

"Oh, a security guard came over and told us to chill out. The guy acted like I was lucky, but he knew the score."

Frank tipped his glass at Steve. "Damn right!"

The Friday night sessions at The Dirty Dog Saloon had become a tradition since the boys were all unattached the last few months and with Guinness on tap and the easy camraderie of many years of friendship they really didn't need much else. They moved to the pool table and started a game.

The Guinness was soon paired with shots of Jack Daniels and the evening was going well. Arnie kept looking at Steve, who seemed distracted. When Steve went to the bathroom Arnie said to Frank, "Hey, you notice something seems to be up with Steve?"

"Yeah, something's on his mind. I think he misses his old girlfriend or something."

When Steve came back he took his next shot and then put his cue down. "Listen guys, I just wanna say something, and I don't know why, but I don't want you thinking...well, you know, that i'm an asshole or anything." He picked the cue back up and held it as if trying to hide behind it. "It's just that, well, I didn't really get into it with that guy at the airport." He downed a shot of Jack. "He tried to cut me off and I just gave him a dirty look." He looked back and forth between Arnie and Frank, looking uncomfortable. "I mean, I would have let him have it. I would." He trailed off and called the waitress over for another round.

Frank and Arnie muttered their understanding, but the mood had shifted. A couple of shots and beers later Arnie spoke up. "Well, listen guys, you know how it is. We're macho, right? I mean, we can handle ourselves." Nods of approval. "I didn't really tell that guy to shut his piehole." He studied his next shot and didn't look up. Steve and Frank waited. "Well, what I mean is, I didn't have to, right?"

The pool game ended and they drifted back to the bar. Frank looked reflective and then blurted out, "Oh for Christ's sakes, I didn't really care about that guy eyeing up Jeannie, I mean, i'm a real man, you know?"

Steve and Arnie didn't say anything. "Hey, it doesn't mean I wouldn't have let him have it."

A couple of minutes of small talk later Arnie stood up and reached for his jacket. "Guys, i'm going fishing tomorrow. Got an early wakeup call, I better hit it." The other two seemed relieved and they all said their goodbyes and headed out the door. They went their separate ways, but each looked back at the others as they went. The Friday evenings at The Dirty Dog were no more.

Chocolate, Glorious Chocolate

2009-04-13T03:00:00.002+12:00

Rich, smooth, creamy and delicious. Chocolate. Bet you've eaten some lately. More than some for many of you. Much more. It's Easter, and what would Easter be without chocolate? So today, some information on glorious, glorious chocolate.

The word chocolate comes from the Aztecs of Mexico, and is derived from the Nahuatl word xocolatl which is a combination of the words, xocolli, meaning bitter, and atl, which is water. The Aztecs associated chocolate with Xochiquetzal, the goddess of fertility. But they didn't have sugar, and they used chocolate as a beverage. A bitter, nasty one. Go figure.

Several types of chocolate can be distinguished. Pure, unsweetened chocolate contains primarily cocoa solids and cocoa butter in varying proportions. Much of the chocolate consumed today is in the form of sweet chocolate, combining chocolate with sugar. Milk chocolate is sweet chocolate that additionally contains milk powder or condensed milk. "White chocolate" contains cocoa butter, sugar, and milk but no cocoa solids. Chocolate contains alkaloids such as theobromine and phenethylamine, which have some physiological effects in humans, but the presence of theobromine renders it toxic to some animals, such as dogs and cats. It has been linked to serotonin levels in the brain. Dark chocolate has recently been promoted for its health benefits, as it seems to possess substantial amount of antioxidants that reduce the formation of free radicals.

Another chemical chocolate contains is a tiny amount of a psychoactive substance called anandamine, which happens to be one of the neuro-transmitters used within the brain for signalling between nerve cells. anadamide activated the same type of receptors in the brain that respond to cannabis. This might account for the widespread belief among cannabis users that chocolate enhances the effects of their drug, although it has be said that the amounts of anadamide in chocolate are so small as to make this doubtful.

Is chocolate an aphrodisiac? Many people think so, and while the case is unproven, it is known that chocolate is a suitable companion to sex. The mild buzz from the caffeine and theobromine can certainly be an enhancing factor for many. What is known is that chocolate has health benefits in general. In recent years a large body of scientific evidence has accumulated which shows that eating dark chocolate reduces the risk of cardiovascular disease. The reason why is that dark chocolate contains large amounts of flavonoids. Convincing evidence from more than 130 published studies indicates that flavonoids in chocolate can significantly reduce the risk of high blood pressure and cardiovascular disease. One analysis estimated that eating 50 grams of dark chocolate a day could reduce the risk of heart disease and stroke by 10% or more.

Another fact you can use to defend your ingestion of large amounts of chocolate this Easter is that chocolate eaters scored higher on measures of psychological and emotional well-being; they rated themselves to be happier, less lonely and with a more positive outlook on life than those who did not eat chocolate.

So now that we can justify eating it, what's the best way? Well, not chewing it, sadly. To get the full on chocolate experience you need to let it melt in your mouth. You see, chocolate just happens to melt at body temperature, which unleashes the complex flavors and aromas of several hundred chemical components of cacao. The flavors can take several minutes to unfurl and develop fully. Chewing chocolate is like gulping good wine without stopping to taste it. True chocolate lovers exhale through the nose to get the maximum experience.

So, instead of devouring that chocolate bunny ears first, try taking a bite and letting it melt in your mouth and get the full experience.

Happy Easter!

The Black Cat

2009-04-12T03:00:00.000+12:00

Max ran down the steps and out the front door of his apartment building and sure enough, there was the cat again. For days now a black cat that didn't seem to belong to anyone on the street, as far as he could tell, had been turning up most anywhere he went. He deemed it odd enough that it was always near the apartment building whenever he came out, but the weird thing was the way it would turn up across town wherever he happened to go.

It was definitely the same cat. There was no mistaking the way it narrowed its eyes at him, and the tiny tufts of white hair at the tips of its ears. He ignored it and continued down the street, but he could feel it's eyes on the back of his head. Feeling creeped out, he hurried along, looking for a taxi. He jumped into the first one he saw and couldn't resist looking back to see if the cat was following. It wasn't, but he knew it would turn up again soon. He put it out of his mind and got out his briefing papers for the big meeting and lost himself in his work.

He got out of the cab, still going over the briefing papers and as he reached for the door handle there it was. It was just sitting there giving him that same squinty look, it's tail wrapped neatly around its body. Opening the door, he willed himself to just move on but something made him turn to the cat.

"Why? Why are you following me? What do you want?"

A woman who had come up behind him unnoticed gave him a quizzical look, and he hurried inside, his face burning. Running for an open elevator, he pushed the door close button before anyone could join him. He put his briefcase down and rubbed his face with exasperation. This is insane, he thought to himself. How in the hell could that cat have known where to find him, let alone have travelled that distance faster than the cab? He tried to reason it out. Of course, the cab had to stop at lights and stop signs. The cat must have run alongside and caught up at the lights. But why? What did it want? He put the briefing papers in his case and exited the elevator. He needed to focus; he had a presentation to give. Straightening his tie, he went in to the meeting room.

Doing his best to lose himself in the meeting, he asked lots of questions and gave comments as he could, forgetting the strange goings on. His turn came up and he went up to the front and got into his PowerPoint presentation. After the meeting, heading back to his desk he chatted up the new secretary and made a mental note of the possibility of asking her out soon. Hoping she wasn't a cat person, he caught himself and grinned. Back at his desk he made some calls and finished off his day.

Leaving the building after work he looked around, half expecting to see the cat waiting outside, but it wasn't there. Hailing a cab, he headed off to meet some friends for drinks. Being in a celebratory mood because the meeting had gone well he was really looking forward to a good time. The manager had come by his desk not long after the meeting to tell him that his presentation was outstanding. He tipped the cab driver a little extra and headed for the pub doors.

Stopping dead in his tracks he couldn't believe his eyes. There it was, sitting in that same pose, giving him that look. His good mood deflating quickly he stormed toward the cat and tried to shoo it away. It looked at him a moment longer then rose slowly and sauntered off, giving him a backward look and then disappearing around the corner. Several passers-by frowned at him and an elderly lady shook her cane at him and threatened to call the S.P.C.A. and report him. He waved her off and went inside to let the revels begin. Nothing was going to ruin his night.

Everyone was in a party mood and the drinks flowed freely. Max was the life of the party, bordering on manic. Whooping it up and making the most of a good time, he made quite a spectacle of himself and the bartender warned him twice to keep it down. The other guests were starting to stare, but Max kept it up. His friends tried to get him to simmer down, but it was clear something had gotten in to him. The bar maid, having finally had enough told the bartender she couldn't serve him anymore and that was that.

Wiping his hands on a towel, the bartender came out to the tables and put his hand on Max's shoulder and told him it was time for him to leave. Max's friends all looked like they'd rather be anywhere else and wouldn't meet his eyes. Max, embarrassed by the scene told the bartender what he could be with his suggestion and took a swing at him. The bartender ducked it easily and put him in a half nelson and frog marched him to the door.

Shoving him through he gave one last hard push from the middle of the sidewalk, propelling Max out into the street. Max hit the blacktop hard and got to his hands and knees, dazed and disoriented. He turned his head and saw a car coming straight for him and tried to stand up, but he was dizzy and moving slow. From out of nowhere a black streak flew in front of him, just above his head. The driver saw the movement and then Max struggling to get up in the roadway and swerved with only inches to spare. Max could hear him swearing out of the open window as he passed, barely missing an oncoming car.

Max got to his feet, adrenalin pumping now and swivelled his head around, trying to figure out what had saved him. At the opposite curb sat the black cat, sitting calmly as though it had been there all along. Max could swear it had a self-satisfied look on its face. The cat got up and walked over to him as he made it back to the safety of the sidewalk. It rubbed against his leg and looked up and meowed, then sauntered off down the street.

Big Brother Gets Closer

2009-04-11T03:00:00.001+12:00

I'm not a conspiracy theorist by any stretch of the imagination. Neither do I consider myself more than mildly paranoid. However, when I read about governments making moves to collect data on private citizens with no history of subversive behaviour whatsoever, I don't get paranoid, but I do get concerned. This is one of those times.

Britain's Home Office is looking seriously at the idea of monitoring Facebook, My Space and Bebo, requiring all social networking sites to keep data on every member, who their friends are, and who they have contact via their personal pages. This comes on top of plans to store information about every phone call, email and Internet visit made by everyone in the United Kingdom.

Given all this on top of America's Homeland Security Act and similar moves all over the western world I have to think George Orwell will be wearing a wry smile on his face if he's looking on from whatever afterlife there may be. There has never been a better cover than the "war on terror" for government spying on its citizens. I'm reminded of a song by Kris Kristopherson titled The Law Is For Protection Of The People. One of the last parts of the lyrics goes like this:

So thank your lucky stars you've got protection
Walk the line, and never mind the cost
And don't wonder who them lawmen was protecting
When they nailed the saviour to the cross.

I'm not a Christian, but the sentiment remains the same. Too many people are too willing to give up privacy and freedom when those who are supposed to be saving us apply fear in big doses.

However, Vernon Coaker, a Home Office minister sees it differently. In an exchange with the Liberal Democrat home affairs spokesman Tom Brake he stated: "It is absolutely right to point out the difficulty of ensuring we maintain a capacity to deal with crime and issues of national security - and where that butts up against privacy."

This tendency for conservative governments to look first and foremost to curtailing the liberties of it's citizens in the name of fighting crime and terrorism should be alarming all of us. Wherever they choose to trample the liberties of their citizens they should be voted out, and it should be made clear to them why. There is no demonstrable evidence that fear mongering and curtailing of rights can or will protect anyone in any way. It's all smoke and mirrors, and we need a grass roots uprising to put a stop to it.

Isabella Sankey, policy director at Liberty, an independent human rights organisation which works to defend and extend rights and freedoms in England and Wales, said: "Even before you throw social networking sites into the mix, the proposed central communications database is a terrifying prospect. It would allow the government to record every email, text message and phone call and would turn millions of innocent Britons into permanent suspects."

Similar agendas have been voiced here in New Zealand, and with a new conservative government in power, and getting more conservative every day, i'm sure we'll be hearing more such ideas here. I'm hopful Kiwis will be wise enough to see such moves for what they are, the thin edge of a wedge designed to take away our liberties.

How To Cheat At Poker

2009-04-10T03:00:00.001+12:00

Louie let out an exasperated sigh and took his hand off of his forehead, fixing Stanley with a determined look. "Now look, Stanley, i'm gonna explain this again, slowly, and I want you to listen carefully, ok?" He looked deep into Stanley's eyes. "It goes like this: a pair beats high card. Two pair beats a pair. Three of a kind beats two pair. A straight beats three of a kind. A flush beats a straight. A full house beats a flush. Four of a kind beats a full house. A straight flush beats a four of a kind, and a royal flush beats a straight flush. You got that now?"

Stanley's lips were still moving, as they had been through the whole recitation. He looked earnestly at Louie, nodding his head. "Hey Louie, what's a flush again?"

Louie developed a sudden tic in his right eye, but forced a smile onto his face. "A flush..." His voice cracked a bit and he swallowed and continued, "A flush is five cards all of the same suit, you know, spades, diamonds, clubs, hearts. That's the order of importance, too. A club flush is beaten by a diamond flush. Ok?"

Stanley frowned, but nodded. "Ok, Louie." He chewed his lip for a minute. "Um, Louie, why we gotta play poker?"

"I told you Stanley, my bookie is giving me grief. I need some cash quick. We go to this game I got lined up, you give me the signals i'm gonna teach you and that way I can signal you to drop out or play. That way we double our chances, see? I got a couple of other tricks up my sleeve, but I need you there. Ok?"

"But Louie, isn't that like, cheating?"

Louie shifted in his seat. "Oh, no, Stanley, not at all. It's just, um, having an edge, you know?"

Stanley nodded. "Ok, Louie. So you gonna teach me the signals now?"

They worked on signals, including scratches and taps until Stanley's attention span couldn't handle any more, then they played a practice game. A few minor hitches, but Stanley seemed to get it for the most part and there wasn't enough time anyway, the game was on that night, the only one everyone Louie had lined up could make it.

He sent Stanley out for drinks and chips a couple of fresh decks while he went over his strategies in his mind. He couldn't help but worry, but there was no one else he could trust to keep their mouth shut, and he could buy Stanley off with a few bucks and get himself out of the hole if it all went to plan.

When Stanley got back they went over the order of importance again, and Stanley still struggled but seemed to get there in the end. Louie said a few Hail Marys under his breath just in case.

The boys began showing up at eight and Louie introduced Stanley around. Louie mixed drinks and got things loosened up, but he could see his poker buddies were sceptical of the new guy. One of the guys, Al, asked Louie on the side if this Stanley guy was really up for the game and Louie assured them he had heard Stanley was a good player, but that he didn't really know him all that well.

They sat down at the card table and cut for draw. Stanley won it and dealt well. Louie breathed a sigh of relief. The first hand was a wash, everyone folded and they all anteed up again. The deal passed around the table and it was going well. Stanley was having beginner's luck, he signalled a flush on the third hand with Louie holding a straight and everybody else holding back, so he scratched his ear to let Stanley know to bow out. Stanley's eyebrows furrowed for a moment, but then he remembered what the ear scratch meant and folded and Louie's straight took a nice pot.

Louie excused himself to take a leak. He needed to unclench a bit, he was too wound up, worried that Stanley would screw up. He went to the bathroom and threw some water on his face and took some deep breaths and went back to the game. He got there just in time to hear one of the guys giving Stanley the third degree and changed the subject.

Two hours into the game Louie was sitting on a mountain of chips, and the tension was getting thick. Al was the only other player doing at all well. Louie knew he had to take Al down to walk away with everything, and counting the chips on the table, he was going to need it. He began signalling Stanley to stay in when he had a high hand and that transferred some of the wealth to Stanley's pile, making the others less suspicious.

At last the big hand arrived. Louie was sitting on a spade flush, but he couldn't be sure what Al had. He had been playing it tight up to now, but he was seeing every raise, and while Louie figured he might be bluffing to try to win big and stay in the game, he just might have something big. He signalled to Stanley and Stanley looked at his hand once more and signalled that he had two pair. Louie decided to go for broke and let Stanley know to drop out.

Louie went all in, daring Al to match him. Al hesitated, then shoved all of his chips into the center and called. Louie grinned from ear to ear and laid down his flush and reached for the pile.

"Not so fast, Louie." Al was grinning too. "Full house, Jacks over sevens."

Louie's face crumpled and Al raked in his winnings, hooting his delight. With the game over everyone said their goodnights and were gone. Louie sat at the table with his head in his hands. Stanley looked like he's lost his only friend.

"Gee, i'm sorry Louie. I tried, I really did."

"Oh, I know, Stanley, don't worry. I'll find a way to make good. Besides, if you only had two pair, you couldn't help anyway. So what else did you have with the two pair?"

Stanley thought for a minute. "Um, a six."

Louie thought about the cards that had been played and then frowned. "Stanley, what was the two pair you had?"

"Aces, Louie. I had two pair of aces and a six!"

Was That Some Kind Of Joke?

2009-04-09T03:00:00.001+12:00

The difference between satire and sarcasm is the difference between surgery and butchery.
— Edward Nichols

Ask any ten people what the difference between sarcasm and satire is and you'll probably find that only one or two can correctly delineate the difference. There may be many reasons why that's true, but I suspect the main one will be the perception we have of the intended sarcastic or satirical comment or vehicle for said sarcasm or satire.

When we agree with the sentiment that is being expressed, we're inclined to define it as satire, when we disagree we label it sarcasm. The reason I bring this up is that a friend was relating something he had heard on the radio that he didn't like and he called it sarcasm. When he related the exchange in question, it was immediately clear to me that it had been meant as a satire.

This is, and always has been the difficulty with edgy humor. Throw irony into the mix and it becomes all the more fraught with peril. Not so, however with parody. Parody is almost always understood immediately, even when the observer doesn't care for a parody of the subject. That, I suspect is because parody is a gentle form of humor that isn't intended to demean the object in any way. Therefore, parody is safe and mostly approved of. Parody takes an established work, be it a piece of writing, a song or a movie and pokes fun at the subject matter without making any judgement call on it. The songs of Weird Al Yankovich are a prime exampe. The downside of parody is that it tends to fade away with time. It has no real substance and therefore doesn't linger in the mind.

Satire, on the other hand, is parody with an edge. Its purpose is to expose flaws in its target and point them out with humor, often incorporating irony as well. A modern day example is South Park. A very satirical show that also uses irony and sarcasm to drive home its point, and that second aspect is the likely reason many people are put off by it. Well-honed satire that doesn't rely on sarcasm is usually better received.

Sarcasm has only one intent, and that is to wound its target. The shortcoming of sarcasm is that even if those who hear it agree with the sentiment being expressed they may be inclined to have an unfavorable view of source of the sarcasm simply because it is so negative. When sarcasm is employed it rarely has any other point to make than that the target is worthy of contempt. For this reason, the quote at the beginning of this piece is correct, sarcasm is butchery. It has no intention of pointing out why it's target is worthy of contempt or what might be done to improve it, it merely sets out to wound whatever it finds to be beneath contempt.

So then, clearly satire is the surgery to sarcasm's butchery. It's intent is to demean it's target, but with the intention of pointing out why it deserves derision and usually it seeks to point the way to a better situation. Irony is often the tool used to point out how and why the target is wrong. Irony, however, is yet another term many people understand only vaguely.

If you ask a person in an offhand manner to define irony, most will struggle to do so. Most people know irony when the see or hear it, but it's exact definition will elude them. For the record, irony is what occurs when the outcome of a situation is the exact opposite of what was intended. That is why it's so useful in satire.

To sum it all up, parody is gentle fun that has little or no substance; it's fun, but ultimately toothless. Satire is parody with fangs, it seeks to persuade that a situation or individual is wrong and in need of change, but it does so with intelligence and wit. Sarcasm is naked aggression with no intent of redemption for its target, and therefore often defeats it's own purpose by creating sympathy for it's target. Irony is the spice that can be added to any of the above, but shines most especially when used as an adjunct to satire.

One Day On Planet Earth

2009-04-08T03:00:00.000+12:00

Yahweh, having come upon an inviting looking cafe sat down at an outdoor table and ordered a beer. He took a sip and nodded his approval. They certainly had gotten up to a lot since he created them, he decided. He had created this particular universe many eons ago and had decided to scatter life here and there on suitable planets and then moved on, as was his wont. With nothing in mind he had decided to look in on this corner of this universe and see what had occurred. It was more than he expected.

He sat quietly observing the comings and goings of the inhabitants, amused by the means of transportation they had devised for themselves and wondering how long it would take them to create something new that wouldn't destroy this planet. Surely they could see the importance of doing so. He had overheard some of them complaining about the cost of the fuel they used to power these contraptions and was surprised that it hadn't occurred to them that using a non-renewable resource was going to become a problem at some point, but then of course they didn't tend to reason beyond their average life span. He had built that in to them to make things more interesting for them, and it certainly had.

As he sat enjoying the show he cocked his head at the approach of one who seemed not of the usual sort. The other broke into a grin and sat down at Yahweh's table.

"Hello Yahweh, fancy meeting you here!"

Yahweh regarded this handsome apparition and called upon his powers to put a name to this being, then broke in to a grin. "Ba'al, what a surprise! What brings you to this universe?"

Ba'al shrugged. "Same as you, I suppose. In between creations at the moment and thought i'd see what's been happening here. I'd forgotten all about this place until recently."

Yahweh chuckled. "Me too. Interesting stuff, eh?"

"I'll say. Not at all like I would have thought. They certainly have been busy. Breeding like rabbits, too! More than six billion here now, i'd say."

Yahweh nodded. "Sounds about right. I want to have a better look around, go to some of the other continents and see how the different topographies that developed have affected the lifestyles they've devised. I had half expected there wouldn't be much to see here, but it's quite interesting."

Ba'al regarded the beverage Yahweh was imbibing. "What's that?" he inquired.

"They call it beer. Not bad, really. Fermented grain. I knew it wouldn't take them long to come up with it, after all, I created them." Let me order you one. He motioned for the waiter to bring another beer.

"Well, you created some of them, old sport." Ba'al looked askance and waited for the inevitable retort.

"Well, I don't know how much you've looked around, but they have a book they wrote in which I am regarded at the Supreme Being here. Sure, they mention you and the other Elohim, as they refer to you all, but still, I am number one here."

Yahweh fixed Ba'al with an even look.

Ba'al grinned. "Doesn't really matter, though, does it. They've interbred so much they're hardly but one race now, though they seem to regard outer differences as important. Strange that."

Yahweh nodded. "Yes, i'd say another five hundred years or so should see that off. Have you had a look at this book they call the Bible? They need to lock that one away for a few hundred years until they get some perspective. They certainly are strange. Claiming that I wrote the thing! Such an odd notion, wouldn't you say? I mean, if i'd wanted them to have a manual there would be no doubt, but honestly, I was just having a bit of fun when I created this universe. You'd think they would have realized that by now."

Ba'al finished his beer and ordered another. "Yes, they're a strange lot alright. While I did create some of the races, it was, after all, your universe. I just added a few personal touches. Never did hear from you on that." He looked expectantly at Yahweh while he enjoyed his next beer.

"Oh, of course it wasn't a problem. If it was I would have just eliminated your creations then, wouldn't I?"

"Well, you said yourself you had moved on as soon as you were done. I'll have to have a look at this book they wrote. What did you say it was called? The Bible?"

"Yes, that's one of them. There are others. There's the Quran. Anyway, all stuff and nonsense, but do have a look before you leave here, it's good for a chuckle." He reflected for a moment and the continued. "You know, i've half a mind to do a little interfering, but I don't suppose I will. I'll check back in on them in a few eons and see if they're still around. I'm curious to see if they can get themselves out of the environmental jam they've created."

"Ah well, all good then. Good stuff this beer. Clever by half, they are. Well I suppose i'll have a look around some of the other corners of this universe and then be off. I'm supposed to meet up with Anat and give her some feedback on a new galaxy she wants to populate. It may be that she'll have to move a black hole first. I promised her i'd look into it."

Yahweh nodded. "Good to see you again, Ba'al. My regards to Anat. I suppose i'll go see what else they've been up to on this planet."

The waiter caught two flashes of light out of the corner of his eye and turned to the table where the two men had been drinking beer and talking. Blinking and shaking his head he tried to work out where they could have gotten to so quickly. Unable to make any sense of the inexplicable and not wanting to engage the worrying thought in the back of his mind he went back to the kitchen to place some orders.

Che Guevara - Um, Who?

2009-04-07T03:00:00.001+12:00

His is arguably one of the most recognizable faces in the world, and yet, to anyone under 45 or so, he is known only by his name and his face. Little of his place is history is known to anyone born after the 60's, and to anyone born from the 80's onward, he is a fashion accessory and nothing more. Che Guevara (few know the surname associated with the face, to most he is just Che) sells. Put his face on just about anything and it's a license to print money. Indeed, there is a tee shirt available with his image and the statement underneath "I don't know who the fuck this is."

I've always been fascinated by the way pop culture subsumes everything in it's path. It's a dumbing down process that's like a juggernaut. It's worrying, but I see little than can be done about it. In an age where we have people who are famous for being famous I suppose it's to be expected. I realize writing a piece about him is like shining a flashlight in pitch-black stadium, but i'll give it a go anyway.

Ernesto "Che" Guevara (June 14, 1928 – October 9, 1967), commonly known as Che Guevara, El Che, or simply Che, was an Argentine Marxist revolutionary, politician, author, physician, military theorist, and guerrilla leader. He was instrumental is the Cuban revolution that overthrew U.S.-backed Cuban dictator Fulgencio Batista and installed Fidel Castro as ruler.

As a young medical student he travelled extensively in Latin America and was greatly affected by the endemic poverty he witnessed there. His experiences and observations during these trips led him to conclude that the region's ingrained economic inequalities were an intrinsic result of monopoly, capitalism, neo-colonialism, and imperialism. As many young, idealist people do, he concluded that outright revolution was the only way to bring about change. I wonder what he would think of the grinding poverty that communism continues to bring to Cuba. It's true that American embargos contribute to that situation, but it's the inherent unworkability of Communism that is the biggest culprit.

He was a prolific writer and diarist, composing a seminal manual on the theory and practice of guerrilla warfare, along with an acclaimed memoir about his motorcycle journey across South America. Guevara left Cuba in 1965 to incite revolutions first in an unsuccessful attempt in Congo-Kinshasa and later in Bolivia, where he was captured with the help of the CIA and executed.

Guevara evolved into a quintessential icon of leftist-inspired movements. His execution contributed greatly to that fact. Both notorious as a ruthless disciplinarian who unhesitatingly shot defectors and revered by supporters for his rigid dedication to professed doctrines, Guevara remains a controversial and significant historical figure. As a result of his perceived martyrdom, poetic invocations for class struggle, and desire to create the consciousness of a "new man" driven by "moral" rather than "material" incentives, he long remained an icon of the fight for equality.

As we see now, though, he has been reduced to a marketing tool for the very establishment he so detested. The irony of that is delicious. Now we have a situation where interviews with people on the street questioned about him produce comments like this:

A young man wearing a Che tee shirt is asked about the image. He states: "He was the man who invented those, uh, Mojitos", naming the rum drink synonymous with Cuba.

An Asia woman says she likes Che because she "Admires his lifestyle, he's a punk." Notice she uses the present tense. Some people don't even realize he's been dead for 42 years.

The famous image of Che was captured on March 5, 1960 by Alberto Korda, a fashion photographer in pre-Castro Havana. Che had stepped onto a stage next to Castro at a mass funeral after a shipment of munitions had exploded at Havana harbour, and Korda, a newspaper photographer barely had time to capture the image before Che disappeared back in to the crowd.

Today that image in legendary, but the story behind the legend is barely known, and with each new generation seems doomed to be nothing more than a nameless face on coffee mugs, shoulder bags and tee shirts. Such is life.

The Saddest Clown

2009-04-06T03:00:00.000+12:00

Puddles sat down against the wall and got out his ducky begging bowl. His head still pounded from the night before, but he sure wasn't going to be able to drown his sorrows again until he got some more money, and these days this was all that was left to him as a means to that end.

Wearing his clown getup worked out well for him as long as he didn't spend too many days in one location. The novelty factor wore off quickly and the coins dried up. He'd learned that a while back. He got the occasional hard look from guys he knew must be clowns themselves, but he really didn't give a damn anymore. He put on his best sad face as the passers-by glanced at him and then fished out some coins. If guilt was what it took, so be it.

He was having a productive day, this being a new location, and he was becoming practiced at blocking out the pain while he worked. He focused outward, studying the people walking around, trying to imagine what their lives must be like.

Certainly not like his. They had roofs over their heads. Loved ones to go home to. Jobs, cars, lives. They didn't know what it was like. If they were lucky they never would. He fished around in his pockets for something to eat, but came up empty-handed. He was no stranger to hunger. A car went by with a load of teenagers who jeered at him. He didn't look up.

Soon he had enough for a little liquid refreshment and he upped stakes and hit the liquor store nearby. He put the cashier at ease with some light banter. That's what clowns were supposed to do, make people laugh. Pocketing his paper bag of fortitude he moved to a new location he'd been wanting to try near a mall. There were always lots of people around. He parked himself and took a couple of covert hits and then got out his ducky bowl and settled in.

As the alcohol kicked in his thoughts turned to where he might bed down for the night. The park was good, but you had to be careful. He'd nearly been robbed a few times, and if he lost his clown gear he'd lose what was left of his mind. Waiting for a lull in the action, he got out his bottle again and took a couple of quick swigs.

Should have kept it clean while I was clowning, he thought to himself. Wouldn't be here now. Like this, with nothing and nowhere to go. This was no life, but what was life anyway? Nothing but pain. A well-dressed couple walked by and he put on his face again. The man dropped a fiver into his ducky. Lucky day, he thought to himself bitterly.

Feeling a pair of eyes on him he looked around and saw a little girl approaching, all grins and giggles. Great, he thought to himself, a kid. Why do they always want to talk to me? Can't they see i'm not a real clown anymore? Trying to ignore her, he looked the other way. Soon she came and stood right in front of him.

"Hi. What's your name?" she asked.

Sighing, he looked up. "Puddles."

"I like that," she grinned. "Do you juggle?"

"Not any more, kid, I lost my balls," he growled, hoping that should give her a clue.

"Can't you get some new ones?" She asked innocently.

They just don't get it, he thought to himself, shaking his head. She tugged at the bandana she wore on her head and regarded him with seriousness.

"You seem kinda sad. Are you one of those sad clowns?"

He bit his tongue. "Yeah, kid, they don't get much sadder than me. Where's your folks?"

"I'm here with my mom, but we got separated. She told me to wait for her outside the doors if that happened." She pointed in the direction of the mall entrance. "I like clowns."

"Yeah, everybody likes clowns. That's why i'm here, you know?" he asked. Maybe sarcasm would work.

"I think it's great you can make people feel good. I like to make people laugh too. I hope I can keep doing that for awhile."

Man, I really don't need this, he thought to himself. How can I make her go away without scaring her? He looked away, thinking if he didn't engage with her anymore she might get bored.

"Have you always been a clown?"

She's killing my take, he thought bitterly. "Yeah, i've always been a clown. That's how you end up like this."

"End up like what?" she frowned.

Fervently hoping her mother would come looking for her, he regarded her more closely. She seemed rather pale and a bit frail. "Oh, nothing. So what's with the bandana? You don't seem to have any hair."

"I have cancer. I might not be around for much longer."

She said it so matter-of-factly it rocked him to the core. Before he could catch himself a tear rolled down his cheek. Damn, he thought to himself. Did I just get sucker-punched, or what?

"You..." he couldn't finish.

The little girl looked toward the mall entrance as a woman called out. "That's my mom. I gotta go. It was nice meeting you Puddles. Thanks for everything."

As she ran off he buried his face in his hands and the dam burst. He got up awhile later after something inside him that had been dormant for a long time came to life. He packed up his gear and went to the nearest paper rack and bought the afternoon edition. Walking down the street he turned to the help wanted section and began reading in earnest. He dropped his bottle in the next rubbish bin he came to.

John Corcoran - The Teacher Who Couldn't Read

2009-04-05T03:00:00.000+12:00

I recently became aware of a man named John Corcoran. His story is quite amazing. He is an American author who read only at a second-grade level until the age of 48. He managed to graduate from high school and college, and to work as a high school teacher and real estate developer without being discovered. Not only did he work as a teacher, he taught high school English for 17 years in Oceanside, California.

That anyone could pull off such an amazing feat makes him or her an extraordinary human being as far as i'm concerned. I'm sure a lot of parents, after they found out their children's English teacher was illiterate must have been outraged, but the fact is, he taught them, they learned, and they graduated. The sheer will and discipline that must have required is breathtaking.

John Corcoran was illiterate because he was dyslexic, but it was never diagnosed in school. He was one of six siblings, and his parents were too overwhelmed to notice the deficit. His teachers at school assigned him to the "dumb row" but were distracted by his disciplinary problems and soon forgot about his reading difficulties.

I remember this sort of thing happening when I was in grade school. There were those who had difficulty with reading, and dyslexia wasn't understood back then. Those kids usually ended up in the "special" class with the retarded children. It makes me wonder what became of them.

Corcoran managed to graduate high school and then attend two junior colleges and then the University of Texas at El Paso. Thanks to an athletic scholarship and aggressive, continual cheating, he was able to graduate in 1961 with a bachelor's degree in education and business administration.

His first job out of university was, as I stated, as a high school teacher. His responsibilities included teaching English grammar. On his personal website, Corcoran describes some of the tricks he used to manage this.

"The students wrote their names on a seating chart and then pronounced them for me. To avoid reading the list, I asked them the next day to call out their names, claiming I wanted them to get to know one another. "

I can understand that some would think of this man as a fraud, but there's another side to this. A lot of people like John Corcoran end up living off of the rest of us. The live unremarkable lives, never accomplish anything, and live without imagination, giving nothing back to their communities and pretty much just being a drain on society.

To me, John Corcoran embodies the spirit of ingenuity. He went from being a troubled child who couldn't understand what he was supposed to be learning, and thus a trouble maker, written off by the very people who had a responsibility to help him, to being a success in life to a degree that supposedly better men than him never achieve.

He taught for 17 years before becoming a real estate developer in 1977. He was successful for ten years, and when his business faltered, he resolved to finally learn how to read. After thirteen months of tutoring, he was literate at a 12th grade level.

At the age of 70 he wrote a book about his life: The Teacher Who Couldn't Read. He has since become a spokesman for literacy programs, as well as running his own foundation to help people learn to read. He has appeared widely in the American media, including an appearance on the Oprah Winfrey Show, National Public Radio's Eye on Books, and interviews in USA Today and other publications.

So my hat is off to John Corcoran. Living proof that personal responsibility, determination and will can overcome any obstacle.

The Magnificent Potatoes

2009-04-04T03:00:00.001+13:00

Jack leaned across the table as if he were about to reveal a profound truth or a great hidden secret. "I'll tell you," he said, "I like to work with potatoes. There are things you can do with a potato that most people have never dreamed of."

Barry and Ruth looked at him, and then at each other, and then back at Jack. He had their attention. He pressed on. "Oh, I know, but trust me, I can back up what I say." He flashed an enigmatic smile and then looked in the direction of a box that sat at the corner of the table. "C'mon, let us out!"

Barry and Ruth were a bit startled, but recovered their composure fairly quickly. "Um, wow, now that's a first." Barry was impressed. A different voice emanated from the box this time. "We wanna do our stuff."

Ruth wasn't sure what to think. "You mean to tell me..." She trailed off, not quite sure how to express her thought. She looked around the spacious room, decorated in a show biz theme, with circus posters and lots of plush red velvet. A silk top hat sat on a small table near a large window that provided all the light in the room.

"Oh yes, i'm quite serious." Jack looked at her with supreme confidence. "What's going on out there, we can't see a thing!" Jack spoke to the box. "Hold on, you'll get your chance soon enough."

He turned his attention back to the couple. "So as I was saying, I really love working with potatoes. I've been doing it for five years now, and it's really quite a good show. I'll demonstrate in a moment, but I want to stress the uniqueness of this. You won't find anyone else that can do what I do with these potatoes. I guarantee success in this matter. If the show isn't everything I say it is, money back. You can't ask for more that that, can you?"

Barry was deep in thought. Ruth shifted a bit and then tried again. "So, you mean to tell me you your potatoes can not only talk, but they perform as well?"

Jack spread his hands expansively. "My potatoes are a class act all the way. Did I mention I have references? Talk to them, they'll vouch for me."

Barry nodded his head. "Well it certainly sounds promising. You realize of course that we're dealing with a finicky audience here. Some of them have a rather short attention span you know." He grinned conspiratorially. Ruth gave him a look, but couldn't hide a slight smile.

She looked thoughtful again. "Hey, your references, they wouldn't happen to be potatoes, would they?"

They all laughed, but Jack was hoping it really have been meant in jest. "Well, no, but if you'd like some potato references, i'm sure that could be arranged also."

Ruth addressed the box. "So guys, what have you got to show us?"

"Who was that? Jack! Who you got out there? When are we on? We need to get warmed up you know."

Jack lifted the lid on the box and spoke into it. "In a minute guys, i'm giving you a nice intro. Be sure and do me proud."

Turning back to Barry and Ruth he grinned. "They're getting antsy in there. Are you ready to meet my potatoes?"

Barry gave Ruth and enquiring look and she waved her arm with a flourish. "Certainly, bring on the potato show."

Jack rubbed his hands together and then lifted the lid from the box and put it aside. He brought out the potatoes one by one and arranged them on a special platform he had set up for the demonstration. Each wore an elaborate costume and wore a tiny nametag. Jack handled each potato lovingly and with pride. He looked at them like they were his children. Ruth was touched.

She smiled at Barry. They wanted only the best, and could afford it, and she was hopeful this would be the unique entertainment they were looking for to make this as special as it could be.

For the next fifteen minutes Jack put on a show that was unlike anything they had ever seen. Each potato possessed a unique personality and spoke in a different voice, and each had its specialty to perform, from a circus strongman to a magician, to a rodeo potato with a Texan accent that really stood out.

Barry was enthralled, and Ruth could hardly contain her delight. When it was over they both gave a standing ovation. Jack, pleased, asked them what the verdict was. "So do you want to go ahead with it? It's two weeks from Saturday, isn't it?"

Barry nodded his approval. "Yes, we'd love to engage your services, Jack."

Ruth beamed her approval. "It's just the twist we were looking for. A ventriloquist who puts on a show using potatoes. It's a marvellous show, and perfect for a bunch of five and six year olds. Our son's birthday party will be the talk of the neighborhood for months."

Jack bowed with a flourish and showed them to the door. "See you two weeks from Saturday."

Alphainventions

2009-04-03T03:00:00.001+13:00

I have avoided writing a piece about Alphainventions up to now for a number of reasons. As a former programmer I can see that the site is in danger of crashing, which it has on a couple of occasions already, and I didn't want to be yet another of the thousands of people promoting it and thereby adding to the problem, but i've had a few conversations with Cheru Jackson and I feel he's on top of things, so here goes.

First, a big thank you to mister Jackson for creating the program. I know it took several months, and i'm sure there a log of bugs that had to be worked out. I know the work that goes in to programs like this having written a few myself, so I truly appreciate the effort.

Most of you reading this are probably users of Alphainventions yourself, so I won't bother talking about how it works. For those of you who don't know, I recommend going to Alphainventions.com and seeing for yourself. I've been using it for going on four months now, and I suppose the main thing it's given me, beside thousands of hits a day in traffic, is a much better sense of what's out there in the blogosphere.

There is such an incredible range of stuff to investigate, and I want to give a big hand to everyone who puts in the effort to share with the rest of us. I've encountered many wonderful blogs, several of which I follow on a daily basis. It's no mean feat coming up with new material on a daily basis. Those of us who do, and truly have something to say will understand.

I know many people you meet in your day-to-day life are unimpressed with blogging. There is a range of attitude towards the act, and some people are downright hostile to the idea. I find that those people are generally the ones who have never actually seen a blog and form their opinion based on what they've heard from others, or simply due to not having anything they think is worth sharing themselves. I feel sorry for them; I think they're selling themselves short.

I'm sure there are many, many reasons why people actually blog. For me, it was a way to keep myself writing, which i've been doing most of my life, but tended to get lazy about. Since starting my blog on January 1st. I haven't missed a single day of writing, and i'm on my way to becoming a photojournalist, inspired by the multitude of positive feedback i've received on both my writing and photography.

Getting back to Alphainventions, I have to say i'm mystified by the inclusion of categories. I use the ones relevant to my subject of the day, but I haven't seen any change in my numbers since this was instituted, nor do I notice any change in the traffic that scrolls past each hour.

Speaking of that traffic, what I have noticed is the huge jump in the gigabytes I now use, according to my server. I've had to pay an increase in my monthly fee because of it, but i'm loving the returns I get, so I don't really mind. I do turn it off now when i'm away to try to keep it down.

I'd love to hear from you bloggers about your experience with Alpha, i've read some pieces about it that were rather strange, people calling it a scam, people saying that their traffic only increases when the use it, but falls back when the don't. Folks, if you're not seeing a rise in your return visitors, Alpha is not to blame. I'd be thinking seriously about my content and what i'm offering if that were to happen to me, which fortunately it doesn't. Don't point the finger at Cheru, he's done an amazing job and well deserves the kudos he gets regularly.

So, yes, Alphainventions. A bloggers best friend. Thank you Cheru Jackson.

In The Cellar

2009-04-02T03:00:00.002+13:00

Frank awoke from sleep so sound he couldn't even begin to imagine anything at all. As his senses slowly came in to focus he realized he was lying on a very hard surface. The next thing that came to him was that he had a pounding headache.

Getting beyond the headache was difficult, but another body sensation was getting through just the same. He needed to take a leak, and badly at that. He managed to pull himself to a sitting position. As his hand touched the floor he felt a stickiness that made him queasy.

In addition, it was pitch black, wherever he was. For that matter, why in the hell didn't he know? He had never woken up in an unfamiliar place before. He had a vague recollection of having gone out to a party somewhere, that would explain the headache, but where was he now? He managed to get to his feet with quite a bit of effort, only to find that was very unsteady on his feet.

Unable to see anything, he fished around in his pocket for his lighter. It didn't help much, but enough to make out that he seemed to be in some sort of basement. How the hell had he gotten there? He couldn't remember. He made his way to a wall and felt along it until he came to a flight of cement stairs. Thankful that he had found a way out he climbed them slowly, using the feeble light from the lighter to keep from tripping up. He got to the top and groped for a door handle, but couldn't find one. He held the lighter closer, and to his horror discovered that what should have been a door was in fact a brick wall. The doorway had been sealed over.

A chill went down his spine, and for a moment he forgot all about his hangover. He dropped down heavily on a step and pondered his situation. There were two large pieces of wood propped against the bricks, as though holding up the wall. It made no sense at all. He tried not to consider the idea that he was trapped in this place, whatever it was, but the idea formed in his mind all the same, like a creeping nightmare that would not be denied.

What could he have done to cause someone to seal him into a basement? He vaguely remembered a story by Edgar Allen Poe wherein that very thing had happened. He tried desperately to remember what he had done. He went to a party. Yes, it was a co-workers party. She had invited him a week or so ago, and he had gone, and he had a good time. A little too good a time, apparently.

As he pondered his situation he realized that there was the smell of stale urine in the air. Reminded that he really needed to go, he made his way back down the stairs and groped his way to a corner and relieved himself. He moved a bit further and put his back against the wall and listened intently. Nothing, no sound at all. This was bad. He tried to get hold of himself and think things through, but his head was pounding.

He rubbed his eyes and gave himself a pep talk. He had to explore further, find out if there was another door. He groped his way along, not wanting to use his lighter too much because he hadn't refilled it recently and he was afraid it would give out. He moved along the wall, trying to remember which direction he had come from. As he did so, he tripped on something on the floor and landed face down, banging his left knee on the concrete floor, sending waves of pain up his leg.

He sat up quickly and cursed a blue streak. This certainly wasn't doing his hangover any good, but at least it was giving him other things to think about. He stood up and realized he had lost any sense of which direction he was facing. He got out his lighter, gave it a flick and inched forward cautiously. After a few hesitant steps he came to a wall and put the lighter away. He inched along the wall and realized, just as stepped into something wet and the smell of urine grew stronger that he had found his way back to where he had relieved himself. In other words, he was back to square one.

Despair was doing it's best to overtake him now, and he put his hands over his eyes and tried to remain calm. That Edgar Allen Poe story keep insisting on staying at the front of his thoughts, and he did his best to hold the idea that he was just scared, that no one would want to seal him into a basement to starve to death. That thought reminded him that he hadn't eaten for quite awhile and could really do with some food. He searched his pockets, but to no avail.

He mustered his will and began feeling his way along the wall again; stepping carefully to avoid whatever he had tripped over last time. This time when he reached the object he reached down and discovered it was large piece of wood like the ones propped against the wall at the top of the stairs. Well, at least he was making progress. He continued inching along the wall.

As he felt his way along he reached a seam in the wall. He got out his lighter and in the ever diminishing flame he could make out a hinge. He had found a door! He felt along it and realized it was metal. He felt a little further and came to a handle. Pushing down on it and leaning into the door he stumbled outside into bright daylight, which stabbed his eyes, causing him to close them and put his arm over his face. When he could bear the light he discovered he was at the steps of a basement door that led up to the sidewalk.

He staggered up the stairs and looked around. Ah yes. This was the neighborhood his co-worker lived in. Her apartment was a couple of blocks away. The night before began to come back to him and he remembered leaving and heading for the subway and needing to pee. There had been people around, but he had spotted this abandoned warehouse and had gone down the steps and through the door to relieve himself.

He couldn't remember anything after that, but he surmised he must have blacked out in the basement. He had really tied one on, he remembered people telling him he should quit. As he made his way down the street to the subway home the wind blew a flyer against his chest and he pulled it off and looked at it.

It read: Do you have a problem with alcohol? We know what's it's like and we can help. Confidentiality assured. Call 555-2341.

He crumpled up the flyer and tossed it aside heading for the subway.

Tom Robbins Wants You To Have A Happy Childhood

2009-04-01T03:00:00.000+13:00

Today's topic is one i've wanted to write about for some time now, and yet i've also avoided writing about him. Tom Robbins is, by far, my favorite author, and his books set me on the path that led to where I am today. I don't mean that in a general, gee i'm a devoted fan of the guy way, I really would not be living in New Zealand if it weren't for Tom Robbins. Well, his books anyway. I'll explain that as I go along.

His books are magic. Never have I encountered another author who writes the way he does. He breaks many of the rules of what great writing should be. He uses many adverbs and adjectives, he's given to run on sentences and flights of fancy that would produce pure drivel coming from a lesser writer, and he gets away with it. The only other author that comes close to his style is one that I suspect he was influenced by, and that's Kurt Vonnegut. Which is not to say that their works are similar at all, merely that they both have a unique style that flies in the face of the usual conventions of writing.

Since his first novel appeared in 1971, he has written just eight in total. In addition he wrote a collection of non-fiction essays, reviews, and short stories called Wild Ducks Flying Backwards. He has a new book coming out next month titled B Is For Beer, which is apparently a riff on beer, or beer as a platform for more of Tom's flights of fancy. We'll know soon enough. I suspect it's not another novel, which will be disappointing for many of his fans. Wild Ducks Flying Backwards was not well received by many for that very reason.

At any rate, getting back to that first novel, Another Roadside Attraction, it was that very same book, in that very same year that set me on the path that got me to where I am now. I was managing a used bookstore in San Francisco, and one day a box of books came in for trade. Among the paperbacks on offer was a dog-eared copy of Another Roadside Attraction. I wondered why such a new book was so well thumbed, so on my break I sat down and started reading it. I was hooked.

Here was a new author with a unique voice that spoke to me on many levels. As it turned out, I was to become one of millions of devoted fans. His second novel didn't come out until 1976, and I bought it and devoured it the minute it hit the bookshops. Then my life got complicated and I lost track of Tom until 1980. I was riding in the back of a pickup truck with a co-worker who was reading a book, and every couple of minutes he would start giggling. I asked him what he was reading, and he said it was this really wild book by a great author he'd just discovered. The book was Still Life With Woodpecker, and when I looked at the cover and saw it was Tom's latest I rushed out the next day and bought it. It remains to this day my favorite book of all time.

When his next one came out in 1984, Jitterbug Perfume, I waited in line for more than two hours to get an autographed copy, as I had heard he was going to be in town. I'm afraid I was completely tongue-tied and unable to utter a coherent sentence when it was my turn to have my book signed. There followed four more novels over the years, and the aforementioned Wild Ducks Flying Backward. Each is a gem in it's own right.

As to how his works got me to where I am, I joined an online literary discussion group in 1994, such groups were called newsgroups back then, that was supposed to be about Tom's works, but quickly devolved into a free for all, no holds barred bit of pandemonium which has survived over the years in one form or another. I currently have a discussion group called the Woodpecker-Gang, a tribute to my favorite novel. It was on the original group in 1995 that a woman joined who scared the hell out of me. She was the only person in the group who could handle me, so to speak, and after a couple of years of back and forth we began writing to each other off list. Six months later we fell in love. She lived in New Zealand, and asked to me come meet her to make sure what we had was real. It was, and here I am 11 years later. We've been married for 9.

So that's how Tom Robbins got me to New Zealand. As it turned out Still Life With Woodpecker was her favorite also. There's more to the story. There exists a copy of Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates, his seventh novel, which Tom personally inscribed for us after he heard the story of how we came together, but it never made it to us. That's another story altogether. His next novel, Villa Incognito has a character whose description fits me perfectly, and his surname is the same as mine. My name is unusual, there are only 900 some odd people in the world who have it, so it's highly likely that I was the inspiration for the character, though it's never been confirmed.

Anyway, Tom Robbins is an amazing author. I guess that's what I really set out to say here. If you haven't encountered his works yet, you really should give them a go. He has a devoted following all over the world, so it's likely that someone you know has read one of his works. If so, ask them about it. I'll bet they'll highly recommend him, as do I.

I'll close with my favorite quote, which has long been an inspiration in my life.

"It's never too late to have a happy childhood."

Tom Robbins

A Not So Boaring Day

2009-03-31T03:00:00.001+13:00

George wandered along the cobbled main street of San Giamignano in the hot mid-day sun, wishing there was a place to sit as his wife busied herself snapping photos of just about everything in sight. He was enjoying his tour of Italy, but he was beginning to wish they hadn't come in summer.

Sarah called out to him. "C'mon George, there's a cute delicatessen up here you just have to see."

George picked up his pace and caught up with her. He was immediately taken with a stuffed boar that graced the entryway to the store. It's head poked out between the legs of a wooden table laden with pasta, and two ribbons, one red, one green hung from it's left ear. A small sign in Italian hung from a wine rack next to the table, but George couldn't read Italian. Not that it wasn't a beautiful language to listen to. It was so lyrical, especially the further north you travelled.

He took in the wonderful aroma of the cured meats and marinated vegetables for sale, and thought about buying some salami. Perhaps they could have a picnic lunch at the castle up the hill, if he could make it that far in the heat. His attention was drawn back to the boar, which he found curiously irresistible. He went back over to inspect it and patted it on the head.

As he did, the proprietor, a large, elderly woman came racing around the counter and wagged her finger in his face, scolding him for all she was worth. At least that's what he assumed she was doing, as he couldn't make out a word of what she said, but her body language told the story. He backed up, surprised at her anger. She jabbed one gnarly finger at the sign on the wine rack and George surmised that the sign said not to touch the boar. He wondered why, but settled for making an apologetic motion with his palms up and a shrug of the shoulders.

She continued to berate him, which seemed all of proportion to his offence, so he tried to placate her by inquiring about the price of a small salami and a loaf of some delicious looking bread. She understood what he wanted and went from scold to businesswoman in a heartbeat, though she continued to scowl at him as she wrapped up the salami. As they left the shop, with Sarah turning a deaf ear to his protestations that the whole thing was a tempest in a teacup, he noticed a raggedly dressed boy smirking at him from beside the doorway, who winked at him as soon as he caught George's eye.

"What's so funny?" George inquired with a hint of exasperation in his voice.

The boy shrugged his shoulders and then snickered behind his hand. George glared at him as Sarah took his arm and dragged him up the hill to the fortress. They had lunch at a picnic table in the shade of the entryway to the fortress and Sarah wanted to take more pictures, but George begged off saying his feet were tired, so she left him where he was and went off to shoot.

As he sat there enjoying the shade and people watching, George became aware of a presence at an adjacent table. It was the boy who had found the scene at the delicatessen so amusing. He motioned for the boy to come over to his table and the youth hopped up and approached.

"Do you speak English?" George enquired.

"Yes. Some. We learn at school." The boy gave him a disarming smile and sat down opposite.

"Good. So tell me, why was the old woman so upset that I touched the boar?"

The boy looked thoughtful, probably translating the question in his head, then his eyes lit up.

"Oh! No one is to touch the pig. There is a...how do you say...curse that will happen if you touch it." He shrugged as if to say, hey, what can you do?

George took that in and then laughed. "A curse? What sort of curse?"

The boy got a serious look and shook his head. "It is not to be spoken of, but, well, it is said that the pig can bring much bad luck." He trailed off and waved his hand.

George snorted in derision and shook his head. "Just some local superstition, eh?"

The boy looked at him, all serious and severe. "Oh no, Senor. It is true. It doesn't always happen, but many times it does."

Sarah returned, and the boy moved away without further comment. "What was that all about?"

George smiled. "Oh, nothing. Just talking about local customs."

They walked back down the hill and as they window shopped and moved through the crowded street George suddenly tripped and pitched forward. Putting his hand out to break his fall, he caught one finger on a cobblestone and sprained it. He got up, cursing, and as Sarah fussed over him, he saw the boy watching intently nearby. He shook his head and looked in the direction of the boar at the nearby delicatessen. Some other boys running down the street jostled George as they passed, and he yelled at them as they retreated.

He turned to look at the boy again, but he was gone. He thought about what the boy had said about bad luck, but decided it was a coincidence. Sarah fussed a bit more, and they continued looking in shop windows. Sarah spotted a beautiful carved bowl she wanted and asked George for some money. He reached for the cash he kept in his jacket pocket for souvenirs, only to find it was gone. Damn. Had it fallen out somewhere, or had he been the victim of a pickpocket?

He stopped in mid thought. His luck. No, it couldn't be. It was just a silly superstition, wasn't it? He told Sarah he'd be back in a minute and went back to the delicatessen to talk to the old woman. He tried to explain to her about the curse and get her to tell him more about it, but she shook her head and shrugged. She didn't speak enough English.

Again, the boy was standing near by. He had a grave look on his face. "What is the matter, Senor? I saw you fall back there. I hope nothing else bad has happened."

George was alarmed now. "Well, my pocket money, it's gone. I suppose it could have fallen out, but." He stopped in mid-sentence as the boy took on an alarmed look. "Well, I still have my wallet, so it's not that big a problem. Still, I wonder how it could have happened."

The boy folded his arms. "Senor, it is the curse. I was afraid this would happen." He shook his head slowly from side to side in dismay.

George bit his lip. This was silly. Still...He cocked his head at the boy. "So what can I do about this? God only knows what else might happen. If I were to get sick, well, there must be some way to lift this curse. Isn't there?"

The boy nodded his head. "There is a strega who lives not far from here. She can lift the curse."

"A what?"

"Oh, sorry." He thought for a moment. "A woman who does magic. What is the word? Ah, a sorceress!"

"Really? Well, can you take me to her?"

"Oh no, Senor, she will not see you personally. You are not of this village. But she can lift the curse. I could take something of yours and she can do the magic. A lock of your hair will do." He took out a pocketknife.

George couldn't believe this was happening. "So, that's all you need, just some hair?"

"Well, Senor, she must also be paid." He looked apologetic.

"Oh, of course. And i'll give you something for your trouble." He took out his wallet. "All I have is a fifty dollar bill, will that do?"

The boy smiled. "Oh yes, Senor. I will pay her and she will lift the curse. Don't worry."

George handed over the money as Sarah returned. "What's going on George?"

"Oh nothing. Just talking. Shall we go back to the hotel? My hand is hurting."

The boy ran off, shouting thanks over his shoulder as George and Sarah walked away. He rounded a corner and there were his friends waiting for him. One of them held his hand out.

"Relax, we did good. He gave me fifty dollars. I'll get change and give you guys your cut."

The tallest of the bunch said "I should get extra for tripping him. He didn't even notice."

Another chimed in, "Me too, it wasn't easy getting the cash from his pocket, it was deep in there."

"Look, you know the deal, it's an even split. Besides, there will be more tourists tomorrow."

They wandered off down the street to the bank to cash in.

Money, Money, Money

2009-03-30T03:00:00.001+13:00

Money. It's on everyone's mind more than ever this year. There's no escape from it. Outrage at executive's getting big bonuses, worries about losing your job and not having any coming in, being preoccupied with how to get more. We think about it more than we'd like. It's the root of all evil, we're told. Or at least the love of it.

New research suggests that the human mind has an association with money at the deepest and most primal levels. Indeed, we're incapable of thinking rationally about it for this very reason. Research done along side psychologists from China and Florida by Kathleen Vohs, an associate professor of marketing at the University of Minnesota has found some interesting links between money and pain. No, not the obvious ones, this is new.

Essentially what they did was conduct experiments wherein one group of people were "primed" by being given paper money to handle and another group weren't. The two groups then had their tolerance to pain measured in relation to hot water. Those who handled the paper money had a higher pain tolerance than those didn't. While they didn't report on the idea that paper money might have some magical properties we were previously unaware of, i'm pretty sure they believe it was the psychological aspect of handling the money they believe caused the difference in pain tolerance.

These tests were a follow up to research Voha published in 2006 in which a series of experiments used psychological priming to test the effects of money on human behaviour. In those experiments the subjects weren't given money to handle, rather they were exposed to the idea of money through word games, stories about and photos of money. They were then given tasks to perform.

What she found was that primed subjects worked on the tasks longer, were less helpful, less generous, more socially remote, even more malicious and less likely to ask for help than those who hadn't been primed. Perhaps the whole money being the root of all evil is more accurate than we knew!

So money is more than a medium of exchange that we use to secure our material place in the world, it's far more significant than that, and if this research is correct, it's something that tends to, or at least has the propensity to alienate us from others. So with these recessionary times being what they are, does this mean we'll all get along better with each other?

Apparently not. Another finding of the research was that while handling money reduced the pain of social rejection, the tolerance for physical pain was reduced for those who had handled the paper money after they were reminded of their recent spending activities. This would suggest that the economic meltdown would have people feeling more pain overall.

In a 2008 article published by the Association for Psychological Science, Vohs says the results of her priming tests had led some to conclude that the tests demonstrate that money makes people selfish and greedy. That's certainly a part of the zeitgeist, but she says that conclusion does not necessarily fit her data.

A selfish person would have immediately asked for help when given a tough assignment; they would reject the notion of accepting more work than was necessary. Exactly the opposite occurred in the testing. What this means is that there is more to the picture than is yet fully understood.

Our relationship with money is certainly complex, and perhaps it's something we all need to pay a bit more attention to if we want to lead better lives.

The Neighbors

2009-03-29T03:00:00.000+13:00

Emily's ears perked at a sound coming from the direction of the house next door. She put down the iron and moved to the window and carefully peeked through the blinds. He was out there again. Wondering what he was up to this time, she moved to the next window, which had a better vantage point.

His Jeep was still parked at the bottom of the drive where he always left it, deliberately obstructing her drive just enough to make it difficult for her to get out. He didn't seem to be up to no good, but Emily didn't believe for one minute that he wasn't at least scheming to make her life hard. It's what he enjoyed most.

She decided to have another go at getting him to move the Jeep. She turned off the iron and went out to the fence. "Hi Aaron. How's the landscaping business these days?"

"What do you want Emily. You didn't come out here to shoot the breeze."

She bit her lip. "Well, I was wondering when you're going to move your Jeep. I told you it makes it hard for me to get out when you park it like that, and..."

"Oh, for christ's sake, Emily, are you gonna bitch at me about that again? I told you, I need to park it like that, so just leave it out, will ya?"

Emily's face got hard and she put her hands on her hips and planted her feet. "Now see here Aaron, I know you think it was me that told the council about your illegal drainage, but they have inspectors coming around to check on these things and..."

"Dammit, Emily, I know it was you!" Aaron stormed into his house and slammed the door, putting an end to the confrontation. He was good at that. He peeked through the curtains to see what she was doing. She was staring at his door. Damn, she was insufferable. It had been like this ever since he'd moved in. The first couple of weeks they gotten along, but something happened. He could never quite put his finger on why she pissed him off so much. It wasn't like she'd seemed to be a bitch. It was just...something.

Emily went back in to finish the ironing, but she couldn't get her mind off this feud she found herself in. That man was so infuriating! Why wouldn't he move the damn Jeep? All right, so she had called the council when he put in that drainage system without a permit, but really, the law was the law. He wouldn't have been denied the permit, so what was the big deal? She ironed furiously, then set about vacuuming with a vengeance.

The next day she had an appointment in town and fumed as she had to manoeuvre around his Jeep to get out. That man, what was his problem?! She went to her appointment and ran some errands, but found herself constantly wondering what dastardly plan he might have to annoy her further.

Aaron made some business calls and went out to check on his work crew, waiting for Emily to leave before he went. No way was he going to move his Jeep before she left. Served her right for always trying to make his life hell. He thought about getting a big dog, one that would bark at night, which would piss her off. It would keep him awake too, though, so that was out.

He had lunch at his favorite cafe downtown, and out the corner of his eye he saw a good-looking woman sit down at a table adjacent to his. For a minute he thought it was Emily, and his blood pressure went up, but it wasn't her. She just sort of... well, anyway it wasn't her, so that was good. He just couldn't escape her! Even when he was minding his own business she seemed to have a way of irritating him. What was that about? He finished his lunch and ordered another Steinlager. It seemed called for.

The next morning he didn't have much to do and decided to sleep in. He was deep in dreamland when he was yanked out of his blissful state by the sound of a stereo that had been cranked up. He stormed out of bed and went to the window. Right, it was coming from next door. That bitch! She knew he was sleeping in. He just knew it. How dare she! He sat back down on the bed and fumed, then picked up the phone and punched in her number. She answered on the fifth ring.

"Hello?" She had to shout over the stereo.

"Emily? What the hell is the meaning of this?! I'm trying to get some sleep here!" He was really working up a lather now.

"Oh, is that you, Aaron? Gee, I didn't know you were home."

He could swear he heard her giggle. The stereo was turned down and then she came back on the line.

"Sorry about that. Hope I didn't disturb you too much." She hung up before he could answer.

He took a shower and tried to calm down, but he couldn't get her out of his mind. This was getting unbearable. Something had to give. He put on his slacks and pulled on a tee shirt, combed his hair, and headed out the door. He was distracted and annoyed and not sure what to do, but he found himself knocking on her door.

He heard the stereo being turned down and then the door opened. She was standing there in her bathrobe, which she clutched at the neck when she saw who it was. "Hi Aaron, what do you want?" She was all innocence and light.

He was at a loss for words for a moment and thought about just leaving, but something made him stay. "Look, Emily, this can't go on. What's your problem, anyway? Why do you have to piss me off all the time?"

She glared at him and then launched into an attack. "What do you mean me? You're the one who makes my life hell, and now you come over here and start in on me? What is it with you?"

He was shaking now, in a rage. He leaned in till he was close to her face and started yelling fiercely. She did the same, and all hell seemed to break loose as they stood with their faces only a couple of inches apart, giving each other hell. Suddenly she stopped, looked in his eyes, hesitated, and then grabbed his face and kissed him for all she worth.

He stiffened up in surprise, then melted and kissed her back, pulling her to him. They kissed for another minute, then she pulled him into the house and shut and locked the door. It was time to break the tension.

Why Take A Photo?

2009-03-28T03:00:00.002+13:00

Live Write Dream blogger, Lou, one of the bloggers I recommend here, has written a beautiful piece on travel in which she recalls wondering to her younger self while visiting the Grand Canyon, why anyone would take their eye off the scenery to take a photo. That really got me thinking. As a photographer, it would never occur to me to wonder, but back when I had no interest in the subject I recall wondering precisely that myself.

If you're of a mind to divide the world into two kinds of people this is definitely one of the categories you could include. Those who wish to capture images and those who just want to take them in in the moment and move on. A good photographer actually has a foot in both camps. You don't want to shoot everything you see, some things are better experienced and left to memory.

There there's the rest of what you see. Or rather, what I see. In thinking about the question further, it seems that perhaps those who find no reason to capture the image are making assumptions about the process of taking a photo that reveal a lack of understanding about what serious amateur and professional photographers are doing when they capture an image. There are many reasons, and many ways of doing so.

On the matter of reasons to do so, the first one that comes to mind, and to me seems the most obvious, is you capture the image for posterity, and for your own recollection. It's all fine and well to look at something and tell yourself you'll remember what that was like at a later date, but if you capture the image, then you have it for as long as you choose. I know for myself, and for others I know, that seeing those images at a later date brings back a flood of memories that I might otherwise never recall, and a trip down memory lane can be a rewarding experience.

Then too, the mind being the tricky little devil it is, your memory of what you saw without the aid of a photo is quite likely to be faulty. That can sometimes be a good thing, but overall I know I would rather remember what I saw the way it really was. Therefore, I shoot. As I said, there are other reasons to capture images you see with a camera. Let's look at a couple more.

There's the matter of art. When you look at, say, some scenery that you find worthwhile, you look at it and you say to yourself, wow, that's beautiful, and that's that. A serious photographer looks at the scene and says to himself or herself, I wonder how it looks from other angles. Photography is about two primary elements. Light and composition. A photographer thinks more deeply about what they're seeing and looks for the best angle to shoot it from, and if time permits, decides what time of day it would be best to capture the image. So being a photographer actually gives you a deeper understanding of what you're looking at, and, I feel, more appreciation.

For many people none of that matters, and that's fine. It's just one more answer to the question of why someone would "take their eye off the view to take a photo." In truth, a photographer isn't taking their eye off the view; they're seeing it more than those who are just looking.

Okay, one more reason. Art for art's sake. Digital photography has reached the level where you can do much to enhance an image, both in the camera as and after you shoot, and later on in Photoshop or other such programs. I'm not a Photoshop kind of guy, to me doing anything more to an image after the fact than sharpening it and perhaps cropping a bit to get the best presentation isn't pure photography, it's graphic art. Which is fine, it's just not what I can photography. But in the camera, I can make many adjustments that enhance what i'm seeing and make it a more rewarding image to see that what my eye sees unaided.

So that's my long-winded answer to Lou's question as to why one would take one's eye off the scenery to take a photo. When I do it, i'm not taking my eye off the scenery; i'm taking it to a deeper level, and for me, and others, that's a very rewarding experience.

One Day At The Public Hearing

2009-03-27T03:00:00.000+13:00

"May I have your attention please. Ladies and gentleman, may I please have your attention." Terry Russell could see this was going to be pointless. Already the crowd was buzzing and he was having trouble bringing the meeting to order. "Please, everyone, I will not start this hearing until I have silence!"

The crowd quieted down.

"Thank you. My name is Terrance Russell, and i'm chairing this hearing on the matter of the proposal by Sunburst Enterprises to build a structure at Moore Creek Preserve, fifty kilometers east of Cairns. Now i'll be..."

The room burst into activity once again and Mr. Russell reached for his gavel this time, bringing it down decisively on the podium several times. The room quieted once more.

"We must maintain decorum here, people." He put on his best I-mean-business look and straightened his tie for emphasis. "Now then, I'll start this hearing by calling Mr. Anthony Stevens to the front. Mr. Stevens?"

A dapper gentleman with a two hundred dollar haircut wearing an Armani suit strode to the front of the room. He wasn't carrying any notes and seemed carefree and completely at ease. He shot his cuffs and placed his hands on either side of the podium and leaned into the microphone. He broke into a smarmy smile.

"Mr. Russell, how are we today?" His voice was as unctuous as his smile.

Mr. Russell was not impressed. "Mr. Stevens, you represent Sunburst Enterprises, do you?"

"I do, Mr. Russell. Terry, may I call you Terry?"

"And you'd like to, let me see if I understand this correctly, anchor a giant concrete pontoon at Moore Creek Preserve?" Mr. Russell strained to maintain an even voice.

"Well, Mr. Russ - Terry, if I may, giant isn't a word we use at Sunburst Enterprises. We're a positive, proactive organization and we feel we have a lot to offer the community here. We want to bring excitement to Moore Creek. We have a dynamic vision and we're certain that once you fully understand our plans you'll see the benefit this can have for decades to come."

The room began to buzz and Mr. Russell moved quickly to quell the rising tide. "Mr. Stevens, surely you're aware that Moore Creek is one of the last remaining coral preserves in the South Pacific." He fixed Stevens with a firm look.

"Yes, Terry we are, and I can assure you our engineers have consulted with marine biologists and other experts and we can..."

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" A man in a blue windbreaker holding a sheaf of papers had jumped to his feet and was approaching fast. Mr. Stevens seemed unconcerned.

Mr. Russell looked weary. "And you are, sir?"

"I'm here representing Friends Of The Earth, and this whole hearing is a farce. How can you even contemplate..."

"Sir, i'll have to ask you sit down and wait your turn to speak." Mr. Russell was having none of it. The man glowered and then returned to the edge of his seat. Mr. Stevens grinned and made to launch back into his speech, but Mr. Russell had other ideas.

"Mr Stevens, it says here that you want to build water slides, a wedding chapel, and, am I reading this correctly, an underground cafe?"

Mr. Stevens took a deep breath. "Yes, those are the initial working ideas, there's more we can do. For instance, a ten pin bowling alley on top of the underground cafe would fit in nicely with the idea for the football stadium..."

"Alright, this is beyond the pale! I really must protest..."

"Sir, I told you once you'll have to wait your turn. Please return to your seat."

The environmental advocate was too worked up for that. "This farce must not continue another minute! We're talking about an endangered coral preserve..."

Mr. Stevens couldn't maintain his facade of cool any longer. "Look, you flaky idiot, you can't stop progress. Where do you get off..."

"Order! Order in this room right now!" Mr. Russell was banging the podium with his gavel for all he was worth. The room was a cacophony of angry voices rising rapidly in pitch. The environmental advocate was enraged and took advantage of the ensuing chaos to lunge at Stevens and grab him by his lapels.

"You idiot, this is an Armani suit, take your hands off me right now!" he didn't wait to see if it would happen, he came up with a right cross to the environmentalists jaw, but the other wasn't letting go and they both ended up on the floor.

Mr. Russell was tearing at his hair. Why did they even bother scheduling this, he wondered. He continued to bang his gavel, but by now the entire room had broken into a free for all and the wail of sirens could be heard through the open front door of the meeting hall.

Mr. Russell grabbed the microphone in disgust and addressed the room, though no one heard a word he said.

"This seventh attempted hearing on the proposal to allow a structure to be built at Moore Creek Preserve is hereby adjourned. The date of the eighth meeting will be announced next month."

With that he adjusted his tie once more, smoothed his hair and left by the rear exit with as much decorum as he could muster.

I Want To Eat Your Flesh - The Origins Of Zombism

2009-03-26T03:00:00.000+13:00

A week or so ago I wrote a review of Shaun of the Dead. Apparently some were disappointed that I didn't go into detail about zombism. Ever eager to please, I will now correct my oversight.

First, it should be noted that there are two extant notions of what constitutes zombie-hood. The first is the oldest, and arguably the classic definition of zombie, a human body that has been reanimated and can move about, but has no soul/spirit and no will of it's own. This type of zombie is created to be a slave to the will of the sorcerer who created it. It should be noted that science has dismissed this as rubbish.

The second type of zombie is the classic movie zombie made popular by George A. Romero, beginning with Night of the Living Dead. There were many B-grade movies that featured the classic zombie before George turned the genre into something more gruesome. The earliest i'm aware of is King of the Zombies, 1941.

The origin of the original zombie, the reanimated corpse used as a slave comes from Haiti, where a religion called Vodou, or sometimes Vaudou, arose. This is turn appears to have it's roots in the Congo/Niger region of Africa. When slaves were brought to Haiti in the 16th century they were forced to convert to the religion of their owners, but while they converted outwardly, they largely still followed their traditional African beliefs which they subsequently mixed with Roman Catholicism to created Vodou.

As you will have guess by now, Vodou morphed into Voodoo when it reached Louisiana, Most of what people understand of the original notion of zombism is derived from the classic New Orleans description of what a zombie is. According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the word zombie entered English circa 1871; it's derived from the Louisiana Creole or Haitian Creole zonbi, which in turn is of Bantu origin, which is a Congolese tribe, taking us back to the origins of Vodou.

According to the tenets of Vodou, a dead person can be revived by a bokor or sorcerer. Zombies remain under the control of the bokor since they have no will of their own. "Zombi" is also another name of the Vodou snake god Damballah Wedo.

Vodou claims that a living person can be turned into a zombie by two special powders being entered into the blood stream (usually via a wound). The first, coup de poudre (French: 'powder strike'), includes tetrodotoxin (TTX), the poison found in the pufferfish. The second powder is composed of dissociatives such as datura root. Together, these powders are said to induce a death-like state in which the victim's will would be entirely subject to that of the bokor. Just a little how-to guide for those of you who might wish to create your own zombie. :-)

Modern zombies, as portrayed in books, films, games, and haunted attractions, are quite different from both voodoo zombies and those of folklore. They are typically depicted in popular culture as mindless, unfeeling monsters with a hunger for human brains and flesh. While that didn't start with Romero, it established the pattern once and for all. Several Italian directors were hugely inspired by Night of the Living Dead and created films that to this day are banned in many places, and have an X rating where they are allowed, such is the over the top graphic violence they portray. I have seen the DVD
covers for such, and some of the stills, and it's certainly nothing i'd care to watch. One, I understand has a scene of a fight between a great white shark and a zombie that's apparently a cult classic.

Typically, these modern day zombies can sustain damage far beyond that of a normal, living human (generally these can only be killed by a wound to the head, such as a headshot) and can pass whatever syndrome causes their condition onto others. While this is far removed from the original notion of zombies, it makes for more entertaining cinema and gives scriptwriters a lot more leeway. We like to think of that as progress, I guess.

In addition, modern zombies are depicted in mobs, seeking either flesh to eat or people to kill or infect, and are typically rendered to exhibit signs of physical decomposition such as rotting flesh, discolored eyes, and open wounds, and moving with a slow, shambling gait. They are generally incapable of communication and show no signs of personality or rationality, not unlike Republican voters. Modern zombies are closely tied to the idea of a zombie apocalypse, the collapse of civilization caused by a vast plague of undead. The ideas are now so strongly linked that zombies are rarely depicted within any other context, again, not unlike...ok, i'll stop now.

Anyway, that's your ten-minute primer on zombism. I hope you enjoyed it.

Change Your Life

2009-03-25T03:00:00.000+13:00

Marvin got the call from the producer's office and knew it couldn't be good. He put the phone down and headed out to get it over with. The show was airing in two hours, so they must want to make changes. That was always bad.

"So, what's the story?" Marvin believed in cutting to the chase.

Malcolm Peters made a show of lighting his cigar, as he looked Marvin over. "The story, Marvin, is that the ratings are in. We need to jazz things up." He let that sink in and then continued. "I have some new choices for your contestant tonight."

Marvin didn't like where this was going. "Why new choices? These are legit, are they?" He figured he knew the answer but he had to ask.

"Look Marvin," Malcolm said as he leaned across the table, "Your job is to follow the script. The contestants sign a waiver."

Right then. This was ugly. Marvin wanted with every ounce of his being to get up and quit right then and there, but he needed this job. He rose with a sinking feeling in the pit of him stomach and picked up the new script. He adjusted his silk tie and turned his back without further comment.

Back in his office he thought about how this had all come about. Time travel had been cracked in 2034, but it had been kept under wraps for a couple of years until it could be determined that it could be done without altering the fabric of reality. Only travel into the past was possible. The major worry had always been that if someone went in to the past and changed something that it would alter the future and possibly wipe out everything. By 2037 a way of isolating events so that only the present of the individual who travelled back would be changed. How that worked only a handful of people knew. It was dangerous information.

Given that it was not possible to alter the present of anyone but the time traveller, it was deemed wise to use the ability only for humanitarian purposes, but now, in 2068 things were different. Society had become bored with holographic adventures and all the other forms of entertainment that were available. Some bright spark hit on the idea of a game show where the contestant could choose between two conflicting choices in his past that had gone unresolved and go back and choose one instead of doing nothing, which had led to their present life. If he chose right his present would be changed for the better, and he would win the money. If he chose wrong, he could end up worse off in the present. Or dead. Until now, they had only let that happen a couple of times to keep things interesting. They could chart the trajectory of the travellers life to determine what each outcome would be and offer choices that wouldn't drastically alter the persons life. But now...well, Marvin didn't care to think about it. He went to makeup to prep for the show.

The lights went down, the seconds were counted down, four, three, two...and...

"Welcome to another edition of..." The audience chanted on cue, "Change Your Life!" Marvin grinned into the camera. "Please welcome tonight's contestant, Bradley Johnston!" The crowd went wild as Brad walked hesitantly onto the stage and took his place behind the podium.

"Hey there Brad! Are you ready to change your life?" Marvin hoped it would be for the better.

"Um, hi Marvin. Yeah, i'm ready." His demeanor said otherwise, but Marvin carried on.

"Great! You know how the game is played. We're going to send you back to a time in your life when you faced two conflicting choices and didn't decide because it was just too difficult, but if you want the money, you'll have to decide this time. We have no way of knowing how your choice will affect you, Brad. We only know that when you reappear on stage, you'll be changed in some fundamental way because of the choice you've made. That's what we're all waiting to see. Make it back alive, and you win the cash, regardless of how you've changed."

"Now Brad, here is the situation we're sending you back to, see if you can remember it. When you were fourteen years old you were playing ball in the street with some friends. You saw a car coming at high speed, which seemed to be out of control. It was heading right for a friend of yours. You were trying to decide between yelling out to him, hoping he would get out of the way in time, or running over and pushing him out of the way and trying to avoid getting hit. Brad, you froze. Your friend was hit, but fortunately got off with a broken leg. Now, Brad, you're going back, and this time you have to act. What will it be Brad? You have twenty seconds to decide while we put you in the time machine and the countdown to your past begins."

"But, Marvin, I..."

Marvin motioned for the crew to take Brad to the time machine, he knew what was puzzling Brad, this was not the situation he's been advised they would be sending him back to. This was the change they had made to spice things up. Marvin tried not to think about what the wrong choice would mean.

The time machine was activated and the audience waited in wide-eyed wonder, everyone on the edge of their seats for Brad's return to see how he would be changed. In the past contestants had come back virtually unchanged physically, but with profoundly different personalities, and some had come back looking much stronger, smaller, older looking, younger looking, any number of changes, with a different history and a different outlook on life. No one had ever been unchanged by the experience of going back. A couple had not returned at all, meaning they had died. That had been kept to a deliberate minimum; just enough to keep the game interesting and generating profit, but now...Marvin needed to know. On his podium were the projected outcomes of both of Brad's choices. While they went to a commercial break he opened the envelope.

He hid his nausea from the audience like a pro. He smiled as they counted down the return to live air. Inwardly he prayed that Brad had made the right choice. As they went live again the announcer heralded Brad's return. "And now, heeeerrrr's Brad!"

Marvin moved to the door of the time machine. "Alright everyone, shall we see what choice Brad made and what's become of him?" The audience roared their approval. Marvin took a deep breath and opened the door.

There before them was a broken man. The audience gasped in horror. Brad was a wasted, crippled man, obviously suffering the effects of a debilitating disease. He looked at Marvin with a mixture of pain and anger, but said nothing. Marvin felt like he would pass out, but held it together for the camera. As a hush came over the room, he spoke to the audience and camera with a pained look.

"Brad chose to run and push his friend out of the way. Apparently he's regretted not doing that his entire life. Unfortunately that choice led to his being hit by the car himself. His injuries caused him to come down with Fibromyalgia, a debilitating disease of the musculature." He turned to the wasted form of Brad. "We're sorry Brad. But you've won the money, so you're set for life."

The audience broke into wild applause and Malcolm Peters gave him the thumbs up from the sidelines. The ratings would be secure for another week. Brad finished the show and when he was sure they were off air he walked over to where Malcolm stood waiting to congratulate him. Without a word he hit him with a right hook that knocked him out cold. He then walked calmly off the set.

Fetishism

2009-03-24T03:00:00.006+13:00

I have been fascinated for a long time now by fetishes. No, not the sexual kind, i'm talking about small objects that are believed to have special power. That is what fetishism concerns itself with. A fetish, in this sense, is an object believed to have supernatural powers, or in particular, a man-made object that has power over others. Essentially, fetishism is the attribution of inherent value or powers to an object.

I used to trade in Zuni fetishes. I did, that is, until I realized there just wasn't that much interest in them here in New Zealand. Kiwis just don't have any understanding of such matters and don't seem very inclined to. But I have always found them fascinating.

The photo is of a bear fetish I used to own. It's a particularly powerful one because it's a white bear. Bears are said to have healing powers, the white bear having the greatest power. I think this particular one is meant to bring good fortune to crops and to prevent crop diseases because it features a Kokopelli. The other symbol visible in the photo is the sun, which reinforces the idea that this bear was for warding off crop diseases, most probably corn smut.

You've probably seen Kokopelli before. A few years back he became a symbol of everything to do with the American Southwest, though in reality he's a sacred symbol to the Native American tribes of that region. He is a fertility deity. He is often depicted with animal companions such as rams and deer. For that reason many scholars believe that the object he holds is a blowgun, rather than a flute as is commonly thought. He carries babies on his back to distribute to young women, and for that reason many young, unattached Native American women fear him. Kokopelli has been worshipped since at least the time of the Ancient Pueblo Peoples. The first known images of him appear on Hohokam pottery dated to sometime between AD 750 and AD 850.

But enough about Zuni fetishes, there are many other types from all over the world. Originally, the word fetish (feitiço in Portuguese) was used by the Portuguese to refer to the objects used in religious cults by the Occidental African natives. The concept was made known in Europe by Fanel Brosses in 1757, while comparing West African religion to the magical aspects of Ancient Egyptian religion.

Later Sigmund Freud appropriated the concept to describe a form of paraphilia where the object of affection is an inanimate object or a specific part of a person, so it is from he that we get the sexual connotation of the word fetish. Shoe fetish is the most commonly known type of sexual fetish. Fetishism is present in all religions, but its use in the study of religion is derived from studies of traditional West African religious beliefs, as well as Voodoo, which is derived from those beliefs.

So then, voodoo dolls are fetish objects. Which is apparent if you think about the definition i've given for the word and then consider what those dolls are used for. Other religious objects that qualify as fetishes would be crucifixes, statues of religious figures, chalices, prayer beads, and in Eastern religions there are dorjes, which means lightening bolt in Sanskrit, it's a small object held during ceremonies, singing bowls, tingsha (cymbals), and various bells used to clear the mind for meditation. Gongs are another fetish object.

Go to any Catholic church in any country, especially in Europe and you will be surrounded by fetishes. You just never thought of it in those terms. Anyway, that's the low-down on Fetishism; I hope you've enjoyed getting to know about it.