Evan sipped his latte and looked over the newsletter again, comparing it to the genuine article, making sure it was all good. Satisfied that he had done well he glanced at his watch and saw that it was show time. He headed down the street to make the delivery.

Lance looked up from his sudoku as Evan returned to Starbucks. "So?"

Evan grinned. "It's all go, my man. He'll have it in hand in about ten minutes. I should get set up soon so we can get this show on the road."

Lance looked doubtful. "Ok. I sure hope this works. I mean, I know you're good and all..."

Evan shook his head. "Look, man, you gotta have faith. I've been doing this for a while now, but if you're gonna take down one of the big dogs, you've gotta have an angle. I've thought this through. The newsletter will do the trick. He'll tumble."

"Yeah, but what if he recognizes..."

"He won't. I was nobody to him. Besides, do I look like somebody he would have ever known in this get up?"

"No. I guess not."

"Right. Now go get changed and get in place. You know what he looks like. Give him a few minutes while I set the hook and then move in. Got it?"

"Got it."

Martin Halsworth arrived at his gallery promptly at ten a.m., as he did every weekday and let himself in. He picked up the mail and proceeded to his office to check his messages. Sorting through the mail he noticed that the Art Society newsletter had arrived and opened it to keep abreast of the latest news.

He was idly adjusting his ascot when his eyes fell on the news that a Vermeer had been reported missing from an Upper East Side home. Not just any Vermeer. It was the small harbor scene that he had fancied for so long now. He had no idea who owned it, only that it was in New York. So it had been stolen. This was incredible. He couldn't imagine that the thief had any idea of it's actual worth. Why, it was priceless. Where on earth would a common cat burglar unload such a treasure? What a fool. It would be back in its owner's hands soon. The minute it turned up anywhere it would be too hot to handle. Only a private collector lacking scruples would touch it.

He put the newsletter aside and attended to the business of getting the gallery open for business. It was a slow day and around noon he informed the staff that it was time for his afternoon walk and left the building and strolled down his usual path towards Central Park.

A block down he passed the usual street vendors, hawking their silly wares. Honestly, he couldn't understand why they were given permits. It made the street look so tacky. He passed one selling household items and did a double take. He stopped in his tracks, unable to believe what he thought he had just seen. He held his breath and turned around. No, it couldn't be. He approached the stall for a closer look. The vendor was talking to a potential customer, so he quickly picked up the painting and examined it. My god. It certainly looked real. The canvas was old. Very old. The paint had the right look, and the patina was there. He quickly examined the signature. His hands were shaking. The vendor finished with the other customer and came over.

"Hi. You an art fancier?"

Martin looked him up and down. "In a manner of speaking. Might I enquire how you came to own this painting?"

Evan darted his eyes back and forth for effect. "Oh, its, uh, been in the family for awhile...you know..." He shuffled his feet. "You interested?"

Martin tried to relax. "Well, it's interesting. How much are you asking for it?"

Evan looked thoughtful. "Well, I think it's worth a bit, you know?" he grinned. "I mean, this guy is famous, isn't he. It's only here because it was with my other stuff. I was gonna take it to a gallery or something..."

Martin could sense things getting away from him. He needed to move quickly. "Well, yes, he's a well regarded painter. Tell you what; i'll give you $5,000 for it. I'm sure that's more than you make in several months," he said, waving his hand in the direction of the household goods on display. He could feel his pulse racing.

Just then Lance, decked out in an Armani suit walked up and looked at the goods on display and then at the Vermeer. "Oh wow, that's a Vermeer, isn't it?"

Martin gave him a withering look. "I believe it's a copy, but not a bad one. I'm negotiating here, do you mind?"

Lance did his best to look affronted. "Hey, it's a free country." He turned to Evan. "Hey, I don't know what he's offering, but i'll give you $7,000 for that if you can hold it for me until I get off work today."

Martin was apoplectic. He grabbed Evan's arm and pulled him aside. "Look," he hissed, "I know about the painting. Tell this guy to get lost or this is going to go badly." He was praying hard his bluff would work.

Evan hesitated, looking as if he was unsure, then, "Yeah, ok. Hang on." He turned to Lance. "Sorry man, the painting is sold."

Lance shrugged and walked away. Evan looked back at Martin, who was smiling coldly. "Now suppose you tell me about this. The word is out in the art world already, so don't try to bullshit me."

Evan gulped. "Ok, ok. It belonged to my father. He's, you know, wealthy. I come from a good family, but i'm the black sheep, you know?"

Martin kept smiling. "Go on."

"Yeah, well, I knew they were away on holiday, so I went over there with a key they didn't know I had and I, uh...appropriated some stuff. Including this," he said, indicating the Vermeer. "Look, it's worth a lot, but my father won't tell the cops the truth, he'd rather have the insurance money." He twitched a bit. "You're not gonna turn me in, are you?" He couldn't believe how easy this was. It was perfect. The greedy bastard was his, hook, line and sinker. The only thing that could have killed it all would have been if he had talked to another dealer about the blurb in the fake copy of the newsletter, but of course he hadn't had time and he had no reason to be suspicious.

Martin put on a stern look. "I could. I happen to be... a man of means. One word from me..." he trailed off, letting the words sink in, then made his move. "But i'll tell you what. I happen to want this painting. I'll give you $50,000 for it, and you disappear. What do you say?"

Evan looked thoughtful. "Yeah, ok. Deal. I was gonna get out of town anyway. That kind of dough would sure make that happen."

Martin was over the moon. "Stay here, i'll be right back." He raced back to his office and got the money out his safe and returned.

As soon as he was gone Lance came around with the van and they packed everything in and left. As they drove Evan riffled the bills and grinned. Lance looked over at him.

"Man, I don't understand why you don't just use your talent to make a name for yourself instead of doing fakes, but I sure do like the money."

Evan got a serious look on his face. "I told you, man. The bastards wouldn't give me a chance. I couldn't get in any of the galleries. That asshole told me I wasn't original, that I had no ideas." He smirked. "I had heard how much he likes Vermeer. It was too good to pass up. Let's see how original he thinks I am now."

Lance shook his head. "So now what?"

"So now what?" Evan grinned. "There's a dealer in Boston who's crazy about Van Gogh".

The photo you see here was taken in Penang, Malaysia. What is notable about it, of course, is the sticker you see just below the headlights, for that symbol is one of the most maligned and misunderstood symbols in the history of the world.

No, the motorcycle didn't belong to a skinhead or other neo-nazi. At least I very much doubt it. People of that persuasion don't tend to live in places like Penang. Rather, it likely belonged to either a Hindu or a Buddhist, for they are the people most likely to display the swastika, despite what we in the West tend to believe in view of history as we have come to understand it.

I came across the photo earlier today and decided it would make a good subject. Therefore, a bit of the real history of the swastika:

The swastika is an ancient symbol that has been used for over 3,000 years. Artefacts such as pottery and coins from ancient Troy show that the swastika was a commonly used symbol as far back as 1000 BCE. During the following thousand years, the image of the swastika was used by many cultures around the world, including in China, Japan, India, and southern Europe. By the Middle Ages, the swastika was a well known, if not commonly used, symbol but was called by many different names. Today it is primarily knows by the name swastika.

The word "swastika" comes from the Sanskrit svastika - "su" meaning "good," "asti" meaning "to be," and "ka" as a suffix. It is generally considered to be a symbol representing the constant evolution of time and consciousness, and is also used as a good luck symbol.

The symbol was in no way controversial until 1920, when Adolph Hitler decided that the Nazi Party needed its own insignia and flag. For Hitler, the new flag had to be "a symbol of our own struggle" as well as "highly effective as a poster." Before that time, during World War I, the swastika could be found on the shoulder patches of the American 45th Division and was even on the Finnish air force patches until after World War II. Because of the Nazi's flag, the swastika soon became a symbol of hate, anti-semitism, violence, death, and murder.

While this usurping of a symbol is the probably the most startling example, there are many other symbols, and even words, that have taken on new meaning and usage over the years. One example is the peace symbol.

In 1958, British artist Gerald Holtom drew a circle with three lines inside, intending the design to be a symbol for the Direct Action Committee Against Nuclear War (DAC). The design incorporates a circle with the lines within it representing the simplified positions of two semaphore letters (the system of using flags to send information great distances, such as from ship to ship). The letters N and D were used to represent nuclear disarmament.

Less than ten years later the symbol was appropriated by the Hippie movement as a more general symbol of peace and love. Few know the actual origins of the symbol, and the John Birch Society, a hateful, extreme right wing, white supremacist organization in the United States labelled it the foot print of the American chicken.

The appropriation of symbols, however, never seems to draw the ire of the hoi polloi in the way that appropriation of words do. The most immediate example that comes to mind is the word gay, which, until the early '70's was merely an adjective meaning bright and showy, which I suppose is how it came to be used as a word for homosexuals, bright and showy being common stereotypes of gay males.

At about the same time, a new, pejorative use was visible in some parts of the world. In the UK and Australia this connotation, among younger generations of speakers had a non-sexual derisive meaning equivalent to rubbish or stupid (as in "That's so gay."). I encountered this usage in Australia when a friend of my stepdaughter used it frequently at dinner one night. We admonished her about gay bashing, and she was perplexed as to why we were saying those things, to her it had nothing to do with sexual orientation. Live and learn.

The morning Charles awoke to find all that money next to him on the bed was the moment any nagging doubts about his faith were gone forever. God had answered his prayers and that was that.

Charles always knew his faith would be rewarded. They had laughed at him, but he knew. He had repented the gambling. It was a sin, and he had been weak, but he had repented and he had prayed. Oh how he had prayed, and in his darkest hour the lord had come through. He had counted it up. It wasn't enough, he needed more. Prayer, that was the answer. More prayer was needed. He knelt by the bed and prayed.

When he was done he reluctantly got on with getting ready to go see the shrink. It wouldn't do to tell her about this... windfall. This manna from heaven. She wouldn't understand. He was only seeing her because his mother had begged. His father understood. He was a man of God, just like Charles, but mom was another matter. Still, he prayed for her. The lord would guide her back to the fold. For now she continued to fret about his "condition," as she put it. So he had some problems. So what? The lord would look after him. Meanwhile, to keep peace in the family he put up with these weekly appointments. He wouldn't take the pills she prescribed for him though. They were the devil's tool. He told her and his mother he was taking them, and he did his best to act around them the way he figured they wanted him to act. It would all be good with prayer.

Sitting in his usual seat in Mrs. Taylor's office he listening to her going on about him. She was wearing her usual grey suit. She always looked so stuffy. She was so sure she could help him. So many questions. How did he feel? What did he want? He didn't dare look at his watch, but he counted down the mintues in his head.

Leaving her office he heaved a sigh of relief. He hated every minute of being there. The longest hours of his life. She kept going on about how he might be better off in managed care. Hah! He needed faith, that's what he needed. He also needed a beer. He headed for his favorite watering hole.

He stepped out into the late afternoon sun a few hours later, a little shaky on his feet, but feeling good. He walked along the avenue and put his hands in the pockets of his jacket. What was this in the right pocket? Strange...

Sitting on a rickety stool behind the counter of his rundown liquor store, Mr. Patel tried hard not to nod off. The days were so long sometimes. It had been quite busy earlier, but this was the afternoon lull, and there had been no customers for over an hour. Perhaps a crossword puzzle would keep him sharp. He reached under the counter for the magazine, and when he looked up he found he had no need of it. Things had got more interesting.

"Empty the cash register into a bag and hand it over."

The gunman was crazy, with a wild look in his eyes. Mr. Patel, shaking badly, did as he was told and pushed the bag across the counter.

"Get on the floor, face down. Now!"

"Please, sir, please!" Mr. Patel beseeched the intruder. "I have a family. Please don't kill me!"

"Now!"

Mr. Patel lowered himself to the floor and closed his eyes and started praying silently. He realized that a few minutes had gone by and slowly lifted his head. He was alone.

Charles woke up with the morning sun on his face. His head was pounding. He remembered stopping by the Golden Cockerel for a beer, but he must have had one too many. Or maybe two. He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom when he pulled up short. Thank you Jesus! His prayers had been answered again. He must have prayed hard before he got into bed last night.

He finished his ablutions and counted the money. It would keep those sharks at bay for awhile. He wondered why the lord didn't just give him all he needed to get himself out of trouble. Oh well, maybe this was God's way of getting him to pray more. Not that he needed the encouragement, no sir. He was the Lord's most humble servant.

The following week he left the psychiatrist's office more agitated than usual. She seemed to know he was "acting", as she had put it. What did she know? He was a man of God. If he didn't love his mother so much and follow the Ten Commandments as best he could he wouldn't even be going there. He needed a beer.

Leaving the Golden Cockerel later he spotted a betting parlour a block down on the right. He really shouldn't. Still, the lord had been with him lately. Just maybe...he had a sudden sense of deja vu.

Waking up the next morning he prayed fervently before opening his eyes. Why oh why had he gone in that betting shop? He was weak, that's what it was. He still wasn't praying hard enough. He would be good. He could do it. If only...he opened his eyes. Hallelujah! Thank you Jesus! Thank you Lord! He would make a generous donation at Our Lady of the Immacualate Conception on Sunday.

That night he went to his parent's house for dinner. He told them of his reinvigorated faith and that the Lord had blessed him in so many ways. His father was beaming, but his mother had that look on her face. He kept up a patter and tried to steer the conversation in different directions, but she would not be denied.

"Charles...how are things going with your sessions?"

Charles put his fork down and quelled his agitation with a mighty effort. He looked her in the eye. "Mom, the Lord moves in mysterious ways."

A travel piece today. The photo is of Smith Street in Singapore China Town. If you've never been to Singapore, but you find yourself there one night (hey, it could happen!) you owe it to yourself to head for Smith Street with an appetite for great food. You will not be disappointed. Do not pass go do not collect two hundred dollars, just go to Smith Street. You can thank me later. If you're planning a trip with the option of a one-night stop over in South East Asia, choose Singapore. And go to Smith Street for dinner. Really.

Those of you who have been know what i'm talking about. By day Smith Street is just another Chinatown street, undistinguishable from the other streets surrounding it other than the fact that it has a European name.

A little history: It commemorates the hugely popular Sir Cecil Clementi Smith, then Governor of the Straits Settlements and High Commissioner in 1887 to 1893, who was a Chinese scholar and responsible for most of the work to combat the problems of secret societies. It has an informal Chinese name, hei yuen kai, meaning Theatre Street in reference to the Lai Chun Yuen Theater that was the center of entertainment in the Kreta Ayer area. The theatre existed sometime in the 1880s and staged Cantonese operas until 1927. It was later converted to a cinema.

Its red-light reputation contributed character to the street, which was also known for hawker stalls crowding into the street during its heyday reputation as the main "Food Street". And that is where you should be any night you're lucky enough to be in Singapore from eight p.m. on, for that is when the shops close and the food carts come out and the street is transformed as if by magic into an open-air food fair, with tables all down the center of the street. Veterans of the drill know just what to do, but it's a bit daunting for first timers.

The trick is to stake out a table and leave one person to hold it. The other/others go down the row of stalls, and there are many, and find out what's on offer. It doesn't vary much from year to year, but it's all wonderful. You go and place orders and pay at each of the stalls you want to sample from and then repeat the journey to collect your food. Tis folly to gather up the food and then look for a table. On a busy night, which is most of them, you may find yourself up the creek.

I don't know that I can do justice to the magic that is Smith Street by night. The smells, the lights, the chatter of the crowd, the shouting of the cooks as they work in intense heat producing prodigious amounts of food in short order. Of course there is ice-cold beer of every type for those so inclined, and lots of other cold beverages. The food is simply sublime. The best Chinese cuisine you'll ever eat outside of a five star restaurant.

Recommended dishes are Chilli Crabs, for those who like it hot, any of the satay meat skewers, the steamed chicken buns, the Shanghai prawn noodles, oh hell, it's all wonderful. Take twelve people and order everything. Tell them I sent you. They'll look at you like you've lost your marbles. Just smile serenly. It unnerves them. Nothing wrong with maximizing the fun quotient.

Singapore has other delights, and while I know it's politically incorrect to some to linger there, it's a wonderful place full of courteous, helpful people who are quite happy with their lives. If you find yourself there for two nights, the second night should be devoted to the Peking Duck at the large corner restaurant across the street from the end of the row of stalls. Best i've ever had, and i've had it in several countries, including China.

So that's the skinny on Smith Street, a foodie paradise. You owe it to yourself to find yourself there one day. Shift happens.

"Do you think it's ever okay to stab someone in the eye with a fork?"

Maisy sighed and rolled her eyes. Her brother could be such a dork.

Mason wasn't satisfied. "I mean, what if someone was trying to cave your skull in with a hammer, what about then?"

Maisy put down her pencil. "Mason, if you don't let me finish my homework in peace you just might find out." She regreted saying that when she noticed the mark above his eye. A new one.

Mason grinned. "Sure, sis. Whatever."

Girls just weren't much fun, that's what Mason knew. Still, you could tease them, so they weren't entirely useless. Still restless, he continued to let his thoughts have free reign. "You know, i'll bet I could belch the alphabet if I drank a soda fast enough."

Maisy continued her homework without looking up. There really wasn't much for it. Mother said he was hyper-active, whatever that meant. Well, she knew, sort of, but really he was just a bratty younger brother. She really didn't know why they had to make up names for it.

Mother called them down to dinner and Mason jostled his sister on the stairs, pretending he was going to trip her. She called him a choice name and got a reprimand from mother for her efforts.

"But mom, he was..."

"Maisy, I really don't care. Stop it at once and set the table."

Mason made a face at her, pointed his finger and mimed laughter behind his mothers back.

Maisy scowled at both of them and set the table, a bit too abruptly.

"Maisy, just get it done without the theatrics." Mother tried to keep in mind why she loved her children.

As they ate, the children's parents engaged in the usual what did you do today chatter until Mason's father noticed the mark above his eye. "Mason, what happened?" he asked.

Mason touched his face and keep his eyes down as he mumbled. "Oh, nothin' dad, just some guy at school. You know..."

"No, Mason, I don't. You got in a fight? Is that it?"

Mason put his fork down. "Yeah. It's nothing. Just a...you know, disagreement."

"About what?" Dad was not going to let this go.

"Oh, I don't know. I guess I mighta said something. I don't really remember." Mason continued to avoid eye contact.

"Mason, why do you do this?" Mom took over.

"Do what?"

"You know very well what, young man. What have we told you about these antics of yours?"

Mason put on his best contrite face. "I'm sorry. I guess I just get kinda bored sometimes."

His parents exchanged looks. Maisy frowned. "Mason, you know you can't just..."

"That's enough, Maisy. We'll handle this." Mom was always taking sides.

"Mason, try to behave. Please?"

Mason grinned. Dinner continued without further conversation.

The next day the school bus was late and Mason amused himself by throwing rocks at the birds on the lawn everytime they landed, which was frequently since he was throwing bits of leftover toast from breakfast all over the lawn. Maisy did her best to ignore him and went over her math homework to make sure she's gotten everything right.

As usual, he wouldn't sit next to her on the bus, which was fine. She could hear him engaging in the usual roughnecking with the other boys at the back, but she tuned it out and read her book, Beadle The Bard, the latest J.K. Rowling.

As they arrived at school one of Mason's classmates grimaced at Maisy. "Your brother is such a dweeb!" Maisy shrugged her shoulders and headed for class. The day went as usual until it was time to catch the bus home. Mason wasn't at the bus stop when she got there, which was odd. She looked around and didn't see him anywhere. One of the older boys was looking at her sheepishly and she got a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She marched up to him.

"Alan,where's my brother?"

"Um...well..."

"Just tell me, dammit!"

"He, um, he pissed off one of the big guys at lunch. I heard him tell his friends he was gonna fix him." Alan looked down at his shoes.

"Where, Alan?"

"The construction site around the back."

Maisy ran like she never had before. As she neared the site she could hear the crowd jeering. She pushed her way through in time to see Mason on the ground being pounded by one of the older boys, Jeremy. A real bully that one. What the hell could Mason have done? He was such an idiot! She ran over and screamed at Jeremy to let him up but he just swore at her and went back to his pounding.

Maisy stood back and felt her blood boil. She looked about and then marched over to a wood pile and picked up a two by four. What came next she would have trouble remembering later, but all at once Jeremy was lying on the ground, out cold. Mason was slack-jawed, staring at his big sister in wide-eyed wonder.

Maisy glared at him, grabbed him by the ear and pulled him to his feet. He howled in protest.

"We'd better not have missed the bus."

As they walked quickly and quietly back Mason looked deep in thought.

"What, Mason?"

"Oh...nothing. Well, um, thanks, sis." It took all he had.

"Never mind little brother. Just wait till mom sees your face!"

Mason shrugged his shoulders and did his best to keep up with her pace.

"Hey Maisy."

"Yes, Mason?"

"Do you think it would ever be okay to force somebody to eat an earthworm?"

Oh no, another poetry post. This one follows on naturally from my comments about my grandfather being my inspiration to write from a tender age. While it was indeed his storytelling and poetry that got me moving, it was the work of another poet that has influenced my own poetry greatly. Mine is not really like his, it's just that I was inspired immensely by his refusal to conform to the norms that he had been taught, and his flouting of grammer and punctuation. It's only a cool thing to do if you understand it inside out and if your transgressions result in something sublime. Both things are true of e e cummings. The title of this piece has his name is lower case without punctuation because it was how he often wrote it. It is believed that it was done as a sign of humility, and he was not consistent about it, but it has carried on through the years as his trademark.

First a bit of bio. Edward Estlin Cummings was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, October 14, 1894. He began writing poems as early as 1904 and studied Latin and Greek at the Cambridge Latin High School. He received his B.A. in 1915 and his M.A. in 1916, both from Harvard. While there he was influenced by the writings of Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein.

In 1917, Cummings' first published poems appeared in the anthology Eight Harvard Poets. The same year, Cummings left the United States for France as a volunteer ambulance driver in World War I. Five months after his assignment; however, he and a friend were interned in a prison camp by the French authorities on suspicion of espionage (an experience recounted in his novel, The Enormous Room) for his outspoken anti-war convictions.

As well as Stein and Pound, cummings' work was influenced by the imagist experiments of Amy Lowell. His visits to Paris also saw him include dada and surrealism into his poems. His most defining principal though, was his insistence on emphasizing the personal in juxtaposition to the universal, refusing to believe as his peers did that the universe was best viewed from a more all encompassing standpoint. It is believed that his Unitarian upbringing was the reason.

In his work, cummings experimented radically with form, punctuation, spelling and syntax, abandoning traditional techniques and structures to create a new, highly idiosyncratic means of poetic expression. Later in his career, he was often criticized for settling into his signature style and not pressing his work towards further evolution. Nevertheless, he attained great popularity, especially among young readers, for the simplicity of his language, his playful mode and his attention to subjects such as war and sex.

I suppose it was his devil-may-care attitude and consideration of words as a plaything that appealed to me most. The above attributes concerning form and syntax are well illustrated by the following:

Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death

Unfortunately this blog won't print the poem exactly as it was published. The second line is indented in the original, as is the third and fifth, with the seventh at the same starting point as the second, the eighth even further out than the rest, and the nineth, eleventh and twelfth at the same starting point as the sixth. Reading it with those in mind gives the cadence of the poem, which was often important to cummings, another point of originality. This is his only untitled poem as far as i'm aware.

I'll leave you with one more of his poems, my favorite by far, and one that illustrates his mastery of the written word and his regard for sensation over form in everyday life. I hope if you've never encountered cummings you'll be inspired to check him out further.

since feeling is first
e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

"The time has come the Walrus said,
To talk of many things:
Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax --
Of cabbages -- and kings --
And why the sea is boiling hot --
And whether pigs have wings."




Had it been a clear day, and had it not been the Fifth of Never, Cecilia might very well have chosen a different pair of shoes to wear. The fact that it wasn't, and that it was, however, was probably what set the chain of events in motion that led to the predicament at hand. Well, it was possible that all this was true. Then again, anything was possible. Even the impossible. But that was another matter entirely.

Still, the green Mary Janes seemed such a right thing to wear, as it was a party on a ship, and wouldn't it be true that they would compliment the color of the sea, which, being such a cloudy day would surely be a shade of green not unlike her shoes. So it all made perfect sense. Not that sense really had much to do with anything, but that too was another matter.

Raising the hatch and climbing out of her abode, Cecilia greeted the day and arranging her basket just so on her arm she skipped down the path to the lane where the taxis congregated awaiting important persons like herself to take them on their journeys. The willow trees sighed their greetings as she passed and she duly curtsied to each in turn.

At the Laughing Lamppost she turned about three times, as you do, and patted her head before continuing down the lane and doing a pirouette and bowing deeply to the driver of the first taxi in the rank. He greeted her in the arcane lanuage of the Cab Masters, it being the only language they deigned to speak, and which one needed to be fluent in if one wanted to ride in a taxi. They exchanged the ritual pleasantries and she indicated her destination. Soon they were on their way.

Arriving at the good ship Whimsey she gave the driver three flounder cakes she had brought along for the fare, that being their favorite food and their preferred remuneration. She bade him farewell and made her way up the gangplank to be greeted by the majordomo, who doffed his tricolored hat and bowed deeply in deference. He then escorted her to the fantail where the party was just getting underway.

Surrounded by all the important dignitaries that had gathered stood the Grand Poobah himself. Resplendant in his finest tourmaline robe and violet turban, he cut an elegant figure, holding court and being fawned over by his loyal sycophants.

Cecilia made her approach and curtsied. "Oh Grand Poobah, may I congratulate you on this, your most exalted birthday." She took the birthday card out of her her basket that she had elegantly closed with the finest sealing wax she could find.

The Grand Poobah dropped the cabbage roll he was eating and pointed, his eyes widening in surprise. "What is the meaning of this?!" he demanded.

She followed the finger that pointed at her accusingly and looked down at her Mary Janes. "Beg Pardon, Your Grandness?"

"How dare you!" he sputtered, "what is the meaning of this?"

"But I...", then it clicked, "A thousand pardons, I didn't know you would wear that robe, only, it's a cloudy day and..." trailing off, she stared at the deck.

The Grand Poobah, exalted though he was, did not care for explanations. "You realize, of course, what this means." he leveled her with his gaze.

Acutally, she didn't, but that was rectified quick smart. Turning to the majordomo he barked, "bring me the cards, now!"

The majordomo returned practically before he'd left with a deck of cards. The Grand Poohbah sat down at the table and indicated a seat for Cecilia. "One of us must fail", he stated with finality. "Five card draw, the loser must remove the offending items."

Clearly he meant the Mary Janes. He had no intention of losing. Still, she reflected, it seemed democratic of him to not simply command her to remove them, but it was known far and wide that the Grand Poohbah was a poker player of the highest calibre, and he was surely expecting that this would be a win - win situation for him.

He shuffled, she cut, he dealt. Picking up her cards with trepidation, she was relieved to see she had a high pair. But how to play this? If she threw them in he might sense she was trying to lose. That would enrage him, surely. She kept the pair and discarded three useless cards. She gulped when he discarded one. He dealt again, and with a deep breath she drew up her new cards. Her heart nearly stopped beating. When she looked up at him he was grinning from ear to ear.

"Four jacks," he announced with great satisfaction.

Cecilia hesitated, but realizing there was nothing else for it, she laid down her cards. "Four kings," she stated in a quiet voice.

The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The Grand Poohbah turned a shade of red she hadn't known until then even exisited. He rose from his seat and threw his arms in the air. Suddenly the sea around the ship began to boil and churn. There were many shouts of dismay and the majordomo rushed over and beseached the Grand Poobah to restore order at once.

The Grand Poohbah gazed upon his manservant with malevolence and then reconsidered. "Am I not a benevolent leader?" he asked of no one inparticular. All assembled agreed that indeed he was. Upon hearing the verdict he lowered his arms and the sea returned to normal. He turned his gaze upon Cecilia. "My child, you have won fair and square." With that he removed his tourmaline robe and flung it in the air and with a flourish turned it into a winged pig that flew off toward the horizon. The majordomo produced a new robe as if from thin air, one of a much grander nature and color that matched the now turquoise water all around them. All was once again right with the world.

Cecelia curtsied to the Grand Poohbah and fetched the card from her basket once more. The Grand Poobah accepted it with grace and the festivities carried on through the day and into the night without further adventure.

My mother's father was a storyteller. That is to say, every sunday, when I was a kid, we went there for dinner and he presided over the table and told yarns. That was the way I liked to think about them, anyway.

Sunday dinner was not the only time my grandfather would spin a tale. It was just the time he most relished. My father had other words for the weekly ritual. Negative words. And yet, he too was a storyteller when he got to a certain age. The irony of that was not lost on me. But the other day it finally dawned on me that I too am a storyteller. As I mentioned in another post, i've been writing since I was thirteen.

I can remember sitting in my grandfather's office at the movie theater (he managed several) amidst the stale cigar smoke, the massive safe and the girlie pictures on the wall listening to him tell me a story. He was also a poet, and a very good one at that. I remember the first time he showed me a book of his poems. I was enthralled. It was there and then that I knew I wanted to write. I wasted no time. So it was indeed he who inspired me to write. He had several colorful careers, as have I, including being in one the very first biker gangs, and as a professional boxer. Kid Hill, he was known as.

As I said, I must have been 12 or 13 when I started writing. I began with poetry. I was ernest. I was determined. I was bad at it. At first. It's not easy trying to write something deep and meaningful when you're 13, but at that age it's the effort that matters. I moved on to short stories. I was mad about science fiction by then, so that's what I wrote. I remember struggling to find a name for my spaceship in one story. I decided on Oblivion. I thought that was just so profound.

So i've always thought of myself as one who writes, but somehow not a storyteller, though that is surely what I am. If anything defines me, it is that. I've come to the realization that I am a 21st century version of my grandfather. This is what he would be doing if he were here in this time. He would have a blog. I'm certain of it. In a way i'm just carrying on a family tradition. Not a bad one from where I sit.

I'm planning on taking a further step with it soon. I want to combine my love of photography, writing and travel and take the obvious step. Photojournalism. As the venerable Tom Robbins said (you really must read his books if you haven't already), you're never too old to have a happy childhood. Me, i'm gonna stay young at heart and find my way.

By the way, that's not a picture of my grandfather and I above, sadly I have no pictures of him.

Mighty Red awoke with the first light and gathered his thoughts. Time to get on with the business of the day. He left the building and surveyed his surroundings. Every thing seemed to be in order. It was quiet. Perhaps a bit too quiet. Mighty Red decided it was time to make some noise.

Strutting down the path he eyeballed every little detail of his turf. He'd better not find anything amiss, he reckoned. There would be trouble. In spades. Mighty Red didn't take shit from nobody, and there wasn't nobody who didn't know it, no sir. Continuing his rounds he paid close attention to the boundries of his turf. All quiet. Just the way he expected it to be. His girls would be out later, and he didn't want things to go awry.

Satisfied that everything was in order, and with the day off to a good start he allowed that it was time for some breakfast. He headed for his favorite place and had his usual. Mighty Red was a creature of habit, and his routine had served him in good stead for a long time. He knew surprises were bad. You had to stay on top of your game, and on top of your world. You had to be Cock 'O The Walk if you wanted to remain master of your domain, and it was simply a fact that Mighty Red was the master.

Not that it had always been so. No, indeed. In the beginning he'd had to go mano a mano with several badasses who thought they had what it took to be the ruler around here. It had been rough for awhile. He took some beatings, and his harem was sparse, but he grew stronger and meaner and he learned the game. He schemed and he dreamed and he waited for the day that he knew would come. The day of his dominion. The day when if you messed with Mighty Red you'd end up mighty dead.

The simple truth was you had to want it. Want it so bad you could tasted it. You had to be willing to go to any lengths. Mighty Red had to admit he hadn't been up to it back in those early days. He'd had to cower, or look the other way while that punk who wasn't even from Rhode Island had his way with his girls He tried not to think about that much. Mighty Red was an in the moment kinda guy. His time was now, and he walked the walk of the self-assured.

Back out and about, Mighty Red saw that his girls had come out to do their thing. It was a fine day, and they were looking their best, just as he expected them too. He greeted a few that were gathered together and jostled them a bit, just giving them a gentle reminder of who he was. They moved apart at his bidding and set to doing what they did best.

Mighty Red continued to make his rounds, seeing to it that everything was maintained and all was right with his kingdom. He continued along, taking in the hustle and bustle and feeling pretty chuffed with himself when he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. There. Across the road. Had he imagined it? He moved on pretending that nothing was amiss. He would double back around and make sure.

When he did was enraged to see an interloper chatting up a couple of his girls. Who the hell did he think he was, coming onto Mighty Red's hallowed turf? He called out in his anger and the intruder turned to face him. He ran towards him, but his opponent stood his ground with a defiant air. So it was war then. Well war was what Mighty Red was all about.

They began circling each other warily, sizing each other up, preparing for the inevitable. His nemesis had a bit of weight on Red, but Red had righteous indignation and fierce determination on his side. They flew at each other and began pummeling each other for all they were worth. The battle quickly turning brutal and ugly.

Mighty Red took a sharp hit to the face and felt the skin tear open, but ignored it and redoubled his efforts. His opponent was putting up a fierce fight, but Red was fast, faster than the other had anticipated, and he delivered three strong blows in a row, sending his enemy into a spin. He pressed the attack, quickly getting on top and giving it all he had. His opponent wriggled out from under him, seemed on the verge of flying at him again, then turned and ran for all he was worth. Mighty Red put on a show of chasing him, but he was hurt and he knew it. He made sure everyone saw he was the victor, then gathered up his harem and gave them hell for fraternizing with the enemy. They scattered, chastised.

Mighty Red moved off out of sight to tend to his wounds. It wouldn't do to let anyone see him vulnerable. The fight had been worth it. That upstart wouldn't be crossing the boundry again anytime soon.

Betty went out to get some corn for the afternoon meal and surveyed the scene. She walked around making sure things were alright and shook her head when she saw Red. She went back in the house and found Harvey sititng at the table reading the paper. "Pa, I think that Mighty Red's been at it again. I swear I don't know what to do about him."

Harvey chuckled and put the paper down. "Now Ma, you know how they are. Still, I reckon you're right. That one is the cockiest little rooster we've ever had."

Yesterday I was stuck in traffic behind a huge 4x4 that was belching clouds of noxious fumes, which caused me to wonder about the owner of said vehicle. Having time on my hands I took note of all the things about the back of the truck I was seeing.

It got me wondering just how much we really can surmise about people from the vehicles they drive. I'm reasonably sure that most people are not unlike me in believing that there is much that can be ascertained with some degree of assurance about the general nature and beliefs of our fellow road users.

For instance, if they have a bumper sticker that says Save The Whales, we would tend to think that person must be a member of or at least a contributor to Greenpeace. If they have an NRA sticker, or one of those "they can have my gun when they pry it from my cold dead fingers" stickers, we assume they're hostile to gun control laws. If they have both we would consider it a dead certainty

However, there are a couple of possibilities that need to be considered before we jump to conclusions. It's possible, though not likely, that someone put the sticker on the car and the owner is unaware of it (though I have actually known this to happen), or, and this one is not far outside the realm of possibility, they could have bought the car with the sticker on it, don't really agree with what it says but haven't had the time or the inclination to remove it. So we could be reaching a false conclusion.

Having given all this some thought I went in search of data on these matters. One thing I found did not surprise me at all. The research of a Colorado State University social psychologist, William Szlemko, found that drivers of cars with bumper stickers, window decals, personalized license plates and other "territorial markers" not only get mad when someone cuts in their lane or is slow to respond to a changed traffic light, but they are far more likely than those who do not personalize their cars to use their vehicles to express rage — by honking, tailgating and other aggressive behavior.


Wow. Something to think about next time you're out for a drive. That guy in the rolling NRA advertisement just might be packing, and furthermore, he's apparently more inclined than someone who is packing but doesn't have stickers to roll down his window and unload on you. These things are good to know. Next time someone like that flips you off, probably best to just smile and keep moving.

However, it's not just gun nuts you need to be wary of. The study also found that it does not seem to matter whether the messages on the stickers are about peace and love — "Visualize World Peace," "My Kid Is an Honor Student" — or are angry and in your face — "Don't Mess With Texas," "My Kid Beat Up Your Honor Student." People with bumper stickers are more aggressive no matter what the message they're sporting.

Bumper stickers are just one visual clue about the owner of the vehicle, though. There's also rear view mirror ornaments. Ever catch yourself making calls on the nature of the driver based on that? I know I have. Fuzzy dice? Capricious. Pine tree air freshener? Fussy, possibly anal-retentive. Roach clip? well, that one's obvious. Crystal ball? New ager. If it's a guy he's a SNAG. You get the idea. I imagine we often make these snap judgments without giving it any conscious thought.

And then of course there's personalized plates. Not only are the vehicle owners more likely to be aggressive, according to the study, but I tend to think that what the plate says is a pretty fair indicator of personality type. If the plate is on a muscle car with a huge spoiler and a tail pipe the size of a sewer drain and the plate says NOFTCKS, it doesn't take much imagination to conclude it's owned by a testosterone fueled case of arrested development. Of course, his assessment of who he is would differ completely, but you get the idea.

The urge to tell the world who we are through the medium of our homes on wheels is strong in many people. Many of them are probably unaware that they're advertising to the degree that they are. But next time you head for your car, you want might to think about what it might be saying about you. Or then again, you might just decide you really don't care. In that case i'd say you're self confidant and assertive. :-)

Randy took in the sights and smells all around him in wide-eyed wonder. It was his first trip abroad and it was all so amazing. Seeing all the strange and wonderful places he'd never imagined before. He was wandering off towards a stuffed wild boar at a butcher shop when reality came down hard on him.

"Randy!" oh yeah. Mom. "What are you doing. I told you to stay right beside me!"

Randy looked sheepish and made his way back. "Sorry. I just wanted to see..."

"When I tell you to do something young man, you do it!"

Why did she always have to be such a drag? Man oh man. He just wanted to...well, live a little. "Yes mom. I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry. You'll be a lot sorrier... do it again...when are you..."

Randy pulled into himself and shut the world out for a bit. He thought about what he might like to have for lunch. If they went back to the hotel in the afternoon, perhaps he could go for a swim. If she'd let him. He would promise to be really careful, and she could sunbathe and read a book and keep an eye on him. Yeah, maybe it would work.

"...and another thing, you have to be careful around here. There are pickpockets, and god only knows what else..."

Randy looked up at her and smiled. She stopped in mid sentence. "Oh, Randy, you know I love you, don't you?"

"Yeah mom, I know. Please don't say it so loud though, ok?"

She shook her head. "So what would you like for lunch?"

"Oh, i dunno...could we have pizza?"

She smiled indulgently. "Sure thing. Look, there's a pizza place over in that cute little square, let's give it a try."

They sat at a table outside with a big red, white and green umbrella over it, which was nice since it was such a hot day. Randy fidgeted in his seat while his mother looked at the menu. He played with the silverware, trying to flip the fork by placing the handle on the spoon and tapping it.

"Randy! Can't you sit still for even one minute?"

She was giving him that look. Oh brother. He sighed and looked down at the pigeons milling about looking for crumbs. He imagined they were raptors hunting for food and the sparrows were their prey, running in terror, just trying to stay alive. Cool. He looked up as his mother ordered lunch. When the waiter left he asked if they could go for a swim later.

"Oh, I suppose so. But you have to stay in the shallow end, you hear me?" She was wagging her finger at him. "If I catch you in over your head you'll get a spanking you won't soon forget."

He nodded his head. "I'll be alright, mom." God, she could be such a bitch.

They ate their lunch, with Randy getting told off for making too much of a mess and refusing to eat the crust on his pizza. She promised him gelato if he finished it all, so he chewed for all he was worth.

They wandered around the hot smelly streets of Rome for a couple more hours, visiting the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish steps, his mother telling him stories about the statues and such. He quite liked the one of Neptune at the fountain, and he daydreamed about mermaids and chests of gold and rubies and that awesome monster in the Jason and the Argonauts movie he'd seen once. What was it called? Oh yeah, the Kraken. Then there was that cool scene with the skeletons...

"Randy, are you listening to me?"

He looked up. "Yeah, mom. I was thinking about the Neptune statue."

"Yes, that was quite impressive. Anyway, as I was saying, it's getting pretty hot, we can go back to the hotel for that swim now if you like."

He grinned and she hailed a taxi, for which he was grateful. His feet were killing him. The driver practiced his English on them and flirted with his mother, which he could see she quite liked. It made him a bit angry. His father hadn't been gone but a year or so. He thought some more about how she treated him like such a baby. He was twelve, for godsakes. Why did she always have to smother him? She was always making him feel like such a kid. All he wanted was to have some fun. He hadn't made a fuss about this trip, had he? He was entitled to some freedom.

They went to their room and changed. She was taking too long and he asked if could go down to the pool.

"Just you wait for me, young man, you're not going in that pool by yourself."

"Aw mom, i'm not a baby. I promise I won't get in the water till you get there."

She relented, and he raced down the stairs and out to the pool. He sat on a lounger and waited for her. The water looked so inviting. A man came and sat next to him.

"Hey there young man. Going for a swim?"

He looked old. He had grey hair that was slicked back, and he wore a speedo and had a gold chain around his neck.

"Yeah, pretty soon I guess." He looked around to see if his mother was coming.

The man started to ask him a question and stopped when Randy's mother suddenly appeared. He said hello and then got up and went inside to the bar.

"Who was that?"

"Dunno. Some guy."

She gave him one of her concerned looks. "Well go on, then. You wanted to play in the water."

He ran to the ladder and climbed in. He thought about how cool it would be to just dive in, but he knew he'd get in trouble. He practiced swimming under water, seeing how long he could hold his breath. The water was nice and cool, perfect after the long hot day of sightseeing. He splashed around for the better part of an hour and then got out. He layed down on the lounger next to his mother and noticed she'd fallen asleep. He was about to wake her when the old man came walking up again.

"Hey there, sport. Why don't you let your mom have her nap, she looked pretty tired."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"So how long have you been in Rome?"

"A few days. Been sightseeing."

"It's nice here, eh? Listen, do you like model cars? I've got a really cool red ferrari upstairs. Would you like to see it?"

Randy hesitated. "Well, i'm not supposed to..."

"Oh, don't worry about her, you'll be back down here before she wakes up. I promise."

He really liked Ferraris. They had gone to the Ferrari shop, and there were lots of cool models there, but they were expensive and his mom wouldn't buy him one. "Well, ok."

They went upstairs, the man was on the same floor they were, so it didn't seem like a problem. They went inside and he showed Randy the ferrari.

"Wow, this is cool!" It was one of the really expensive ones from the shop.

They sat down on bed and Randy rolled the car around on it, pretending he was a race car driver. The old man encouraged him to play with it all he liked. He put his hand on Randy's knee.

"You know, you and I could be good friends..."

Randy jumped up. "Hey, whatdya doin'! I just wanted to see the car!"

"Now look, kid, i've been good to you, why don't you just..."

Randy threw the car and hit the old man in the head, knocking him back.
Swearing, he sat up and Randy ran to the door and out into the hallway. He raced down the hall and rounded the corner and ran smack into his mother.

"Randy! Where the hell have you been! I dozed off and when I woke up you were gone! I thought you'd drowned or something!"

He took a deep breath and calmed himself. "Sorry, mom. I...I was gonna get a drink of water, but I forgot the key."

She shook her head and glared at him. "Young man, don't you ever leave without telling me again, do you hear me?"

He smiled at her. "Yeah, mom. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

She sighed and smoothed his hair. "I love you Randy. I don't know what i'd do if anything happended to you."

"I love you too, mom." He thought for a minute and then said, "Thanks, mom."

On a trip to china in 2007 one of the cities on our itinerary was Xi'an, home of the famous Terracotta Warriors. It was one of the highlights of the trip, second only to the breathtaking cruise from the Three Gorges Dam. The Terracotta Army was discovered in the eastern outer suburbs of Xi'an, in Shaanxi Province by local farmers drilling a water well.

The warriors are a form of funerary art buried with the First Emperor of Qin, Qin Shi Huang in 210-209 BC. Their purpose was to help rule another empire in the afterlife. They are also sometimes referred to as "Qin's Armies."

It was a sweltering day when we arrived, but the excavation was so amazing we simply had to see it all. There are four pits associated with the dig, and they are about 1.5km east of the burial ground and are about 7 meters deep.The outside walls of the tomb complex are as if placed there to protect the tomb from the east, where all the conquered states lay. Pit one, 230 meters long, contains the main army, estimated at 8,000 figures. Pit One has 11 corridors, most of which are over 3 meters wide. Pit two has cavalry and infantry units as well as war chariots, and is thought to represent a military guard. Pit three is the command post, with high ranking officers and a war chariot. Pit four is empty, seemingly left unfinished by its builders. The first sight of all this is breathtaking. To see all those figures lined up majestically is really something.

According to the historian Sima Qian (145 BC-90 BC) construction of this mausoleum began in 246 BC and involved 700,000 workers. Qin Shi Huang was thirteen when construction began. One can only wonder at the monumentally grandiose ego of someone who would sanction such a project. It is similar to the tombs of the Egyptian Pharaohs in that regard, but on a much grander scale. The numbers above don't really do it justice, nor do the pictures we were able to take, as the one above. It is massive, and a huge complex has been built around it, with manicured gardens leading up to it.

The figures vary in height (183–195cm - 6ft–6ft 5in), according to their role, the tallest being the generals. The figures include warriors, chariots, horses, officials, acrobats, strongmen, and musicians. Current estimates are that in the three pits containing the Terracotta Army there were over 8,000 soldiers, 130 chariots with 520 horses and 150 cavalry horses, the majority of which are still buried in the pits.

The terracotta figures were manufactured both in workshops by government laborers and also by local craftsmen. The head, arms, legs and torsos were created separately and then assembled. Studies show that eight face moulds were most likely used, and then clay was added to provide individual facial features. Once assembled, intricate features such as facial expressions were added.

We visited a factory nearby where they make replicas of the warriors in sized from a six inches or so tall right up to the actual size of the originals. The prices on those was eye-watering. I didn't even want to think about what shipping to New Zealand would have cost. We did buy some some of the smaller figures as gifts and souvenirs. The production was done right out in the open, so it was great to be able to see how they were made, and to see them in various stages of completion.

No trip to China would be complete without a visit to the site. Highly recommended.

Jack collected his final pay, slung his ditty bag over his shoulder, and made his way down the gang plank. Three months at sea and now he was a free man. Let the revels begin. He jumped into a cab and told the driver to take him where the action was. Grinning into the rear view mirror the driver said "you got it, my man."

He dropped Jack on a street not far from the piers, dense with bars and strip joints. Surveying the possibilities, Jack decided a little strip action might be fun and headed into Showgirls. An hour of bump and grind, a few beers and several ten dollar bills later Jack was feeling no pain and ready to move on. Back on the street he looked around. He wanted someplace unusual. Someplace the locals would hang out if they were cool.

He headed down the street and came upon a place that looked promising. He strolled up to the window and peered inside. Yep, this was the place, he decided. He pushed through the beaded curtain into a loche, bohemian space that was beckoning and edgy. Breaking into a grin he went to bar and ordered a pint.

He found a small table in the back and parked himself with his back to the wall, just wanting to breath it all in and see what developed. There were a few single women that looked promising.

Soon he noticed an old salt smoking a yellowed clay pipe he'd seen other old timers smoke on a few ships. He was dressed in dungarees and a peacoat, looking every inch the mariner of old. The sailor cast a squinty eye at him for a bit and then rolled over to his table and sat down without leave.

"Yar, matey," he breathed, as he took the pipe out of the corner of his mouth and stowed it away. "On leave are ya, or have you finished a tour?"

Jack grinned at the old man. "I'm footloose, ya tar. Three months under steam and now i'm enjoying the night." He took a pull on his pint and eyed the his companion over the rim.

The old man regarded him for a bit and stuck out his hand. "Sully's the name, mate. Welcome to Lil's."

Jack shook and wondered what the old man wanted. "So, you hang here often, do ya?"

Sully chuckled. "I get around. I like bein' near the water, as you do." He glanced at the bar. "Looks like you could use another. My shout, whattya say?"

"Sure old man, bring it on. I'll get the next one." He made his way to the head while Sully got the beers.

Sully took the pints back to the table and surreptiously tipped the contents of a small bindle into Jack's beer. He looked up as Jack returned. Raising his glass he toasted his new mate, "The wind that blows, the ship that goes, And the lass that loves a sailor!"

Jack clinked glasses and took a deep pull. This was a good night. "You're the man, Sully."

They talked a bit about life on the sea and the places they'd seen and finally Jack asked, "So what do you do for a crust, Sully?"

Sully winked. "I make things happen Jack. I have a special talent, you see."

Jack was intrigued. "Well, like what?"

Sully leaned in and locked eyes. "Anything, Jack. Anything at all. Why, right now the eyes on that painting of Lil on the wall over there are following you everywhere you look."

Jack glanced at the painting. He moved his head this way and that. Damn. It was true. The eyes followed him everywhere. "I've seen paintings like that before. It's an optical illusion."

Sully cocked his head. "Well then, how do explain the fact that the table is levitating."

Jack looked down. The table was indeed rising slowly, the beers sloshing a bit. "How...how do you do that!"

Sully chuckled. "I told you Jack, I can do things. Say, what was the name of that new ship you've signed on to?"

Jack's head swam. "Um...new ship? I..." He couldn't remember.

"You were sayin' you're shoving off with the outgoing tide in the mornin'. What was the name?"

Jack tried hard to sort things out in his mind. It wasn't like him to be forgetful. Sully signaled to the barmaid for two more pints. She put them down in front of them and Jack protested. "Um, I don't think I can..."

Sully snapped his fingers. "The Ormaru! That was it. Yar, I know that tanker. You're gonna like it there. Good crew."

Jack's head swam as Sully toasted him again and they drank. "I...the Orma..."

"Not to worry, Jack, i'll get ya there in time. I wouldn't let a mate down!"

They continued to drink and Jack fell further into a tracelike state. Soon he was hoisted to his feet and Sully guided him out into the night air. He stumbled to the curb and puked his guts out.

They piled into a cab, Jack laying there, his eyes glazed and his breathing ragged. Sully kept up a light banter, most of which Jack couldn't make any sense of. The Cab stopped on a pier and Sully helped him to a tanker docked down the way. Up the gangplank they went, Jack barely able to walk. At the gangway a crew member took control of Jack and guided down a passageway to a bunk where he blacked out.

The captain grinned at Sully. "I don't know how you do it, Sully, and frankly, I don't want to know. He looks like a strong one."

"Aye, he'll heave too once he gets his legs back under him. I told him he'd signed on." He barked out a harsh laugh and held out his hand. "Now then, a thousand, wasn't it?"

The captain snorted. "Sully, you dog, you know I don't pay more than seven hundred."

"Ya scurvy dog! Right then, i'll settle for nine hundred."

The captain reached into his pocket. "Eight hundred, and i'll see you in three months, you old salt."

Sully made his way down the pier. The night was young, and there were other ships in need of slave labor.

I have always been an avid reader of newspapers and magazines, and I seldom fail to watch the six o'clock news. If you're anything like me you've noticed by now a trend in the media ever since the finance world disaster descended on us last September to be consistantly downbeat. It's all doom and gloom. An article in the business section of the newspaper today had a headline stating that Christmas sales figures were down dramatically. On reading the article I learned that they were down only nine-tenths of a percent on last year. Regardless of what economic data is released by the various government agencies responsible for such things, the media report it as bad news.

When the press make pessimistic predictions that don't pan out, rarely will they revisit them or explain why they were wrong. And when data is reported that is better than expected, the press will often downplay it by suggesting that the numbers are preliminary but could be revised lower later. When such revisions actually improve the picture, this too is largely ignored. Some news presenters have a gleam in their eye when they report the latest unemployment statistics or finance company collapses. Maybe i'm imaging that last part, but I could swear i've seen it happen.

The question is, why? Anecdotal evidence in my neck of the woods seems to indicate that things aren't nearly as bad as the media would have us believe. I have an online business that is down somewhat but continues to thrive. I don't know anyone who's had to sell their house through lack of ability to pay the mortgage, nor do I know anyone who's been laid off from their job. Finding a parking place at the mall is an exercise in futility because the mall is jammed.

So where is the horrible downturn we're constantly told we're undergoing? My wife works in a government department of over a hundred people, and she reports that none of them have been affected by all this, nor has anyone that they know. Same with friends. Nothing. So again, why does the media constantly hammer us with doom and gloom? What's in it for them? Some quick research reveals that the answer is that advertising revenue rises faster when they report bad news than it does when they report good. In other words, the media are whores.

I suppose that should come as no surprise. I've often heard it said over the years that bad news spreads like wildfire, good news travels slow. I've also heard it said that more papers get sold when there's a horrific plane crash or an asassination on the front page. Same with the evening news, percentages go up when there's shocking news to report. The horrible wildfires in Victoria, Australia have been dominating the six o'clock news for days now, the first night there was an hour and half of coverage devoted to it, to the exclusion of all else. I have a name for this sort of behaviour. I call it media porn. The urge to stick a microphone in the face of some poor victim is more than a tv news reporter can resist.

If we step outside the picture for a moment this behaviour seems vile and disgusting at best, and yet, would they be doing it if there was mass outrage? Are they simply pandering to the lowest common denominator? Do people really get off on schadenfreude? I suppose the answer is yes, and yet I can't help thinking that they have some moral obligation not to indulge our baser instincts.

The fact that they don't brings us back to the reason for the economic collapse in the first place. Greed. The quest for revenue put before common decency. Still, I have to wonder if the media aren't playing a dangerous game in terms of their own well-being. What happens if they succeed in convincing everyone that it's all hopeless and people really do stop spending and give up and complete economic collapse ensues? Won't people stop buying their sponsers products?

Is it all just a farce then? Or will they discover too late that they've convinced us to be the lemmings pictured above? Me, i'll be the one with the life preserver, thanks just the same.

Linda set her glass down and examined her wrist. I wonder how painful it is, she thought. If the razor blade was sharp, perhaps it wouldn't be too bad. Of course there was the matter of using that hand to do the other wrist. Still, others had gone before, so it was possible.

She leaned back and closed her eyes and pictured herself in a bathtub. Wasn't that how it was usually done, in a bathtub? She looked around the dimly lit bar. Broken dreams and lost potential. That's what you found in a seedy dive at one in the afternoon. At least the men were too old or too far gone to make a pass at her. Silver linings and all that.


Getting back to method she ruled out all the others she could think of. Hanging. No, too much work. A bullet? She had no gun and the waiting period simply wouldn't do. Carbon monoxide? No car.

Linda picked up her purse and headed for the door when she noticed something about the bowl of matches by the register. One book was different from the others. Black with gold lettering. She took it as she passed and stepped out into the bleak winter sunlight.

Walking aimlessly she was greeted with catcalls and whistles by the detrius of humanity that claimed this godforsaken patch. No hopers with nowhere to go and nothing to do but make pathetic bids for attention. She ignored them and they let her pass.

She needed a place and a packet of blades. That was all it took. She stepped into a small market and found what she needed. The sad-eyed man slumped behind the counter mumbled the price without looking up. She dropped the matches on the counter as she rummaged through her purse. She picked them up, looked at the cover and frowned.

The ornate gold lettering said The Hotel Purge. She opened the cover. "Check in when you may. Check out when you might." 183 La Grange Street. It must be fate, she decided, and headed for La Grange street.

The old hotel had once been quite well appointed, and while it was past it's prime, there was a genteel air about the place that calmed her. The maroon pile carpet was thinning but well maintained. The ornate cage elevators still gleamed with gold leaf.

She approached the desk. "I'd like..."

The desk attendant, a tall thin man of indeterminate age with slicked back black hair looked up. "Good day madam. Yes, I know, you've been expected. Room 516." He handed her a key.

"Oh, no, you see I didn't make a reservation, I just..." she didn't know what else to say.

"The lift is just over there, will you be needing anything else?" He gave her a thin smile.

"No...thank you." She went upstairs, putting everything out of her mind but what she was about to do. She unlocked the door and stepped into...

The kitchen of the house she had grown up in. Her parents were by the sink, her father standing over her mother, cowering against the counter as he berated her, and there, in the corner was she as a girl of seven, taking it all in. She called out to her mother, but there was no response. On the opposite wall in bright red letters appeared "Go to room 502." She turned and threw herself into the hall and slammed the door.

She gasped for breath. What the hell was this? She headed for the elevator. She pressed the button but nothing happended. She looked for the stairs. There were none.

There was no way out. Room 502. She walked down the hall with trepidation. She reached for the door knob and the door swung open. She took a deep breath and stepped in. It was recess, fifth grade. There she was, the skinny girl. The book worm. All the ones she had feared were gathered around her. Nancy, Judy, Ashley, calling her pig nose and stink bottom. she glanced to her left and there was a girl she barely remembered writing on the wall with a piece of red chalk, "Go to room 537." She turned and ran.

She stumbled zombie-like down the hall and stood in front of the door. It swung open. There was her beloved cat Lucky, she could hear the screech of the tires. She could hear the sickening thud. On it went, room to room.

The night she was stood up for the senior prom. The football captain that got her drunk and took her virginity against her will. The first day of work at her new job when she spilled soup down the front of her expensive new outfit and everyone laughed.

At last she found herself in front of room 500. She knew what lay in wait for her here but she entered anyway. There they were. The man she loved with all her heart and soul and her best friend in the world going at it like rabbits. She looked for as long as she dared and collapsed in a heap on the floor, blackness descending.

She opened her eyes slowly and found herself in a plush armchair in the lobby. The desk attendant approched with a cup of tea.

"Are you feeling better?" he inquired in an even voice.

She blinked at him and considered the question. Yes. Yes she was. She nodded and looked away. He smiled and told her to take her time. Several minutes later she approached the desk.

"What hap..."

"Time for you to get on with your life, madam." he said simply and nodded his head toward the door.

She nodded and headed out into the bright sunlight.

I have long been an admirer of poetry, and I have written many poems over the last forty-five years. My favorite form of poetry is haiku. Yesterday I came across a website of haiku poetry of a sort that has become increasingly common. It amounts to a couple of sentences that happen to add up to seventeen syllables that are broken down into three lines and the poems do not follow the natural form of haiku.

Haiku is Japanese poetry that uses a verse form comprised of of three lines of five, seven and five syllables. In traditional Japanese method the haiku is both a poetic form of expression and a way of understanding the world. It's wonderful brevity is meant to capture a moment in time, and is often considered a manner in which an epiphany is expressed.

Haiku is strongly associated with Zen and the concept of yugen, a term for beauty implying mystery, profoundness and a trace of longing referred to as sabi. Haiku is derived from tanka, a form of poetry practiced in the Japanese imperial court from the nineth through the twelth centuries. The form of those poems was a five line structure with a five, seven, five, seven, seven syllable count. The first three lines were called the hokku.

At the end of the eighteenth century the work of Japanese poet Masaolka Shiki led ot the hokku becoming the modern form now called haiku. Haiku is meant to evoke specific associations to images, usually natural phenomenon tied ot a particular season, these images are called kigo. The purpose of kigo is to identify the when and where of the haiku. Not all haiku refer to nature. Those that don't are called senryu. Haiku have no titles and are always written in the present tense. Immediacy of thought is pre-eminent.

Modern haiku owes much ot the work of three poets from the Edo period (1600-1868). Bashok, Buson and Issa were master of hokku. All three spent their lives wantering the countryside to gain direct experience of nature which inspired their work. Bashok is considered the father of haiku and most modern haiku is derived from his style.

Haiku is about stripping away the unnecessary to attain simple truth and immediacy. The postitioning of every word is important to attain a quality of truth and insight using as little as possible while evoking a haunting imagery that lingers in the mind. That is why I love haiku.

Here's one of mine:

Cherry blossoms drift
I remember us then, there
The loon's call echoes

Marco tucked the .45 in at the small of his back and pulled his shirt down over it. He pulled up the collar of his windbreaker and stepping into the windy, trash strewn street he looked up and down. Sure that the coast was clear, he headed for the rendezvous.

Sam slouched against a graffitied wall and pulled a quarter out of his pocket. He flipped it over each knuckle and back again repeatedly until he noticed Ben crossing the street. Putting the quarter away he reached out to shake hands.

"Hey bro. Been waiting long?"

"Nah, just got here. What's the haps?"

"Marco says we do the meet at Frankie's Place, you know down there on 3rd."

"Marco says, Marco says, when we gonna take some action, man?"

"Look, he's been doin' good by us, so just leave it out." Ben gave Marco the look.

Sam considered his options, looked down and spat by way of an opinion.

"Look, the dosh is large and ready, ain't it?" Ben turned his palms out and shrugged his shoulders.

"Yeah, whatever. Let's roll."

Arriving at Frankie's bar they sat down and waited, ordering a couple of beers. Ben tried to chat up the waitress, but she wasn't having any. She rolled her eyes at him and walked on. Sam tried to high five him, but Ben wasn't amused.

"So, light fingers, you all limbered up for the game?" Ben asked.

Sam grinned. "Oh yeah, i'm on today. Hope we can attract some suits, it's a bummer when the take ain't good."

The waitress was passing by again. "Hey sweet cheeks, how's about you bring us a pepperoni over here, eh?" She nodded and headed for the kitchen.

"Man, some day..." Sam sighed.

"Yeah, dream on, bro." Ben didn't believe in sugar coating things.

Marco sauntered in and plopped himself down. "Greetings gents. We all set?"

Ben was glad to see him. "Sure thing Marco. Sam's limbered up and we're ready to do the deed. We got a pizza coming first."

"Cool. We'll chow down and hit that corner on 8th Avenue we did a month or so back, should be cool now. Where's that sweet thing? I need a beer."

They arrived at the corner and Marco set up the folding table and got out the cards. Ben moved off down the street and got ready to go into shill mode. Sam waited across the street for the game to begin and browsed some store windows. It didn't take long for the marks to start gravitating to the game. Businessmen, unemployed slouches, working stiffs on their day off looking for something to alleviate their boredom, there were always plenty of victims around, lots of fish in the sea.

"Hey, hey, who wants to play? Find the queen, make the scene. One chance in three, come and see." Marco slid into action like a well oiled machine. The game was simple, three cards, one of them a queen. Face down on the table, some quick moving about and all the player had to do was tap the queen. Fat chance. Unless he seemed to be a gambler. Then Marco would let him win one to suck him in.

One by one they put their money down and Marco lightened their load, keeping up his patter, hooking one with a couple of wins and then cleaning him out. Meanwhile Ben worked from the side egging them on, offering opinions on where the queen and was stoking them up when they looked like they about to walk. He was animated and upbeat, a regular cheerleader for the greedy mooks.

Sam kept an eye on things, and when the crowd was large enough and Ben had them distracted he slid in amongst them, targeting the expensive suits. A gentle bump here, a "sorry, man" there, and in no time he had five fat wallets. He cased the crowd a bit more, but it was looking too risky. He moved to the side of the crowd and waited for Marco to glance at him. When it finally came he rubbed his nose and Marco gave an impreceptable nod.

Marco waited until there were several bets on the table and signaled to Ben and Ben threw his hands up in the air. "Shit! Cops! I'm out of here!"

Marco looked startled and pulled the .45 from the back of his pants. "Where?!" The crowd scattered like cockroaches and the gang took off in different directions. Ten minutes later they were back at Frankie's celebrating with a cold beer.

Marco was pleased. "Nice haul, gents. Well done all around."

Ben took a pull on his beer. He scratched his chin and hunched forward. "Listen, I been thinkin'. We've been making the rounds a lot, maybe we need a new grift. Sam's good with his hands and all, but there's another con we can do. I got a guy uptown who can get us some loaded dice that pass for good. We could switch off for awhile, you know?"

Marco and Sam looked at each other and grinned. Life was sweet.

I have always found graffiti annoying. I have also found it by turns to be funny, thought provoking, inciteful and vainglorious. Usually the latter if i'm in a bad mood.

No, I never engaged in graffiti as a child or teenager. Not my style. I have been writing since I was thirteen, so when I had something to express I did it with my trusty typewriter, and then later on my computer.

For the longest time it was difficult for me to separate graffiti from graffiti art in my mind. It was all just the childish scribbling of ratbags with no respect for private property. The word is from the Italian graffiato ("scratched"), which is how the earliest graffiti was created.

The earliest graffiti, besides scratching, was done with charcoal and paint. Sometimes it was political or satirical, other times it was crude anatomical humor or even just normal representational art. Today graffiti has evolved into several types. Political graffiti; such as that in the picture; tagging; which is marking one's territory with a unique signature, usually stylized; and graffiti art, which is usually associated with Hip Hop culture these days. The last are often large pieces, even murals in many colors with a high degree of artistic ability involved.

On a trip to Rome in 2005 we visited Pompeii and I was startled to find the place literally covered with graffiti. Everywhere we looked. There is an inscription from the 1st century on one the walls at Pompeii that reads: “I wonder, O, wall, that you have not fallen in ruins from supporting the stupidities of so many scribblers.” There turned out to be much graffiti in every large city in Italy we visited. I later found out that modern graffiti dates back to both the Greeks and the Romans, and I recall seeing much of it in Greece, especially Athens. There was even graffiti at the Parthenon.

Graffiti has been found in the catacombs of Rome, on the bases of Greek vases, on the faces of coins, on the Mayan temple walls of Tikal, and on early medieval Scandinavian church walls. It is an urge as old as man.

People of a certain age will be aware that during World War II there was a bit of graffiti that went viral, to use a modern expression. Kilroy Was Here. The phrase and image of ‘Kilroy’ poking his head and nose over a fence wall was suddenly everywhere in America and everywhere that U.S. servicemen went. I remember seeing it as a kid on the walls of businesses on the street where we lived.

The graffiti in the picture above was on a wall in Tallinn, Estonia, where we spent a couple of weeks last September. While I usually don't care for graffiti itself, i'm often interested in seeing graffiti that has been vandalized by someone else who begs to differ.

The only graffiti that ever got a great big smile out of me was an exchange of the sort above in San Francisco during the 80's. It was the time of a movement to get the Soviets to permit Jewish emigration. Someone had spray painted in big letters across the wall of a service station:

Free Soviet Jews

To which some wag had added right below it:

With Every Fill Up!

San Francisco is that kind of place.

Finding youself in a place you've never been and not knowing how you got there can be many things. Interesting, thrilling, frightening, perplexing. Many things. Such was the content of Alex's mind in the moment.

What was rapidly becoming more to the point, however, was how to deal with that in addition to the fact that the place in question was unlike anywhere he'd ever imagined, let alone actually been.

It occured to him that he now knew how Dorothy felt when she told Toto they weren't in Kansas anymore. He wasn't sure that was a good thing, but there it was.

He looked about, then closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side. Nope. Still here. Wherever here was. He was used to unusual experiences, but this was beyond the pale.

It was not unlike the town he lived in in some ways, but the...people, for want of a better word, were not of this world. At least, he was pretty sure. They moved about by gliding along the ground, and they wore long robes in colors he had no names for. He continued to remain rooted to the spot, wondering why they seemed to take no notice of him. He was in no hurry to find out what would happen if he spoke to them.

He saw a bench nearby and decided he'd better sit down. He continued to watch the endless parade of beings gliding to and fro, some passing very close to him, and still they took no notice of him. He took a deep breath and tried to make sense of it all, but this was beyond anything he could comprehend.

Why was he not freaked out by all this? Not that that would be a good thing, but one would think finding oneself in an alien environment with no idea how one got there should be unsettling. Perhaps it was best not to dwell on that. He rubbed his neck and looked up at the sky. Whoa. It seemed odd that he hadn't noticed it was all the colors of the rainbow at once. The clouds. Wow. They were shifting patterns moving in all directions and creating strange symbols that dissovled into nothingness and then reappeared in new forms.

His mouth was dry, but he was wary of moving from the bench. He looked about and saw what seemed to be a water fountain nearby. He would have to go to it. He got up slowly and watched the parade of gliding beings. Still not paying attention to him. Right then, time to move. He began walking toward the fountain and became mesmerized by the show in the sky once again. This is all too much.

He noticed a traffic circle off to his right with some strange looking statues. Three of them, some sort of symbols. He couldn't decide what they were. Fungus of some sort? Where these beings part of a mushroom cult. Mushrooms...

He was on the verge of a realization when he looked back down at where he was going a little to late to notice the being gliding forward right in front of him and he braced himself for impact. He came to an abrupt halt as the creature glided right through him. As if he wasn't there.

It was then that he began to scream. He stopped abruptly as he felt a pressure on his shoulder. His vision shifted and he found himself sitting on his sofa. In his own apartment. With his girlfriend Kelly shaking him and looking bemused. Oh wow.

"Hey there, stoner. Been hitting the magic mushrooms again?" She shook her head as he rubbed his eyes and tried to focus better.

"Oh wow, man, you wouldn't believe where i've been." He grinned at her and looked sheepish. "I gotta lay off those things. I know I promised i'd just deal them and not indulge, but you were gonna be late and I was bored..."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah. Uh huh. Where have I heard that before?"

Just another day in the life he thought to himself and shrugged.

I have always been a fan of offbeat humor. The more offbeat the better, for the most part. Cutting edge, satirical, blasphemous, anything and everything, really. I have a much broader sense of humor than most. Hell, I even like puns. Any form of word play is great. Everything but torture and pedophilia is fair game as far as i'm concerned.

Therefore it was with much delight several years ago that I discovered a pair of Danish cartoon strip writers named Mikael Wulff and Anders Morgenthaler. These two guys aren't afraid to tackle any subject in pursuit of humor, and for that I salute them. For that reason, and because i'd like to introduce their work to more people they are the subject of todays post.

The Danes have a history of going out on a limb with humor, as i'm sure everyone knows in light of the Muslim cartoons. Wulffmorgenthaler continues that tradition, inviting you into a world of strange characters doing everything from the improbable to the impossible with style and wit. They aren't for everyone, to be sure, but if you like offbeat humor this is for you.

Among their regular characters are Weirdo Beaver, Dick Bird and Toucan Boy. Each brings a unique presence to the cartoons. A subscription gets you a new strip each day and three from the archives. All strips besides being rateable can be commented on for all to see, leading to some interesting exchanges among suscribers, which are sometimes as entertaining as the strips. They also market merchandise based on the strip.

You can access their strips by subscribing to daily emails or by RSS feed. It's well worth doing if you like what they do, and most of their strips are right on the money, with the occasional clunker. Everybody has an off day. You are invited to rate the strips, on a scale from "It sucks so much!" to "A miracle", they care about what their audience thinks. I like that.


In case the caption on the strip above is too small to read it says:

Darwin discovers he was on to something, but had not gotten it all precisely right.

Classic Wulffmorgenther. If you want more, you can go here:

http://www.wulffmorgenthaler.com/signup.aspx

At the bottom of that page it says:

Stay in the loop with Wulffmorgenthaler.

You can choose to subscribe to our "Daily Comic Strip" and our "Wulffmorgenthaler Newsletter", which will provide you with everlasting memories and the lastest mistakes from the world of science. And other stuff.

Both strips and newsletter can be a regular part of your life in two different formats - either by "RSS" or by what is commonly called "email". If you've got no idea what "RSS" means, then just chose what is commonly called "email". But all the hip kids know what "RSS" means, and some day those kids will rule the world.

That's Wulffmorgenthaler. That's entertainment.