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

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. 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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

Mika stepped out of his hut and looked carefully about in the dim, misty morning light. The coast was clear so he ran to the back of the village and followed the secret trail he had been carefully blazing these many months.

Slipping through and covering the entrance behind him, he quickly made his way up the path listening to the birdcalls and the chattering of the monkeys as they telegraphed his passing. After a vigorous climb up the steep hill to where the trees thinned a bit he took a sharp left before the waterfall and came to a clearing. Soon he reached the hut he had built to suit his purpose.

Certain that he hadn't been followed, he pulled back the covering and surveyed the space. Everything was in order. His treasure was safe. He unpacked the items he brought with him and sat down to think things through. He took out his drawing and studied it, using the crude measuring device he had made to check dimensions. He deemed it likely that he could finish his project before the rising of the new moon.

He sat back, exhausted from the climb and daydreamed about how things would be. They were wrong. He just knew it. He would show them. They would be angry if they knew what he was up to. They would be fearful that the gods would punish them all for his work, but they were wrong, and he, Mika, would be a legend when they saw what he could do.

He got out the canvas he had salvaged from that wrecked sailboat he had been lucky enough to happen on to before anyone else in the village had known about it. It had been the start of his project, which, until then had only been a dream. Along with the other items from the boat he had secreted away he had everything he needed, along with the vines and wood he had carefully collected, to build his contraption.

It had come to him in a dream long ago. One day he would fly. It was part of the oral tradition of his island village that man was not meant to do such a thing. It was told that the gods would punish anyone who dared to do such a thing. The village elders always cursed at the airplanes that occasionally flew overhead. They believed, indeed they told everyone, that those machines were evil.

The white men that came from time to time on they're ships said that it was a good thing, but they were run off when they did. It was wrong, that's what the elders always said. But Mika had the urge. Ever since the dream he had as a young boy. He set to work, assembling the pieces on the ground, making sure everything would fit right. He worked as long as he dared and then headed back. Soon the time would come.

The days passed quickly, and having few duties in the village due to his age, Mika was able to get away and work on his glider frequently. He always took his bow with him and brought back some food as his excuse for being away. Soon the day came when he could assemble it. His hands shook as he carefully tied everything in place, just as he had seen it in his dream so long ago.

He looked up at the peak where he would jump out into space from. It was covered in mist, as it usually was. He willed himself to be brave and gathered up his new creation and put it on the sled he had devised to haul it up to the peak. It was a long arduous climb, and it took him much longer than he had anticipated.

As he climbed he could see storm clouds moving in from the West. He hoped that they would hold off, he was determined to fly this very day. He had waited so long nothing would stop him now. The wind was steady and it would all be right with a bit of luck. He couldn't wait to see the look on the faces of the villagers below, as he, Mika, flew above them like a mighty sea bird.

When he got to the top he rested a bit. The thunderheads were moving in. Should he do it anyway? He had to. He had come this far. He would make it a short flight. Just enough to show them, show them all, that he, Mika was right. The gods would not be angry, he just knew it.

He stepped into the frame of the glider and took a deep breath. Running for all he was worth toward the edge he closed his eyes and took a giant leap, willing his wings to carry him forward. It worked. He looked down, and there below him was the village. He was flying!

He glided lower and lower, steering himself over the village. His people had spotted him, and they stood shouting and pointing at him. The village elders came running out to see what the commotion was about. They were stunned. They began chanting and dancing in a circle. Mika didn't care, he was flying at long last. He circled over the village, revelling in his glory.

As the thunderheads advanced overhead he paid them no mind. The wind was picking up, and he knew he should glide down to the beach and land, but he was so elated. It was more glorious than he imagined. As the village elders continued to chant and dance it began to rain. Mika began his descent and as he did a bolt of thunder came out of nowhere and struck. The glider fell swiftly to the ground as the villagers looked on in horror. They ran to his burnt body, tangled in the remains of his contraption.

The village elders came and surveyed the scene. They shook their heads and told the others that this was the punishment of the gods for Mika's arrogance. They buried him the next day, and his name was never spoken again in the village.

So what is art? We all know paintings are art. Literature is considered art. Music is art. We all have opinions about the quality of anything we call art, but what about those things which are labelled as art, and are created by people who call themselves artists, but which many can't agree is even art to begin with?

Alaska-based, Milanese born artist Paola Pivi is flying goldfish to New Zealand on a private plane for 100 people to look at. A film of the flight and the landing will then be played in a central city park for mass consumption. Aside from the pilots and flight crew, the only other passengers will be the artist and her assistants. The exhibition will be titled I Wish I Am Fish.

Me, I wish I could make stuff like this up, but it's all true. Pivi said her project is a "performance" where at least two fish will be flown from Sydney to Auckland as passengers. Yes, that's right, they'll have their own seats. Not sure if they'll have food service. It's good to know they'll be able to keep each other company.

The plane will land at a private hanger at Auckland Airport. The landing will be the end of the performance, which will be documented on film and relayed on a big screen in Auckland's Freyberg Square. The artist is funding the majority of the project, which is understood to be costing tens of thousands of dollars.

So. Is this art? Performance Art? A stunt? It's all in the eye of the beholder, is it not? Pivi, who splits her time between Milan and Alaska, gained acclaim for her 2003 photo of a donkey floating on a small boat and in 2007 for a leopard walking across 3,000 cappuccino cups.

She is, of course the latest in a long line of controversial artists. The last time I recall anything like this in New Zealand was the Cardrona Bra Fence, which was a controversial tourist attraction in Central Otago, where passers-by started to add bras to a rural fence, with the fence eventually growing into a famous tourist attraction with hundreds of individual bras. That may or may not have been inspired by the work of the artist Christo, with his fabric wrapped buildings and the infamous fence of sheets. He's probably one of the better known controversial artists.

Not, however, as controversial as a photograph by American photographer Andres Serrano. You may have forgotten the name, but you will almost certainly remember the piece, and the resulting uproar in America. The piece caused a scandal when it was exhibited in 1989, with detractors, including United States Senators Al D'Amato and Jesse Helms, outraged that Serrano received $15,000 from the taxpayer-funded National Endowment for the Arts for the work. The work is question was title Piss Christ. It was a plastic crucifix submerged in the artists urine.Sister Wendy Beckett, an art critic and Catholic nun, stated in a television interview with Bill Moyers that she regarded the work as not blasphemous but a statement on "what we have done to Christ" - that is, the way contemporary society has come to regard Christ and the values he represents.

Such is the nature, then, of art. Would it be as valuable if it didn't incite strong emotion? Isn't that what art should do? To get back to my original question, what is art? Who decides? As a storyteller and a photographer, I wouldn't consider my work of any real value if it didn't incite emotion and raise questions in the mind of the beholder. Is that which is meant to deliberately provoke any less worthy of the title "art", than something which is simply put forward for no particular reason?

I'd love to know what you think.

You wanna know what I hate more than anything else in the world? Well i'm gonna tell you anyway. So there. I hate stupid people. Don't you hate stupid people? You should. If you don't, well then maybe you're...Oh, never mind. Anyway, yeah, they really annoy me. Stupid people, that is.

You know what's one of the things stupid people do that really annoys me? They call you names. That's right, they call you names and then they laugh. Sometimes they point, too. I really hate that. People who aren't stupid don't do those things. That's a fact. You could look it up.

My friend says that all the time. He says you could look it up. I used to think that was stupid, but then I realized it couldn't be, because he's my friend, and I wouldn't be friends with anyone stupid. No sir, I sure wouldn't. I'll bet you're wondering what my friend's name is. Well I might tell you in a while. If I decide you're not stupid. I'm not gonna tell you my name though. Well, maybe my real name, but not my nickname. The name they call me just before they laugh. And point. I really hate that.

So you're probably wondering what all the screaming is about. Well, it's kind of a long story. Well, not that long, but I could maybe tell you if you promise to listen. See, it's like this, you can only take just so much, you know? I mean, when things get to maximum stupidity, then you gotta do something about it. You can understand that, right? Well, you can if you're not stupid like they are.

So here's the deal. The other day I was sitting around talking with my friend, and these really stupid guys came along and called me that name they call me. Then they started laughing. They asked my why I was talking to myself. I told them I was talking to my friend. They said no I wasn't, I wasn't talking to nobody but myself.

I got really mad. Just because they can't see him doesn't mean he isn't there. That's how stupid they are. They laughed some more, and they pointed at me. That really got me annoyed. So I made a plan. Because i'm not stupid. The next day I walked past them and made sure they saw me. I went to the old abandoned shed behind the factory, the one nobody ever goes in because there's supposed to be snakes and stuff in there, only there ain't, because I checked.

Anyway, they came to the shed, like I knew they would. Because they're stupid. They asked me what I was doing and I told them I trapped a rattlesnake in there. They said I was a liar, and they called me that name they call me. Then they laughed and pointed. I told them I didn't care because I wouldn't let them see the snake anyway. Those stupid guys always make fun of me at school. I get so tired of it.

So then they pushed me out of the way and went in the shed. Just like I knew they would. You know how I knew? Because i'm not stupid. So i closed the door while they were in there and I put the padlock on that I brought from my father's garage. Then I went around the back of the shed and got the gasoline I hid there. I poured it all over that old wooden shed, that's what I did. Then I took out the matches from the pocket of these nice pants my mother made for me. You can guess the rest. If you're not stupid.

Anyway, that's what all the screaming is about. So now you know. My friend says it was the right thing to do. He would say that, he's the one who told me to do it. There are too many stupid people in the world. He said that too. He said you could look it up. So now I gotta go home because it's almost dinnertime and my mom will be mad if i'm late. Bye bye stupid people.

"So, Ralphie, how was school today?" Mrs. Andrews look expectantly at her son.

"Ok." Ralph had a smile on his face, which was unusual.

"What did you do after school?"

"Oh, not much."

"Oh, come on, Ralph, you must have done something. You didn't have any trouble with those horrible boys that tease you, did you?" His father looked concerned.

"No dad. They won't be bothering me anymore. They were just stupid."

"Well i'm glad you got that resolved. You came to an understanding with them?" His mother had that worried look she sometimes got.

Ralph looked at her. Boy, she could be stupid sometimes. "Yeah mom, an understanding. They won't be stupid anymore."

I love New Zealand. I've lived here for eleven years now, and I will never go back to where I came from. I love pretty much everything about this country. There is, however, one thing that I find really annoying, and that's the driving skills, or should I say lack thereof, of the average Kiwi.

I was really surprised to find that when I first got here. The average Kiwi, if indeed there is such a creature, is friendly, outgoing and eager to please. When they get behind the wheel, though, it's as if they morph into something else entirely. There's definitely a Jekyll/Hyde thing going on here. When you drive in New Zealand you're taking your life in your hands to a greater degree than any other western country i've driven in. Indeed, the death toll on the roads here is astounding. 433 deaths on the roads here last year, with a population of just over 4 million. What amazes me even more is that the majority were head on crashes.

Part of that has to do with the roads. They are not of as high a standard as other western countries. I've seen many roads improperly banked, poorly graded with inadequate road markings, but mostly it's the drivers. Passing on blind curves at high speed would appear to be a national pastime to most of the people who visit here.

Another popular pasttime on the road is tailgating. Even if you're way over the speed limit, and driving in the slow lane. One gets used to it after a while, but when you're new here it's very unnerving.

All of this is surprising given the stringency of the New Zealand driving test. The written test is tougher than the ones I took in California, and while I didn't have to take a road test to get a license, i've heard endless horror stories about how difficult it is. A score below 80% on the practical is a fail, as is any mistake considered major, such as failing to comply with any traffic law, no matter how minor.

I live in the woods, or the bush as we say here, and the roads around my house are narrow and winding. In five years of living in my present location I can't even begin to count the number of near misses i've had from on coming drivers driving right down the middle of the road, coming around a blind curve, completely heedless of the line on the road. It seems to mean nothing. Especially to four wheel drive vehicles. Don't even get me started on them. On top of that, many of them will curse you and give you the one finger salute for having the temerity to be on the road at all. After all, it belongs to them, or so they seem to believe.

What makes all this even more unnerving is that insurance isn't compulsory here, at lest not yet, they keep talking about it, so if you do get hit there's a good chance the other person won't have any, nor the means to pay. It keeps things interesting.

I've looked up some statistics on road testing, and there are some amazing figures. 1 person has taken the written test 31 times and still hasn't passed. 2 people have failed the practical 16 times before finally passing. 4 people have taken the practical 15 times and failed.

The person who has failed 31 times has forked out $1270, and still not passed the written test. The 2 people who have failed the practical 16 times each handed over $1240 before getting a license. Driving instructors have stated off the record that many people in this country simply aren't cut out for driving. That, I would offer, is an understatement.

Officer Olsen straightened his hat and checked himself out in the mirror. A fine figure of a corrections office, he was, if he did say so himself. Pleased with what he saw, he kissed his wife goodbye and headed out for his first day on the job at one of the roughest prisons in the country.

Training had been long and rigorous, and the physical fitness requirements just to qualify had been unreal, but he came to understand why they were necessary. He would be dealing with some the most vicious miscreants to ever be locked up, and if they sensed any softness about you...well, you had to be tough, and they had to know it. Sometimes you were alone on the row, and had to be ready for anything.

He had butterflies in his stomach, but he knew he could do this. He was determined to be the very best corrections officer he could. He figured he'd come in for some guff from the old timers for a while, it was that way in the army, and in many ways being in corrections would probably be similar. Same sort of hierarchy, blind obedience to the rules, all that sort of thing. He didn't mind.

He had needed a change of career. He was going nowhere, and when he had seen the ad in the paper he had told his wife he thought he could do it. She had told him she thought it was a good idea and she'd support him in ever way she could. Now it was time to deliver. He pulled into the car park and looked at the prison.

It was a foreboding place. Old and rugged. The razor wire and towers with the armed guards made it clear that this was no picnic. It was hell on earth for those who ended up here, but they had brought it on themselves. In training it was made clear over and over again that you never let them get to you. They would play for sympathy when you were new. They would test you every way they could. Well John Olsen was no man's fool, and they would soon know it. He got out of the car and reported for his first day of duty.

"Olsen, good to see you. Welcome to hell." Warden Allen seemed a warm and caring man.

"Thank you sir. I'm ready for duty."

"Captain Stevens will introduce you around and get you started. My door is always open if you need anything."

John knew you didn't bother the old man without a damn good reason. "Thank you sir."

He was introduced around the block and given the grand tour. When they got to D Block, Captain Stevens stopped and gave him a serious look. "Now this is isolation. The worst of the bad are kept here when they screw up, as punishment and to give them time to cool out. How long they're here depends on several things, but mostly on how they do." They walked along until they came to a cell that looked older than the rest. It stood apart and was heavily reinforced and battered looking.

Captain Stevens glanced at the door and picked up his pace as they passed. That made John curious. "Um, what's with that cell we just passed?"

Captain Stevens stopped in his tracks and turned around and scowled. "We don't talk about that cell. We have a strict rule here. Nobody goes near that one. No matter what happens, you understand?" He fixed John with a hard look.

John gulped. "Uh, yes. Yes sir. But what..."

"I said we don't talk about it. What part of that didn't you understand?"

John turned bright red. "Sorry, sir. I just...Sorry."

Just then a low moan was heard. It seemed to be coming from the cell. John started to turn his head, then noticed Captain Stevens looking at him intently. He looked away and feigned interest in the goings on across the block. The moaning continued as they moved back down the row.

The next day he was again shown the rounds, and they put him on D Block, it was where they tested the newbies, apparently. If you could handle the mongrels on D Block, then they knew you had what it took. He made his way along, being taunted by the inmates, and he gave as good as he got.

As he approached the forbidden door he did his best not to take any notice of it. Nothing happened as he passed, but on his way back, just has he got a bit ahead of it he heard a scratching noise. He turned and looked. The moaning he had heard the day before came again. He hurried back along the row, a bit unnerved.

At lunchtime he sat with the other guards and when most of the others had left he turned to his new work mate and let his curiosity get the better of him. "Hey, George, you know that last cell on D Block, do you..."

George fixed him with a dour look. "We don't talk about that cell. Ever."

"Yeah, I know, it's just..."

"Ever, man. You just ignore it, ok?"

John bit his lip. "But what if...I don't know. What if you hear...something?" He couldn't contain himself. "Who the hell do they keep in there, anyway?"

George glared at him and shook his head. He picked up his tray and walked away.

A week later he was on the night shift, and again they put him on D Block. He did his rounds with a sense of dread. He really didn't want to go past the cell, but it was what he had to do. He whistled to himself as he approached and pretended he didn't care. The prisoners were asleep and everything seemed alright.

As he approached the moaning started up. Then the scratching. He tried to ignore it. He turned to go back, then he heard it. The thing he had been dreading. A voice emanated from the cell. A deep low growl, but pathetic and in pain.

"Help me...help me..." It sounded angry, but pathetic and beaten at the same time. He stopped in his tracks and felt the blood run to his feet.

"Please...open the door...I need..." the voice seemed to trail off and he couldn't make out the last part of what it said.

He moved a bit closer, and then, in a low voice, "Who are you? Why did they put you in there?" Nothing. He started to move away, and then, "Help me...please, for god's sake...help..."

It was more than he could take. Something was wrong. They had said not to, but this sounded like a medical emergency. He moved to the door and got out his master key. He thought it over. More scratching. Damn. He held his breath and turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door. It was pitch black and he couldn't see a thing. He took a step in and suddenly felt a hand grip the back of his neck and pull him backward.

He screamed and wet himself simultaneously. It was then that the laughter and guffaws started. He spun around and there were his fellow guards and Captain Stevens, doubled over with laughter, pointing at his wet pants. One of them went into the cell and came out holding a tape recorder.

"Welcome to hell, Johnny boy! You've now been properly hazed." They couldn't contain themselves. John stared at them and then broke in to a grin. He was one of the guys now. He barked at the complaining inmates to shut up and go back to sleep.

Movie review time again. This little gem came out in 2004, and some of you will be familiar with it. For those of you who aren't, and if you have a taste for zombie satire comedies, and after all, who doesn't, this will be a must see.

Shaun of the Dead. It's achieved a cult following by now, and Simon Pegg (Shaun) is well known for his outstanding work in Hot Fuzz and Run, Fatboy, Run, but this was his first starring role.

What’s a boy to do when he’s got a dead end job, his girlfriend dumps him, his best friend is a case of arrested development and he has the stepfather from hell? See the cup as half full, that's what. What else can you do when suddenly everyone around you is dying, coming back to life and trying to eat you and everybody else who hasn’t contracted whatever it is that’s killing them and turning them into flesh eating zombies. Shaun of the Dead is a wicked funny black romantic comedy for everyone.

After his girlfriend dumps him he decides to drown his sorrows at the pub with his best friend. After a night of drinking, he has an epiphany and resolves to sort his life out. Said epiphany comes along just as an uprising of the undead within London occurs, the zombies, of course, have a taste for the living. Shaun doesn't realize what's going on until two zombies attack him in his backyard. There ensues a very funny scene of he and his dim-witted roommate attacking the zombies with old LP's, making snap decisions about which ones are disposable and which need to be kept. The LP's that is, not the zombies.

Lots of references to other movies, television shows and video games, among them Blade, The Deer Hunter, Reservoir Dogs, and Invasion Of The Body Snatchers. The plot pays homage to previous zombie and horror movies, most notably the Dead trilogy of George A. Romero. The name of the film is a play on Romero's Dawn of the Dead. Simon Pegg co-wrote the script with director Edgar Wright.

So on one level it's a zombie movie spoof, but on another it's a commentary on modern society, the opening scene of Shaun walking back from the store completely oblivious to all the zombies moving past him on the street sets the tone and makes a clever statement about alienation and discontent.

George A. Romero was so impressed with Pegg and Wright's work that he asked them to appear in cameo roles in Land of the Dead, the fourth part of his Dead series. Pegg and Wright insisted on being zombies rather than the slightly more noticeable roles that were originally offered.

If you have a taste for the offbeat, I recommend this one highly. The violence and language might be a bit much for some, but all in all it's a good time.

Man, there must be something about green beer that makes you have to go even more than the usual stuff, Pat decided as he attempted to make his way in a straight line down the avenue. He'd gone before he left the pub, but now the urge was upon him once again.

St. Patrick's Day. What a gas! Any reason to blow off some steam after a day at his high-pressure stock market job, but this day, ah, this one was the best of all. Everybody in a party mood, and the perfect excuse to kiss lots of women and cop the odd feel in the bargain. He smiled to himself at that thought and turned down the next alley he came to so he could answer nature's call. It wasn't something he was inclined to do in ordinary circumstances, but this was an emergency.

As he stumbled along the pitch-black alley he heard a high-pitched squeal and then the sound of a cat hissing. Great, a cat fight. Ah well, he's just stop here and do his business. He was just about to take matters in hand when he heard something that made his mind reel.

"Back off, ye damned beast!"

What? No, he must have had too much beer. He moved a ways further down the alley, his eyes finally adjusting to the conditions and he saw something that couldn't possibly be. There, for all the world, was a leprechaun, and it was brandishing a tiny shillelagh at the cat, who was advancing, hissing and spitting and about to deliver a fatal blow to the little man. He ran forward, not sure what the hell he was doing and yelled at the cat, who hissed at him, considered it's options, and fled the scene.

He rubbed his eyes and looked down again, and there stood the leprechaun with a scowl on its face, regarding him with one bulging eye.

"I'll be thanking ye for saving me from that foul beast. I made my appearance at, shall we say, an inopportune moment."

Pat was stunned. This had to be some sort of St. Patrick's Day joke someone was playing on him. He looked around the alley, but there was no one else about.

"No, you're not imagining things. I am what you suppose me to be" the leprechaun said in a disgusted tone," and now I am bound by the code to reward you."

"A pot of gold?" Pat asked, adjusting to the situation, helped enormously by the quantity of beer he'd consumed.

The leprechaun gave a derisive snort. "No, ye fool, that's just a story some idiot made up. I will grant you a wish, no more, no less, them's the rules that I must obey." He had grown weary over the millenia of having to explain.

Pat wished he had somewhere to sit down; this was all a bit much. His mind started trying to work it all out.

The leprechaun looked him over and then said, "I don't suppose you'd do me the favor of just letting me go? You see, i'm over my quota of wishes, and if I have to grant another right now, i'll be in for it." He looked sheepish and annoyed at having to grovel.

"Let you off the hook? Hell no! I saved you, and if you're bound to give me a wish, then I want it!" Pat was sure the leprechaun was trying to scam him. He'd heard they'd say anything to get out of doing the right thing. Well, that was the legend anyway; up until now he really didn't believe they existed.

The leprechaun scowled again. "Are you sure you want to do this? I'd be thinking twice if I were you." He spoke in a pointed manner.

Pat wasn't impressed. "Nope. I want my wish, and my wish is for ten million dollars."

"Can't do that, laddie. The limit on money is five million, them's the rules."

Pat was annoyed. "No way, you're lying!"

The leprechaun's eyes bulged and he shook his shillelagh at Pat. "Ye listen to me, you. You're treading on thin ice, ye are! Five million is the limit, I am bound by the code."

Pat decided discretion was the better part of...well, whatever the hell that saying was. "Alright, where's my money?"

"It's in an account in your name. Here's the number and the location of the bank." A piece of paper appeared in his hand from out of thin air. Pat was impressed.

"Cool. So I can access this tomorrow?"

"Indeed ye can. If ye dare..." The leprechaun grinned and then said, "And now my obligation is done. Fare thee well." With that he faded from view.

If I dare? Pat wondered what that was about. He decided it was just sour grapes on the little man's part. He did what he had come to do and headed home, thinking about what he would do with the money. One thing for sure, he was going to quit his lousy job at Simmons and Blake Traders tomorrow. Life was his oyster from here on out.

The next morning he got to work bright and early, not caring in the least about his hangover. He turned in his notice, and was surprised when his boss didn't seem perturbed by it, giving him an odd look. Ah well, no matter, he would on to bigger and better things soon. The day dragged on, he couldn't wait for lunchtime so he could go and check on this bank account.

He hurried to the bank at noon and presented the details to the teller and asked for his account balance. The teller brought up the information. Five million dollars. He suppressed his glee and walked back to work as if he were on air.

After work he hurried home, he had big plans to make. When he got there he was taking off his jacket to settle in when he was startled to see the leprechaun sitting on the floor grinning at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. This couldn't be good, he just had that feeling.

"Oh, I just wanted to make sure you checked on your money. You did, didn't you?"

"Of course. Its all there."

Just then there was a knock at the door. Pat looked at the door and back at the leprechaun, an icy dread rising in him. "What's this all about?"

The leprechaun grinned. "I take it you didn't see the headlines today." He produced a newspaper from behind his back and held it up - "Stock Company Uncovers Embezzlement Scam, Police Receive Tip-off."

Pat went pale. "No...You said you were obligated..."

"I told ye it would put me in a jam. I asked ye to let me go." The leprechaun shrugged his shoulders. "The money has to come from somewhere, you know."

The knocking had turned into banging, and the police were threatening to break the door down. The leprechaun grinned at him one more time and faded from view.

Have you ever heard someone say, or has anyone ever said to you, "you must have a hole in your head"? If so, it's likely they didn't mean it as a compliment. However, drilling a hole in someone's skull has been practiced as far back as 5000 BCE, and possibly before that. A skull found in France with a hole deliberately made in it was dated to then.

The practice is called trepanation, named after the device used to drill the hole, a trepan. Trepanation is the oldest surgical practice and is still performed ceremonially by some African tribes. About 1,000 trepanned skulls from Peru and Bolivia date from 500 BCE to the 16th century.

So why on earth would someone have a hole drilled in their head, other than being held down and having it forced on them? In the past, trepanation was used either to relieve pressure on the brain caused by disease or trauma, or to release evil spirits. The former is still an accepted medical procedure. The latter has died out in those parts of the world where scientific understanding has replaced belief in invading demons.

During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, trepanation was practiced as a cure for various ailments, including seizures and skull fractures. Out of eight skulls with trepanations from the 6th-8th centuries in south-western Germany, seven skulls show clear evidence of healing and survival after trepanation suggesting that the survival rate of the operations was high and the infection rate was low.

In the modern world, trepanation is practiced for other purported medical benefits. The most prominent explanation for these benefits is offered by Dutchman Bart Huges (alternatively spelled Bart Hughes). He is sometimes called Dr. Bart Hughes although he did not complete his medical degree. Hughes claims that trepanation increases "brain blood volume" and thereby enhances cerebral metabolism in a manner similar to cerebral vasodilators such as ginkgo biloba. No published results have supported these claims.

There is a movement that's been around since the early 60's that advocates self-trepanation. In a chapter of his book, Eccentric Lives & Peculiar Notions, John Michell describes a British group that advocates self-trepanation to allow the brain access to more space and oxygen. The chapter is called "The People With Holes in their Heads". Michell cites Bart Huges as pioneering the idea of trepanation, specifically his 1962 monograph, Homo Sapiens Correctus, as the most cited by advocates of self-trepanation. Among other arguments, he contends that children have a higher state of consciousness and since children's skulls are not fully closed one can return to an earlier, childlike state of consciousness by self-trepanation. Further, by allowing the brain to freely pulsate Huges argues that a number of benefits will accrue.

What amazes me about this idea is that he somehow decided evolution has gotten it wrong, having the skull close up as we age. It simply doesn't seem likely. There are many reasons not to drill a hole in one's skull. Sanity comes to mind, for one. It should be noted that the medical and legal authorities reacted to Huges's discovery with horror and rewarded him with a spell in a Dutch lunatic asylum.

He had his admirers, however. Joseph Mellen met Bart Huges in 1965 in Ibiza and quickly became his leading, or rather one and only, disciple. He went back to London and found a trepan for sale and attempted to perform the operation on himself. After taking a tab of LSD. He failed. Imagine that.

Anyway, my advice is that if anyone ever offers to show you the way to higher consciousness by drilling a hole in your head, politely inform that they, in fact, are the one that has one, and walk, or run away as fast as you can.

"Are you listening to me? Ben! I'm talking to you!" Sheila was turning a brighter shade of red by the time Ben lowered his paper.

"Yes, i'm listening."

"Well say something then!"

Ben considered his options. None of them appealed. Ah well. "Sheila, what is this about? Did you have a bad day at work?" That never worked, but he was out of ideas, and the result would be the same no matter what he said, so what the hell.

She crossed her arms and glared at him. "A bad day at work? You think i'm so simple that that's all there is to me?"

Oh good. How to get around this one? This was another version of "does my ass look fat in these pants?" Jumping out the window might be an option. "No, of course not sweetheart, it's just that you're...upset, and I was wondering if you wanted to talk about that." He mentally patted himself on the back for that one.

She continued glaring, then turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Ah well, he thought, some silence wouldn't go amiss. He rubbed his temples and thought about it some more. How long had this been going on? At least a month. The change had been so sudden, so dramatic. She wasn't the woman he knew and loved. There was something she was pushing down, he was sure of it, but all attempts to get her to talk about it came to nothing. What was he to do?

She came back in the room and sat down and turned on the television. He sat there apprehensive, unsure whether to make a move. In a minute she looked over at him.

"Oh Ben, look at the cute little marmosets. They're adorable!"

Ben looked up, startled. Recovering quickly, "Yeah, look at that. Cute." What the hell was going on now? She was acting like nothing had happened. Oh well, never look a gift horse in the mouth. He decided to go for broke. "Would you like to go out for dinner tonight? We could go to that little Indian place you like so much."

She beamed at him. "That would be great, Ben. You're so thoughtful."

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, Ben thought to himself. Hopefully it would be smooth sailing the rest of the night and he could get some sleep.

The next day Ben sat working at his computer, deep into a file he was editing when the phone rang. It was her.

"Ben, what did you do with my cell phone?"

Uh oh. "Hi darling. What do you mean, your cell phone?"

"My phone isn't in my purse Ben. What did you do with it," she hissed.

"Sheila, I don't go near your purse. You know that. Maybe you left it somewhere? I..."

"Damn it, Ben, I didn't leave it anywhere! I need my phone!"

"Sheila, I really don't know any..."

He jerked the phone away from his ear as she slammed it down on her end. Here we go again, he thought to himself. There has to be a way to resolve this. He picked up the phone and dialled.

"Sheila, honey, listen to me. We need to talk. You've been...out of sorts for more than a month now. Please talk to me. I want to help." He held his breath and waited.

"I'm fine Ben. I just forgot I put my phone in my jacket. Its nothing. I'll see you when I get home. Bye."

He looked at the phone for a minute and then hung up. Something had to give. This couldn't go on. He had had fantasies. Bad ones. Of course he would never leave her, but when she got like this...an idea came to him. No, it was crazy. Maybe, though, just maybe crazy was up for it's turn at bat. By god, he would give it a try. She needed a shock. Something to bring her to her senses. Make her appreciate the man she loved, the man she had married. There was a novelty store not far away...

When Sheila got home she noticed the door was partially open, which was odd. She let herself in and put her coat and purse away. "Ben? Where are you?" No answer. God, he was probably deep into some book or the paper. Why did he tune her out all the time? She stomped into the living room and stopped in her tracks as her hand flew to her mouth. Ben was lying on the floor face up with a knife sticking out his chest, his shirt stained bright red. She ran to him and dropped to her knees beside him, feeling for a pulse. She leaned down and started crying.

"Oh my god, Ben, Ben, no! This can't be happening! This..." She lifted her hand where she had touched his shirt and sniffed it. She continued wailing and moved to a chair and sat down.

"Oh Ben, who did this? I'm so sorry. I can't believe this. Here I was coming home to tell you about the doctor appointment I had. Now you'll never know about the brain tumor I have. I only have a few months to live. I guess it's not so bad, now we'll be together again soon..."

Ben sat bolt upright, his eyes popping. "Sheila! What? Oh my god, you have a brain tumor?!" He jumped to his feet. "A few months to live?!"

She smirked at him. "Did you really think you could fool me with this little faked death scene, you jerk?!" She was winding up big time. "What the hell is this about? Is this your idea of a joke? You're sick!"

Oh yeah. He was supposed to be dead. "How did you know?"

"Ketchup? You used ketchup for blood?" She was fuming now. "Explain yourself!"

"Well, I..." He needed time. "What's this about a brain tumor?!"

"I don't have a tumor, you moron! I smelled the ketchup, I was paying you back!" She advanced on him, and he backed up and landed on the couch. "Why do you hate me, Ben? Am I such a bitch you feel you need to scare me to death? What's the matter with you? I try and I try..."

Ben closed his eyes and put his hands over his face. It was going to be a long night.