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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What box might that be?"

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

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

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

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

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

They cuffed him and took him downtown.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi Ben. What's up?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hello?"

"Hi babe, how you doing?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure. What do you have in mind?"

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

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

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

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

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

Ben shrugged. "Alright, I guess."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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











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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Know how who are?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Filmography

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, yes, I..."

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

"Alright, do I bring it back here?"

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

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

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

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

"But I was told..."

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

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

"What is reason for visit to Russia?"

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

"You will answer the question!"

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

"You will be staying in Russia for how long?

"Eight days."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Next!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fung what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is an example:

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

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

Here's a more difficult one:

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

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

You will eventually arrive at the truth if you ask enough questions about the situation. Eventually it would occur to you that the last egg doesn't have to leave the basket.

One more:

A man walks into a bar, and asks the bartender for a drink of water. The bartender pulls out a gun, points it at the man, and cocks it. The man says "Thank you" and leaves. What happened?

This is a tough one. You have to consider the situation being described and ask yourself why the bartender would pull out a gun. Once you've done that, you have to consider what the act of pulling out a gun and pointing it at the man might accomplish. We know the bartender isn't forcing the man to leave, because the man thanks him for pointing the gun at him. Therefore there was no threat. So what does the act of pointing a gun at someone unexpectedly do in most cases? It surprises them. Why would the man thank the bartender for surprising him? Because he needed to be surprised. Why would he need to be surprised? Answer: He had the hiccups.

It's a wonderful way of exercising your brain, and a great little dinner party game if things are getting slow. Give it a try sometime. There are lots of "situation puzzles", as they're sometimes called, online.

1971 was a great year in my life for several reasons. My daughter was born, I was master of my domain, times were easy, rents were low, jobs were plentiful, and my favorite movie of all time hit the screen. A girl who lived below us saw it and couldn't wait to tell me this was a must see film. So I did. Then I saw it again. And again. And again. I have no idea how many times i've watched it. I own it, of course. Harold and Maude. A brilliant black comedy, Zen meditation, satire and life affirming wonder all rolled into one.

Directed by Hal Ashby, who was also responsible for Coming Home and Being There, among others, and starring Ruth Gordon and Bud Cort. More on them later. I'll give a brief synopsis of the film here, but nothing short of viewing it can really do it justice. It's one of the few films I feel really can't be described well enough, it simply has to seen.

It's about a 19 year old, Harold Chasen (Bud Cort), growing up with his facile and self-involved mother in a mansion in the San Francisco Bay Area. He creates elaborate fake suicides in a desperate bid for his mothers attention, and to shock her. The film opens with him staging a hanging in a room he knows she'll soon enter. She takes no notice, she's seen it all before, and Harold is once again disappointed.

She gives him a Jaguar for his birthday, and he promptly converts it into a classy hearse. Harold has a morbid curiousity about death. He drives the hearse to the funeral of someone he doesn't know, as he likes to do on occasion, and there he meets Maude, a septagenarian free spirit who also likes funerals. She offers him some licorish and introduces herself to a reluctant Harold. The film still above is of their first meeting.

From there Harold goes from being embarrassed and put off by Maudes carefree attitude to falling madly in love with her, completely misunderstanding her live-in-the-moment and to the fullest existance. He only knows that she's everything he's never experienced before and he wants to with her always. She ends up teaching him how to live and freeing him from the prison he's made of his life. The ending is brilliant.

In between are many comedically brilliant scenes from one of the all time great actresses and an up and coming actor, Bud Cort, whom I feel never did realize his full potential. Ruth Gordon Jones (October 30, 1896 – August 28, 1985) lived a full and magnificent life. She began as an extra in silent films, made her way to Broadway, and then back to film. She won an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for Rosemary's Baby. She went on to appear in twenty-two more films and at least that many television appearances through her seventies and eighties, including such successful sitcoms as Rhoda (which earned her another Emmy nomination) and Newhart. She also guest-starred on the late episode Columbo: Try and Catch Me. She made countless talk show appearances, in addition to hosting Saturday Night Live in 1977.

Bud Cort was discovered in a revue by director Robert Altman, who subsequently cast him in two of his movies, MASH and Brewster McCloud (in which he played the title role). His success in those films led to the starring role in Harold and Maude. On Broadway, Cort appeared in the short-lived 1972 play Wise Child by Simon Gray. Cort was invited to live with the famous comedian Groucho Marx in his Bel Air mansion, and was present at Marx's death in 1977.

In 1979, Bud’s life nearly ended in a car accident on the Hollywood Freeway. From behind, he collided with an abandoned car blocking a lane into which he was turning. Years of plastic surgery, enormous hospital bills, a losing court case, and the disruption of his career ensued. Since, Cort has appeared in various film, stage and TV roles, but his career never really rose to it's potential. At least not in my opinion.

I hope if you've never seen Harold and Maude that you'll rent it. The film is number 45 on the American Film Institute's list of 100 Funniest Movies of all time, number 69 in its list for most romantic, and number 42 on Bravo's 100 Funniest Movies. In 1997, it was selected for preservation in the National Film Registry of the Library of Congress as being deemed "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant."

Arnie flexed his fist and looked at it as he continued his yarn for his captivated buddies. "I told him if he didn't shut his piehole I was going to put this right into it for him." He looked around and Steve and Frank nodded and muttered their approval.

Arnie, taking a sip of his Guinness, nodded along with them and went on. "He puffed himself up and gave me the evils, but I could see he wasn't going to do anything. He knew I could kick his ass, he did."

Frank jabbed his finger at Arnie. "Damn right he did!" He slapped Arnie on the back. "You're the man, Arnie. You'd never take any shit, and that's only right. Did you punch his lights out?"

Arnie took another swig and wiped his mouth. "Naw, everybody could see he didn't have anything to bring. I made my point, you know?"

The others nodded their assent as Arnie's eyes darted among them, looking for any tells. "Anyway, I could have, and he knew it and I knew it, and so did everyone else." He put his glass down hard on the bar for emphasis. There were grunts of approval all around.

Frank rubbed his jaw, looking thoughtful. "That reminds me of the time this guy was eyeing up my girlfriend, you remember Jeannie, at a football game. I saw him looking, you know? I didn't think much of it, she is hot after all. But when I went to get some beer and a couple of dogs I came back and he was talking to her!"

Steve growled his disapproval. "What an asshole! What did you do?"

"Well, I went over and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. He said he was just being friendly, can you believe that? I told him to get back to his seat or i'd kick his ass."

Arnie grunted and high-fived Frank. "You gotta keep those horn dogs in line, man."

"So, what did he say?" Steve was leaning over his beer in anticipation.

"Well, he said there was no reason to get agro and he left, that's what. He knew damn well i'd let him have it, you bet." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Jeannie was kinda pissed off, but you know how women are."

Arnie rolled his eyes, Steve just shook his head. "Yeah, what are you gonna do?"

Frank and Arnie were looking at Steve and he didn't need any further prompting. "Yeah, a couple of months ago this guy at the airport tried to cut me off in the check in line, you know? Man, I hate it when that happens. Acted like he was there before me. I stepped in front of him and he got all bent out of shape. I put my finger in his chest and told him he didn't want to mess with me. He tried to grab my collar and I slapped his hand away and told him if he touched me again i'd put him the trash can."

Arnie was impressed. "Wow, then what happened?"

"Oh, a security guard came over and told us to chill out. The guy acted like I was lucky, but he knew the score."

Frank tipped his glass at Steve. "Damn right!"

The Friday night sessions at The Dirty Dog Saloon had become a tradition since the boys were all unattached the last few months and with Guinness on tap and the easy camraderie of many years of friendship they really didn't need much else. They moved to the pool table and started a game.

The Guinness was soon paired with shots of Jack Daniels and the evening was going well. Arnie kept looking at Steve, who seemed distracted. When Steve went to the bathroom Arnie said to Frank, "Hey, you notice something seems to be up with Steve?"

"Yeah, something's on his mind. I think he misses his old girlfriend or something."

When Steve came back he took his next shot and then put his cue down. "Listen guys, I just wanna say something, and I don't know why, but I don't want you thinking...well, you know, that i'm an asshole or anything." He picked the cue back up and held it as if trying to hide behind it. "It's just that, well, I didn't really get into it with that guy at the airport." He downed a shot of Jack. "He tried to cut me off and I just gave him a dirty look." He looked back and forth between Arnie and Frank, looking uncomfortable. "I mean, I would have let him have it. I would." He trailed off and called the waitress over for another round.

Frank and Arnie muttered their understanding, but the mood had shifted. A couple of shots and beers later Arnie spoke up. "Well, listen guys, you know how it is. We're macho, right? I mean, we can handle ourselves." Nods of approval. "I didn't really tell that guy to shut his piehole." He studied his next shot and didn't look up. Steve and Frank waited. "Well, what I mean is, I didn't have to, right?"

The pool game ended and they drifted back to the bar. Frank looked reflective and then blurted out, "Oh for Christ's sakes, I didn't really care about that guy eyeing up Jeannie, I mean, i'm a real man, you know?"

Steve and Arnie didn't say anything. "Hey, it doesn't mean I wouldn't have let him have it."

A couple of minutes of small talk later Arnie stood up and reached for his jacket. "Guys, i'm going fishing tomorrow. Got an early wakeup call, I better hit it." The other two seemed relieved and they all said their goodbyes and headed out the door. They went their separate ways, but each looked back at the others as they went. The Friday evenings at The Dirty Dog were no more.