This account of the meeting of Leopold II, the king of the Belgians, and Henry Morton Stanley, the explorer, was done for a history class. I have taken a few liberties with history. Of course, the author was not present and can only guess what was said at that historic meeting. The meeting did take place and great effort was taken to ensure that the words which emerge from the mouths of both men are words that they would, in fact, have likely believed and known. Still, it should be noted that Leopold’s instructions at this time were not likely to have been as detailed as the story portrays. Italics signify phrases which they either wrote themselves or were reported to have said. Enjoy.

“The other day . . . I watched a fox which wanted to cross a stream unobserved: first of all he dipped a paw carefully to see how deep it was, and then, with a thousand precautions, very slowly made his way across. That is Leopold’s way!” - Leopold I, of Belgium, referring to his eldest son, the future Leopold II.

June 10, 1878:
Leopold absently stroked his long greying beard as he carefully examined the map laid out on his desk. His long index finger carefully traced pencilled-in route of Henry Morton Stanley. Leopold had meticulously followed the progress of Stanley’s trek through the heart of Africa in London’s Daily Telegraph and traced the route himself. He removed his finger from the page as his gaze wandered from Stanley’s route to the great empty continent of Africa. Leopold read the familiar names of the colonized territories along the edge of Africa’s coast. The British held Sierra Leone, the Gold Coast, Lagos, and South Africa; the French held Algeria, Gambia, and Gabon, while the Portuguese held Angola and Mozambique. Leopold’s eyes lighted on Stanley’s route again. No one, he smiled, no one country held that territory along that great dark Congo river.

Leopold pushed himself away from his desk and paced over to the office window of the palace. He stared out over the well-kept gardens and his smile broadened. Albert, the heir to the throne, had once said that his uncle’s expansive building projects and vast greenhouses were turning Laeken into a “little Versailles.” Leopold dreamed on a grand scale and had huffed, “Little?” Belgium, he was sure, could be a world power. All that Belgium needed was a beautiful capital, increased strength and colonies. Yes, colonies would put Belgium on the map.

“Enfin” he muttered, “enfin la Belgique deviendra une puissance coloniale européenne.” He shook his head and pursed his lips, imagining the surprise of those Hollanders when Belgium emerged with colonies of her own. Those fat Jews sitting in Amsterdam would tear their hair out. This would be worse, snickered Leopold, than when they had lost South Africa to the British. Aaah, but he admired those plucky Dutch. If a small power like the Netherlands could assert themselves as a world power, so could Belgium. The Netherlands had reaped prestige and wealth from their scattered colonies and this, Leopold grinned, was where he too was headed.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Oui?” Leopold answered, masking his excitement as best he could.
“Henri Morton Stanley, seigneur,” a voice called from behind the door.

“Excellent, laissez-l’entrer,” Leopold strode stiffly towards the door, carefully straightening his regal uniform.

The door swung open and an imperious servant held the door open for the sturdy explorer. A grizzled, anxious-looking man stepped into Leopold’s office. Stanley bowed awkwardly, his steely eyes betraying uncertainty, “C’est un honneure, seigneur.”

Leopold smiled and said in flawless English, “I am also honoured to be in the presence of such a brave man.”

Stanley’s face betrayed relief at the sound of English, “Thank you, sire.”

Leopold nodded in acknowledgement and gestured magnanimously towards some ornate wooden chairs, “Please, my friend, let us take a seat.”

Stanley bobbed his head nervously.

Leopold slunk over to his seat and slowly lowered his lanky body onto his chair as, from the corner of his eye, he watched Stanley awkwardly make his way to his seat, “I trust your trip across the Channel went well, yes?”

Stanley absently ran a finger over his brown mustache as he gingerly lowered himself into his seat, “Yes-yes. I mean it is truly remarkable how fast the steamship is. Progress, sire, is unstoppable.” Stanley’s pronouncement revealed traces of a Welsh background although he deliberately affected an American accent.

“Yes, truly it is,” Leopold nodded, “it is brave men like you who will ensure that man uncovers every corner of this globe and that progress will continue at this remarkable rate.”

Stanley’s posture seemed to straighten slightly at the compliment, “Thank you, sire, it seems that very few people appreciate the great deal of danger the exploration of such savage country exposes one to.”

“Your time in England,” Leopold asked, “how was it?”

“Fine sire,” Stanley hesitated, “Although I must confess that I do not understand Englishmen at all. Either they suspect me of some self-interest, or they do not believe me.”

“Please,” the tall king ran a finger over his beak-like nose, “what do you mean?”

“I simply mean that my contributions are not acknowledged,” Stanley’s eyebrows peaked, revealing a strange mix of resolve and pain, “For the relief of Livingstone I was called an impostor; for the crossing of Africa I was called a pirate.”

“Snobbery, I say,” said Leopold, remembering with a certain amount of amusement how one of his English friends had related one of Stanley’s unfortunate adventures in England. Stanley had been the guest of honour at a white-collar dinner attended not only by England’s upper crust, but by the Prince of Wales himself. After Stanley’s speech, all that the Prince had said to Stanley was that he was wearing his medals out of order. The fragile ego of this complex explorer, Leopold thought, was still wounded.

“These Englishmen are merely jealous. I dare say, I should like to see some of those portly English lords try to navigate through the jungle,” Leopold declared; “this is an endeavour that demands the strongest of men.”

“You flatter me, sire,” Stanley beamed.

Leopold smiled to himself; this man was putty in his hands. Leopold was fully aware of the strange mix of raw ambition and woundedness which plagued Stanley. He did not know, however, that Stanley’s pain came from his rough Welsh childhood. Born in the small town of Denbigh, his name on the register was listed as “John Rowlands, Bastard.” After his birth, Stanley’s mother fled in disgrace and left him to the mercy of an abusive grandfather. When Stanley’s grandfather died he bounced from relative to relative until he finally ended up in the St. Asaph Workhouse. At the age of twelve, Stanley finally met his mother, who instead of lovingly embracing her son, coolly regarded him with a critical eye. Not long afterwards she left the workhouse and drove Stanley further into nervous social awkwardness. The melodramatic Stanley would later make great attempts to obscure his humble beginnings in both writing and in speech.

“I try my best to tell the plain truth, as you Americans say,” Leopold crooked his fingers in front of him, “I have little use for flattery.”

“I appreciate your straightforwardness, sire,” Stanley bowed his head.

“You, no doubt, know why I invited you to talk.” Leopold watched Stanley carefully. “I am a man who regards your exploration with great interest. Belgium, as you may know, is a young nation and needs to increase its prestige. My emissaries made an offer to you when you arrived in Marseilles from your great expedition, and I realize now that you were too tired to accept it.”

Stanley cleared his throat and Leopold continued, “As much as you were disappointed by the lack of interest of the British in your exploration, I was overjoyed at their apathy. You see, Mr. Stanley, it was with much interest that I read your accounts of the vast Congo and the potential which lay in that great dark country for the light of European civilization. As you know, my interest in Africa runs deep, I established the Assocation Internationale pour reprimer la traite et ouvrir l’Afrique centrale for reasons which I’m sure the title explains.” The title Leopold had chosen was deliberately vague. When anyone asked what the African International Association was for Leopold would simply recite some vaguely philanthropic aims and leave it at that.

“As you may know, I established this International African Association at the geographical conference I held two years ago, while you were in the dark heart of Africa.” Leopold pointed a bony finger in a general southward direction. “Those of us at the conference agreed at that time to establish hospitable, scientific, and pacification bases for our philanthropic crusade into the heart of Africa.”

Stanley leaned forward, drinking in every word. Leopold paused and finally asked, “What do you say to my offer now, Mr. Stanley? What do you say to my commission?”

Stanley licked his lips, “Sire, I am thrilled that you have the vision to see the potential of this land. You see as I do, sire, that we must civilize this land. We must spread the Gospel to the darkened minds of the savages. We must end the brutal Arab slavery.” Stanley’s Welsh accent was unmistakable in his excitement. “We must develop the full potential of this unused weed-strewn garden.”

Leopold stretched his long legs in front of him, “I wish to civilize this land of barbarians, you understand, yes?”

“I have written on this very subject,” Stanley grinned. “I feel there are still pilgrims among the Europeans who could transform Africa into the new America! This unpeopled country needs the glorious touch of European civilization.”

Leopold cocked his head. “You say ‘unpeopled,’ but there are savages there, no?”

“Yes-yes,” Stanley laughed, “if they indeed count as people. You, sire, must realize that they need to be civilized, and if they aren’t willing we must use force.”

“Some say you are too quick with your gun and feel your exploration parties are too large,” Leopold thrust a calculated barb at Stanley, “but, my friend, I feel the force you use is admirable.”

“These critics don’t seem to understand that often the most convincing instruction you can give a nigger is either the crack of the whip or the sharp retort of the Snider rifle.” Stanley grimaced sternly. “the savages are hostile and the miserable slaves I used as porters are faithless, lying, thievish, indolent knaves.” Stanley sighed, “sometimes I do not think I was made for an African explorer, for I detest the land most heartily.”

Leopold observed the reddening complexion of Stanley. This, he thought to himself, was a man with a short temper. He found that passionate men were often easily manipulated. Leopold could not have known the extent of Stanley’s self-centred fury. A white officer who had served under Stanley once complained that the demanding Stanley often fell into “ungovernable fits of rage.”

“I have gained the respect of these savages, however. I’m not sure if you’ve read this, but my porters gave me the name Bula Matari which means ‘stone-breaker.’ This honourable title I received for teaching them how to quarry through rock.” Stanley smiled in satisfaction. This was true, but the natives had attached a double-meaning to Bula Matari — calling Stanley ‘breakstones’ for his relentlessly brutal discipline.

Stanley continued, his eyes lighting up, “Every cordial-face aborigine whom I meet . . . I look upon . . . with much the same regard that an agriculturalist views his strong-limbed child; he is a future recruit to the ranks of soldier-laborers.”

Stanley ran his expeditions like a military campaign and had left hundreds of dead natives in the wake of his exploration. Any sign of hostility was taken as an insult by the sensitive Stanley and any perceived insult was settled with bullets. Stanley despised his porters and doled out heavy discipline for anything remotely resembling insubordination. If men were “lazily inclined” they would pay with a vicious tongue-lashing if they were white and a harsh thrashing with a dogwhip if they were black. Any black man caught deserting was lashed one hundred times and placed in chains.

“As a king I must admire a man like yourself who isn’t afraid to use force when necessary.” Leopold stroked his great beard. Many of the white men who had accompanied Stanley on his expeditions had died. Stanley seemed to choose slightly incompetent men for his expeditions so that his own manliness was not outshone. Stanley’s diaries were filled with bitter complaints against the white incompetents, contrasted by embarrassingly sappy melodrama when these same men died.

“Thank you, sire.” Stanley relaxed his clenched fists.

“I am interested in your assessment of the Congo.” Leopold leaned his spindly body forward. “What potential do you see in this country?”

“Sire, the possibilities are endless. As I said before Africa could be the new America. Not only will we bring commerce to that dark continent, but we’ll bring civilization. Africa will be a source of minerals, lumber, ivory, rubber, and who knows what other goods,” Stanley gestured, his hands grasping the air; “we will combat slavery, we will bring clothes to the infernal nudes, and we’ll make great gains for science and human knowledge. The Congo River will be the grand highway of commerce to West Central Africa.”

“Yes, this is exactly how I feel.” Leopold leaned back. “Mainly I’m interested in rubber and ivory. You, Mr. Stanley, are the perfect man to aide me in the establishment of that very project. What more could I ask for than a man who knows the territory and has the ruthless leadership necessary for that harsh country? A railway must be built around the unnavigable section of the Congo River, and stations along the river which can be served by steamboat.”

“For now, however,” Leopold continued, “I will be content to hire you as an explorer, and believe me when I say that you will be more than compensated for your efforts.” Leopold had moved carefully, fearing that the outright establishment of a colony would be seen with hostility by the British and his dream of a Belgian colony would never be realized. Leopold knew that even if he consulted the British on his territorial ambitions, they would oppose him. The only solution was a Trojan Horse — sending Stanley to explore in Leopold’s name.

“Sire, I would be honoured to be employed in your service . . .” Stanley bowed his head; “ . . . truly honoured.”

“I have one concern, however, sire.” All signs of weakness had disappeared from Stanley’s stern features. “It is these Dutch merchants — I am concerned with their influence on the planning process. I’m not entirely sure who I’m serving here which is why I demand my pay in advance.”

Leopold was slightly taken aback: Stanley was sharper than he had given him credit for, “Aah, the Dutch House, the African Trading Company!” Leopold hid his surprise well. “These men, Kerdijk and Pincoffs, already have interests in the Congo and have generously offered their help. Free transport to the Congo, on the Congo, not to mention the generous help of his agents, who could say no?”

“It seems too good to be true,” Stanley intoned.

“Yes, it is quite unbelievable,” Leopold nodded; “but these men are quite rich. I have it on authority that Pincoffs controls over twenty million guilders in capital. These Dutchmen are sharp businessmen and I’m sure they know what they’re doing. Besides, I have a quarter of the shares myself, financed by my banker, Lambert.”

“Twenty million guilders is an unheard of amount, but I’ll keep an eye on them.” Stanley’s face was red again. His suspicions were well-founded: Pincoffs saw the African International Association as a chance to wash his hands of his bad African investments. He had merely taken funds from his other successful investments and juggled them into his poorly-performing African investment to make it appear profitable. On the 15 May, 1879 Pincoffs fled to America when his African Trading Company was unable to make payments. He dumped his bankrupt but apparently flourishing African investments into the African International Association. This problem did little to phase the wily Leopold who was now able to take personal charge of the company without any dissenting voices.

“But do not fear, I will pay you in advance 25,000 francs a year for your time in Europe and 50,000 francs a year for your time spent in Africa,” Leopold reassured Stanley.

“Thank you, sire,” Stanley smiled, “I did not doubt your good intentions.”

“When you assert my claim on this land,” Leopold said carefully, “you must remember that it is a question of creating a new State, as big as possible, and of running it. It is clearly understood that in this project there is no question of granting the slightest political power to the negroes. That would be absurd.”

“Of course not, sire,” Stanley agreed. “I feel the best way to make your claim is to buy the land off of the local chiefs, who are splintered into many tribes anyhow, and establish forts along the Congo River. Those chiefs not willing to be convinced can easily be persuaded by force of arms.”

“I must caution you, Mr. Stanley,” Leopold warned, “it is important that you keep my intent in mind. You must ensure that I am seen as a mere sponsor of your next exploration and nothing more.”

“I will make sure that your intentions are not revealed,” Stanley reassured the king.

“Mr. Stanley,” Leopold rose from his seat, “I’m very pleased with the progress we’ve made so far.”

Stanley quickly jumped to his feet, “Sire, I am honoured to be working in partnership with you.”

Leopold extended his hand towards the sturdy explorer. “As am I, my friend. We will work out the further details later on. For now, I’m sure you would be happy to prepare for dinner.”

Stanley grasped the Belgian king’s hand. “Thank you sire.”

As Stanley left the room, Leopold sauntered over to the window and surveyed his gardens. He gazed into the great expanse of southern sky and he whispered to himself, “We must be careful, skillful and ready to act . . .” A flock of blackbirds streaked towards the earth in the distance, as if they were falling from the sky, “to get us a slice of this magnificent African cake.”

Out of Ontario at the Wrong Time.

On October 10th, Ontarians head to the polls to vote for their MPPs and, hopefully, for MMP (Mixed Member Plurality). It is a shame that I cannot vote in this important referendum. My wife, who has always been interested in politics, impresses me almost everyday with her political savvy, but remains unconvinced by MMP. She, unfortunately, believes that there is less accountability with MMP. Fortunately, she can't vote in the referendum either. Those around me also seem unconvinced by the arguments in favour of this system, arguing that there is less accountability with MMP.

Au contraire, as they might say on this side of the Ottawa river, MMP actually gives politicians more accountability. Of the 107 politicians in the legislature, 106 are currently unaccountable to you and the one who is may or may not be the one you actually voted for. With MMP you vote not only for the MPP who you want in your riding, but also for the party of your choice and, wonder of wonders, your vote actually counts towards that party.

In first-past-the-post, if 32% of the people vote for the tie-dye party, 17% of the people vote for the polka-dot party, 21% of the people vote for the plaid party, 14% of the people vote for the pinstripe party, and 16% of the people spoil their ballot, the tie-dye party wins that riding. 68% of the people in that imaginary riding have a vote that doesn't count.

In MMP, people vote for the candidate they want in their riding and the person with the most votes would represent that riding. So for the previous imaginary riding, the tie-dye candidate would probably represent that area. People would then cast a second vote for their favoured party and this vote would count towards the percentage of seats for that particular party. In Germany, there is a five per cent clause which helps exclude extremist groups from having representation.

Opponents argue that because the rest of the members of the party in MMP are appointed and not directly elected, these people are somehow going to be unaccountable and irresponsible. This argument does not hold water, in my opinion. Currently, candidates in a riding are nominated by party members. In MMP, party members will also nominate members who will then, depending on the election results, receive the party's proportion of the popular vote.

First-past-the-post is hardly representative of the people's will. For example, in the last federal election, the Bloc Quebecois received 10 % of the popular vote but had 51 seats (that is, 17% of the seats). The NDP, on the other hand, received 17% of the popular voted but had only 29 seats (that is 9% of the seats).

With MMP you still have regional representation (via your local representative), but your second vote will actually count towards the party of your choice. Voters can vote with their conscience for the party that represents their beliefs on issues that range further than their own local area.

The current system is democratic, but favours a two party system. MMP would involve more parties working together to pass legislation. Some proponents of MMP have gone so far as to call the current system of first-past-the-post undemocratic. That is, in my opinion, ridiculous. First-past-the-post is democratic, just less democratic than MMP.

My former Political Science professor, Dr. Koyzis, is quite passionate on this issue. He wrote an article on the issue and responded to the counter-argument on his blog. Both the article and his response can be found here.

Song of the Moment: Let Down - Easy Star All-Stars featuring Toots Hibbert

The Easy Star All-Stars are a reggae group based in New York who created their own label. In 2003 they released Dub Side of the Moon an album covering Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. Recently, they released Radiodread a cover of Radiohead's Ok Computer. The following is a cover of Radiohead's Let Down. Let Down is a very sad song which makes its delivery in a bouncing reggae beat a little disorienting for some people. However, reggae has a long history of juxtaposing sad lyrics over happy-sounding rhythms. Reggae, a music from the third world, knows full well the importance of dancing one's sorrows away. The legendary Toots Hibbert does an amazing job of injecting this song with soul and making it his own. The two versions of this song are worlds apart, but each is beautiful in its own way.

Lyrics:
Transport, motorways and tramlines
Starting and then stopping
Taking off and landing
The emptiest of feelings
Disappointed people clinging on to bottles
And when it comes it's so so disappointing

Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground
Let down and hanging around

Shell smashed, juices flowing
Wings twitch, legs are going
Don't get sentimental
It always ends up drivel

One day I'm going to grow wings
A chemical reaction
Hysterical and useless
Hysterical and ...

Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground
Let down and hanging around

Let down again
Let down again
Let down again

You know, you know where you are with
You know where you are with
Floor collapsing
Floating, bouncing back
And one day....
I am going to grow wings
A chemical reaction
Hysterical and useless
Hysterical and...

Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground
Let down and hanging around

Shake Hands with the Devil

Earlier this week Laurianne won tickets to see a pre-screening of the new film, Shake Hands with the Devil. Thus, last night, we headed to the World Exchange Plaza in downtown Ottawa to watch the official selection of the 2007 Toronto film festival. The film is based on Lieutenant General Romeo Dallaire's riveting account of leading the UN force in Rwanda during the 1994 genocide. Roy Dupuis plays Dallaire in a strong performance that is certain to garner critical attention. Dupuis is a talented French-Canadian actor whom Anglophones might recognize from The Rocket (aka Maurice Richard) or the made-for-tv movie about the Dion quintuplets.
Movie aficionados might recall Nick Nolte's impassioned performance as a temperamental French-Canadian named Colonel Roy in the 2002 film Hotel Rwanda. The character of Colonel Roy was modeled after Dallaire but seemed to more closely resemble Nick Nolte. Roy Dupuis avoids the trap of overacting in a subdued but ultimately effective performance. In fact, it is Dupuis' quiet control that allows him to tap into the pensive grief that almost drove Dallaire to suicide.
Throughout the film, the movie goes back and forth between what happened in 1994 and a therapy session in which Dallaire wrestles with his post-traumatic stress. The therapy session is shot in a darkly lit room with characters from the 1994 events appearing and disappearing to not only give retrospective observations, but also to show Dallaire's struggle with despair. The filmmakers made the right decision not to include Dallaire's family in the movie. While they are, no doubt, an important part of his journey, the movie would have been too crowded if it had tried to show the effect the ordeal had on his family.
I have now seen four movies dealing with the Rwandan genocide: Hotel Rwanda, Shooting Dogs, Sometimes in April, and Shake Hands with the Devil. Each movie is strong on its own, but I feel that Shake Hands with the Devil and Sometimes in April were more effective in bringing an understanding of the background of the genocide. Also, shooting in Rwanda and using actual Rwandan actors and extras brings a realism to the latter three films which Hotel Rwanda was unable to tap. While Hotel Rwanda was an excellent film, I was more emotionally affected by the other three.
One main reason that I feel Shake Hands with the Devil was so strong was that the beautiful mountain scenery of Rwanda is almost a character on its own. The stark contrast between the brutality and sheer evil of the genocide and the breath-taking beauty of the Rwandan countryside is gut-wrenching. The cinematography of this movie is well-done and deserves recognition.
The film does an excellent job of bringing Dallaire's important book to the big screen. Viewers have a deep sense of Dallaire's horrible journey through those dark days of 1994. While I had sad sense of the horror and despair of the genocide, the heroic stand of one man in the face of international apathy and political tap-dancing offered a glimmer of hope.
There are very few films that leave the audience walking out of the theatre in stunned silence and introspection. This movie was one of those films: a strong, emotionally-evocative, and startling work that will hopefully stir people to both contemplate and react to the world around them.

This weekend my family came up to visit. We had quite a nice time visiting the art gallery, hiking in the Gatineau Hills, and watching the Office.

Here's a commemorative picture of Christina on a lonely walk through the woods:
Here's a picture of Christina and I conquering the world:
Here's Christina consolidating power:

Here's a picture that Laurianne took on the soaring precipice of the King Mountain:

Last week Wednesday, Laurianne and I attended a screening of five short films from Burundi. Burundi, as many people know, is my wife's native country. These films were produced by the Burundi Film Center, an organization founded by Canadian filmmakers (despite the Americanized spelling of "center"). The Burundi Film Center taught students the basics of film-making and production. Every student wrote a script from which five scripts were chosen. Five teams produced five ten-minute films with each movie having a budget of one hundred dollars American. Each team had one day to film and one day to edit their movie. The result was, for the most part, some very fine work. It was actually quite impressive that movies of this caliber were produced by first-time film students in such a short time. The best film, in my opinion, was the story of a young boy named Kimvuvu (basket-boy) who wonders where his strange name originated.

Some people might wonder about supporting a film centre in a country facing many economic and political challenges. While it might seem superfluous to some, I feel that film is a valuable art form that enriches and inspires. While film might not solve ethnic tensions or feed the hungry, it is a medium which has the potential to challenge cultural mores, entertain, educate and foster hope. While I personally lack the funds to make a difference for this organization, I do hope that the Burundi Film Center continues to blossom and grow in the years to come.

After the films we were entertained by some traditional Burundian drumming which is simply amazing. Here are two clips of Burundian drumming:

Clip 1
Clip 2

Similes Ad Nauseum

After a brief hiatus, I have returned to the blog like a vulture to its carrion. My blog, of course, is not carrion, but I have merely returned to the blog like a vulture would to the rotting corpse of a dead animal. My blog is like a classic novel that all the critics rave over. That is to say that it is awesome. I have been absent from the information superhighway for a while like a man who has left his home for a few days. There is no need for explanation, but I will explain anyways like a person who tells you a tasteless joke even though you asked them to stop. The explanation is not like a tasteless joke, it's more like a boring anecdote from a co-worker that you have to hear anyway. Here is the explanation, as clear as pudding on the wall. Our internet providers was as effective as duct tape. That is to say that the internet provider was working properly. The computer, however, was like trying to use a mildly adhesive epoxy to hold your work boot together. That is to say that the computer was not functioning properly. I had downloaded an online virus program like someone who wanted to protect their computer. Unfortunately, when trying to upload some photos from our new digital camera (which is like an electronic version of awesomeness), the virus program was like an angry beachcomber whose metal detector had just broken. That is to say, it did not allow my computer to connect to the modem.

Of course, I'm a bit like a person who is waxing poetically on something which they know nothing about. That is to say that I know as much about computers as the meter man knows about home security. That is to say that I know a bit, but you would be like a fool who has hired an inept person if you were to hire me to fix your computer in the same way that you would be wrong to hire the meter man to install your home security system. Of course, he might know what he's doing, but I'm speaking in generalities like an incompetent leader who wishes to distract from their own failings. I would like to thank our friends Ben and Francois who were as instrumental in the repair of our computer as a good computer repair team is instrumental in the repair of a computer.

Well, until next time.

This is an excellent article on the recent cave-in of the Canadian War Museum to the veteran's demands for a change to the wording of the bomber command exhibit.

Beyond Dispute - Randall Hansen

Due to certain computer problems there will be no updates on this blog for a week or two.

Thank you for your patience, and please visit again.

Sincerely,

the management.

Update:

~ I have added the blog of one Ben Reynolds to my sidebar. I went to high school with Ben and he recently moved to Ottawa. He's quite a talented illustrator - check out his artwork if you have the time.

~ Lately I have been biking to work. I really enjoy the exercise, but getting passed by all these men and women with calves the size of boulders is beginning to wear down my self esteem.

~ Laurianne's birthday is on Thursday. If you're from the Ottawa area, and you care about Laurianne, you can meet her at Yesterday's on Sparks Street for a drink and some snacks between five and seven.

~ If you're not from the Ottawa area well wishes can be sent to her at laurianne_munezero@yahoo.ca

~ If you are from the Ottawa area but can't make it on that particular day please refer to the bullet above.

~ If you are from the Ottawa area, but don't care about Laurianne, then you are excused from attending.

~ If you are not from the Ottawa area, but happen to be in the Ottawa area on that particular day, you are welcome to drop by.

~ If you are from Russell, you can come too.

~ We recently watched Disturbia, a remake of Hitchcock's classic Rear Window. Usually remakes of classic movies are very very bad, because remaking classic cinema is pretty pointless - sort of like trying to redoVan Gogh's Starry Night. This movie, however, was different enough from the original that it worked . . . somewhat. Although lacking in the flair and subtleties of the original, it was mildly entertaining.

~ We also watched Hot Fuzz which is send-up satire of old cop movies and shows. It's a bit over-the-top bloody, but overall it is quite funny and enjoyable.

~ I've taken to reviewing movies on facebook. I'm fairly harsh and pretty economical with my stars - but only because it's more entertaining for me that way.

~ I should note that the bikers who pass me are passing me on road bikes. I'm on a mountain bike. My only advantage would be if we hit some rough mountain terrain. Unfortunately, there are no mountains between my home and my place of work.

~ If you have time, check out Dave Beldman's continuing guide to reading Job and his insightful analysis of new insights into DaVinci's Last Supper.

~ Actually, I'm kind of glad that there are no mountains between my home and my place of work.

~ Someone is knocking on my ceiling. Well, I guess they're knocking on their floor and I'm hearing it through my ceiling.

~ Alright, they stopped now.

~ I have twice come across books claiming that Ring around the Rosie originates from the period of the Black Death. However, the words of that rhyme were not written down until some time in the nineteenth century. The words seem to fit so well. Although, apparently there was no sneezing involved in the bubonic plague. Maybe the rhyme was written about the plague afterwards. It's hard to believe that it would remain unwritten for some four hundred years.

~ My cousin Jon Barnhoorn, his wife, Janice, and their two children, Stephen and Samuel, will be heading to Nigeria very soon for translation work with Wycliffe ministries. Please keep them in your prayers.

Sherpas

This is a poem that has no purpose
beyond promoting the use of Sherpas
for international climbing expeditions
to avoid search and rescue missions

Mount Everest is the highest point on earth
in height, this mountain has no dearth
it is 29,035 feet into the air
that's 8,850 metres for those who care

Mr. Edmund Hillary climbed its face
back in '53, and found his historic place
in history as the first man to the summit
without freezing or dying in a plummet

This brings to mind our friend, George
whose frozen body was found in a gorge*
What lesson can we learn from Mr. Mallory
Who remains a footnote in a museum gallery?

Hillary was successful for one good reason
and it was not his choice of climbing season
it was the Sherpa he brought, Mr. Norgay
Yes, Tenzing got Edmund up all the way

Whereas Mr. Mallory died tragically,
Mr. Hillary made it almost magically
with that Sherpa pushing him to the sky
and making sure that he didn't die

This poem really did not have a purpose
beyond promoting the use of Sherpas
for international climbing expeditions
to avoid search and rescue missions


*not really, but call it poetic license

Song of the Moment: Bob Marley and the Wailers - Stir It Up

Robert Nesta Marley, and the original Wailers sing the famous love song from the amazing Catch a Fire album. Peter Tosh, the six foot six towering bundle of cantankerousness, and Bob's childhood friend, Bunny Wailer, were still part of the band at this point. Marley, a recent Rastafarian convert is beginning to grow his dreads, Tosh is wearing the knitted woolen cap with the Rasta tri-colours ,and Bunny Wailer is wearing the fez. Their vocals mixed quite well.

On Benny Hinn

Benny Hinn is the white-suited tan gentleman with a sweeping wave of grey hair who can be seen plying his trade on his show, This is Your Day! The controversial preacher is noted for his pleasant voice, dramatic spiritual theatrics, and his claim to have a direct connection to God. To some he merely seems strange, while to other he is a modern-day God-infused prophet.

Hinn's life, as he tells it, is a confusing and inconsistent tale. He was born Toufik Bendictus Hinn in 1953 in Israel to a Greek father and an Armenian mother (that's Armenian, not Arminian). In his home they primarily spoke Arabic. He was raised as a Greek Orthodox Christian and attended a Roman Catholic School. Hinn has claimed that his father was mayor of Jaffa. The truth, however, is that his father was a clerk at an Arab law office. In fact, there was no mayor of Jaffa by the name of Hinn, ever. After 1948, Jaffa did not exist as it was amalgamated with Tel Aviv. Hinn's father, a Palestinian, would not have been elected mayor of a largely Jewish Tel-Aviv-Jaffa. All of the city's mayors from 1936 onwards were Jewish men whose names were certainly not Constandi Hinn. Hinn now claims that his father was not a mayor, but merely carried out some of the functions of a mayor as a liaison between the Israeli government and the Arab community. These claims have not been substantiated, but do smell of self-aggrandizement.

Hinn claimed to have grown up in a spacious house in the suburb, but he actually grew up in the basement of a Greek Orthodox Church. He claimed to be both a self-conscious stutterer and an extroverted showman in his youth. He claimed to be a high school graduate when records reveal that he dropped out. Hinn has three or four separate stories about his own conversion and at least two versions of the story of his family's conversion. It is abundantly clear that Hinn has no desire for an honest recounting of his past. Instead, Hinn is content to build up a hagiographic mythology about himself with little regard for truth or honesty.

This would just be an unfortunate matter of personal dishonesty if it were not for the fact that Hinn makes his opulent living from being an evangelist. Hinn applies his fondness for stretching and inventing the truth to the Gospel. Any time an individual opens their mouth to say that they have a fresh new revelation from God relating to theology, one should exercise caution. Chances are, this person is just recycling age-old heresies. Hinn has taught that each person of the trinity has a separate trinity within itself, making a nine-person Godhead. Each person of the trinity, Hinn claimed, is a trinity. Hinn later apologized for saying this, but still claimed that each person of the Godhead possessed his own body, spirit, and soul. Unfortunately, this is not much better. This heresy is called Tritheism and denies the unity of the Godhead. This is not a new heresy as it is a basic misunderstanding of the trinity that has been taught since at least the latter half of the sixth century. This teaching makes Christianity into a polytheistic three-god religion. Christianity is monotheistic and, although the trinity is beyond human comprehension, it is clear that the trinity does not describe three separate entities. No, there are three persons in one indivisible God.

Among other things, Hinn has taught the following: that Jesus became sin and took on the nature of Satan when he was on the cross, that Hinn spoke with Katherine Kuhlman despite her being dead, that Christ was only blameless because he had the Holy Spirit, that Adam could fly, that Adam landed on the moon, that those who speak against his ministry are cursed (no worries here, mate), that critics of ministers would get sick, and that dead people watching his program (don't ask how) would be raised.

Hinn has also taught that each human being is a God-man. He claims that we are "samples of Jesus" and "little gods on the earth." Hinn claims further, through a little bit of bizarre etymological tap-dancing, that when we call ourselves Christians we "are saying 'I am a messiah' in Hebrew. I am a little messiah walking on earth." In making this claim, Hinn has blurred the line between humans as created beings and God as the Almighty Creator of the universe. Rather than bowing before his incomprehensible might, a God-man Christian would merely respectfully nod to a God who is, after all, his superior. Humans are created in God's image, but we are not little versions of God. We are like him, but we are not him. We are nothing compared to his glory.

Related to this teaching of man's deity is Hinn's teaching of the health and wealth gospel. Since each person is a God-man, then each person's words have a similar power to God's creating and upholding word. Thus, if a Christian, in faith, says they are rich and do not have cancer, then -by golly!- they are a wealthy cancer-free individual. In the same way, if a Christian says something like, "Ugh, I hab a cold," then this is a negative confession. A true Christian must make positive confessions by saying such things as, "Ugh, I do not hab a cold." In that way, through the power of words, the cold would disappear (probably within 24 hours).

Our words are pale shadows of fragility when compared to the unchanging and all-powerful words of the Almighty. Our words fall weakly from our lips while God's words uphold the very fabric of the universe. While our words have power to wound and build up both ourselves and others, they do not have the power to create or alter realities. There is only room for one God, not a pantheon of duelling gods. We can only humbly make our requests to God, not demand his action.

It follows from Hinn's teaching of the power of a Christian's words, that, by claiming healing, a Christian can be completely restored. This healing is, in fact, a major part of Hinn's performance. If one observes Hinn's crusades, one can see the obviously handicapped, the paralyzed, the blind, and other visibly handicapped individuals shuffled off to one side. Meanwhile, individuals whose afflictions are not so visible are ushered to the front. The ushers are supposedly rooting out the genuine seekers from the non-genuine, but really they're picking out the sickies that will make the best show. Often people with slight walking problems are given wheelchairs "to rest in" only to miraculously walk later on. Whenever Hinn's ministry is asked to substantiate claims of healing, it inevitably fails to produce even one example of miraculous healing. Often on-stage healings are the manifestation of the extreme spiritual high that Christians receive at Hinn's meetings. Symptoms dissipate temporarily while the actual problems remain. Dr. William Nolen in his book Healing: A Doctor in Search of a Miracle, writes of a Katherine Kuhlman service he attended in the seventies. Of the twenty-five people who were supposedly healed, not one of them actually improved. In an extreme and saddening example, a woman who had been urged to throw away her braces and run across the stage had her backbone collapse the next day. Four months later she died. Kuhlman is notable as the charismatic faith-healer that Hinn has modeled himself after.

It is entirely possible for someone to be healed at a Benny Hinn crusade. However, it would be a case of God acting despite Benny Hinn, not because of him.

The easy excuse for faith healers is that the healing of each person depends upon that person's faith. Therefore, if the person lacks faith then there is no healing. The blame is shifted directly to the afflicted person. Hinn has acknowledged in interviews that not everyone is healed at his services. Of course, the words that come out of his mouth on his program tell a different story. Hinn consistently offers the false hope of miracle cures that can be accessed by faith through sowing the seeds of donation. After all, Hinn needs his private jet, swanky getaways, and five-star service.

Hinn is a proponent of the so-called prosperity gospel. According to this teaching, Christians merely have to give in faith and they will receive back one hundredfold. At the root of this errant teaching is fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of faith. Prosperity gospel followers believe that faith is a substance that humans work up inside themselves which allows them to alter reality. However, faith is not something that people create, it is only granted to believers by the grace of God. Faith is the gift of God and is not spontaneously self-manifested by some kind of Christian superpower. There is absolutely no Biblical call for Christians to have faith in Extra-Biblical concepts such as the name-it, claim it gospel. God is sovereign and he will not surrender his sovereignty to any human no matter how sincerely that person believes they have worked their faith up to dizzying heights of glory.

Followers of this teaching often defend it by asking the rhetorical question, "did Jesus die so we could be weak and poor or so that we could be healthy and rich?" In fact, this question raises a false dichotomy. Jesus died to take away the sin of the world, to redeem the world from sin. Jesus died to save us from our sins, not to ensure our pockets are overflowing and our health is always perfect. The prosperity gospel forgets that Jesus' death, while a final victory, has not yet been consummated in a final removal of sin from the earth. The victory has been won, but consummation of this victory has yet to happen. This is why poverty, war, sickness, and all the other horrible results of sin remain.

One of the most pathetic things about the prosperity gospel is the implication that faithful Christians who are poor, afflicted, sick, or persecuted are not walking in obedience to God. If poverty is a curse of disobedience, then the Bible would reflect the mentality that the rich are the most faithful Christians while the poor are the least faithful. The Scriptures, in fact, tell just the opposite tale. Christians are urged not to show favouritism to the rich, but to embrace all brothers and sisters regardless of wealth. When early church members gave up large portions of their wealth to the church, it is not with the understanding of a huge financial return. The gifts are given out of humble service to God. There is no indication that any of these donors became richer after their act of charity.

Interestingly enough, Hinn is always the one asking for money from his viewers. According to his teaching, just sending a donation to his ministry will bring in vast financial rewards to his viewers. By the same token, if he were to give money to his viewers, he would also be blessed. If he would only step out in faith and sow a seed into his viewers' lives, imagine how much he would be blessed! In fact, his ministry shouldn't need donations if the prosperity gospel is true. He merely needs to send money to various churches and charitable causes, and the money will spontaneously come pouring back to him.

For prosperity gospel adherents, Biblical passages which speak of blessings are inevitably twisted into passages which speak about material blessing. This is basically American materialism awkwardly jammed into Scriptural mold. There is a stunning difference between prosperity and having one's needs provided, and wasteful and decadent living.

How can any conscionable Christian drive an $80,000 dollar luxury vehicle while there are men and women around the world without food? Children are going hungry in the very cities that these mega-churches are built in, and yet there are no programs in place to feed, clothe, and care for these needy. After all, the prosperity gospellers argue, the poor just need to adopt the health and wealth gospel and they'll flourish. What happened to mercy and compassion? What happened to the example of Christ who cared for the poor?

Hinn's own life is filled with extravagance. Although Hinn refuses to reveal his ministry's accounting, Benny Hinn's ministry takes in an estimated revenue of $100 million per year. Hinn's personal salary is as much as $1 million per year. In addition, he receives royalties from his best-selling books. Hinn's own ministry snaps up many of the books, and Hinn collects the royalties on these sales. Hinn also has plenty of job perks. His company purchased his $3.5 million home as his parsonage, a business expense. Using his multi-million dollar personal jet, Hinn travels the world in luxury. While travelling to and from his crusades, Hinn makes expensive stopovers at luxurious resorts for relaxation. This is charged to his ministry. Even while at his crusades, Hinn only stays at the most expensive five-star hotels with his entourage. Donations are being spent on decadent luxuries, and former employees charge that cash donations are being syphoned off. Clearly, this is not a Christian model of proper financial stewardship.

I am not arguing that God does not bless Christians. I believe that God does bless Christians, and that sometimes these blessings are related to health and finances. However, it is not as simple as ordering these blessings out of the sky. Every human is given a certain amount of blessings, and every human is given a certain amount of suffering (never more than we can bear). God certainly blesses us with health, money, and success; however, these blessings are not guarantees. Christians who believe that these blessings are guarantees will never be able to withstand direct persecution and will continue to be poor communicators of the gospel. When a Pakistani church is burned down are the congregants to believe that it is due to their lack of faith? If a devout person's family is wiped out by hunger, war, or disease is he to believe it is because he was not "walking in God's promises"? These questions don't merely address the nature of faith but they speak to the very nature of suffering and pierce straight down into the gospel itself. Did Jesus die so that we could be rich and healthy? Is suffering just a result of unfaithfulness?

Several months ago I watched a film about the Rwandan genocide called "Shooting Dogs." In this film, John Hurt plays a Catholic priest at a school in the midst of the 1994 genocide. One particular line he uttered stuck with me. The Belgian UN forces at the school have announced they were pulling out. Hurt's character decides to stay with the Tutsi refugees as Interhamwe militia mill menacingly nearby. At this time, he says to another character (and I am paraphrasing) : "All this time I have been searching for God and I found him here. He's right here suffering with these people . . ." An incredible thing about God is that we often sense him closest when we are most vulnerable, when we are face to face with the enormity of humanity's evil.

What is interesting to me personally is Hinn's teaching that people cannot judge or criticize the Lord's anointed. Rather than face those who criticize his questionable teachings and practices Hinn says things like this:

The Holy Ghost is upon me...The day is coming when those that attack us will drop dead. You say, 'What did he say?' I speak this under the anointing of the Spirit. Can I tell you something? Don't touch God's servants; it's deadly...Woe to you that touch God's servants. You're going to pay. 'And the day will come.' The Lord said that to me. He said, 'The day will come when I will punish instantly. Woe to those who touch my chosen.' They will fear us. Hear this: today they mock us; tomorrow they will fear us. (Benny Hinn, November 22, 1991, Anaheim Convention Center)

Not only is this embarrassing, sad, and shameful, but it is also unBiblical. The passage that untouchable holy-men such as Hinn quote is Psalm 105:15 which says, "Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm" (KJV). Benny Hinn and his ilk would have gullible Christians believe that this passage means that those who claim to have direct anointing from God should not be criticized. In reality, the anointed in this passage are not the televangelists, but the Israelite kings and patriarchs. The passage is a command not to physically harm kings or prophets. It is not a carte blanche for leaders to act as infallible interpreters of God's will and teaching. Christians are called to be accountable to one another and this is especially true for leaders. If Christians were not permitted to criticize men claiming to have God's revelation, then Christianity would just be a milky stew of half-cooked philosophies, warmed-over Unitarianism, and bits and pieces from the fertile imaginations of religious con-men like Benny Hinn. Accountability is what makes the church strong. Without accountability, entire congregations are misled and taken advantage of. Church politics can certainly be ugly, but not as ugly cult-like devotion to one man. A little accountability goes a long way.

Claims to be receiving the truth via a direct line to God should be treated skeptically. Gnosticism simplified, is a belief system whereby special revealed knowledge is revealed only to a specially-attuned elite. Hinn has repeatedly made the claim, as many charismatic evangelical preachers do, of having received special revelation from God. However, if one examines his claims carefully, Hinn comes out looking like a two-bit circus psychic. Hinn prophesied that Fidel Castro would die in the nineties, that the entire homosexual community of North America would be destroyed by fire by the mid-nineties, that Jesus would appear physically at one of his Crusades in Nairobi, and that a great event would occur on approximately April 15th 2003 in Israel. None of these prophecies came true.

There are a number of possibilities here. Three immediately occur to me. First, God was mistaken when he told Hinn these things. Second, Hinn misheard God. Third, Hinn never heard from God and merely made up these predictions. The first possibility would mean that God is not omniscient. The second possibility would mean that God was unaware that Hinn might misunderstand him which, in turn, would mean that he is not omniscient. The third possibility is the most likely, as it becomes not the fumbles or mistakes of a pure and inerrant God, but the deception of a religious con-man. Even one false prophecy from a man who claims to be hearing directly from God is enough to dismiss him as a liar.

Ten Striking Movie Sequences

1) The Godfather - the final assassinations of all the Corleone enemies juxtaposed with the baptism of Michael Corleone's godson.
"So what, you like the mafia or something?"
"No."
"Well, the godfather movies sort of have you rooting for the bad guys, don't they?"
"Kind of."
"So how do you justify yourself?"
"Fuhgeddiboutit."
"Isn't that from Donnie Brasco?"
"Yeah."
"Do they even say that in the Godfather?"
"I don't think so."
"You should have said something about making me an offer I can't refuse if I shut it"
"That's cliche."
"And fuhgeddiboutit isn't?"
"Moving on."
2) Platoon - The sequence, largely shot from above, of Sgt. Elias Grodin, stumbling out of the forest surrounded by Viet Cong and, with arms upraised, finally succumbing to the bullets as the helicopter flies right over top of him.
"Actually John, that sounds disturbing."
"Well yes, it is."
"Then why do you like it?"
"I find it effective?"
"Isn't it also a little bit of pedagogical propaganda? After all, this is Oliver Stone."
"Whether you agree with him or not, the movie portrays the ennui, madness, and terror of war quite well."
"Ooooh, ennui, what are you some kind of intellectual?"
"No."
"Then stop using that word."
"Fine."
3) Dead Poets Society - The sequence where many of the students stand on their desks and say, "Oh Captain, my captain" to the departing Mr. Keating.
"You sappy saccharine sentimentalist!"
"Nice alliteration."
"Why thank you."
4) City of God - The opening sequence where Lil' Ze and his gang are chasing the chicken through the bustling, energetic streets of Rio de Janeiro's slum and then come across Rocket with his camera.
"Why do you enjoy movies that glorify crime and violence?"
"I don't believe crime or violence is glorified in this film. In fact, I find their portrayal quite disturbing."
"Why do you like disturbing things?"
"It makes me think."
"What are you, some kind of thinker?"
"In a way."
"In what way?"
"Cogito ergo sum."
"What did I say about posing as an intellectual?"
"Fuhgeddiboutit."
5) Amistad - The powerful scene where Cinque jumps overboard after the Amistad is captured and swims desperately towards the rising sun.
"That movie is not great."
"Well, it's good."
"But it's not great."
"I'm just talking about that particular sequence."
"Fine."
6) Hero - The amazing dual between Nameless and Broken Sword over top of a serene mountain lake. The colours in this movie are absolutely breath-taking.
"That movie is like one long Kodak commercial with a heavy dose of Chinese nationalism."
"But the cinematography is beautiful."
"Birth of a Nation also had good cinematography for its time."
"I don't think you can compare a movie glorifying the KKK with a movie that promotes the idea of a unified China."
"Whatever, comrade."
7) Mystic River - The scene interspersing Dave's forced false confession with the actual events that led to him being covered in blood and with Brenden's confrontation of his brother.
"Disturbing."
"The tension in this scene is palpable."
"Palpable, nice word."
"Thank you."
8) Lawrence of Arabia - The scene in which an Arab has fallen off of his camel and is trudging through the blazing hot desert. The desert is simply striking and the figure of the Arab looks so forlorn.
"Booooooooring."
"Go watch MTV."
"Yawn."
"Seriously, go watch MTV."
"Trudge rhymes with drudge, you know."
"Yawn rhymes with moron, you know."
"Yeah, but the words don't match rhythmically."
"*sigh*"
9) The Godfather Part II - The juxtaposition of the religous parade with Vito Corleone's assassination of Ciccio/ or --- The last scene where Michael Corleone's loss of his soul is shown in the murder of Fredo contrasted with the young alienated Michael before the war.
"Choose one or the other, you indecisive flip-flopper."
"I can't."
"Just as I thought."
10) Last of the Mohicans - The final sequence, set to the music of Clannad, in which Uncas dies fighting for Alice, Alice commits suicide, and Chingachgook avenges his son's death. This is all ended of course with this speech: "Welcome him and let him take his place at the council fire of my people. He is Uncas, my son. Tell them to be patient and ask death for speed; for they are all there but one - I, Chingachgook - Last of the Mohicans."
"Do you like the sequence or the quote?"
"Both."
"You know the movie barely even resembles the book."
"Yeah, so?"
"That entire scene is Hollywood-inspired ludicrity."
"The word is ludicrousness."
"Exactly."

Another call for Redeemerites to give my mother juicy quotes for her magazine. What did Redeemer University mean to you? How has it shaped your thought? How has it shaped you as a Christian?

This past Monday, Laurianne and I headed down to the Bytowne theatre to see Paul Verhoeven's Black Book (not to be confused with Little Black Book, a horrendous romantic comedy.) Paul Verhoeven is a director whose American portfolio includes such films as Basic Instinct, Starship Troopers, Robocop, Total Recall, and the truly horrible Showgirls. None of these films are particularly good, and all seem to share a common theme of excessive violence, excessive sex, or a combination of both.

I was astonished to learn that Verhoeven has directed two movies that are considered the greatest Dutch films of the twentieth century: Soldier of Orange, and Turkish Delight. While the plot synopsis of Turkish Delight does not appeal to me, Soldier of Orange, the story of students involved in the Dutch resistance, does. I hope to see that movie some day.

Black Book was of particular interest to me because it deals with the Dutch Resistance during World War II. Being of Dutch extraction, and being a student of history, I was excited about seeing this movie. My excitement was tempered by a certain anxiousness. What would Verhoeven do? Would there be any resemblance of actual historical events, or would it be an excuse for bloody shoot-outs and mindless sex?

In the end, I was neither satisfied nor disappointed. The movie begins with the words "based on actual events" which, in the film world, is code for "we dressed everybody old-fashioned and then made up a story." The movie does a fine job in recreating the war-time Netherlands (I think), but the fictional characters do not correspond to any Dutch reality. The film is poignant at times, while at other times it is so over the top it borders on ridiculous. There is a lot of violence, which is to be expected in a movie dealing with a clash between the resistance and the Nazis. There is also a lot of nudity, which is, for the most part, completely unnecessary.

Carrice Van Houten plays Rachel Stein, a Jewish woman in hiding. Circumstances force her out of hiding and into the resistance. Further events lead her to befriend the German SD officer, Ludwig Müntze whom she initially uses for information but later falls in love with. I had a difficult time with the idea that a Dutch Jew could have possibly fallen for any Nazi, no matter how sympathetic, during this dark period of history. I could not build up any positive feeling towards Müntze, a man who presumably would have served Nazism to the end if it had been successful. The film follows Rachel Stein's trials and tribulations right through to the liberation of the Netherlands.

Despite the problems I had with this movie, I still consider it to be well-done. While it often seemed forced to me, it packs an emotional punch. The dark underbelly of the resistance is shown in all of its ugly glory. Van Houten's performance is superb, the story is intense, and many of the characters are intriguing. Verhoeven's often heavy hand succeeds in sculpting a work of merit.

The Great Redeemer Post

My mother is writing an article for the Beacon (?). She asked me to create a post asking my friends for their thoughts on how Redeemer shaped them as a person. So, if any of my fellow Redeemerites out there could take the time to share their thoughts and possibly gain immortality by having their name printed in a newsletter, my mother would be most grateful.
For myself, I feel that Redeemer allowed me to embrace my love for this world without being ashamed. We do not stand with our heads in the clouds, but with our feet firmly planted on the earth, wrestling with current ideas and trends, caring for the planet, and always seeking the truth. I would speak on this further, but I need to eat. Thus, I leave the pith of Redeemer to the rest of you . . . Please. Your time is appreciated.

Song of the Moment: Hurt - Johnny Cash

A cover of a NIN song about drug abuse transformed into a lament for a lost loved one. A very effective video.

On the Bus

Recently, due to certain ailments in our automobile, we have been forced to take the public transportation system. Often when I tell people that this is what I do, they give me their sympathy. To be honest, however, I rather like taking the bus. No longer do I have the frustration of getting across the Ottawa River, of Ottawa's often inexplicable traffic jams, or of getting stuck behind a bus. Now I'm stuck in the bus. All I have to do is walk to my stop, get on the bus, and sit. I have been getting a lot of reading done, which gives me a certain sense of accomplishment.

There is an advertisement for the OC Transpo that I have seen a lot of lately. Above a statement urging people to use the public transporation system in order to meet new people is a picture of an elderly gentleman in a suit and a young woman with an outrageously large and colourful hair-do. Both of them are smiling, but I am left contemplating whether the elderly gentleman wouldn't be reconsidering the time he spent liberating Europe. "Man," he should be saying, "I took shrapnel in my leg so that you could make your head look like a peacock's derriere?"

I cannot say that I have actually met any new people on the bus, but I certainly have seen some interesting ones. One sullen young woman slumped in with repeated thuds. I looked up from my book on the Third Crusade to see a woman with her red hair hanging listlessly over her face. She had green jogging pants, a blue shirt, and a large walking stick with a shrunken skull peering at me from its apex. I really felt that she should have had a leather jacket and maybe a tattoo instead of what I thought were butterflies on her shirt. I also witnessed two bearded gentlemen dressed similarly in bright pastel pink and green tennis suits, the bottom half of which was absurdly short. One of them had flowers in his hair. I didn't bother taking the opportunity to get to know them.

The dank cabin was full of rough-looking sailors. A lantern hung over top of a stout wooden table the men were gathered around. The rough voices of the men rumbled together in an incoherent babble. A small bespeckled man stood near the centre of the cluster of men and raised his hand, gradually gaining the attention of the gathered seamen.

"Gentlemen," seaman Hoskins began, "the reason I have called you here today is to discuss a very pressing problem."

Several of the assembled sailors checked their pocketwatches impatiently. Two sailors standing near the back stepped anxiously from foot to foot. A burly sailor spat a wad of tobacco into a tin can with a loud spurt of brown saliva.

Hoskins ignored it all, "You see, gentlemen, there is a hole in the bottom of our ship."

A few sailors nodded nonchalantely, there was a cough, and a low rumble sounded as conversation commenced again.

Hoskins stood up, "Gentlemen, there is a large hole in our ship and water is rushing through."

"Now wait a minute!" the large burly sailor, Smitty by name, stood up and slammed his fist angrily on the table, "I need proof before we start talking about some supposed hole in the bottom of our ship."

"You can go and see for yourself," Hoskins said, "the hole is still there."

The burly Smitty glowered at Hoskins, "What, do you think I have time to investigate these things?"

Hoskins shrugged and then leaned forward, his face etched with concern, "I'm just offering a warning."

"Well," a wizened old sailor raised his quavering voice, "if there is a hole, what do you suppose we should do about it?"

"I really feel that we should mend it," Hoskins answered.

There was a chorus of protest from the assembled sailors.

"Now wait here a minute," Smitty growled, "why should I waste my time repairing non-existent holes in ships when there's money to be won gambling?"

There was murmur of agreement from those assembled. Several sailors shuffled away muttering under their breaths.

"I seem to remember," a gangly old seaman mused, "that this ship had a hole in it on another voyage, and there was no problem then."

"That hole was not as large as this one," Hoskins explained, "and we really are carrying a lot of things with us and . . ."

"What can we do about our things?" interrupted a sailor as he leaned disinterestedly against the wall, "throw them overboard?"

"That would certainly help," Hoskins answered.

The room exploded with the sounds of angry voices. When the noise finally began to subside Yurk, a brash young sailor, stood up to speak, "I sure can throw some of my things overboard, but it really isn't going to do anything in the long run if no one else throws their things overboard."

"The deck seems especially dry to me," muttered the burly Smitty, "I don't see any flooding on the deck."

"How long until the boat sinks?" a tall nervous-looking sailor asked.

"The way I figured," Hoskins responded, "we have about half a day."

A few of the older sailors looked worried, but most of the sailors laughed dismissively.

"C'mon!" scoffed Yurk, "if we have half a day, why don't we just fix the hole at the end of the day?"

There was a roar of approval and four more sailors left, yelling out crude predictions on their next game of poker.

"Wait, wait!" Hoskins yelled, "it will be too late!"

Yurk laughed, slapping Smitty on the shoulder, "when the end of the day comes we'll know if it's too late or not. Until that time I have money to win!"

The tall nervous sailor and three other men stumbled forward to stand behind Hoskins. Chesnutt, whose fat face made him look like a young boy raised his voice, "I say, chaps! I say we make an oath!"

The word oath seemed to grab the attention of all the men in the room. There was a hushed silence, "an oath?" a voice asked.

Hoskins smiled, adjusted his glasses, and nodded in approval, "A capital idea."

"I say we make an oath to do what we can to solve this problem of the hole in the ship," Chesnutt continued.

Even Smitty was nodding his head, albeit somewhat confusedly. The room was buzzing with excited conversation. The word oath was repeated a number of times.

The gangly old sailor finally spoke, "we should probably agree on some sort of term for this oath."

"Let's call it the oath of O'Toyk!" a young sailor enthused.

"Why?" several voices asked, "why the oath of O'Toyk?"

"Well," the young sailor said, "we're in the O'Toyk sea."

There was a thunder of approval from the gathered seamen.

Yurk peered at the faces scattered about the cabin, "what, exactly, should this oath say?"

Hoskins cleared his throat, "I think we should all agree to bail twenty buckets of water each."

Most of the sailors made noises of approval. "I'll do thirty!" Yurk declared proudly.

"I still don't think there's a hole," the burly sailor muttered, "I'm not bailing water if there is no hole."

"I think the oath should say something else too," Chesnutt argued.

"What?" mocked a raucous voice, "that you get extra grub?"

Chesnutt raised his voice above the laughter, "The ship is sitting pretty low. If we each reduce our personal cargo by ten per cent it will go a long way."

There was a silent moment of sober reflection. "I'd be willing to do that," Yurk said, "I'll even do twenty!"

"Me too."

"Aye, here too."

Voices solemnly spoke out their willingness to part with their beloved belongings in order to meet the demands of the oath. Right hands upraised, most of the gathered sailors agreed to the terms of the oath of O'Toyk.

"So, we should probably get started," Hoskins cried. He looked relieved.

"Wait a minute," Smitty said, "why should I throw away my goods as ballast if I don't even think there's a hole?"

Another sailor piped in, "Yeah, what about the twenty men who aren't here?"

"Ten of those men are just as cantankerous as this big fellow here," the gangly old sailor slapped the burly Smitty on the back, "and the other ten are too weak to bail anything."

Yurk's puffed-out chest appeared to be deflating, "maybe I'll just throw away five per cent."

"But you promised ten!" whined Chesnutt, "you have to throw away ten because you took the O'Toyk oath."

"Well, how can I gamble with the other guys if they have more stuff than me?" Yurk protested.

"I know what you can do," the wizened sailor whispered in Yurk's ear, "just buy some of the poorer sailors' stuff and throw that out."


Yurk nodded slowly; it sounded good to him.

"I still say there is no hole," Smitty mumbled.

"I have something to say," a balding sailor cried, "I have something important to say."

"Go ahead."

"You know the man who designed this ship was a master ship-builder," the balding sailor said, combing his hand through the greasy locks which hung to his shoulders.

"It's true," the wizened old sailor quavered, "a master ship-builder."

"I'm going to see if there is a hole after all," Smitty interjected as he left the cabin.

"I really don't think there was any master ship-builder," Chesnutt argued, "I don't think that arguing that there was helps us in any way." A few sailors grunted in agreement.

"I happen to believe that this master ship-builder was quite good," the balding sailor's pate shone in the light of the lantern swinging from the ceiling.

"Quite good," echoed the wizened old sailor.

"I don't think the master ship-builder would design a ship that would sink," the balding man explained, "I mean, he is such a good ship-builder and he wouldn't allow for a hole."

"I believe we created the hole," Hoskins said, "not the ship-builder."

"Well, the ship-builder wouldn't allow the ship to sink just because it has its hull is stuffed with our things," the balding man argued, "I mean, don't you think it's pretty arrogant to believe that the actions of a few men could affect the fate of a humungous galleon?"

The wizened sailor nodded and a few men voiced their agreement.
"The ship was not designed to carry this much weight!" Chesnutt spat in annoyance.

"He was quite a good ship-builder," the balding man repeated.

Smitty returned, his pants soaked to the hip, "There is a lot of water, perhaps there is a hole."

"You see?" Hoskins said, "Something must be done."

"Of course," the balding man said, "I don't think we caused the hole. Think about it. The ship is so wide and majestic and we are like fleas on a lion in comparison to this mighty boat. I am an insignificant speck on a great wooden galleon designed by the masterful hands of a skilled ship-builder," the balding man paused pointing wildly about the cabin, "how can we be so arrogant as to think that we can affect the condition of such an amazing piece of craftmanship?"

"We may seem small compared to this boat, but we definitely caused the hole," Chesnutt declared.

Yurk frowned, "I'm not so sure that we caused the hole. I mean, maybe it just happened."

"Having so much weight on the boat with all this water rushing in definitely does not help," Hoskins asserted.

"I think it's rubbish to say that we caused the hole!" a young pimply-faced sailor shouted.

There was a babble of marked disagreement among the sailors. Some sailors were convinced of the need to keep the oath, while others argued that their gambling needs were just too important.

"Well, there just might be a hole," Smitty said, "but I'm not convinced that all the water coming into the ship will cause it to sink."

"Absolutely!" agreed another man, "I mean, I love the sea. Just imagine how comfortable it will be for us to swim whenever we want to."

"Tell that to the men who need to sleep in the lower cabins," Hoskins said drily.

The man shrugged, "Meh, what can I do for them? None of them are here, anyhow."

"Hey old-timer!" Yurk called out to the gangly old seaman, "Didn't you say that this happened before?"

The gangly old sailor nodded, "Yep, they say tell that this boat was filled with water before on a previous voyage, long before our time. They say tell that there was a couple of flooded areas all over the ship."

"Now see here," said Hoskins, "the last time the ship took on water it was during a storm and it was only parts of the ship. Also, last time there weren't any sailors pulling up boards to use as firewood and gambling chips."

"Were you there?" pressed the gangly old man.

"No, were you?"

"No, but I knowed a man that were."

"As did I."

"If everyone would stop being so imbecilic!" called out Chesnutt, "we could . . ."

"Who are you calling imbecilical, Charlie?" Smitty reached across the table and jut a thick finger into Chesnutt's chest.

"All of ya."

The cabin exploded into a raucous argument and soon fists and bottles were flying through the air. Above the din of breaking noses, smashing bottles, curses, grunts, groans and insults Hoskins tried in vain to gain the attention of the room once more.
If they had cared to listen he was attempting to point out that the ship was beginning to list sharply to starboard. His warning, however, fell on deaf and bleeding ears. Yes, it seemed the ship was doomed to sink.

Song of the Moment: Something - the Beatles

Some Common Myths Dispelled.

Myth: John is balding.
Fact: John's hairline is making a strategic withdrawal.

Myth: Boerishbwoy is written by four mysterious gnomes whose other activities include sock-stealing and high-pitched giggling.
Fact: Gnomes belong in gardens and in volumnious picture-books authored by two Dutchmen with overactive imaginations.

Myth: As an adolescent John visited northwestern Mongolia in 1974 and enraged the locals by claiming that Genghis Khan was overrated. He was only able to redeem himself after defeating the village's best wrestlers and overcoming two large bears in hand to hand combat.
Fact: Actually, it was 1987, and John was five.

Myth: Reading boerishbwoy can cure the common cold.
Fact: If you read boerishbwoy for twenty-four hours it may actually work. Your headache and nausea, however, may continue to manifest themselves.

Myth: Criss Angel is better than David Blaine.
Fact: Harry Houdini has never been surpassed.

Myth: John has a big head.
Fact: John's body is small, his head is normal-sized.

Myth: John is a member of MENSA.
Fact: John exceeds the MENSA's maximum I.Q. requirements and is, therefore, not allowed to join as it would adversely affect the egos of the membership.

Myth: John has a big head, as in he is full of himself.
Fact: John cannot understand that idiom.

Myth: Despite claiming to be too smart for MENSA, John can't understand basic idioms.
Fact: John was merely dodging.

Myth: John is a coward.
Fact: John received an award for bravery from the Royal Society of Chimeras.

Myth: John is a coward and a liar.
Fact: No, he isn't.

Myth: Yes, he is.
Fact: No.

Myth: Yes.
Fact: No.

Myth: Yes.
Fact: No.

Myth: Uh huh.
Fact: Uh uh.

Myth: John is childish.
Fact: I'm rubber and you're glue and whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.

Myth: That sophomoric little saying proves that John is childish.
Fact: You just admitted that your sophomoric little saying proves that you are childish.

Myth: What?
Fact: I'm rubber and it bounced off of me and stuck to you because you're glue.

Myth: Yeah, but I used the third person singular which means that I just observed to myself that John's sophomoric little saying was childish.
Fact: Whatever you observed it wasn't absorbed on this end.

Myth: What a genius this John is!
Fact: Sarcasm is the last refuge of the scoundrel.

Myth: Perhaps I wasn't being sarcastic. After all, it is fairly difficult to detect sarcasm in writing.
Fact: Not for this guy right here.

Myth: Whatever.
Fact: This apathy reveals an attitude which won't get you anywhere in life.

Myth: I am only apathetic about what John has to say.
Fact: You care very deeply about what I have to say.

Myth: N-
Fact: Ye-

Myth: Alright, that's enough now, John.
Fact: You're enough!

Myth: Okay, really, you have made your point.
Fact: No, I haven't.

Myth: Alright, you're just being a contrarian now.
Fact: So what?

Myth: You're not even giving the pretense of following the myth/fact dichotomy anymore.
Fact: Yes, I am.

Myth: *Sigh*
Fact: You are not as exasperated as you are pretending to be.

I'm still alive, just a little occupied.

Laurianne and I went to Hamilton for her aunt's wedding this past long weekend. I've been to more than a few weddings, but there is always something special about Burundian weddings. Dancing at Canadian and Dutch-Canadian weddings is either non-existent or reserved for the young, the adventurous, and/or the slightly inebriated. The graceful dance I've witnessed at Burundian weddings is a pleasure to watch and a powerful symbol. The dancers urge the bride and groom to dance and gradually invite more and more of the guests to the floor. Soon, it seems, almost the entire wedding is dancing around the bride and groom and there are broad smiles all around. The community is united in the joy of the newly married couple. Now, if only I didn't look so awkward when I danced.

The Hitman

The bar was dimly lit by dusty yellow lights and a blue neon sign advertising a discontinued brand of beer. Dark wooden panels covered the walls, making the room appear that much dimmer. Several faded black and white photographs of James Dean hung crookedly from the grey stucco above the panels. Two tables sat empty, their trays overflowing with grey ash and cigarrette butts. The bar was nearly empty except for the bulky figure of a lone man sitting on a high stool of the seedy bar. His massive head rested comfortably on a flabby arm as he nursed a pint of dark beer.

His name was Diego and he was known for his simplicity, complexity, imbecility, and occasional flashes of brilliance. He was a fat man with a chronically bad temper. His jowls tended to shake when he got angry afterwhich he would launch into a stream of verbosity repleat with words he had mined from intense dictionary reading. Often, however, he merely memorized the word's pronunciation without paying much attention to its actual meaning. He was highly skeptical, and believed neither in a creator nor in destiny. When he was at his most critical he would pompously attack the perceived lack of grammar in his target. He often fell into lapses of memory which made him repeat questions that had already been asked. He was a gullible man and was often taken in by the most ludicrous of claims. Diego was brooding deeply on some events that had indelibly changed his life forever. Events so dramatic that they could only be described as . . .

"Excuse me, sir," a man in a fedora and a dark trench coat tapped Diego on the shoulder.

"Yes?" Diego appeared startled by the sudden appearance of the man, who seemed to have emerged at the very moment he had spoken.

"I've been sent to eliminate you, so if you'd kindly oblige by coming this way," the man's words, despite their politeness, were clipped and almost brusque in their delivery.

"Eliminate me? Why?" Diego peered at the man's fedora quizzically. Until this very moment, he had been fairly sure that no one wore fedoras anymore.

"It's been determined that your character adds nothing to this story, so come with me," the man nodded towards the door.

"What story?" Diego raised an eyebrow in utter confusion."This one," the man made an effort to encapsulate the bar, Diego, and the situation in one gesture.

"I'm not in a story," Diego scoffed, "I'm in a bar."

"Actually sir, you're in a bar that is in a story."

"I am?" Diego looked about the room as if the walls would suddenly collapse and reveal a story, whatever that looked like.

"Yes," the man once again gestured impatiently towards the door.

"I see. So why are you here?" Diego took a sip of his beer and smacked his lips.

"As I stated before, I've come to eliminate you from this story," the man adjusted his coat.

Diego frowned and leaned forward, trying to get a glance of the man's face, shrouded beneath the wide brim of his hat. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, shook his head and said, "I don't believe you."

"Do you have any memory of anything happening to you before you entered this bar?" the man's voice had an edge in it.

"I couldn't really say," Diego shrugged indifferently.

"Exactly, that's the narrator's job," the man asserted.

"Who?"

"The narrator, the one who introduced you," the man said impatiently.

Diego shook his head slowly, "I'm sorry, but I really don't see any narrator in this bar."

"Just come with me," the man's voice was tight and curt.

"If this is a story then we're the only two characters in this story, aren't we?" Diego peered about the dingy bar, "There's not even a barman behind the counter for some odd reason."

"I never said it was a good story."

"You know, if this is a story then you don't have to read it if you don't like it."

"Well, actually I do. You see, I'm from the Society for the Elimination of Gratuitous Literary Characters," the man reached in his pocket and displayed his badge proudly, "It's in my job description to read all stories, no matter how bad they are, and eliminate superfluous characters. And I'm sorry, but this looks like it's going nowhere."

Diego glanced at the badge doubtfully, "If this were a story, wouldn't it be a little presumptuous to eliminate a character before he's had a chance to develop?"

"Usually yes, but you're a dull character with such startling contradictions built into your personality that you're basically untenable."

"Contradictions, what contradictions?" Diego's eyes narrowed.

"Well," the man answered, "you can't be both highly critical and extremely gullible."

"You can't, can you? You're absolutely right." Diego nodded while shaking his head, "Of course, you're also wrong because you're using such atrocious English and yet claim to be some kind of literary hitman."

"You see? You just agreed with me and then promptly contradicted yourself," the man's face was still hidden by the shadow of his fedora, but Diego still thought he could make out a thin smile.

Diego gritted his teeth, "what on earth are you talking about?"

"Come, come, I'm sure the audience is getting quite tired of your antics," the man placed a hand on the Diego's shoulder to guide him towards the door.

"I have no time for your acataleptic jobation!" Diego swatted the man's hand away.

The man seemed bothered neither by Diego's incomprehensible outburst nor by his quivering jowls, "Interesting, it seems that inveterate temper and penchant for the pretentious use of obscure words is kicking in."

"What kind of supposed literary character assassin uses the words 'kicking in'?" Diego harrumphed."Yes, yes," the man raised a gloved hand in dismissal, "I understand your objections, but I was not created to engage in flowery language. No, I merely communicate the wishes of the SEGLC. And before I get distracted by your obtuse questioning I shall continue with my purpose."

"Which is?" Diego had a perplexed look on his face.

"Ah, and there's your poor memory." The man adjusted the brim of his fedora, "I am here to eliminate you as a character from this story."

"Isn't that tantamount to murder?" Diego's hands were shaking as he took a gulp of beer.

"Well no, because you actually don't truly exist. You're in a work of fiction."

"I do exist," Diego looked at his hands disconcertedly, as if they would start fading into non-existence.

"Yes, you do, in a way, exist, but I would really like to remedy that."

Diego bit his bottom lip nervously and thought for several moments, "I speak, therefore I am."

"Yes, yes, Oro ergo sum, but you only speak because your creator gave you a voice."

"I don't believe in a creator." Diego scoffed.

"Oh, that's right, I should have paid more attention to the introduction," the man sighed.

"The what?" Diego asked in confusion.

"The introduction, the beginning of this atrocity where the narrator laid out the setting and described your character."

"The introduction of this fictional," Diego placed imaginary quotation marks around the word fictional, "story by the narrator created by some all-powerful creator. Right," sarcasm dripped from his voice.

"Whether he is all-powerful is dubious. He is limited by the shallow depth of his own imagination," the man responded with affected patience, "Of course, if you don't believe in a creator then how did you come to be?"

"I just evolved."

"From what?"

"A thought."

"Whose thought?"

"Why does the thought have to belong to someone?" Diego asked snarkily.

"Well, thoughts don't just exist for no reason."

"I suppose the thought was spontaneously generated by a great explosion of dense particles of genius."

"Where did those dense particles of genius come from?"

"Well, we could discuss cosmogony all day or you could just leave me alone."

"Sorry, you just aren't interesting enough to keep." The man made an attempt at a magnanimous gesture towards the door, but merely ended up appearing impatient, "Please come this way."

"Don't you have worse characters to assassinate? I mean isn't there some dyslexic adolescent with a persecution complex and a typewriter creating a truly abominable character as we speak?" Diego queried.

"Perhaps, but I do my job one pulpy character at a time."

"I can't be the worst." Diego insisted as he peered longingly at the bottom of his empty glass.

"You're not. You really are rather unremarkable except for the fact that you're the last of the day."

"Have you ever eliminated anyone significant?" Diego shifted his tack.

"I took the emu out of George Orwell's Animal Farm," there was a note of triumph in the man's voice.

"There is no emu in that book."

"Exactly."

Diego scratched behind his ear with a sausage-like finger as he pondered this, "Mm. It's difficult to argue with that."

"It is, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't," Diego asserted defiantly and then added, "Yes, perhaps it is."

"Come on, I must take you away before the contradictions built into your character come to full realization and cause a rupture in the fabric of the believability of this story," Diego noticed a quiet desperation in the man's voice.

"I believe we passed that point when the literary assassin entered the picture," Diego intoned dryly.

"As a trained literary assassin, I try to be silent and deadly but the plot of this story is so flat that it is impossible to approach you from any angle without being seen or heard."

Perhaps it was not desperation but exasperation, Diego decided.

"It's exasperation," the man said.

"What?"

"You were wondering if I was exasperated or desperate and I would have to say that I am exasperated," the man explained.

"How did you. . . ?"

"I'm just listening to the narrator, that's all."

"So, I'm just supposed to get up and follow a guy who hears voices and claims he wants to kill me?" Diego shook his head and sniffed disparagingly.

"Not kill, eliminate. Remember, you're not a real person," the man explained with a hint of indignation.

"If I were fictional, wouldn't it be possible for me to be resurrected whether you eliminate me or not?" Diego questioned, rising from his seat.

"That's why after I excise your from this story I will attempt to edit the entire manuscript." The man's body relaxed, he seemed to take Diego's movement for a surrender to his wishes.

"So why must you take me away in order to off me?" Diego challenged.

"I really don't want to create a gruesome scene right here in front of everyone."

"But we're alone."

"No, actually, there are people who are presumably reading this claptrap." The man looked upwards as if the eyes of the readers were bearing down upon him.

"How did you know where to find me?" Diego looked rather intimidating when his hulking form straightened out to its full height.

"The narrator laid out this crude setting rather conveniently for me," the man took a nervous step backwards.

"The narrator?"

"You know, the third-person omniscient who said that your jowls shake when you're angry," the man appeared to have recovered from his nervousness.

"My jowls?"

"Yes, those fat . . ."

"I know what jowls are, you pachycephalic quinquagenarian! I expostulate with you in order that you might not torture me with your matutolypea!"

"I have no idea what you just said."

"Pachycephaly is abormal thickness of the skull. While I realize this may not apply to your situation, a quinquagenarian is between the ages of fifty and sixty. Expostulate . . . "

"I know that one. What about matutolypea?"

"Matutolypea is the state of being in a bad mood in the morning."

"Has the time of day even been set in this story?" the man's eyes swept the room for a clue as to the time of day, "I mean, what on earth would you be doing in a bar in the morning?"

"Ah hah! So you have found something interesting about this story after all!" Diego crowed.

"Do you know what time it is?" the man prompted.

Diego frowned, "I have no idea.""This is ludicrous."

Diego shifted his weight on his feet as he thought for a moment, "How about the narrator, why don't you go after him?"

"There is no way to go after a third-person omniscient narrator, and even if I could I wouldn't," the man made a half-hearted gesture towards the door once more, hoping that Diego would finally follow him.

"Why not?"

"Because if I get rid of it, the entire story collapses," the man appeared to be getting uncomfortable in his heavy jacket.

"Since I'm the only character, don't you think this story will collapse if you get rid of me?" Diego offered hopefully.

"I really can't see it getting any worse."

"You're just scared," Diego decided.

"Of what?" the man's face was reddening.

"If you criticize the narrator, then you just might find yourself shot, crushed, stabbed or beaten to death."

"That narrator is really a creature of the creator."

"I don't believe in the creator."

"I know."

Diego was lost in thought for a moment again, "If the creator did exist, would he not be able to manipulate the situation in order to get rid of you and save me? In fact, would he not actually be responsible for inserting you into this so-called story in order to create this ludicrous dialogue?"

"I suppose," the man's fedora lifted slightly to reveal a gaunt face, red with frustration and warmth. His grey eyes appeared drawn and tired and there was an expression of self-doubt and bewilderment in the odd way his eyebrows were raising and lowering on his forehead.

"So you are just as much at the mercy of this creator as myself. In fact, you really don't exist beyond the artificial realms of this strange fictional universe." Diego pressed triumphantly.

The man sighed, removed his hat and scratched his balding head in continuing befuddlement. "I suppose . . . you're right." With that, he vanished.

Update:

- Last week Laurianne was hired as an MP's assistant and so there will be no more middleman taking money from every paycheque.

- Sunday was my sister Linda's 22nd birthday. We had a nice conversation which left me very happy.

- The middleman is one of the many enigmatic men society loves to assign blame to. These men include: the middleman, the sandman, the man, the taxman, the bogeyman, the foeman, the gunman, and the strawman.

- I should clarify that Laurianne had absolutely nothing against the middleman because the middleman got her the job in the first place.

- I was perusing some of my old posts and was amazed and a little embarrassed at the number of spelling and grammar mistakes.

- I should make a spelling mistake in this bullet, that would be funny.

~ I bought some chocolate muffins which were far too soft on the outside to be considered real chocolate muffins. Disappointing.

~ Perhaps you notice that the hyphen I am using for the comment above is not a hyphen at all, but a tilde (or squiggle or twiddle.) I think it looks rather sophisticated. Too bad I have nothing sophisticated to say.

~ I thought about using an asterisk for the bullets, but then I thought that maybe people would start looking at the bottom of this post for footnotes.

~ I'm not sure how to put the tilde on top of a letter. The internet informs me that the tilde that goes on top of a letter and the tilde that is used as an approximation sign in mathematics are supposed to be different from eachother.

~ Why are they the same then? The internet tells me that it is because of the ASCII (the American Standard Code for Information Interchange.) The internet has also informed me that the the AACII only has 128 numerical values and no time for assigning separate codes for very similar symbols.

~ What is your favourite obsolete letter in the English alphabet? Mine is thorn (Þ, þ).

~ I finished Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment on the weekend. The book was very long, very descriptive, and very good. I'm looking forward to more Russian novels in the future.

~ I used the word "very" quite a few times in that last sentence.

~ Here is that sentence without "very" written so many times: The thick tome was highly descriptive and an excellent read.

~ Here is that sentence written backwards: .doog yrev dna ,evitpircsed yrev ,gnol yrev saw koob ehT

~ I perused some reviews of Crime and Punishment on Amazon. Most people liked it, but the few people who gave it a one out of five either didn't like the translation or were angry at their teachers or friends for recommending it. Those in the latter category usually had a statement in their review similar to this: "The crime was this book being written, the punishment was reading it." *guffaw* Whether they were angry at their friends or at their teachers, the reviewers commonly committed many spelling and grammar errors, despised Raskalnakov, and used the word "boring" copiously throughout their reviews.

~ Laurianne said that I sounded depressed in the post where I apologized for my prolonged absence. Depressed people do not relish chocolate milk and yogourt the way I do.

~ Laurianne secretly reads my blog so as not to feed my inflated ego.

~ We're off to Ingersoll this weekend to celebrate with Matthew Byl and Tiffany Crandall as they join together in marriage. We are looking forward to it.

Song of the Moment: Dickes B - Seeed

Few people thought that the song of the moment on the boerishbwoy blog would be by an eleven-member German reggae group. The following song is some sort of tribute to Berlin so, with this in mind, I am dedicating it to Kitchener:

My sincerest apologies for not updating in such a long time. However, I have been rather busy with other things.
'What other things?" you ask with a note of anger in your voice, "what could possibly be as important as your blog?"
Introspection.
"Isn't introspection what blogging is all about?" you ask incredulously.
Well, somewhat, I guess. I mean no one really reveals their innermost thoughts in a public space do they?
"Well, yes, they do John. They do, in fact, reveal their innermost thoughts for all to read," you insist fervently.
I'm pretty sure they don't.
"Yes, John, yes they do," you prompt.
Anyhow, I apologize. I have been caught up in a few things and did not have the time or the inclination to update.
"What have you been thinking about?" you bang your fist angrily on the desk in front of you, demanding my attention, "what on earth has been occupying your thoughts so relentlessly as to draw you away from your blog for such an extended period of time?"
I would only disappoint you if I were to reveal what I've been thinking about.
"Fine. I don't care anyways," you say, although there is a deep disappointment bordering on resentment in your voice.
Oblivious as usual to the intricacies of human social interaction, I am completely unaware of your anger and assume that all is well.

Time for some yogourt and chocolate milk.