Dear St. Valentine

If you happen to run into Cupid, will you send him to New York City? And then could you point out the literary agents that he's to prick with his arrows? For St. Valentine's Day this year, I'd like an agent or two to fall in love with my manuscript.

Roses and chocolates are fine, but these agents are hard to please. They only seem to really care about words and sentences that are put together in such an order as to earn them a great deal of money. So many of them have told me that they have to love something to sell it, and get themselves a bit of cash, and that's where you and Cupid come in.

I've not heard of a novena to St. Valentine, except for that Dorothy Parker prayer. You've heard it, surely? Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker. The problem is, these agents won't accept candy or liquor. They want double-spaced pages, numbered consecutively, covered with words that make their heart flutter.

For this year's day of love, that's all I'm asking of you, St. Valentine. I've done my bit, with a pile of queries sent out with the requested sample pages. Now if you could see your way to touching the heart of the literary agent of my dreams...Amen.

Don't Mess With The Mouse

After weeks spent slaving away, all the gay-lesbian-transgendered-asexual -bisexual-did-I-miss-anyone-it's-a-long-list-I-know of NUI Galway are devastated. Gutted, even. No, it's not because Martin Sheen has finished his course and is going back to sunny, warm Los Angeles.

Blame it on the mouse. The legal suits at Walt Disney Corp. have pulled the plug on the gay-lesbian-transgendered-asexual-crossdressing-sure-that-covers-all-the-permutations theatre group that was fully prepared to do their own unique version of the Whoopi Goldberg vehicle, Sister Act. According to reports, this play that will not now be seen was loosely based on the movie, and we are all left to use our imaginations to guess how loose the adaptation would have been. Whatever might have been planned, those in charge presumed that Walt would not have been pleased, and so, the lawyers fired off a letter or two, threatened a bit of legal action, and the show will not go on.

Produced by Jeff Rockett, the play was scheduled to open in two days time. Sets were constructed, tickets sold, posters printed, the lot. Six months of writing and rehearsing, only to be told that the group would be infringing on Disney's intellectual property rights. Poor Mr. Rockett doesn't understand how the giant corporation could do such a thing, to put a stop to the play.

"They are simply in disbelief," he said about the cast and the crew. "Something that they have poured their hearts and souls into has been destroyed..." by the same company that gave them Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck when they were wee little babes.

All they wanted to do was promote acceptance and support for the gay-bisexual-transgendered-lesbian-celibate-and-if-I-missed-your-particular-sexual-orientation-I'm-sorry community in Galway, and Disney was upset. The Big Mouse is in a tizzy and Mr. Rockett is dumbfounded.

Sure it's understandable. if you've ever been to one of the theme parks and seen all those gay dancers and costumed characters employed by Disney, you'd think the company was quite open-minded. But it's not the mind at issue, you see, it's the bottom line. The bottom line, where all the traditional Ma and Da families deposit their hard-earned dollars for that magical trip to Disneyland, accompanied by their children who were created in the old-fashioned way...and no one messes with that.

It Wasn't Me

The blame shifting game is in full swing once again. George Tenet, of CIA fame, is back on the scene with his own version of that popular kid's game. "Wasn't me" he will say, "it was him", and with so many in the family, it will be hard to tell who Mr. Tenet is shifting the blame to, exactly. As long as it's deflected, however, he comes out a winner.

HarperCollins is patiently waiting for Tenet to finish writing his tell-all memoir masterpiece, as the author has missed his initial deadline. The publisher wants to time the release so that they achieve maximum sales, and with Presidential candidates lining up to run, now is the time. Can't you type a little faster, George? The book must hit the shops just in time for an appearance on 60 Minutes, that cutting edge news show that is all the rage at the nursing homes.

Tina Andreadis of HC isn't talking about the book's content, but the word on the street is that Mr. Tenet is going to lay out his entire CIA career, and then cover his arse about Al Qaeda and 9/11 and Afghanistan, etc., etc. Chances are good that he won't trash George Bush, with whom he is said to have a good relationship. The long knives are out for Condie Rice and Dick Cheney, the people who threw Mr. Tenet under the bus when the time came to blame someone for faulty intelligence. There'll be a gripping narrative, Saddam Hussein, and a cast of other current events to fill the pages. The problem is, the book is going to come out a little late, considering.

There have been reams of paper used to publish books about the run-up to the war, countless pages that skewered the CIA and its director. Like any historical figure, Mr. Tenet would like to get his spin out there, to create his own personal history, but it may not jive with already published works. Even the 9/11 Commission is raising a collective eyebrow over some of Mr. Tenet's assertions, as they do not quite follow what he told them during their investigation.

The bottom line on all this is simple. Books, written words, live on into the future. What is written now will be used by researchers hundreds of years from now as they put together the history books. Hoping to be fondly recalled, George Tenet is putting out his story, but it will be filtered through time. Can't write history in the present, that's the problem. The history gets written long after the fact, and those who created the history don't get much input on how it finally gets told.

Unexpected Information

I googled "sock yarn" because I was trying to find a good source for Lorna's Laces, a hand painted yarn that knits up into some wildly colorful socks. You see, when I'm in a bind and can't come up with the next sentence or the paragraph that ties point A to point B, I like to knit socks. It's fairly mindless, knitting in the round, row after row until the heel gets turned, and even that's a simple mathematical construct.

How shocked was I to find a link to Making Light, Teresa Nielsen Hayden's blog that normally covers all things publishing. She edits books, sci-fi, for Tor books, and I'd consider her to be quite knowledgeable in her field. But knitting?

Read the post if you're interested in the problems that a female-owned yarn co-op had when they started up a sock knitting club and the bank thought they were setting up a scam. Generated a big heap of outrage in the knitting world, all those twenty- and thirty-somethings who have hopped onto the latest trend and become addicted to the craft.

Anyway, for now I'm out of yarn but my head is full of words that need to be set down on paper before they get lost on the way out.

I Was Only Joking, My Dear

Non-fiction is an easier sell, so why would anyone try to get fiction published? That being the case, it makes a world of sense for Jay Forman to position an article as reality when in fact the whole thing existed solely in his head.

A couple of grad students at Columbia University broke the story, proving that a 2001 article that Mr. Forman had written for Slate was a complete fabrication. He said it was true, about a trip to Lois Key, and fishing for monkeys. But it wasn't. Hard to believe, isn't it, that someone would believe such a nonsense, but there were those in charge of Slate who did indeed think Mr. Forman had been after the big fish...or would that be monkey?

Must be a bit of an embarrassment for Jack Shafer, who was the editor at the time. He's since moved up the ladder, to editor-at-large and columnist, but the higher ups must be questioning his judgment, and now, his abilities. Not only did Mr. Forman fudge the original article, he maintained his innocence when confronted, and it took a pair of Columbia journalism students to wring a confession out of the man. He said he was "troubled", or perhaps more likely, desperate to get a publication credit in a prestigious venue such as Slate. Aren't we all just as troubled, then?

One might reasonably surmise that the idea of fishing for monkeys is rather far-fetched and not exactly possible. Yet Mr. Shafer did not seem to question his author too heavily, and he no doubt was so pressed for time that he could not possibly do the legwork to investigate the whole monkey fishing notion. And so, he was burned badly by someone he needed to trust.

Will Mr. Forman suffer the pains of Hell and damnation for his slick bit of business? He'll certainly not be working as an investigative journalist anytime soon, but if he chooses to write short stories or other fictions, he's got himself a brilliant credential. Fiction so well-crafted that a savvy editor fell for the ruse...hook, line, sinker, and monkey.

Coming Soon

Let's look at the newest list of debut fiction, shall we?

First up, we can expect Sam Michel's first novel. Yes, he has already been published, a collection of short stories. What else, you ask, as you prepare to write a collection of short stories so that you, too, can be a published author. He's taught creative writing, making good use of his MFA. Let's skip him and move on to someone we might have a better chance of emulating.

A novel from a former New York Post columnist, I see. And it's a book about the Hamptons, written by someone who has undoubtedly spent time in the Hamptons, and witnessed all the hot tub hookups, hangovers, etc., etc. And who gives a flying fuck about the Hamptons when you're not living in NYC? Moving along...

I see that Jennie Nash has a novel in the pipeline. She wrote a book about her travails with breast cancer. Technically, her novel is her debut in the fiction world, but realistically, she is already a published author with a big, fat publishing cred. Next?

There's a guy who's a member of a creative writing troupe that teaches creative writing classes, and now he's getting a novel published. There's a woman who pens inspirational columns and she's got an inspirational novel coming out, published by a Christian-leaning press.

I'd say it's hopeless for the unpublished. I have twenty short story submissions out there, and I'm going to get me a publishing credit one way or another. And when I have enough for a collection, I'll be right behind Sam Michel in the debut novel queue.

Springfield Springboard

All eyes turn to Springfield, Illinois, a sleepy backwater sort of town when compared to Chicago. Near the steps of the old State Capitol building, Senator Barack Obama will try very hard to get everyone to see him as the next Abraham Lincoln. Just look at all the analogies.

Like Father Abraham, Barack served in the state legislature. Of course, that august body is not what is was in Lincoln's day, when the two party system was in effect. Nowadays, we have what columnist John Kass calls the "Combine", a machine that rakes in cash for the benefit of its members. Robert Kjellander is a fine example; the man who runs the Republican Party in Illinois has taken payments from Democrat governor Rod Blagojevich for some lobbying work. Why split the take when cooperation goes a long way on the bottom line? Perhaps Senator Obama could point to this as an example of reaching across party lines. Blur the lines, more like it, and count up the profits.

Lincoln freed the slaves, and there's our Senator, more African American than any other person of color. His father was African, so there, Jesse Jackson. Mr. Obama never had to grow up in a drug-infested ghetto or anything like that. And when it comes to racism, he's got a long way to go to beat Condeleeza Rice, who knew the four girls murdered in their church by a KKK bomb. Better for Barack to play up his blackness and avoid too much of that 'I feel your pain' rhetoric when speaking to those who actually are descended from slaves.

Look at that lack of experience, some might say, and wasn't Lincoln equally fresh? Sooner or later, someone is bound to point out that the world is vastly different today than it was then, and trying to draw parallels to Lincoln's resume is a foolish exercise in hubris. Even so, he will channel the late president, wrapping himself in the whole national crisis thing, calling for new direction. Kind of reminds me of General McClellan, but that's just my impression.

Let's see, Lincoln was in office when an unexpected attack precipitated a war. The war was grossly unpopular, and most people wanted him to pull out and give it up. He struggled to find competent generals to lead, and when he did, more blood than ever was spilled, even though it brought about a winning end to the conflict. Yes, that sounds about right, Senator Obama. The Republicans, the party of Lincoln, will love it if you make their job easier.

Technorati tag: Barack Obama

Witness To A Wreck

Why the interest in a former stripper? The gaping and gawking resembles nothing more than a gaper's block on the highway, as motorists crawl past the scene and take a good long look at the mangled vehicles, searching for blood or broken bodies. Such fascination amidst the curiosity.

Anna Nicole Smith married a senile, decrepit old billionaire and caused a bit of a buzz when she pursued a portion of his estate. Now there's a story that intrigues us all. The gold digger, the vixen of tales since the beginning of time, was starring in a modern version of an ancient tale. Would you do it, for four hundred million dollars? That was the question that was put out for discussion over drinks after work. Ms. Smith gave us all something to talk about, to really gnaw on, for months.

With the financial windfall on hold, tied up in the courts, we were then treated to a so-called reality show that was like watching an ongoing train wreck. In episode after episode we could observe some bizarre creatures that were lifted from a Texas trailer park, providing a glimpse into a world that we had never before seen, and never would observe first hand. Like a motorist, we cruised past every week, taking in the scene, finding horror and shock and pity and an amalgam of mixed emotions. Bottom line, like the traffic accident, we drove past and said a silent prayer that it wasn't us in the mangled car, or laying on the gurney being shoved into the ambulance.

We could not get enough of the vicarious thrill, the desire to see more coupled with our mothers' admonishments to not stare at the freaks. Ever in search of attention, Ms. Smith delivered the goods, wrapping herself up in one scandal after another, and always with cameras close by to record the news.

Her son died, and our eyes were riveted to the gore at the scene of the wreck. One baby dead, another newly born, and another scandal as a man popped up and claimed that he was the father, while she insisted that the father was someone else altogether.

Now the vultures begin to circle over the corpse, the scent of money nearly overpowering. Where is the child, her mother is claiming custody of the estate, er, the infant. Who is the real father, the one to raise the baby and handle the financial legacy? Sure she was murdered by that attorney she married, some claim, and we can be amused by empty-headed discussions of conspiracies and plotting in the name of greed.

Over time, the evidence of the wreck will be cleaned up, and soon we will not really remember much about the accident that we witnessed. Maybe there'll be some note in the gossip column, a bit about the ongoing lawsuit to claim part of the billionaire's estate. Eventually, there will be another ongoing train wreck to divert our attention from the harsh realities of the world. And we will utter our silent prayer, thank God that it's not me or my family in there.

Taking The Lead

To gain some traction in the fight against global warming, the mighty European Union is going to legislate car emissions. Make it law, and it will be, and the EU will show us the way.

By 2012, car manufacturers in Europe will have to produce vehicles that emit 130 grams of carbon per every kilometer travelled. That works out to a 25% drop over current levels. Naturally, the car makers are up in arms. Change costs them money, after all. There'll be a general need to re-engineer and make more efficient, and that is not free.

Angela Merkel is on the manufacturers' side. She's worried about the industry, and rightly so, since Germany is dependent on the jobs that Porsche and Mercedes Benz provide. Should cars become more expensive, with a resultant decline in sales, her nation is looking at industry lay-offs and higher unemployment figures. No politician wants that in their district. Some of the more strident environmentalists in the EU are rather annoyed at Germany's attitude, with a desire to protect the auto industry and its bottom line instead of tackling this earth-destroying climate change. Of course, the commissioners keep their jobs during economic downturns, while the peasants go on the dole, so it's easy to talk.

The EU commissioners would also like to legislate for more fuel efficient vehicles while they're at it. Stavros Dimas, the EU environment guru, is thinking of switching to a Japanese hybrid himself, but I've read that the Prius actually spews more carbon dioxide into the air than a standard gas-powered engine. Can't ever seem to get it all, the cake and the eating of it, can you?

Before anyone panics, however, one must realize that the EU wants a manufacturer's product line to reach the reduced emissions standard, not every single vehicle produced. All the auto makers have to do is crank out a few tin cans that don't churn out massive amounts of carbon dioxide. It doesn't matter that no one will buy them, as long as they are available. That way, the wealthy of Europe can continue to tool around in their gas-guzzling pollution-mobiles, dumping scads of carbon into the air, and all is within the law.

The EU commission can trumpet their great success at legislating a reduction in greenhouse gasses, people can continue to drive what they have always driven, albeit at a higher purchase price, and everyone can feel good about themselves.

Meanwhile, the many signatories to the Kyoto Protocol fail to meet its standards. Somehow, it doesn't seem to matter, as long as everyone looks good while they miss the mark.

Dumb Down

A few professors at Southern Illinois University and the elite campus of UIUC are in trouble for being too smart. Actually, the trouble is that they did not act dumb.

The brilliant minds who run the state ethics training course know how long it takes a person to answer the questions in their on-line test. They know better than a professor at one of the state universities, and since all men are created equal, no one is smarter than anyone else. Therefore, everyone must take the same amount of time to complete the test. Or else.

All state employees have been required since 2003 to take the test, which covers such issues as how to blow the whistle on corruption, what political activities are prohibited, etc. And hasn't it been a brilliant success? Illinois must be the most politically corrupt state in the union, despite the training that the state has ordered. Clearly, the problem is people who breeze through the test too quickly, so Gilbert Jimenez, the deputy inspector general, has gone after that 10% of employees who are responsible for this excessive test-taking speed.

All the other state employees took about thirty minutes to complete the material, but the speed demons finished up in ten minutes. Professor Marvin Zeman got his wrist slapped for covering the topic in 6.18 minutes. His punishment? He was told to sign a confession, admitting that he agrees to face disciplinary action if he fails to complete the training in a timely manner. He even was supposed to agree that he could be fired for being too fast with his mouse.

Unfortunately for Mr. Jimenez, the man who thinks that everyone is equally dumb, Professor Zeman has filed a lawsuit against the state. As it turns out, the punishment to be doled out to the swift violates the university's collective bargaining agreement, and the inspector general's office cannot do that legally. And then there's the question of the inspector general's mandate, also part of state law, that permits the office to act on a complaint, but not start one on their own.

Jimenez has an answer for that last one, though. It's Professor Zeman who's not complying with the ethics training, and he's disrespecting the inspector general's office. So the office is complaining, and now they're acting on their own complaint.

Ah, Illinois. By thy rivers gently flowing....anyone investigating Patti Blagojevich's ties to Tony Rezko and K.K.Bio? Maybe the wrong people are being made to take the ethics exam.

Fraternite, Egalite

Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten published cartoons last year that led to rioting. No American paper reprinted the pictures, as they were said to be inflammatory. Certainly had the hard-line Muslims up in flames, filled with indignation...after a few days, when the hard-liners got wind of it. When the cartoons were first put out, no one noticed.

Charlie Hebdo, a French publication, also published the cartoons. In tribute to the notion of freedom of the press, the Union of Islamic Organisations in France and the French Muslim Council are taking the magazine to court. The charge? "Public insult towards a group of people because of their religion."

The Muslims claim that they have taken a page from the Jews, who have used a similar tactic to battle anti-Semitic literature. It is worth noting that the Islamic group filed a case in Denmark, where the offending pictures originated, but the case was thrown out. Likewise, a civil lawsuit against Jyllands-Posten for slander was dismissed. As far as the courts in Denmark were concerned, the cartoons were in the public interest, and that was the end of that. And now, to France.

Flemming Rose, editor of Jyllands-Posten, will act as a witness for the defense. Like many of his fellow news people, he's worked up into a state about the case. He likens the lawsuit to the sort of thing that marked the Soviet Union; no free speech, don't criticize those in authority.

France's left-wing newspaper Liberation is going to publish a joint edition with Charlie Hebdo on the day that the trial starts. Earlier, they printed a signed declaration of support for the magazine. It is unthinkable that a French publication would not dare to mock religion. This is the country that turned Notre Dame Cathedral into a theatre after the revolution, at a time that French citizens saw the organized church as a tool of the established order.

The editor of Charlie Hebdo sees a conspiracy behind the entire case. President Chirac seems to be supporting the Muslim groups, and his lawyer is representing the plaintiffs. Then there is the timing of the trial, rushed through so that it is heard before the upcoming elections. And as for the judge, instead of the usual group that hears media cases, there will be a high court judge who found a company guilty of insulting Christians when it used an image of the Last Supper in an advert.

I believe I'd avoid France in the near future. Dangerous there, with all that political correctness running amok and trampling everything in its path. And the ground's none too stable either, with Marat and Danton and Mirabeau all rolling in their graves.

The Cock of Gold At The End of the Rainbow

Imagine how her husband must feel. Astronaut Lisa Nowak drove for twelve hours straight, her mind fixed on one thing. Another woman was after her man, a man who was not her husband. Surely William Oefelein has a cock of gold, to warrant such obsession.

Lisa Nowak got in her car, loaded up with all the paraphernalia that one might require to scare off a rival. Now, to get from Houston to Orlando, a sensible woman might take a plane, but not our Lisa. She wanted to meet the plane that Colleen Shipman was on, and not to welcome the woman to Orlando, Florida.

And there's the husband, back home in Houston. Everyone is snickering behind his back, and the lads at the gym are the worst. Couldn't get the job done, and that's obvious to all. The little woman had to look elsewhere for gratification of her lusts. Had to drive nine hundred miles to protect the prick that she coveted with all her heart and soul. Sure he might be a good provider, minding the little ones while Mummy piloted the space shuttle. Not every man is so understanding about the business trips out of town, with a schedule of play dates and nursery school theatricals left behind for Daddy to manage. Still and all, well, there was a wee bit lacking in the bedroom, eh?

What of the object of desire that two women wanted? What of the man with a cock of gold, a miraculous tool that drove Lisa Nowak wild? Top gun pilot, they say, and you can bet that he's strutting his stuff around town. Now there's a real man, the lads will say. Can you imagine what he's got in his pants, to cause a wife to break up her home and family? To commit a crime to get that glittering organ into her bed?

Don't the ladies always tell us that size doesn't matter? This Lisa Nowak story puts a lie to that entire notion, and the makers of Enzyte can expect a sudden influx of customers. Wonder if the Cialis people have called Mr. Oefelein yet?

A Man Hears What He Wants To Hear

The adverts during the Super Bowl were relatively lame this year. After reading Stuart Elliott's article in the NYT today, I understand my disappointment. The ads were all about the war in Iraq.

Couldn't you tell? Why, every time the ad for Prudential Insurance ran, Mr. Elliott heard the announcer proclaim: 'What can Iraq do'. Funny, but I heard it as 'What can a rock do', but that's because we in fly-over country pronounce it "I - rack". Not "Ah- rock". But then, we aren't so fortunate as to have attended prestigious schools out East, where they speak the Queen's English. More similar to Paddy's Irish, actually.

Mr. Elliott bemoans the violence of the adverts as well. What violence, you might ask? Ah, so, you were one of the hordes who ran home after school and watched reruns of The Three Stooges. The face-slapping ad, the man being hit by a rock, sure it was Moe, Larry and Curly. We feel sorry for Stuart, don't we? He was the boy who ran home after school, chased by the bullies, and went straight to his violin lesson and then trundled off home to do his homework and pull straight A's. No doubt passed many an afternoon stuffed in his locker, waiting for the janitor to set him free.

Where else did Stuart Elliott find war? In the beer ad that featured an axe-wielding hitchhiker toting a six pack. Scratching your head, are you? You have to keep in mind our man Stuart, who never goes to see movies unless they have subtitles and never brighten the screen of a megaplex. He doesn't know, you see, about the current slasher movies that Budweiser was mocking. It's all right that you found the ad very funny and Stuart sees the war in Iraq.

Finally, there was the FedEx commercial, in which a character's demise is straight out of a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. Oh, right, cartoons. Stuart was surely too busy working on his project for the school newspaper to have time to park his arse in front of a television on a Saturday morning. So, "...the ongoing war seemed to linger just below the surface..." of all these commercials, according to Stuart Elliott.

No light and happy ads, barring the gay oriented fluff of Coca Cola that garnered a 'What the fuck?' and 'Turn off that shit' from my fellow football fans. According to Mr. Elliott, it's all because of the war, all this cartoonish violence and lack of happy-bubbly. What the fuck is right.

Day Off

The Bears lost the Super Bowl.

I'm depressed. I'm not wholly sober. There's a bit of a hangover coming on that should be in full bloom come morning.

I'm taking the day off on Monday. I expect that half the city of Chicago will do the same.

To Add To Your Worries

Thousands of turkeys have died recently on a farm in Suffolk, England. The cause of death is reported to be the deadly H5N1 strain of bird flu, the variety that can pass to humans and has killed 164 people to date.

The farm in question is run by England's biggest turkey producer, which would indicate that there are a great many turkeys congregated into one small area. A three kilometer protection zone has been set up around the farm, and Ireland's Minister for Agriculture, Mary Coughlan, has been meeting with the National Disease Control Centre to get all the ducks in a row, so to speak.

With so much commerce across the Irish Sea, both human and animal, Ms. Coughlan is concerned that the disease will quickly spread to Ireland, and steps will have to be taken to prevent that. She's also going to have to tell people that they can safely eat poultry, because misunderstandings will savage the poultry industry on the island. There won't be any imported birds of any kind going from England to anyplace beyond the protection zone in Suffolk, but the fear remains that some infected person, a la Typhoid Mary, might bring in the virus.

Tourism will likely fall, as it did during the hoof and mouth crisis. 24-hour news channels will now have something to fill the empty hours, with doomsday scenarios and talking heads discussing the 1919 epidemic and what might happen if this bird flu takes off like it did then?

Recently, genetic researchers discovered that people descended from those who survived the Black Death carry a duplicate copy of a gene needed to fight viral infections. The same folks have ancestors who survived the flu epidemic, and they carry the double gene to this day, a possible hedge against the next flu outbreak. 'Tis grand, this evolution business. There's something to be said for examining all the branches of your family tree.

Fill In The Gap

The earth is getting warmer. All the scientists meeting in France have said so. And it's us, human beings, who are at fault. But, was the earth ever this warm before? Not within our lifetime, but within the earth's lifetime.

As a matter of fact, the earth was warmer 125,000 years ago. Geologically speaking, that's recent history. Sea levels were as much as twenty feet higher back then, and that had nothing to do within fossil fuels or homo sapiens. So if the ice sheets were smaller then, why is it not normal now to see retreating glaciers? 24,000 years ago, early humans migrated from England to France on foot. The sea level was so low that there was no English Channel to cross. 10,000 years ago, the place where I am now sitting was under a sheet of ice. Is it a bad thing that the glaciers retreated then? How do the climatologists know that this current warming is not part of an ending ice age?

Lost in all the 'sky is falling' hysteria are the answers that I need to be convinced about man-made global warming. I agree that pollution is bad for our health, as the human lung was not made to suck in massive amounts of toxic gases. Oxygen, carbon dioxide, a bit of nitrogen, all harmless in the proper proportions, but carbon monoxide and a host of other pollutants can harm the human organism. But the whole warming issue?

Analyzing data, scientists have concluded that temperatures were relatively stable for a few thousand years. During that time, we endured a mini ice age. Is that the benchmark for normal? What is normal? In the past century, temperatures have gone up, hence the alarms. But is there any change in solar activity during that same time period? Why is the increase in temperature so shocking, when the earth used to be warmer and sea level higher?

Sea levels are predicted to rise, but scientists don't understand the whole process well enough to gauge the rate at which the change will take place. Yet, if this is a natural earth climate cycle that runs over tens of thousands of years, shouldn't we be prepared to deal with coastal loss that will occur whether we cut down on pollution or not? The report out of Paris states that temperatures will continue to climb, even with a reduction in greenhouse gasses. Why is that? Is it because the earth is on a warming cycle anyway, and pollution is making it worse?

Back in the '60s, overpopulation was the boogey man for the globe. Many people alive today remember the hand-wringing, the wailing and gnashing of teeth that was the panic of excessive population growth. Forty years later, we see that it never happened, and the scientists were wrong. Trained to be sceptical, we ask them now, is this the overpopulation bugaboo revisited?

With the meeting taking place in Paris, but aimed squarely at the US of A, scientists might turn to the historians for a nugget of advice.

"The genius of this nation is not in the least to be compared with that of the Prussians, Austrians, or French. You say to your soldier, 'Do this' and he doeth it, but I am obliged to say, 'That is the reason why you ought to do that'; and he does it."

We're not Euro-socialist pinheads over here, you see, and we weren't born yesterday. Baron von Steuben figured it out two hundred thirty years ago. Two hundred thirty years ago. In the mini ice age, back then. Cooler temperatures...crop failures...starving peasants...the French Revolution. Yes, the historians really should be weighing in on this report.

The Next Big Thing

Within months, the last of the Harry Potter books will be released. Scholastic will gladly accept the piles of money that will pour in. Book sellers will welcome the throngs who will flock to the shops, to buy Harry Potter but maybe, just maybe, they'll pick up something else as well. There'll be Harry Potter merchandise, marketing gimcracks to be produced and sold on. Very many people make a living off of J.K. Rowling's invention.

And yet, Scholastic sees the dark at the end of the tunnel. The publishing house has benefited from the blockbuster sales, a long string of hits. This is the last, the seventh installment, and after July there will be no more Harry Potter. Ms. Rowling will be under pressure to come up with something else, but she's made her fortune and has no need to go back to grinding out another hit. She may not have another story in her, either. Harry Potter may have been the only character that spoke to her, insisting that his story be told, and now he's out and put on paper and the stories are gone with him.

This is the chance that YA authors have been waiting for. After Harry Potter took off, the market for YA rose with it, and publishers are longing to be the one to find the gem of a novel that will do for them what Rowling's works did for Scholastic. Even literary agents are getting in on the game, with more and more willing to consider YA fiction. You couldn't go wrong with several people at Writers House -- Daniel Lazar, Jodi Reamer, and the list goes on. Over at Vigliano Associates, Kirby Kim was brought in recently to expand their YA stable. In fact, if you look up Young Adult on Agentquery.com, you'll get a listing that runs over twenty pages.

Don't give up hope, all you adult fiction writers. We all pray that those young people who discovered the pleasures of reading through Ms. Rowling's works will grow into adult readers who will buy our novels, in the event that we ever get an agent and a publishing deal. Stranger things have happened.

Respondez Vous

At the beginning of the new year, I sent out six queries. A month later, only one agent has responded. After previous incarnations of the query fell flat, I revised the letter and hoped to get a few answers back to gauge the quality of my humble request. With only one rejection coming back, I can't tell if the letter is no good, or good enough to be put aside for a second read, or not worth pursuing at all, even if a SASE was enclosed.

Then there are the literary journals, not noted for speed when it comes to accepting short fiction. The Carolina Quarterly asks for four to six months, which is a long, long time to wait. Yet here I am, waiting on the novel excerpt that I sent to them in September. Crab Orchard Review is another slow one, with a response time running three to five months. It's been over five months for me, so does that really mean, as they suggest, that the piece is being seriously considered? Or did it just get lost in the mail? Same thing with the Missouri Review, which offers a turn around time of 10 - 12 weeks. Thirteen and counting for me...again, serious consideration or lost in the mail?

Writers of literary fiction are in particular need of publication credits, since everyone need a platform. The time has come to take a break from the querying, and to wait patiently for the responses from the literary journals that must surely be coming soon. Maybe, just maybe, I'll garner a couple of credits to put into a bio paragraph that proves someone thought my prose was worth printing. In the meantime, I've got another manuscript to work on, the sixth one I've begun. Sooner or later, I'm bound to figure this business out.

Clean As A Whistle

Everyone jumped on Joe Biden when he paid a compliment to Barack Obama. What was it that had folks so alarmed? Not the bit about being clean, based on the comments of Jesse Jackson. The Reverend was insulted by the part of Biden's blather that suggested Mr. Obama is the first African-American candidate to be mainstream...normal, if you will. There was an earlier Presidential campaign, you may recall, that featured a certain Operation Push promoting candidate. Didn't much like Senator Biden's implication that he was less than sharp and not exactly centrist.

If you follow Chicago politics, you'd be laughing your head off about the "clean" remark. Usually, one thinks of a clean politician as one who is untouched by scandal or dirty dealings. A man like Edward Kennedy is far from clean, resulting in a Senator who dares not speak out on any issue that touches on morality. Harry Reid is coming under fire these days for some shady real estate deals, making him less than spotless and pristine. Senator Obama is not exactly Mr. Clean either.

Patricia Blagojevich, wife of the Illinois boy-governor, dabbles in real estate. She dabbled a bit with Tony Rezko, who is now under indictment. She dabbled a bit with the owner of K.K. Bio-Science Inc., and the drug testing firm is now under investigation. Mrs. Blagojevich earned over $113,000 on her commision, which is traditionally 6% of the sale price. You can do the math, but even without a calculator you can see that the price on the property was high.

When Mr. Obama bought his lovely home in Kenwood, he paid less than the asking price. On the very same day, Tony Rezko bought the empty lot next door, and paid an inflated price. Within a short period of time, Obama was buying a strip of Rezko's land to make his own lot larger, and the generous Senator paid far in excess of what the strip was worth. Raised a few eyebrows with that transaction.

The FBI and the State of Illinois are investigating K.K. Bio-Science, which has enjoyed a no-bid contract with the state to do urine tests for DCFS. Allegations of fraud have been raised, with evidence that the company billed for tests never carried out. A search of K.K.'s offices revealed a great deal of empty space this past Tuesday, as the company had abruptly terminated the contract, gone out of business and emptied out every last cubicle. Even the employees were surprised when they discovered that they were fired -- no notice, no nothing.

Right now, no one is saying that there is a connection between Patti Blagojevich and the illegal doings of K.K. Bio-Science. Just as no one is saying there is anything amiss in her real estate business done on behalf of Tony Rezko. But when it comes time to sling mud, later, when the election really heats up, the whispering campaign will begin. The now impeccable Senator will be lumped into the same pile as the Blagojevichs, the Rezkos and all the rest of the muck that is Illinois politics. Barack Obama is clean now, on the surface, but look for his tailored suit and shiny shoes to become quite splattered, and fairly soon.

Cold Cash

Things were looking up for Robert Burns. The chiropractor had managed to get out of the US before he could be arrested on charges of fraud in the amount of $1.9 million. Found himself a lovely place in Dublin, on Lower Camden Street, very comfortable. Then the Irish Supreme Court overturned a High Court order that would have extradited him back to the States to face trial. All was well in his world.

Problem is, to live well, one must also have money. Things like food, rent, a new pair of shoes, sure no one is actually giving that away. Mr. Burns had planned his escape from justice with care, and had deposited money in an account with the Bank of Ireland in 2005, long before all this legal difficulty clouded his sunny life. Imagine his surprise when he popped over to the branch in Athlone and was told his account was frozen.

Gardai had advised the bank, he learned, that the deposit could be tainted. In fact, detectives were looking into criminal activities, including money laundering, and so Mr. Burns could not have his money.

In court, Burns claimed that the funds were the product of a life insurance policy that he cashed in. Perfectly legitimate source, all above board. He sent a check to the Bank of Ireland to open an account, but not in his name, no. There was a lady he was going to marry, and he put the money in her name. Then he transferred it to his sole possession, moving his money from Athlone over to Dun Laoghaire. That may sound like trouble in lover's paradise, but Burns is now claiming that there was no Garda investigation, and the bank is working with the US Justice Department to force him to go back to America, thereby blocking his marriage. Brings a tear to the eye, it does. Still, why not let the money rest in the lady's hands? No basis for marriage there, this lack of trust.

Every time that he has tried to withdraw funds, Mr. Burns has been blocked. Now he is suing the bank, claiming deceit, negligence, and breach of contract. His solicitor has pointed out that the Criminal Justice Act does not give gardai the authority to freeze bank accounts. But if it did, then, well, that's just unconstitutional. Oh, and it's a violation of Mr. Burns rights as guaranteed by the European Convention.

Court watchers are waiting for Mr. Burns' response to the State's explanation. It seems that the life insurance policy, the source of the bank funds in question, was purchased during the time the fraud was taking place. That would make the money part of the proceeds of a crime, in which case Mr. Burns will have to pass the hat or turn to his fiancee for financing. It belittles a man to ask his intended for money. But not so little that Mr. Burns will be heading home any time soon.

That's The Spirit(s)

Liam Neeson gave a tremendous performance. Chicago's own Aidan Quinn wasn't half bad, either, and who could forget Stephen Rea as the 'man in the castle' who worked undercover for the rebels. Brilliant movie, Michael Collins, and what a story it told. Isn't there always great emotional conflict in any civil war epic? Brother against brother, friends divided, against a backdrop of hardship...and always, the presence of death.

Cheer up and raise a glass, to toast to the memory of Michael Collins and famous Cork Flying Columns, the rebels who fought against their British overlords and finally tore Ireland free from English rule. The Shinners, however, may keep their glasses on the table. We all know about the Treaty that left the six northern counties to their fate. It's in the movie, if you care to rent it and watch it all again.

What to toast with? Here in America, you can sip a bit of the Big Fella. Yes, it's true, and you've all been tippling the deck to such an extent that Cooley Distillery would like to thank you. People in Cork didn't care for the name when it was announced. Good reason to promote sales in the States, where the name of Michael Collins does not hold such deep emotional meaning. So, thank you, American drinkers, for buying up and enjoying thirty thousand cases of Michael Collins whiskey. Cooley Distillery, and owner John Teeling, saw profits rise 20% thanks to Michael Collins Irish Whiskey, and your elbow-bending efforts.

If you were to buy a bottle in Ireland, you could expect to pay fifty euro, which makes it a pricey brew. And you can't mistake it, either. There's a picture of Mick himself on the bottle, with a replica of his signature. Sort of like he's recommending it, isn't it?

Until Michael Collins Irish Whiskey took off, Dr. Teeling was reeling (couldn't resist, sorry). There he was, starting up a drinks company and having to face the likes of Pernod-Ricard and their Jameson brand. Sure it was a struggle, until he introduced the new brand. Next thing he knew, sales rose 10%. What else to do but expand at the County Louth home base, and enter another market. If you're in South Africa on business, you won't need to drink an off-brand, not when you'd like a bit of Mick and water.

Dr. Teeling recognizes the difficulties he faces, with one of the smaller distilleries and tough competition. How much longer until we see a Countess Markiewicz light blend for the ladies, or a James Connelley brand for the working man? Padraig Pearse Irish Whiskey for the cerebral intellectual? What about a communion wine named for Bishop Eamonn Casey? If the bottom line is to continue to grow, Cooley Distillery will have to expand, and isn't it better to go with what's been working?

We Hope He Loses Too

Sean Gregory has a piece in the current issue of Time and I couldn't agree with him more. Yes indeed, we hope Peyton Manning loses. Don't want to see him get hurt, of course. He's such a sweet lad, every mother's dream of a son. A few sacks on Sunday, though, would be grand. Somehow it would be appropriate for Tank Johnson of legal trouble fame to come through the line and lay little Peyton on his arse. Sports writers could wax prolific on the irony, the symbolism, the good vs. evil and all that.

He's been tapped for commercials, playing himself, the charming Southern boy, polite and mannerly and a bit of an imp. Considering how often the adverts run, Peyton must be raking in cash by the bushel basket full. He doesn't need the bonus that would fall to him as a Super Bowl winner.

In the article, Mr. Gregory resurrects an old story about Peyton's brother Eli, who finagled around when it was time to get drafted, all to avoid getting picked up by a losing team. Water under the bridge, sure. Eli Manning's with the Giants who went nowhere, and the San Diego Chargers who got the short end of the stick must take some consolation from that. They had a good year, far better than New York's, and isn't that one of God's blessings? Things worked out better in the end, so why hold a grudge? It was a favor done, and Chargers fans should be sending a note of thanks instead of grumbling about past misdeeds.

Gregory suggests that Peyton Manning will be ever so perfect if he were to lose the game on Sunday. After all, the man's got a certain persona that would only be enhanced if he could add 'lovable loser' to his portfolio. I'm all for it, anything to help Mr. Manning earn more money and save up for the day when he's too old to play football. That day will come, when he'll have to retire because his body can't take the pounding anymore. Who would begrudge him every penny he can earn now, while he's young and fit?

Go out there on Sunday, Peyton, and show us just how human you are. Throw up an interception, make a bone-headed play that reflects the foibles of the average man. Sure and they'll love you for it, for making people feel that you truly are just like them, except for the fact that you're a star athlete. We're all behind you, one hundred percent, as you stumble through the game, Brian Urlacher and Hunter Hillenmeyer in your face.

Be human, Peyton. Be very human.

Let's Go Bears.

Advantage Sinn Fein

And now the ball has been moved to Ian Paisley's court. Accept the PSNI, the DUPers said, if you want to restore Stormont. In Dublin today, at an extraordinary ardfheis, Sinn Fein voted to support policing in the north of Ireland.

Not that the Shinners have given up on their dream of a united Ireland, and by 2016 if God is smiling upon them. Rather than use the bullet and the bomb, they've decided to try peaceful means, politics rather than war. Accepting the Police Service of Northern Ireland is a step along that road, the destination unchanging. The DUP recognizes this desire, and they've done all they could to prevent it. With the policing roadblock now removed, what excuse can the DUP come up with next?

Easy enough to brush off the vote. Actions, the DUP contingent will bark, actions speak louder than words and we don't trust the words. Therefore, there is still no deal to restore devolved government. Oh, and did we mention that it's all Sinn Fein's fault? Don't go saying that the loyalists are putting up a roadblock, not when it's clearly Sinn Fein's fault. You understand that, don't you, that it's Sinn Fein's fault?

The agreement was not easily reached. Reports from Dublin note that the debate dragged on for six hours before a vote was forced, and not every party member agreed with the decision. Too many years of fighting British rule, and now, clear evidence that the police colluded with loyalist gangs, have embittered many nationalists.

Sean Oliver put it best when he commented on the change in Sinn Fein strategy. He sees the foundation of unionism crumbling, bit by bit. The Orange Order, once a mighty force, is fading into insignificance. The one-party state, run by unionists, is on its death bed with the rise of the nationalist influence in politics. And now, the control of the police force will be lost to the loyalists. Couple that with a recent survey showing a dramatic rise in the number of registered nationalist voters, and change is in the air.

The DUP will not accept such change, and they will find a way to stop progress. As Sean MacBradaigh said at today's ardfheis, Sinn Fein republicans are going to probe the police service, "into the deepest, darkest recesses", and there goes the once cozy relationships between the peelers and the loyalists. All that fresh air will blow into the PSNI and who knows what might get blown out from behind the closed doors? Crimes by loyalists against nationalists might actually get prosecuted. Unthinkable before, but an evolving reality today.

Scientists suggest that the dinosaurs were wiped out by an asteroid crashing into the earth, creating a cataclysmic change in the environment. What was a catastrophe for the dinosaurs, however, was a boon for the little mammals that once scurried about underfoot.

Celebrating All Things Father Ted

It's been far too long in coming. At last, Ireland will celebrate Father Ted, and already there is controversy.

If you're not familiar with Father Ted, you can find clips from the program on YouTube, and it's well worth the time and effort. Unless you're offended by Irishmen making fun of Irish clergy, but you'd not be interested in a festival then, would you?

Inis Mor will host the event, three full days of Father Ted in all its glory, to take place next month. The good folks of Inis Oirr are quite put out, seeing as the opening of the show featured a shipwreck that is a landmark on that windswept island off the coast of Galway. All is not lost, however, as cooler heads have prevailed. Added to the myriad activities of the festival is a five-a-side soccer match, with the winning island being proclaimed the official "Real Craggy Island" of Father Ted fame. No word on whether or not the over-65 retired priests will be playing, but that would be appropriate.

There will be a Lovely Girls contest, and we all hope that the thrills and spills of the Craggy Island carnival are reproduced for the amusement and edification of the tourists. Should you wish to attend, you could participate in a vote for best program guest. Comedian and talk show host Graham Norton is reputed to be leading the pack, but I'm all for Gerard McSorley in his Y-fronts.

Inis Mor is a lovely island, though small. You'll want to make your reservations early. And you happen to run into the bishop...remember, don't call him Len or ask about his son.

National Health Care With A Brogue

Senator Barack Obama wants to bring in health care for all Americans. Has he taken a look at the Irish system? It might be of some benefit to open those starry eyes filled with wonder.

Will the Obama system allow doctors see patients in a private practice? That's a bit of a problem in the Emerald Isle, as physicians make more money seeing people who can afford to buy their own health insurance. Then when someone with nothing more than national health coverage comes calling, there aren't many slots open for consultations. And so the poor have to wait. Months in some cases. Literally, waiting to see a specialist and if they die in the meantime, sure and 'tis a pity.

Will the Obama system allow hospitals to offer beds to those with private insurance? Ireland has a few hospitals that are not open to those on the national health, run for profit by independent companies. The government runs the rest, and they have beds set aside for people carrying private insurance. Should all those beds be filled, and someone with government coverage gets sick, they end up on a trolley in the hallway.

Every so often, the newspapers run horror stories about old pensioners being housed outside of a room, as there is no room at the inn, so to speak. No hot meals served in the corridor, so Granny makes do with a cold ham sandwich. Not a pleasant prospect for the elderly, to be spread out in a drafty corridor, everyone walking by, hoping that no one gets tangled in the drip line and pulls out the I.V.

Mary Harney, the current Minister for Health, is trying to force through a new contract between the government and the country's doctors. Physicians want to see more private patients and she wants them to see more public cases, but who wants to work a job that pays less when the same work is available at a higher rate of return? She'd like to hire a boat load of consultants to work public practice only, at a higher salary than the current level, and then she would like to force doctors to work the number of government mandated hours on public care.

The costs to the Exchequer are phenomenal as it is, and it will only go up if doctors are to be compensated adequately (in their minds) for seeing poor people. The two sides are in talks, and discussions are going nowhere. Ms. Harney is trying to reform the health care system, with one eye on the money and the other on the outraged voters who want better health care. There is no middle ground, actually. What with capitalism so entrenched, any attempts to introduce more socialism get pounded down into pulp. And due to capitalism, it's the poor at the bottom of that pile, taking the brunt of the pounding.

Would any American citizen not try to buy their own insurance so that they could be seen by the doctor of their choice? Would the Obama plan result in a two-tiered health care system, one for the poor and one for those who would do anything to get their hands on private insurance? Is that any different than the situation now in Chicago's county hospital? Mr. Obama, being a
Chicago resident, must surely be aware of the public care alloted to the poor of Cook County. Does he think that expanding this system from the county level to the national level is a good thing?

It sounds lovely, to prattle on about taking care of everyone. So charitable and kind, but one has only to look to Europe to see how much of a disaster it is, financially as well as socially. All men are created equal, but that's pretty much where the equality stops.

Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own

Besides finding sellable manuscripts, literary agents have businesses to run. A solo shop means that the agent is handling the contracts, the paperwork, the accounts payable and receivable, and all while contacting agents and negotiating deals. It's a heavy load, and if a one-person shop becomes successful, the business end could become downright unmanageable.

Sounds like a good reason for Janet Reid to align herself with the Imprint Agency. The other option is that her solo operation is going downhill and she's looking to latch on to someone trying to grow their company, but it's much more pleasant to walk on the sunny side of the street.

By every indication, JetReid Literary Agency is no more, folded into the Imprint imprimatur. Its name lives on as a blogspot URL, as Ms. Reid will continue to post, one presumes, since she invites us to drop by and find answers to questions about publishing or what she's looking for in manuscripts.

If you're a mystery writer, you might give her a try, since that seems to be her specialty. How to contact her? Now there's a real mystery to be unravelled.

The website lists an e-mail address for queries, but her Publishers Marketplace page states quite clearly that she doesn't take e-mail queries. Is there already a power struggle brewing at Imprint? Will Janet Reid be forced by Stephany Evans, President of the agency, to join the paperless revolution? Or will Ms. Reid stand her ground, refusing to be bullied?

Time will tell; the agent will clarify. But if you can't wait to send a query in the hopes that Ms. Reid will now have more time to be an agent, with Imprint handling the busy work, you can never go wrong with the United States Postal Service and a SASE.

Tak A Cup Of Kindness

The day has come at last. It's Robert Burns Day, today, this very day, and if you've a secret longing to taste haggis, there can be no better time. If you knew what was put into that hot dog you ate at lunch yesterday, you'd never touch another one, so why get squeamish over sheep innards? Don't forget the oatmeal that's such a key ingredient, all high in fiber and heart-healthy oat bran. Can't say the same for a Big Mac, can you?

The man who is Scotland's greatest contribution to poetry lived a short life, departing this earth in July of 1796 at the tender age of 37. His family was poor, farming folk, and young Robert's first gainful employment was farming. Even so, he acquired some book learning and kept an ear open, picking up on traditional songs and folk tales.

In spite of his poverty, he found the means to write poetry, and he kept on writing even though he failed in the few jobs he tried to hold down. Like a truly tortured genius, he had some tremendous women problems, starting with the family servant and an unplanned pregnancy. Then there was Jean Armour, carrying a set of Burns twins, but her father so hated Robert that he took the poet to court and that was the end of their engagement. Some people just don't appreciate art, apparently.

With so much heart-ache, Burns thought to try fresh in Jamaica, with an equally fresh young lady whom he sort of married in a non-church ceremony. But those twins were so adorable, and the trip to Jamaica was postponed. Then his sort of wife died, and emigration seemed less appealing. But the real reason he abandoned his plans was simple. He became a published author.

At a time when Scottish nationalism was high, his very Scottish poetry became the height of fashion. There were speaking tours, readings, and drinks parties. The pressure to keep producing great works drove him to keep writing, always in need of a new book to support himself. When he finally married Jean Armour (now that Robert was no longer the poor farmer who wanted to write but a lauded poet, his father-in-law took a different view of the man), there were that many more mouths to feed. Through connections, he obtained a position with the Excise so that he had a steady income, collecting past due taxes and receiving a regular salary. Writing was always a part-time job, in spite of his success. Even then, a popular writer could not live on writing income alone. Anyone querying literary agents with an eye to riches should take note.

Fifty years after his death, friends gathered for a memorial supper, and so the tradition continues. Celebrate Robert Burns' birthday with a steaming plate of haggis, a bottle of single malt Scotch, and don't forget to write something. Add a paragraph to your current work in progress, compose a poem, and remember that brilliant writers don't make a fortune with their words.

Head Hunting

The Police Ombudsman has stated quite clearly that the collusion between the Royal Ulster Constabulary and loyalist thugs could not have gone on unless those at the "highest levels of the RUC" knew what was going on and lent their support. So the obvious question is, who was in charge back then at the height of The Troubles?

All eyes turn to London, where Ronnie Flanagan continues to serve and protect. He does it so well, apparently, that Her Majesty bestowed a knighthood on him. Not every policeman can claim such honors.

Sir Ronnie is currently employed as Her Majesty's Chief Inspector of Constabulary, minding the force in the far-flung kingdom. On the heels of Nuala O'Loan's report on collusion, heads are being hunted, and Sir Ronnie is the highest head of all.

While Special Branch was hiding the fact that loyalist gangs were murdering innocent people at will, Sir Ronnie was head of Special Branch. Yet in spite of Mrs. O'Loan's assertions that those in the highest ranks had to have known, Flanagan insists that he knew nothing. There he was, sitting behind his heavy desk, and all that collusion? Never smelled a whiff of the stink. Right under his nose, maybe, but he didn't have the slightest inkling.

The embattled Chief Inspector states that he was as helpful as he could be when the Police Ombudsman came calling. Not evasive, not unhelpful, no indeed. No one from Mrs. O'Loan's office ever criticized his willingness to answer questions. As for the charges of collusion, why, such conduct is reprehensible. And those who did the dirty deeds should be punished or disciplined or brought to court.

People were killed because of their religion, the murderers allowed to kill again because the police protected them from justice. Worse than corruption, the verified fact of police collusion is indescribably vile. Those who were guilty managed to cover their tracks, by destroying evidence or operating outside of police procedure, and they will most likely never be brought to justice. Someone is going to have to be made to pay, and that someone is the man who once headed the Special Branch.

Mark Durkan of the SDLP is calling for Sir Ronnie's noggin on a tray, and he's asking Tony Blair to do the chopping. It was Tony Blair, after all, who elevated Flanagan to his current position. Never mind the collusion charges, but how incompetent must the man be to not know what was happening while he ran a department? And today he's in charge of the whole bit, the Chief Inspector? Not much of a vote of confidence, is it, when the Chief Inspector can't see past the end of his nose.

Time Is Irrelevant

Thank you for your recent query letter and your interest in PMA.

Excuse me?

It's the 23rd of January, and I frankly don't recall...recent, you say.

E.M. Blake, an intern at PMA, has replied to a query I e-mailed so long ago that I'd given up on it, erased it from the sent mail box, and vowed never again to send anything to PMA. If he hadn't pasted the rejection onto the original e-mail, I'd be completely in the dark as to what I was asking Peter Miller to consider.

My "recent" query was sent in August. Remember, the summer, when it was warm and sunny? Hard to imagine, I know, when there's two inches of fresh snow and the forecast predicts temperatures in the below zero range.

We have to be very selective of what we choose to represent, and all of our decisions are based on a frank assessment of the current needs of the literary and film markets. The fact that this work doesn’t fit our narrow criteria for representation does not mean it couldn’t find a home elsewhere.

Very selective indeed, and I believe that's a true fact. I have hope that my manuscript will find a home, and I'm doing all that I can to make that happen.

We urge you to submit your work to other agencies or management companies that may be more suited to this type of material.

How can I put this? After so many months, not hearing from you, well, I went and assumed that it was a rejection. And, you see, I went ahead and queried other agents. I didn't mean to jump out of turn, ah no, none of it, but if I waited five months for a reply and didn't query others...you get my point.

Thanks all the same for responding at all, when most agents hit the delete key and move on. If you should finish up your internship with all your faculties intact, and get a job as a literary agent, it would be grand if you'd continue the practice of responding to queries with a letter of rejection. The writers appreciate the gesture.

Going Solo

More and more agents are striking out on their own, fledglings leaving the nest to explore the big world. If you have what they are looking for, this is the time to send off your shiniest and most polished query, the envelope flap sealed with a drop of holy water.

Nadia Cornier left Creative Media when it was being folded into Folio, and she's been busy ever since with Firebrand Literary and her blog and the ever changing retinue of associates. Her last and final colleague in Firebrand has now gone off on her own, to start up another agency that handles a lot of romance. Think Harlequin and heaving bosoms on covers that you'd never let the children see.

If that fits your bill, take advantage of some grand opening specials at Caren Johnson's very own agency. She'd love to hear from you, don't you think? In need of new authors, to be sure. Assuming that she's taken along her clients from Firebrand, you might want to keep Nadia in mind as well. Looking for replacements to the stable, yes?

On a more literary front, Jonathan Lyons has left McIntosh & Otis, but the man's a lawyer and so he's no fool. He's looking for non-fiction, serious projects that are more likely to sell, what with the non-fiction market being the stronger. Maybe he'd consider your literary fiction manuscript, but the odds are very much against it. Won't know if you don't try, and what's a couple of thirty-nine cent stamps, a piece of paper and two envelopes?

Now, if your heart is set on querying one of the big dogs in the agent pound, you can write Jane Rotrosen's entire agency off your list. Unless you've been published, or you have some clout in the industry, that is. She's got enough to go around, all her associate agents are happy as can be, and she won't answer the door should you come knocking. According to her Publishers Marketplace site:

We regret that we can no longer accept queries from writers who have not been previously published or who have not been referred to us by a client or colleague. We will not respond to email queries. Solicited submissions by mail only unless otherwise requested by agent.

The fiction market gets tighter, or so the literary agents say, but still, new agencies spring up in search of authors and manuscripts. Have they learned any economics, about the law of supply and demand? Or is the demand greater than we have been led to believe?

Collusion

The long awaited report from Nuala O'Loan's office has finally been released. There is ample evidence that the Royal Ulster Constabulary colluded with thugs from the Ulster Volunteer Force to protect murderers from justice. What the Catholics in the north of Ireland knew has been shown to be a fact.

Sharon McKenna stopped by the home of a friend, who happened to be an old pensioner of the Protestant faith. Her friend had just been released from hospital, and she thought she might fix a meal, a very ordinary act of kindness that anyone might do for a neighbor. She was shot dead by the UVF for her trouble, and the RUC was more concerned with hiding the identity of her murderer. Turns out the killer was also an informer, and what's another Catholic dead anyway?

Special Branch went so far as to increase the murderer's stipend for informing, and when he did try to confess to the McKenna killing, he was given a few hundred pounds to spend on a holiday...abroad.

The same informer murdered Eamon Fox and Gary Convie, killed while working a building site in a loyalist area. After a witness reported that the killer was sporting a goatee, the UVF killer, already in police custody, took advantage of a razor and a bit of lather to change his appearance, all with the knowledge of the RUC.

During the course of Ms. O'Loan's investigation, a number of serving officers, including detective chief superintendents and constables, refused to cooperate with her. No answers to her questions, evasive answers, or answers made up out of thin air were provided by men who are today serving in the revamped Police Service of Northern Ireland.

This past weekend, Gerry Adams has been heavily lobbying the members of Sinn Fein to accept the PSNI, and this latest report of collusion plays right into his hands. For all these years, Sinn Fein refused to recognize the police, refused to sit on the police boards, refused to allow its members to become police officers, and the Catholics suffered.

It's truly historic, to accept the PSNI. Difficult for them to shut the door on you when you're already in the room.

As of now, it is being said that those serving police officers who refused to cooperate with the Ombudsman's inquiries face no disciplinary action. Think they'll remain swept under the rug if Sinn Fein is sitting on the Police Board?

Splash Down

All week long, it's been a never ending coverage of a human interest story. During football season. All weepy-eyed, the sportscasters have been, touting the trauma of Hurricane Katrina and the devastation and heart-ache and misery, et. al.

We're happy for you.

Chicago was devastated once. Not the Great Flood, of course, although that will live on in memory. Only in the city of the big shoulders could a contractor drive a pylon through the bed of the Chicago River and straight into an unused tunnel. The effort to plug the hole and pump out the Loop's collection of connected basements brought the Kenny Construction Company to fame, and helped launch the diplomatic career of James Kenny, recently retired as the US Ambassador to Ireland.

Nothing was more devastating than the Great Chicago Fire, which burned up the entire heart of the business district, turning a major metropolitan area into a pile of cinders. A tinder box of wooden buildings and wooden sidewalks, the heat of the fire melted cast iron facades, bricks and stone fused in the heat, and most thought that Chicago had come to an end. What commerce existed there would find its way to Cincinnati or St. Louis, and the town would fade from memory.

The city burned because it was made of wood, so the city's leaders ordered that new construction be masonry. A lesson learned, a change made. And the disorganized zoning, once wiped out by flames, was gone for good as the local government re-structured the commercial areas and created a more cohesive and functional city.

From the ashes of the fire came the first skyscraper, the Prairie School where form follows function, and Daniel Burnham's call to make no small plans. Chicago as it came to exist after the fire bore no resemblance to the city that was consumed by flames on a hot and dry October night in 1871.

New Orleans was built on low-lying ground, on a delta that has been sinking since the French began construction, and the town fathers now want to reproduce the city that existed before the levees gave way and flooded almost every neighborhood.

Stupid is as stupid does.

Let's go Bears.

Only One

You go away for a few days, you come back, and you expect some mail stuffed into the box. That's because you forgot to let the USPS know that you would be out of town for a few days. And then too, you were thinking that you'd like the mail waiting for you on Saturday afternoon when you returned. There'd be rejections in there, surely, and there's that need for closure when it comes to queries. Those submissions to literary journals were sent months ago, and it's past time for a response, unless there's to be a letter of acceptance, and who could wait until Monday for the postman to show up?

Magazines, catalogs, the usual. Some income tax information, forms from the bank, the mortgage interest, yes, all needed but not what you'd rush home for. Thumb through the letter-sized pile of stuff, searching for the label that you know so well, the stamp that you stuck on, squared with precision to the right hand corner.

And? One rejection from Tin House, 89 days after submitting, and they like to respond within 90 days. No surprise there, not from a top-end journal, so log it out and move along, searching for something more substantial. And what do you find? What else came while you were away?

Nothing. Not one SASE from the bunch of queries sent. Sweet Jesus, but I hate being ignored.

Out With A Whimper

And so ends the great Rupert Murdoch funded experiment. There is no such entity as ReganBooks anymore. That which was will be reabsorbed into the host body, leaving the surface of HarperCollins unblemished. The Los Angeles office will close, the staff will return to New York, and there may be a few people getting the sack, so much excess baggage.

What happens to Jane Friedman, though? She was in a position to fire Judith Regan after the disaster that was If I Did It, but Fred Goldman has discovered that Ms. Friedman was unquestionably involved as well, up to her ink-stained fingers. OJ was under contract to write a book that would spell out how he "might have" murdered two people, while examining his "potential" thoughts and feelings towards his ex-wife. And there at the bottom of the official contract sits the autograph of Jane Friedman, giving her stamp of approval to the whole sheaf of shite. Not Judith Regan alone is to blame, apparently, but thus far the surgery to remove the offending growth that was ReganBooks has not completely cured HarperCollins of the disease.

The details of the contract have come out during discovery, and Court TV will undoubtedly follow along, sharing every detail. At present, they are more interested in the legal aspects, touching on the civil suit that Fred Goldman won, and OJ's claims of poverty that have stymied efforts to realize the financial decree of the court. News Corp. said that they had given OJ $880,000, of which 15% went to agent Bret Saxon, even though the dogs in the street know that Fred Goldman was awarded considerable damages and OJ owes him every penny, none of which has yet been paid.

Mr. Goldman has proof that HarperCollins paid out money, and now he has added the publisher to his lawsuit. Firing Judith Regan has not solved Jane Friedman's problems, not now. It's her name on the contract, her authority that started the book in process, and her arse in the hot seat. HarperCollins will now have to defend itself, which will cost money they would prefer to keep. Will Ms. Friedman manage to hang on to her corner office, or will she be the next in line for the corporate guillotine?

Literary Markets

Always looking for a way to waste time and not actually write anything, while doing something remotely connected to writing, I signed on with Duotrope. For free, of course. There's not enough money in the kitty for extraneous expenses, and the cost of postage is enough of a stretch on the empty purse.

Besides being an excellent resource to find literary journals for short story submissions, they have an added feature for members. I have entered all of my short fiction submissions and now I can look up my list whenever the mood strikes.

Who has what is a nice little feature, easy to read with the click of a mouse. Best of all, I can see who has what for how long. Literary journals take somewhere on the far side of forever to respond, and that unpleasant fact is proven every time I look at my list.

Beyond that, Duotrope also includes columns that detail the average wait time that has been culled from their members reporting on their own exercises in futility, along with another column that lists the journals' response time claims. Without having to study a calendar, I can see exactly how long I have waited before or after a typical response, and how much longer I might expect to wait.

No point in pulling out the hair when I can see that a given journal doesn't usually let an author know until six months have passed. On the other hand, I can also see that my own wait time has surpassed the Duotrope average. It may be silly, but I take hope from these extended days, telling myself that my short piece must be under consideration or I would surely have heard by now.

I have reached the editor's recommended report time for Tin House and the Missouri Review, and I know that because it's right there in front of me, in a neat spread sheet. Looking for hope, grasping at the thinnest straw, I tell myself that I might get something published after all. Or the submission has been lost. Up with hope, as the Reverend Jesse Jackson has said.

Getting An Education

With all the discussions lately over Houghton Mifflin and Riverdeep merging to become an educational materials publishing behemoth, we might forget that there were once small, local companies cranking out textbooks for the little ones. Men like Albert Folens, who made his fortune in producing textbooks for Irish schoolchildren. Now people are wondering what sort of propaganda he might have put into the books, and thus the heads, of the wee ones.

RTE aired a program about Mr. Folens last night, and Mrs. Juliette Folens has been busy denying the allegations presented. She even went to court earlier in the week to get the program stopped, to no avail. Loyal wife, you'd have to agree, to argue against evidence that her late husband was in the Gestapo.

It was reported that Mr. Folens volunteered for the Flemish Legion, which fought on the Eastern front with the Nazis. According to the missus, Folens signed on to fight communism, and not for love of Hitler or Nazism. She also insists that the poor man suffered dreadfully from ulcers, and was sent home after six weeks of training. After all that, he never got to the Russian front.

During the war, he did nothing more than translate newspapers into German, so that the Nazi occupiers could understand what was being said about them. RTE, on the other hand, reported that Folens did indeed serve on the Eastern front, went on to join the Gestapo, and was gainfully employed by the Gestapo at their Brussels headquarters.

Disputing other details, Mrs. Folens said that her husband was never held by the British after the war. She agreed that he was tried for treason in a Belgian court, but he was only proven guilty of membership in the Flemish Legion. As he was handed down a sentence of ten years, not life, Mrs. Folens feels that her point is validated. If her husband were in the Gestapo, surely he would have been sentenced to death? And just ignore the file of evidence that was produced by the Americans, which paints a radically different picture of Mr. Folens during the war.

The late Mr. Folens was incarcerated for all of thirty months before he escaped on a false passport. Wherever could a man go, with that sort of past, and on the lam from justice? To Ireland, where else? He found a safe harbor, and the space to launch his publishing firm. From that beginning, he grew his company until he was the leading provider of textbooks to Irish schoolchildren across the Republic.

A fine, upstanding citizen who pulled himself up from ignominy to publishing glory...and now everyone will want to go back and review the parts of their old history books, the pages that covered the Emergency. And come up with some reasonable excuse for their country giving shelter to a convicted war criminal.

Playing The Trump Card

Real estate when new requires a bit of buzz generation, something for the marketing people to gnaw on when preparing their well-honed works of fiction. Donald Trump, being the savvy real estate mogul that he is, knew that his sales pitch for the shiny new condominiums on Chicago's riverfront would sell better if he could say that people were buying before he even sunk a caisson into the ground.

Friends and family sales, they call it, and it's done quite often. Insiders are offered a deal on living units that are not in existence, requiring someone to take a chance and pay for a place that they have not actually seen, in a building that could turn out to be a disaster. Since all risk is offset by some perceived benefit, the condo buyer gets a deal on the price and the developer gets to trumpet all the pre-construction sales.

As it turns out, the location of Chicago's growing Trump Tower is one hot site, and location is everything in property. Close to Michigan Avenue and the high-end shops of Oak Street, the place will offer spectacular views of the river and the shining white Wrigley Building. Whether pre-sales had anything to do with it, who can say, but the going price for a condo in the tower has risen dramatically.

The insiders who took a chance can now almost triple their initial investment, having paid around $500 per square foot. These days, buyers are willing to spend upwards of $1300 per square foot, and so those who took a chance on a new development stand to make some substantial gains.

Not so fast, not when Donald Trump is behind the deal. Out of nowhere, the insiders have been notified that the deal is now null and void. Thanks for the help, but things are going well and we don't need your pre-sale statistics, and don't let the door hit your arse on the way out.

How, you might ask, can the developer cancel out a previous agreement? It's unheard of, and Richard Peiser of the Harvard Graduate School of Design has said that he has never heard of such a thing, and he's heard it all in his professorial capacity.

It's in the contract, according to Trump's attorney. Right there in Paragraph 12 (b), where it says the deal is a no deal due to matters beyond the seller's reasonable control. Well, there you have it. Clearly, the jump in selling price was beyond the Donald's control. How was he to know that it would nearly treble? He has a chance to rake in even more money on the project, and the insiders have been told that if they still want the units they thought that they had bought, they have to pay the going price. Or, they'll get their initial investment refunded to them. With interest, certainly, even though the interest earned will be nowhere near the potential profits to be had by flipping the units.

Poor Donald says he needs more money to meet skyrocketing construction costs, and there's 21% of the units still unsold. And the friends and family that he sold to? Ah, sure and they made their money when he paid them for work that they did on the project. Why should they make even more by risking their money on his namesake tower and then reaping the benefit when it succeeded?

For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his soul?

Fantasy or Non-Fiction

Trying to determine genre can be a rather difficult process. How will you market your manuscript? Which agents should you approach? There are often elements of mystery in a literary work, and however would one classify Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife? Fantasy, sci-fi, literary, romance, all wrapped up in one story.

Even OJ is having a rough time trying to classify his book, no doubt preparing to peg its genre before sending it around to publishers in Europe. Is it fantasy or is it non-fiction, one might ask. The author claims that the book is a fantasy, although not quite in the realm of Lord of the Rings. No, it is a flight of fancy made up by the ghostwriter. Or maybe it was the publisher. Perhaps it was Judith Regan herself, creating the scenario out of thin air.

He didn't do it, OJ, didn't kill anyone and the jury of his peers said so. Therefore, anything written that claims to show how he did it must be a complete fabrication. The chapter that Newsweek has published, obtained from some unnamed source, is said to provide a blow-by-blow description of OJ's motivations, rage, and manner of murder. That, according to the former football player, is just so much blather. Why, it's nothing more than the hook that every author searches for to make the manuscript appealing to the reader.

In case you were wondering what OJ was doing with his free time, since the round of talk shows and interviews went the way of his pulped manuscript, it's clear that he's been reading writer-oriented blogs and forums. To know about hooks, he must have been making a study of the publishing industry, and what better way to increase his chances of getting published?

Sure, he could have corrected a few technical flaws in the manuscript, but why bother when it's just an exercise in creative writing for the ghostwriter. Anyone could have written the same thing, just by studying court documents and then fabricating this scenario based on the evidence. That's the foundation of historical fiction, right there.

Just as well that HarperCollins pulled the plug on the book. It saves the book dealers from having to figure out where to shelve the thing, to say nothing of librarians all across the country. There's nothing in the Dewey Decimal System about this peculiar dilemma.

Short Shrift

Malaga Baldi sure doesn't waste time getting back to people. I sent her a query exactly ten days ago, and already I've gotten a rejection. Could be that she knows what she wants, can spot it in a matter of seconds, and my query did not have anything that she was looking for. Sent the query letter back, in fact, with a couple of words scribbled in pencil. Not for me, indeed.

Even Barbara Braun managed to wade through my submission in no time. The packet was mailed shortly before the New Year, and already it's a no. Granted, the query letter might not have been stellar, but she asks for the first chapter and apparently my writing was not up to snuff either.

So it goes. Queries sent in August and September go ignored, while another agent can stuff a SASE in a matter of minutes. The killer query is as elusive as ever, the literary agent who says "Send more" impossible to locate.

Pinning all my hopes on a couple of short story submissions -- as much as I pray to hear back, I know that the longer the editors hold the piece, the better my chance of being accepted. Only then will I find out if a publishing credit or two has any effect on the response rate.

Enda Kenny, Hat In Hand

Why, oh why, should Sinn Fein get all the money?

So goes the reasoning of Enda Kenny and the boys of Fine Gael. Mr. Kenny was visiting some Irish-American supporters in the fall when the brainstorm swirled in many a collective head. Someone, either in Ireland or America, thought that he might as well raise funds when he next comes to town. After all, Gerry Adams has been funding Sinn Fein almost entirely on American money raised every St. Paddy's Day. If Gerry can do it, why not Enda?

Mr. Kenny is due to receive the Mayo Man of the Year Award from the Mayo Society in March, and he has plans to visit both New York and Boston. What better time to pass the hat for Fine Gael, maybe steal a bit of Gerry Adams' thunder while he's at it. Sadly, from a great idea comes a great roadblock. When the idea went around the table, that Fine Gael should follow Sinn Fein's lead in the fundraising game, no one considered the legal issues.

Sinn Fein is registered as a Northern Ireland political entity when it comes a-calling every March, and as such it is regulated by the British government. On the other hand, Fine Gael is a product of the Republic of Ireland, and Irish law forbids Fine Gael from accepting any donation from someone abroad, unless that person is an Irish citizen. Not only that, but corporate donations can only be taken from a company with an office in Ireland that actually does real business. Can't just set up some shell company with an empty office and funnel money to a politician.

Even if those hurdles could be jumped, there are American laws governing fundraising by foreigners, and the sum total of myriad difficulties was simply too much to overcome by March. Plucky Mr. Kenny will not be deterred from his visit, however, even if he cannot raise money for his party and his push to become the next taoiseach.

Surely it rankles, though, knowing that the Shinners have pulled in upwards of five million euro in the past decade, and Fine Gael is out in the cold. Could have pumped a quarter of million at least into Fine Gael's coffers on this trip, but now it's not to be.

Have to settle for the golden glory of being Mayo Man of the Year, but that won't pay for any bumper stickers or election posters.

There's one unforeseen benefit to a united Ireland. At least it would put the Shinners at the same disadvantage as Fine Gael when it comes to raising money in the USA.

Why Can't We Be Friends

Parenting is a miserable occupation. You want your kids to at least like you, but half the time they act as if they hate you. Wait until they're older, your wiser friends may advise, and then they'll appreciate you. In the meantime, you have to live with the snarling and it wears on a person.

There are those who get around the problem by becoming a buddy. Everyone likes their buddies, don't they? Hanging out, being friends. None of that parental lording over the offspring, all that "because I said so" rationalizing, all the order giving.

In line with that flawless logic comes the next step. We're pals, my children and I, and I know that they drink because they confide in me. And they've come home staggering, so there's been no hiding the partying. I think, therefore I am...going to allow them to drink here at home. Doing what they'd be doing anyway, but I can control it within my own four walls. And be sure to confiscate everyone's keys, there, lad of mine, for there'll be no drinking and driving.

It happens in my part of town, which is why parents often call one another to check the bona fides of the party's homeowner. "Will there be drinking allowed?" is the usual question, not phrased quite like that but the implication is clear. Parents who believe in allowing drinking under their personal control are often known, through the gossip chain, and there are those who will not allow their children to attend...or even to leave the house, in the event that Junior would be tempted to sneak off.

Lawmakers in Illinois are considering some new legislation, to go after parents who host drinks parties for the underaged. It's a tough call, to be sure. While those who are permissive, one of the lads, are due some hard fines and legal trouble, what's to be done about the trusting adult who goes off for an evening and gets a call at 2 am about a wild party? While we would all like to see the parent trying to be a friend catch hell for their behavior, any one of us could get sucked into a disaster that is unforeseen and unexpected.

Crafting a law will not be easy. The issue is awash in shades of gray, but statutes are remarkably black and white.

And Yet Another Contest

The Sobol Award died a merciful death. The contest, a pay-to-enter competition, would have brought the organizer somewhere in the vicinity of four million dollars if he had gotten enough suckers (make that authors) to enter. Needless to say, the blogosphere went into full on alert mode, and only 1,000 people sent in $85 for the privilege of maybe getting a book published by a reputable house. The whole thing smelled so strongly of scam that it was no wonder it gave up the ghost.

Now Touchstone, a division of Simon & Schuster, is trying their own version of the "win a publishing contract" game. Information is available at Gather's website, where the general rules of the contest are explained.

If you have a novel you'd like to get published, you can submit the first chapter to Gather. Then, you get all your friends to vote on your chapter as the best ever. Naturally, you'd want to be on good terms with someone who could hack the site and pack your personal ballot box. There's a publishing contract involved, isn't there, and all's fair in war.

Having successfully accumulated the most votes, you then are asked to submit your second chapter. Repeat ballot stuffing operation, and you will be permitted to move on. Another chapter, another round of voting, and at the end of the process, your oeuvre will be voted the best novel ever and Touchstone will publish it.

Entry is free, and the judges for the contest are people who belong to the Gather website, which is free to join. Can't go wrong, as long as you are very computer savvy. Besides getting your novel published, you'll get $5000, which is not a bad advance for an unknown, first-time author. Borders has signed on to promote the novel, which isn't shabby either.

So far, there hasn't been anything negative said about the contest, other than the problem with voting on-line and the ease of skewing the results. That's why it's highly likely that a Chicago author will win. Now there's a town where the dead rise on election day and make their way to the polling places.

Vote early...and vote often.

Spare Change

The boy from Ballymena popped in today. Actor Liam Neeson was in Dublin, not to promote a new movie, but to speak about his work as an official Unicef ambassador. For the past ten years, he's been involved in a rather unique fundraising effort in cooperation with Aer Lingus, and he wanted to thank the Irish people for their generosity.

Called the Change for Good campaign, Unicef Ireland has managed to raise over six million euro to help African children made orphans by HIV/Aids, and Mr. Neeson has been behind them all the way. Clever idea, too, to ask people on long-haul flights if they happen to have any left-over foreign currency that they won't be needing. Say you've just come from visiting family in Wexford town, and you've got a few euro coins jumbling in your pockets. You can't use them for anything, once you land back at LAX, and what good is the money if you drop it in a drawer and forget about it?

On the plane, you'll be given a little envelope to dispose of the loose change, and Aer Lingus turns it over to Unicef Ireland, and then Unicef Ireland does good deeds for little children in Mozambique. Doesn't hurt the donor at all, giving up small bits of money that aren't worth the trouble to exchange back home. It's reported that about half of the airline passengers do indeed donate, small amounts that translate into considerable charity.

There you go. From little acorns, mighty oak trees grow.