April A-Z: Grooming the Schnauzer

Okay, I know this is a total cop-out but I really have nothing more profound on my mind concerning dogs, currently, than this super-charming video. And I know it's not a schnauzer. I'm sorry. But I gotta say, it's really really difficult to control myself and not run out to adopt a greyhound right now:

April A-Z: Frosting the Pastries

This may be the most valuable article this month. A complete guide to the top ten desserts of all time. Ah, but what criteria are we using to determine such topness? Why, my own dang taste buds of course and yes, I am an expert; 360 pounds of expert. If you're heavier than 360 then you're entitled to make corrections to the following work! Otherwise, read and learn. Here goes:

#10: CHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER ICE CREAM on a WAFFLE CONE

What you need

1 five-dollar bill
1 looney

What to do with it

Haul your butt down to Hewitt's Dairy, HWY 6, just east of Hagersville, Ontario. Or maybe west. Or some other compass direction. I don't know. It's kind of like the Bermuda triangle down there. Just drive around until you see this place and order the cone. It just might change your life:

#9: BUTTER TARTS

This quintessential Canadian dessert (if you subscribe to the nation idea) got started here in the new world before the pioneers started calling the place Canada. See how people once had wiser priorities? It's a cousin of Quebec's sugar pie and the Yankee's pecan pie.

Some butter tarts actually come equipped with pecans instead of raisins due to some people purporting to prefer such perversions. If you are one of these people, do this the next time you eat a pecan tart: pretend that the pecans are actually cockroaches. This should cure you of your deranged habit.

What you need

1 twenty-dollar bill

What to do with it

Head for The Sweet Oven in Barrie, Ontario and order a dozen.


#8: BLUEBERRY PIE with VANILLA ICE CREAM

So many pies. So little time. This one is my favourite for it's sheer sugary potency and staining power.

What you need

A charming smile

What to do with it

Make friends with a really good baker. Eventually you'll get dinner invitations and one day this will be on the menu. If the pie is not served piping hot, put the entire serving in the waver for twelve seconds to make the ice cream melty.


#7: FROGS (not the hippety hop kind)

More commonly known as haystacks, oat delights, unbaked cookies or (erroneously) macaroons. But frogs is what we experts call 'em. I've been making these since I was about ten years old and nobody does it better. Carly Simon even wrote a song about my frogs which some people think is about James Bond.

What you need

2 cups sugar
6 tablespoons cocoa
1/2 cup salted butter
1/2 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup flaked coconut
3 cups instant oats

What to do with it

Combine the first four ingredients in a pot. Bring just barely to a boil. Add vanilla. Remove from heat and stir in coconut and oats. Spoon globs of it onto a cookie sheet lined with wax paper and store in the fridge until hard or until you can't take it anymore and go screaming into the kitchen to rip the fridge door off its hinges.


#6: DQ BLIZZARD

Professor Plonk, Captain Vino and I used to visit the Mongolian Grill on a regular basis, eat to the point of bursting and then torture ourselves by going straight to Dairy Queen for ice cream blizzards, and then cry in pain all the way home. But even that has not turned me off of them.

What you need

1 ten-dollar bill
some imagination

What to do with it

Hit the nearest Dairy Queen, ponder the Blizzard menu and throw a couple flavours together. I recommend the Reece's Pieces Blizzard with an added cookie dough topping or the Mint Oreo Blizzard combined with double fudge cookie dough. So there. Get the extra-large of course and you'll get a buck and a half change.


#5: MONTANA'S MILE-HIGH MUD PIE

Same theme as above but there is only one variety which contains espresso chocolate chunk ice cream, regular chocolate ice cream, peanut butter, oreo-type cookie crust, whipped cream and chocolate sauce. It's basically a frozen cake, served partially thawed.

What you need

1 ten-dollar bill

What to do with it

Proceed to the nearest Montana's restaurant on a Wednesday and start with the all-you-can-eat ribs but eat ever so slightly less than all-you-can so that you're inclined to order the mud pie. It's freakin' huge by the way but once you have the first bite, having room will no longer be a criterion.


#4: PINEAPPLE CAKE

Looks like carrot cake but sans carrots. Presumably contains pineapple. This was the latest orgasmic dessert from the Queen of Dessert, better known as Dog Whisperer. I could have filled this list just with her desserts alone but there's little point since once she serves you something amazing, she never makes it for you again. Luckily there's always something new around the bend waiting to blow your taste buds away. She claims that pineapple cake contains only three ingredients. I assume this is a lie meant to throw us off the trail.

What you need

Nothing. Don't even bother.

What to do with it  

See above.


#3: TOO-TALL ORANGE & CREAM CAKE

This is my old stand-by when contributing dessert to a dinner gathering. The uninitiated always look skeptical at the mention of orange cake but upon the first bite their eyes light up. It's like a creamsicle but ten times better.

What you need

About fifteen bucks

What to do with it

Snatch one from the nearest M&M Meats store and keep it in the fridge for up to a full day so that it's mostly thawed. Inhale the leftovers as soon as your dinner guests are out the door.


#2: CHERRY CHEESE CAKE

This is actually my favourite dessert of all the ones I've tried and has been so since I was about seven years old. Here's how to do it right:

What you need

Seven dollars American plus airfare to JFK International Airport and subway fare to Brooklyn.

What to do with it

Find your way to Junior's Restaurant at 386 Flatbush Ave, Brooklyn and they'll do the rest. And now...


#1: PUMPKIN CHAI CHEESECAKE

I confess: I've never had pumpkin chai cheesecake. The closest I've come is pumpkin chai latte. I know. That's probably not very close. But I love pumpkin, love chai and love cheesecake. And I know it exists. I've heard about it. This is the only food experience on my entire bucket list. Wish me luck.

April A-Z: Eating Grapes with the One-Armed Man

Fair warning: I took this phrase as a prompt and threw a short story together. It's a bit long for the recommended scope of A-Z blogging. So no offense if you choose to skip it!


Waylin walked briskly down the dark road on a quiet night. Tall trees and sparse clouds intermittently masked the stars and crescent moon. In dark clothes, one arm of a hooded sweatshirt hanging limp, he turned up an empty driveway toward a freestanding garage.

He stepped before a dark window and aimed a flashlight into it, catching a reflection of his own face; two reddish eyes a thin beard and faded black ball cap with graying white playboy bunny emblem. A glimpse through the garage window revealed patio furniture, hoses, a pool skimmer and no automobile.

He clicked off the flashlight and regarded the dark house. Between the back door and himself stood a small creature, stone-still; a brown hare in profile, one round eye regarding him.

Boo.

He stepped forward over the spongy lawn. The rabbit bolted away. As a matter of course he tried the back entrance. The screen door opened with a minor squeak and the doorknob within turned with a pleasant click.

Bingo.

He slipped inside, softly closing the screen door and leaving the other ajar. The tiny foyer was clogged with coats hanging off pegs and shoes all over the floor. He rifled through coat pockets, fondled keys and kleenex tissues and no wallets. He gently climbed a short flight with legs splayed, feet at the side edges of the steps.

Closed doors stood down the hallway to his left. The flashlight led his way to the right, into a tidy kitchen. A set of canisters stood in file by height. In grade eight he'd had to stand at one end of the back row for the class photo. Mrs. Fletcher sidled right up beside him; the only time she'd done so without shaking her finger at his face. Fletcher Fingers they called her. The containers were labeled sugar, tea, flour and cookies. They were never labeled weed but that's what some folks put in them. Here he found sugar, tea, flour and cookies, all in their proper places; their assigned cells.

Oh, you're too adorable, people.

He peaked into the cupboard. What was that? The creak of floorboards? A soft click and the kitchen flooded with light.

"Jesus!" he yelped, spinning around. The flashlight flew from his hand and hit the linoleum with a thud. It's light expired, redundant now.

"Sorry dude," said the teenager. An errant spike of his hair jutted skyward. Waylin stood frozen, staring. "It's okay to raid the fridge. You don't have to creep around." The kid wore Bart Simpson boxers and a motorcycle t-shirt proclaiming, MY OTHER RIDE IS YOUR MOM. He turned his back and rattled through the fridge. "The folks don't mind. They got deep pockets." A skinny arm swung out and a  half wedge of brie cheese landed on the kitchen table. A package bundled in pink deli paper then followed the same flight plan and then a network of plump green grapes. One broke away, rolled off the table and landed next to the flashlight.

"Grab some crackers there," said the kid, waiving over Waylin's shoulder. The man didn't move. "I see you, you know. You're not invisible."

Waylin cleared his throat. "What do you mean?"

The boy walked up to the bearded man and reached by him to open a cupboard. "You look like a deer in headlights." He took a box of crackers to the table and sat. "Except that herbivores always have eyes at the sides of their heads. You know what I mean? 'Cause they're always on the lookout for predators. Predators have to focus on their prey. Their eyes are at the front." He made a V of his fingers and drew them to and from his eyes. "Like us. We're predators."

"Are we?" said Waylin.

"Don't you think so?" He gestured toward the empty chair.

"I might."

"I'm Beryl as you probably guessed." He pulled a branch of grapes from the bunch. "You probably have a name of your own, eh?"

"Waylin."

"That's different," Beryl said, nodding. "Does it come with a last name?"

None of your business. "Banjo."

Beryl seemed to chuckle silently. "You're shitting me, right?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Come on. Wailing banjo? That's a piece of comedy, that."

"If you say so."

"You gonna sit or what?"

"I better not."

"Look man, I'm sorry for laughing. I thought you were joking. Honest." Waylin moved to the table and sat. "Help yourself. These pepperoni sticks are the bomb."

Waylin ate.

"So when did you arrive?" said Beryl. "Had to have been in the last week while I was away."

"Today," the man replied with his mouth full.

"If you don't mind me asking, how'd you lose your arm?"

"I do."

"Okay."

"It's a long story."

"Yeah? So just tell me the last chapter. The climax part. Where you fell off the train. Or the pterodactyl ripped it off."

"Another time." Waylin looked around as he stuffed his face. Framed needleworks adorned the walls; cute pictures and cuter captions. Life is fragile. Handle with prayer, said one. Another: God bless this mess. He smirked.

"My mom makes them."

"I like that one," said Waylin, gesturing.

"Yeah? Take it."

Waylin froze, eying the boy. Beryl stood and released it from the wall. "Take it. Hang it in your room. Take it with you when you go. Keep it."

"That's okay."

"I insist. Mom gives 'em away all the time. She'll make more." He dropped it on the table near the stranger and sat again. "You look familiar, you know? Like that actor; the wolverine guy; the X-Men guy." The man nodded. "You get that often?"

"Once or twice."  

"You're really hungry, aren't you?"

"I missed dinner."

"It must be hard to cut a steak with one hand, eh?"

"I guess. I wouldn't know."

"You don't care for steak?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Oh."

Waylin picked up the little needlepoint arrangement and gave the boy a long look. The boy looked back. Waylin stuffed it into his hoodie pocket where it just fit.

"How'd you get hooked up here? With my folks, I mean." The man searched Beryl's eyes. "Through the church?"

"Yeah. Through the church."

"Think you'll stay long?"

"I doubt that very much." He clutched a string of grapes in his only hand and awkwardly separated one at a time with thumb and forefinger.

Beryl stared at the network of branches and little green orbs. "Do you know how many different kinds of molecules there are?"

"Never counted them."

Beryl laughed.

"One for every element on the table, I guess."

"The periodic table, you mean?"

"Right."

"No way, man. There's like tens of billions."

"You don't say."

"Every permutation is possible. So you can theorize molecules that haven't actually happened yet, so far as we've seen. Here on Earth anyway."

"I gotta use the bathroom," said Waylin. He glanced down at the floor, bent and retrieved the flashlight. He stood and managed to slip it into the far pocket as he left the room.

Beryl sat and listened; heard the creaking of stairs and of the back door. He sat at the table a long time.

Out on the dark street Waylin trod soft and swift. He pulled the handicraft from his pocket and read it again. God bless this house and all who enter.

April A-Z: Draining the Lizard

Well, this might be a bit of a cop-out. I'm working 12-hour shifts over the weekend so I need to post something quick and dirty, as they say: So here are a lizardy selection of my cartoons which were orphaned on the currently defunct telephone pictionary web site eatpoopucat.com: I'll try to include the captions which spawned them if I can remember them...

Heck yeah, I is driving! said the gator

Lady dragon shares her noodles as the ace of spades catches fire nearby 

Having dispatched with Disney World, Godzilla sets his eyes on New York

It was actually a crazy woman named Mona who killed off the dinosaurs.

Nessy enjoys karaoke night at the nursing home for monsters.

Jim, I've found the alien beast! Jim? Jim?

Dragon mating ritual

Pig and Alligator are attacked by piranha

More juice our lemonade requires. Squeeze or do not squeeze; there is no try

The dragon burns the city to the ground but takes care of your dog.

April A-Z: Choking the Chicken

I was on vacation, abroad, with friends and staying for a few nights with one of the friend's relatives in a rather large multi-family estate. The patriarch of the family was celebrating a birthday and a party was being planned for the afternoon and evening. A chicken dish was planned and one relative offered to go pick up some booze and groceries; chicken included. I offered to come along for the ride. Privately I wished to contribute to the cost since their excellent hospitality had been free.

We departed the grocers without chicken and no alarms went off in my naive little head. We then proceeded to the chicken farm. I shall reveal now that this took place in Trinidad.

The chicken farmer received our request, vanished, and returned with... a live chicken, his fist around its throat. ALIVE! I was not impressed.

"Shall I remove the head?" asked the farmer.

"No," said my host. "My new friend from Canada wants to do it!"

"Like hell I would."

I backed out of sight of the chopping block, heard the act and watched as the the bloody beheaded corpse was handed over in a clear plastic bag.

To be clear, this was a dose of reality I very much deserved but I wasn't feeling very appreciative at the time. As a consolation the host said he knew where to get fresh limes for the rum-and-tonics I planned on getting demolished on that night. He then stopped in front of a private residence, exited the car, looked both ways and then hopped over the fence. This was a neighbor he knew to have lime trees in the back yard.

I looked at him gravely when he deposited the spoils in my arms.

"It's okay," he said. "They're relatives of ours."

Sure they were.

April A-Z: Bopping the Bishop

So here's a little theory for you and it's interesting to me that I've googled the life out of this matter and found it nowhere on the interwebs, so perhaps this is an internet scoop as it were: It concerns El Greco's work, Portrait of a Cardinal.

The subject is largely assumed to be Don Fernando Niño de Guevara, Archbishop of Seville and Grand Inquisitor of Spain. This was a fellow with significant clout.

Take a look at the expression on his face. Does it radiate with the unburdened confidence and clear-mindedness which one surely must possess when one is to competently command the sentencing of 1868 heretics, 240 of them to death by burning? Or does he look a little - I don't know - paranoid?

My question is - How much was El Greco responsible for this portrayal. Let's be clear: El Greco, in addition to a great painter, was a great poet. He was not fooled by the tyranny of appearances. Not a word of his poetry was arbitrary or imprecise and I would think the same must be said for each stroke of his brush. What did El Greco wish to say about the Grand Inquisitor?

There are two odd components to this work. One is the unnatural shape of Guevara's left hand which seems to me bestial; claw-like. 

And then there is the strange protuberance of his robe just left of his left foot. Fabric doesn't fall that way. I'm sure when Guevara's robes were carefully draped about him this shape did not exist. What do you see in that shape? I know what I see. And El Greco must have been a brave man. Because if the archbishop had interpreted that allusions to a weasel were painted in to his portrait, the artist would have been put to death.

April A-Z: Adjusting the Antenna

So to kick off April A-Z I've thrown this little slide-show video together. It's the title track from Antenna Town; a great little blues album from a great little Toronto blues band called the Madd Scientists who have pretty much vanished from all memory except my own. I guess I was their biggest, and only surviving, fan. Bassist Ben Knight, also known as Doctor Lock, has remained a dear friend.

The video will perform better if you click through to my Youtube site.

The Madd Scientists are:

Jim Layieux - guitar, harmonica, lead vocals

Ben Knight - bass, vocals

Eric Laimer - drums, vocals

April A-to-Z Challenge: The not-so-big reveal

Yeah - so this is my eight-thousand, five hundred and twenty-ninth attempt at getting this blog properly rolling - as in posting almost daily. Haven't given up the dream but I'm certainly making no promises.

I took this challenge in 2012 and 2013 (getting as far as W and V respectively) despite April being a Camp NaNo month (50,000 words of fiction) and found that the dual challenge was really too much. So this year's plan is to have all 26 April A-Z articles completed in March and then just hit a publish button each day in April.

Of 26 articles I have so far completed exactly one, and there are still four days to go. Lookin' good.

As for the big reveal, this year's theme is a secret. There will be one thing in common to every article. I'm curious to discover how many articles it will take before someone figures it out!

A [ey]

It's FWG versus the dictionary. This should only take a hundred years or so.

I was twelve, thin, slightly more than average height and blessed with a knack for athletics. I had just stepped onto a lacrosse floor for the first time in my life, strung up in out-dated, cumbersome, ineffective lacrosse pads.

Immediately the coaches divided us into sides and dropped the ball for a practice scrimmage face-off. The ball squirted off to the boards and I won the race to it, eager to show the in-crowd boys what this new kid could do.

And what I could do, as it turns out, was get immediately clobbered from behind by a mutant 12-year-old who could have passed for a chunky 16-year-old, and get driven face-first into the boards. Apparently Brutus was just as eager to show what he could do.

I hauled myself off the floor as promptly as my spinning head would allow and then spent my entire first lacrosse season playing defense only, conveniently losing loose-ball battles, pasing off too quickly and trying to avoid getting maimed.

Our squad's veteran players harrassed the coaches to name a captain and two assistant captains; a pointless ceremony at our age, but the experienced boys knew that jerseys looked more impressive with a C or A stitched on them. So the coaches relented, though ironically, and assigned the honours to the three rookies on the team; myself included, which the vets accepted with surprising grace.

I would return the following season with my pads cleverly modified and an inexplicable new confidence and get placed on the top line with the fourteen year-olds and soon develop into a better-than-average player but with a lack of spirit and very little 'touch' around the net for lack of opportunity.

In my sixth season which I knew to be my last of minor lacrosse, I finally tried out for the travelling team and made the cut, though barely. And in the game which I soon understood would be my last; an elimination match in the year-end Provincials tournament, as we went into the third period down a couple goals, I suddenly mourned what was seeming to come to an end, and I came alive. I played my heart out for twenty minutes, crashing into an opponent to win a loose-ball battle just before the closing buzzer halted my uncharacteristic charge to the opponents' net.

In the quiet dressing room after, though I hadn't scored a single point as was often the case, the coach said loudly, from across the room, that I'd played a great game, and other players, some who'd snickered at me in earlier years, looked at me and nodded their heads. Some echoed his words. I said nothing. It only made this fine experience harder to let go. I would only miss it more; this very skilled team; this fine sport at this elevated calibre; this sudden new feeling of belonging.

In that final twenty minutes I had finally re-discovered the eagerness which had been born and lost years earlier, in a span of five seconds.

I can't help but wonder how many people's lives have run according to this metaphor; spirit lost too early; regained too late. I hope my own is not.

Brutus - I think his actual name was Stu - turned out to be a nice kid, by the way, and right after that first practice he apologized to me for the hit. I never did take any opportunity to perform in a role of assistant captain that year and I never had mom stitch an A on my jersey.

 

Looking up

I drove Grampa Munster home from our weekly coffee meeting with the other volunteers in his group. I don't usually do the driving for this particular gig because I already do more for him than the others in the group do, which is fine. I have the time. But I wanted to speak to him alone about the coming expiry of his probation and the steps which must very soon follow in terms of the supervisory order which Scooterville Police Department will surely apply for, and the subsequent court proceedings. I wished to advise him to keep me informed immediately of any progress on these matters and to expect me to accompany him in court. Grampa struggles with communication and gets nervous and flustered easily and is handicapped from effectively representing himself; something that has long attracted predatory tactics from both his psychiatric team and probation officer, according to reliable testimony.

Also I wished to run some errands in the neighborhoud of Down-n-Out Manor where Grampa is a tenant, and I knew he'd want to tag along rather than hasten his return to the third floor room where he imprisons himself but for a few outings per week: the coffee meeting, psych and probation appointments and his weekly day with me and the London Street Dobies.

As luck would have it though, Detective Biff and his partner were in the neighborhood to deliver Grampa Munster's paperwork and Grampa arranged for the detectives and I to meet, which he was delighted about. He'd been hopeful he could rely on me as an advocate in dealing with this new relationship with Scooterville Police.

This was an event of significant impact and it went extremely well. The proposed conditions of the court order - which could last for years; potentially the rest of G.M.'s life - contained only the standard restrictions: basically, no significant life changes (residence, career, relationships) without police consent and no contact with minors without approved supervision, or any presence in places where minors are likely to frequent - which is all great. I have been urguing Munster to look at the inevitable order, not as a hurdle but as a tool in helping him stay on the good side. A tool that is useful and appropriate given his presumed acknowledgement that help is required to be sure he'll succeed (otherwise he would not have come to our volunteer organization for help in the first place).

The usual prohibition from associating with prior offenders of the same ilk was, however, not included in the proposed conditions. Amazingly, Detectiive Biff strayed from the counsellor's and probation officer's advice and anounced his support and praise for the Mennonite Church's volunteer community and agreed that Grampa Munster needs our full support and should be free to attend our frequent community events. Furthermore he readily agreed to amend library restrictions if accompanied by myself or another trained volunteer and granted that certain park-type areas could be accessed for exercise walks under the right conditions - again supervised. He offered further concessions around movie theatres and supervised trips out of Scooterville city limits. I have a friend outside the city with horses on his property which Gramps would love to visit. He adores horses and dogs.

I explained to Detective Biff that my efforts to give Munster a little extra freedom came from my belief that the best route to community safety was not to encourage him to sit alone in his room day after day, letting his mind wander through potentially dangerous thoughts, but to get him out, filling up his time with useful positive activities; creating healthy habits and healthy rewards to reduce the need for selfish habits and rewards.

Detective Biff said he couldn't agree more! He gave me his card, told me to keep in touch, praised us for our work and acknowledged that we are all on the same team.

"I want [Grampa Munster] to succeed," he said. "If he succeeds, I succeed."

"Likewise," said I.

"Exactly."

What an exellent departure in philosophy from these years of mistrust between the volunteers and the particular authorities who have worked with G.M. up until now.

Munster has a long history of incarceration; repeat offenses in the past and then a series of probation breaches, and now five years clean. We're all happy and eager now, while Grampa Munster remains nervous. He has not had this degree of "freedom" in about forty years, and he's unsure if anything is really going to change. I think that the slight loosening in restrictions is not the central issue. It is that we must use this event as a trigger and change our attitude and outlook. It's time to get out of the tower cell and participate in life again and make friends.

In the discussion with Detective Biff in this regard, I said to him, "I can't be Grampa Munster's only friend. There are other things I need to do with my life." I glanced at Munster when I said this. We've not used the word friend before, in terms of our association, though I know he wishes to think of me that way.

I suppose I must be generous for a the next while and give him more of my time and be sure that things start to change; that he sees changes happening and is inspired. This is a critical occasion; a turning point, and we must ensure it is a turn for the better.

Dark Angel pretends to enjoy lunch with Crazy Frog knowing he's worth a buck or two.

http://eatpoopucat.com/#stripDetail-20078

The ultimate horror

Lately I've been re-watching all my favourite holocaust films - somehow favourite feels like the wrong word; perhaps, in this case, most disturbing is better. These films tend to all blend together in my mind and it's a good time to try to sort them out as I endeavor to put together a review of essential films (of all genres) based on my own priorities and idiosyncrasies. Given my devotion to the art of storytelling and that I've watched at least two thousand movies in my days, I'll dare consider myself a bit qualified in this regard. Perhaps the April 2014 A-Z Blogging challenge will be the venue for the review. Or perhaps not until April 2015. There's a fair amount of research to do.

So I just watched Sophie's Choice which I hadn't seen in many years and I was really struck by Meryl Streep's performance. Incredible acting. Amazing, I thought.

In grade eight my best friend at the time was penning swastikas everywhere, for no particular reason as far as I was aware. I didn't know anything about the symbol. I'd certainly heard of Nazism but didn't connect it to the icon. So I drew one on my arm in pen; a goofy temp tattoo of sorts. Our teacher observed this, and addressed the class with a factual impromptu lesson on the swastika symbol and how it was a hurtful thing for some people and I immediately dispensed with my decoration. Shortly thereafter we read The Diary of Anne Frank and then devoted a long series of lessons to holocaust material. Whether this was all a response, or coincidentally the planned curriculum I don't know. I always assumed the latter.

The subject has haunted me in various forms ever since.

I have been able to wrap my head around the whole phenomena much better over the last few years but still - the sheer volume of cruelty and suffering can be - just too much to contemplate. Especially seeing images of children in concentration camps, waiting to die. It's devastating to me. Something disconnects, like an emergency shut-off switch, and I can't properly think about it.

So even though I fully understand that humans are natural born killers and it makes perfect sense to me and that the basic manifestations which made up the Jewish holocaust are still happening all over the world, though not at such an alarming concentration as far as we observe, there remains this overwhelming quality.

The DVD-extra documentary, however, offers these words from director Alan J. Pakula, and I was deeply touched by them. I was comforted in a way:

"One of the struggles of art, in dealing with the holocaust is that the reality exceeds the capacity of the imagination. Had it not really happened, no novelist, writer, thinker could have ever touched this experience without somehow exceeding any bounds of the capacity for art."

What a cruel trick; the name of this film. One will initially assume the choice is that between the two men; two lovers. But if you subscribe to the idea that there is not one holocaust story, but six million holocaust stories, then is there possibly one more horrific than this?

Pakula goes on to say: "I always believed the holocaust was an expression in the extreme of what is common to the mainstream of western society, which therefore makes it important, if not essential, for us to grapple with."

I totally get that. It's why I keep grappling.