There are a lot of bad things that can happen to people in this crazy, screwed-up world, but there’s really no human experience more gut-wrenching than coming home to discover that your little hamster is…contaminated!….With radiation!….Let that sink in for a minute….

    This is what is happening more and more to decent people all around the world.  And why?  Because radiation is coming at us from all directions, invisibly.  You got radioactive steam spewing out of nuclear power plants (the big killer!).  You got terrorists stealing radioactive material to build bombs, and most of the time these jerks don’t really know what they’re doing, so whenever they mess it up, they toss the thing in the garbage and start over.  You got prospectors tearing up half the bloody planet because the price of uranium is way up, and the stuff blows away in the wind and settles a thousand miles away.  You got mine waste leaching into the ground and getting into the water table and food supply.  You got space junk falling out of the sky.  You got wackos stealing isotopes from hospitals and trying to fence them off in the black ghettoes, and God only knows where they eventually end up.  You got secret government experiments, and just by the laws of probability some of them will go wrong, and are you going to be warned?  No way!  You can’t prove who’s responsible.  Who are you going to sue when you see little Hammy getting all sick and mopey?  Look at the way he’s suffering, the poor little thing!  Makes your heart break.  What can you do?  You can let him suffer day by day, or watch him mutate into some grotesque creature that belongs in a monster movie, or put him out of his misery with one quick smash on the head with a sledge hammer.

    Well, that’s the way it used  to be.  But now there’s hope.  You can  decontaminate your radioactive hamster by following my method.

    Step One: Don’t panic.

    Step Two: Get a Geiger counter.  You should have done this first, but you were momentarily in a state of panic.  Okay, never mind.  Now, there are two basic kinds of Geiger counters.  You want the wicked  Geiger counter, which is calibrated in whole Roentgens, not the sissy  Geiger counter, which is calibrated in milli-Roentgens.

    Step Three: You need a big horseshoe magnet.   Don’t get an electromagnet, because they’re too  complicated.

    Step Four: Get a plastic or wooden cage for Hammy, because a metal cage will interfere with the magnetism.

    Step Five: You have to wash Hammy externally.  Just put him in a basin of lukewarm water with some ordinary baking soda, and brush him gently with a soft brush.  This will get rid of any contamination on the outside.

    Step Six: Take Hammy’s radiation count with the Geiger counter.  If he’s over 1.0 Roentgen, forget it.  He’s a dead rodent.  If he’s under 1.0 Roentgen but still moving the needle over 0.1, make a note of the reading and proceed to Step Seven.

    Step Seven: You have to get rid of the contamination inside his body.  You do this by waiting until Hammy is asleep, so he isn’t moving around.  Place the magnet close to his butt.  You have to align it as if you’re drawing the contamination down from the top of his body straight to his rectum.  (The magnet doesn’t actually have to be in the cage, as long as it’s within six inches of his body.)  Then go to bed and let the magnet do its work.  Little by little, the radioactive molecules, which are slightly magnetic, will be pulled down to where they can be excreted.  This will take several days or weeks, but trust me, okay?  I’ve done this.  Just take Hammy’s radiation reading every day.  It should start going down in a couple of days.  You want to get him down below 0.1 Roentgen, or, better yet, so low that the needle hardly moves.  Then Hammy will be fine.

    Now, the Russians claim to have a better method, which involves using a kind of diaper with a small electromagnet sewn into it, and you’re supposed to put the diaper on the hamster and the magnetism is working all the time.  Sure.  As if a hamster is going to be able to tolerate such a contrivance.   You couldn’t stand going around with an electromagnet in your ass 24 hours a day, so how do you expect a hamster to take it?  You know, those Russkies always talk big, but as far as I’m concerned, they just don’t have the know-how.  Think of Chernobyl.   So much for Russkie technology!

    Step Eight: Just kidding.  There’s no Step Eight.  You’re finished.  Hey, let’s have a party!

    So now you know how to take care of your hamster in this evil, polluted world of radioactive contamination.

    Oh, yeah, there’s probably one question still on your mind: does this method also work for other kinds of animals?  Hell, I don’t know.  You can try it.

    Copyright@ 2008, by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:


Five boys who are seriously into DC Comics got together to trade comics and cards.  Each boy has a different favorite male hero, female hero, male villain, and female villain.  From the clues given, match each boy with his four favorite characters.

Boys: Artie, Gordon, Jimmy, Lenny, Mike

Male Heroes: Blue Beetle, Orion, Changeling, Nightwing, Speedy

Female Heroes: Firehawk, Jade, Nightshade, Raven, Starfire

Male Villains: Bolt, Chronos, Kalibak, Lex Luthor, Toyman

Female Villains: Blackfire, Cheetah, Maxima, Phobia, Silver Swan


1.  Either A or B is true, but not both:

    A. The boy who likes Speedy the best also likes Cheetah the best.

    B.  Neither Mike nor Artie likes Jade the best.

2.  The five  boys are: Lenny, the one who is most keen on Blue Beetle, the one whose favorite is Kalibak, the one who likes both Maxima  and Lex Luthor the best, and a boy who doesn’t prefer any character with “Night” or “Fire” in his or her name.

3.  The boy who likes Orion the best isn’t so keen on Silver Swan, Chronos, or Jade.

4.  Gordon loves Firehawk the best but considers Lex Luthor boring.

5.  Jimmy’s favorites do not include Changeling, Nightshade, Toyman, or Phobia.  Mike’s favorites do not include Blue Beetle, Starfire, Chronos, or Cheetah.  Either Gordon or Artie likes Blackfire the best, but neither prefers Speedy.  Lenny thinks Orion, Raven, Toyman, and Cheetah are only “so-so.”

6.  One boy’s favorites include both Bolt and Phobia; another boy’s favorites include both Jade and Changeling.

7.  The boy who loves Nightwing the best doesn’t like Nightshade.  Another boy, who is crazy about Chronos, doesn’t care for Starfire or Raven.

8.  Neither Gordon nor Artie likes Kalibak.

9.  Lenny is not a big fan of Chronos.  Mike is not big on Maxima or Raven.

Try another puzzle? —

    Copyright@ 2008, by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:

    Practically everyone in the world is dying to know more and more and more about the one and only Polycarp, 2nd Century Christian martyr, bishop of Smyrna, author of the best-selling Letter to the Philippians, and, of course, the Man of Many Carps!  His is a story like no other, and it is soon to be brought to the big screen in a major Hollywood epic, starring Tom Cruise!

    As a young boy, Polycarp was sold as a slave to a wealthy woman named Calisto, who raised him like her own son.  Happy and carefree on the picturesque estate in the city of Smyrna (now Izmir, in Turkey), he liked nothing better than to fish for carp in the bay jutting in from the Aegean Sea.  He seemed to have a magical talent for attracting carp.  They would literally jump into his arms.  He would stroke them, play with them, and kiss them before dropping them back in the water.  He claimed to be able to communicate with them.

    There was one carp he took a special liking to, and he brought it home and took it to bed with him.  Calisto warned him that the poor fish would die out of water, but miraculously it did not!  Polycarp would put it in a large basin of water by day and sleep with it at night.  That carp is now believed to have been a divine channel, for during this period Polycarp began writing esoteric essays about God, which amazed the elders of the local church.

    Upon the death of Calisto, Polycarp inherited her estate and soon brought many other carps to live in the house with him.  Visitors were always surprised by the profusion of carps happily flapping about the grounds, needing only occasional immersions in the basins of water placed for their convenience.

    When the pastor of the local church died, Polycarp was invited to replace him.  He soon filled the church with exquisite carvings and paintings of carps.  He even designed a carp costume for himself, which he wore during his sermons.  The sermons were extraordinary: he would hold one or more carps to his ears and then translate their language for the congregation, expounding sublime thoughts and divine messages such as no one had ever heard before.  Devout Christians flocked from many miles away to hear the words of this holy man who received divine wisdom from his blessed carps.  Not surprisingly, Polycarp was soon elevated to the position of bishop.

    In his major work, the Letter to the Philippians (whose descendants now inhabit the Philippines, of course), Polycarp wrote joyously of man’s love for the carp, and vice-versa, and how man could  be brought closer to God by means of the carp.  He encouraged the Philippians (and Christians generally) to love the carp and to commune with it, both in the water and in the bedchamber.  This led to the Carpist Movement and the establishment of the highly secretive Order of Carpist Nuns, whose practice it was to sleep with carps.  (The only remaining convent of the Carpist Nuns is located in Lebanon, Kentucky, which, quite oddly, is not on any body of water!)

    At this time (the 2nd Century A.D.), the Roman Empire was ruled by the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, a persecutor of Christians.  The Emperor had long taken little notice of Christians in Asia Minor, but the exploits of Polycarp eventually came to his attention, and he ordered the bishop of Smyrna to be arrested for undermining the supremacy of the Roman gods and for alleged “unnatural relations” with his carps.

    Polycarp was threatened with burning at the stake unless he renounced his beliefs and confessed to fraud in his communication with his carps.  The bishop, now in his eighties, showed no fear of execution.  He proclaimed, “The carp is the true fish of God, and I am His chosen fisherman.”  He was then tied to the stake, and the kindling was lit.  The fire burned, but it touched him not, for a miraculous rain of carp fell from the sky, dousing the flames and spreading confusion among the crowd!  The captain of the guards, enraged by this humiliation, ordered his men to run Polycarp through with their swords, which they did, thereby giving the Christian world one of its most remarkable martyrs.

    Today the influence of Polycarp lives on.  In the centre of the city of Izmir can be seen a beautiful statue of St. Polycarp, dressed in his fish robe and hugging several carps.  And throughout Turkey, even with its predominant Muslim religion, the carp is regarded as a holy fish, never to be eaten.

    There are no less than ten churches named St. Polycarp throughout Asia Minor and Europe.  The St. Polycarp Girls’ School in Blackburn, England, is legendary for its boisterous — and some would say shocking — revelries on February 23rd, the feast day of St. Polycarp.  And the St. Polycarp Hospital in Bletchley, England, is world-famous for its treatment of nervous disorders.

    The name Polycarp has been adopted by enterprises both humble and grand, including Polycarp Donuts, Polycarp Sporting Goods, Polycarp Fire and Casualty Insurance, Polycarp Casino, Polycarp Oil & Gas, Polycarp Pizza, Polycarp Polymers, Polycarp Propane, Polycarp Pet Supplies, Polycarp Vocational Institute, Polycarp Defense Electronics, and Polycarp Menswear.

    Polycarp shall live forever, and so shall his many carp friends!  May they find their way to us, from out of the sea and into our hearts!

    Copyright@ 2008 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:

Logic Puzzle: Lab Rats

June 10, 2008

[A] [B] [C] [D] [E]
[F]  [G] [H] [I]  [J]  

Eight lab rats (Nolan, Shorty, Spike, Evelyn, Herman, Dottie, Ruth, and George) are dispersed among an arrangement of ten boxes as represented above by the letters A to J.  The boxes connect vertically and horizontally, but not diagonally.  Eight boxes each have one rat, and two boxes are vacant.  From the clues given, determine where each rat is and which boxes are vacant.

1. Herman is in the same horizontal row as either or both vacant boxes.

2. Shorty connects with Ruth.

3. Nolan connects with a vacant box but not with Dottie.

4. Shorty connects with a vacant box.

5. Evelyn is not in B or I but does connect with Spike.

6. Nolan has a corner box.

7. A vacant box connects only with George and Evelyn.

8. Dottie is in G.

Try another puzzle? —

     Copyright@ 2008, by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:  



    Norm and Otto: customers

    Evelyn: waitress

    Hector: cook

(The setting: Harry’s Diner, 2504 Calumet Dr., Sheboygan, Wisconsin.  Norm and Otto are seated in a booth.)

Norm:  They shut my plant down today on account of that giraffe.

Otto:  Me, too.  They told everyone to stay home.  They even canceled bowling.

Norm:  It’s a darn shame that something like this should happen to a nice, peaceful town like Sheboygan.

Otto:  They say it’s not like a normal giraffe, you know.

Norm:  No kidding.  It’s three storeys tall and it drinks blood.

Otto (squinting out the window):  What’s that down there?

Norm (turning to look):  That’s a crane.  You need glasses, boy!

    (Evelyn, the waitress, stops at the table.)

Evelyn:  You boys want some lemon meringue pie?

Norm:  I’ll think about it.  (Looking around.)  The place is almost empty.

Evelyn:  Yeah, it’s that damn giraffe.  It’s killing our business.  And you know what?  It got the cook.

Norm:  Vinnie?

Evelyn:  Yup.  Got him in his driveway.   Sucked all his blood out.

Otto:  God almighty!

Norm:  Gee, that’s too bad.  So who’s cooking?

Evelyn:  We got this new guy name of Hector.  He’s from Guatemala or somewhere.  (Leaning over confidentially)  I think he’s illegal, but as long as he can cook, who cares?

    (Distant thuds are heard, like slow footsteps of a huge animal.  They last for about ten seconds.)

Evelyn:  Oh, my lord!  I hope it’s not that giraffe!  I wish the police would just shoot the thing!

Otto:  Maybe bullets can’t hurt it.

Evelyn:  Who says bullets can’t hurt it?

Otto:  I’m just saying.  It could be like a mutation.

Evelyn:  A mutation from what?

Otto:  Could be from anything.  Could be pollution or radiation.

Evelyn:  Aw, g’won.

Norm:  Otto, you failed science.  You don’t know nothing about it.

Otto:  Hey, I watch science stuff on TV, Norm.  I seen a program about killer bees.  They’re getting further north every year.  We’ll have ’em here one of these days.

Evelyn:  Hold it, there’s something on the TEE-vee.  Lemme turn it up.  (Reaches up to adjust the TV mounted on the wall.)

TV Newscaster:  Grvapna, the blood-sucking giraffe, has now killed fourteen people, according to police.  City Council is now meeting in an emergency session, while outside City Hall, animal rights protestors have gathered in an effort to save the beast.  They say it is an endangered species that should be kept alive for study.

Norm:  Bunch of idiots!  Turn it off!

    (Evelyn reaches up and turns off the TV.)

Evelyn:  This country’s going to the dogs, I’m telling you!

Norm:  McCain’s the man!  He’d kill that giraffe in no time!

Otto:  He would.  And what did Obama say?  He said he’d study all aspects of the problem.

Norm:  That means he wouldn’t do nothing.

    (Louder thuds are heard.)

Otto (looking out the window):  There it is!  Norm!  Evelyn!

Evelyn:  Oh, my lord!  Is it coming this way?

Norm:  No, it’s turning down North Twentieth.  Probably going to the park.

    (Thuds fade away.)

Evelyn:  Oh, those poor people!

Norm:  The park is probably empty, don’t worry.

Evelyn:  I wonder how that giraffe got here anyway.

Otto:  It could have migrated from Africa.

Norm:  Africa isn’t connected to North America, Otto.

Otto:  Maybe it swam.

Norm:  We’re not on the ocean.  That’s Lake Michigan.

Otto:  It could be a secret government experiment that went all wrong.  That’s it!  That’s why they haven’t killed it!  The government knows all about it!

Norm:  You’re crazy.

Otto:  Have you got a better explanation?

Norm (thinking):  No.

Otto:  So there!

Evelyn:  Say, where’d they get that name anyway ?  Grvapna. 

Norm:  I think the Japs named it.

Evelyn:  The Japs?

Norm (winking at Evelyn to signal that he’s putting Otto on):  Sure.  Whenever they have a new monster, they have a name for it right away.  They just loaned us a name.

Otto:   Is that a fact?  I thought it was named after Vince Lombardi’s cat.

Norm:  Vince Lombardi didn’t have no cat named Grvapna.

Evelyn:  Vince Lombardi!  You knucklehead!

Norm:  Say, I think I will have some pie, Evelyn.  I don’t think it’s safe to go home yet.

Evelyn:  Coming right up.  How about you, Otto?

Otto:  No, thanks.  (Evelyn leaves.)   You think that giraffe is going to hang around here a long time?

Norm:  It’s hard to tell with these things.  Maybe when it gets its fill of blood, it’ll move on.

Otto:  You figure?

Norm:  Could be.

Otto:   Giraffes aren’t supposed to drink blood, you know.  They eat leaves and stuff.  I seen a couple at a zoo once.  They looked like they wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Norm:  Nothing’s normal any more, boy!  You got gay marriage, freaky weather, terrorists, gas at four bucks a gallon….It’s not like the old days.

Otto:  That’s for sure.

    (Evelyn returns with the pie and puts it in front of Norm.)

Evelyn:  You know the one good thing about that damn giraffe?

Norm:  No, what?

Evelyn:  It made us famous!  Now everyone knows where Sheboygan is!

Otto:  Yeah, maybe somebody’ll make a movie about Sheboygan and the big giraffe!

Norm:  Yeah, I betcha.  So you might say those people didn’t die in vain.  Their deaths had, like, you know, meaning.  Although I have to admit getting your blood sucked out by a big giraffe probably isn’t the nicest way to die.

Otto:  Sheboygan will bounce back from this tragedy!  We’ll be better than ever!  We’ll be the best town in America!

    (Hector enters from the side where the kitchen is.  He is dressed in women’s clothing — tight red sweater with an overstuffed bra, miniskirt, black fish-net stockings, and high heels.  He has a long, dark wig and heavy make-up.  He is holding a ladle, so the audience knows immediately he’s the cook.)

Hector (loudly):  Behold, at that time I will undo all that afflict thee: and I will save her that halteth, and gather her that was driven out; and I will get them praise and fame in every land where they have been put to shame!

Evelyn (to Norm and Otto):  You see, you should always put your name and address on your mind in case you lose it.

Hector:  Sic itur ad astra!

Otto (to Norm):  What language is that?

Norm:  Must be Guatemalan.

    (Very loud thuds are heard, mixed with weird animal bellows.  Dust falls from the ceiling.)

Evelyn:  Oh, my lord!  It’s here!

Otto:  Grvapna!  It’s Grvapna!

Norm:  Holy Jumping Jesus!  This is it!

    (Lights flicker and go out.  Screaming, sounds of violent breakage, weird animal bellows…..Curtain.)

    Copyright@ 2008, by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:  


Five alcoholic friends of the Prime Minister (one is Smith), each of whom prefers a different drink, were given various undesirable diplomatic postings to get them out of the country but managed to get into various kinds of trouble anyway.  From the clues given, match the man, his drink, his assigned country, and the trouble he was involved in.

1.  Brown, Patterson, and Doucette are, in some order, the one who went to Zimbabwe, the gin drinker, and the one who was involved in adultery.

2.  Either A or B is true, but not both:

   A.  The wine drinker went to Bangladesh.

   B.  The Scotch drinker had the staff revolt.

3.  Four different postings involved: offended hosts, Doucette, Tibet, and Scotch.

4.  The beer drinker committed adultery, but not in Paraguay.

5.  Brown does not drink Scotch, did not go to Burkina Faso, and was not the embezzler.

6.  In Bangladesh the hosts were offended, but not by Patterson or LeGrand.

7.  The visa scam happened in Zimbabwe, but without the vodka drinker.

8.  The embezzlement did not happen in Paraguay.

9.  The gin drinker went to Burkina Faso; the Scotch drinker did not go to Paraguay.

Try another puzzle? — 

    Copyright@ 2008 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:

    I was at a party, and the hostess introduced me to another gentleman: “And this is Mr. Kent, who is an expert on dung beetles.”

    I was momentarily flustered but managed to recover my composure enough to shake hands and say something.  “Oh!…So you know all about dung beetles, eh?”

    “Sure do!” he replied.

    “Oh!…Well!…That’s wonderful!…So, if I should ever need help with dung beetles, you’re just the man to see, then!”

    “That’s right!” he said jovially.

    “Gee!…That’s swell!”   And I excused myself to search for ice.

    Now, I want you to understand that this fellow looked completely normal.  He was well-groomed, healthy-looking, and wore very nice clothes.  He certainly showed no evidence of starvation or poverty.  So the question that dogged me for weeks was this: how exactly does a dung beetle expert make a living?

    I have never seen a help wanted ad for someone who knows about dung beetles.  Neither have I ever seen an ad by a dung beetle expert soliciting customers.  Come to think of it, I’m quite sure I’ve never seen a dung beetle.  I didn’t think there were any in this country.  Nevertheless, this chap Kent was making a living somehow.

    I’ve given this matter a lot of thought, because there has to be an explanation.  Now, on the matter of no help wanted ads, I think I’ve got it.  A dung beetle expert must be self-employed.  No firm is going to hire one.  And as for advertising for customers (or should they be called “clients”?), why, it just isn’t done, you see.  It all happens by word of mouth.  You have to know people, like my hostess at the party.  I mean, if you are really first-rate at your craft, your reputation precedes you.  It’s the same with root canal specialists or prostitutes.  The only difference is that a dung beetle specialist would probably have a large geographical area all to himself, so he wouldn’t have to worry about competition driving his prices down.

    So far, so good.  But how much can someone in this line of work really make?  Can he make enough to support a family at a respectable standard of living?  I find that hard to believe.  But let’s suppose he is all on his own and doesn’t live too luxuriously.  That makes it easier.

    So there is Mr. Kent, or someone like him, sitting at home, waiting for the phone to ring.  More likely, he has an answering machine so he can be out and about, which he has to do in order to stay on top of the dung beetles.  To be a true expert, he would have to be able to study them at all times and in various places, otherwise his knowledge might become obsolete.  Very good.  So now and then he must get a call from a customer.  Maybe it’s an individual, or a company, or some government agency.  They are having some difficulty with dung beetles, so they call Mr. Kent, and he goes out to wherever the problem is, he sees what’s what, and he tells them exactly what to do, or he does it himself.

    Now, how much does he charge?  And does he charge by the hour, or is there a flat fee?  Does he send a bill?  Does he accept credit cards?  If this is the sort of gentleman’s profession I imagine it to be, I’m sure he sends a bill and receives a cheque.  What are his services worth?  A hundred dollars?   Five hundred?  A thousand?  Well, if I were a dung beetle expert, I don’t think I would venture out on a call for less than, say, two hundred.  For something really serious or complicated, I might charge five hundred, depending (on various factors).  Above that, I don’t think many people are going to be willing to pay for help with dung beetles.  They might prefer to suffer indefinitely.  And, of course, you want to stay reasonably affordable for poorer folks, because they are just as likely to have problems with dung beetles as the rich, if not more so.

    So let’s assume Mr. Kent is going to collect somewhere between $200 and $500 for an average call.  That’s still not a lot to live on, because how many calls is he going to get in a month?  I’m going to guess maybe two or three, if only because a greater frequency of dung beetle problems would have eventually come to the attention of the mass media by now, and I would have read something about it, but I haven’t.  But even at two or three calls a month, one would scarcely be able to survive in a modern city.

    The only answer I can think of is that a fellow in Mr. Kent’s profession has to have another source of income to supplement his dung beetle business.  But here is where it gets problematic.  You couldn’t have a salaried job or run a shop or do anything else that had fixed hours because, as I explained before, a fellow would have to be able to go out and study the dung beetles at all hours of the day or night in order to have a scientifically accurate and up-to-date knowledge of their habits.  And, of course, you’d have to make house calls at any hour.  It just wouldn’t do to tell a customer, “I get off work at the plant at five and can come around in the evening.”

    So where does that leave the dung beetle expert?  Clearly, he’s got to have a money-making sideline that doesn’t involve any specific hours or specific place.  There’s a real poser for you!  But I think I have the answer.  The one sideline that meets these requirements is writing poetry!  You can do it anytime, anywhere.

    Of course, if a fellow can’t write poetry, he might as well give up all thought of going into the dung beetle business, because he’ll never be able to make a living.  So we must assume that our expert does know how to write poetry.  (And Mr. Kent certainly looked to me like the sort of chap who could write a good poem if he put his mind to it.)  But is there enough money in poetry?

    Being a writer myself, I can claim to know a thing or two about poetry, although I have never actually been paid any money for a poem.  But then, I’ve written very few poems, so never mind.  Now, there are a few magazines out there that do pay money for poems — maybe not much, but something.  Of course, getting a poem published is not so easy, believe me.  Most poems sent to magazines are actually rejected!  But if our Mr. Kent writes a lot of them, the probabilities become more favorable, you see.  Those little cheques will add up.  And then there are also such things as prizes and awards, which are worth more, and perhaps our Mr. Kent manages to snag one or two a year.

    Of course, one could certainly not make a living just by writing poetry.  And one could certainly not make a living just by being a dung beetle expert either.  But I am fairly sure, now that I have thought it all out, that by combining the two trades — and assuming one knows how to economize — a fellow could probably get by.

    Copyright@ 2008, by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: