Dalgliesh perched precariously on the wing of the ancient World War I biplane as it soared over San Antonio. "You daft bat!" he shouted at the pilot, "this thing hasn't been flown since Biggles!". The pilot gave a thumbs-up and grinned at him. He looked at I-10 and the stream of traffic flowing over it like little ants. They were crossing Huebner Oaks and over DeZavala Road. "Aha!" shouted Dalgliesh excited as the wind whipped past him.
How on earth did he ever get up here, he asked himself rhetorically, and looked at the pilot, Ms. Aerobatics. He remembered the previous evening. They were at it again, now boringly repetitive. Once more making the beast with the two backs and four arms, amorously rubbing their bacons. Somewhere in the nadir of passion, Ms. Aerobatics had suggested the flight over DeZavala University. He had balked at the idea. "Go on! Don't be a coward!" she had said. He had clutched at the sheet and looked at her as she outlined her plan. He felt frightened and tremendously excited.
"Remember!" she had said, resuming once more the joyful rumpy-pumpy, "you have to drink at least 216 fluid ounces of beer." Once more they frolicked. And in the throes of ecstasy he had shouted "Ms. Aerobatics! I name you Virago!"
She signed with her hand, pointing downwards. He peered down and recognized the familiar campus buildings. DeZavala University! He looked down with fear, loathing, and excitement. She looped, bringing the plane down, banking and side-slipping. He gripped the arresting wires holding on lest he should be blown away. She straightened the plane and approached the Psychiatry Building. He looked down at the figure standing on the steps of the building and exulted "it is the Chair of Dementia & Delusion and the Dean of Psychiatry!" He looked at Ms. Aerobatics for reassurance and she gave a wide grin and a thumbs-up.
Ms. Aerobatics brought the plane down in a screaming dive and buzzed the Psychiatry department as his Chair gaped upwards open-mouthed, looking at Dalgliesh balanced precariously on the wing of the plane. People always have their mouths wide open when they look up. With meticulous and precise timing, Dalgliesh unzipped and urinated copiously over the Psychiatry Department.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Tonsorial advice
As I get older, I ponder on the things that comfort. Some may seek solace in the early hours by secretly raiding the fridge and burying their faces in Tres Leches, while some may go shopping. I prefer the luxurious comfort of an old-fashioned Men's barber shop. My pleasures are purely tonsorial. I have long searched for the perfect barber shop in San Antonio. A place where men can be men without being abashed. Instead, I have been subject to awfulness.
I have had my head mauled about by fancy hairdressers in poncy saloons, while they seek my opinion on some actress or television star. As if I know! I pretend that I am interested, and I get a headache. But worse than the idle chatter are the solicitous questions on what size of implement I want used on my head. "Would you like a number 4 or 3 on your sides? What about a 2 on top" I almost scream out hysterically "Yes! Maybe a size three on my temporal lobes, and perhaps a five on my parietal cortical region? Could you make sure to use size five-and-quarter in the region around my superior temporal gyrus, around Brodmann's Area 41, but sparing Area 42, for which I would like you to use a size five-and-one-fifths..."
You can imagine the froth forming around my lips, and my wide staring eyes as I tried to understand what instrument she was referring to and what size. I had not the faintest idea. Why was this awful and beastly woman asking me such searching personal questions?
I was raised in India and Sri Lanka in a totally different manner. Every first Saturday of the month, my father would drag me off to the barber shop, and silently point to the chair. He would bark "short!" to the barber. My father never tipped and so the barber would fall upon the job with savage pleasure, performing the worst ever haircut imaginable. My father did not care about aesthetics. All he wanted was a substantial reduction in length. Maximum cut for the buck, so to speak. He stood glowering over my head the whole time, inspecting it like the lawns in front of India Gate, silently pointing out to the barber the bits he wanted taken off. I walked out looking like a badly plucked chicken. That is how I was raised. To take it like it was, and not let out a word of protest.
Thus, I abhor syrupy solicitousness in the barber's chair. I do not require the barber to inquire how to wield her instrument or in what manner. Nor do I wish her to talk about film actresses or television stars and their divorces. I merely wish her to tonsure. I would prefer her to be a man, but failing that I would prefer her to simply tonsure.
As compensation for the appalling haircut, which my parents admired as if it was the work of Rembrandt, I was allowed an extra cup of tea on my return before I was despatched to the bath. Traditional and conservative Indians think that a freshly shaven head is "inauspicious" and "dirty" because of all the loose bits of hair that float about. Therefore, you cannot contaminate the house upon entering after a haircut, and must rush into the bath. But my parents were very modern, very kind and loving. They allowed me a cup of tea before rudely pushing me into the bath. That cup of tea after a haircut is something that I religiously partake in, even today.
A certain etiquette must be maintained in Barber shops. Much like the etiquette in a Men's Restroom, where no one says a word to anyone, pretending that they are all alone among the expanse of urinals and stalls. If one must acknowledge one's brethren, then it may be done with a sidelong glance and a grunt. In a barber shop a little more leeway is granted. The barber may speak, but the tonsured cannot say anything other than letting out the occasional grunt. I will go so far as to say that only a monosyllabic grunt is permitted. Polysyllabic grunts would be considered as being garrulous.
Anyway, to the joyful news which I must convey. I finally discovered the perfect Men's Barber Shop in San Antonio. It is perfect, like prime numbers. Pure, unspoiled, incapable of corruption, and any sort of division. Perfect. It is located in the basement of the Sheraton Gunter Hotel in Downtown San Antonio. It boasts of being the oldest barber shop in San Antonio.
It is referred to as "The Barber Shop". No extravagant naming is necessary. Simplicity is the sign of elegance. Everything good began right away, as if my road to bliss was covered in rose petals. I drove up to the lobby of the hotel and got out of my car, and announced rather grandly to the valet "Barber shop!" and he nodded courteously and parked my car for free.
Then I walked in and saw pictures of the old barber's chairs. They were made of ceramic. Ceramic! The place smelt of various unguents, hair restoratives, shaving cream, and leather. It gave me goose bumps. I had arrived at the Vatican of Barber Shops. This was the center of Barberdom in the civilized world. And most happily, it was free of women blabbering about television stars and asking searching personal questions.
I was courteously escorted to the chair by a most soothing Barber, and seated as if I was the Emperor Shah Jahan, on the Peacock Throne. And then he stood before me in silence, waiting for orders. I looked up and remembered my mis-spent youth, and said one word, "Short!" He bowed his head deferentially and murmured "of course". After which I sat back and listened to the Barber expounding on etymology, about the primitive tribes of the world, about the history of San Antonio, the railways, atomic weapons, and so on. I like my Barber to be erudite. And he was gratifyingly so. I had to say nothing except to lean back in the chair, lift my chin while he soothingly lathered and shaved. This was as it should be. God's in His heaven, and all's right with the world.
When he showed me the mirror I grunted, and he beamed in appreciation and pleasure at my generous praise. I gave him a 50% tip. No human being on earth deserved more than he did. I had barely said a word, quite literally.
If there is heaven on earth, then I suggest that it is located in the basement of the Gunter Sheraton in Downtown San Antonio. Please do visit. Men may here luxuriate! And may I suggest? Do leave the women and children at home.
It is said that men communicate in grunts and snorts. I think that it may be a somewhat pejorative statement. I would like to offer a compromise. Men have actually a much greater vocabulary than mere grunts. They include two words "short" and "medium". These are to be employed in a Barber Shop, with the attendant benefits.
Enjoy your enhanced vocabulary men! Sit back and be pampered as only men may understand. In the Gunter Sheraton, in Downtown San Antonio.
I have had my head mauled about by fancy hairdressers in poncy saloons, while they seek my opinion on some actress or television star. As if I know! I pretend that I am interested, and I get a headache. But worse than the idle chatter are the solicitous questions on what size of implement I want used on my head. "Would you like a number 4 or 3 on your sides? What about a 2 on top" I almost scream out hysterically "Yes! Maybe a size three on my temporal lobes, and perhaps a five on my parietal cortical region? Could you make sure to use size five-and-quarter in the region around my superior temporal gyrus, around Brodmann's Area 41, but sparing Area 42, for which I would like you to use a size five-and-one-fifths..."
You can imagine the froth forming around my lips, and my wide staring eyes as I tried to understand what instrument she was referring to and what size. I had not the faintest idea. Why was this awful and beastly woman asking me such searching personal questions?
I was raised in India and Sri Lanka in a totally different manner. Every first Saturday of the month, my father would drag me off to the barber shop, and silently point to the chair. He would bark "short!" to the barber. My father never tipped and so the barber would fall upon the job with savage pleasure, performing the worst ever haircut imaginable. My father did not care about aesthetics. All he wanted was a substantial reduction in length. Maximum cut for the buck, so to speak. He stood glowering over my head the whole time, inspecting it like the lawns in front of India Gate, silently pointing out to the barber the bits he wanted taken off. I walked out looking like a badly plucked chicken. That is how I was raised. To take it like it was, and not let out a word of protest.
Thus, I abhor syrupy solicitousness in the barber's chair. I do not require the barber to inquire how to wield her instrument or in what manner. Nor do I wish her to talk about film actresses or television stars and their divorces. I merely wish her to tonsure. I would prefer her to be a man, but failing that I would prefer her to simply tonsure.
As compensation for the appalling haircut, which my parents admired as if it was the work of Rembrandt, I was allowed an extra cup of tea on my return before I was despatched to the bath. Traditional and conservative Indians think that a freshly shaven head is "inauspicious" and "dirty" because of all the loose bits of hair that float about. Therefore, you cannot contaminate the house upon entering after a haircut, and must rush into the bath. But my parents were very modern, very kind and loving. They allowed me a cup of tea before rudely pushing me into the bath. That cup of tea after a haircut is something that I religiously partake in, even today.
A certain etiquette must be maintained in Barber shops. Much like the etiquette in a Men's Restroom, where no one says a word to anyone, pretending that they are all alone among the expanse of urinals and stalls. If one must acknowledge one's brethren, then it may be done with a sidelong glance and a grunt. In a barber shop a little more leeway is granted. The barber may speak, but the tonsured cannot say anything other than letting out the occasional grunt. I will go so far as to say that only a monosyllabic grunt is permitted. Polysyllabic grunts would be considered as being garrulous.
Anyway, to the joyful news which I must convey. I finally discovered the perfect Men's Barber Shop in San Antonio. It is perfect, like prime numbers. Pure, unspoiled, incapable of corruption, and any sort of division. Perfect. It is located in the basement of the Sheraton Gunter Hotel in Downtown San Antonio. It boasts of being the oldest barber shop in San Antonio.
It is referred to as "The Barber Shop". No extravagant naming is necessary. Simplicity is the sign of elegance. Everything good began right away, as if my road to bliss was covered in rose petals. I drove up to the lobby of the hotel and got out of my car, and announced rather grandly to the valet "Barber shop!" and he nodded courteously and parked my car for free.
Then I walked in and saw pictures of the old barber's chairs. They were made of ceramic. Ceramic! The place smelt of various unguents, hair restoratives, shaving cream, and leather. It gave me goose bumps. I had arrived at the Vatican of Barber Shops. This was the center of Barberdom in the civilized world. And most happily, it was free of women blabbering about television stars and asking searching personal questions.
I was courteously escorted to the chair by a most soothing Barber, and seated as if I was the Emperor Shah Jahan, on the Peacock Throne. And then he stood before me in silence, waiting for orders. I looked up and remembered my mis-spent youth, and said one word, "Short!" He bowed his head deferentially and murmured "of course". After which I sat back and listened to the Barber expounding on etymology, about the primitive tribes of the world, about the history of San Antonio, the railways, atomic weapons, and so on. I like my Barber to be erudite. And he was gratifyingly so. I had to say nothing except to lean back in the chair, lift my chin while he soothingly lathered and shaved. This was as it should be. God's in His heaven, and all's right with the world.
When he showed me the mirror I grunted, and he beamed in appreciation and pleasure at my generous praise. I gave him a 50% tip. No human being on earth deserved more than he did. I had barely said a word, quite literally.
If there is heaven on earth, then I suggest that it is located in the basement of the Gunter Sheraton in Downtown San Antonio. Please do visit. Men may here luxuriate! And may I suggest? Do leave the women and children at home.
It is said that men communicate in grunts and snorts. I think that it may be a somewhat pejorative statement. I would like to offer a compromise. Men have actually a much greater vocabulary than mere grunts. They include two words "short" and "medium". These are to be employed in a Barber Shop, with the attendant benefits.
Enjoy your enhanced vocabulary men! Sit back and be pampered as only men may understand. In the Gunter Sheraton, in Downtown San Antonio.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Dalgliesh, Orangutan Keeper
From the Editor:
A most extraordinary thing has happened. BBC reported that Karta the Orangutan at Adelaide Zoo very cleverly short-circuited her security fence and made an escape. See: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8042705.stm.
What was concealed from the news item was that her keeper was Dalgliesh! Yes, it is he. The one with the hair radiating everywhere and eyes gleaming maniacally.
Why did she do this? There is much that is amiss with modern reporting. Few people know that Karta, long fed up with Dalgliesh throwing her the odd banana, decided to make a break for it. But why did she return to her cage after breaking out? Why?
Read on hominids. This piece of real reporting, recorded from Karta's perspective, reveals all.
Editor
Karta sat on the floor of her cage moodily chewing on a Eucalyptus twig. She was fed up with life under Dalgliesh. Fed up! She threw down the twig and picked up another. She chewed and thought about her fate. She sighed and scratched her flanks wondering what manner of thing he was. 'The guy is a primitive ape! Probably an early hominid' she thought, 'no finesse, no sophistication, just early ape!'
She moodily rolled over onto her back, and scratched her stomach. She yawned and stared at the bars of her cage. She yawned again and thought, another day of this, and she would be climbing up the bars. She lifted her leg up and grabbed a foot, and stared at her toes, dissatisfied.
She heard a sound, and rather bored, raised herself wearily. What was it now? She wondered. She rolled her eyes as she saw Dalgliesh peering at her through the bars, hair radiating in all directions, eyes gleaming maniacally. He flung her a banana, "here girl!" he said. She picked it up and flung it back at him, thinking 'eat it yourself, you monkey!' He looked rather startled and said "Karta! Come on girl! Dalgliesh is here babe! Oooo! O! Tseek! Tseek! Tseek! Ooooo!" He started to pant and hoot and scratched his flanks with bowed arms. She ignored him and rolled to her side turning her back to him. She was irritated with his primitive monkey imitation.
Then she heard the familiar sound, the flick of a cigarette lighter. She rolled over and looked at Dalgliesh with interest. He was drawing on the cigarette, and blissfully sucking in the smoke. She was dying for a smoke! She ambled over and pretended to be nice. She held on to the bars and put her face between them and puckered her lips, pouting engagingly at him. He said "Good girl!" and offered her his cigarette. She took the cigarette thinking 'Good Girl? GIRL!? Good grief! What an idiot!'
She moved back and sat on her haunches and smoked the cigarette with enjoyment, pausing to scratch and rub her ample stomach. Dalgliesh imitated her, trying to be friends, and looked around furtively. No point in getting caught offering cigarettes to Karta. His head would be on the chopping block. But she was so stand-offish that this was the only way to be friends with her.
He pressed the little button on the box outside the cage and the gate slid open. Karta watched with interest. She followed the conduits leading from the little switch outside her cage to the box that was mounted on the bars and thought that there must be something here. Dalgliesh came in making his monkey sounds and she watched him coldly. The man was clearly a fool. If it weren't for the cigarettes she would kick him out.
He hung around trying to be amiable and friendly, idiotically making his monkey noises. She smoked the cigarette and flung the butt at him, and then rolled on to her back. She grabbed her feet and started to examine her toe nails again. Something darkish there. Fungus? Probably! Dalgliesh looked at her appealingly, mouthing ingratiating phrases, but she was quite fed up with him. He hesitated knowing that she was off mood and said "Okay Karta! I am off! Just give me a holler girl, and I will come by for a chat and a smoke!" She grimaced and bared her gums at him, to show her displeasure. He grinned at her, uncertainly and inanely, and left.
It was dark when he left and she watched him leave. All those wretched humans who came by during the day, throwing her the odd peanut, a piece of fruit, or their horrid little offspring who pelted her with pebbles and made faces at her, were all gone. The little ones were worse than Dalgliesh. She watched and waited.
When it was quiet she went up to the little box on the cage. She shook it and pounded on it. But it did nothing. She grabbed it and shook it and put her ears to it, but there was nothing in there. She stared at it but nothing happened, and wondered why it opened the gate when Dalgliesh pressed the button. She ran her nimble fingers around the edges and suddenly it snapped open. She stared at the mess of odd little things inside, little ropes running hither and thither. She grabbed them and pulled. She gave a startled squeak as the thing came to life. 'It's alive' she squeaked. Bright sparkling flares of light sputtered and hissed, and smoke poured out. She fell back terrified. As she lay panting, her mouth wide open, she heard the gate open.
Quickly she got up and ambled to the gate on all fours. She paused to scratch the irritating itch in her ample stomach. If only that idiot Dalgliesh had the sense to get the fleas out of there she would think more kindly of him. She paused at the open gate and went out.
'Free! Free at last!' she thought. She burst with happiness 'no more of life under that idiot ape!' She roamed around for a little while looking at the wall on the far side. She had never been outside her cage, and had only a bare memory of her mum holding her in a wide open forest. There was only the sky, the clouds, the wind, the sun, and rain. There was only the warmth and love of her mum. She felt a little sad as she thought of her mum and wondered where she was. Then one day she had been dragged here, to face life under that bumbling fool.
She walked to the wall and looked up. She paused and then heard a sound. Those primitive hominids again! She wanted to scale the wall and beat it. As far away from Dalgliesh as possible. Then she heard that sound again. What was that! And then there was that heavenly smell, of smoke drifting through the air. She looked up at the large portly man holding the cigarette to his face saying "look! There is a fat monkey!" Karta squeaked 'Fat? Who are you calling fat you dumpling? And I am not a monkey!' She flung a stick at him. Startled the man dropped his cigarette and Karta quickly retrieved it.
She sucked on the thing feeling that strange drowsy and happy feeling. She took her time finishing it and thought 'well! It's nice for a girl to get out now and then! But at least that dolt Dalgliesh hands me a decent smoke'. She threw the butt away and ambled back to her cage. She would get another smoke from that ingratiating Dalgliesh tomorrow. She was sure of it.
(Written in May 2009)
Notorious Amateur Non-violinist
Adam Dalgliesh, hair radiating in all directions and eyes gleaming with maniacal fervour was standing with his friends PKVK and JB. Along came a rotound moustached figure who hailed JB. JB performed introductions. "Moustache! this is PKVK the famous professional violinist, and this is...". Dalgliesh interjected smoothly "Dalgliesh! Notorious amateur non-violinist!". JB nodded approvingly "that is a good description. The best one I have of you yet!"
Moustache looked at PKVK "heard of you, of course! Superb performance Thursday evening!" He turned to Dalgliesh "I must confess, I have not yet heard you not perform!" PKVK stepped in and said, "Indeed! it is hard to hear a non-performing non-violinist! Hence his notoriety! Just as Salinger never appeared in public, staying quietly in his room to never write his next book, so too is Dalgliesh." Moustache's moustache quivered, "I say! Does it pay to be a notorious amateur non-violinist?" Dalgliesh said "I work all day to not practice the violin. It is hard to earn a living selling such art. I rely on alms."
Moustache, clearly the dogged determined type continued, "yes, but surely! You must belong to some sort of non-orchestra." Dalgliesh nodded "so it is! I am second non-violinist at the non-performing non-orchestra." Moustache, teeth firmly in the ball, worrying it like a terrier, went on "you must have a non-conductor?" JB nodded "and thus, incapable of producing an electrifying performance!" PKVK chortled and Dalgliesh continued "We do! but we never meet. I hardly know who belongs to the amateur non-musicians non-orchestra. We simply announce our non-performances and never show up."
Moustache, clearly a student of Théâtre de l'Absurde and Dadaism asked shrewdly, "or do you just not announce your non-performances?" JB let out an exclamation in admiration of the penetrating question and Dalgliesh responded "You are very perceptive Moustache! Most of our non-performances are never announced. Thus we are never surprised that no one ever shows up." Moustache asked "tickets?" Dalgliesh smiled "We never announce the sale of tickets thus guaranteeing that they will never be available. People unaware of a non-performance are also unaware that there are no tickets to buy."
Moustache cogitated. As a devotee of Eugene Ionesco and Samuel Beckett, he was clearly impressed. "This is fantastic!" he murmured "you are a non-performing non-violinist, a member of a non-orchestra that never meets, never advertising non-performances for which there are no tickets, and with no audience that is aware of all this! Bravo Monsignor! You do Ionesco proud!"
Dalgliesh inclined his head with great modesty "such is art! To which we perform such great service!" Moustache said "or perhaps not?" And Dalgliesh said "and not that too!"
(Written in February 2009)
Moustache looked at PKVK "heard of you, of course! Superb performance Thursday evening!" He turned to Dalgliesh "I must confess, I have not yet heard you not perform!" PKVK stepped in and said, "Indeed! it is hard to hear a non-performing non-violinist! Hence his notoriety! Just as Salinger never appeared in public, staying quietly in his room to never write his next book, so too is Dalgliesh." Moustache's moustache quivered, "I say! Does it pay to be a notorious amateur non-violinist?" Dalgliesh said "I work all day to not practice the violin. It is hard to earn a living selling such art. I rely on alms."
Moustache, clearly the dogged determined type continued, "yes, but surely! You must belong to some sort of non-orchestra." Dalgliesh nodded "so it is! I am second non-violinist at the non-performing non-orchestra." Moustache, teeth firmly in the ball, worrying it like a terrier, went on "you must have a non-conductor?" JB nodded "and thus, incapable of producing an electrifying performance!" PKVK chortled and Dalgliesh continued "We do! but we never meet. I hardly know who belongs to the amateur non-musicians non-orchestra. We simply announce our non-performances and never show up."
Moustache, clearly a student of Théâtre de l'Absurde and Dadaism asked shrewdly, "or do you just not announce your non-performances?" JB let out an exclamation in admiration of the penetrating question and Dalgliesh responded "You are very perceptive Moustache! Most of our non-performances are never announced. Thus we are never surprised that no one ever shows up." Moustache asked "tickets?" Dalgliesh smiled "We never announce the sale of tickets thus guaranteeing that they will never be available. People unaware of a non-performance are also unaware that there are no tickets to buy."
Moustache cogitated. As a devotee of Eugene Ionesco and Samuel Beckett, he was clearly impressed. "This is fantastic!" he murmured "you are a non-performing non-violinist, a member of a non-orchestra that never meets, never advertising non-performances for which there are no tickets, and with no audience that is aware of all this! Bravo Monsignor! You do Ionesco proud!"
Dalgliesh inclined his head with great modesty "such is art! To which we perform such great service!" Moustache said "or perhaps not?" And Dalgliesh said "and not that too!"
(Written in February 2009)
From the Garlic Review of Books
Review by Brian Shaughnessey.
The Dalgliesh Ultimatum: Who Stole My DNA?
By Francis Hinojosa. 9632 pp. New York, 2007.
In this weighty tome, Adam Dalgliesh, highly trained assassin, continues his global blundering, on a chaotic and paranoid quest for his lost DNA. In Europe (traditionally the origin of all evil) he uses a barrage of techniques to eliminate mostly swarthy Arab-looking men. While many of these involve simple shooting at point-blank range or stabbing, others are more sophisticated battles involving, for instance, lengthy martial arts demonstrations using a hard-bound copy of Guyton's "Medical Physiology" as a defensive shield, and culminating in choking. A gurgling death follows. Needless to say, dead bodies litter the streets of Paris and clog the public toilets.
At one point his paranoia is so great that he single-handedly assaults the entire metro station at Champs Elysees. This, despite the CIA having taken control of the 35 video cameras that monitor the station and positioned fifty four covert operatives. They can only watch helplessly from Langley, VA, as Dalgliesh goes on a rampage kicking, chopping, slashing, cutting, shooting, stabbing anyone who goes by. Creating mayhem like a wounded water-buffalo thrashing about in the undergrowth.
But Dalgliesh does not know who he is. He simply has no idea, just vague memories of being under water and hearing strange voices and seeing blurred faces peering at him through face masks.
Readers may recall that Dalgliesh'es paranoid global search for his lost genes began simply enough in "The Dalgliesh Gametogenesis" (Milwaukee, WI, 2002, 5649 pp.) where the in-utero machinations of the evil CIA lead to a loss of Dalgliesh'es DNA. Simply put, his zygote was implanted with surrogate DNA. His paranoia is therefore embryogenic.
Then in "The Dalgliesh Identity" (Lubbock, TX, 2003, 7563 pp), we witness Adam Dalgliesh mature into a teenage assassin and develop facial hair. Around the time his rima glottidis enlarges and the thyroid cartilage becomes prominent he notches his 654th kill. He also starts to have strange dreams about being held under water. He hears voices and sees strange faces. The DSM IV indications are all there. He is prescribed clozapine and electroconvulsive therapy.
In a little known book "The Dalgliesh Gonadarche" (Podunk, NY, 2003, 235pp.) Hinojosa digresses into the physiology of the onset of puberty in Dalgliesh, and the behavioral and anatomical changes that this traumatic event manifests. It is a tedious book describing an awkward and acne ridden teenager watching television, eating pizza, and getting up only occasionally to assassinate the neighbors cats. It is a comparatively slim volume, but a favourite among Dalgliesh aficionados because it features Dalgliesh using a SIG SG550 Sniper's rifle to pot cats. A true first.
Now Dalgliesh returns to deliver his ultimatum in "Who stole my DNA?" The readers are spared any unnecessary suspense that could possibly enrich the book. We know the CIA did it. He knows the CIA did it, and the CIA knows that he knows that the CIA did it. They are terrified of Dalgliesh, the most lethal of lethal assassins. But they have created this monster. Hardly time to complain "how much sharper than a serpent's tooth" etc. (King Lear).
The fear is so great that Angela L, ruthless chief of covert operations in Manhattan commands at one point "I want this building cordoned off for 1000 blocks in all directions! No! Wait! Make that 1200 blocks!" Her deputy protests "Heck chief! There aren't that many blocks in Manhattan". She snaps "well! find them!" Then she rounds on her team "Listen up! This is a class A, National Security Directive 5. Dalgliesh is here. I want rendition protocols, and put the asset on stand-by just in case." And so it goes on, in breathless style. Who does Robert Ludlum think he is? Hinojosa?
Then the denouement. Dalgliesh crashes into the secret medical center of the CIA in Manhattan, and confronts the evil doctor Wong Min (an Asian villain, obviously). He discovers the secret of his strange dreams and hallucinations. All the water he is surrounded by? That's amniotic fluid, a soupy rich broth that is nourishing his zygote. The strange faces he keeps dreaming about are those of the evil resident Dr. Wong Min and his assistants mucking about with his DNA.
He soon sets them right. Slashing, shooting, chopping, kicking, stabbing, poking, he proceeds to demonstrate a truly vast repertoire of CIA tricks. He slays his opponents. The CIA is bested by the CIA. Dalgliesh emerges unscathed, his memory retrieved and his identity restored. He discovers he was formerly Rama Ratnam, a dull and boring scientist suffering from astigmatism, chronic borborygmia, severe psoriasis, and terminal hemorrhoids. Desperately seeking to overcome his boring existence that largely consisted of dinning the basics of human physiology into the heads of undergraduates, he sought ought an exciting career at the CIA. His predicament followed.
(Written on New Year's Day, 2008)
The Dalgliesh Ultimatum: Who Stole My DNA?
By Francis Hinojosa. 9632 pp. New York, 2007.
In this weighty tome, Adam Dalgliesh, highly trained assassin, continues his global blundering, on a chaotic and paranoid quest for his lost DNA. In Europe (traditionally the origin of all evil) he uses a barrage of techniques to eliminate mostly swarthy Arab-looking men. While many of these involve simple shooting at point-blank range or stabbing, others are more sophisticated battles involving, for instance, lengthy martial arts demonstrations using a hard-bound copy of Guyton's "Medical Physiology" as a defensive shield, and culminating in choking. A gurgling death follows. Needless to say, dead bodies litter the streets of Paris and clog the public toilets.
At one point his paranoia is so great that he single-handedly assaults the entire metro station at Champs Elysees. This, despite the CIA having taken control of the 35 video cameras that monitor the station and positioned fifty four covert operatives. They can only watch helplessly from Langley, VA, as Dalgliesh goes on a rampage kicking, chopping, slashing, cutting, shooting, stabbing anyone who goes by. Creating mayhem like a wounded water-buffalo thrashing about in the undergrowth.
But Dalgliesh does not know who he is. He simply has no idea, just vague memories of being under water and hearing strange voices and seeing blurred faces peering at him through face masks.
Readers may recall that Dalgliesh'es paranoid global search for his lost genes began simply enough in "The Dalgliesh Gametogenesis" (Milwaukee, WI, 2002, 5649 pp.) where the in-utero machinations of the evil CIA lead to a loss of Dalgliesh'es DNA. Simply put, his zygote was implanted with surrogate DNA. His paranoia is therefore embryogenic.
Then in "The Dalgliesh Identity" (Lubbock, TX, 2003, 7563 pp), we witness Adam Dalgliesh mature into a teenage assassin and develop facial hair. Around the time his rima glottidis enlarges and the thyroid cartilage becomes prominent he notches his 654th kill. He also starts to have strange dreams about being held under water. He hears voices and sees strange faces. The DSM IV indications are all there. He is prescribed clozapine and electroconvulsive therapy.
In a little known book "The Dalgliesh Gonadarche" (Podunk, NY, 2003, 235pp.) Hinojosa digresses into the physiology of the onset of puberty in Dalgliesh, and the behavioral and anatomical changes that this traumatic event manifests. It is a tedious book describing an awkward and acne ridden teenager watching television, eating pizza, and getting up only occasionally to assassinate the neighbors cats. It is a comparatively slim volume, but a favourite among Dalgliesh aficionados because it features Dalgliesh using a SIG SG550 Sniper's rifle to pot cats. A true first.
Now Dalgliesh returns to deliver his ultimatum in "Who stole my DNA?" The readers are spared any unnecessary suspense that could possibly enrich the book. We know the CIA did it. He knows the CIA did it, and the CIA knows that he knows that the CIA did it. They are terrified of Dalgliesh, the most lethal of lethal assassins. But they have created this monster. Hardly time to complain "how much sharper than a serpent's tooth" etc. (King Lear).
The fear is so great that Angela L, ruthless chief of covert operations in Manhattan commands at one point "I want this building cordoned off for 1000 blocks in all directions! No! Wait! Make that 1200 blocks!" Her deputy protests "Heck chief! There aren't that many blocks in Manhattan". She snaps "well! find them!" Then she rounds on her team "Listen up! This is a class A, National Security Directive 5. Dalgliesh is here. I want rendition protocols, and put the asset on stand-by just in case." And so it goes on, in breathless style. Who does Robert Ludlum think he is? Hinojosa?
Then the denouement. Dalgliesh crashes into the secret medical center of the CIA in Manhattan, and confronts the evil doctor Wong Min (an Asian villain, obviously). He discovers the secret of his strange dreams and hallucinations. All the water he is surrounded by? That's amniotic fluid, a soupy rich broth that is nourishing his zygote. The strange faces he keeps dreaming about are those of the evil resident Dr. Wong Min and his assistants mucking about with his DNA.
He soon sets them right. Slashing, shooting, chopping, kicking, stabbing, poking, he proceeds to demonstrate a truly vast repertoire of CIA tricks. He slays his opponents. The CIA is bested by the CIA. Dalgliesh emerges unscathed, his memory retrieved and his identity restored. He discovers he was formerly Rama Ratnam, a dull and boring scientist suffering from astigmatism, chronic borborygmia, severe psoriasis, and terminal hemorrhoids. Desperately seeking to overcome his boring existence that largely consisted of dinning the basics of human physiology into the heads of undergraduates, he sought ought an exciting career at the CIA. His predicament followed.
(Written on New Year's Day, 2008)
The Battle of the Neural Circuits
Some time ago I got a very close-cropped haircut (it is getting hotter). A day later when I was at the gym a ROTC student in the locker-room stopped me and inquired "Army? Air-force?" I looked him squarely in the eyes and said, "Neurophysiology!"
The remark was impromptu but it got me thinking. Suppose, just suppose that neurophysiology was one of the fighting arms of the military, then imagine! Do read on...
It is an incredibly hot San Antonio evening with temperatures hovering in the mid 200s. I rub my hands in front of a cold fire, the freezing flames flickering blue and white, trying to keep cold, and write ..
The Battle of the Neural Circuits.
Recounted by: Lt. Gen. Physiol. R. Ratnam (Retd.) NVIII, fMRI, EEG, ECochG, NIDCD.
Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces, Normandy, March 1944. A concrete bunker. A naked bulb at the end of a grimy wire glowed fitfully over a large table, around which stood three figures poring over a map. General Eisenhower stood in the middle, on either side stood General Sir Bernard Montgomery commander of the British Army Group, and General Omar Bradley commander of the American Army Group. The allies had finally established a bridgehead over Normandy, and the two Army groups were poised to slice through Germany executing a precise pincer movement as they raced towards Berlin. But all was not well. Silence hung heavily in the air until General Eisenhower sucked his breath in sharply, "won't do!" he said, "ask General Physiologist Sir Dalgliesh to come in, will you?" he said to his aide.
General Physiologist Sir Adam Dalgliesh, recently knighted for his heroic efforts at cutting off the German advance through the median eminence, walked in. Even General Eisenhower, battle-hardened though he was, was in awe of Sir Dalgliesh. By holding on to the median eminence, Sir Dalgliesh prevented the transection of the hypothalamus-pituitary axis, frustrating the German effort to cut off the vital gonadal hormone circulation. He was given the affectionate, albeit informal title, Sir Dalgliesh, GnRH.
Sir Dalgliesh walked in, hair radiating in all directions and eyes gleaming maniacally. He looked at his adjutant and said curtly "A Rooibos, strong and hot please!" His adjutant saluted crisply and left the tent. General Eisenhower smiled, "Ah! Adam! So pleased to see! Do come!" He looked at Sir Dalgliesh keenly, trying to discern signs of fatigue, or defeatism perhaps. But in this he was defeated. Gen. Physl. Dalgliesh was alert and vigorous, his eyes gleamed even more maniacally than usual. Gen. E was comforted, "Ah! Adam!" he said, "we are in a conundrum, of sorts..." he looked appealingly at Gen. D, "we have the Germans, sort of, but not quite... you see... its all brains from now on" At the word "brains" Gen Physl. D brightened, and his hair radiated wildly, twisting and curling, looping back, like coronal arcs in a solar flare. The surface temperature of his brain was over a million degrees Kelvin.
Quickly, Gen. E highlighted the problem. The army groups of Montgomery and Bradley were poised to move with massed infantry, artillery and armour, but what they were lacking was "brain power!" thundered Gen. E, striking his fist with force on the table. "By God! We have the square-heads where we want them! We have the troops, the artillery, the armour... but what we need most is neurophysiology!" He looked at Gen. D appealingly, "without neurophysiology, especially the tract-transection units, the GABA inhibitors, the Na+ channel blockers, we are doomed!" He struck his fist forcefully on the table "we need the neuroanatomy! We must know how the Nazi units are tracing their way along the internal capsule!"
Gen Dalgliesh was poised and cool, the Rooibos was refreshing, calming, and all future action was clear. He knew that Gen E was over-excited and so he said coolly, "The GABA inhibitory units are ready to go and we have ample supplies of Bicuculline; the tract-transection units are straining at the leash and are waiting orders; and the channel blockers ... well! What can I say! Their pico-spritzers have been tested and tried, we have huge reserves of TTX, and they are in position!" He contained his excitement and said, "they are awaiting orders!"
"Excellent!" boomed Gen. E, "how many units of the GABA inhibitors?" "Twenty!" said Gen D, "the tract-transection units?" asked Gen. E, "Fifteen, with precision surgical lasers!" said Gen D, and so on. At the end, Gen Eisenhower turned around to Montgomery and Bradley and said, "by God! Thanks to neurophysiology, we can defeat the Hun!"
He turned to Gen. Pysl. Dalgliesh and took his hand in both hands and said "Adam! By heck! Future generations will owe their freedom to neurophysiology, neuropharmacology, and neruroanatomy!" Gen. D, his hair radiating maniacally in all directions, inclined his head with modesty, and said softly "let us do battle General! I am sure that your confidence in neurophysiology will not be misplaced. We serve the cause of freedom with honour!"
[I conclude the first part of this epic encounter. Future episodes will focus on the battle of the circumventricular organs, the tragic losses in the suprachiasmatic nucleus, the heroic efforts of the allies in the basal ganglia, and finally, how the battle of the inferior colliculus set the stage for the capture of Berlin. In this final episode, we will recount how Gen. Physiol. Dalgleish succumbed to grievous wounds in the battle of the auditory efferents. - Lt. Gen. Physiol. (Retd.) Ratnam.]
(Written in April 2007)
The remark was impromptu but it got me thinking. Suppose, just suppose that neurophysiology was one of the fighting arms of the military, then imagine! Do read on...
It is an incredibly hot San Antonio evening with temperatures hovering in the mid 200s. I rub my hands in front of a cold fire, the freezing flames flickering blue and white, trying to keep cold, and write ..
The Battle of the Neural Circuits.
Recounted by: Lt. Gen. Physiol. R. Ratnam (Retd.) NVIII, fMRI, EEG, ECochG, NIDCD.
Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces, Normandy, March 1944. A concrete bunker. A naked bulb at the end of a grimy wire glowed fitfully over a large table, around which stood three figures poring over a map. General Eisenhower stood in the middle, on either side stood General Sir Bernard Montgomery commander of the British Army Group, and General Omar Bradley commander of the American Army Group. The allies had finally established a bridgehead over Normandy, and the two Army groups were poised to slice through Germany executing a precise pincer movement as they raced towards Berlin. But all was not well. Silence hung heavily in the air until General Eisenhower sucked his breath in sharply, "won't do!" he said, "ask General Physiologist Sir Dalgliesh to come in, will you?" he said to his aide.
General Physiologist Sir Adam Dalgliesh, recently knighted for his heroic efforts at cutting off the German advance through the median eminence, walked in. Even General Eisenhower, battle-hardened though he was, was in awe of Sir Dalgliesh. By holding on to the median eminence, Sir Dalgliesh prevented the transection of the hypothalamus-pituitary axis, frustrating the German effort to cut off the vital gonadal hormone circulation. He was given the affectionate, albeit informal title, Sir Dalgliesh, GnRH.
Sir Dalgliesh walked in, hair radiating in all directions and eyes gleaming maniacally. He looked at his adjutant and said curtly "A Rooibos, strong and hot please!" His adjutant saluted crisply and left the tent. General Eisenhower smiled, "Ah! Adam! So pleased to see! Do come!" He looked at Sir Dalgliesh keenly, trying to discern signs of fatigue, or defeatism perhaps. But in this he was defeated. Gen. Physl. Dalgliesh was alert and vigorous, his eyes gleamed even more maniacally than usual. Gen. E was comforted, "Ah! Adam!" he said, "we are in a conundrum, of sorts..." he looked appealingly at Gen. D, "we have the Germans, sort of, but not quite... you see... its all brains from now on" At the word "brains" Gen Physl. D brightened, and his hair radiated wildly, twisting and curling, looping back, like coronal arcs in a solar flare. The surface temperature of his brain was over a million degrees Kelvin.
Quickly, Gen. E highlighted the problem. The army groups of Montgomery and Bradley were poised to move with massed infantry, artillery and armour, but what they were lacking was "brain power!" thundered Gen. E, striking his fist with force on the table. "By God! We have the square-heads where we want them! We have the troops, the artillery, the armour... but what we need most is neurophysiology!" He looked at Gen. D appealingly, "without neurophysiology, especially the tract-transection units, the GABA inhibitors, the Na+ channel blockers, we are doomed!" He struck his fist forcefully on the table "we need the neuroanatomy! We must know how the Nazi units are tracing their way along the internal capsule!"
Gen Dalgliesh was poised and cool, the Rooibos was refreshing, calming, and all future action was clear. He knew that Gen E was over-excited and so he said coolly, "The GABA inhibitory units are ready to go and we have ample supplies of Bicuculline; the tract-transection units are straining at the leash and are waiting orders; and the channel blockers ... well! What can I say! Their pico-spritzers have been tested and tried, we have huge reserves of TTX, and they are in position!" He contained his excitement and said, "they are awaiting orders!"
"Excellent!" boomed Gen. E, "how many units of the GABA inhibitors?" "Twenty!" said Gen D, "the tract-transection units?" asked Gen. E, "Fifteen, with precision surgical lasers!" said Gen D, and so on. At the end, Gen Eisenhower turned around to Montgomery and Bradley and said, "by God! Thanks to neurophysiology, we can defeat the Hun!"
He turned to Gen. Pysl. Dalgliesh and took his hand in both hands and said "Adam! By heck! Future generations will owe their freedom to neurophysiology, neuropharmacology, and neruroanatomy!" Gen. D, his hair radiating maniacally in all directions, inclined his head with modesty, and said softly "let us do battle General! I am sure that your confidence in neurophysiology will not be misplaced. We serve the cause of freedom with honour!"
[I conclude the first part of this epic encounter. Future episodes will focus on the battle of the circumventricular organs, the tragic losses in the suprachiasmatic nucleus, the heroic efforts of the allies in the basal ganglia, and finally, how the battle of the inferior colliculus set the stage for the capture of Berlin. In this final episode, we will recount how Gen. Physiol. Dalgleish succumbed to grievous wounds in the battle of the auditory efferents. - Lt. Gen. Physiol. (Retd.) Ratnam.]
(Written in April 2007)
Drive-by Baggings
Adam Dalgliesh gazed feverishly at the vending machine. "Basic needs are there" he muttered as he glared at the selections. His hair radiated in all directions and his eyes gleamed maniacally. "Strong coffee" he said to himself as he laboriously inserted the required number of coins into the slot. Dalgliesh had simple needs. A hot cup of coffee was enough to please him. He took a sip and screwed up his face and said "Blechh!" This was not coffee. He sniffed the steaming liquid carefully, his nose twitching. Then his face broke into a delighted grin "Chicken soup!" he cried aloud. Happily he took big swallows. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Hey!" he yelled, startled and whirled around to face a big burly figure in overalls and red beard. "Sorry mate!" said the red beard, "this machine is not dispensing." Dalgliesh sucked into the cup drawing in the nourishing soup. "Whaddyamean?" he mumbled. Red beard looked at Dalgliesh indifferently as he sucked his soup noisily and said, "It’s being cleaned. I am rinsing the whole thing out with detergent." Dalgliesh blanched just as he drained the last of the detergent. "Aiyaah!" he yelled, feeling his stomach turn. Soon he was rolling on the floor clutching his stomach. Red Beard whistled happily as he opened the machine and drained out a copious quantity of coffee, mocha java, and chocolate mixed with detergent. "There you are friend!" he said briskly and quite oblivious to the twitching fetus, "it's ready to go again!"
Dalgliesh had wanted strong black coffee. He thought he had got chicken soup, but actually wound up with industrial grade detergent in his stomach. Calvinists would say "serves him right! He obviously deserved what he got!" Hindus, such as the noted philosopher Shankara, would sigh and say "such is life!" Dalgliesh hallucinated. "My friend," Shankara said, with sorrowful bulging eyes suggesting hyper-thyroidism, "in life we start off by paddling up shit creek in a leaking canoe, and continue to paddle up the very same creek thinking we know what we want, are happy and pleased that we get something else. But what we really get..." and here Shankara's eyes glowed with compassion, "... is a lot of shit slowly leaking into the canoe." Shankara sighed lugubriously, "return my friend! You have learned your lesson! Proceed with the calculations on perturbations of rotating black holes. But it does not matter. Black holes will be black holes, whether you perturb them theoretically or not."
Dalgliesh glared at the computer screen. His hair radiated in all directions and his eyes gleamed maniacally as always. "Axisymmetry... shymmetry..." he muttered to himself. The black hole was spewing X-rays, but he hated James Joyce. He hated Finnegans Wake in particular. "Psychotic ramblings" he muttered to himself deliriously. Then he had an idea. He left the computer running and went to bed, tossing all night as the idea took firm shape.
The next morning, tired and disoriented, Dalgliesh fell out of bed, and without brushing his teeth, walked out to a warm summer's day and eased himself into his car. The battered Volkswagen Beetle roared into life and backfired violently, spewing clouds of black smoke as it rocked its way unsteadily down University Street. "Bastards!" he muttered half asleep. "Incoherent, rambling bastards!" His targets were James Joyce, Gibbon, and Winston Churchill. He loathed them with a passion. He decided it was time to pay a visit to the bookstores.
University bookstores that summer witnessed an unprecedented rise in sales of three authors: Joyce (Ulysses and Finnegans Wake), Gibbon (The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, in three volumes) and Churchill (The History of the English Speaking People, in four volumes). In all, 720 volumes were sold, a total of 160 titles by Joyce and 80 each by Gibbon and Churchill. Booksellers were delighted. Never were Joyce, Gibbon or Churchill so popular with the campus populace.
Six PM, Friday evening, Crowded campus pubs. Academics, students, town-folk were all sitting out on the sidewalks, supping warm beer. The matronly librarian of the English Department was comfortably seated with a pint in front of her when a battered Volkswagen Beetle screeched to a halt, feet away from her. She ignored the beetle but looked up as the car backfired violently and spewed oily black smoke. She saw a wild face peering out the window, hair radiating in all directions. Gleaming eyes were noticeable. Dalgliesh was overjoyed, "the English librarian!" he chortled. As the unsuspecting librarian looked on, she saw the figure reach for something, and the next instant "Thwack!" a large bag hit her squarely on the head and she pitched to the ground, beer untouched. She moaned feebly and people rushed up, looking at the disappearing Beetle. One of the beer drinkers helped her back to her chair while another picked up the bag and gingerly opened it and peered inside. Puzzled, he pulled out two copies of Joyce, and the three and four volumes of Gibbon and Churchill, respectively, and passed it around. People looked and shrugged as they thumbed through the copies. "Batty" said someone.
All through that dreadful summer, people relaxing over their beer were dropping to the ground as bags of Joyce, Gibbon and Churchill smote them on the heads. "Notorious Drive-by Baggings Continue!" shrieked the excitable campus rag, "Constabulary Clueless!". Librarians, Deans, Dons, Masters, Council Members, the list totalled 67. They all went down scarce a groan. It was the day after midsummer that Dalgliesh, burping aloud after a heavy dinner of Korean packaged noodles, half-pound of Belgian chocolate and a pint of Coke, eased himself into his battered Beetle and rubbed his hands in expectant glee. He checked his bags. Yes, all nine books were in place in each bag. He drove slowly to the campus pubs. There were fewer people about now, terrorized by the notorious bagger. Suddenly Dalgliesh spied him and his eyes gleamed a little more brightly. "Constable Biggins! That lout!" he cried with joy as he sighted the portly figure wobbling along on his bicycle. The sound of the bag hitting the local authority on the head was the most satisfying thing Dalgliesh had heard. But, Dalgliesh had under estimated the doughty Biggins. In a flash Biggins was after him careening on his bicycle, in hot pursuit. Then the Beetle stalled, backfired and would not move again. "Got you!" said PC Biggins with satisfaction. Dalgliesh was bagged.
They threw the book at him. The judge eyed him grimly over his glasses "You, Sir! Are a menace to civilized society! Socially maladjusted, overly bookish, and ...", he looked at his notes, "... given to perturbing black holes". "Off with his head!" muttered the prosecutor. Defense pleaded "Milord!" he whined unctuously, "Milord! defendant is a tired, over-worked research scholar, given to, given to..." he looked desperately at an unrepentant Dalgliesh sitting there glaring, hair radiating in all directions, "... given to the occasional practical joke". The judge was unmoved, irritated with practical jokes. "68 practical jokes is too many practical jokes, Counsel!" He slammed his gavel, "One term of English tutoring!" and he looked mildly amused, "I believe they are offering Finnegans Wake next term,” he said with satisfaction. Dalgliesh was finished, he held his head in his hands and groaned.
Shankara appeared once more and looked at him sorrowfully, eyes bulging. "Friend, O! Clueless One!" he said. "In shit creek there is no rest. It is here that you must find the way to the union of the inner with the outer. There is no respite. Recognize that shit happens, and it happens all the time with leaky boats paddling along this glorious cosmic creek." He shrugged as he disappeared. "Stick to Black holes, O! Ignorant One! Joyce, Gibbon, Churchill are all here, at the bottom of the creek. There is no escape".
(Written in 1998)
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