Bombay Then and Now

A commando drops onto the roof of the Jewish center in Bombay. Photo by Siddhartha Babbaji, AP, in the San Francisco Chronicle and other major newspapers.
A statue in one of 30 Buddhist caves of Ajanta, near Aurangabad on the Deccan plateau.
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By Pat Browning

As a lifelong news junkie, I spent my spare time this week roaming the Internet for the latest on the disaster in Bombay. It has been Mumbai only since 1995, which was day before yesterday. It will always be Bombay to me.

Such a kaleidoscope of memories as I followed the news:

The view from my hotel on the back bay overlooking Marine Drive. Running along the shoreline of the Arabian Sea, Marine Drive glittered with streetlights at night, living up to its nickname of the Queen's Necklace. In the stillness of early morning, solitary men fished from small boats on the bay.

The little-known museum in Mahatma Gandhi’s former home. I was fascinated by glass display cases of miniature figurines in tableaux of scenes from Gandhi’s life. From this house, the Mahatma (Great Soul) launched the civil disobedience movement that led to India’s independence from Great Britain.

The Towers of Silence. Closed to outsiders, they sit on a busy street, hidden by trees. The Parsis, or Zoroastrians, of Bombay, bring their dead to the Towers of Silence and leave them on stone slabs for the buzzards to pick clean. Bones are left to calcify in the sun and eventually swept into a deep well.

Parsis worship earth, fire and water. As it was explained to me, the Towers of Silence don’t pollute the earth with burial; don’t pollute the air by cremation; don’t pollute the water with ashes; and they feed the birds.

A name surfaced during reportage that has been dismissed as fictitious, but it got my attention. A group calling itself the Deccan Mujahadeen supposedly claimed responsibility for the terror in Bombay.

Historically, the Deccan plateau has been ruled by Muslims. The city of Aurangabad, about 100 miles east of Bombay, is the jumping-off place for India’s famous cave temples at Ajanta and Ellora. With Buddhist, Hindu and Jain paintings and sculptures dating as far back as 200 B.C., both sites are UNESCO World Heritage Sites. In size, scope and beauty, they are overwhelming.

Gandhi’s influence was pervasive. One of his programs for lifting India’s masses out of poverty was “cottage industry.” On the taxi trip between Aurangabad and the caves, I saw a sandalwood soap factory, a silkworm farm, and many items carved from local woods. I bought a small, round, three-legged rosewood table inlaid with ivory for about $26. The legs were removable for packing into a suitcase. I still have it.

After I got home from India, I read Louis Bromfield’s 1940 novel, NIGHT IN BOMBAY, and marveled at how contemporary it seemed. Bombay apparently had not changed much since Bromfield wrote his book. When I was in Bombay, India’s telephone system didn’t work. Messages were delivered by hand. Even in luxury hotels, reservations were written by hand, on little file cards.

What a difference technology has made. During this week’s nightmare, even the terrorists had cell phones.

Worldwide Wind Power

by Jean Henry Mead

Man has harnessed the power of wind for thousands of years to propel sailing ships as well as windmills to pump water and grind grain. Wind power has been rediscovered and giant windmills or turbines are gradually taking the place of more conventional sources of energy.

Wind power converts energy into electricity with the use of turbines, and although windmills only accounted for one percent of our electrical needs at the beginning of the year, worldwide capacity of wind-powered generators was 94.1 gigawatts of power. Wind power generated nearly 20% of electricity production in Denmark, 9% in Spain and Portugal and 6% in Germany and Israel.

Wind farms are spreading rapidly in California, Wyoming, and other states with traditionally windy areas. In the process they’re causing real concerns for environmentalists who are worried about the disruption of wildlife breeding grounds. Most of the commercial grade wind, according to Erik Molvar, a wildlife biologist, is in southeast Wyoming. Wyoming residents, however, won’t benefit from the wind turbines because the electricity is being used by out-of-state consumers, although Wyoming electricity rates have jumped 7% to help pay for the turbines.

Another problem is that Wyoming‘s economy is heavily dependent on its coal mines and petroleum. Now that the price of oil has reached record lows for the year, hundreds of drilling rigs have shut down and coal mines have cut back on production, resulting in massive unemployment.

Two huge wind farms are proposed to be built on private land with a total of a thousand turbines south of the 1-80 corridor by the Power Company of Wyoming, LLC, an affiliate of the Denver-based Anschultz Corporation. Built on cattle grazing land, biologists are concerned that the wind farm will further endanger sage grouse breeding grounds. The birds are already on the verge of extinction.

Farmers and ranchers are in favor of the wind farms because it’s becoming increasingly difficult to earn a living solely on agriculture. So wind farms on private land are becoming a reality. “Having wind energy development that is sensitive to the needs of wildlife is in everyone’s best interests,” Molvar said. But wind farms on remote private land are difficult to regulate.

The first crudely-built windmill was erected in the first century AD and used to power an organ. Six centuries later, a commercial windmill was built in Afghanistan. The vertical axel windmills were made of six to twelve sails covered in reed matting or cloth. They were used to draw water and grind corn as well as aid in grist milling and sugarcane production. Horizontal axel windmills were used extensively in northern Europe for the grinding of flour from the year 1180, and some still exist in Holland.

It looks as though windmills are here to stay.

It's a Good Life, Charlie Brown

By Beth Terrell

It's that time of year. Friends and family gather for good food and good conversation, the Charlie Brown holiday specials begin (my favorites), and we take stock of those things for which we are grateful.

At the top of my list are the usual things: God's love, a practically perfect husband, a loving and supportive mother, a little brother who is extremely cute and usually sweet, good friends, a job and co-workers I like, and the basic necessities of life. I'm also grateful for our African Grey parrots, Corky and Kesha, our cat, Edgar, and our two precious little dogs, Karma (Princess of Everything Sweet) and Luca (His Lordship of Eternal Cuteness). These are the things I'm grateful for as a person.

But I am also grateful for a number of things as a writer. Here are some of them:

1. Office Supplies. Is it just me, or is there something thrilling about wandering among aisles and aisles of ballpoint pens, spiral notebooks, little gold paper clips, and Post-it notes in every color of the spectrum? Prismacolor colored pencils, the big set, 128 colors! So much blank paper, so many possibilities.

2. My computer. When Mike bought me my first laptop, I had serious misgivings. My idea of a first draft was a something written in longhand, in black ink, with single words and whole sections scribbled out and re-written, sometimes multiple times. I never moved on to a new paragraph until the one before it was perfect--or as perfect as I could get it. I also never finished anything. My laptop changed all that. I love the way the words appear on the screen as if by magic, looking professional and polished, even when I know they are in desperate need of editing. Somehow seeing those crisp letters helps me push on through a first draft, knowing how easily I can trim and flesh out and polish once the initial draft is done.

3. NaNoWriMo. It sounds like madness and it is. Write a 50,000-word first draft in one frenzied, frantic month. Pack off your inner editor for a little well-desereved R&R and play with something new, maybe a genre you've never tried before, maybe a work of silliness that will never see the light of day, maybe the first draft of the next Pulitzer Prize winning novel. The "I Hate NaNoWriMo Because Volumes of Dreck Are Released Into the Unsuspecting Publishing World" faction is missing the point. NaNo is a month-long writing exercise, a month-long, worldwide celebration of the joy of writing. What could be better than that?

4. An excuse to surf the web and to buy and read an embarrassingly indulgent number of books. Books on medieval cooking, books on forensic anthropology, books on Roman mythology and books on herbal medicines. All valuable additions to an author's research library. Even the novels I love to read are research: How does James Lee Burke craft those vivid descriptive passages? How does Terry McGarry breathe life into a world that never existed? How does Robert Crais make me love Joe Pike?

5. Murderous Musings. What an honor it is to be included in this group of talented and generous writers. Each contributor brings something different and wonderful to the mix; I only aspire to be worthy. And to those of you who read our posts )and those who comment on them), thank you.

6. The opportunity to learn from and rub shoulders with other writers. This includes a number of mentors, such as Mary Saums, J.T. Ellison, and our own Chester Campbell. Is there a more generous or gracious group than mystery/thriller writers? Sisters in Crime and SEMWA members have welcomed me with open arms and made me feel like a "real writer."

7. Don Maass's writing workshops. I went to the "Writing the Breakout Novel" workshop" with a manuscript I thought needed a nose-job and found out it needed a heart-lung transplant. Many months and an overhauled manuscript later, I attended the "High Tension Workshop." The heart and lungs were just fine, but extensive plastic surgery, implants, and liposuction were in order. Thanks to Don, I have a much wider collection of tools in my writer's toolbox. Looking to take your writing to a new level? Don will take you there. (I recommend starting with "The Breakout Novel." It lays the foundation for the "High Tension Workshop.")

8. Killer Nashville. I am forever indebted to Killer Nashville producers Clay Stafford and Phillip Lacy for letting me be a part of this incredible little conference. Killer Nashville has given me a chance to meet and/or correspond with hundreds of writers and readers of crime fiction. And no one could be better to work with than Clay and Phillip.

9. The Quill and Dagger Writers' Guild. This is the critique group Chester and I belong to. Each of the members is a wonderful writer and a supportive friend. They have offered me advice, support, reassurance, and encouragement. They tell me what works and offer suggestions for fixing what doesn't. We meet in the cafe of a local Barnes & Noble, and have polished many a page over Chai tea lattes and pumpkin cheesecake. So to Chester Campbell, Nancy Sartor, Richard Emerson, Nikki Nelson-Hicks, Cathy Randall, Nina Fortmeyer, Hardy Saliba, and even those who have wandered far afield from us (Robert, Larry, Jeannie, Jeff), a million thank yous for all you've done for my life and my writing.

10. The movies in my mind. They entertain, enlighten, and inspire me. I would be lost without them.

In these uncertain times, its nice to stop and remember the things that make life good. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you!

The Taj Mahal – A Testament to Love

By Mark Danielson

It’s rare when I have a long enough layover to sightsee, but this trip gave me four days in Delhi, India. The cooler temperatures and dry weather made perfect conditions for visiting the Taj Mahal, and I booked a tour through the hotel.

I had been to India many times, but never before experienced it like this. What feels chaotic and mystifying to a Westerner, is harmonious to Indians. If there is one word that best describes this country, it is coexistence, for here, everything seems to blend despite all the complexities. People are free to worship any god, and there is a blending of cultural and religious traditions, that can be seen in all aspects of life. Horses, cattle, water buffalo, peacocks, parrots, dogs, monkeys, donkeys, and camels, all wander freely along the four lane road that’s packed with animal-drawn carts, motorcycles, cars, trucks, busses, motorized rickshaws, bicycles, and pedestrians. Painted lines mean nothing and accidents are commonplace. We passed two within three minutes of each other.


Our van comfortably held the seven of us – one German, two Czechs, one from France, a Brit, a Columbian, and myself, and all of us spoke English. Stops at Emperor Akbar’s mausoleum and Agra Fort preceded the highlight of our tour, the Taj Mahal. Space considerations force me to omit them from this article, but those stops were well worth it. Traveling with such a wonderful group made this trip memorable.

What is immediately apparent is that the concept of space varies between cultures. Westerners are used to having a huge amount of personal space, but in India, there is nothing like this. Pushing and shoving is the norm, and I literally received a back massage while standing in line at the Taj Mahal’s east entrance. Security is handled by Army personnel, most carrying big sticks as opposed to firearms. Army issue rifles are usually bolt action carbines, although I saw a few ancient semi-automatics, too. Since cattle are free to roam wherever they choose, they don’t require tickets.

Emperor Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal for his wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died while giving birth to their thirteenth child. It is thought that completion of the monument took twenty two years, with the main mausoleum completed in 1648. Constructed solely of white marble, it is considered the finest example of Mughal architecture, combining elements of Persian, Turkish, Indian and Islamic architectural elements. Shah Jahan, himself, dictated the use of white marble, with the incredibly delicate inlay of semi-precious stones. Workers used pencil-sized hand tools to etch the inlays, and those traditions and techniques have been passed from father to son for centuries.

With a similar crowd waiting to enter the Taj and a schedule to keep with the tour, I wasn’t able to enter the building, but that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. I moved to inspect the exterior, which is perfect from every angle. The exterior decorations are considered to be among the finest in Mughal architecture. Under certain conditions, the tomb appears to be floating, an intentional illusion created by the monument’s primary architect, Ustad Ahmad Lahauri. The four minarets that frame the Taj were designed as working minarets, a traditional element of mosques. More than forty meters tall, the symmetrical minarets carry a two degree outward slope. Should they fall, they will fall away from the main tomb.

People-watching was fascinating. Many women were swirled in beautiful, embellished silks that contrasted brilliantly against the white marble. Here, families gathered to enjoy the day and captured family portraits against one of the world’s greatest monuments. Large school groups were well-mannered and happy. This truly is a place of joy and harmony.

Besides the crowded conditions, the only drawback is the air quality. People burn whatever they can find, so while their vehicles say they run on “clean burning fuel”, it hardly matters. Near Delhi, the smoky air was suffocating, even inside the van. Travelers with asthma should be warned to travel with their inhalers. From my vantage as a pilot, this pollution makes it very difficult to see the runway, especially during daylight. With the population reaching over a billion, and the lax environmental regulations, it is likely their air will get worse.

I was extremely fortunate to have such beautiful conditions for my trip. The Taj Mahal is not only an enduring monument to the beauty and intricacy of Mughal architecture, but it is a testament to love.

The Holy Land Revisited

By Chester D. Campbell

Reading Pat’s piece about the finding of King Herod’s burial site brought back memories of my trip to the Holy Land in 1998. We visited the impressive construction projects Herod the Great built in the port city of Caesarea and atop the famous mountain fortress of Masada.

Being a mystery writer, though not published at the time, I viewed most places on the trip with an eye to how they might be used in a novel. I bought a camcorder just before heading to the Middle East and took about three hours of videos during the tour.

Traveling by Royal Jordanian Airlines, we flew into Amman and spent a day cruising by bus through the mostly desolate Jordanian desert to visit two interesting sites. We stood on Mount Nebo where Moses gazed across the Jordan River before his death. Then we toured the ancient city of Petra, made famous by one of its striking building fronts carved out of rose sandstone being used in the climax of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

Our first taste of the dichotomy between Israel and its neighbors came as we approached the Allenby Bridge over the Jordan River. It’s called the King Hussein bridge on the east side. We had to leave the Jordanian bus and board an Israeli bus for the crossing.

Jericho provided our first taste of the Promised Land, the same as Joshua in the Bible. Billed as the world’s oldest and lowest city (820 feet below sea level), its ancient tel, or archeological site, has been peeled back to reveal 26 layers of civilization dating back to 8000 B.C. Heading on to the Holy City, we checked into our hotel in East Jerusalem, the Arab district.

Our savvy Nashville travel agent, who joined us on the tour, booked us through a tour company run by two Palestinian brothers (who, incidentally, attended the University of Tennessee). He said we wouldn’t have any trouble in the Palestinian territories as they knew the bus was owned by Arabs.

For the next few days, we shuttled around various Jerusalem sites, plus Bethlehem, the Dead Sea Scroll caves at Qumran, the Dead Sea shoreline, and Masada. We were advised to steer clear of the West Bank hotbeds of Hebron and Ramallah. We visited such fascinating spots as Hezekiah’s Tunnel, dug 1,500 feet through the rock from both ends at once in 700 B.C. We also toured the Shrine of the Book, which houses the Dead Sea Scrolls; Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum; the Temple Mount with its striking Dome of the Rock; the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, built on several levels and occupied by several different religious groups.

One of the more interesting stops was an Arab market filled with small but colorful shops. We had to stop and try the Israeli’s favorite fast food, a falafel (spiced chickpea fritter) tucked into pita bread.

During the next week, we traveled north through Samaria, with a stop at Jacob’s Well, heading into the fertile Yizreel Valley. We visited Mount Meggido, called Armageddon in Revelations, walking among the ruins, including a trip down 183 steps to see the historic water tunnel. Then it was on to the Sea of Galilee, where we stayed in Nazareth. We sailed on the sea in a fishing boat allegedly like the one Jesus rode in. They dipped in a net, but it came up empty.

We toured biblical sites around the Galilee, also known as Lake Kinneret, including the Mount of the Beatitudes, Capernaum, and churches dedicated to various incidents such as the multiplication of loaves and fishes. We visited the attractive Kibbutz Ein Gev and traveled up the steep slopes of the Golan Heights to an old attillery emplacement looking down over the kibbutz where Syrian gunners fired on the Israeli settlers.

Our tour began to wind down with a visit to Mount Carmel, where Elijah vanquished the priests of Baal. Then we headed for Israel’s third largest metropolitan area, Haifa. The hillside Baha’i Shrine and Gardens provided a striking panorama, as did a view of the Haifa port. Afterward, we headed south along the Mediterranean to the historic city of Caesarea, built by King Herod.

At the outdoor Roman Theater, our guide stood on the stage and showed how a normal voice could be heard all around the seating area. We also checked out the ruins of Herod’s hippodrome, which had seating for 20,000 people. Then we toured the remains of the king’s port, now part of the Crusader city. Just beyond this stood a Roman aqueduct built in the A.D. 100’s. It had steps leading up so we could walk along a section of the monstrous project.

After overnighting in a seaside hotel at Netanya, we headed into Tel Aviv, the country’s commercial center. Our final stop was the old port city of Jaffa on Tel Aviv’s south side. Old Jaffa had a special attraction for me, with its warren of stairstep streets through the reconstructed ruins of Turkish palaces, flanked by pastel colored artist’s studios, galleries, and outdoor cafes.

In fact, the experience led me to open the first chapter in Secret of the Scroll, my initial Greg McKenzie mystery, in Old Jaffa.

On our flight home from Amman, I read in the Royal Jordanian magazine about an archeological dig at Bethany in Jordan, the area where John the Baptist preached. It mentioned finding caves that had been occupied by monks in the early centuries. I thought what if someone found an ancient scroll in one of those caves. After I got home, it quickly developed into a plot. Happily, I had my videos to help out.

I used much of my travel experience to tell the story, sending Greg and Jill McKenzie on an identical trip. Many of the locations appear just as they did to me. You can read the opening chapters at http://www.chesterdcampbell.com/Scroll.htm.

Aisle Rage

by Ben Small

The wife and I did something today that no one in their right mind should ever do.

We same-day-shopped Wal-Mart and Costco.

Aaayyyeeahhh!

It’s a miracle you’re not reading about this experience on Drudge and that we’re not on the news tonight. If I’d been armed… oh my god, if I’d been armed…

What is it about these stores that draws such people? You know who I mean: the fat guys in the torn wife-beater shirts, paisley shorts and worn rubber flipflops, with blackened toes and yellow toenails that can probably cut steel, the men-folk who flash plumber’s crack bending over for another discounted case of Bud Light, and the women-folk who make these men look petite. The women are often wearing Spandex, which I used to think should be a crime. But then I saw female plumber’s crack in a Costco aisle, and I became a fan of Spandex-squeeze-containment.

I’d never before seen bats fly out of a pair of shorts. I hope I never see it again.

But these were the adults. What about the kids? You’ve seen them. Running laps up and down the aisles, tossing toys, playing catch and Keep Away, all while screaming in pitches old man Bose could only dream about.

Wal-Mart and Costco aisles are where I first saw Codger Tipping, a new sport, where unsupervised grade school kids gang tackle old people to see if they roll, bounce or shatter. There are variations to the game, of course. Sometimes, liquid soap is thrown to the floor for glide, a factor in competitions. Or carts are used for the Bump-Em-Car effects. Carts facilitate two person competitions, like Bowling for Baldies. And for even more excitement, try babies in the carts. Air-time seems to count extra.

But these are not the only delights of shopping at Costco or Wal-Mart (inclusive of Sam’s Club). Isn’t it fun when you enter planning on buying some cheap wine for a party, and you exit with three carts full of stuff you don’t need?

“The price was just so low,” you say. “A real bargain.”

And it probably was.

But how often will you use your umbrella table in your studio apartment?

And talk about gridlock. Try getting through these aisles in less time than it takes to drive through Manhattan at rush hour. Is it just me, or does everybody in Wal-Mart and Costco seem to know each other? The aisle junctions are like club rooms. Carts cluster in star patterns, and you stand and wait, nervously eying the gaggle of kids swarming behind you.

Meanwhile, at the junction, four Larry the Cable Guys are comparing beer case stacking skills and the NASCAR car numbers on their hats. A couple of these guys look like the fellows at the gas pump in Deliverance. Probably have five teeth between them.

I hear giggles and squeaky wheels behind us. I turn and instinct takes over as a cart pushed by two eight-year-olds, I’d guess, comes hurtling our way. It’s headed for my wife. I shove her away, and she falls into a stack of apples, which then roll all over the aisle parallel to ours. Screams and thuds abound, as AARPies flounder. The cart whizzes by and pounds into the Cable Guys. As Oldies in the aisle next to ours topple and cry out, one of the Deliverance crew looks up and smiles. “Extra points, Jimmy Joe,” the man says, his chest expanding with pride. A fat tongue presses against the man's lower tooth, cocking his mouth to the right like it's stuffed with a plum. He thumps the chest of the man next to him and points at a kid. "D'ere's my kin. A chip, ain't he?"

We brave all this, and finally make it to the registers, where we wait while a family of twelve with four carts full of Hamburger Helper, potatoes, candy, beer, cookies, frying oil, TV dinners, pretzels, an assortment of chips and dips, slabs of Velveeta, eggs, frozen pizzas, and other preserved or friable delicacies look for a credit card that's not maxxed out.

A toddler, almost buried in one of the carts, bellows, and the sickly-sweet stink of fresh baby-poop hangs in the air. Momma laughs, says, “Just a little longer, darlin’.” The toddler’s not satisfied. He or she ― hard to tell which when the Tater Tot lies buried under mounds of packages ― tosses one of the egg cartons to the floor, where they do what broken eggs do. Another carton follows, and the wife and I are looking for another checkout counter.

They’re all full, and there are carts behind us.

Trapped again. This time at the checkout counter, where the people in front of us are still searching for a credit card, and where an eggy floor awaits us.

But our joy for the day was just beginning. See, we started at Costco, but Costco buys large lots of some things, but not everything. What you saw last week won’t be there this week. This week, Costco did not have the whole grain crackers I crave as a late night snack.

And those crackers were why we came to Costco in the first place. They're stocked at Wal-Mart, too, but not at our local groceries.

I must have those crackers. We had to do both stores.

Costco and Wal-Mart should install metal detectors at their entrances, for I now understand that there’s an anger more ferocious than Road Rage. It’s feral, and you can find it in its most violent form at Wal-Mart and Costco.

Aisle Rage.

Feel it.

Smell it.

Live it.

And stay away from the knife counter.

A King, A Shaman, A Stargazer, A Wooly Mammoth

King Herod’s sarcophagus;

excavation of shaman’s grave

near the Sea of Galilee

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By Pat Browning

Just in time for Christmas, King Herod is in the news again. You remember Herod – the king of Christian tradition who got upset with the Three Wise Men who were on their way to Bethlehem with gifts for the baby Jesus.

An AP story from the West Bank reports:

“King Herod may have been buried in a crypt with lavish Roman-style wall paintings of a kind previously unseen in the Middle East, Israeli archaeologists said Wednesday. The scientists found such paintings and signs of a regal two-story mausoleum, bolstering their conviction that the ancient Jewish monarch was buried there.

“Ehud Netzer, head of Jerusalem's Hebrew University excavation team, which uncovered the site of the king's winter palace in the Judean desert in 2007, said the latest finds show work and funding fit for a king.”

In May 2007, an article in National Geographic reported:

“The king's highly ornamented, 8-foot (2.5-meter) sarcophagus, crafted of red-colored limestone with rosettes on its sides, had been shattered. Hundreds of fragments have been found around the site, but no inscriptions have been discovered so far … No human remains have been found in or near the tomb, and the skeleton of Herod himself will probably never be recovered, (Netzer) added.”

Photos from Herod’s burial site are intriguing, but what stopped me in my tracks was a photo in a companion story about the 12,000-year old skeletal remains of a female shaman. The photo was taken from the mouth of a cave, looking down on an archaeological dig.

A story in National Geographic reports:

“Archaeologists in northern Israel say they have discovered the world's oldest known grave of a shaman. The 12,000-year-old grave holds an elderly female of the mysterious Natufian culture, animal parts, and a human foot …The immediate area contains several burials, but the shaman's grave is unique in its construction, contents, and arrangement.”

What struck me about the photo is that I’ve seen it before, many times, years ago. For 20 years, every time I slowed down long enough to meditate, and often just as I was drifting off to sleep, it was always the same, a swirl of purple color, and then the view from the cave. I decided that it was a memory from a long-past life, where I had been left in a cave to die.

Hmmmm. Do you suppose … I was that shaman? Nah … couldn’t be … could it?

But wait, there’s more. The AP reports that Polish archeologists have found the remains of Copernicus. I couldn’t make this stuff up. Blame it on DNA.

“Researchers said Thursday they have identified the remains of Nicolaus Copernicus by comparing DNA from a skeleton and hair retrieved from one of the 16th century astronomer’s books. The findings could put an end to centuries of speculation about the exact resting spot of Copernicus, a priest and astronomer whose theories identified the Sun, not the Earth, as the center of the universe.”

Meanwhile, at Pennsylvania State University scientists are mulling the regeneration of a living mammoth from clumps of mammoth hair. Estimated cost: $10 million. Quoting The New York Times: “ Dr. Schuster and Dr. Miller said there was no technical obstacle to decoding the full mammoth genome, which they believe could be achieved for a further $2 million.”

The key word is “decoding.” It could keep fiction writers busy for years. The Herod Code. The Shaman Code. The Copernicus Code. The Wooly Mammoth …

Cue Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs …”Uno-Dos-One-Two-Three-Quatro-WOO-LY BUL-LY …”