Day 12: Pillows And Pubs

Monday, June 24, 2013

After scoring some super Ethiopian coffee at a local coffee house, we set a course for Voyageurs National Park.  You know these guys already. Short. Built like a you-know-what.  Strong.  Paddle an entire Great Lake before breakfast.

Back in the day, after clearing Grand Portage, many would come cruising through what is now Voyageurs National Park.  Sadly, for us landlubbers, our options were limited. There were no canoe rentals as far as we would tell.  Both interpretive centers were closed on Mondays.  Couldn’t they have staggered the schedules so that at least one was open every day of the week?  Hiking it would be. Fine, right?

Unfortunately, the park is so water-oriented, hiking options were limited.  A mile here or there and that was about it.  We’re not complaining.  But let’s face it.  There was not much on the main land portion and there was no way for us to get elsewhere!

Despite having already set up camp in the Wooden Frog Campground (before we ventured into the park), Natalie hatched a plan.  Leave.  We hiked. We ate lunch.  We “were there”. So move along, right? We did just that.

After shuffling the Ruffed Grouse babies out of the road much to mom’s dismay (I did you a favor, babe!), we broke camp and moved out.  A quick stop at a party store (so I could spend my Where’s George dollar) and we were rocketing…um, driving, east again to the Superior lakeshore. 

Natalie, in training to be school teacher, was just eating up that “Roadside Geology” book.  With some stops between International Falls and Gooseberry Falls highlighting local geology, our bird trip was taking on a serious “boulder” twist. 

Take Soudan, for example.  Where else can see you rock formations like this?

This rock out crop is probably one of the most photographed features in Minnesota (if you’re a geologist, future science teacher or nature nerd). Geologists still can’t agree on what actually happened here, but they agree on some things.  The red is jasper , the white is chert or quartz (depending on which whites you are looking at) and the gray is hematite.   Cool, eh? 

Taking a sample is forbidden. Also, I would need a flatbed.  You know the kind - the 18-wheelers. The big ones. Perhaps this photo tells you why. This is only a portion of it, by the way. Just the exposed surface would be enough room to park three cars, at least....

Suddenly geeked for all things rock, we pressed on to Ely. Pronounced “EE-Lee”, not “EE-Lie”, we were looking for pillows. Not soft, bed pillows. Rock pillows. No, not rock-hard pillows. Those are at Super 8s.  Pillows.

About 2.7 billion years ago, northern Minnesota was underwater. With all the volcanic activity in the region, it was only a matter of time before lava (molten rock) oozed into the ocean from cracks in the bottom.  Cooling immediately, the ooze would re-direct, only to cool again.  Ooze. Cool. Ooze. Cool. The result is a lump of smooth rocks glued together.  In the photo above, note the large oval rock that is top center.  That’s a pillow. If you are not sure, that’s awesome. 

Speaking of Ely, it should be noted that, at times, we all act like kids.  Simple things excite us.  Maybe you have seen it with the young children in the mall.  When they see Santa, they shout it – “Santa! Santa! Mom, it’s Santa!”  You know what I’m talking about.

On the ride into Ely, before we found the pillows, I had one of those moments.   Not expecting it, I saw something awesome – “Brewpub! Brewpub! Natalie, there’s a brewpub!” Unlike children in the mall who scream and wet themselves, I did neither. In any case, I was excited.  I failed to check "Find Beer" on my phone and did not know it was here.  I

The Boathouse Restaurant and Brewpub might be one of my favorites from the whole trip. In a certain manner, it reminded me of our dear Fort Street Brewery.  The good food.  Goofy beer names.  Good beer.

Zohmerfest Ale, Nogginfogger English Ale, Dan K Double IPA, and Black Bear Honey Wheat Porter (#1462-1465) were the four I chose.  He had more, but driving responsibly is important.  The ale was light and refreshing (nothing really crazy) while the others were a step up.  The Honey Wheat did not seem to have a solid honey presence but I'm not gonna complain.  3’s across the board. 

The ride from Ely to the Lake Superior Shoreline is great.  Winding. Wooded.  What fun.  Seeing the woman rescue to the turtle from death on Route 1 was awesome and made us realize we are not the only people who do that.  Sadly, during the drive, I noticed the spectacular, pastel colors of the setting sun behind us. With no real photo ops anywhere along the road, the single best evening for photography was lost. What a complete drag.

Camping was in, of all places, Finland.  We were already there. Remember the tiny non-town with Sarah Palin as the waitress? When we left, we joked about how we would probably never see that town again. Not only did we see it, we camped there. Who woulda thunk it.

Day 6: Hikings and Vikings

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

After securing some good coffee in town and mailing out fragile gifts, the short drive around the bay was made to the Visitors Center at Apostle IslandsNational Lakeshore. The weather was picture perfect.

Named to honor the 12 Apostles (even though there are 20 islands – if someone can figure that one out, let me know), access to the islands was largely shut off.  The season had not really started as we were a tad early.  There were no boats heading out. 

So what. Natalie and I found ourselves poking around the old Hokenson Fishing Operation. Eskel, Leo and Roy Hokenson ran a multi-faceted operation for decades. Farming and fishing were very lucrative for them until they retired in the 1960s.  It seemed only perfect that Natalie and I would see a Kingfisher while investigating their dock.

After a quick lunch, the four-mile hike along the shoreline trail was awesome, though muddy in spots.  At the turn-around point, the view of the sea caves below was quite mesmerizing.  The scene was very much like Pictured Rocks from a few days before.  The birding was quite nice. Crippling views were had of a Canada Warbler.  Natalie secured Yellow-bellied Flycather with just about the best view one could ask for short of going Aubudon on it and shooting it dead. 

Sadly, this trail marks a huge negative on our trip and my life.  My boots.  Oh, my precious boots. 

In Arizona last June, while hiking Mount Lemmon, the heel of my boot basically peeled off like the skin of a banana.  Multiple trips to a cobbler (yes, folks, they still exist) in the last year allowed me to get everything squared away.  Both boots, in fact. It was not re-soled, but re-affixed.  Everything was a go. 

During the final stretch of the hike, the heel gave out one final time.  It just couldn’t take it anymore.  My boots, my hiking partner for the last 15+ years, could hike no more. Alaskan tundra.  Alpine tundra of Colorado.  Pacific beaches. Atlantic beaches.  The Rio Grande Valley of Texas.  Battlefields.  Breweries.  Those boots have seen the country. The entire country.   Well almost – 44 states (and four provinces of Canada).

Sure, I could have just chucked them in the garbage, but that would be disrespectful.  I could take them home and put them on a display shelf, but that would dishonor the spirit of the boot.  (Hey, my boots can have a spirit, even if I’m atheist. Come on, work with me here.  Remember, Manabezho, the spirit-god, supposedly talked to his pooper…)

Influenced by Viking tradition and sadly lacking a raft that could be set alight and sent drifting into Lake Superior, I did the next best thing. Picking giant rocks from the parking lot culvert, I secured the rocks inside each boot and tied them together with the laces.  The photo below is essentially the last known image of my boots before I tossed them into Lake Superior with a mighty heave.

I’m so gonna miss those boots.  Seriously.  This sucks….

With heavy heart, we pressed on to Solon Springs, Wisconsin for camping. A quick, camp meal and we were out looking for birds with the final minutes of daylight.

Using “Wisconsin’sFavorite Birding Haunts” as a guide, we opted for some time in Douglas County along and near the Brule River (thus the camping in Solon Springs).  The evening was, in a sense, scouting for the following day’s birding adventure. 

Towhees, Wild Turkey, and Clay-colored Sparrows seemed to be quite common.  Common Nighthawks are always cool, too.  A mostly bug free evening ended peacefully back at camp. Just out of town, a mystery owl shot in front of us as we drove. Great Horned? Barred?  We’ll never know.  (I suspect we could just lie and say what we wanted it to be. Neither Nat or I are that lame.)

Patrick Lied

July 14, 1881.  Near midnight.  Fort Sumner, Sante Fe County,  New Mexico Territory.

Two men are sitting in a bedroom. It's dark.  A third man enters. (Come on, people - it's not naughty.)   Shots ring out.  A body falls. There is gasping and death.

Two of the men present continue on their journey to legend. 

The shooter? Patrick Floyd Garrett.  Once a bartender and later a Customs Agent, he is known to most as an Old West Lawman.  

The deceased? Henry McCarty.  William Henry McCarty.  Henry Antrim.  Billy Antrim.   William Antrim.  William H. Bonney.  Billy Bonney. Kid Bonney. All aliases for one man.....

Billy the Kid.  Lifestock rustler, gambler, outlaw, murderer.  

With the shot and the fall, one of the most interesting storylines in the Old West starts to unfold - probably even before the blood on the floor was dry.  As you well know, unfolding can sometimes lead to unraveling.  

It wasn't Billy the Kid.

A few weeks ago, I snagged a book off the discount shelf.  In its 126 pages, it lays the groundwork to establish, more or less beyond a doubt, that Billy the Kid was not killed by Garrett at Fort Sumner.  The case is solid and shows that he actually lived to the ripe old age of 90 and died in Hico, Texas under the name Bill Roberts.   During his post-Sumner life, he toured with Buffalo Bill (under an alias), rode rough with Roosevelt in Cuba (under an alias), and even  married. 

I'm serious.

If you are looking for a good read, go for it. If you are absolutely certain everything you have ever read or heard is absolutely true, don't bother.

But if you're curious, and don't want to read it, here a few things to keep in mind.  Don't worry - I won't bring you to tears by reciting the entire book. Here are just few thoughts to whet your appetite.

*  There are at least five affidavits from people who knew Billy the Kid and who identified Roberts as the same man. The affidavits were initiated by an attorney between 1949 and 1951. To many, his laughter, gait, and piercing blue eyes were unmistakeable.  (A sixth story from Hico Texas in 1945 has a retired lawman who knew the Kid from the New Mexico days shout "Bonney...you're under arrest!" when they passed each other outside a barbershop.)

* The Kid was known to have large forearms and small hands. By taking his thumb and "palming it", he could slip out of handcuffs.  Roberts had the same peculiar anatomy. In addition, and perhaps more relevant, Roberts had scars that corresponded to bullet injuries known to have occurred to Billy the Kid.

* Roberts demonstrated a knowledge of the Lincoln County War that more or less baffled historians.  He was so precise with his recollections, he noted details that were overlooked but later confirmed as true.  For example, he mentioned a letter that he had written (on his behalf) and sent to Governor Lew Wallace. He was asking for a pardon.  No one knew of the letter until it was uncovered in the archives of another state.  

Another example - Apparently, black troopers from Fort Stanton were involved in the siege at McSween's house (made famous in the movie Young Guns).  Roberts noted it, but was mocked for the suggestion until detailed analysis of fort records showed that black troopers were, in fact, stationed there.  For the record, he likely did not research this himself as he was functionally illiterate. 

* The details of the actual shooting at Fort Sumner are horribly marred with inconsistencies.  Garrett, Maxwell (the owner of the home) and who is presumed to be the Kid were the only individuals in the room, but two of Garrett's deputies (Poe and McKinney) were outside.  An easy analysis of the testimonies shows problem after problem after problem.  In a modern court of law, this inconsistency would have been a huge issue.  Was it a knife or a gun? Did the victim walk into the room or back into the room?    Were the final words spoken by the victim - "Who is it?"- in Spanish or English?  Years later, McKinney made statements that cast serious doubt on the accepted versions of the story.

*  Why does the historic record show multiple coroner's reports, when, to this day, the actual reports have not been located?

*  The man presumed to be Billy the Kid was likely a young man by the name of Billy Barlow (at least that was the name he was using at the time).  The "Billys" were running together for a few weeks prior to the shooting.  He  (Barlow) was dark complected and happened to have a scraggly beard at the time of his death.  A newspaper interview with Billy the Kid (when he was in jail) just six and half months before Fort Sumner  clearly states that he was pale skinned and had a peach-fuzz mustache.  According to endocrinologists, peach-fuzz to full-blown can't happen in six months.  

*   To this day, some historians wonder why Garrett did not do more to publicize the death immediately after the shooting.  Common practice of the time would have him basically parading the corpse for the public.  He would have shown the guns, the boots, and body and quite possibly made arrangements for a photo-op.  To the contrary, Garrett made serious attempts to minimize the number of people who saw the dead Kid (really Billy Barlow). 

Take, for example, this photo of the McClaury brothers and Ike Clanton after the OK Corral shootout in Tombstone, Arizona in October of 1881.  This gunfight, while popular now, did not really become a part of the American lexicon until the 1930's.  Yet here we have a photo of some dead guys...

Garrett, who just "offed" the single most-wanted individual of the American West, did not want to brag about it. Really?

And finally, what has to be the most intriguing piece of information of them all....

*  Photographic analysis (the same analysis used by the FBI, CIA, Scotland Yard and Interpol) of the only accepted image of Bill the Kid with a photo of the 90-year old Roberts demonstrated with 93% accuracy that Roberts and the Kid were the same individual.  The 7% loss can be easily attributed (so say the experts) to the seventy year difference between the photos and the removal of Roberts'  buckteeth in 1931. Apparently, the Kid had quite a set of chompers.  

Again, I could go on, but I don't have to as WC Jameson, the books author, already did it.  Really folks - this is any amazing read.  History re-written. 

Perhaps we can use more adjectives that might describe Pat Garrett...

Fraud.

Liar.

A Taste of India

India. 

You've heard of it, I'm sure. Indiana Jones was there.  With the tenth largest economy (but third in global purchasing power), the place is becoming an economic dynamo.  At 1.2 billion people (and growing), it now has the second largest population of any country (behind China, of course). 

While a lot of things put India on the map, one thing  I think folks might consider trying is the water.  If you ever get to India, just scoop it up from the nearest creek and enjoy......

No. Wait. Scratch that. 

The food. Yeah, try the food. Don't try the water. Not even from a tap (seriously).  No ice either (seriously).  Try the food.  Sure, travel resources tell you not eat meat from the roadside vendor, but all in all, the tastes of India can be quite nice when prepared in a safe environment.  

For Christmas, I was the recipient of "The Meatball Shop Cookbook". While a book of this sort might be ripe for testicular jokes, I'll spare you.  With over 30 different ball recipes, it is really well done.  Dozens of sauce and salad recipes make for a....uh, well-rounded cookbook. 

Gosh.  Sorry.

Anyhow, the first test ball was the Classic Beef Meatball with Tomato Sauce. That fed Natalie and I for over three days. Seriously.  No, it was not one bowling-ball sized monster. The recipe made 24 balls, but with the sauce and a pound of pasta, we ate well. 

Eager to try the book again, we agreed on the Tandoori Lamb Balls.  Highlighting the exotic flavors from India's culinary  world, it was quite eye catching.   With the combination of lamb, cilantro and a six-spice mix (ginger, cumin, coriander, paprika, tumeric, and cayenne pepper) in the ball itself, any heat and spice-overload was tempered by the yogurt-cilantro dressing.  (Yes, cilantro was in both the ball and sauce.)  For the record, in my photo below, that uranium-looking spice is the tumeric.

I hope it goes without saying that these things were delicious.  (For the record, I refuse to say "dee-lish". I hate that.  Its kinda like when people say "My bad...".  Grrrr.....)

But the India flair for the night did not stop there!

In short, once upon a time, Great Britain ruled India.  By 1947, India had gained independence. Sadly, Great Britain left before they had learned simple plumbing, but that is a story for another time...

During their time as the rulers of India, the Brits had a problem - India was half-way around the world. You need to  remember your world geography and history. The only way to get to India without walking was by boat.  From Great Britain, you had to sail around the south tip of Africa.  There was no route via the Mediterranean until the mid-1800s.  Anything on a boat heading to India would be ship-bound for a very loooong time.  

That included beer, of course.  Even in the sweltering heat of India, the British would have enjoyed a cold one (if they could find it). Getting beer there was a problem. The length of the journey and the heat during trip combined to kill off alot of the beer.  Bacteria would run wild and ruin barrel upon barrel.

Prior to refrigeration and pasteurization, brewers had two weapons in the battle against bacteria - hops and alcohol.  Adding outrageous amounts of hops during the brewing process raised the bitterness considerably. But, it did not stop there.  Before sealing the barrels, even more hops were added. This "dry-hopping" drove the hoppiness through the roof.  

At the same time, sugars were added to the barrel.  With more sugars for the cute,  little yeasties to eat, they were kept busy during weeks at sea.  Of course, more sugars leads to a higher alcohol content which, in turn, leads to a lower chance of bacterial infection.  (It should be mentioned that the yeasts also give off lots of carbon dioxide.  It appears the wooden barrels leaked a bit, preventing the gas build-up from rupturing the seals.)

The result was a new beer style that could handle weeks at sea and weeks more on a shelf in steamy India.   Born from a Pale Ale, the India Pale Ale is a highly hopped, alcoholic, and well carbonated beverage.  Oh yeah, they're excellent, too.

Tag-teaming with the pleasantly spiced Tandoori Lamb Balls, the Professor IPA (#1,387) from Cranker's Brewery in Big Rapids, Michigan is simply awesome. While my beer notes were not detailed (sometimes, I just enjoy and don't scribble notes), the hoppy bite of the style tasted great.  As far as I am concerned, it is a pretty descent representation of the style. Try it if you can find it.

Knowing we were eating a meal with regional spices and washing it down with a style that was basically designed for that region made for a super dining experience.

Knowing we made the meal in the safety of our kitchen (i.e.: we did not have to use water from India) made for a super dining experience (and after-dining experience!), as well.  

Lets here it for water quality!

Tunnels And Casting Calls

War history and movies. They go so well together with the combined efforts of good acting, directing and writing.  Saving Private Ryan.  Glory.  Gettysburg.   Platoon.  Black Hawk Down.  All classics. Forget Pearl Harbor.  It was a disaster and should be stricken from all archives. 

Anyhow.....

I have a new movie, but I have not yet written it.  Based on the book Libby Prison Breakout: The Daring Escape from the Notorious Civil War Prison" by Joseph Wheelan, it is sure to be a winner.    The book, a gift from my parents for Christmas, was finally finished last night.  Awesome.  

In the opening days of the Civil War, the Confederacy hobbled together a few prisoner of war camps.  Taking over a large structure on Richmond, Virginia's waterfront, the name  "Libby" stuck, as no one thought to take down the sign placed by Luther and his son, George. Originally a ship's chanderly and grocery warehouse, it soon became a Confederate POW camp for Union officers.

With only eight rooms for prisoners, each barely over 100 feet by 40 feet, the three-story structure (with a walkout basement on the river-side, making it a functional cellar) was simply nasty.  Windows? Sort of.  Holes in outside walls with bars would better describe it.  If it snowed or rained? You got cold or wet.  Hot Virginia summers? Sweltering heat.  Brutal stuff really. 

At first, the turn-over of prisoners was reasonable as a result of the Prisoner Cartel. Basically, the North and South traded prisoners.  Really. They did.  By the mid-point of the war, the Union came to a simple conclusion - "This is hopelessly stupid.  What dumbass came up with this idea?"  Every time an exchange took place, the Rebs would put the soldiers back at the front so the Union could fight them again.  

The solution? Stop the trading. Only chaplains and surgeons were paroled, and even then, sparingly. 

Yeah, cool, if you're the Union trooper on the front.  You won't have to fight the same soldiers again.  Not cool at all if you are the prisoner.  You're stuck until the war ends.  There is also a bigger problem. The army of Johnny Rebs could barely feed itself during the later months of the war.  So why in the world would they feed the POW's?  Basically, they didn't. 

Before long, lack of sanitation, poor diet, and host of other problems led to massive die-offs.  Overcrowding was a huuuuuge problem.  The Confederates stuffed over 1,200 officers into a building that became the second most awful camp in the Confederacy.  The first? Andersonville. 

Of course, in many prisoner of war camps throughout history, there is a "spectrum" of prisoners.   Some hang on until released at the war's end. There are those that try to hang on, but can't. Ill or suicidal, they die.  Then there are those who want to escape. And do.

The guy on the left with facial hair that so defined the period?  Major A.G. Hamilton.  Like many officers of the war, he had a civilian job before hostilities started. He was home builder in Kentucky.  Pretty cool trade, huh?  What a treat to have a guy like this in your camp. Every wall. Every post. Every brick. That chimney. That fireplace. That floor joist. He knew why they were there.  While he did not build Libby, he knew it.

This other fellow?  Colonel Thomas Rose.  Put him in clothes from 2010 and he would fit right in. But something in him put him in a class by himself.  Determination.  Come Hell or high water, he was going to get out of Libby if it was the last thing he did. Captured at Chickamauga, he was a teacher in his civilian life.  Some historians suggest he may have spent some time in the coal mines of Pennsylvania....digging.

After constantly bumping into each other looking for ways out of the building, Rose and Hamilton  teamed up and settled on the cellar as the starting point.  Basically, the plan was - get tools, dig a tunnel from the cellar, do it quietly at night,and don't get caught.  But, how did they get to the cellar?  Hamilton, with his knowledge of the building and building trades, figured out he could cut the mortar with a penknife (it had been smuggled into the prison), remove the bricks, and get into the wall. From there, he moved down within the wall,and then out into the cellar. During the daylight hours, the stove in the kitchen was moved back into place to hide their efforts. 

Teams of people worked in shifts for weeks. Some dug. Some moved the dirt and hid it in various nooks and crannies.  Some simply fanned air into the suffocatingly tight tunnel. After three tunnels failed for various reasons, the fourth was a success.  After tunneling 53 feet underground to the opposite side of Canal Street, they popped up in a tobacco shed.

The night of the breakout, the team members selected friends (only a few dozen people were actually in on the tunnel construction and had first dibs on the escape).  With a "guard" controlling the flow of escapees at the stove, they left. In the hole, down the rope ladder, out the hole, across the pitch black cellar, on their bellies for 53 feet in a 26" tunnel , and over to the shed.    Out the door they went and off to freedom.  Some even saluted Confederate guards as they went.

After the first teams were gone, the kitchen filled with eager, hopeful, officers.  More left. And then more.  And more.

Roll call the following morning was a joke.  Of the 1,200 or so people in the building the night before,less than 1,100 remained. In the span of one night, 109 officers slipped off into the February-cold Richmond night.  Over the following days, 2 died (drown while trying to ford a river), while half were re-captured. The remaining half, in horribly cold weather, malnourished, underdressed and pursued by soldiers and dogs, managed to cross Union lines.  Rose, the determined digger, was captured while in sight of a Union patrol. 

Of course, Hollywood blockbusters sometimes need a heroine,  right?  Enter Elizabeth Van Lew.  A socialite of Richmond, she despised slavery and made it her goal to help the Union in any way she could. Smuggling messages out of Richmond and even into Libby Prison, she was a wealth of information and a world class spy, right down to secret ciphers and invisible inks. With a network of spies she created (including a Confederate clerk who worked at Libby), she assisted the soldiers with their escapes. 

I couldn't help to think about my movie as I was reading this book.  Seriously. I'm not talking about a "made for TV" movie.  I'm talking about the real, big-screen, deal.  A big name director with some high-clout actors could make this a real solid piece.  Cameron and Spielberg have both shown they can do period pieces with extraordinary attention to detail.   (Okay, we'll look past Cameron's "Piranha Part 2: The Spawning".) Jeff Daniels ,as Hamilton, would  be great. Christian Bale could do it, too, but an anger management counselor would have to be on the set so he doesn't do this again.  Kathy Bates could be Elizabeth Van Lew, despite the age difference.  A very powerful actress for a very powerful role. Maybe Winona Ryder, instead?  While a small role in the big scheme of things, Leonardo DiCaprio could play the Libby clerk/spy,  Erastus Ross. 

Tom Hanks? We already know he is one of the greatest actors of our time.  He could be Rose.  He has already shown he can lose weight as easily as some of us lose our keys.  30 pounds? 40 pounds?  No problem. If there is one thing Civil War POWs lost, besides their mind, it was their weight.   

Plus, the conditions of a POW camp were just gross so a talented director could really drive home the concept of filth.  With sanitary conditions worse than some present Third World countries, it would give Hanks the opportunity to continue his climb on the Academy's list of "the actor with the most Hollywood pee scenes or references".  He already has "League of Their Own", "The Green Mile", "Castaway", Forrest Gump", "Apollo 13", "Road to Perdition", "The Money Pit", "Saving Private Ryan", "Splash", and "The Terminal" to his credit.

 

Forget Tom Cruise in any capacity. He's just a creep.  Sorry, Mel. You're out, too.   Sadly, history shows that antisemitism existed in 1860's Virginia.  Food shortages, high prices, and the lack of solid war gains  were blamed on Richmond's Jewish population simply out frustration, ignorance, and, perhaps most significantly,  old-fashioned prejudice.   You'll be sad to know that the ovens at Libby were for cooking. I can only imagine how you would wreck the movie, especially if you directed it.  I second my own motion if Ryder were to get the Van Lew gig.  You can't play nice. 

Of course, when Jim or Steve call me for input on the screenplay, I won't get big-headed.  I promise.  I'll simply refer them to Wheelan's book.  It is that good.  When the film racks up Academy Awards, they can  just credit me for being the guy that suggested the book that  the movie is based on.  That should get me a few tickets for the afterglow.

Oh wait. Is that my phone ringing now? Caller ID says "Jim".

Cool. I need to get a tux.....