As I was drinking oolong tea and wearing my karakul hat,
I recalled a time of years gone by when I bought my first water rat.
I was ignorant then of its importance and thought it a mere covering for hair.
I soon realised that when choosing a hat, one must take the greatest of care.

To sport a water rat, when you should clearly be wearing a mink,
is to announce to the world and for all to see that you simply cannot think.
The measure of man isn’t his penis, his muscles or hair on his chest.
But the man who wears a karakul hat is clearly one of the best.

The water rat, though fetching, is for farmers, the peasants and poor.
They have their place in society, but dare do they darken my door.
The rabbit skin is for merchants, for taxi-cab drivers and such.
But when it gets wet, the stench fills my nose and nothing you ever could touch.

The chinchilla and mink is for bankers and bosses and those from the great KGB.
But the karakul lamb is reserved for the rich, the wealthy and those like me.
A foreigner, should certainly sport the karakul, no matter the size of his purse.
To be seen in a rabbit skin, fox or rat could certainly bring down a curse.

It doesn’t matter your feelings on furriers or the trading of animal skins.
The most important thing in an Asian land is your hat and how you fit in.
Forget how they slaughter the young karakul lamb, before it ever is born.
I don’t understand the disgust of the Westerners, their high and mighty scorn.

After all, they all think we’re wealthy, so why shouldn’t I live like that?
I am a man, with the greatest of treasures. I now have a karakul hat.

Diversity is a wonderful thing, isn't it? One of my favourite subjects to teach is typography. I love the multitude of type faces and families which we have at our disposal in this digital age. As I not only teach typography, but take students from prehistoric man and the cave paintings to the ever-changing digital world, I am reminded how far man has come in their ability to communicate with one another. I love the connotative elements of the different fonts. This comic is used to encourage such a leap into this vast subject. Though I have used Helvetica probably too many times, there is an entire world of different fonts at my disposal! With such a wide variety of fonts, it is easy to also become stereotypical in our approach or use of them. Just as in life, there is room for us all. THANK GOD!

Though I consider myself an extrovert, there are certainly times where I need to retreat to myself. One of the most enjoyable times is when I am out in nature. There is definitely something calming and healing about the solitude found in such moments. In those times, it is not uncommon to find little treasures. I see a lone wildflower blooming in an unexpected place, far away from human eyes. I then think about what its purpose is. If I hadn't stumbled upon it, who would have admired its beauty? It would have budded, bloomed and died without anybody appreciating it's splendor or the delicate translucent petals or minute stamens. I then must ask the ultimate question, "Did God put that little flower, whose life is incredibly short, just for me?" This is about one of those many moments we can all experience, if we take the time to look.

---

There’s a little flower in the desert, far from you and me.
There’s a little flower in the desert, where no eye can see.
It blooms early in the morning
before the midday sun.
It withers then, and fades away.
I wonder why it’s come?

Yes I wonder, I wonder why the flower has come?
Could it be for God's pleasure, just for His fun?
It had a lovely, sprightly dance.
To touch it’s golden leaves,
perhaps for only an instant,
would have been so grand to me?

Yes I wonder, I wonder where the flower has gone.
It's aroma was fragrant, but it's time wasn't long.
No one there to see it's colour,
or to taste the nectar honey.
Maybe there was a butterfly,
or a little bumblebee.

Yes I wonder, I wonder where the years have gone.
Like a little flower in the desert, alone, without song.
I can smell it’s lovely fragrance.
I see it in my dreams.
Could it be the little flower came
just for you and me?

For one to fully understand the below poem, you have to be acquainted with Cockney rhyming slang. It is said the true Londoners live within a mile of the Bow Bells and it is in this area that rhyming slang developed. Cockney rhyming slang has uncertain roots. One popular belief was that it was once spoken by the thieves of London. It would certainly have been a very effective code, being incomprehensible to the authorities or any eavesdroppers who were not familiar with the slang. There are other stories or possibilities but it has always fascinated me. The bulleted list will aid you in understanding the poem. It is even better appreciated when you speak like Liza Doolittle! Enjoy!

• biscuit tin - chin
• black and tan - Guiness
• bo-peep - sleep
• box of toys - noise
• china plate - mate
• Duchess of Fife - wife
• Friar Tuck - luck
• German bands - hands
• giraffe - laugh
• Hampton Wick - prick
• Henry Moore - door
• Johnnie Horner - corner
• kick start - tart
• biscuit tin - chin
• black and tan - Guiness
• bo-peep - sleep
• box of toys - noise
• china plate - mate
• Duchess of Fife - wife
• Friar Tuck - luck
• German bands - hands
• giraffe - laugh
• Hampton Wick - prick
• Henry Moore - door
• Johnnie Horner - corner
• kick start - tart
• Lilly and Skinner - dinner
• love and kisses - missus
• Oliver Twist - pissed (drunk)
• pineapple chunk - bunk (bed)
• Queen’s Park Ranger - stranger
• Salmon and Trout - stout (beer)
• three card trick - dick
• tiddley winks - drinks
• trouble and strife - wife
• whistle and flute - suit
• wooden plank - Yank (American)

---

While sittin’ on me ol’ pineapple just
returning from a small bo-peep,
I ‘erd a box outside me ‘enry,
so decided to ‘ave a little peek.

It was a Queen’s Park Ranger,
drinking a Salmon and Trout.
‘e looked like ‘e was Oliver Twist;
just then ‘e began to shout.

“O’i china, ‘ave you seen me trouble?”
as he wiped at his biscuit tin.
‘e offered me a couple a tiddley,
so I told ‘im to come in.

“So ye ain’t seen me love and kisses.
She was talking to this whistle n’ flute.
I think ‘es a right wooden plank,
and she tho’t the bugga was cute.
‘round the Johnnie they scurried,
‘im with ‘is big three card trick,
believe you me, I know me Duchess...
she loves a good ‘ampton Wick.”

We ‘ad a giraffe and a good chin wag
and several more black and tan.
As ‘e left I wished ‘im the best Friar Tuck
and then ‘e grabbed me German bands,

“If ‘n I don’t find the ol’ kick,” said he,
“can I come back for Lilly and Skinner?”
I smiled with a grin, now ‘cross me face,
“Certainly mate - ‘ats a winner.

The weathervane was rusting and blowing in the wind,
Like the whirling dervish, dancing by the stream.
I wondered of her mystic past;
Was it bitter or sweet?
I asked her if she played a tune, or only swung for me.

In a trance she called me, round and round we’d spin;
Strolling through my fantasy, playing in my tent.
Could it be she was never still?
Did she ever rest?
Would she continue reeling around with vigorous energy?

The winds slipped quickly past her; above her head were clouds;
Beneath the shattered shingles, underneath my brow.
The onion dome was peeled away.
The paint fell from the edge.
The wire and lines spoke of time never to be relived.

Yellow speckled mortar, against a seafoam green;
Broken panes of ancient glass, wanting to be cleaned.
I was curious of her maker;
Had he see her ruin?
Did he know her life of joy or notice her graceful turns?

Did he know her jitter-bug or see her Highland fling,
Or see her subtle steps in the dance of fertility?
Rumba, samba, disco –
Flamenco, or Irish jig.
Perhaps I’ll join in the tea dance and let her carry me.

It is no wonder ladies often have more patience than their male counterparts. They get enough practice in public places. Though there are many reasons to be thankful for being a man, I often say a little "thanks" as I pass the ladies as they are waiting for the loo. Sorry ladies!

Though we were removed from the greatest danger during the war, one would often hear rockets and explosions beyond the hills. The tanks would drive past our front gate, reminding us that though we were in the "Green Zone," war was still reality.

I cannot remember how we met Bill. As a mercenary, he went from war-zone to war-zone, fighting for whichever side would pay him the most. He showed up at our home and being a fellow Westerner in the Middle East there was always a common bond that naturally occurred. On so many levels he was, on appearance, a likable friendly guy. His dark hair was cropped short. Ruggedly handsome, he was muscular and lean. Under other circumstances, he might even be the type of person you would introduce to your sister or best friend.

It didn't take long, however, to see the bond and things we had in common were only surface-deep. Which wars he had traveled to or where he went afterwards I do not know. He stayed in our home for a short while. This poem is about a brief encounter with Bill.

---

Bill was a mercenary.
An innocent smile and so young,
most would never know his concealment;
his ambition towards evil.

He could have been my brother,
my friend,
my neighbour,
my lover.

Malevolence, a word unfamiliar to most,
was the driving force which followed him.
From country to country, he grazed
on blood and flesh.

Was this the Apostle Paul's example
of a man with a seared conscience?
Was this handsome, striking man
any longer his mother's son?

What sinister force lived in Bill's soul?
What pain could have happened?
What disaster did Bill experience?
The answers remain mysterious.

From my memory he was a Midwesterner.
I'm not sure how he ended at our doorstep.
But like any stray dog, looking for shelter,
we let him in without question.

We fed him and clothed him.
We nursed his wounds and gave him drink.
We treated him as our brother.
Isn't this the command of Christ?

His growls in the night would
awaken us from silent sleep.
An animal, he would prowl outside
just beneath the windowpanes.

The only thing separating us
was a thin torn sheet of plastic.
The Stygian night made seeing futile.
We were left only with the noise.

The voice of Ba‘al Zebûb
charged through the bedroom.
The only other sound, bombing,
and our own heavy breath.

We lay beneath the mosquito nets,
and listened to his demonic groans;
Thick, guttural, rasping babel.
Paralyzed we pulled the netting close.

Three days later,
we sat down with Bill.
Frothy foam dripped from his chin
as we prayed for deliverance.

His piercing blue eyes, masked by blood,
stared defiantly into my own.
Shouts of unintelligible sounds and words.
A man, or maybe not.

He gripped tightly onto the chair,
mocking and laughing at Jesus.
The sturdy chair snapped, like a small twig.
Bill stood and left the room.