• Iron Lady. Biopic about former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, whose lifelong defense of conservative “values” is softened by this humanizing portrayal. It offers a haunting look at her declining years with her struggle against dementia, visits by her dead husband (hallucinated and so not ghostly), and—especially—her portrayal by Meryl Streep whose re-creation is stunning.

Rating: Three wooden nickels (out of four)

• A Dangerous Method. Exploring the relationship between psychology pioneer Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen) and his foremost disciple Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender), this intelligent film’s central thread is woven by a Jung patient (brilliantly played by Keira Knightley). She suffers from “hysteria” but is ostensibly cured by Jung and ends up as his protégée and, unethically, his mistress. From brief scenes of Jung spanking her to erotic arousal, benefitting from the luxury of his betrayed wife’s money, and dabbling in paranormal speculation, the film concludes with the eventual break in their relationship, exacerbated by the unbalanced but bewitching former patient.

Rating: Three and a half wooden nickels (out of four)

• Albert Nobbs. The title character of this remarkable story is a woman passing for a man on a quest to fulfill a dream. It seems a modest dream, but in the realm of nineteenth-century Irish business—truly a man’s world—it is quite formidable. Albert fades into the role of a meek waiter in a classy hotel, but, as his dream begins to take center stage, life’s unscripted drama presents challenges he is ill prepared to meet. I should say no more except to point out that Glenn Close—having played Albert in a stage version many years ago—has long struggled to create this motion picture, for which she became co-producer, co-writer, and absolutely unforgettable star.

Rating: Three and a half wooden nickels (out of four)

• The Artist. This movie about movies loves film the way van Gogh loved paint. Film star George Valentin (Michael Dujardin) mentors a talented starlet (Berenice Bejo) who goes on to fabulous success in the new talking pictures. He is left trapped in the no-man’s-land of silent movies—literally so in this exceptionally witty, silent-film treatment that you wait (and wait, through his long despair) to break into sound and for him to reclaim his life. As he learns, someone has been secretly waiting for the opportunity to lend him a hand.

Rating: Four wooden nickels (out of four)

Public prayer: “And when thou prayest, thou shall not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. . . . But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly” (Matthew 6:5-6).

Separation of church and state: “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (Mark 12:17).

Favoring the rich: “Verily I say unto you, That a rich man shall hardly enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God” (Matthew 19: 23-24).

On the rich paying more: A poor widow having given to the synagogue’s treasury her last “two mites” (the equivalent of a farthing), Jesus said: “Verily I say unto you, That this poor widow hath cast more in, than all they which have cast into the treasury: For all they did cast in of their abundance; but she of her want did cast in all that she had, even all her living” (Mark 12:41-44).

Giving to the poor: “If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven . . .” (Matthew 19:21).

Assisting the needy (specifically the hungry, naked, sick, and imprisoned): “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my bretheren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:34-40).

Universal health care: “And into whatsoever city ye enter . . . heal the sick that are therein, and say unto them, The Kingdom of God is come nigh unto you” (Luke 10:8-9).

Congressional Gridlock: “Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation; and a house divided against a house falleth” (Luke 11:17).

So there you have it: Jesus is a liberal! Conservatives take heed: “Ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky and of the earth; but how is it that ye do not discern this time? Yea, and why even of yourselves judge ye not what is right?” (Luke 12:56-57).

As McGaha noted in bestowing the honor at the awards dinner on October 28, he and I are a political odd couple—representing greatly separated bands on the voting spectrum. In spite of that (or perhaps partly because of it) we have been friends for decades.

Given that his background as a military pilot and astronomer have helped make him a much-sought-after UFO expert on TV shows like Larry King Live and on various documentaries, and that I am myself a long-time UFO investigator and author, it was natural that we would work together at times. Now we are collaborating at a more serious level, and our co-authored Skeptical Inquirer special report, “‘Exeter Incident’ Solved!” (Nov./Dec. 2011), is an example—with more to come.

A CSI scientific consultant, McGaha is a former teacher of astronomy and director of the Grasslands Observatory in Tucson, Arizona. He has actually discovered several asteroids, including the newly named “31451 Joenickell”—a main-belt asteroid with an orbit far outside that of Mars. McGaha discovered it in 1999. (See http://ssd.jpl.nasa.gov/sbdb.cgi?sstr=Joenickell&orb=1.) Appropriately enough, it is believed to be partly composed of nickel.

In his citation (recorded with the International Astronomical Union’s Minor Planet Center), McGaha stated that asteroid 31451 Joenickell was “Named in honor of Joe Nickell (b. 1944), the Senior Research Fellow of the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry. A noted author, investigator, and skeptic, Nickell has written more than 30 books on mysteries, frauds, forgeries and hoaxes. He promotes scientific inquiry and reasoned investigation of extraordinary claims.”

I must thank my good friend for this very special tribute. I will look for ways to repay the favor. I think we agree that, in both our friendship and our commitment to science and reason, the sky’s the limit.

“You seem surprised that I know where you have been and what you have seen and thought. No, I have not become one of the supernaturalists. It really is quite elementary, old chap.

“Would you mind handing me that cherrywood pipe from the rack? You know it well from that case of mine you wrote up as “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.” Yes, that’s the one. That’s a good fellow. I apologize for what you call the ‘poisonous atmosphere’ I am about to unleash, but I’m in another of my disputatious moods, and it’s either the black shag tobacco or a seven-percent solution, and I know which you, with your medical mind, would prefer me to abuse myself with.

“So, how did I know your actions? I deduced them, of course. You know my methods, if you do not always see how to apply them.

“Well, then. I could scarcely help but notice those traces of an orangish powder—one on your right cuff, another on your waistcoat—that can only be from that infernal substance known as popcorn salt. Really, Watson, if we are to talk of unhealthy substances. . . .

“Anyway, those traces indicate the movie theatre, and, if there remained any doubt, I needed only to glance at your waistcoat pocket. I plainly see there the protruding corner of a movie ticket. I know that your afternoon stroll is apt to take you to a matinee, and, considering both the time and the fact that the theatre nearest these Baker Street lodgings has promoted the movie in question—premiering this very day, if I am not much mistaken—and the rest is child’s play. Your disapproval of the movie was evident in your expression as you strode through the door.

” Now, of just what did you disapprove? Let me tell you, and—no, no, I am not guessing. As you have heard me say more than once, I never guess. Guessing is destructive to the logical faculty. Can I not infer that, since you find the movie so objectionable, it is little if any improved from the previous such travesty? Your almost imperceptible nod just now encourages me that I am on the right track, and I can empathize with our occasionally borrowed sleuth-hound, Toby, when he has clearly found the trail—tremulous yelps, strained leash, and all.

“I cannot be very wrong then in inferring that once again the writers (you should pardon the expression) have mined your collective chronicles, Watson—what some call ‘the canon’—for elements to embed in their imitative work. Irene Adler, probably. Professor Moriarty, most assuredly. Perhaps Colonel Sebastian Moran, this time with his remarkable rifle. Possibly, I am eternally and ridiculously disguising myself. But let us not be too critical of their pilferings: How else would they dare to affix the good name of Sherlock Holmes to what I perceive is another frenetic, steam-punked string of melees, mayhem, and madness.

“We have been subjected to pastiche and caricature before, but usually we could be recognized—as in a fun-house mirror. What’s next? I can only say that, whatever it is, I will not be surprised. Will no one ever represent us as we are?

“Well, I shall not go witness the outrage. I have better uses of my time. But dear fellow, why not go where there is fresh air, while I open this letter I have been waiting for. I anticipate that it presents at least a three-pipe problem, but then I have hopes that it will, in turn, lead me to the solution of yet another mystery you may wish to chronicle.”

Rating: two wooden nickels (out of four)

Given that my main persona is investigator—of historical and literary mysteries (see my “Did Shakespeare Write ‘Shakespeare’?” in the Nov./Dec. 2011 Skeptical Inquirer), as well as homicides, and, most extensively, of paranormal enigmas—relatively few know of me as a poet—in which role I investigate life and attempt to shape the results into art. As an undergraduate I won the 1967 Farquhar Award for poetry at the University of Kentucky. Having published widely in the “little magazines”—a protégé of Wendell Berry and “Beat” poet John Wieners—I was offered a scholarship as a special student in creative writing at Johns Hopkins University. However, the Vietnam War then raging, I would have been drafted out of that graduate program, and instead I was deferred for a year as a VISTA community organizer and civil rights worker in rural Georgia. Then, opposed to the war, I lived in Canada for eight and a half years as a federal fugitive until pardoned by President Carter in 1977.

Meanwhile, as I developed my investigative and prose-writing skills, I gradually ceased to write poems and songs, until I came to suffer a quarter-century of writer’s block in that regard. On learning of this on my return to UK for graduate studies, a beloved old professor, Michael Adelstein, remonstrated with me, insisting that I had no right to turn my back on my “gift.” I told him I appreciated what he was saying but that “whatever I once had, I don’t have it anymore,” and he went away, sadly shaking his head.

Then in 2003 I learned I had a daughter, Cherie, I had not known about, and I needed to speak to her in a more profound way than I could do in the language of a letter. I reached again for the poetry, and found it there as surely as if it had never left—a stunning realization I am still somewhat mystified by.

In any case, I am now writing prolifically—numerous poems and several songs, often written to my wife/muse Diana (Cherie’s mother and the love of my life, whom I married in 2006!). I am now a familiar figure on the Buffalo poetry scene, reading at Literary Café (sponsored by CFI and Just Buffalo), Hallwall’s Contemporary Art Center, The Screening Room, and other venues.

I have a selection of poems in the fall 2011 issue of the poetry journal Beyond Bones, edited and published by esteemed poets Verneice Turner, Perry S. Nicholas, and Jennifer Campbell. (It includes writer-friends Christina Wos Donnelly, Ruth Thompson, and many other talented poets.)

Above is one of my selections, “Thoughtsmithing” (written, not surprisingly, at a time I was learning blacksmithing). I call my style improvisational rhyming—a basically free verse (and often imagistic) treatment that utilizes sound effects (including consonance, off-rhyme, etc.), orchestrated for lyrical or other effect. (Click on the image to enlarge.)

Unfortunately, their work violates so many principles of science and logic as to raise serious questions about their motivation. It recalled to mind a cartoon that circulated many years ago, depicting a shroudologist at a blackboard on which were chalked several lines of mathematical calculations, followed by the phrase, “and then a miracle occurs!” Now Professor Paolo Di Lazzaro—lead researcher for the team from the National Agency for New Technologies, Energy, and Sustainable Economic Development (ENEA)—embodies that cartoon image.

What the researchers did is astonishing. First, according to their paper (Di Lazzaro et al., 2011, online at www.enea.it), they disregarded the overwhelming historical and scientific evidence that the “shroud” was a medieval forgery. (For example, microscopical evidence had revealed that the image was rendered in red ocher and vermilion paint, consistent with the reported confession of a mid-fourteenth-century artist, and the time frame was corroborated by a radiocarbon date of 1260-1390 C.E. obtained by three laboratories using accelerator mass spectrometry. [See my Inquest on the Shroud of Turin, 1998, and Relics of the Christ, 2007.])

Then the ENEA researchers employed the faulty logic of argumentum ad ignorantiam (an argument from ignorance): we don’t know how the image was formed, so it could be explained by “the Jackson theory of image formation”—that “theory” suggesting a miraculous burst of radiant energy at the moment of Christ’s resurrection. This illogic was followed by circular reasoning: Because the image was not produced by artistry, it could have been done by a high-intensity ultraviolet laser as a simulation of a miraculous energy blast, and since “This degree of power cannot be reproduced by any normal UV source built to date” (the ENEA researchers report states), it therefore implies the image was not produced by artistry.

Next, the ENEA scientists would attempt to shift the burden of proof by employing a double standard: Those persons invoking “traditional science” would be required to exactly duplicate the “shroud” (a virtual impossibility due to the countless variables involved), but they would not feel constrained to produce their own shroudlike image by means of a miracle-like burst of radiant energy from a corpse. What they have done is produce a similar color, but no actual body image, whereas skeptics have created convincing images with the shroud’s quasi-negative properties, its revealingly false anatomical features, delicate coloring, and so on and on. (See for example, Massimo Polidoro, “The Shroud of Turin Duplicated,” Skeptical Inquirer Jan./Feb. 2010, 18.)

Finally, the Italian researchers made a mockery of the principle of Occam’s razor. Instead of understanding its simple dictum that the hypothesis with the fewest assumptions is most likely correct, they take a different tack: As one shroudologist stated (at a 1986 conference I was invited to participate in), since it would have supposedly been too hard for an artist to have painted the image (for example, the scientist imagined an artist would have had to use a several-foot-long brush to paint with, because the image is so faint it can only be resolved at a distance), it would be more in accord with Occam’s razor, he stated, to accept that it was a miraculous occurrence. (Actually, early painted copies show the shroud image was once much bolder; it has faded over time.)

These scientists—who so cavalierly betray science—are even mockingly disingenuous about doing so. Lazzaro told The Independent that he would leave concepts such as miracles and resurrection to others, insisting, “as scientists, we were concerned only with verifiable scientific processes.” No doubt he will fool those who wish to be fooled, starting with himself.

The “no-substitution” policy of some restaurants is not a customer-friendly way to help one address his or her dietary concerns. Of course, sometimes substitutions cannot reasonably be made, but where they can be, restaurateurs should be encouraged to adopt a more flexible policy.

I, for example—in order to reduce carbs and fat—often seek to substitute sliced tomatoes for home fries or hash brown potatoes at breakfast. I have so often been accommodated in this regard at restaurants—including chains like Denny’s and Cracker Barrel—that I have come to all but expect the courtesy. After all, the menus of many restaurants (like those just mentioned) are now offering more healthy choices in entrees, sides, and even desserts. That practice should be encouraged.

Yet on September 11, 2011, when I visited a restaurant a short drive from my home—Tom’s Restaurant in Amherst, New York—I was told that while they could hold the potatoes, they would have to charge me extra for the tomatoes. Now, I did not mind the additional cost so much as the principle involved. That was especially so after I gently protested that nearly every restaurant of my acquaintance in the area was happy to make the requested substitution, but this server was adamant. I therefore elected to simply pay for my coffee and try elsewhere.

The nearest place proved to be Alice’s Kitchen, where I ordered the equivalent breakfast. Not only was it about a dollar cheaper, but the server cheerfully agreed to the substitution, and—when my meal was served—I found the tomato slices attractively nestled on a bed of green leaf lettuce! Even the restaurant’s spaciousness, décor, and overall ambience were superior, and I was served my own pot of coffee.

I’m not boycotting Tom’s, but Alice’s is more likely to get my business in the future—unless things change. I encourage readers to follow suit and let restaurateurs know you expect them to do their best to reasonably accommodate your dietary wishes.

The first sent me a letter as a boy, congratulating me on the acceptance by the FBI of five correctly executed fingerprint cards (one mine), thus fulfilling a requirement for the Boy Scout merit badge in Fingerprinting. This was the Hoover who had created the FBI as an independent agency—staffed by educated, trained “G-Men”—and with it the world’s greatest crime laboratory, fingerprint data base, and law-enforcement training academy. J. Edgar effectively presents this Hoover, ably played by Leonardo DiCaprio, whom we watch solve the “crime of the century,” the Lindbergh Kidnapping.

The second Hoover, or at least his FBI, pursued me as a federal fugitive—appropriately enough since I was living as a draft resister in Canada, opposed to the Vietnam War. However, the FBI deceptively suggested to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police that I might’ve entered their country illegally, and, in an act that still offends me for its political overkill, sent agents to look for me at my grandfather’s funeral. Here is the Hoover who used deceptive and fascist techniques against political leftists, notably the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.

This is the same Hoover who had become so jealous over the fame accorded agent Melvin Purvis—who brought down such gangsters as John Dillinger and “Pretty Boy” Floyd—that he mistreated him until he resigned. Next, Hoover also effectively torpedoed the ex-agent’s own nascent private detective agency. Then he responded to Purvis’ autobiography with a ghost-written one of his own that falsely altered Purvis’ resignation to a “termination with prejudice.” Purvis is only briefly mentioned in J. Edgar.

He actually went on to serve as an OSS agent in Europe (working under Hoover’s nemesis William J. Donovan), but in 1960, when Purvis learned he had terminal cancer, he committed suicide with a pistol given him on retirement by his admiring fellow agents. (In research I did some years ago on Purvis, I not only visited his grave and talked with his friends and his son Alston, but I held in my hand the bullet that passed through Purvis’ head.) Hoover went on to try to eradicate even the memory of Melvin Purvis.

It is this manically obsessive, vindictive, two-faced Hoover that J. Edgar‘s portrait fails to quite capture—at least for me. Yes, his unethical, even illegal sneakiness, his dirty files, his veiled blackmailing of presidents are all there. Yet, ultimately DiCaprio does not become this Hoover—in the way that, say, Hilary Swank became Amelia Earhart (in Amelia 2009). Something is missing, and I suggest it is not really DiCaprio’s fault. Rather it is attributable to the movie’s almost too humanizing portrayal, including its dwelling on the supposed in-the-closet gay relationship of Hoover and his constant companion Clyde Tolson, a portrayal flawed by fictional episodes and the erroneously presented long-continued influence of Hoover’s mother who actually died in 1938—among other diversions and distortions.

Still J. Edgar is a very good movie that reaches far and accomplishes much. DiCaprio may yet be nominated for an Oscar as Best Actor.

Rating: Three wooden nickels (out of four)

The strange looking animal (see photos) showed up on the property of Tim Stoll near Strafford. The family had suffered the loss of one chicken a day until their entire flock was gone. Then, on November 5, Stoll’s teenage stepson, Dalton Pennington, encountered the creature. It had spooked their horses and was heading for the goat pen, when Dalton killed it with a single shot from a deer rifle. He was impressed with its strange appearance and distinctive yellow eyes.

Stoll asked, “Mangy coyote? A diseased animal or something?” His son Charley searched the Internet and found that their strange animal resembled others popularly identified as the Chupacabra, whose name means “goatsucker.” Trouble is, most so-called chupacabras turn out to be rather ordinary critters—commonly one of the family canidae (dogs, wolves, foxes, and the coyote)—suffering from sarcoptic mange, a disease whereby burrowing skin mites cause hair loss and a resulting weird appearance. (See Joe Nickell, Tracking the Man-Beasts, Amherst, NY: Prometheus, 2011, 141-56.)

Being in Missouri at the time (lecturing at Skepticon IV in Springfield), I was able to investigate the case firsthand. I contacted Francis Skalicky, a media specialist for the Missouri Department of Conservation. He told me that two state biologists had—independently—identified the Strafford creature from photos as a coyote with mange.

I also went on site at the Stoll farm where I was very hospitably received. Young Dalton even recognized me from one of my several appearances on the History Channel’s popular TV series Monster Quest. On orders from conservation officials, they were about to dispose of the animal by burning, so I arrived, with Missouri skeptic Larry Jewell who videotaped our visit, just in time to inspect the very rank-smelling carcass.

The creature is indeed weird looking. However, its size, lithe body, doglike paws, and triangular ears are indicative of the canids, and the sharp snout, specific coloring (orangish-gray upper, buff underparts, rusty legs with vertical dark line on lower foreleg), and other features, including the dentition and yellow eyes, are consistent with the coyote. By no means hairless, the animal nevertheless clearly suffered from mange (a condition I was familiar with as a boy growing up in eastern Kentucky). (See, for example, National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Mammals, NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996, 682-86.)

In marked contrast, the chupacabra is said to be “hairy, about four feet tall, with a large, round head, a lipless mouth, sharp fangs, and huge, lidless red eyes.” Moreover, it reportedly has “thin, clawed, seemingly webbed arms with muscular hind legs” and “a series of pointy spikes running from the top of its head down its backbone.” (See Loren Coleman and Jerome Clark, Cryptozoology A to Z, New York: Fireside, 1999, 61-63.) However, since no specimen has ever been authenticated scientifically, the Strafford creature is as real, apparently, as the Chupacabra gets.