It is early morning, and a light fog lies like a holy shawl over San Francisco bay. The sun just peeks its fiery brow up over the Sierra Nevada’s to the east, and most of the skyscrapers downtown allow their eastern windows to catch the rays of fire—orange and yellow and violet. Flashes of green wing their way from the dozens of parks and secret nesting places all over that part of the city. Larger than sparrows, but smaller than pigeons—these strong green-tinted fliers, daring in and out of the palm fronds and thick gray-green deciduous leaves, are red-crowned Conures—small but mighty parrots.

The reddish feathers on their heads, and the red slash around their feral eyes seem to deepen in color as the sun’s glaring rays catches them facing east. Alcatraz winks white across the narrow waist of the bay, as the breeze picks up—creating frothy white caps and swirling wind snakes across the disturbed surface of the water. In the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge is clearing itself of low clouds as the stiff breezes blow the mists off its red steel and cables.

Riding the thermals and swirling through those breakfast breezes, three conures become seven, then twelve—then fifty. Some invisible instinct helps them congregate in a noisy flock. Like a living feathered sky design, they twist and soar and beat their green wings. The flock moves as one mass—yet barely held together, with its configuration shifting, yet extant as one avian articulated body bending and thrusting itself through the air—making sudden and sharply banked turns—where the out flyers have to swing wide and strain to catch up. Then they tighten up the formation and fly as one being past the Café Trieste, with Fisherman’s Terminal in the background—whizzing past the stark white obelisk of Coit Tower just above Telegraph Hill. Every time I see Coit Tower, I fully expect the pinched features of Clint Eastwood to peek past the edge of it, his .357 Magnum at the ready, playing Inspector “Dirty” Harry Callahan—in hot pursuit of the Zodiac killer.

Depending on the source, we find that Conures are either small parrots or very large parakeets—yes, parakeets are part of the genus Conure—and the family Parrot. Conures are native to Central and South America. The red-crowned varieties are plentiful in South Argentina and Chile. Their body is mostly green, and a lot of their feathers have dark edges. The red heads are considered “Austral” Conures. They live to be 15-35 years old. They feed on seeds, fruit, insects, and handouts. There are many varieties of Conures, with names like the sharp-tailed, the blue-crowned, the red-crowned, the Mexican green, the red-throated, the Sun, the Jenday, the Mitred, and the Dusky.

A flock of green Conures, flecked with red, in flight--will suddenly perch in a great tree—or on a wire. As they perch, screech, kibitz, and preen—bobbing up and down—we notice that their feet are well suited for grasping. They are shaped like an X. This co notates that a bird is, in fact, in the parrot family. It is considered to be a zygodactyl—having two toes in front and two behind. It allows them to pitch forward and hand comfortably upside down—or swing clear around the wire or branch like a carnival flipper.

Most men notice the many birds around them—whether in the cold canyons of a great city or the green depths of a forest. Their many tunes become the music of the morning—and the night. They warn us of intruders. They alert us that the sun is returning after a downpour—or in the dusty twilight announcing that Sol is about to thrust its fire over the horizon. Ornithologists claim that avian intelligence is considerable—and that parrots have soul, humor, and stunning intelligence—comparing to a chimpanzee or a human toddler. How sad it is to contemplate that on some not so distant day in the future, we might emerge from our hovel into the world—only to be greeted with a profound silence. No birds at all—not a chirp—like Rachel Carson’s SILENT SPRING.

There have been several movies about birds. Can any of us forget Alfred Hitchcock’s frightening foray into a flurry of feral wings in his film, THE BIRDS (1963)? In 1973, director Hal Bartlett presented us with JONATHAN LIVINGSTON SEAGULL—and it was a minor hit for its day. I enjoyed David Attenborough’s 1998 television series, THE LIFE OF BIRDS. In 2004 we were treated to director Jacques Perrin’s WINGED MIGRATION—which I found stunning and beautiful, fully appreciating the years of its preparation; but I also found it somewhat repetitious and a little boring. Here and there it came to life as some of the bird tales took on a smidgen of character—and a piece of plot or narrative was stuck in. This year our avian treat comes to us from the primitive wilds of Northern California—from the teeming forests of downtown San Francisco. It is called THE WILD PARROTS OF TELEGRAPH HILL. First it was a best-selling book by Mark Bittner--#32 on the New York Times bestseller list. The book was subtitled, “ A Love Story—With Wings.” It was considered a memoir, but soon it propelled Bittner into a shaft of international prominence as an amateur expert on Conures. Then it became a documentary film produced and directed by an activist environmentalist filmmaker named Judy Irving.

Ms. Irving, like so many of our modern filmmakers, can do it all. She has been making films for more than 25 years. She is a director, producer, cinematographer, videographer, editor, screenwriter, and sound engineer.

Her credentials are impressive. She was the recipient of a Director’s Internship from the Academy of Arts and Sciences, and a Guggenheim one year Fellowship in film. She launched her career working on the documentary, DARK CIRCLE in 1983—about the pitfalls and dangers of nuclear power. For that she won a Emmy for “Outstanding Achievement in News and Documentary.” Roger Ebert rated it at 4 stars. It won the Grand Prize at Sundance. The Academy Awards gave it a “Certificate of Merit”. This was not a bad start on her career.

As a film intern, she worked with Peter Weir on MOSQUITO COAST in 1986. She was the cinematographer and did the sound for Michael Moore on ROGER AND ME in 1989. She was involved in making NAGASAKI JOURNEY for PBS and the BBC. She collaborated with her old friend, Christopher Beaver, on KIDS BY THE BAY. She directed an interesting little dramatic film called, OUT OF THE WAY CAFÉ, about a waitress and her hopes and dreams—a kind of existential fiction piece.

Judy Irving has written,” Even when it didn’t make logical sense, birds kept showing up in my movies—geese in a film about nuclear power and weapons [DARK CIRCLE]—Sandhill cranes in OUT OF THE WAY CAFÉ—and I finally admitted to myself that, cool or not, I really did love birds—and hip or not, I really was by nature a documentary (not fiction) filmmaker. Around the time of my midlife reckoning, two friends, independently of each other, told me that I should,” make a movie about that guy who tends the parrots on Telegraph Hill.”

Three years earlier I read about Mark Bittner in BIRD TALK—a pet-parrot magazine. But since Mark wrote that he’d soon have to move—I figured he’d be gone before I could start shooting my first roll of film. He was still there though, and I finally received his call.

I did not want this to be just a “nature” film. It wouldn’t be just a portrait of a person, either. Mark’s unlikely connection to wild animals in one of the densest most expensive cities in the world was a unique tale—bent in unusual directions because of Mark’s non-careerist path and the avian characters who unexpectedly flew into his life.”

I found out that WILD PARROTS started out as a half hour children’s fable called, PARROTS OF THE CITY & OTHER WILD TALES (2000). Irving wrote,” But the children’s fable didn’t work. They say that you should never make a movie with wild animals or children. Plus, I was trying fiction again. Although Mark did entice one of the birds (Miles) to take sunflower seeds from three children—the acting was flat and the kids kept looking at the camera. But as I listened to Mark describing the birds—I saw that he was a great storyteller.

At first glance, Mark didn’t seem like a natural “movie star”. Yes, the green and red parrots flying around him were exotic and feisty—but Mark, himself was, well—a quiet longhaired hippie recluse living in a shack. I also wondered how much of a story there was in a guy just feeding birds.”

Presently, Judy Irving is the executive director of PELICAN MEDIA, who helped to produce WILD PARROTS. It is a non-profit organization that produces films with environmental themes. They have a lot of projects in progress. Outlined on their website, WILD PARROTS is just the first in a film series called ONLY IN SAN FRANCISCO.

Mark Bittner is a short man in his fifties, with very long reddish hair pulled back in his trademark ponytail. He wears thick oversized glasses to correct his myopia. A native of Seattle, which might help to explain his affinity to all things “natural”, he came to San Francisco—the city by the bay [God—how many are there of those?]—That throbbing hub of hordes of homosexuals—the former home of Kerouac’s “Beatniks” and Haight-Ashbury’s “Hippies”—about 25 years ago, sometime in the early 80’s. He was a guitarist and an aspiring rock and roll singer, composer, writer, and poet—but very soon what he actually became was a homeless street musician. He lived on those cold streets for 15 years. As he put it,” I just lived from moment to moment—in the now-- becoming day-to-day—waiting for the next big thing. One day I realized that time was no longer important—not the keeping track of it, or the passing of it—it had no hold on me. All I had to focus on, to think about—was where my next meal was coming from and where I was going to sleep that night.” He talked about several rooftops on some older buildings that many homeless types slept on. He was able to read a lot—which led him into the realm of the spiritual and the metaphysical.

He met many of the original beat and hippy icons—like Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, and Gary Snyder. Snyder’s books seemed to click with him—helped him to embrace his own spirituality, and to gain acceptance of and perspective on his meager existence. Bittner never thought of himself as a loser, an eccentric, or a bum—rather he considered himself a “Dharma Bum”--a “homeless seeker of the truth”. Gary Snyder postulated further,” If you want to study nature—start right where you are.”

Bittner, over the years, held down a few odd jobs—caretaker, security guard—but he could not stay connected to that minimum wage underemployed drudgery. He found a way to exist—without a job—quite a feat actually. Judy Irving wrote,” Mark never had a regular job in his 25 years in San Francisco, and he never paid rent. He had no money—but he did have all the time in the world. How did he get away with that?”

I think he accomplished this by finding and maintaining his “center”—by just being himself—and who he is personifies kindness, openness and unrestricted love. I got the feeling that if I had met him at one of those sidewalk cafes in San Francisco, sitting quietly by himself at a table, reading a discarded newspaper and sipping a coffee—I think I would have felt drawn to him—to his smile and the kindness in his eyes. I would have joined him at his tiny outcast’s table, and interacted with him—soliciting his tale. Surely a man like this would have a story to tell—right?

After hearing his tale, I think I would have bought him a meal—and then enjoyed watching him eat it. I probably would have walked with him to Telegraph Hill, to his shack—carrying a six-pack of beer. After watching him feed the parrots—we might have sat in the warm afternoon sun, staring out at the bay and of what’s left of Alcatraz—and talked of meditation and Zen consciousness. On my next visit I might have brought him a few groceries and ink for his printer and computer paper and sunflower seeds.

In the film, Bittner related a metaphysical parable,” A Zen Master observed a cascading waterfall dropping hundreds of feet. He pointed out to his student that as the rushing water spilled from the top of the cliff, it separated and became trillions of individual drops—morphing into a fine mist. Yet, as all that water struck the bottom, it reconnected to its source—the river. Those falling water drops are like the span of our individual lives—and the river is that greatest of energy flows that surrounds us, is us—God and Spirit and Dharma and Krishna—and that we surely must reconnect to it on the other side of the veil—in that vital life between lives.

Roger Ebert wrote,” Bittner is calm, intelligent, wise, confiding, and well spoken. You would be happy to count him as your friend. Which was refreshing, because one expected to be confronted with a North Beach weirdo ex-hippy with his wild-eyed parrot theories.”

Kent Turner of FILM FORWARD wrote,” Bittner is conversational and laid back—and anything but pedantic.” Josh Vasquez of SLANT wrote, “ Bittner is the “star” of the piece. He has a soothing ease about him, as he waxes poetic. He has a stillness that lends his raggedy figure an almost pastoral quality.”

So, WILD PARROTS opens with Mark Bittner standing near his shack on Telegraph Hill feeding the Conures. They perch on his head and shoulders, and eat out of his hand. People began to call Bittner,” The St. Francis of Telegraph Hill”, and the “Bohemian St. Francis.” He recalled that one day five years prior, when he lived in an apartment on another part of the hill, he went out on his small balcony and began to leave out cups of bird seed—and the parrots began to spread the word and stop by. It took him months to earn their trust. When he moved to his shack—the owners called it a classic older bungalow—he just took up residence without asking permission. Their tenant initially surprised the new owners—but they were touched as well by his kindness and devotion to the parrots. So they allowed him to stay in the shack rent-free for all of five years. The film opens on the last chapter of his residency there—his final months. The owners had decided to remodel the shack and rent it out. Greed finally defeated compassion—doesn’t it always?

For the past twenty-five years, Bittner had been searching for “meaning” in his homeless life—the Big truth—those answers to the eternal questions. He was completely unaware that he would connect with the parrots, and that they would provide everything he needed—focus, meaning, love, tragedy, and total interest. After he wrote his book, he garnered an international reputation as a parrot expert.

He named the parrots. First there was Conner—the larger blue-crowned Conure—who was the flock’s “Founding Father”. He was the last of the original flock. For time, Bittner mentioned, Conner had a mate—another blue-crown—but she died or was killed. So he, like Bittner, was an outcast. One critic wrote,” In many ways this is a movie about outcasts—and outcasts at heart.” When Bittner contacted the Audubon Society—they were condescending and responded negatively to his inquiries concerning the welfare of the red-crowned Conures. He encountered this negative energy with almost all the bird associations, clubs, and societies he contacted. Oddly, most bird lovers seemed to resent trespassers, such as the wild parrots—on the grounds that the Conures were outside their native range. Maybe those learned folks are not truly bird “lovers”. This stonewalling really irritated me—these bird snobs with their absurd and elitist attitudes. It is the equivalent of the Mennonites who forbid their children to use modern media because movies, television, and rock ‘n roll are not “bible-based”. The children, of course, often rebelled and availed themselves of the modern conveniences.

Conner was always with the flock—but never completely a part of it. He seemed to be about 14 years old. He was the peacemaker too. Conures can be fierce with one another. If one of the flock were ill or weak—often the others would turn on it, attacking it and pecking it to pieces. That’s when Conner would step in and protect the weaker bird. So no matter how hot tempered the other became, Conner would remain cool and detached. Bittner identified strongly with this proud lonely bird. When Mark was asked about his long ponytail, he would respond with,” Oh, I just thought that I would keep growing my hair until I got a new girlfriend.”

There was Mingus, who had learned that inside Bittner’s house was a comfortable and safe place. Mark had a hard time keeping him out. Mingus would nest under a cluttered table in that crowded little shack, and he would get cranky if Bittner got close to it—rushing out squawking and pecking. I think it required a lot of patience and affection to deal with Mingus’ constant tantrums.

There was little Tupelo—the sickly one. Bittner kept him inside, nursing him and watching him slip away. Mark was away on an errand when Tupelo passed away. Animals often prefer to die alone. It is hard to tell if that is just their instinct or if it is their concern for their keeper’s grief.

Bittner wept when he talked of Tupelo. He wished that he had been permitted to be with him—to be holding him when his tiny bird spirit took flight into some airless parallel dimension.

There was a pair of parrots—Picasso and Sophie. Sophie was smallish and Picasso was almost as large as Conner. They were a nice match. Bittner postulated,” She loved her big lug—Picasso.” But one dark day Sophie showed up alone. Picasso had disappeared. It was probably a hawk, Mark reflected in narration. The red-tailed hawks were the parrot’s primary predator. The flock, therefore, always posted a sentry on “hawk alert”. When a hawk was spotted soaring hungry above them, circling and waiting for a chance kill—the sentry would sound the chirp alarm, and the whole flock would make an identical sound. Every bird would make an odd cooing noise—communicating in parrot—hawk, hawk, and hawk. When Bittner noticed this phenomenon, he looked up and began to notice the hawks. The conures are swift in the air, and sometimes they could out fly the hawks—but more often the whole flock would swirl up into a squawking knot and take up a formation in behind the hawk. I guess hawks can only attack straight ahead—so with this flanking maneuver, the flock effectively would checkmate them.

So Miss Sophie was suddenly alone and Bittner worried about her. Being smaller than normal, she could not protect herself very well. Conner was always alone too—so Mark began to hope that he could be a matchmaker for the two of them—one blue-crown plus one red-crown might produce a violet crowned chick.

Mark Bittner: I would like to see Sophie and Conner together. I think that they would be ideal for each other—and I think Conner’s interested—but I think Sophie’s dubious. Y’know, she just lost Picasso—so maybe she needs more time to mourn.

At some point, Bittner was given a domestic blue-crowned conure—which he thought might have been a female. He put Conner in with it, and it turned out to be a “guy thing”. They did not get along. The other male bird was not only of the wrong persuasion—but he was very cranky as well. Another pair was dubbed Pushkin and Olive. Olive had the bad habit of being a feather-plucker. So this union was not fated to last for the ages.

Bittner remarked at one point,” I wonder how people get so attached to animals?” I think that it has to do with the universal need for all living things to experience friendship and love. How much of it is projected by humans onto the lesser beasts about us—and onto inanimate objects like our cars and machines—is hard to gauge, and even more difficult to fully understand. Metaphysically one can come up with a form of the answer—that each of us, as co-creators of this plane of existence, instinctively understand that there is “spirit” in everything—and it is a spirit we can communicate with and relate to. So if one abuses a pet, or even a machine—it will turn on them, and the results will be chaos and calamity. Likewise it is not uncommon for a pet to live full term, or a car to run 200,000 miles if one “loves” it.

Love has always been, and will always be, the common denominator for all things throbbing in this vast universe. Mark Bittner is a loving man—and I think that Judy Irving became ensnared in that very real emotion simply by being in its proximity. Ron Stringer of LA WEEKLY wrote,” Following an arc from whimsical detachment to profound engagement—this film is a remarkable document from a filmmaker who enters—deeply, personally, and above all, tactfully into the lives of her subjects.” The worst kinds of radiation have a half-life of more than 100 years. The best kinds of love are infinite—they never wear out—and such is its power for we mortals.

When Mark Bittner talks about birds, he relates to them as if they were part of his family. Yet he denied embracing any sentiment or thought or action that could be considered anthropomorphic. When a person attributes a human form or personality to things that are not human—where is the truth of it? When we relate to and love our pets, are we simply anthropomorphizing as the skeptics claim—or are we, as Bittner claims, connecting strongly to something deeper—to the life force that surges all around us mostly unseen?

Judy Irving asked Bittner,” What is the difference between your attachment and affection for these parrots—and the intense devotion the “Pigeon Lady” has for her birds?” Then we are shown a shot of the Pigeon Lady—overweight, staring blankly, unkempt—squatting in the middle of a sidewalk midst the crowd—tossing out birdseed to her beloved pigeons. She appeared to be beyond eccentric—into some realm of dementia. Bittner only smiled as a response. He knew that Ms. Irving would find the answer to her own question before she finished shooting the film.

It brought to mind a poem that I wrote in 1965, after encountering such an entity in Seattle—in Pioneer Square. The was the rough part of town then—raw and pungent and sometimes dangerous—pure skid row—dominion of the homeless bums, winos, and drugged-up muggers. Today, Pioneer Square is all cleaned up and Yuppie-ized—but the original denizens still cruise those streets and inhabit that area. They, after all, were there first, and no matter how many times that they are run off—they just filter back in when the constabulary is looking the other way.


Feed the birds,
She cried
From the steps of St. Pauls,
A buck a bag!

An old woman so old
That no one knew when she first came
To sell her bread crumbs
And talk to the birds.

She was wrapped brown
In a shawl of earthen patches,
And wore a hat woven
From dead grass.

One day
I could not take my eyes off of her
As she uttered a melodious murmur
About people, places, and times of before,
Her so like a dove,
White, alive, and free—
Floating high above the earth
With the wind beneath her gossamer wings
And her tiny heart bursting
With song.

I asked her
About the birds
And of her devotion to them,
And she replied
That she loved pigeons
Above all the Lord’s creatures
Because she knew that—

At night
When the sun no longer
Cascades through stained glass
And high open windows—
When the priests are asleep,
The pews empty,
The mammoth oaken doors locked,
The alter cold and metallic
And the ivory Christ
Can rest on his cross,
The angels
On the walls and ceiling,
Hovering forever
In one tiny spot,
Smiling and blessing
The bunch below—
Are never alone.

For they can always hear
In a voice
very like their own,
The cooing of birds.

Glenn Buttkus 1965

One critic wrote,” Judy Irving uses Bittner’s book as a basis for this insightful look into a wild aviary world—little known but thriving at the city’s heights.” Deer in city parks, raccoons in the back yard, coyotes lurking near your yard watching your little dogs with hungry red eyes—it all reminds me of the film, WOLFEN (1981), with Albert Finney and Gregory Hines, who were confronted by creatures that were wild, and real—yet almost supernatural as well. The wolfen thrived in the dark places of the city—the isolated places—deep within New York—feeding on the weak, the sick, and the homeless. I will always remember Edward James Olmos as the steel walking Native American, Eddie Holt—racing naked in the night surf, skipping along the black beach on all fours—shape shifting.

David Michie composed the music for WILD PARROTS. I had not heard of him—but it turned out that he was a well-respected lead guitarist and singer—who could wring the neck off his axe and wail out electrifying blues. He played with Jerry Garcia, Van Morrison, Stevie Wonder, Boz Skaggs—and he shared the stage with B.B. King, Neil Young, Taj Mahal, and Paul Butterfield. Michie had released four C/D’s—like TOUGH LOVE and SEVEN RIVERS. This was his only film score, and ironically while working on it he received the news that he had cancer. He died in 2003—just before the film was released.

The critics were very vocal about this lovely film. Ann Homady of the WASHINGTON POST wrote,” Here is a movie about one man’s discipline and commitment—and eventual spiritual transformation. Quite simply—it is a beautiful film in both form and content. Your heart is guaranteed to soar.” Michael Stragon wrote,” Judy Irving’s film seduces you with its easy rhythms, and unexpected dramatic potency. It is a beguiling, moving, and just plain fun documentary.

There were dissenters, of course. One critic wrote,” Those who prefer more variety in their non-fiction features—will find this movie repetitious.” Josh Vasquez of SLANT wrote further,” This film, though not groundbreaking, distinguishes itself through the articulate simplicity of its approach—although it has a sappy and unnecessary soundtrack—and an ending that is strangely self-serving and far too rushed—seeming more like a gimmick than a thematic resolution.”

I would most certainly disagree there, sir. When the film was winding down, and Bittner had to place Mingus and his other more domestic birds with other people—and he was being evicted—I became genuinely concerned about him. What in the world would happen to him, and to the flock that trusted him and depended on him? He assured the City Council that the parrots would fare fine without him—and it appears that he was right. The flock presently numbers almost 200, and there’s a second splinter flock in a different part of town. So when the camera zoomed in on that pair of scissors cutting of Mark’s trademark ponytail—I just figured that he need to clean himself up in order to face his uncertain future—perhaps even have to break down and find a part-time job. I was very pleasantly surprised when Judy Irving stepped into the frame, put her arm around the freshly shorn Bittner, and declared,” Oh, by the way—we now are a pair.” Old sentimental me—I was thrilled that Judy found a mate and that Mark was not going to have to return to living on the streets. I began to imagine all those environmental projects that they would now collaborate on.

Ed Park of THE VILLAGE VOICE wrote,” It is an intimate companion piece to last year’s WINGED MIGRATION—and several sharp jolts give the documentary its dramatic shape.” Jolts like the death of Tupelo, the death or disappearance of Picasso, Bittner’s eviction, Bittner’s emotionalism as he had to leave his birds with strangers—and most dramatically that photograph taken by an old neighbor—somewhat blurred and distant—of a red-tailed hawk devouring a parrot atop a light pole—and it appeared to be a conure with a blue crown. It was a sad way for the regal decent Conner to make his exit. It made me twinge with grief—as nature illustrated once more its fierce yet logical impartiality. Each living creature has its prescribed length of time on this earth—and Conner’s number was up.

Judy Irving wrote,” I started shooting just in time for the dramatic story to unfold: the final year of Mark’s life with the flock. The film had its own built-in beginning, middle, and end—not unlike fiction. It has some comedy, drama, silliness and depth. It also changed my life. I had no idea when I started this film that it would become my best work. Although I am not a New Age person, I have to admit the “parrot angels” kept turning up to fly the film along to completion. It has something to do with admitting who I am, and following my own path. I didn’t really believe this before, but I think it’s the way the universe must work.”

So I found that this movie was not the basic by-the-numbers “nature” film. Those marvelous small but mighty parrots have adjusted to winter’s chill, and to the canyons of concrete. It is an urban tale focusing on this special flock of tropical birds that have learned to thrive—a reality that few tourists understand. When they see one of the flocks—they might just dismiss them as “green crows”. The conure’s survival and proliferation is nothing short of a stunning achievement. I would hate to think that at some future date, the San Francisco City Council might feel “obligated” to capture some of them—to thin out the flocks. Even the peregrine predator hawks can not keep the parrot numbers down enough—in that vicious cycle of predator and prey—where death drops down from an electric blue California sky like a bolt of scorching lightning—all talons and razor sharp beaks.

This move tells a gentle tale compassionately, and I really loved it. Some day I need to swing through San Francisco and drive over to Telegraph Hill—and wait a while hoping to see that telltale green flock come winging hot across my path. Wouldn’t that be grand?

I gave this movie a rating of 4.5 stars
Glenn A. Buttkus (2005)