Larry as Max.

What you think you'll look like when the apocalypse comes:

What you look like when it does:

But replace the shirt and sweater on the great Larry Fine with a T-shirt and sweatshirt.

As you may recall, I have been reveling in the fact that I bought a skid of toilet paper for the house before all the bad juju went down. Just happened to be in BJ's Wholesale Club with a Cottonelle coupon burning a hole in my pocket and I said, Why not? And now I leap about in my TP pool like Scrooge McDuck in one of his money vaults, only TP is a lot softer than money.

But one thing I did not think to do was get a haircut. And the barbershops have been closed for a couple of weeks, with no end in sight.

This is tough on the barbers, and it's doing me no good whatever either. I am a bit thin on top, a genetic gift from my old man, and that means I can't grow out my hair in any stylish way. I just look like Larry, or Bozo, or any number of silent-film comedians with hilarious scalps. As I have complained in this space before, the only way to deal with this is to keep it short. How can I do that?

Even Forrest Gump advised "Do not try to cut your own hair." So where can I turn? My wife is a woman of many talents, but is no hairstylist. We have some tools for emergency dog trimming, as our dogs are ridiculously hairy beasts, but that stuff isn't meant for me, and she'd probably buzz off half of my hair by accident.

On that note, I am taking Tralfaz to get a dog bath and trim this week; maybe I should just stick out my head and ask the groomer to zap me while she's at it. "There's an extra ten spot in it for ya!"

No, I guess I just have to make peace with the fact that the duration of Coronageddon will see me with bad hair sticking out at the sides. Fortunately I have a lot of caps.

But mark my words: When all this is over, and the morning comes that sees those striped poles turning again, the doors will be jammed not with long-hairs needing a trim but with balding guys running for the chairs. Someone's gonna get hurt. Certainly if they get in my way.

Surviving Walmart.

For the second week in a row I went shopping early on Sunday morning. I have never planned so hard for a mere restocking of supplies, not even when planning a major get-together or holiday event.

Why Walmart? A couple of reasons: 1) You can usually count on them to have the basics, whatever the crisis, and 2) I needed a doorknob. The supermarkets don't carry doorknobs.

Even though I had been successful the week before, the constant drone of the viral news was making me a bit nervous. I mean, anyone who's ever seen the People of Walmart site could be unnerved by making an off-hours jaunt to that fabled retailer anyway. However, I think that those People are usually spotted in the late-night hours, and currently Walmart has no late-night hours. Even they are closing to sanitize the shop.

As for the doorknob, the doorknob on the downstairs can, after years of faithful service, was starting to make a click and thud sound when turned. I did not get to be this age without knowing that something was broken inside, and eventually someone was going to wind up locked in the bathroom. So a new knob was in order. And I did find it, as I found everything I was looking for there, with minor omissions.

TP Report: There was a posted notice of One TP Per Customer, and yet the only package I saw was a Scottissue multipack that had a tear in the plastic. Fortunately we are still living large off the Cottonelle I got at BJ's before all this went down. And I would have been reluctant to go with Scott brand anyway. I grew up with that in the house, and that's why I have a flat behind -- it was sanded down throughout my childhood.

But (ha!) that's TMI. The trip was a success, and was followed by a successful stop at the supermarket for produce and other things that Walmart does not do well. I was very fortunate, or blessed, as I am still in a good deal of back and leg pain since my awful hospital visit in February. I can barely walk a quarter of a mile without burning pain that may or may not go away if I crouch down for a short rest. Well, I was able to do the whole run without much discomfort, and that's a major win.

There were many reminders present of the Coronapocalypse, however.

Mask and glove report: Only about a quarter of the supermarket patrons wore masks; for Walmart, it was closer to half. Maybe half the supermarket shoppers had some kind of gloves on, but Walmart, close to 75%, including me. I had no masks, but I had one pair of latex gloves. I decided to choose which store to use it in, since I didn't want to transfer any germs into my car by wearing them throughout my expedition, and I didn't want to buy any since we had more at home, and you could probably guess why I chose to wear them in Walmart.

Shopping is still a very strange event. Fortunately we seem to be past the bulk of the hoarding craze, even though we don't know when all this will be over.

As I say, to make a trip like this efficiently required much planning. We still live in times of plenty; we just seem to have to overthink everything. And when I say We I mean I.

P.G. Doghouse.

Readers of this blog, being literate and above average in oh so many ways, may be able to guess why I spent the money on a bag of refrigerated dog treats for our two little (read: huge) chaps. Yes, they're mostly good boys and deserve treats. And yes, they like chicken, very much. But why this brand?

P.G. Wodehouse was perhaps the funniest artist of prose the English language has ever known. Certainly there are many other talented humor writers, but not one has had the consistency and staying power of that late hero of humor. Readers of his will remember Freddie Threepwood, the rather soft-headed second son of the somewhat addlepated Lord Emsworth, who first appeared in Wodehouse's incomparable Something Fresh. Freddie is a bit of a wastrel, but sort of an innocent, never carousing in a serious way, but pulling pranks, drinking too much in school, running up debts, and consistently falling in love with the wrong women.

The Earl of Emsworth was so constituted that no man or thing really had the power to trouble him deeply, but Freddie had come nearer to doing it than anybody else in the world. There had been a consistency, a perseverance about his irritating performances which had acted on the placid peer as dripping water on a stone. Isolated acts of annoyance would have been powerless to ruffle his calm; but Freddie had been exploding bombs under his nose since he went to Eton.
       He had been expelled from Eton for breaking out at night and roaming the streets of Windsor in a false moustache. He had been sent down from Oxford for pouring ink from a second storey window on to the Junior Dean of his college. He had spent two years at an expensive London crammer's and failed to pass into the Army. He had also accumulated an almost record series of racing debts, besides as shady a gang of friends, for the most part vaguely connected with the turf, as any young man of his age ever contrived to collect.  

The thing about Freddie is that, after many disappointments in romance, he finally meets the true love of his life, the American Aggie Donaldson, whose father is the owner of Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits. They wed, move to America, and Freddie's new father-in-law puts him to work in the firm, selling Donaldson's Dog-Joy. Freddie becomes reborn -- confident and driven to succeed. It makes a new man of him. Kind of a bore on the subject. Lord Emsworth barely recognizes Freddie when the latter makes a trip to scout the prospect of selling Donaldson's in England. Here, from "The Go-Getter" in Blandings Castle:

"Rupert Bingham, did you say?" said Freddie with a sudden animation. "I'll tell you something about Rupert Bingham. He has a dog named Bottles who has been fed from early youth on Donaldson's Dog-Joy, and I wish you could see him. Thanks to the bone-forming properties of Donaldson's Dog-Joy, he glows with health. A fine, upstanding dog, with eyes sparkling with the joy of living and both feet on the ground. A credit to his master."
       "Never mind about Rupert's dog!"
       "You've got to mind about Rupert's dog. You can't afford to ignore him. He's a dog to be reckoned with. A dog that counts. And all through Donaldson's Dog-Joy."

I have no idea if Freshpet had Wodehouse in mind when they created their own Dog Joy. The website doesn't mention it, and I have my doubts. For one thing, Donaldson's product is clearly a dog food, a mainstay of a pet's diet, while Freshpet's Dog Joy is a snack. Still, in honor of Wodehouse, and in solidarity with another Freddie, I went ahead and bought the bag.

My dogs give it two paws up. Two out of two approve. They like the rubbery, stinky little chicken-flavored treats. However, I was surprised that they weren't wild over them. I can tell when they like a treat, when they really like a treat, and when they'll run through fire for a treat (we call that Cheese Level). Dog Joy did not achieve the top ranking. But they liked it a lot, so yes, they approve.

It did not turn them into dogs to be reckoned with. Actually, at their large size, I think that was already the case.

And I think writing about Freshpet's Dog Joy has not done the slightest bit as much for me as selling Donaldson's Dog-Joy did for Freddie Threepwood. Pity.

It could happen.

Q & Author.

Host: Good morning, and welcome to our show. I'm Clarence Sassafras. This is Q & Author, the program where you the public gets to ask them the authors one question. Today's guest is Frederick Key, whose new novel Dwindle, Peak and Pine, has just been released. Good morning, Fred.

Fred: Yo.

Host: All right, let's get to it. Remember, just one question. Who's up first?

Caller 1: Hello, am I on?

Host: Yes. Who's our next caller?

Caller 2: Hi, I'd like to ask, is it really true that you can go to jail for ripping off the mattress tag?

Host: Good question, caller. Fred, over to you.

Fred: Um... That isn't really an issue in any of my writing, but I am pretty sure the penalties only apply to the mattress retailer.

Host: "Pretty sure"? Kind of wobbly there, Fred.

Fred: Yeah, it's not my area of the law. None of them are.

Host: Who's our next caller?

Caller 3: Can I say hi to my dad?

Host: No. Who's our next caller?

Caller 4: Hello, this is Rita from Sweezy Point. I'd like know what Ferd thinks about the situation in the Aleutians.

Host: Good question, there, Rita. Well, Ferd?

Fred: Fred.

Host: If you say so.

Fred: I was unaware of the situation in the Aleutians, Clarence.

Host: You seem rather uninformed, Ferd.

Fred: I don't get out much.

Host: Who's our next caller?

Caller 5: Hello. First time, long time. Wait, did that count as a question?

Host: No, but that one did. Who's our next caller?

Caller 6: OOOH! It's me! Hi, Clarence! It's so great to talk to you! You're just so wonderful! I love your show!

Host: Thank you, Mom, but I'm working right now.

Caller 6: Well, if you'd call me once in a while I wouldn't have to bother you at the office.

Host: Do you have a question for our author?

Caller 6: Sure, why not. Ummmm..... Mr. Author, why are books so bad these days? They're either bloody and gross or stuffy and boring.

Fred: Not all books. In fact, I can recommend --

Host: Mom, you're embarrassing me. Who's our next caller?

Caller 7: Hello, Clarence. Hello, Ferd. I just want --

Caller 6: Clarence, honey, what do you want for dinner on Sunday?

Host: Mom, get off the line! Go ahead, new caller.

Caller 7: I just wanted to know if Ferd has any thoughts on a possible solution to the Riemann hypothesis.

Host: How about it, Ferd?

Fred: Fred.

Host: Him too.

Fred: Can I go yet?

Host: No. Who's our next caller?

Caller 8: This is Rodney. Ferd, I just want to ask you, where do you get your ideas?

Ferd: I swear I have no clue about anything anymore. I'm not even sure what my name is.

Host: And there you have it, another episode of Q & Author. I'd like to thank my guest, Ferd What's-His-Name, and our callers. This is Clarence Sassafras saying: The only dumb question is the one you ask. Good day!

Aha!

"Mr. Xi, What's your method of destroying civilization?"

"Ancient Chinese secret."

"Xi Jinping! Some hotshot! Here's his 'ancient Chinese secret'..."

I know, I know; you must be this old⎺⎺ to ride this joke.

(I guess this joke also ruins my hope of ever getting a movie adaptation of one of my novels.)

(P.S.: It is not racist to point out the origin of the current disease crisis, especially since stupidity and wickedness helped turn it into a massive global problem. I feel like I should not even have to say that.)

(P.P.S.: Mr. Philbin writes that the Chinese people have probably suffered more from this disease by any measure than anyone else, and I think we'd know that to be true if their horrible government would release honest statistics. But their motto seems to be, Why tell the truth when a lie will do?)

Fred's Book Club: Good Things.

Happy Wednesday, folks! And that means Fred's Book Club is back, with another humpless Humpback Writer for Hump Day.

This week we have one of the most unlikely pairings one might ever find in a self-help book, one that sounds like the beginning of a joke. What do you get when you combine a rabbi psychiatrist and the world's best-loved cartoonist?

When Do the Good Things Start? is a self-help book published originally in 1988 by rabbi and psychiatrist Abraham J. Twerski, with some illustrative cartoons from the long-running Peanuts strip. Everyone familiar with Peanuts knows that part of its great appeal was its undertone of postwar psychological ideas at play, certainly in its early years. Personal failings, individuals vs. society, imagination vs. reality, phobias, insecurity, boneless intellectualism vs. boneheaded determination, friction between personalities, cultural commentary, so many things worked through the strip through the years when it was at its best. Dr. Twerski cleverly uses some of them to illustrate points about weathering life's problems and bettering ourselves in the process.

Dr. Twerski initiated this project because he'd found Peanuts useful in his counseling career. In the introduction he relates the first time he did so, working with an alcoholic who was trying one thing after another to control his drinking, failing every time. "I remembered how Charlie Brown falls flat on his back each time he tries to kick the football at the beginning of each season. And how every year he rationalizes why this year things were going to be different and he was not going to miss the ball. Yet every year the same thing happened. Charlie Brown did not learn from his experience." This made sense to his patient, who saw his behavior now in the same way, presumably learning that the only way to win was to give up the game.

Rather than quote the book, I've scanned some pages (poorly) so you can see how it works with the cartoons. I hope neither Dr. Twerski nor the estate of Charles Schulz will give me grief, as I think this does count as a review. As you can see, the book is written in short chapters, essays really, that discuss common emotional conditions and encourage healthy responses.

I bought the book years ago because I had always enjoyed Peanuts, and I thought it might have some good advice for me. Indeed, its advice is solid, although pretty much right at the level of any self-help book.

I've read several classics in the field -- I'm OK, You're OK; The Power of Positive Thinking; Who Moved My Cheese?; The Purpose Driven Life -- usually because they were recommended to me. And they all have good advice. The problem is, we have to take it, and keep taking it. Charlie Brown gets good advice all the time, but he lacks the spirit to take it beyond a few moments. Most of us just fall back into our groove after the energy we expend climbing out of it dissipates.

None of the Peanuts characters ever really changes. Of course, they never grow up. Growing up does change us; it is a crisis in its way, and every crisis has the possibility of making us move out of our groove because we have to. But without that motive force, good advice can be all so much hot air.

Anyway, I thought I'd run with this book today because I've read some articles about advantages of life during quarantine, and some recommend taking this time to see what's really important, and to better ourselves and our relationships. So, you could do worse than read this book. And if we are shoved out of our old grooves by current events, may we all wind up in better places after it's over.

And here it is!

Thank you for putting up with the shameless self-promotion this week, but I'm proud of this book and happy to get it into reader's hands. And here it is!

The Kindle edition, for the very reasonable price of $2.99, is available here. If you'd rather have a tangible edition, that is available for the unbeatable price of $16, here.

I wanted the price to be on the lower end because I am hoping that younger readers will be interested in the book. And let me assure any teenagers who might happen on this site, that I promise upon my honor that this is not a coming-of-age novel. It does, however, contain a large and goofy dog.

I hate to be a schnorrer, but: If you should read the book and enjoy it, please do leave a good review. Life on Amazon is all about the reviews; if Tolstoy was writing today and got no Amazon reviews, he would have been just some crazy fuzz-face scribbling to himself in the darkness.

I actually thought about profiling my own book in the usual Wednesday book feature, but I thought that was cheesy on the scale of government-giveaway-cheese cheesy. So we'll have our own seemingly random other book profile tomorrow. (The criteria for being profiled in Fred's Book Club are: Is Fred familiar with it? And ... that's about it.)

So let's meet here again tomorrow to see what the Humpback Writers have for us. I really do love books, you know; sometimes even my own.

New novel!

So here at last is the big announcement you all (most? some? one?) have been waiting for:

The NEW FRED BOOK!

<harpsichords, flutes, fife and drum, brass band playing Stars and Stripes Forever>

Thank you.

It actually hits tomorrow, because new books always come out on Tuesdays. No, I don't know why. It's been that way since I started in the business and I'm not going to change it now.

Enough of this jibber-jabber! you say (and well you should). What's the book about? 

Well, it's called Dwindle, Peak and Pine, a line from Macbeth. Here's the cover.

And here's what it says on the back cover:

Rick Drail and his widowed father, Craig, own a small cabin camp in the town of Hunker Lake. Things are normally very quiet for them after Halloween ... but then, people aren't normally murdered in Hunker Lake, and never in one of their cabins. Sue Milkins is the most beautiful woman Rick has ever seen in person, the kind of woman that can set a small town like Hunker Lake on fire. Where has she come from? What has brought her to this small town, past the end of the season? And why would anyone want to kill her? When Sue is found murdered one morning, Rick's life spirals into chaos. The police suspect everyone of the crime, even Rick’s father. Rick suddenly sees everyone around him, including their other paying guests, even his closest friends, as potential murderers. As police tighten their focus on Craig, Rick tries to find information to save him--but maybe his father does have some secrets of his own.

It's not the first mystery novel I've written; Faster & Closer has a mystery at the heart of the plot. It is, however, the first book I've written that is intended for teens as well as adults: The story is told from the point of view of high-schooler Rick. It's also a brisk read -- the book weighs in at 60,000 words. (For comparison purposes, Fahrenheit 451 was 46,000 words, but The Grapes of Wrath is about 170,000, per ServiceScape.)

I think it's an enjoyable story, whatever the reader's age. I certainly enjoyed writing it. It will be available tomorrow, March 24, as book as eBook. Naturally I'll post the links in the morning. If you consider it, and even choose to purchase it, I hope you will find much to like in it. And I thank you for your interest.

Grounded.

Essentially, the world has been grounded.

World, you've been naughty. Stay in your room and do your homework for the next two to six weeks. 

A friend says this is God's way of telling us to slow down, to be grateful for the many things we take for granted. I can kind of see that -- and I do believe that God can make good out of bad -- but you'd think we'd still be able to go to church.

All the religious outfits in town have closed, except for things like emergency food distribution. Religious services are nonexistent, and groups that normally rent church space, like people renting a hall, or AA or NA or Al-Anon groups, or even the local Weight Watchers meeting, have been left homeless for the time being. Ditto with all schools and nighttime school events.

I'm not sure what to make of the fact that our favorite local Chinese takeout was shuttered last night, and will be for the duration of hostilities. So I went to get pizza instead. I was surprised to realize I had not left the compound all day. The town was very quiet for a Saturday night. The movie theater was closed, of course; the barbershop that stays open late, the library, so many other places, too. A lot of the restaurants have just given up for the present, or maybe forever. The pizzeria, always a bustling joint, was a ghost of its regular self. With no table service allowed, it was terribly quiet. Normally there are a stack of pizza boxes on the oven, waiting for their owners; last night mine was the only one.

Of the few cars around, half were being driven by idiots, so I guess some ratios never change.

Things seemed to be optimistic for a while, with China reporting that new infections had cratered and productivity was close to normal. Not surprisingly, it now looks like those reports were so much bat soup, to put it nicely. Since that duplicitous government has been covering up and lying about this thing from the start, it's pretty much what we should expect.

So, we remain grounded.

Many people have commented, especially those older than thirty, that they love to stay home, except when they are required to stay home, and then they resent the hell out of it. I'm seeing signs of cabin fever just outside my door. There are more pedestrians around lately than I might typically see even on a breathtaking May day. I am curious to see what happens Monday, which is supposed to be colder and either rainy or snowy, depending on which forecaster you trust.

But I'll bet people will still be walking, and dragging their kids along. Some kids seem to really be enjoying it; little boys love to run ahead down the sidewalk to see how far away they can get in one burst of speed. Children usually like spending time with their parents, but may regard being torn away from the screens as an enforced march. Teens may walk, but only with other teens. Babies are in strollers and they never know what the hell is going on anyway.

One of the cutest ideas I've heard is to put teddy bears in your windows. Little kids on one of these enforced marches will be looking for them. We might do that. And this big kid will no doubt be looking for them, too.

Anyway: Monday is the big announcement I have been promising all last week during the Crazy Freddie Kindle Book Giveaway (His Prices Were Nonexistent!). So please tune in tomorrow and see what I hope might be a publishing note of interest.

Meanwhile, chin up, eyes clear, upper lip sturdy; we'll see it through. As the great Red Green says, "I'm pullin' for ya. We're all in this together."

Strange days have found us.

Go away, strange days! You suck!

I'm continually impressed by the good cheer of people who are carrying on, performing their duties to get us the goods and services we need, while the rest of us get grumpy with cabin fever. But no stiff upper lips can hide the fact that things are weird.

I had to bring huge major dog Tralfaz to the vet yesterday for his checkup and shots. To my surprise they did not cancel the appointment, but when I pulled up there was a big sign on oak tag saying STOP! All humans were to call the office to announce their arrival and wait outside. Which was fine with me, because Fazzy is always a pain in the ass at the vet's, to the point where I can't keep him in the waiting room. Whining, boofing, barking, vocalizing, fussing, basically acting like a nut. This was faster.

I heard that other people's veterinarians were following the same procedure. And I wondered how long all this will last. Will it take until the last coronavirus victim is recovered or buried? Because that could take a long time.

Suppose we could endure the crisis. Then let's take it a step further. Can we kill off the common cold and influenza the same way?

According to Jamaica Hospital Medical Center in Queens, New York, common cold germs can live on surfaces for seven days, and influenza just 24 hours. If we all stayed away from each other for two weeks and touched only things that were sanitized or boiled, could we completely destroy cold and flu germs?

I guess we'll know next year, when God willing this has all blown over, and the CDC says there's no flu vaccine because there's no flu. How nice that will be!

I know, it's stupid. We've certainly learned that no quarantine is perfect. Most people wouldn't stand isolation for two weeks for something they don't see as a threat. Some rhinovirus would miraculously survive. Some tribe in South America that didn't get the memo would emerge from the rain forest with bad colds. Some creep would keep the virus alive in a test tube and smear it in the subway. It's a ridiculous notion to think we could isolate colds and flu to death.

But wouldn't it be nice if we could wipe out those miserable bugs forever?

P.S.: If you missed last week's big Fred Kindle Book Giveaway, well, I'm sorry. But they're always available and reasonably priced. My books are also available on actual paper, but because everyone in the paper industry is getting out of book paper and into toilet paper, you'll have to pay more for those.

Last chance! Plus: Ain't that Stuf enuf?

Books! Woo hoo

Just using this Friday space to remind you that today is the final day of the Fred Kindle Giveaway. All of my novels for the Kindle and Kindle software are free! Every pixel must go! Get your shovel and scoop up some!

But if you feel gypped that all I'm doing here today is a commercial, and you're ready to throw down your Little Frederick Key Decoder Ring in disgust, let me fill the rest of the page with another brief adventure in the unending saga of Foods I Should Not Eat.

🍦🍨🍧🍩🍫🍪🍬🍭🍮🍯🍰

I was at a meeting last week, before everything got shut down, and these were the cookies on the agenda, lurking by the coffee:

And I thought to myself: Is this a Stuf Too Far? And: How much Stuf is Too Much Stuf? Is there not hubris in this bombastic bonne bouche? Does this Stuf fly too close to the sun? And: Is the coronavirus God's way of punishing us for building this veritable Tower of Babel Cookie? This Titanic of treats? This Sodom and Gomorreo?

And I thought: I gotta try one.

Look at the package! "Back by Popular Demand"! Nabisco didn't want to bring back the Most Stuf -- don't be crazy! We barely contained the Stuf last time! There are some things about which Man was not meant to know! Don't you remember what happened to Phil at the factory? But the public would not be assuaged. THE MOST STUF! they demanded. And so, with a heavy sigh, and a glance at the sycamore tree planed out front ("In Memory of Philip Klopnik / Perished in the Great Stuf Debacle"), Mr. Nabisco gave the order.

I was never a Double Stuf kind of guy. I for one have never seen the chocolate cookies in an Oreo as just a device to convey the filling. Perhaps most are, and after they've parted the cookie and scraped off the creamy inside they lose interest in the chocolate. No, to me, the Oreo is a great balancing act of chocolate and cream, and to Double Stuf would be as silly as to add a third chocolate cookie to the outside.

But I have to say, the Most Stuf almost changed my mind.

It's almost like eating a little slice of cake, with a crisp crunchy layer on either end. The Stuf, being made of sterner stuff than buttercream, is not too much to take in a larger amount. I'm not part of the all-important milk-dunking demo, having eschewed dunkage for most products, so I can't vouch for that. I thought it was pretty good, though. And in fact more satisfying in a way, One Most Stuf was probably as satisfying as three normal Oreos.

Still, I prefer the perfect balance of a standard Oreo,

In the end, though, I have to say -- one should be happy with one's Stuf, however modest; if we cannot be grateful for the small Stuf, we can never be grateful for the most Stuf either.

Requiescant in Pace, Phil Klopnik!

Last reminder: If YOU want a sweet treat, download those sweet books and read to your heart's content. Tomorrow they cost real money again!

Gunfight at the TP Corral.

I think that current events are making me wacky. I sat down to write and this happened.

"BANG THE GUN GUNLY"

by Frederick Key

Dedicated to Mike "Flangepart" Weller

Bang Gunly rode his palomino into town one morning. It was cold, but dusty; windy, but quiet; clear, but cloudy. The weather was just like the palomino. Gunly was cold but dusty himself, and always windy. He signaled the turn and pulled into the lot of the Costcorral. He tied up the horse and cast a steely-eyed eye around. Gunly was a man with a mission. 

Gunly's spurs tinkled heavily as he paused at the swinging doors of the Costcorral, and then, with a single thrust of his manly arm, he pushed them open. He sauntered in, timing his saunter perfectly with the swing of the doors. For years as a young man he had been smacked by swinging doors mid-saunter, until a dance teacher in El Paso had helped with his timing. Gunly would always remember that he owed Rolf a favor. 

The keeper of the Costcorral was standing at the desk, barely. He had bags under his eyes, bigger than the bags at the checkout line. His tie was loose as Oklahoma City morals, and his hair was sticking out around his eye shade like a poorly trimmed juniper bonsai. Gunly could guess why. The shelves around them were almost empty. Not one can of pork 'n beans, nor porkless beans, nor beanless porks could be seen. Obviously there'd been a run on the stock. Maybe the shopkeeper had made some dollars, but paid with his health.

"Howdy," said Gunly, moseying up to the counter. (Rolf had helped him with that, too, in Advanced Moseying.) "Reckon your place looks picked pretty clean, pardner."

"You reckon right, stranger," said the keeper. "I reckon we're wrecked by reckless wreckers. Folks're panic-buying on account o' the Grody Grippe. We have a little inventory, but not much."

"I'm just a-lookin' for one item that we need back at the camp," said Gunly. 

"Not beans, I hope. We're beanless."

"Nope, plenty o' beans. But that's why we need us some toilet paper. Got any?"

"Let's see." The shopkeeper wearily took himself to the ladder behind the counter, where he climbed up to see the back shelves of the store. "Why, yes, I see we got two megapacks back there, mister, although a lady is picking one up now."

"That's fine," said Gunly. "Me 'n the boys need just one. We recycle."

"Wait!" said the shopkeeper. "There's another cowpoke back there -- and he just knocked the woman down! And he's grabbed both megapacks! And he's a-running this way!"

"Waaaalll, ain't that a rude thing to do," said Gunly.

Sure enough, a second later the varmint emerged from behind the shelves, carrying the two megapacks. He was a big hombre, looked strong and tall, but other details were hidden behind the combined 440 rolls of TP he was bearing in his arms. "Gangway!" the sidewinder growled. "I'm a-needin' this butt paper, and don't no one try to stop me!"

"Help!" cried a slightly bruised lady, rushing after him. She was pretty, with curly brown hair, a big hat, and a blue dress that was tight in the right places and right in the tight places. "That beast knocked me over and stole my hygiene product!"

The shopkeeper tried to get down the ladder quickly, but got his foot caught in the rungs and hit the ground hard, knocking the fight out of him. Gunly alone stood between the bushwhacker and his escape. He calmly spat on the floor, clasped his belt, and said, "You drop the heinie wipes and apologize to the lady pronto, mister."

"Yeah?" growled a voice somewhere behind the 440 rolls. "Who's gonna make me?"

"Name's Gunly. Bang Gunly."

"Well, I don't care if your name is Archduke Franz Ferdinand Carl Ludwig Joseph Maria of Austria, I'm a-headin' out that door!"

"Slap leather!"

"Psaw, Leather don't like that!"

"I mean go for yer gun!"

"How? Now git, you busybody, or I'll stomp you!"

"You been warned. Reach for the sky!"

The rapscallion just barked, "One side! I'm a-swipin' and I'm a-wipin'!"

Calmly, with one fluid motion and two solid motions, Gunly whipped out his six shooter and fired into the rolls. The bandit flew backward off his feet from the force of the .600 bullet, landing on the wooden floor like a sack of pianos. Blood began to flow, quickly sopped up by the toilet paper.

"My hero!" said the brunette, stepping on the varmint's hand as she ran to Gunly.

"Ow," said the varmint, weakly.

"M'am," said Gunly, tipping his hat with his left hand while holstering the pistol with his right. 

She slammed into him like a linebacker, kissing him on his grizzled cheek. "You've saved the orphans! They had not a single piece of toilet paper among them. And the newspaper doesn't come out until Sunday! Thank you, Gang Bunly!"

"Bang Gunly," wheezed Gunly. "Just doin' my job."

"Could someone help me up?" moaned the shopkeeper.

"I think I bled on all the paper," croaked the varmint.

Tune in for another adventure of Bang Gunly... well, maybe never. Who knows with this blog.

But if you DO want to read some more Fred stories, don't forget that TODAY AND TOMORROW ONLY, my novels for Kindle and Kindle software are available FREE FREE FREE from Amazon! Be sure to tune in next week for a special announcement as well. And remember -- no matter how much you want that TP, varmintry does not pay.

Fred's Book Club: It Ain't Over Till....

Yes, it's Wednesday, Hump Day, and the Humpback Writers feature, and you know it's not about hunchbacks -- although one actually does appear in today's book, a "hunchbacked midget" called Little Walter. So that's about as close as we've gotten to an actual Humpback Writer. This is a baseball book, chosen this week because I'm sick to death over the cancellation of spring training and postponement of the baseball season. Here we go:

"My name is Gideon Clarke, and, like my father before me, I have on more than one occasion been physically ejected from the corporate offices of the Chicago Cubs Baseball Club, which are located at Wrigley Field, 1060 West Addison, in Chicago."

So begins The Iowa Baseball Confederacy (1986), by the late W. P. Kinsella, whose prior novel, Shoeless Joe, became the film Field of Dreams. An elderly coworker recommended Shoeless Joe to me a couple of years before the film debuted, and I loved the book. But I thought The Iowa Baseball Confederacy was a much better book, and I stand by that.

It is the craziest baseball book I've ever read, more so than John Alexander Graham's Babe Ruth Caught in a Snowstorm, and at least as crazy as Robert Coover's The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waugh, Prop., but a lot more thrilling. Like Coover, or Fred fave Ray Bradbury, Kinsella was a prose stylist with a vivid imagination for magical realism. So what's this book about?

In one way it's about the magic of Iowa, the setting for this book as well as Shoeless Joe and Kinsella's penultimate novel, Magic Time. Kinsella was actually from Canada, but he must have sensed something in the air in that land of cornfields and weird caucuses.

Our hero, an albino-looking fellow named Gideon Clarke, has a mission, and that mission is his dead father's, which is to prove that the titular Iowa Baseball Confederacy once fielded a team against a barnstorming Chicago Cubs in the town of Big Inning, a game that lasted for thousands of innings, day after day for weeks, because the home team always tied the score in the bottom of the inning but couldn't go ahead. But that's hardly all that's going on:

About a baseball game going on for a month or more. And in a rainstorm, too. And there was something about lightning. Oh, and a big Indian, and a dead midget, and an albino. The river flooded and carried away the town while the game continued right on, as nice as you please, and the sun sucked ballplayers right up into the sky. 

After Gideon's father, Matthew, was struck by lightning in 1943, an event that Gideon says "tampered with my father's blood, rearranged his chromosomes gently as a baby's breath turns a mobile," he was gifted with the thorough knowledge of the league and the events of 1908:

In Matthew Clarke's brain, which that morning felt bright as chrome, full of white light and blinding metal, the complete history of the Iowa Baseball Confederacy was burned in, deep as a brand, vivid, resplendent, dazzling in its every detail. 

But the memory of this incredible game, which featured Cubs stars like pitcher Three Finger Brown and the still-famous double-play combo of Tinker and Evers and Chance, has been wiped from humanity. When his father wrote to various men whom he knew had been involved in the Iowan league, they claim to have no knowledge of any game or of the league itself. And of course, the Cubs threw Matthew out of their office multiple times.

Now the burden of this knowledge is on Gideon's shoulders. How did this game happen? Why did it go on so long, supposedly into the Cubs' World Series-winning season? Did all those wild things really occur (and there were many bloody and astounding events in the game)? Who won? And why was this singular event completely forgotten?

Ultimately there is only one way to find out what really happened during that game -- Gideon must go through a crack in time, back to 1908, and see it for himself.

That's just the first part of the book. To find the answers, we readers must follow Gideon and see the game. And I am honor-bound to give away no more.

Sports novels are tough to write, and they usually don't sell. Why? Well, men who like sports generally don't like novels, but that's hardly the real issue, I think. The thing is, the drama of sports comes from not knowing what's going to happen on the field. But when a novelist is writing, he has to know. So you can't escape the contrivance. The reader knows that someone is in charge of events -- the author -- and he is pulling the strings. It's what I disliked about Roger Kahn's novel The Seventh Game; you could see the strings. Strangely, this is not true with sports movies, perhaps because the live image of people playing the game gives us the illusion that we are watching real, unpredictable events. The funny thing is, unless based on real events, works of fiction always have the author making the decisions in the back, but the relative simplicity of sports, with rules and mutual goals, makes the director of the plot more visible.

The best baseball novels, as Kinsella knew, are not just about baseball. That's why The Iowa Baseball Confederacy, Shoeless Joe, Eric Rolfe Greenberg's The Celebrant, Mark Harris's Bang the Drum Slowly, Bernard Malmud's The Natural, Ring Lardner's You Know Me Al, David Carkeet's The Greatest Slump of All Time, Darryl Brock's If I Never Get Back, Douglass Wallop's The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant, Mark Friedman's Columbus Slaughters Braves, and maybe even Five-Yard Fuller of the N.Y. Gnats were all so successful, artistically if not all financially. Because while baseball provides a motive force and dramatic drive, these stories, like the best novels, are really about everything else as well. And, incidentally, It's what I intended to do in my humorous book MacFinster II: MacFinster's Folly.

⚾⚾⚾

And speaking of that book, and of awesome novels, don't forget! This week, through the end of Friday, all my novels are TOTALLY FREE! Well, for the Kindle or Kindle software, anyway. The paperbacks'll cost ya. All this as we gear up for a YUGE announcement next week. Can you stand it? Yeah, probably.

Now we understand.

Hey, you want to see something even more amazing? Don't forget that this week is Free Fred Week on Kindle! All Fred novels for the Kindle or Kindle software absolutely free through Friday, March 20! What are you waiting for? You want I should pay you? I can't afford that! Go get them!

Pandemic pandemonium book giveaway!

What's the matter, Bunky? Bored? Stuck at home? Sick? Sick of TV? Intellectually unstimulated? Broke?

Well, fret no more, my friends!

Major announcement: From TODAY through FRIDAY the 20th, ALL FRED BOOKS are available FREE on Kindle!

Such a deal! Who could resist?

This is unpossible! you say, because the cabin fever and lack of reading is making you screw up common words.

It is not unpossible! I answer. We have a big announcement next week, so my agent, "Feral" Katz, says, Let's get people into a Fred Frenzy by giving away eBooks.

Note that the hard copies will still cost money. There's printers and paper mills that must get paid. But for now, those pixels are free. So grab your Kindle reader, or download the Kindle software on your phone or computer or tablet, and get some free books from your old pal Fred. All my novels on Kindle are guaranteed 100% terrific during the sale, or your money back. Meaning, if you didn't pay anything, I will refund your nothing. If you paid something, well, I can't help you.

And you if enjoy them, tell everyone! And if you hate them, tell me! Or tell the cat! Or bury your e-reader in a mountain of toilet paper! Do whatever! It's a free country!

That sink feeling.

No spring training. No Mass in the Archdiocese of New York, at least this weekend. No St. Patrick's celebrations. Too early to worry about the lawn. Too crippled with spinal issues to walk the dogs. Too scared to go out to eat or go shopping.

Might as well fix the sink!

I've been threatening to fix the kitchen sink for some time. Even before my hospital visit last month, I had finally ordered the part I needed. These modern Delta faucets are very nice, but you can't stop the drip by changing a five-cent washer. Oh, no, like every other freaking thing these days, it's much more complicated. And expensive.

$30

And this fixture is only about three years old.

The problem was somewhere inside this sealed valve cartridge case. You must replace it in its entirety. Probably if I took it apart and tried to fix the thing, I would void the warranty on the faucet and my house would burn down. Anyway, the instruction road map that came with the faucet said that if your faucet is dripping, you need a new RP50587, and nothing less will do. Naturally, neither Lowe's nor Home Depot had it in stock, so I had to order it. Then, with one problem after another, including the hospital thing, I wound up having to wait a few weeks. Meanwhile, I slapped that damn dripping faucet a few times to show it I wasn't fooling around. You can't lose the respect of your plumbing, or you're sunk.

Maybe I slapped it around too much over the last three years.

So, yesterday I got to the job, and I have to say it went well. No floods, no puddles, no problems at all. Well, it was tricky to get the hot water turned off to the sink. I was noodling around with a wrench for a while until I got it totally sealed. The cold water was much more cooperative. Then I was able to pop off the faucet handle after I found the tiny hex screw, wrench off the big ol' ball nut (har!), and remove the offending party.

Here's your problem.

I soaked all the old bits in CLR and got them cleaned up, then installed the new valve, and no leaking! Better yet, no more dripping! Got it right the first time.

My dad could do any household job, but his son did not inherit that talent. So every successful repair is a victory. However, I've often thought that if I'd been wise enough to enter one of the trades, it would have been plumbing. Less chance of having to work on a roof or girder, and I hate heights. Less chance of electrocuting myself or others. And I think plumbing is exceptionally valuable. Ask anyone if he'd rather have electricity or running water in the home. Some may say electricity at first, but ask again a week into the experiment. Human beings survived about 200,000 years without electricity, but not one single year without water.

I know plumbing is not a pretty job, but that's why it pays well. And sure, I know the first rule of plumbing -- crap runs downhill. But I've found that to be true in all the other jobs I've worked, too.

The paper chase.

The whole world's going batty, and we don't even know if it's appropriate or not.

I'm not even talking about the bizarre and audacious lies of the Chinese, that the so-obvious-it's-painful Chinese Wuhan flu did not originate in CHINA, WHERE IT ORIGINATED, as they have lied about everything else regarding this thing. Nor do I mean the wacky attempt by China's Western bootlickers to back them up. That stuff is beyond gaslighting and into sad little comedy, like the toddler who lies about taking your Perugina when he's holding the chocolate in his hand and is covered with the stuff, except instead of Perugina he's holding a loaded gun, and instead of chocolate it's blood.

Do not let them fool you.

No, I'm talking about weird and/or surprising choices by the people in our own country.

Here's a couple of things that have struck me in the last few days, and have probably struck you as well, summed up briefly:

1) It's kind of crazy that sports leagues, Broadway shows, science and medical conferences, comic cons, and concerts have all shut down. That pretty much covers all the kids I knew in high school. The one that made me smile was Celine Dion putting the "Courage World Tour" on hold -- whether it's smart or not, it doesn't look good to cancel something called "Courage" out of "Fear."

2) This TP buying has turned into a cascade of crazy. First it was the panic buyers, who always run for toilet paper when a storm is coming. But it was so bad this time that less high-strung types were thinking, I have enough Angel Soft for the week, but with all these crazy people clearing the shelves, by the time I need more there will be none. Better get some! Not like it goes stale. And thus, the Great Toilet Paper Buy of 2020, which makes us look like lunatics, because toilet paper cannot protect anyone against the coronavirus.

I wish I had come up with this one; I salute the person who did.

3) Our schools hardly got any snow days this winter, but they're about to make up for it in spades. They closed yesterday, events are being canceled, and they will probably close down for at least a couple of weeks. It's been easier to shut off the colleges, whose spring break seems to come earlier, and whose students can all be expected to have computers and Internet access for remote learning.

4) Even worse, churches are closing, and here we are in Lent. The Catholic churches here have not thrown in the towel, unlike the churches in Rome (!!!!!) and France, but our local Methodist and Presbyterian churches have closed down for a couple of weeks. Not sure about the local Temples and the Lutherans.

5) Offices closing -- this is not as big a deal as it once was, again because so many people in office jobs can work from home now. I sat in remotely on a meeting for a company, a publisher for whom I do freelance stuff. It was all instructions on how to log in to the system from home -- which I do anyway, so it wasn't useful to me, but I figured I'd check in and make sure there was nothing new. The funny thing is, I've been their lurker, the unseen sweatpants guy in the cave, proofing copy, and now they'll all be joining my sweatpants cave cult. Ha ha!

🏥🔬🔕⚠😷💀

What does this all mean? We hope nothing. We hope that there are no, or at least very few, more people getting sick from the coronavirus pandemic, and in a few weeks we look around at our piles of TP and laugh and say, "What were we thinking?"

Or maybe, "Thank God, this shows that our plague preparations work in some areas but could use help in others. We'll tune up the system and be in better shape if it happens again. Next time could be really bad."

Maybe the worst outcome would be, "What a load of crap! What a big nothingburger! What a waste of time and effort!"

I hope that doesn't happen. If people think this was never a big deal, no worse than a bad cold, then whole governments and the entire media become the shepherd boy who cried wolf.

It might be cynical fun to look at it that way, but think of this: In the original Aesop fable. after the shepherd boy is established as a liar, the wolf gets to pick off the sheep at his leisure. In this story, though, the sheep will be us.

Ship just got real.

Malacandra or bust!

I have been surprised by the continuing audaciousness of one Elon Musk, a fellow with a pretty good approximation of a Bond villain name, with his thoughts on sending human beings to and colonizing Mars. Sounds like fun! In a terrifying, possibly not very fun way.

I'm not sure if this is the result of something he's been smoking, but Mr. Musk said he would like to build one starship a week for the purpose of colonizing Mars. Now, I'm no engineer, nor a scientist of any kind, as pretty much every teacher I've ever had would tell you, but I have always been interested in science fiction, even the hard-science stuff. And based on that, and what I have that passes for common sense, I think he may have a good idea here. Whether the advantages of colonizing Mars are evident is not the point; if you're going to do it, do it right.

Stories throughout the history of the science fiction genre about colonizing near planets have been generally rendered obsolete by the fact that Mars has turned out to be a lot harder to live on than we might have hoped. There was never a reason to expect the temperature to be pleasant, and the atmosphere is not breathable. We knew long ago that the gravity would be lighter than Earth's (38% at the surface), and in recent decades have discovered that human beings suffer over time in anything significantly different than Earth gravity. And despite our best efforts, we've found no water worthy of the name on the Red Planet. Our colonists can't just diddy bop down to the Price Chopper for a case of Poland Spring. That's a 68-million-mile round trip at its closest.

Let's assume, as I guess Mr. Musk has, that in time we would be able to construct means to allow the colony to be at least mostly self-supporting. This is a big assumption. Even the Vikings had to abandon Greenland when things got dicey. But let's say that, without inventing terraforming or some other wild science far beyond our ken, we find Mars land capable of supporting edible crops, a means of providing water and breathable air, a means of dealing with light gravity's effects, a source of reliable power, and whatever else people need. For a long time a steady line of supplies and personnel will still be required, and this is where the Musk plan makes sense.

In the stories I've read, space colonies usually start with a single, small crew on a single ship, or one gigantic crew on a humongous ship. But a fleet sent to provide a means of support during colonial establishment is not typical to the genre. Colonizing across oceans usually worked both ways, with small expeditions and settlements or large investments with multiple ships running back and forth, and yet our science fiction has usually settled on the first as a model. Maybe because it's more dramatic.

The whole thing could be made easier if we could figure out a way to get that space elevator in orbit, but it looks like Musk is not planning to wait that long.

So what do you think of his plan? Crazy? Inspired? Impossible? Inevitable? And if it's so crazy it just might work, would you sign up?

Fry guy.

Our old toaster oven was a very handy device. When you're cooking for one or two, you do almost anything you can to avoid turning on the oven, especially in the summer. What a waste of time and energy! If you're doing something not appropriate for the grill -- although many grill buffs believe everything is appropriate for the grill, including ice cream -- the toaster oven is an efficient means of cooking. And it toasts! 

The new model we got, from Black & Decker, is a little different from a standard toaster oven.

The Crisp 'N Bake has a little something special going on with it -- it is an air fryer as well as a toaster oven. The idea with an air fryer is that you can deep-fry foods like fried chicken without actually deep-frying them! No grease, no mess, no excess fat! Genius, right?

WRONG!

That's not really how it works. As Sue Stetzel at Taste of Home writes,

What can you make in it? Air fryers do a fantastic job cooking up frozen foods that are meant to taste deep-fried—think frozen french fries, chicken wings and mozzarella sticks. They also do a great job with similar recipes made from scratch. Maybe best of all, air fryers can bake, too.
What can’t you make? You can’t make anything with a liquid batter (unless you freeze it first). You also can’t make anything in large quantities, so if you’re feeding a family, be prepared to cook in batches.

So, I have to tell you, after having this little appliance around for months, I'm still confused by it.

Not to say it doesn't work well; for baking, cooking up frozen things, broiling (just did some delicious steaks in it the other day), and yes, toasting, I'd say it works as well as our old Cuisinart toaster oven. However, it is smaller inside, making it difficult to fit some items, and it doesn't have any electronics. Normally I'm in favor of the non-smart appliances -- I don't need or want an Internet-connected toaster oven -- but I liked the Cuisinart's warning beep to tell me when it had reached the programmed temperature or when the toast was done. Yo, I'm a busy guy. I can't just stand there watching the toaster oven.

But when I tried it as if it were a fryer -- and the thing comes with a little mesh tray for that kind of thing -- it was a disaster. Badly cooked chicken that denuded itself of coatings, just as Sue Stetzel warned above.

You know what would have been really helpful? What one item, common with cooking appliances, would have made learning the functions and limitations of this appliance painless? A recipe booklet. But there was none.

Let's check the comments on the Black & Decker site for this product:

CarolMarie
Would be great with better instructions/recipes
maxdoggy
was really excited to see this in store and have always trusted Black and Decker, but this is a disappointment. Not impressed with lack of instructions regarding cooking times, and recipes. Recipes for the air-fryer would have helped a lot. Feels like this has to be a guessing game as to how long to cook anything.
Judy F319
I received this product with very few instructions and/or recipes.Would love more info on use.
Jeffery No recipes, no info except how to cook fries or tenders. I can make toast. I gave away a better toaster when I bought this. Sad
Loanis Can I please also get a guide as to how long to airfry items, etc. I see that you send an email to people who ask this and would like to request one.
Teacher 35 Very Disappointed
I brought the Crisp 'N Bake with great anticipation of using the air fry function. Very disappointed that there are no instructions/ time table/ recipes for this product; not even online information from your company. All other products that I have purchased that involve food preparation have always included time tables and recipes.

And on and on. Despite these ongoing remarks, the company still has not addressed the concern. It may seem like a minor thing, but it isn't. Every appliance I have that makes food came with recipes -- toaster ovens, food processors, mixers, microwave ovens, slow-cookers, and so on -- but not this. It is how we learn to love our cooking machines.

It really does make a difference, Messers Black and Decker. I'll be checking in with you on this before I buy anything else with your name on it. 

Fred's Book Club: Novel Ideas.

Welcome to another installment of the Humpback Writers, the book club named for Hump Day. What should I call it, Wednesday Writers? BOOORIIIING.

Today we're taking a look at one of my favorite authors, an often comic writer whose humor, unlike so many, has stood the test of time. I would never have expected this to be the book I chose for a profile of his, not being one of his more famous -- but you'll see why shortly.

Jerome K. Jerome, British author of the timeless classic Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog) and its sequel, Three Men on the Bummel, was a wonderful wordsmith and a man of broad interests and talents. His books, like the famous Three Men in a Boat, are packed with hilarious digressions -- I would guess that a little more than half of that novel are stories of what actually happens to our hero and his two friends (and the dog) on their boating trip on the Thames, the rest being meanders into other vignettes, observations, and essays.

In Novel Notes, the same plan maintains. Our narrator and hero explains to his wife his brilliant idea:

When, on returning home one evening, after a pipe party at my friend Jephson’s, I informed my wife that I was going to write a novel, she expressed herself as pleased with the idea. She said she had often wondered I had never thought of doing so before.  “Look,” she added, “how silly all the novels are nowadays; I’m sure you could write one.” (Ethelbertha intended to be complimentary, I am convinced; but there is a looseness about her mode of expression which, at times, renders her meaning obscure.)
      When, however, I told her that my friend Jephson was going to collaborate with me, she remarked, “Oh,” in a doubtful tone; and when I further went on to explain to her that Selkirk Brown and Derrick MacShaughnassy were also going to assist, she replied, “Oh,” in a tone which contained no trace of doubtfulness whatever, and from which it was clear that her interest in the matter, as a practical scheme, had entirely evaporated.
      I fancy that the fact of my three collaborators being all bachelors diminished somewhat our chances of success, in Ethelbertha’s mind. Against bachelors, as a class, she entertains a strong prejudice. A man’s not having sense enough to want to marry, or, having that, not having wit enough to do it, argues to her thinking either weakness of intellect or natural depravity, the former rendering its victim unable, and the latter unfit, ever to become a really useful novelist.

And yet off he goes on his plan, sitting around with his three buddies to try to plot out their novel, for which they have no fully-baked ideas. It becomes a disaster at every step. But it leads to wonderful storytelling and cultural observations, and lots of fun.

What put me in mind of this book was our current obsession with the coronavirus outbreak. The various media technology around today might have surprised Jerome, who died in 1927, but the news hysteria would have been extremely familiar to him. In Chapter VIII of Novel Notes, he relates this story, and I hope you'll pardon the long excerpt:

MacShaughnassy puffed a mouthful of smoke over a spider which was just about to kill a fly. This caused the spider to fall into the river, from where a supper-hunting swallow quickly rescued him.
      “You remind me,” he said, “of a scene I once witnessed in the office of The Daily—well, in the office of a certain daily newspaper. It was the dead season, and things were somewhat slow. An endeavour had been made to launch a discussion on the question ‘Are Babies a Blessing?’ The youngest reporter on the staff, writing over the simple but touching signature of ‘Mother of Six,’ had led off with a scathing, though somewhat irrelevant, attack upon husbands, as a class; the Sporting Editor, signing himself ‘Working Man,’ and garnishing his contribution with painfully elaborated orthographical lapses, arranged to give an air of verisimilitude to the correspondence, while, at the same time, not to offend the susceptibilities of the democracy (from whom the paper derived its chief support), had replied, vindicating the British father, and giving what purported to be stirring midnight experiences of his own. The Gallery Man, calling himself, with a burst of imagination, ‘Gentleman and Christian,’ wrote indignantly that he considered the agitation of the subject to be both impious and indelicate, and added he was surprised that a paper holding the exalted, and deservedly popular, position of The— should have opened its columns to the brainless vapourings of ‘Mother of Six’ and ‘Working Man.’
     “The topic had, however, fallen flat. With the exception of one man who had invented a new feeding-bottle, and thought he was going to advertise it for nothing, the outside public did not respond, and over the editorial department gloom had settled down.
     “One evening, as two or three of us were mooning about the stairs, praying secretly for a war or a famine, Todhunter, the town reporter, rushed past us with a cheer, and burst into the Sub-editor’s room. We followed. He was waving his notebook above his head, and clamouring, after the manner of people in French exercises, for pens, ink, and paper.
     “‘What’s up?’ cried the Sub-editor, catching his enthusiasm; ‘influenza again?’
     “‘Better than that!’ shouted Todhunter. ‘Excursion steamer run down, a hundred and twenty-five lives lost—four good columns of heartrending scenes.’
     “‘By Jove!’ said the Sub, ‘couldn’t have happened at a better time either’—and then he sat down and dashed off a leaderette, in which he dwelt upon the pain and regret the paper felt at having to announce the disaster, and drew attention to the exceptionally harrowing account provided by the energy and talent of ‘our special reporter.’”

Naturally, we might wish books like this one, written in 1893 and across an ocean, had a glossary. Like:

pipe party: a social gathering of men doing manly tobacco-involved things
sub-editor: British name for a copy editor
leaderette: British term for a short editorial in the same typeface as the main article

But one thing that never changes is the crazed glee of a reporter with a story of horror and misery to excite the public's attention. Nor with the media's delight in ginning up public controversy. As with so many other subjects, Jerome K. Jerome (the writer so nice, they named him twice) has a light satirical touch that makes you recognize the type and laugh at it, or even with it, although it really is a Bad Thing.

Jerome could write very serious stuff too, sometimes bordering on the maudlin, but he was at his best with this kind of writing. I'd recommend Novel Notes or pretty much anything the man ever wrote. Probably best to start with Three Men in a Boat. I can't, however, vouch for the 1975 Michael Palin adaptation. I haven't seen it, but a book with so many odd narrative digressions would seem to me to be unfilmable.

Novel Notes was once a hard book to find in the United States, to our shame; my copy above was by Alan Sutton Publishing in the UK, and was perhaps one of my first Amazon purchases. Nowadays, however, it's available for free, thanks to the tireless volunteers at Gutenberg.org (hi, Mongo!). Get your Brit on and give it a go.