Stafford's Last Book.

Stafford’s Last Book

 By Frederick Key

Gerry wasn’t overly fond of neckties, but he wanted to select just the right one to make the proper impression. Everyone wore them—all the men at the university, the club, the computational society—and Jack had said that this would be an important occasion, although not formal.

He never liked the feel of things around his neck, though, and felt like a man choosing the noose for his hanging. Ultimately Gerry selected his gold bow tie, one that would go nicely with his pale blue checked suit on a summer afternoon. If in fact it turned out to be less formal an occasion, more like one of his and Jack’s Science Fiction League meetings, he could always remove the tie and slip it into his pocket.

Before he left his apartment, Gerry gave another flip through the manuscript sitting on his desk. He had been quite honored that Jack had asked him to read it, being that Jack was a successful literary agent and Gerry just an amateur, not even in the publishing field -- although his League newsletter, The Rocket, was complimented in fan groups across the country. Still, he was under a vow of secrecy about the manuscript. It was the last book by Stafford L. Grimes, his final novel before his death, and Jack had wanted Gerry’s opinion.

“When you come to the party,” Jack told him over lunch, “you may meet some people from the publishing house. I’m not sure why, but they have some concerns about this book. They’ll want your opinion.”

“I’m surprised,” said Gerry. “Grimes was a meticulous writer, not one to dash things off. I can’t imagine it is sloppy. Is it controversial?”

Bang Gunley rides again.

Once again the unfortunate inspiration strikes to chronicle the Western adventures of Bang Gunly, Western Hero and saddle-sore specialist, as we have done earlier here and here. 

"BANG GUNLY RIDES AGAIN ONCE MORE"

by Frederick Key

Dedicated to Mike "Flangepart" Weller,

who created Bang and deserves the shame credit

Bang Gunly sat on the old hoss he called Irv, looking around to get a feel for the place. It was hot in Arizona territory, blisteringly hot, and dry as an Oxford don's jokes. But Bang was in Nebraska and he was freezing his behindular area off. 

"Hey, you!" came a voice from Bang's left. 

Bang casually put his right hand on his trusty six-shooter and turned to see who was talking. "What you want, mister?" 

"Get off'n that danged horse right now! It's my turn."

"Oh, yeah," said Bang. "Sorry."

Bang dismounted and let the little kid take a turn on Irv. Too bad Bang had run out of quarters. He'd found the mechanical horse soothing on his saddle sores. 

Bang sauntered away from the five-and dime and across the street to the quarter-and-dollar. He'd come to like this place well enough. Gold City, Nebraska, they called it, after the big silver strike that had been found by Herschel Gold. The silver mine petered out fast, but the name of the town kept bringing in prospectors who left their money behind as they ran out into the prairie with new supplies, looking for gold. 

Bang had a feeling that something wasn't right today, though. He'd always had a feel for trouble. And trouble always had a feel for him. It could be embarrassing if anyone saw them.

A yell from several doors down confirmed his hunch. "Help! Help!"

Bang hustled down the sidewalk, his boots galumphing along the wooden planks. His gun filled his hand by the time he arrived. 

It was the boot and shoe store, and the yeller was Lulu LaLou, the young lady who worked for her father, the owner. She was a nice piece of work, a corseted queen as loaded with buttons and bows as could make Bob Hope happy. Bang had been trying to get to meet her, and probably could have, but he was too cheap to buy new boots. "What's wrong, young lady?" he said.

"Trouble's afoot!"

"Yes, I know." Troubles Afoot was the name of the store.

"No, I mean we've been robbed! It's terrible! Someone has grabbed my pa and demanded the combination for the safe! When Pa wouldn't tell them, they dropped him in the outhouse hole!"

"That's terrible!"

"Please get him out!"

"I'll... go for help!"

As Bang arranged a party from the saloon to help with the disgusting rescue, he realized he'd seen this kind of dirty work before. There was one varmint who loved dumping his victims in the outhouse. And that varmint was the one and only Deuce Baggio.

🤠🤠🤠

Bang Gunly was just outside of Gold City, facing a pair of tents, one of whom held the man he wanted to see. He was tempted to just blast them both with his revolver, but he had to make sure. Not like that time in Minneapolis. That was a sticky situation.

"Deuce!" he yelled. "Come on out and say hello, you miserable skunk!"

The flaps on the two tents flew open. In the cold fading sunlight Bang could make out one face--it was Deuce. 

"Is that Bang Gunly I hear?" growled the miserable skunk. "This here's an honor, boys."

"I reckon we need to have a chat, Baggio."

With the clink and clank of spurs and firearms, Deuce Baggio and seven of his men arose from the tents. Bang tried to keep his eyes from bugging out, but he was thinking, How the hell did them fellers all fit in them tents? Maybe it was better not to know. Anyway, they all had guns and rifles out, pointing at Bang, and that seemed a little more urgent.

"How'd you find me, Bang?" asked Deuce through his mangy black beard.  

"Followed the bread crumbs from the bakery. On your way outta town you pinched a loaf."

"I sure did, and it was a good one," said Deuce. 

"You had a busy day," said Bang. "Went by the restaurant and took a dumpster. Find anything?"

"Just some old silverware."

"I heard you did number two."

"Yeah, the whorehouse at number two on Gold Street."

"Then you guys were heaving Havanas on the sidewalk..."

"We all enjoy a nice cigar."

"...saw a man about a horse..."

"Bill Jones, had a gelding named Oswalt."

"...left a floater in the outhouse..."

"I warned LaLou!"

"...released the Kraken..."

"Heh heh, didn't that bronco run wild!"

"...took the Browns to the Super Bowl..."

"And they said it couldn't be done!"

"Well, you've terrorized Gold City enough. You clear out of the county or else!"

"Or else what, Bang? Maybe you ain't noticed that we got twelve guns on you between us."

"And maybe you ain't noticed the fuse that's been burning this whole time."

Deuce Baggio and his men looked around in panic, but it was too late. The fuse had just run down on the dynamite that Bang had planted. Bang dove for cover behind a hillock as the explosion blew Deuce sky-high. Two other scoundrels were blown up a whole lot, one was blown up just a little, and the rest were dazed and blackened like Yosemite Sam on a bad day. They were easy for Bang to tie up and drag back to town for justice. 

The next morning, Bang and Lulu LaLou enjoyed a latte at the Gold City Trattoria and Bait Shop. The headline in the Gold City American Standard said GUNLY DROPS DEUCE.

"How brave, to face all those rapscallions and ruffians on your own!" said Lulu.

"Nuthin' any man with some guts and some dynamite couldn't do," said Bang. "How's yer old man?"

"He's doing well after his harrowing adventure," she said. "He wants to thank you personally!"

"Well, that's kind of him."

"Let's go," Lulu said, rising from the table. "Oh, you'll want one of these when we get to the house." She handed him a clothespin.

"I s'pose," he said, putting it on his nose. "Id's a berfecd fid."

🤠🤠🤠

Tune in next time for another adventure of Bang Gunly. No, I don't know when. We'll alert the media.

Fred's Book Club: Mine, Mine, Mine!

Greetings, ladies and gentlemen and book lovers of all ages! This week on the Hump Day book feature known as the Humpback Writers (get it? ha ha) we have a classic adventure novel, one of the world's most famous, a novel that has set the tone for hundreds of imitators on page and screen, and so is likely to be shoved down the memory hole as soon as someone under age thirty realizes it ever existed. 

H. Rider Haggard was a classic Brit of his time, who spent years working in Britain's African colonies before beginning a career as a writer of adventure fiction. King Solomon's Mines, published in 1885, introduced his famous hero, hunter, and adventurer Allan Quatermain to the world. I think the words "hunter" and "colonies" are enough to explain why Haggard will one day be on the SJW chopping block.

But he shouldn't be. King Solomon's Mines is an extraordinary adventure, and a great yarn. It begins with Quatermain, who meets with one Sir Henry Curtis and a Captain Good. Sir Henry has been looking for his brother, who has gone missing in a supposed quest for the titular treasure. Quatermain has some information on that from a man he met named José Silvestre, and he shares the story:

“Then he groped in his shirt and brought out what I thought was a Boer tobacco pouch made of the skin of the Swart-vet-pens or sable antelope. It was fastened with a little strip of hide, what we call a rimpi, and this he tried to loose, but could not. He handed it to me. ‘Untie it,’ he said. I did so, and extracted a bit of torn yellow linen on which something was written in rusty letters. Inside this rag was a paper.

“Then he went on feebly, for he was growing weak: ‘The paper has all that is on the linen. It took me years to read. Listen: my ancestor, a political refugee from Lisbon, and one of the first Portuguese who landed on these shores, wrote that when he was dying on those mountains which no white foot ever pressed before or since. His name was José da Silvestra, and he lived three hundred years ago. His slave, who waited for him on this side of the mountains, found him dead, and brought the writing home to Delagoa. It has been in the family ever since, but none have cared to read it, till at last I did. And I have lost my life over it, but another may succeed, and become the richest man in the world—the richest man in the world. Only give it to no one, señor; go yourself!’

“Then he began to wander again, and in an hour it was all over.

“God rest him! he died very quietly, and I buried him deep, with big boulders on his breast; so I do not think that the jackals can have dug him up. And then I came away.”

“Ay, but the document?” said Sir Henry, in a tone of deep interest.

“Yes, the document; what was in it?” added the captain.

“Well, gentlemen, if you like I will tell you. I have never showed it to anybody yet except to a drunken old Portuguese trader who translated it for me, and had forgotten all about it by the next morning. The original rag is at my home in Durban, together with poor Dom José’s translation, but I have the English rendering in my pocket-book, and a facsimile of the map, if it can be called a map. Here it is.”

The map, of course, supposedly can lead one to the fabled mines of King Solomon himself, source of endless diamonds -- if one can survive. They arrange an expedition, one that requires crossing a desert. In the biggest gut-check I think I've ever seen in fiction, the expedition realizes that if the one source of water shown on the 300-year-old map is not active, or not there, or not exactly where the poor map says it will be, they will be doomed to a horrible death; they cannot carry enough water to make a round trip. And they are aware that no known expedition has ever survive this quest. 

People looking for racism in the book will find it easily enough. Some natives behave strangely when Captain Good removes his false teeth -- which to the isolated people would be like me seeing a guy pull off his head: 

“What does that beggar say?” asked Good.

“He says we are going to be killed,” I answered grimly.

“Oh, Lord!” groaned Good; and, as was his way when perplexed, he put his hand to his false teeth, dragging the top set down and allowing them to fly back to his jaw with a snap. It was a most fortunate move, for next second the dignified crowd of Kukuanas uttered a simultaneous yell of horror, and bolted back some yards.

“What’s up?” said I.

“It’s his teeth,” whispered Sir Henry excitedly. “He moved them. Take them out, Good, take them out!”

He obeyed, slipping the set into the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

In another second curiosity had overcome fear, and the men advanced slowly. Apparently they had now forgotten their amiable intention of killing us.

But the most determined, courageous, and clever character in the book is a black African. Moreover, Quatermain is tired of hunting, sick of the damage being done to his beloved Africa. So if you ask me, Haggard was well ahead of his time in many regards. 

The story leads to a tremendous battle scene, and boy oh boy does it look in my mind's eye like a classic Hollywood cast-of-thousands fight. And of course, there's a death-defying descent into the earth to find the treasures concealed within. 

I say, if you want a taste of old-fashioned thrills and chills, you can hardly do better than King Solomon's Mines, unless it's one of Haggard's other novels, like She or Ayesha. I read this Dover edition, but you can check it out for free thanks to Mongo and our other friends at Project Gutenberg. The book is foundational for the "Lost World" type of story, and set a blueprint for high adventure that persisted for a hundred years. 

Monday Odds & Ends.

Feeling a little scattered, so I loaded it all into the blog shotgun and am firing it on this page. Yes, it's the old Random Thoughts fallback today....

🐕🏃

Since we lost Junior Varsity Dog Nipper, my Fitbit thinks I died. Or maybe went into a coma. I have not hit 10,000 steps in almost two weeks. Senior Varsity Dog Tralfaz simply doesn't need or care about the kind of exercise that Nipper demanded. Fazzy is content to plow through the snow in the yard, and boy do we still have a lot of snow. More coming today. My main exercise is plowing through the snow to pick up after him or make sure he doesn't get to the street without a leash. Two feet of snow makes for a tough slog. And Fitbit gives me no credit for extra effort.

🐳📚

I've got a great idea for a novel -- it'll be the biggest thing since Scarlett, the 1991 Alexandra Ripley sequel to Gone with the Wind.  

Think of it! The injured Ishmael, the lone survivor, is reunited with Queequeg, who turns out to have survived the destruction of the Pequod as well, by floating to Nantucket in a barrel. The two band together, determined to avenge their sunken pals and bring Moby-Dick to justice. The only person who believes in them is Phyllis McSnord, the Boston socialite who found Ishmael and nursed him back to health. Her heart yearns for him -- but is his too full of vengeance to love? It's a revenge novel, a buddy novel, a romance novel, and a sailing novel all in one! 

Of course, there are some issues. I've never sailed on anything but a cruise ship, a ferry, and a catamaran. I've never even been in a rowboat. So the research might be a little daunting. Plus, I'd probably have to read the original Melville novel, and if I could get through college with an English degree and avoid that chore, I'm certainly not inclined to take it on now. All right, never mind.

🧰🍽

So I fixed the dishwasher. (He said casually, as if a minor accomplishment, hardly worth mention.) This actually occurred a week ago, although the problem went back to my last column of miscellanea in September. To fix the broken flap on the part of the dispenser that stores the Jet Dry, I had to buy a new dispenser, take out a dozen screws to access the interior of the door, gennnnntly unplug the wires leading to the old dispenser, force the part out without breaking anything, put in the new one, plug those wires (seriously, they are so fragile) into the new unit, reassemble the door, and pray that the new dispenser would work and that the hollow door wouldn't fill with water when I ran the thing. So I have avoided mentioning this until the dishwasher had been run enough times to confirm that it is working and I did not break it. Ha! 

📕😨

Been working on very PC novel, targeted at the youth. When I say it's very politically correct, I mean it. The author has used mathematical precision to bring in all preferred groups (ethnic, sexual, people who use weird pronouns), and the characters smack down each other for the slightest hint of un-PC or white supremacist behavior. Anything that happened before their tender little lives is racist garbage. 

Do kids really live this way? Life as a perpetual chase to be PCier than thou? What a drag, man. And this is supposed to be light reading, not a serious drama. If you hear about college-age folks feeling stressed these days, look at the sheer panic they live in, terrified of getting caught out by someone being bitchy, tagging them with labels of uncleanliness, online where all the world can see. Forget the pandemic; this is what's scaring the youth to death. 

For the record, my preferred pronouns are Youse, Dem, Dese, and Doze. 

🍠🌮

The problem with chips is that once you start eating chips you can't stop eating chips. Corn, potato, vegetable, tortilla, silicon, poker, doesn't matter. It's the first chip that gets you. The only way to win is to not play the game.

Fred's Book Club: Look Before...

Good day, persons of book interests, and welcome to the latest edition of the Humpback Writers, the book feature that falls on Hump Day, but as far as we know has no actual hunchbacks among the writers. I keep asking but they refuse to acknowledge one way or another. Of course many of the writers are no longer alive to return my calls, but today's writer, England's own Jonathan Stroud, is alive and kicking. And leaping.

Stroud is best known, and justifiably so, for two of the great fantasy series of the modern day, the  Bartimaeus books and the Lockwood & Co. books. The Bartimaeus books are set in an alternate world where magic works because of the use of the capture of extra-dimensional demons, such as the snarky narrator, Bartimaeus; Lockwood & Co. stars a company of ghost-hunters in a London where dangerous hauntings have suddenly erupted. Both series are full of humor and suspense and genuine frights. They are targeted to young adult readers (that is, teens), as is today's one-off title, but I'd recommend them to any adult as well. 

The Leap is a different sort of fantasy novel. It takes place in current times, but tells a much more personal tale. At the story's beginning, a boy named Max has drowned in a mill pond. Max's best friend, Charlotte (called Charlie), almost died trying to save him. During the event she saw strange and horrible things -- and no one believes her. And it's not surprising that they don't:

And then I noticed other things moving in the water; pale thin women with long hair streaming like river moss, who wrapped their arms around him as he spun in the waters of the mill pool. 

I swam toward them, and they turned, and Max's face was white and his eyes were open, but I knew he couldn't see me anymore. He smiled and the women smiled with him, and they could see me all right -- they were looking at me with eyes as green as buried pebbles.

Charlie's single mom and her older brother are terribly concerned about her, of course, even though she stops trying to tell the truth and goes along with the usual psychologists and grief counselors. She is sure that something strange has happened to Max, but can't understand what. Then she starts to have exceptionally vivid dreams, beginning with coming out of the water and finding something shocking:

I bent down to the nearest print. It was crisscrossed with lines and had an oval imprint in the heel. Crouching there, I bit my lip until it bled; Max's Nike trainers had that pattern in the sole. Before I straightened, a vague dread made me scan the sand for a few yards on either side of Max's trail, but there was no sign that anyone else accompanied him.   

Where is Max going? Why is Charlie having this dream? 

Night after night, Charlie follows the trail, hoping to catch up to Max. Then one day she wakes up and finds that the cuts she sustained in the dream are on her body, and thus somehow her dreams are real. Which means Max must be alive somewhere.

Her actions in the waking world become increasingly distressing to her little family, who find her doing things like searching around Max's house, upsetting his mother and father. The crisis and the suspense build through the book. Something very strange is going on, and Charlie is determined to find out what -- but the farther she travels, the more it looks like her own life is in jeopardy.

It's a moody story, so well and richly written that it's hard to believe it's just over 230 large-print pages. Stroud is simply an excellent wordsmith with an imagination to match. 

If you like fantasy novels but are not convinced that The Leap is your cup of tea, do try one of his other books. I have not yet read them all but I've enjoyed all that I have. 

Fred's Book Club: Ghosts.

Welcome to our Halloween edition of the Humpback Writers book feature! Even now there are no humpbacks or hunchbacks or anything of the kind, and it is a mean thing to call people who deal with the condition. But it is Hump Day, and the one before Halloween, so we have a spooky book for you. Probably the only spooky book that was published with an introduction by T.S. Eliot.

Charles Williams was one of the three most famous members of the Oxford Christian group known as the Inklings, the other two being J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis. Like those celebrated dons, Williams wrote fantastic fiction, fantastic in the sense of being otherworldly. While Tolkien created the most detailed fantasy world in history, and Lewis dabbled in fantasy for children and science fantasy for adults (among other things), Williams's stories were set in his current day England. He was also a poet, a playwright, a theologian, a biographer, a critic -- he did everything literate that a man may do with paper and pen. It is not surprising, then, that he was friends for twenty years with Eliot, a convert to Williams's Anglican church.

All Hallows' Eve was Williams's last novel before his untimely death in 1945. It is a ghost story, and unlike any other I have read. Here's the opener: 

She was standing on Westminster Bridge. It was twilight, but the City was no longer dark. The street lamps along the Embankment were still dimmed, but in the buildings shutters and blinds and curtains had been removed or left undrawn, and the lights were coming out there like the first faint stars above. Those lights were the peace. It was true that formal peace was not yet in being; all that had happened was that fighting had ceased. The enemy, as enemy, no longer existed and one more crisis of agony was done. Labor, intelligence, patience -- much need for these; and much certainty of boredom and suffering and misery, but no longer the sick vigils and daily despair. 

We're right at the end of the war, and she's is considering what will happen next, and where her husband Richard is. But what she (and we) will soon discover is that she is dead; the last thing she remembers is going down into the Tube. And that's only the beginning of her problems. The woman's name is Lester (I guess that was a woman's name in wartime London), and in the ghostly streets she soon encounters two other deceased women whom she knew in life, the chatty and annoying Evelyn and the woeful Betty, whom Lester and Evelyn had treated badly in school. And even this is still just the beginning of Lester's problems. 

Only a few people can be made aware, through brief contact, of the presence of the spectral women, including Lester's husband, and much more unsettling, a man named Simon Leclerc. Leclerc is a very bad man, and indeed Williams's books have no shortage of bad people engaged in bad acts. He is a necromancer, who uses Betty's ghost as a conduit to the spirit world, by which means he intends to amass power. It will be up to the ones who choose good to try to oppose Leclerc, if they can. 

Eliot's introduction discusses the book's central battle:

The conflict which is the theme of every one of Williams's novels, is not merely the conflict between good and bad men, in the usual sense. No one was less confined to conventional morality, in judging good and bad behavior, than Williams: his mortality is that of the Gospels. He sees the struggle between Good and Evil as carried on, more or less blindly, by men and women who are often only the instruments of higher or lower powers, but who always have the freedom to choose to which powers they will submit themselves. Simon, in this story, is a most austere ascetic, but he is evil; Evelyn is a woman who appears too insignificant, too petty in her faults, to be really "bad," but yet, just because she is no more than pettiness, she delivers herself willingly into the hand of evil.

Furthermore, Williams's writing on the experience of the supernatural is truly unique, as Eliot explains:

I have already tried to indicate the unity between the man and the work; and it follows that there is a unity between his works of very different kinds. Much of his work may appear to realize its form only imperfectly; but it is also true in a measure to say that Williams invented his own forms -- or to say that no form, if he had obeyed all its conventional laws, could have been satisfactory for what he wanted to say. What it is, essentially, that he had to say, comes near to defying definition. It was not simply a philosophy, a theology, or a set of ideas: it was primarily something imaginative.

This is true, and something I have seen time and again in Williams's work. Take this simple passage from All Hallows' Eve:

 

She made a third effort and again she heard from her own mouth only the flat voice of the dead. She was possessed by it. Death, it seemed, was not over; it had only just begun. She was dying further. She could not call; presently she would not be able to speak; then not to see -- neither the high stars nor the meaningless lights -- yet still, though meaningless, faintly metropolitan. But she would find even this pale light too much, and presently would creep away from it towards one of those great open entrances that loomed here and there, for inside she could hide from the light.

He writes as if he has experienced these things personally, like a man desperately trying to communicate this in all his books to those of us tied down with the mundane work of living -- a Lazarus "come from the dead, / Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all." His novels are characterized with these passages, some nearly impenetrable because they can be so hard to grasp -- because they grasp what to us is the ungraspable.

So I have to say I've never enjoyed Williams's books the way I've enjoyed others, because they are a lot of work, and even then I feel like I've never quite been able to tune him in. And yet it is rewarding. All Hallows' Eve has a remarkable spiritual struggle, unlike any I've seen in any other ghost story, even the (to me overpraised) Henry James novel The Turn of the Screw.

A Reader's Guide to Fantasy (by Searles, Meacham, and Franklin) sums Charles Williams up very well thus: "In his books he demonstrates a deep knowledge and understanding of traditional magical theories and implements, and invests them all with power as symbols of an absolute reality which underlies the manifest reality of the visible world."

Of Williams's books, I think War in Heaven is my favorite, mainly because it centers around the Holy Grail. The Greater Trumps is one of the more readable, and in spots terrifying. There is a scene in Many Dimensions regarding the Seal of Solomon that made me almost jump up in shock. And Descent into Hell is not only one of the scariest books I've ever read, but one of the most aptly titled books as well.

If you are prepared to work for your ghost story, All Hallows' Eve is as good as it gets. But Charles Williams is never light reading, although he can be enlightening reading.

Fred's Book Club: Kind to be Cruel.

Good day, book lovers, and welcome to another Hump Day edition of the Humpback Writers, the book feature with the stupid Wednesday-related name. The writers probably don't have actual humps, but back in the early days of his career, today's writer probably would have pretended he did for physical comedy purposes. 

Throw your mind back to September 9, 1979. Now look on the New York Times best-seller list. What do you see? 

That is correct -- the first book by the world's hottest comedian, Steve Martin. I got this copy years later at the Strand in Manhattan, because one of my best friends was obsessed with it and I got curious. More about that later. 

Cruel Shoes is a collection of very short pieces, some fiction, some observational gags, some drawings, all joined to the amazing absurdist comedy that Martin had perfected over years of standup. It's nothing like most other comedian best-sellers (Alan King's Help! I'm a Prisoner in a Chinese Bakery; Jerry Seinfeld's SeinLanguage; Ray Romano's Everything and a Kite; and so on). It has more in common with John Lennon's free-form books In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works. But it's a lot funnier. It began life in 1977 as a small, limited edition book, but was reissued with a lot more material by Putnam in 1979. The 750 copies from that limited run are rather valuable now. 

Most comedians work with straight jokes; a few can work in weird, far-out stuff like Andy Kaufman. But Martin is the only one I know of who could do both at once, and shift gears rapidly. It's seen in this book; you follow along and think you're getting a sophisticated vibe, and suddenly there's a pratfall-level joke that's all the funnier because you expected something more esoteric. 

It's a hard book to quote because it is so awfully short, and I don't want to get in trouble for running whole pieces. But here are a few slices: 

The introduction:

You are walking down a country road. It is a quiet afternoon. You look up and far, far down the road you see someone walking toward you. You are surprised to have noticed someone so far away. But you keep walking, expecting nothing more than a friendly nod as you pass. He gets closer. You see he has bright orange hair. He is closer -- a white satin suit spotted with colored dots. Closer -- a painted white face and red lips. You and he are fifty yards apart. You, and a full-fledged clown holding a bicycle horn are twenty yards apart. You approach on the lonely country road. You nod. He honks and passes. 

 From "Turds":

The Turds never became accepted in this country because of their name. The Turds, or people from Turdsmania, were people of healthy stock. They were tall, with long, straight hair; the men robust, the women bold and beautiful. The first Turds arrived on these shores in fifteen eighty-nine, one year after the defeat of the Spanish Armada. They were unjustly blamed for the defeat of the Spanish Fleet when a Spanish admiral remarked, "No wonder we lost, we had a bunch of turds managing our cannons!" 

From the title story, "Cruel Shoes:"

Anna knew she had to have some new shoes today, and Carlo had helped her try on every pair in the store. Carlo spoke wearily, "Well, that's every pair of shoes in the place."

"Oh, you must have one more pair..."

"No, not one more pair.... Well, we have the cruel shoes, but no one would want..."

Anna interrupted, "Oh yes, let me see the cruel shoes!"

Spoiler alert: They are cruel, those shoes.

Martin followed this book with Pure Drivel in 1998, almost twenty years later, so he didn't exactly jam the shelves with comedic books after the success of Cruel Shoes. He has also written some novels, a kids' book, three plays and a musical, and of course screenplays galore (does anyone still say "galore"? In seventies mode here). But Cruel Shoes is the one that always stays with me. 

My friend, the obsessed one, says half-seriously that there's a lot of points to meditate on in Cruel Shoes. He finds many passages to be like a koan, a paradoxical or non sequitur-like statement to meditate upon for enlightenment. Like this from "What to Say When the Ducks Show Up":

Many people won't know what to say when the ducks show up, but I will. Maybe I'll say, "Oh ducks, oh ducks, oh ducks," or just "ducks wonderful ducks!" 

Or "The Vengeful Curtain Rod":

The story of the vengeful curtain rod is an exciting and dramatic tale told by the people who only say "hup hup" on the east coast of Borneo. The real facts are vague and misty, but the legend of the vengeful curtain rod as told by the people who only say "hup hup" goes like this:

"Hup hup hup hup hup hup hup hup hup hup hup."

I think my friend may have a point. Or, he may not be quite right. 

As someone who has worked in books for decades, I have to say the acknowledgments to this volume are the very best I have ever read. 

Yakkity yak yak yak yakkity yak yakkity yakkity yak yak yak yak yakkity yak yak yak yakkity.

Earlier this year, Martin wrote and starred in an animated version of the title story. I have not seen it yet. Does it have the depths of wonder and spirit that this book does? 

The only proper answer to that question is: Hup hup hup hup. Yakkity yak yak.

Fred's Book Club: House of Mystery.

Hello, friends! Welcome back to the Humpback Writers feature as it begins its second year under that awful name. We call it that because it falls on Wednesdays, not because humps are involved. Had we chosen a different work by this week's author, though, we could have called it Heffalumpback Writers, but we did not, so there you are.

And today we indeed have a book by Winnie-the-Pooh creator A. A. Milne, a puzzling tale for adults called The Red House Mystery.

While remembered most for his children's works, Milne was originally a writer for adult audiences, which in his day just meant grown-up in themes and language, not in sex and violence. The Red House Mystery (published 1922) was an unusual departure for him nonetheless, being a detective story. He was known for light verse and plays, despite being a World War I veteran and thus in line to have spent his career in mournful, angry screeds.

Milne dedicates the book to his father, John Vine Milne: "Like all really nice people, you have a weakness for detective stories, and feel that there are not enough of them. So, after all that you have done for me, the least that I can do for you is write you one."

The book begins like so many English manor house stories -- in fact, indistinguishable from a Wodehouse novel except for the lack of laugh lines. Here's how it starts:

In the drowsy heat of the summer afternoon the Red House was taking its siesta. There was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the elms. From distant lawns came the whir of a mowing-machine, that most restful of all country sounds; making ease the sweeter in that it is taken while others are working.
     It was the hour when even those whose business it is to attend to the wants of others have a moment or two for themselves. In the housekeeper’s room Audrey Stevens, the pretty parlour-maid, re-trimmed her best hat, and talked idly to her aunt, the cook-housekeeper of Mr. Mark Ablett’s bachelor home.

Obviously they didn't have leaf blowers in Milne's day.

One of Mark Ablett's guests is Bill Beverley, whose friend Antony Gillingham decides to drop in. So does Robert, the black sheep of the family, newly returned from Australia. Robert, sad to say, doesn't last long.

They turned the body on to its back, nerving themselves to look at it. Robert Ablett had been shot between the eyes. It was not a pleasant sight, and with his horror Antony felt a sudden pity for the man beside him, and a sudden remorse for the careless, easy way in which he had treated the affair. But then one always went about imagining that these things didn’t happen—except to other people. It was difficult to believe in them just at first, when they happened to yourself.

Not only is Robert dead, but his body is found in a room locked from the inside. In other words, Milne has jumped right in and written a locked-room mystery, one of the most difficult to construct, because everyone will be looking up the chimney and knocking around for secret passages and you have to avoid those. It would be a few years before John Dickson Carr became a master of the form, but it's always a tough go.

Meanwhile, back at the house, Antony and Bill become amateur Holmes and Watson to try to solve the mystery.

“Now then,” said Bill, “We are alone. Fire ahead.”
    Antony smoked thoughtfully for a little. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth and turned to his friend.
    “Are you prepared to be the complete Watson?” he asked.
    “Watson?”
   “Do-you-follow-me-Watson; that one. Are you prepared to have quite obvious things explained to you, to ask futile questions, to give me chances of scoring off you, to make brilliant discoveries of your own two or three days after I have made them myself—all that kind of thing? Because it all helps.”
    “My dear Tony,” said Bill delightedly, “need you ask?” Antony said nothing, and Bill went on happily to himself, “I perceive from the strawberry-mark on your shirt-front that you had strawberries for dessert. Holmes, you astonish me. Tut, tut, you know my methods. Where is the tobacco? The tobacco is in the Persian slipper. Can I leave my practice for a week? I can.”

Anthony and Bill are good fun, and Milne observes all the form needed to give us a good mystery with a healthy dose of suspension of disbelief. Raymond Chandler knocked the book for being unrealistic and contrived, but that's what you expect from this kind of story. See also Dorothy L. Sayers, Agatha Christie, the aforementioned John Dickson Carr, and on and on. We can't all write like slumming angels the way Chandler could, or get away with not accounting for all the bodies.

The worst thing I can say about The Red House Mystery is that I found it forgettable. I think I read it about seven years ago, and when I thought about profiling it for the book club I realized I'd forgotten the whole thing. Took some skimming to refresh my memory, and I usually remember at least a few crucial bits of plot, style, or character from every book I've read without prompting. All I remembered was, it was fun, and it was a mystery.

The novel is available free, thanks to Mongo and our other good friends at Gutenberg. If you'd like a light late-summer read with good cheer and a murder, I think this will fit your needs like Winnie stuck in Rabbit's hole.

Fred's Book Blog: Be a Rebel.

Welcome once more to the Wednesday book blog, called the Humpback Writers, because it's Hump Day and it's stupid and I know it and so do you. Well, we've been doing it for almost a year, so we'll vote on whether to change it later in the month.

Today's book was recommended to me against my will by a fellow editor. It looks almost like a perfect depiction of a middle-school novel I would roll my orbs at. Something I wouldn't touch with a five-foot red pencil.

I absolutely loved it.

Rebel McKenzie is the story of the titular Southern girl and narrator whose determination to become a paleontologist causes her to run away from home wearing a bunch of her clothing (for ease of carry) to try to join a kids' project called the Big Dig. She fails to get very far. Rebel's tired parents decide to send her to live with her considerably older sister, Lynette, who is studying to be a hairdresser. Lynette lives in a trailer park (or as Lynette calls it, a mobile home community) with her son, Rudy. Rebel is expected to make herself useful by looking after Rudy for the summer. Rudy's father, Chuck, is off pursuing his monster-truck driving dreams while Lynette tries to keep body and soul together in the small town of Frog Level, Virginia.

And that's the start, but it's just great. It's one of the funnier books I've ever read. The characters are wonderful. Rudy is a sweet and very strange little boy, who misses his dad and eats lunch outside while talking with God.

Lynette switched on the radio. "Rudy is just an Angel Mae. You won't have a bit of trouble. But he's such a picky eater. I wish you'd get him to eat better."
     "What does he eat?" I asked. I wasn't planning on doing a lot of cooking.
     "Every morning, he has an RC float. He won't touch a crumb except hot dog spaghetti for lunch and dinner--"
     "What kind of spaghetti?"
     "It's a breeze to fix. You take cooked spaghetti and add some ketchup and a little sugar. Then fry a couple of hot dogs, cut up like pennies, you know? Stir it all up. Sometimes you can throw in a small can of peas."
     Disgusting. "That's all he eats?"
     "And cookies. You see why I'm trying to broaden his tastes." She glanced in the rearview mirror. "Put some meat on his bird bones. Ain't that right, Rudykins?"
     Rudy sat forward with his magazine. He pointed to a navy blue dress trimmed with white lace.
     "Do you like this?" he asked me. "I bet you'd look nice in it."
     I shrugged. I didn't bother much about clothes. "It's okay."
     "I'll mark the page," he said, settling back again. "This is the dress you'll be laid out in."
     "Say what?" I stared at my sister. "What in Sam Hill is he talking about?"
     "Nothing. He went to his grandmother Parsley's funeral last month and picked up some notions. That's all."

Rebel is a genuine little badass for our times, and for once I mean that in a good way. She's not out to cause trouble, but if she thinks someone is picking on Rudy she will thump him or her. She is so determined to get the money to go on a kid's camp adventure that she does the unthinkable: She enters the Miss Frog Level Volunteer Fire Department Pageant, even though she walks like a little truck driver, hasn't got a gown, and has no talents for the talent contest. Her equally talentless new friend Lacey Jane also wants to enter; so too does witchy pageant-winner Bambi Lovering, who is so talented she can play the ukulele behind her head.

Clearly our hero has her work cut out for her.

But no description of this book would be adequate without a mention of the angry, lazy, fat Doublewide the Wonder Cat:

A large, dark-brown blob perched on a rusted patio table by the front door. It unwound a whiplike tail from around dainty front paws and arched its back. The cat was shaped like a chocolate-colored basketball with a smaller ball balanced on top. His face and ears were nearly black and his coat was sleek as a seal's. [...]
     "You could use him for a footstool," I said, and Rudy laughed.
     "I could use him for a garbage disposal," Lynette said. "He eats like a Saint Bernard. I'd get rid of the big pest, but he's part of the lease. The owner moved to an apartment that doesn't allow pets."
     "How would he know if you got rid of Doublewide?" I asked.
     "That cat would probably call social services on me."

One of the things I loved about the book is that the family really is bound by genuine affection, but living is not easy. They are flat-out poor. They don't sit around complaining about it, although Rebel is pretty mad when a pricey treat of Stella D'oro cookies turns out to be dry and flavorless (striking a blow for cookie devotees everywhere). The sisters and Rudy just keep it together and work toward better days, surviving the summer heat in a kiddie pool and whipping up batches of hot dog spaghetti.

The book is also blessed with inter-chapter fun, like Rudy's cartoons and Rebel's notebook and Bambi's obnoxious beauty tips and recipes (including you-know-what!).

Candice Ransom is mostly known for authoring many nonfiction books for kids and fiction entries in publishers' series. This novel is clearly a labor of love. It should have been a best-seller and a movie, and I blame her publisher for not giving it more publicity. For what it's worth, I'm happy to give it a little in this spot.

That's a lot of bears.

Today is the birthday of the late co-creator of one of the most beloved and famous children's book series, Jan Berenstain of the Berenstain Bears. She and her husband, Stan, met in 1941 at the Philadelphia Museum School of Industrial Art. Wikipedia tells us, "During WWII, Stan served as a military medical illustrator while Jan was a draft artist for the Army Corps of Engineers in addition to working in an aircraft factory. Jan fashioned a pair of wedding rings from spare aluminum collected at the latter job, and the two married on April 17, 1946." They were married for 59 years until Stan's death, in 2005. Jan died in 2012.

They created more than 300 books featuring the Berenstain Bears, a family of cartoon bears that faced typical family dilemmas such as having a new baby, entering a science fair, watching too much television, and playing sports. That's a lot of bear books. I can't think of a single series produced by the same creators that had that many titles. And it hasn't stopped; Berenstain Bear books remain in print and seem to have acquired a more religious bent of late, with a series published by Christian publisher Zonderkidz. Their son Mike seems to have taken over the creative duties.

It's a remarkable run, and the thing that puzzles me is that I don't recall ever seeing any of their books when I was a kid. The only classics I remember are series and books like Curious George and Babar the Elephant and Frog and Toad and Frederick (great name) and Katy and the Big Snow and the awful ones by Dr. Seuss and Maurice Sendak and a bunch of others I was supposed to like but scared me. I don't think I saw a Berenstain book until I was an adult, but they'd been around my whole life.

A lot of kids grew up surrounded by Berenstain Bear books, and while they're often Photoshopped for cynical humor like Family Circus strips, they obviously have a lot of appeal. So good for you, Jan, and happy birthday to you in the Great Beyond.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi Department: Today is also the birthday of author George Barr McCutcheon, who you and I never heard of but was well known in his day, that day ending with his passing in 1928. He wrote many novels and plays, but one that may ring a bell is Brewster's Millions (1902). That story had an irresistible catch -- the title hero must spend a fortune within one year, getting nothing of value for his money, if he is to inherit a much larger fortune at the end of the year. Readers found the idea so appealing it was adapted for the stage, and made into thirteen films starting with a Cecil B. DeMille silent in 1914. It has been very popular in India. The most recent film was a Chinese adaptation in 2018. The most recent American film was 1985's Brewster's Millions with Richard Pryor, which was pretty good. And yet its original author has fallen into obscurity.

Ah, but the good folk at Gutenberg, like our friend Mongo, keep the fires of civilization burning by making many of McCutcheon's works available for free online, including Brewster's Millions. Big hand for the gang at Gutenberg!

Riders of the Purple Nurple.

Looks like we're going to have another Western adventure of the one and only Bang Gunly. 

"BANG GUNLY vs. GANG BUNLY"

by Frederick Key

Dedicated to Mike "Flangepart" Weller,
who has no one but himself to blame for this

Bang Gunly rode his loaner horse into town. The sign, hanging by one nail on the left, said Lonesome Ridge. Sounded nice. He needed a spot to rest a spell. This ol' nag wouldn't take him too much farther without it, and the shop said his palomino wouldn't be ready until morning. Naturally all they had on the lot was an ol' three-legged draft horse named Shirley. 

He hoped he could enter Lonesome Ridge without being seen. Guys were always challenging Bang to a gunfight. He was tired of having to kill 'em. Plus, Shirley was kind of embarrassing. At least he was wearing a mask. Since the Chinese Tumbleweed Flu came to the West, the territories all had rules to wear masks to Stop the Spread and Flatten the Curve. What the goldang heck was the curve, anyway?

"That's one strange horse you got there, mister."

Bang looked up. Speaking of curves! Before him was a fine young lady, built like a brick shipyard under government contract. She had an hourglass figure filled with two hours' worth of sand. Indescribably delicious. And her eyes... uh...

"Up here, mister."

Brown. They were brown.

"Good evening, miss," said Bang, alighting from his saddle with a tip of the hat. He spat a bit of 'baccy juice, which was a mistake in his mask. "And what might your name be?" he asked, digging for a tissue.

"Lululubelle," she said. "Lululubelle Horowitz. I own Only Saloon in Lonesome Ridge."

"What's it called?"

"The Only Saloon in Lonesome Ridge."

"But what's it called?"

"The Only -- you know, never mind. This here's Gabby, my bartender."

Gabby, an older man with a big Mexican style hat and a lanyard with his union badge (Gabbys Local 135), said, "Ayup."

"You a gunslinger, stranger?" asked the comely lass.

Bang shifted his weight manfully and said, "Now how might you know that, missy?"

"Oh, the way you carry yourself with a swagger. The way you jump to the ground with your spurs jingling harmoniously in E and A flat. And the two six-guns at your waist, the shotgun on your back, and the Winchester rifle in your boot."

"Don't fergit the Derringer in my hat band."

"Nice touch. I could use a man like you."

"Hey-O!"

"I mean for fightin'." She fluttered her eyelashes flutteringly. "There's a gang terrorizing Lonesome Ridge, a group of bushwackin' sidewinders called Gang Bunly. I'm sick of them shootin' up my place. Can you take 'em?"

"Gang Bunly!" said Bang Gunly. "That's got kind of a familiar ring."

"It should!" came a craggy voice behind him. Bang spun about to see a foursome of desperadoes, armed to the teeth, which were covered by stolen N95 masks. The big one, a fat greaseball with a flowing mustache that threatened to eat his mask, said, "It's me, Bang! Your cousin, Gang Bunly! And this here is my gang I named after myself!"

The gang made evil noises, and farted just to be more evil.

"Three ain't much of a gang, cuz," said Bang.

"We're just gettin' started. It's more'n enough to take a dumbbell like you."

Bang squinted. "Smile when you say that, pardner."

"I am smilin', you dummy! I got this damn mask on is all! Now you better clear outta here or my gang will plug you where you stand, and your three-legged horse!"

"Now you done gone too far!" said Bang. In the blink of a skeeter's eye he whipped out his two six-shooters and blasted eight holes in three bandits. Do the math. Show all work. 

Gang Bunly found himself standing alone. "You're still handy with the irons, Bang," he said.

"Don't you threaten to kill that horse. I'll never get my palomino back."

Gang snarled. "They'll probably blame you fer that dent in her rear."

Bang snorted. "How's yer old man?"

Gang said, "Toler'ble. Bunions acting up. My sister just had a baby. Little boy named Dang."

"That's right nice."

"How's your ma?" Gang said.

"She's fine."

"Glad to hear it," spat the villain. "She's good people. But she's gonna have to bury her third-favorite son if you don't clear out."

"I'm a-stayin," said Bang.

Gang reached for the guns on his belt. "Oh, yeah?"

"This here town ain't big enough for the two of us," Bang growled.

"Ah reckon you're right," sneered Gang. "What town is?"

Bang thought for a moment. "Phoenix?"

Gang nodded. "Okay."

So they moved to Phoenix and each got a nice little place. Bang got a split-level with utilities included, and Bunly got a two-story walkup still under rent control. 

After they were gone, Lululubelle said, "Who was that masked man?"

"Consarn it, Lululu!" yelled her bartender, Gabby. "How in tarnation should I know? We're all wearin' masks!"

Fred's Book Club: Elementary Psychology?

Greetings, friends, and welcome to another Wednesday and another Hump Day episode of the Humpback Writers, where no writers have humps but all their books have backs.

This week's book answers a question from correspondent Mr. Philbin: "Are you EVER going to feature a book that anyone has heard of?" To which I answer: Okay, sure. Seriously, most of the time those books have enough exposure and don't need me to shed light on them. But why not? Here we go.

The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, a Sherlock Holmes novel by Nicholas Meyer, ought to make Mr. Philbin happy, as it has sold two million copies since publication in 1974. The author also wrote the screenplay for the movie version, which led Meyer to an Oscar nomination and a brilliant career in film -- not to mention three more Sherlock Holmes novels.

I saw the 1976 film on TV before I read the book, and enjoyed it quite a bit. I picked up the novel years later and found I liked it even better. I was surprised to have enjoyed them so much, since by the time I came to them Sherlock Holmes adventures, adaptations, parodies, and pastiches had been just about run into the ground by every writer since Conan Doyle first put pen to paper, as chronicled brilliantly by author and fellow Bleatnik Bill Peschel (himself a writer of Holmes stories). Whether done straight or for laughs, I feared that Holmes had been done to death even before Meyer got hold of him.

And yet, this book, well written in Dr. Watson's style, hangs on an irresistible peg: What if Sherlock Holmes's well-known cocaine habit -- Holmes was quoted in a Conan Doyle story as injecting himself with a seven-percent solution of cocaine, thus the title -- was a symptom and expression of his descent into madness? What if he was losing his grip on reality? What if his arch nemesis Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime, was... just a guy?

Moriarty twisted round in his chair and screwed up his blue eyes in my direction. "Dr. Watson, your friend is persuaded that I am some sort of--" he groped for the words-- "criminal mastermind. Of the most depraved order," he added with a helpless shrug, throwing up his hands. "Now I ask you, sir; in all honesty -- can you see in me the remotest trappings of such an individual?"
     There seemed almost no point in saying I could not.
     "But what is to be done?" the little man pursued with a whine. "I know that your friend is a good man -- all England resounds with his praise. But, in my case, he has made some ghastly mistake and I have become his unfortunate victim."

And what if this prompted Dr. Watson to engage in a clever ruse to get his friend into the care of the one doctor on the continent dedicated to healing the broken mind -- the controversial Dr. Sigmund Freud?

Watson induces Holmes into following Moriarty to Vienna. Holmes does not know where the "villain" is going, but tracks him using noted bloodhound Toby and a bottle of vanilla extract. I have wondered many times in the years since I read this book whether this method would actually work. Nevertheless, Holmes follows the trail and winds up in the office of the physician Freud, where he goes right into his act:

Holmes eyed him coldly.
     "Beyond the fact that you are a brilliant Jewish physician who was born in Hungary and studied for a time in Paris, and that some radical theories of yours have alienated the respectable medical community so that you have severed your connections with various hospitals and branches of the medical fraternity -- beyond the fact that you have ceased to practice medicine as a result, I can deduce little. You are married, possess a sense of honour, and enjoy playing cards and reading Shakespeare and a Russian author whose name I am unable to pronounce. I can say little besides that will be of interest to you."
     Freud stared at Holmes for a moment in utter shock. Then, suddenly, he broke into a smile -- and this came as another surprise to me, for it was a child-like expression of awe and pleasure.
     "But this is wonderful!" he exclaimed.
     "Commonplace," was the reply. 

Holmes explains the little clues that led his keen observation to these deductions. In time he is persuaded to be put under the care of Freud.

As for the rest? Well, there's a kidnapping case and some jolly good Mitteleuropean intrigue, and a lovely lady and a terrific chase and such, and that doesn't matter. Really, the book is a blast, and the fun of seeing the real Freud rendered vividly and Holmes in his element (although a little nuts) is well worth the price of admission. Since the book was published, Freud's reputation as a scientist has taken a beating, but put that on the back burner for the sake of the yarn.

So there, Mr. Philbin!

P.S.: Allow me to recommend Bill Peschel's own mixture of Sherlock Holmes and reality, Sherlock Holmes & Mark Twain: The Adventure of the Whyos. Bill proves that there's still a rich vein of story in Holmes yet, for a writer with the talent to mine it.

The mask in science fiction.

Fritz Leiber wrote a science fiction story called "Coming Attraction" that was published in the November 1950 issue of Galaxy. It is considered a classic. It's a lousy story. But it was an important one at the time.

Science fiction had been easing into the public consciousness for decades, and was generally associated with wonder, with the E. E. "Doc" Smith-type galactic visions of discovery and survival and ray guns and aliens and triumph. You even get a feel for that from the cover of the issue.

The reason I call "Coming Attraction" a lousy story is that it is all exposition, functioning like propaganda. "You think your future is going to be great? Ha! The atomic war with the Soviet Union continues, half of New York is uninhabitable, and everyone behaves like a total bastard! There's your future!" There's barely any plot; just a look at this mess, and this mess, and this horror here, which the ironic title of the story indicates we will get. You can read the story here, or a summary at its Wikipedia page.

The atomic bomb, one of the most shocking things man had ever devised, developed in secret, unleashed at once, was a traumatic event in culture, as we are reminded looking back at this story. It turned science fiction into the most depressing genre of them all, and it has never really cheered up. Maybe books about serial killers and other horrors are more depressing, but I never read that stuff in my youth. I read stories like this, and was convinced the world would be blown to smithereens before I was thirty. No wonder I drank.

Leiber was born in Chicago, but by making Turner, his hero in this story, a foreigner, and one from a country that in 1950 was still rebuilding from the horrors of World War II, he can spit on American culture and corruption while poking the reader in the ribs to say You think your cities will be safe in the next war?

Thank God Leiber's predictions did not come true. But one sort of seems true now. In the New York of his story, mask wearing is not only common, it is required, but not because of disease. Here's the section concerning masks, told by Turner:

"I suppose the masks give you some trouble," I observed. "Over in England we've been reading about your new crop of masked female bandits."
     "Those things get exaggerated," the first policeman assured me. "It's the men masking as women that really mix us up. But, brother, when we nab them, we jump on them with both feet."
     "And you get so you can spot women almost as well as if they had naked faces," the second policeman volunteered. "You know, hands and all that."
     "Especially all that," the first agreed with a chuckle. "Say, is it true that some girls don't mask over in England?"
     "A number of them have picked up the fashion," I told him. "Only a few, though—the ones who always adopt the latest style, however extreme."
     "They're usually masked in the British newscasts."
     "I imagine it's arranged that way out of deference to American taste," I confessed. "Actually, not very many do mask."
     The second policeman considered that. "Girls going down the street bare from the neck up." It was not clear whether he viewed the prospect with relish or moral distaste. Likely both.
     "A few members keep trying to persuade Parliament to enact a law forbidding all masking," I continued, talking perhaps a bit too much.
     The second policeman shook his head. "What an idea. You know, masks are a pretty good thing, brother. Couple of years more and I'm going to make my wife wear hers around the house."
     The first policeman shrugged. "If women were to stop wearing masks, in six weeks you wouldn't know the difference. You get used to anything, if enough people do or don't do it."
     I agreed, rather regretfully, and left them. I turned north on Broadway (old Tenth Avenue, I believe) and walked rapidly until I was beyond Inferno. Passing such an area of undecontaminated radioactivity always makes a person queasy. I thanked God there weren't any such in England, as yet.
     The street was almost empty, though I was accosted by a couple of beggars with faces tunneled by H-bomb scars, whether real or of makeup putty, I couldn't tell. A fat woman held out a baby with webbed fingers and toes. I told myself it would have been deformed anyway and that she was only capitalizing on our fear of bomb-induced mutations. Still, I gave her a seven-and-a-half-cent piece. Her mask made me feel I was paying tribute to an African fetish.
     "May all your children be blessed with one head and two eyes, sir."
     "Thanks," I said, shuddering, and hurried past her.
     "... There's only trash behind the mask, so turn your head, stick to your task: Stay away, stay away—from—the—girls!"
     This last was the end of an anti-sex song being sung by some religionists half a block from the circle-and-cross insignia of a femalist temple. They reminded me only faintly of our small tribe of British monastics. Above their heads was a jumble of billboards advertising predigested foods, wrestling instruction, radio handies and the like.
     I stared at the hysterical slogans with disagreeable fascination. Since the female face and form have been banned on American signs, the very letters of the advertiser's alphabet have begun to crawl with sex—the fat-bellied, big-breasted capital B, the lascivious double O. However, I reminded myself, it is chiefly the mask that so strangely accents sex in America.
     A British anthropologist has pointed out, that, while it took more than 5,000 years to shift the chief point of sexual interest from the hips to the breasts, the next transition to the face has taken less than 50 years. Comparing the American style with Moslem tradition is not valid; Moslem women are compelled to wear veils, the purpose of which is concealment, while American women have only the compulsion of fashion and use masks to create mystery.
     Theory aside, the actual origins of the trend are to be found in the anti-radiation clothing of World War III, which led to masked wrestling, now a fantastically popular sport, and that in turn led to the current female fashion. Only a wild style at first, masks quickly became as necessary as brassieres and lipsticks had been earlier in the century.

So this was the SF of 1950, the carefree postwar era of the American decade.

When I was a kid, Leiber was best known for his fantasy works, particularly the stories of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. I read a couple of them, and I didn't like them, either. I hate to pick on a guy who's been dead for almost thirty years, but I sure am glad not to be a character in any of his stories.

At least we can say that, however crappy things may be today, they aren't at all like he predicted in "Coming Attraction."

Get a Clue.

Miss Marple: "Oh, my word, one doesn't often see terrible things like poor Mr. Boddy in such dreadful condition, does one? My word no, no one even seems to know whether the poor gentleman was shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned, or what all. Well, naturally one ought to suspect that nice Miss Scarlet. Oh, dear, yes, it is clear that she and Mr. Boddy were more than just friends, you see. These things do sometimes end poorly. But I wonder if she was in the library at the time? Have you noticed the many candlesticks in there? Quite a few for an electrified manor in a room full of valuable and delicate manuscripts, don't you think?"

Sam Spade: "I don't like that Green guy, and that White lady looks a little too rattled for my money. Something is going on there, but no one's talking. But it's that Plum that looks the most shady. What's he doing in the kitchen all the time? Looking for something? I need to find out what room he's in. I'm sure he's got some connection to the university scandal. He'd probably fold like a cheap suitcase, but I don't want to get into the rough stuff yet. And what was that White lady saying about a missing monkey wrench?"

Sherlock Holmes: "Now look, Watson, we must be careful none of the suspects leaves these premises. I've noted when Miss Peacock arrived in her traveling suit the faint outline of a bicycle clip still in her trouser leg. Indeed, she has some small Tribulus terrestris burrs on her tweed jacket, which would indicate recent travel by that means somewhere far from this location. What I shall do is locate the bicycle and remove the air from its tires. Meanwhile, I request you locate Colonel Mustard and engage him in conversation. He claims service in the Afghan, but I'm certain you can determine if this is true from your own experience in that hostile land. I last saw him in the billiards room, examining the revolvers on the wall. Perhaps you ought to carry your own."

Father Brown: "A man enters a room and no one goes in; the man never exits alive. A very wicked entity has entered this manor, and that entity is devious and diabolical; more so as he or she is desperate. Boddy certainly fit the description himself, as no doubt the police will discover now, but where is the weapon that brought him to his earthly end? A pipe is missing from the kitchen; but more telling is that the wrench that sent it missing is itself missing. This manor is like the man who owned it, shifting and mysterious; but the hall is the least likely place for a wrench or a loose pipe, and I propose that these items then must be found there if either or both were used."

Nero Wolfe: "I do not wish to be involved in this case, and yet it appears once again I have no choice. I should never have left West 35th Street. Archie, you must get your mind off the Scarlet woman and focus on Green. Find his room and see what he has. There was a man named Chartreuse involved in the Founders Bank scandal who disappeared with fifty thousand dollars. As I recall, he matched Green's description. Meanwhile, I shall see what our Professor Plum finds so interesting in the kitchen. No, I am not simply looking for food! What? Plum is in the study now? How did he get there without our seeing him?'

Hercule Poirot: "You see, 'astings, 'ow Mme. Peacock smokes ze cigarette weeth no 'older? I suspect she eez not as 'ow you say 'upper crusty' as she would like one to think, n'est pas? And yet I do not think this make 'er our suspect. Use ze little grey cells, 'astings! M. Boddy, 'e make no noise when 'e is killed, oui? No gunshot is 'eard. No smash, no blood, eh? Ze rope, 'astings! We must find ze rope and see who could have used it to strange our 'ost. Quickly, to ze ballroom!"

Dr. Gideon Fell: "Archons of Athens! What seems to be overlooked in this case, and I do not think it presumptuous of me to say, is that Boddy was found in a room which was locked from the inside, the windows in the same condition. I have on many occasions disproved the idea that one can successfully escape up the chimney in such instances, so how did the killer escape, hm? Once we know that, and find the knife that has gone missing, we shall know the killer."

Little Stiiv (age 10): "It was Colonel Mustard in the Lounge with the Wrench."

All others (looking at cards): "Crap!"

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.