Sherlock Holmes is not Quite Dead!

It all started when I saw a cool haircut on Twitter. I didn’t know Lyndsay Faye (shame on me, as I was about to discover), but when her picture appeared on my feed I couldn’t help but comment on her amazing hair. I went on to lament that my own locks would never meet such majesty.

Then I discovered she is a writer…of Sherlock Holmes tales.

And her name isn’t Doyle.

I’m a bit of a snob about Mr. Holmes. No literary character has given me such inspiration and solace as Sherlock; I think of him as a kindred spirit. I don’t like to hear any discussion of the world’s greatest detective from people who don’t know the deerstalker doesn’t actually show up in the books or from the troglodytes who don’t recognize the name Sindey Paget. (Go sit in the corner–especially if you’re still asking yourself what a deerstalker is.)

So, I’m a little touchy about Holmes. As a result, I hadn’t read any of the non-original Holmes stories. Pop-culture’s interpretations of Holmes tend to be irritating, mostly because they center around the most boring aspect of the tales: his sexuality. Honestly, people, you can get more water out of a stone.

I planned to live my entire life without reading from the multitude of “new” Holmes stories, until Lyndsay Faye, the woman with incredible hair, responded to me on Twitter. “You look slammin’,” she said, in an attempt to mitigate my previous lamentation.

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You can see why I considered this a compliment.

I swooned, hit the floor, and blacked out.

When I awoke, I rushed to my local library (I still do that) and grabbed a book with her name in it: The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories.

The table of contents boasted familiar names. Some of my favorites, in fact. Stephen King. Michael Moorcock. Neil Gaiman. But did any of them ever compliment my hair? No.

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And, seriously, why not?

I poured some coffee into a cup, waited for it to find the right temperature, and then poured myself into The Case of Colonel Warburton’s Madness.

If you’re a Holmes fan, the opening line will blow you away with it’s familiarity and humor. Faye’s yarn contains the Watsonian lexicon of obscure English words that makes Watson such a charming storyteller, and every paragraph is brimming with the warm (but always peculiar) friendship between him and Sherlock. The mystery is a very good one and, just like I often did with Doyle’s work, I found myself stopping to lean back in my chair to go over the details of the case in an effort to solve it on my own. (I got close.) Flipping through those pages was like stepping back into the old stories for the first time, and I experienced a familiar elation I never expected to know again so intimately.

I’ve shed my prejudice. There are dozens more Sherlock Holmes stories in this little book and plenty more on the bookshelves. It’s time I quit avoiding them.

I might even write one myself.

The Only Woman Whose Picture Adorned My Wall…

Other guys had models in swimsuits. Or movie posters featuring leather-clad actresses. How low-brow. I scoffed at their barbarian ways.

I started to collect books at a young age. My family had loads of old books and no one knew what to do with them, but I was more than happy to keep them in my room where I hoarded these tomes like a dragon hovering over a pile of gold coins. I always made sure to keep them neatly arranged, and I didn’t like people touching the antiques. (These books were old.)

I noticed the other kids my age weren’t curating their own libraries, and I pitied them. How did they spend their spare time?

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So there wasn’t room for cheap posters of nude-ish ladies because my bookshelves were in the way, but I did make room for one picture. One woman’s face looked out over the placid study, someone who I would always admire.

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That’s right. Sally Ride.

One of my elementary school teachers tried to teach us about Sally Ride, but her lecture was constantly cut off by my interjections. “She made the robot arm that the shuttle uses!” “First woman in space? You mean first American woman in space, right? Those two cosmonauts…” “Did you know she plucked a satellite out of its orbit?” I wasn’t my teacher’s favorite.

Many years later, I had the privilege of hearing Sally Ride speak. To a group of girls. Really, really young girls. I stood at the edge of the crowd, pretending I wasn’t more excited than all of the children filling the huge courtyard. Sally Ride stood on a platform at the far end, a distant figure I could barely recognize. My stomach swelled with exhilaration.

I probably looked silly. Sure, I was a book-hoarding, scrawny nerd in the old days, but now I’m 6″6′ and 200lbs and I sort of stand out in a crowd of giggling children. Especially when I’m trying to pretend I’m not freaking out. It’s cool. I’m cool. Just Sally Ride, the only woman cool enough for my room. No big deal.

As Ride spoke, I noticed another man standing beside me and, if you can believe it, he was even bigger than me. “Did you know she invented the robot arm the space shuttle uses?” I whispered. He nodded and tried to suppress a grin. “Yeah. I knew that.”

So, there we were, two overgrown nerds joining a gaggle of preteen girls so we could get a glance of Sally Ride. It was time well spent.

There have been plenty of impressive astronauts, and I could have been enamored with any one of them, but there is something special about watching someone defy society’s expectations. Especially when you’re a dorky, young boy who is always told you’re doing things wrong.

Everyone expected me to enjoy baseball and swimming pools as a kid, but I only wanted to read old books and take long walks. For some reason, this made my peers distrust me and I was encouraged to change, to be someone else. I was obviously a problem that needed to be fixed, even though, as far as I was concerned, I was just fine.

People like Sally Ride remind us that it’s okay to be the different one. It’s even okay to be outstanding.

There is Some Good to Come out of this Mess

Trump’s travel ban has ignited in the nation into an unprecedented, bilateral protest. The situation is dreary, but, for once, most of us are on the same page.

statue_of_liberty_1917_posterIt was not surprising to see Liberals take to the terminals in protest. Since they are apparently planning to make picket lines every time President Trump blows his nose, this has become business as usual.

But they were quickly joined by others.

Members of different church denominations poured in with their support, often reminding parishioners of Jesus’ words about helping travelers, or His kindness with the Samaritan woman at the well.

Familiar Conservative voices joined the fray. John McCain explained why he thinks the ban will be disastrous for keeping the country safe from terrorists. The typically right-leaning National Review pointed out the lunacy of barring green card bearers.

It’s an amazing display, I think. People of various religions and political ideologies putting aside their disagreements to solve a bigger problem. Hippies and soldiers and church curmudgeons are all holding hands in the picket lines just to help a relatively small number of refugees find a home.

I realize the situation is still a problem, but when I see the majority of our country stand up and fight for the helpless I know I can afford to be encouraged.

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Old Favorites: Understanding Simak’s ‘The Visitors’

clifford_simakClifford Simak might have been a square. He once wrote, “My favorite recreation is fishing (the lazy way, lying in a boat and letting them come to me). Hobbies: Chess, stamp collecting, growing roses,” and every picture of him looks like the standard American Male from the 50s on his way to have his shoes shined and fight communism. But Simak gave us thought-provoking stories that still make me ponder and think.

He began publishing science fiction in the 30s, working regularly for editors like Hugo Gersnback and John w. Campbell. According to his friend, Isaac Asimov, Simak had a respectable “real” job, where he didn’t let on that he was a writer. (I hear there are still people who do that.)

He’s a foundational writer, to be sure, and what makes his work unique is his focus on ordinary, mid-western people. My favorite Simak story, The Big Front Yard, is about a country repairman who finds adorable aliens quietly fixing things in his basement. Rather than writing a Buck Rogers-esque hero, Simak tells us how an incredibly normal guy reacts to an amazing situation.

The Visitors is one of Simak’s last works, written in the 80s, and it gives an unusual take on alien invasion stories. After the opening chapters, the scenes start to become bare with little or (often) no scenery or setting described. Just a a page or two of exchanged dialog and then we’re off to the next chapter. You can almost picture it like a minimalist play, where characters step out onto a barely illuminated stage and say their lines in front of sparse props.

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Like this. With aliens.

At the start of the story, a fisherman encounters an alien craft when he reaches back to cast and his rod snaps in half against a big, black box hovering over the river. The box sucks him up, stares at him, and spits him back out. Then the visitor, which appears to be a life form rather than a ship, begins eating trees and leaving behind strange “cellulose” blocks. The people of earth stand dumbstruck as more silent Visitors descend, eat more trees, and eventually to leave behind offspring in the form of small black boxes.

The visitors never directly communicate in any way, but they do start to create gifts for the people of earth. Strange cars that fly are left behind, seemingly as gifts in exchange for all the trees the Visitors devour. Sadly, the crowds that rush to get the free flying cars become too dangerous and the gifts must be guarded by the military for the public’s safety. Next the Visitors create houses, all identical and a little too perfect. The sight of a shadow moving inside of one of these houses tells us that the Visitors have even replicated humans, and our protagonists have no idea what to make of this development.

As the story nears its end, it becomes clear to the reader that no end is in sight. One of the characters even admits as much, lamenting that their story won’t have a neat Hollywood ending to tie up the loose ends. At the final page, the story ends with some abruptness while our characters watch the situation grow beyond their comprehension and control.

The purpose of this story remained elusive for me until, near the end, one of the characters mentioned a piece of plot from the beginning of the book, something I had forgotten: before the visitors landed, one of our protagonists, a reporter, was on her way to investigate a situation on a Native American reserve. The puzzle began to take shape.

Flipping back, I remembered that the story began with a conversation at the barber’s about Native Americans trying to preserve forest land that companies wanted to use for lumber. Our protagonist thinks the trees should be left alone, at least for the pleasure of looking at them, while his barber thinks it’s unfair for the Native Americans to keep industry from growing. (It’s a brave man who disagrees with his barber.)

As we watch the DAPL fight unfold once again, I find Simak’s book useful. The Visitors may not have a simple, explicit point, but it does give the reader some small insight into the point of view of modern Native Americans. No matter what Simak’s aliens do to smooth things over, they can’t undo the damage done, even if they never meant any harm. Though we think of them as visitors, and even while they come bearing gifts, it becomes clear that these strange beings from the sky can’t help but be invaders.

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Relax and Unwind with A. K. Klemm’s Lily Hollow Novellas

andiA. K. Klemm’s Bookshop Hotel series will make you nostalgic for small-town America where everyone knows everyone’s business and nothing ever changes. This pair of novellas takes us to Lily Hollow, where our protagonist, AJ, opens up a bookstore that doubles as a hotel. Quirky townfolk invade the narrative, and AJ is always up to her short chin in local drama.

Both books reminded me of shows like Doc Martin or Northern Exposure, where friendly, colorful locals flood each scene with their idiosyncrasies. There’s a cranky woman running a book club who becomes obsessed with hats. An out-of-place teenager who hangs out with old people. Couples finding love well into their golden years. All of it wrapped up in charming dialog, similar to something out of Jojo Moyes.

While the setting is warm and wistful, the stories don’t lack for drama and conflict. What do you do when an estranged family member screws up your plans and moves in without asking? Or when a letter arrives on your doorstep from a lawyer who threatens to turn off your livelihood? How do you help the diner owner who suddenly can’t remember to turn on the ovens?

Klemm’s love for reading is evident throughout, as these stories are essentially love letters to her fellow bibliophiles. And what book-lover doesn’t enjoy a charming novella?

Readers can enjoy the debut, The Bookshop Hotel, and its sequel, Lily Hollow. A. K. Klemm promises that more Lily Hollow stories are on the horizon.

Tom Servo’s Best Musical Moments

The time his music was so good it was hilarious.

The time we learned that Kevin Murphy isn’t just sort of talented, he’s really talented. It’s a silly song, of course, but you have to be impressed that Murphy could record himself over and over until he’d layered his own voice into these complex and effective harmonies.

The time he was asked to write his own theme song:

The time he tried his best to heal the rift between the United States and Canada. A noble effort.

The time he honored the 70s. Literally.

This one feature the whole crew, but it’s my favorite MST3K song. (And I always think it should be the theme song to Game of Thrones.)

Thanks for the music, Mr. Murphy.