THE CODE OF THE WARRENS

by James Lincoln Warren

Since my installation a week ago last Saturday as Master of my Masonic lodge (I’m the fat gray-haired beamish eminence seated in the center), I have found myself more occupied than a ping-pong player in a contest with the goddess Kali of the eight arms. Luckily, I’ve been able to hit all my deadlines so far, including today, but I will be very glad when things settle down a little.

Although taking on this office was “of my own free will and accord,” as we Masons like to say, by accepting it I have to a large degree surrendered to the vagaries of necessity, and so have little or no choice but to get things done as each task comes due. To do otherwise would be to abrogate my responsibilities to the brothers who voted me in, and who have every expectation that I will govern the lodge properly and to the best of my ability. Choosing to violate a trust is no choice at all.

Reflecting on this made me think of my responsibilities as a writer to the Gentle Reader. I think most of these are simply stated.

• I promise to do everything I can not to waste the reader’s time. A professional writer expects money for his efforts. Although it may seem that he’s being rewarded for his efforts in producing a work, an artifact comprising words if you will, in my opinion what he is really being paid for is the time that reading his work takes from the lives of his audience. I get paid by the word, not for the labor required to turn an idea into a story, nor for any eloquence in telling the story. The effort and wordsmithy must be of a high enough order to convince an editor to cut a check, true, but what that editor really wants is for the reader to keep reading once he starts, in other words, for the reader to believe that perusing the magazine or anthology is the best use of his time at that moment. Time is the one thing that once taken away, can never be returned.
• I promise that I will never phone it in. Some series have legions of fans who seem to want the same thing over and over again. I’ve written before that I think that writing fiction is a balancing act between convention and invention, but sometimes it seems that convention without invention can commercially carry the day. The readers who love their never-changing series do not feel they are wasting their time, but any writer with any conscience at all should try to give his readers more than they expect. This is why John, for example, says he doesn’t believe that one should write for a specific market, because that leads to formulaic writing.
• I promise never to bite off more than the reader can chew. Writers are notorious for falling in love with their own work and being immune to the best critical advice, and I am no exception. But I try to be. Just because I love some exotic dish is not a good reason to serve it to everybody else. I touched on this topic in a column a few years ago, which the Gentle Reader may find here. Likewise, just because a writer has spent a lot of time uncovering arcane information that he finds fascinating is no reason to get didactic. Nobody likes to be preached at unless they are expecting a sermon. Readers of detective fiction rarely expect sermons.
• I promise never to violate my own standards for the sake of expedience. While I firmly believe that writing is much more about the reader than it is about the byline, and that a prudential sense of compromise is essential to any social endeavor (and there is nothing more social than communicating), there are some things, to quote Churchill, “up with which I will not put.” In the end, my name does go below the title, and what follows willy-nilly informs the reader something about me personally. Just as I owe it to the reader not to waste his time, I owe it to myself to present as clear an indication of who I am and what I stand for as I can in my work.
• I promise not to stretch the reader’s credibility beyond the breaking point. If I’m writing a fantasy, it goes without saying that I am going to introduce elements that are clearly contrary to fact, that go beyond the simple “what if . . . ” premise common to all fiction. This is what Coleridge meant when he coined the phrase, “willing suspension of disbelief.” But if internal consistency is violated, that is a major crime on the part of the writer. For example, I read a famous fantasy novel not too long ago wherein the protagonist possessed certain magical powers; one of them included having access to money whenever he wished for it. In the book’s immediate sequel, though, that same character seems to have lost that particular skill and needs to collect diamonds in a remote land to pay for his plans. That bugged me. It was sloppy. Likewise, I’ll bet I was not the only one rolling my eyes when Rambo jumped out of a body of water onto a hovering helicopter in the second film of that series. Have you ever tried to jump from underwater onto anything?

That will do for now, since I think I said something about not wasting your time. It might be instructive, though, to hear from you so you can tell me what you think a writer’s responsibilities are.

PARAPROSDOKIA

by Leigh Lundin

I credit my friend Sharon with rescuing today’s column. While I edited another friend’s novella, I was debating a couple of dour topics when an eMail popped up with a circulated list of ‘paraprosdokians’.

What?

paraprosdokian

A figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe or reinterpret the first part, frequently used for humorous or dramatic effect, sometimes producing an anticlimax.

Motherlode

Ah, I see. Groucho Marx made a living from wry paraprosdokia and Dorothy Parker was no slouch, e.g,

"Men do make passes at girls who wear glasses… it depends on their frames."

The best of these paraprosdokian thingies come from a handful of famous people:

"He was at his best when the going was good."
— Alistair Cooke on the Duke of Windsor

"There but for the grace of God– goes God."
— Winston Churchill

"If I am reading this graph correctly– I’d be very surprised."
— Stephen Colbert

"You can always count on the Americans to do the right thing– after they have tried everything else."
— Winston Churchill

"If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised."
—  Dorothy Parker

"I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it."
— Groucho Marx

"A modest man, who has much to be modest about."
— Winston Churchill

"She looks as though she’s been poured into her clothes, and forgot to say ‘when’."
— P. G. Wodehouse

"I like going to the park and watching the children run around because they don’t know I’m using blanks."
— Emo Phillips

"I haven’t slept for two weeks, because that would be too long."
— Mitch Hedberg

"I sleep eight hours a day and at least ten at night."
— Bill Hicks

Wikipedia attributes a good line to The Simpsons:

"If I could say a few words, I’d be a better public speaker."
— Homer Simpson

Load of Bull?

Researching the word brought me to a glossary put forth by the late Professor Ross Scaife of the University of Kentucky, Lexington, who credits Ernest Ament of Wayne State University. Finding a scholarly footing was almost the end of my research, but something about the word troubled me. I slouched through two years of Latin and don’t have enough Greek to fill a retsina amphora, but the word didn’t look like a noun. I turned to Google and …

I found William Gordon ‘Bill’ Casselman who appears to be the Larry Flynt of classical academic publishing: Scholars pretend to be offended by his colourful naked criticism but they can’t help peeking between their fingers. And, he’s almost certainly right, even if he laces his reasoning with personal (or antipersonnel) zingers and scatological descriptions. Also, like Larry Flynt, he heartfeltly digresses into social issues, asbestosis in particular. All in all, probably a guy we’d like.

Among his many books is Canadian Words which, I might indignantly mention, fails to credit my own Can-Am Dictionary. He also writes in English. I started reading his current book, which is witty and fun, the unhyphenatedly titled Where a Dobdob Meets a Dikdik, found in desperate bookstores everywhere.

I give Bill Casselman air time, not because he’s smart, well-read, and funny (he is), but because he reinforced my brilliantly ill-considered opinion that paraprosdokian doesn’t look like a noun, proper or improper. Omitting his language flourishes that might get us sued or rebuked by the Right Reverend Pontifician Wright, Mr. Casselman says:

The word (paraprosdokian) appears NOWHERE in ancient Greek literature. It could NEVER be an ancient Greek word with its Late Latin adjectival ending –ian! Nearly every standard term in classical rhetoric, Latin or Greek, takes the form of a noun. But this one, we are asked to believe, is not only adjectival in form, it consists of three Greek roots and then suddenly a Latin adjectival ending appears in a word describing process. By the way, that demands a noun. …

The word is unknown to ancient Greek or Latin rhetoric. It is unlisted in any dictionary of Medieval Greek or Medieval Latin. It is unmentioned in any early English glossary of rhetoric. It is unknown in the 17^th, 18^th, and 19^th centuries. It has never been listed in any edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. …

Certainly, there are sentences and phrases with surprise endings. Educated people call these: "sentences with surprise endings."

Cool. Stand-up comics call the technique "and then I got off the bus".

Unload

Now let’s have fun. Here are examples in circulation, some that you’ve heard and some new:

I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn’t work that way. So I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness.

My father said, "I’ll miss you, son," because I’d broken the sights off his rifle.

If I agreed with you, we’d both be wrong.

We never really grow up, we only learn how to act in public.

War does not determine who is right, only who is left.

The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

Whenever I fill out an application, in the part that says, "If an emergency, notify:" I put "Doctor".

I didn’t say it was your fault. I said I was blaming you.

Why do Americans choose from just two people to run for President and fifty for Miss America?

Behind every successful man is his woman. Behind the fall of a successful man is usually another woman.

A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.

You do not need a parachute to skydive. You only need a parachute to skydive twice.

The voices in my head may not be real, but they have good ideas.

Some people hear voices. Some see invisible people. Others have no imagination whatsoever.

Always borrow money from a pessimist. He won’t expect it back.

Hospitality is making your guests feel like they’re at home, even if you wish they were.

I used to be indecisive. Now I’m not sure.

Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.

When tempted to fight fire with fire, remember the fire department usually uses water.

You’re never too old to learn something stupid.

To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and name whatever you hit the target.

Sometimes I wonder why that frisbee keeps getting bigger. Then it hits me.

I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather, not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car.

A bus is a vehicle that runs twice as fast when you are after it as when you are in it.

Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

If you are supposed to learn from your mistakes, why do some people have more than one child?

Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.

Some cause happiness wherever they go. Others, whenever they go.

I saw a woman wearing a sweat shirt with "Guess" on it, so I said, "36C?"

Finally, my own contribution: At the MWA banquet I attended, I was charmed by the feminine pulchritude and considerable expanse of skin.

I passed a woman who wore a badge upon her impressive bosom that said JUDGE, and I figured "8.9".

Wikipedia now has an entry titled ‘paraprosdokian‘. While Wikipedia claims to merely report, it also shapes, and I have little doubt the word is here to stay. A scholar should take the bull by the horns, drop the adjectival ending, and wrestle paraprosdokia into submission. After all,

To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.

Reload

After laboring over this article, I discovered our colleague at Murderati, Zoë Sharp, not only wrote an article last month about paraprosdokia and T-shirts, but also offered examples of semantic zeugmas, AKA syllepses. Read on!

NOBODY DOES IT BETTER

by John M. Floyd

A few months ago I did a column about the James Bond phenomenon, and mostly about Bond movies. I’m not sure how pertinent it was to our crime/suspense short-story theme (although a few of the films were loosely adapted from Fleming’s short stories), but I am sure that I had fun doing the research. What other excuse could I have used to dig out all my old Bond books and tapes and DVDs?

The Me Who Loves Spies

With that in mind, I have put together a probably-too-long list of my personal opinions regarding Bond movies, novels, and shorts. JLW and I have wasted time with (sorry, I mean “discussed”) this stuff at length in the past, and I hope you’ll let me know your own feelings on the subject. It’s been reported that approximately two billion people have seen at least one Bond film, and who knows how many have read the novels and stories. Like him or hate him, 007 won’t soon be forgotten.

Here, then, is my take on the best and worst of good old JB’s adventures on the screen and on paper:

NOTE: Remember, these are opinions. “Best” means “my favorite” and “worst” means “my least favorite” — and that’s all they mean. Your mileage will vary.

Best movie: Goldfinger

Worst movie: A View to a Kill

Best plot (movie): From Russia With Love

Worst plot (movie): Moonraker

Best novel: On Her Majesty’s Secret Service

Worst novel: The Man With the Golden Gun

Best short story: “For Your Eyes Only”

Worst short story: “The Property of a Lady”

Best Bond actor: Sean Connery

Worst Bond actor: Roger Moore

Best Bond girl: Tracy di Vicenzo (Diana Rigg), On Her Majesty’s Secret Service

Worst Bond girl: Dr. Christmas Jones (Denise Richards), The World Is Not Enough

Best stunt: Skiing off a cliff, The Spy Who Loved Me

Worst stunt: The flying and rotating-in-midair speedboat, Live and Let Die

Best opening credits: Goldfinger

Worst opening credits: Licence to Kill

Best pre-credits (teaser) sequence: Heroin plant explosion and “positively shocking” fight scene, Goldfinger

Worst pre-credits (teaser) sequence: Snowboard-to-submarine escape, A View to a Kill

Best gadget: Briefcase, From Russia With Love

Worst gadget: Invisible car, Die Another Day

Best villain: Auric Goldfinger (Gert Frobe)

Worst villain: Elliot Carver (Jonathan Pryce), Tomorrow Never Dies

Best ally: Karim Bey (Pedro Armendariz), From Russia With Love

Worst ally: Nigel Small-Fawcett (Rowan Atkinson), Never Say Never Again

Best henchman: Oddjob (Harold Sakata), Goldfinger

Worst henchman: Nick Nack (Herve Villechaize), The Man With the Golden Gun

Best Blofeld: Anthony Dawson (face unseen), From Russia With Love and Thunderball

Worst Blofeld: Telly Savalas, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service

Best M: Bernard Lee, 11 Bond films

Worst M: Edward Fox, Never Say Never Again

Best Bond outfit: Vested gray suit, Goldfinger

Worst Bond outfit: Clown costume, Octopussy

Best villain/henchman death: Oddjob’s electrocution, Goldfinger

Worst villain/henchman death: Mr. Big (Yaphet Kotto), who blew up like a balloon and then popped, Live and Let Die

Prettiest movie (scenery): The Man With the Golden Gun

Ugliest movie (scenery): Licence to Kill

Best fight scene: Bond vs. Red Grant on the train, From Russia With Love

Worst fight scene: Bond vs. Blofeld in the mud bath, Diamonds Are Forever

Best battle: The attack on Fort Knox, Goldfinger

Worst battle: Underwater hand-to-hand-combat fiasco, Thunderball

Best quote: “No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die,” Goldfinger

Worst quote: TIE: “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” From Russia With Love; and “I think he got the point” (after spear-gunning a bad guy), Thunderball

Best chase sequence: Ski escape from Piz Gloria, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service

Worst chase sequence: Gondola/speedboat/hovercraft chase in Venice, Moonraker

Best soundtrack: Goldfinger

Worst soundtrack: Never Say Never Again

Best song: “We Have All the Time in the World” (instrumental, John Barry orchestra), On Her Majesty’s Secret Service

Worst song: “The Man With the Golden Gun” (vocal, Lulu)

Not that it matters, but here are my rankings for actors’ portrayals of the Bond character, best to worst: Connery, Brosnan, Craig, Dalton, Lazenby, Moore. (I go back and forth between Craig and Brosnan, and I didn’t count David Niven, from the first Casino Royale.) Oh, and I almost forgot: I think the best non-John-Barry-written songs are Monty Norman’s “James Bond Theme” from Dr. No and Paul McCartney’s Live and Let Die title theme.

From a View to a List

My ranking of all the movies, best to worst, is: Goldfinger, From Russia With Love, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Dr. No, Thunderball, GoldenEye, You Only Live Twice, The Spy Who Loved Me, Diamonds Are Forever, The Living Daylights, Casino Royale (2006), The World Is Not Enough, Quantum of Solace, Tomorrow Never Dies, Licence to Kill, For Your Eyes Only, Never Say Never Again, Die Another Day, The Man With the Golden Gun, Live and Let Die, Octopussy, Mooonraker, and A View to a Kill.

My ranking of the novels, best to worst: On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, From Russia With Love, You Only Live Twice, Dr. No, Live and Let Die, Thunderball, Goldfinger, Casino Royale, Mooonraker, Diamonds Are Forever, The Spy Who Loved Me, and The Man With the Golden Gun.

My ranking of the short stories, best to worst: “For Your Eyes Only,” “The Living Daylights,” “From a View to a Kill,” “Quantum of Solace,” “Risico,” “The Hildebrand Rarity,” “Octopussy,” and “The Property of a Lady.”

For Wise Spies Only

If any of you are interested, the “Two-Disk Ultimate Edition” DVD of Dr. No has some great featurettes about the entire Bond movie franchise, and Deborah Lipp’s The Ultimate James Bond Fan Book (S & R Publishers) is a lot of fun as well. Unlike Q, Ms. Lipp does occasionally joke about her work.

And to those of you who are now thinking I’m a stark raving Bondmaniac . . . well, I find that shocking.

Positively shocking.

AMERICAN RE-HASH

by Steven Steinbock

My son Sam and I were watching something on the Syfy Channel when, a commercial came on:

She’s a ghost.
“Not all vampires are bad.”
You’re a werewolf.
“We’ll have full-moon parties and invite the neighbors over to eat.”
Being Human. A new original series. Premieres Monday, January 17 at Nine, only on Syfy.

The groan on the couch beside me might have come from a lycanthrope. But it was only my son.

“Oh my God. No. They’re not. That’s insane. How can they do that? Is it legal?”

Sam was responding to the fact that Syfy’s “new original series” was an unabashed direct copy of the BBC series Being Human.

Sam was right. It is insane. Or at the very least, unoriginal. But it was perfectly legal. We had enjoyed the original albeit trendy series about three twenty-something housemates trying to live a normal existence despite the fact that one of them was one was a vampire, one was a werewolf, and one of them was dead. Sure, the bad-boy good-looks of Aidan Turner – as an unshaven leather-clad vampire – was poured on a little thick. Who wears fingerless gloves, anyway? But I could live with it. The show, in its own way, was original.

So why had an American (actually Canadian) production company lifted the title, premise, and characters directly from Bristol – and moved them to Boston?

I don’t know. I don’t intend to watch it and find out.

North American airwaves (or cable-lines, as it were) are loaded with similar stories. Here are a few examples of American programs that were ripped, wholesale, from British programmes, often leaving the title unchanged:

“The Office”
“Whose Line is it Anyway?”
“America’s Got Talent”
“American Idol”
“American Gladiators”
“Cracker”
“Queer as Folk”
“What Not to Wear”
“Trading Spaces”
“Junkyard Wars”

There are even a few classic American shows that many American viewers would be surprised to learn are adaptations of UK shows:

“Three’s Company” (based on “Man about the House”)
“Sanford and Son” (based on “Steptoe and Son”)
“All in the Family” (based on “Till Death Do Us Part”)

I was surprised to learn that there have been three attempts to adapt “Fawlty Towers” for American viewers, but I’ve never heard of any of them.

In defense of American producers, I watched both the UK and the US versions of the time-slipped cop show “Life on Mars” and enjoyed them both. I found the actors and the general production of the BBC version superior (even though the ABC series featured Harvey Keitel and Michael Imperioli). But where the American version shined was with the clever wrapup. Where the BBC series left me feeling cheated with an unsatisfying and unresolved conclusion, the US rewrite transformed it into something that I found altogether new and surprising.

THE CASE OF THE RUNAWAY COLUMN

This is true:

I set out to write today’s column about the origin of corned beef hash. I planned to reveal what it is that makes corned beef “corned,” and how hash has two very different meanings in English, derived from two different words: one French and the other Arabic.

Ah well.

For a fun and fascinating book about American food, have a look at The Food of a Younger Land compiled by Mark Kurlansky (author of Cod, Salt, and his new Edible Tales). The book is a collection of essays about regional foods commissioned by FDR’s Works Progress Administration (WPA) during the Great Depression. Among the authors are Eudora Welty and Zora Neale Hurston. (Slate Magazine did a review of it two summers ago).

A FEW MORE COMMENTS ABOUT FOOD AND ENTERTAINMENT

Anyone remember Kellogg’s Sugar Pops, those sugar-coated puffy pellets of corn flour and more sugar? They’re still around, but in their wisdom and thoughtfulness for the breakfast-eating public, they changed their name back in the 1980s to Corn Pops. It was decided that the word “Sugar” might be taken the wrong way and could offend certain segments of their consumers.

And speaking of “pop,” you are all probably aware of Kellogg’s Pop-Tarts, those tasty toaster pastries of questionable nutritional value. I’m not proud, but I like them. My favorite flavor was always Brown-Sugar Cinnamon. I like cinnamon, and will find any excuse to eat something made with it. They were introduced to the American supermarket shopper in 1964 with four non-frosted flavors. Today, in addition to all the non-nutritive stuff they put inside it, nearly all Pop-Tarts are covered with a thick glaze of candy. (They use the word “frosted” but we all know what it’s made of. How’s that for sugar-coating?). According to their website, they still produce a number of un-frosted flavors, but I can’t find any unfrosted Brown-Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts in any of my local supermarkets.

I wonder if this says more about the American consumer (I can’t speak for the grocery habits of our overseas readers) or about the perception (or presumption) by those who govern the marketplace about what they think is best for us, the consumers.

Example: Last spring I read Beautiful Malice by Rebecca James. This book by an Australian author was getting a lot of press at the time. (Here’s the Wall Street Journal coverage). It was a well-written thriller about a teenager whose new best friend turns out to be dangerous. Bantam Books bought the rights to public this book and a second title by James to the tune of $600,000. That can buy a lot of Pop-Tarts.

What dismayed me was how the editors at Bantam, for whatever absurd reason, decided to rip all cultural and regional references out of the book, sugar-coating the language and otherwise dumbing it down, before releasing it to American readers. I felt like I was reading the book through a filter that had flattened every character and every piece of dialogue.

I immediately knew something was wrong with the book. I got hold of an Australian copy and began comparing sections. Sure enough, the slang, the locations, the references to alcohol were all changed or removed. They even replaced the word flat with apartment.

I felt sorry for Rebecca James that her artistic work had suffered such malice. But at $600,000 I didn’t feel too sorry.

MOTIVES

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

For a mystery writer, one of the basic elements of the story is why the crime takes place at all. What drives someone to do some dastardly deed that may lead at best to a stint in a jail cell? What is worth taking someone’s life, cash, or car? Why does someone jeopardize their good standing with the community by pilfering a neighbor’s lawn decoration as a prank?

Many jokesters don’t realize their fun and games could lead to a misdemeanor, possibly a fine or community service, and hard feelings with the victim. However, most crime stories that make it to publication don’t devote themselves to such minor misdeeds. One that did time and again was the stories of Nick Velvet, protagonist of Edward D. Hoch. Velvet stole only things of insignificant value, but he was still a thief. His escapades were entertaining not just in how he stole the items, but why the person paying his fee thought they were valuable enough to steal. Velvet made Hoch a visionary and Hoch made Velvet appealing to an ever- growing readership.

Remember the guys who laughed at their neighbors who placed plastic ducks in their front yard, then stole one of them and took pictures of the duck in differing vacation spots? The photos were mailed to the neighbors who had no idea who was playing such a prank on them. One day, the duck magically appeared in his spot on the front lawn again. As far as I know, no one confessed to the “crime” of stealing the lawn decoration. No “ransom” was demanded. The duck finally returned home. I suppose the neighbors also laughed at the prank in the end. But what if there had been something valuable inside the duck? Even if it was only valuable to the owners and they were the only ones who knew what was inside the duck? Would this story be even more fun and a lot more mysterious?

I think I may write that story. My motive? The answer to that lies somewhere between being a storyteller and having fun.

BOOK DROP

by Rob Lopresti

So, a while back my family went to a music camp. Picture almost two hundred people spending a long cold winter weekend in a kid’s summer camp, playing old time music, dancing, and trying to stay warm.

The main building is a long hall with twenty dining tables at one end, a dance floor on the other and, in the middle, a fireplace with several comfy couches. Most of the time the couches were filled with people who didn’t feel like playing or dancing at the moment, and at any given time most of those people were reading.

Regular readers of this space may think I’m about to repeat the gist of this piece, where I reported on all the books I saw on a cross-country plane fight. Sorry, that’s not where we’re going today.

But I will tell you that I was reading Agents of Treachery, the collection of new spy stories edited by Otto Penzler, and my wife was reading The Wind-up Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi, a recent Hugo and Nebula Winner for Best Science Fiction Novel..

One evening the couches were too crowded so we were sitting at one of the tables reading. Eventually we got up and went to play music somewhere else. When we came back an hour later our books were gone.

Now, we didn’t imagine that they had been stolen. It wasn’t that sort of crowd. But with the assorted affluvia of 200 people floating around, things could disappear for a while, and we wanted them back. (Especially my wife who was deep in the mood of I-want-it-to-last-forever-but-I-need-to-know-how-it-ends-right-now that accompanies a great book.)

So we went searching.

I found mine first. A woman at a different table explained that she had seen Lee Child’s name on the cover and just had to read his story. We agreed that it was a pretty good one.

My wife found her book at the other end of the hall. The man who had taken it explained that after reading the first two pages he had purchased it. Went on Amazon and downloaded it to his iPad. My wife pointed out that he could have instead downloaded it through his local bookstore. Apparently that option didn’t interest him.

Later we were discussing these events and my daughter, who had been playing fiddle in the dance band through the whole incident, suggested that a lot of people at the camp leave stuff around for people to use – food, games, etc. – so perhaps it wasn’t surprising that people had walked off with our books.

“I don’t mind them borrowing them,” said my wife, “but I wish they had put them back where they found them.”

“They probably didn’t remember which table they books had been lying on,” I said.

But it still bugged me. Can you tell?

Answers, please

Here are the first half of the quotes from last week with the movie titles attached.

1. –You hear that Gina, your Mama wants Grandchildren!
      –You’re a crook. Steal her some! –Aldo Vanucci (Peter Sellers) Gina Vanucci (Britt Ekland) After The Fox

2. Insanity runs in my family . . . It practically gallops. –Mortimer Brester (Cary Grant)Arsenic and Old Lace.

3. –I’m not afraid o’ you, Marty.
      –Well, ma’am, if I see him, I’ll sure give him the message. Abby (Frances McDormand) / Visser (M. Emmett Walsh)Blood Simple

4. –What would you do if some miracle happened and we could walk out of here tomorrow morning and start all over again clean? No record and nobody after us, huh?
      –Well, uh, I guess I’d do it all different. First off, I wouldn’t live in the same state where we pull our jobs. We’d live in another state. We’d stay clean there and then when we’d take a bank, we’d go into the other state. – Bonnie Parker (Faye Dunaway) / Clyde Barrow (Warren Beatty) Bonnie and Clyde

5. One might propose that I am either insanely brave or quite insane. I’d answer neither. I’d say, insanely loyal. Take your pick. There’s insanity in all the answers. – Robert Hansson (Chris Cooper) Breach

6. Report back to me when it makes sense.– CIA Superior (J.K. Simmons) Burn After Reading

7. –Are you alone?
       –Isn’t everybody? – Ida Sessions (Diane Ladd) / Jake Gittes (Jack Nicholson) Chinatown

8. Six hours he’s riding the subway before anybody notices his corpse doing laps around L.A., people on and off sitting next to him. Nobody notices. –Vincent (Tom Cruise)Collateral

9. –Asian Dawn?
      –I read about them in Time magazine. –Karl (Alexander Godunov) /Hans (Alan Rickman) Die Hard

10. –I think you’re a very stupid person. You look stupid, you’re in a stupid business, and you’re on a stupid case.
      –I get it. I’m stupid. Frances Amthor (Kate Murtagh) / Philip Marlowe (Robert Mitchum) Farewell My Lovely

11. Oh for Pete’s sake, he’s fleeing the interview! He’s fleeing the interview! –Madge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) Fargo

12. Now let me correct you on a couple of things, OK? Aristotle was not Belgian. The central message of Buddhism is not “Every man for himself.” And the London Underground is not a political movement. Those are all mistakes, Otto. I looked them up. –Wanda (Jamie Lee Curtis) A Fish Called Wanda

13. –We have a good life, right?
       –Is that a trick question? – Angie Gennaro (Michelle Monaghan) / Patrick Kenzie (Casey Affleck) GoneBaby Gone.

14. One question. Do you want to stick to that story, or do you want to keep your teeth? –Bobo Justus (Pat Hingle) The Grifters

15. Thank you, sir. May I have another? –Mike (Joe Montagna) House of Games

16. I grew up in Dublin. I love Dublin. If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me but I didn’t, so it doesn’t. – Ray, (Colin Farrell) In Bruges

17. Serpentine, Shelly. Serpentine! – Vince Ricardo (Peter Falk). The In–Laws

18. I got the motive which is money and the body which is dead. – Chief Gillespie (Rod Steiger) In the Heat Of The Night

19. I confess my innocence! –The police chief (Gian Maria Volontè) Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion

20. –She opens the door, and she got nothing on but the radio. Yeah, invites me to sit down,sits on my lap, fires up a spliff.
      –Geez. Really?
      –No. Idiot. –Perr (Val Kilmer)/ Harry (Robert Downey Jr.) Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

21. Boy, it’s really lucky for you that I just happen to be a very self–destructive person. –Margo Sperling (Lily Tomlin) The Late Show

22. –Shotguns? What, like guns that fire shot?
      –Oh, you must be the brains of the operation. –Gary (Victor McGuire) / Barry The Baptist (Lenny McLean) Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels

23. –Long story short
      –I think we’re well past that point.
      –I bet it was that mouth that got you that nose.–The Boss (Morgan Freeman) / Slevin (Josh Hartnett) Lucky Number Slevin

24. You don’t crucify people! Not on Good Friday! –Bob Hoskins The Long Good Friday

25. A crippled newsie took ’em away from him. I made him give ’em back. –Sam Spade, (Humphrey Bogart) The Maltese Falcon.

HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I am often asked if being an actress has informed my writing, especially with the Diana Poole series. The answer is yes, but not in the way one may think. Here is an example.

A PR man for Universal Studios (I have long forgotten his name so I’ll call him Mr. PR) asked me to meet him in wardrobe one morning. When I arrived I found an array of tight fitting mini-dresses hanging on a clothes rack in the dressing room. It wasn’t so surprising except each dress had a matching cane. The wood handles were painted white as were the tips. The middle sections of the stick were covered in pink suede, or yellow tweed or blue satin depending on the dress I would wear.

Mr. PR, blond and baby-faced, wore a gray suit and looked to me like an up and coming insurance sale man. He stood next to the clothing rack with pride glowing on his chubby cheeks.

“We’re going to have lunch with James Barron at the Brown Derby at noon.”

At the time, Barron was a major syndicated columnist for Daily Variety and had big clout in Hollywood.

Mr. PR continued, “You’ll wear the pink outfit.”

“What’s the cane for?” I asked, suspiciously.

“It’s not a cane.” He snapped with derision. “It’s a walking stick.” I knew the look on his face well. He was dealing with another recalcitrant dumb blonde.

“And I’m going to carry it?”

“Yes. But you don’t carry it. You stroll with it. You lean on it in a sexy way.”

He left the dressing room and the fitter pinned me tightly into the dress, then took it to be sewed.

As the dress was being tailored for me, Mr. PR explained his great idea.

“Melodie, now listen to this carefully. Here’s the story you tell Barron. Because you are so beautiful and sexy you were constantly stalked by men. One night a man attacked you but luckily you had an umbrella and you were able to fight him off with it. Ever since that horrible event you have carried a walking stick.”

“Why?”

“To fight men off.”

I gaped at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Melodie, this has come down from the higher ups. They’ve spent a lot of money on these clothes and walking sticks.”

After he left me to put the refitted dressed back on, I made a phone call to one of “the higher ups.” The gist of the conversation was, “You’re under contract. Just do it, Melodie. You’ll get space in Baron’s column, your name will be spread around the country and the cane story will soon be long forgotten.” I was also reminded that I had refused to play a Turkish belly dancer and a few other things I wouldn’t agree to, then he hung up.

I stared into the three-way mirror. A sexy young blonde in white Courage boots, short little tea cozy of a dress, who was so beautiful she had to fight men off with a cane. First I wanted to laugh them I felt completely shattered. The “suits” didn’t know what do with me. But did I?

In the parking lot of the Brown Derby, Mr. PR handed me my cane and we began to walk to the entrance. It was a hot summer day and my tight knit dress felt like a wool scarf wrapped around me.

“Melodie,” he growled.

I stopped and looked at him. “What?” I snapped.

“You’re limping.”

“I am?”

“Yes,” he hissed.

“It’s the cane. It makes me want to limp.”

“Well stop it. It’s not a good look.”

We started to walk again. “You’re still limping,” he snarled.

“I can’t help it. “ I began laugh. “It seems like a natural thing to do with a cane.”

“This isn’t funny. And it’s not a cane. It’s a walking stick.”

”What if Barron doesn’t ask me why I’m carrying this thing?” I shook it at him.

“He will. And if he doesn’t, you’ll bring it up.” He opened the restaurant door and we tumbled in, angry and hot.

We were escorted to Barron’s corner table. Trying not to limp, I trailed the cane behind me as if I were dragging a rake. As we were seated, Barron, who looked to be on this third martini, eyed the cane and me with bloodshot jaded disdain, and I felt it deep in the pit of my stomach. A faded lecherous grin formed on his lips as he watched me trying to figure out what to do with the damn thing. I decided to rest my hand on its handle, but the floor was slick and the cane slid out from under my loose grip, clattering onto the floor.

Mr. PR picked it up for me.” Your walking stick, Melodie.” He spoke too loudly and stiffly like an actor with stage fright.

Baron said nothing. Flushing and embarrassed, I turned around and hung it on the back of my chair. Barron beckoned the waiter. As we ordered, the cane fell off the back of my chair. Barron sipped his martini, wryly observing me. The waiter picked the cane up and graciously asked if he could take it for me. I graciously replied that he could. Mr. PR started to yell “No!” but got hold of himself just in time.

As I sipped white wine and ate a Cobb salad, Mr. PR told Barron about my upcoming show on Bob Hope’s Chrysler Theater called “Kicks.” He listened, in a stewed daze of amusement, and asked me a few vague questions about the show, which I answered. Soon I began to feel a foot under the table jabbing mine. It was Mr. PR man signaling me to bring up the subject of the walking stick. I didn’t. Nor did Barron.

The lunch over, the waiter returned with my matching cane. I laid it across my lap and said nothing.

Barron, sipping the last of his coffee, finally asked me, “Are you going to tell me about that?”

“What?” I asked innocently

“The cane.” He sighed and his rubbed his red face.

“Walking stick,” Mr. PR blurted.

“No.” I said.

Barron suddenly came alive, and looked at Mr. PR as if he’d been double-crossed. And I realized that he had to have his hook. He had to play the game he had so much disdain for. He could show all the contempt for me he wanted, but he still needed his phony story. So Mr. PR told him about me, the walking stick wielding beauty, and we left.

In a week the story began to pop up in newspapers across the country. Mr. PR would send me copies, proud of his work. I loathed it. I loathed Barron. I loathed myself for being involved in it. My cynicism was set in cement.

Later, when I was writing my first novel, the main character, genius detective Claire Conrad, appeared using a walking stick. And she didn’t limp. It was as she said, “an affectation I can’t do without.”

And Diana Poole, the actress in my short stories? The cynicism that formed me forms her giving her a darker depth.