Love all ghost-busting, from 1889 until now.

Tonight was a night to celebrate ghost-busting here in Sherlock Peoria.

There's nothing better than seeing knowledge triumph over fear, whether it be Sherlock Holmes exposing a demon as a painted domestic animal or Scooby and the gang pulling the rubber mask off old man Whomever . . . or, yes, even wacky, cartoonish scientists blasting paranormal entities with rayguns. Just because the ghosts in the latter seem to be more real than those in the first two examples doesn't mean that our very real science can't ramp up to deal with them.

"The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply," Sherlock Holmes aptly put it back in a November of the Victorian age.  But if the world got bigger, as it often seems to, and ghosts became a part of it, we would, as a species, most spectacularly verb-science the crap out of them.

It's what Sherlock Holmes did. It's what we do. Mysteries only stand when we purposefully let them stand. If those silly ghost hunter shows ever found a demonstrable, repeatable spirit from beyond the grave, their talentless meandering stars would be instantly replaced with our finest minds, champing at their techno-bits and ready to tear into the phenomenon until no mystery remained.

And on we would go.

There will always be mysteries. Always something just beyond our grasp.

But our spirit will always keep us reaching for that something, our minds trying to work out what exactly it is before our hands even get there.

That's why I love Sherlock Holmes, and it's why I love a good (albeit silly . . . I mean, ghosts . . . c'mon . . .) Ghostbuster movie.

And tonight, I got one. Nice.