New Tent Joke Three: The Revenge

 Soooo . . .

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson went camping, late June in 1897, to get away from the Queen's Diamond Jubilee.

They had found a spot not far from the quaint little hamlet of Crockershire, and after their first week had become friendly with the locals, stopping in at the local inn for the occasional meal when they felt like something besides the trout they had caught. Holmes even spent one afternoon solving a little mystery for the local baker, a German named Kratzbergen, which Watson laughingly called "The Adventure of the Gingerbread Boy." All of the locals found that the height of comedy, and you would have too, had you been there.

One evening, after returning from a long hike, Sherlock Holmes dropped into a camp chair, sighed, and looked up at the stars.

"Is it Christmas, Watson?" he asked his friend.

"It should probably be Christmas in Ballarat," Watson replied thoughtfully, "Australia being on the opposite side of the globe with the reverse of our current climate. I mean, December 25th was only picked as the date by Constantine the Great in 336 A.D., so there's no reason Australia could not have their own date for it in their winter. Several countries have their own Independence Day, and our North American friends celebrate Thanksgiving on two different days more than a month apart. It seems only natural that someone should celebrate Christmas in June. Personally, I've always enjoyed both our birthdays being in June so we can celebrate them in warm weather,* so the change would probably be refreshing for so many people. But why do you ask, Holmes?"

"Do you remember that German baker that I was of assistance to, who wanted to reward us?"

"Yes, he was quite delighted with our help."

"Once again, you fail to notice a significant detail, much like our previous camping trip."

Sherlock Holmes stood up, revealing a crushed pastry on the camp stool where he had just been sitting.

"I was wondering if it was Christmas, Watson," Holmes sighed, "because someone has stollen our taint!"

***************************

At this point, Yakety Sax probably has to start playing as Watson chases Holmes around the campsite, but you can't really do that in prose. Also can't believe I made it to a third try before finishing with a pun. The other two might have been set-up for this one.

* Watson's opinion does not reflect that of the staff or management of Sherlock Peoria, unless you've actually heard us say that at some point, in which case, yes, it does.

Who got it worse? Mary versus Irene.

The subject of Mary Morstan came up the other night.

Mary's role in the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson has never been an ideal spot. The abuse she's taken at the hands of creators and Sherlock Holmes fans over time is quite notable, from her early place as a chronological problem to her later place as an impediment to a Holmes/Watson love story. Even in the original stories themselves, where Watson must leave her in order to have an adventure with Sherlock Holmes, and in writing that, Conan Doyle relegated her to off-stage status any way he could, so much that we're not even sure she was Watson's only wife.

But, as I thought about Mary Morstan, that other lady in the lives of Sherlock Holmes came up, Irene Adler. Her abuse by Holmes fans took an entirely different direction from Mary's, yet has been pretty immense. Early on, it was all about somehow nullifying her choice of a husband and her marriage just to get her to hook up with Sherlock somehow. Eventually, she became the epitome of Holmes's regrettable statement "Women are never to be entirely trusted," working for Moriarty and even becoming Moriarty.

Both Mary and Irene tend to be killed off more than any other character in the Sherlock Holmes milieu, outside of those who died in the original stories and have deaths that are just re-adapted. There's a fun podcast called Bonanas for Bonanza out there that comedically reviews old episodes of the TV show Bonanza, and the point they constantly make is how women just don't survive coming into the lives of the Cartwright family, and Mary and Irene seem to make a similar statement about our Baker Street boys. It is definitely a trope from an older, more male-dominated time. Romance must die in service of the non-romance story, even if it's a ship placed there by the fans as with Irene.

Both Mary and Irene have had their own novels, and they get to live as main characters if keeping a decent distance from Holmes and Watson. But getting too close . . . well, except for Kelly Reilly's Mary Morstan, who has lived through two movies and might be a bit nervous about a third . . . getting too involved with Holmes or Watson is just not healthy. Watson's probably-Mary wife at the time of "The Man with the Twisted Lip" was compared to a lighthouse that attracted the grieving like birds. Holmes calls Watson a bird, "the stormy petrel of crime," at one point, and one has to wonder if Watson was not still in grief over a previous doomed wife when he was attracted to her as well. Watson's history in fandom is full of doomed wives, of which Mary is the queen.

Irene Adler, on the other hand, is lucky that Sherlock Holmes shows no interest in women ninety-nine percent of the time. (Maud Bellamy lives!) She doesn't have to die for the Holmes/Watson detective agency to charge on at full speed. (Most of the time.) She's still "the late Irene Adler" in a later reference by Watson, almost as if her creator can't help himself but make sure she's not coming back.  

Times have changed, though, and now we're going to get a TV series where Holmes is dead and Watson is going solo, so maybe Mary Morstan will fare better in that show with Sherlock out of the way. Hope springs eternal. And will that show get along for a full seven season run without Irene coming by? It would be nice if she got to have an ongoing life as well. Though if Holmes eventually comes back in CBS's Watson, as he always tends to do when he falls off a waterfall . . .

Well, I hope times really have changed.

Another New Tent Joke

 Okay, once you don't succeed, try, try again . . .

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson decided to go camping. Far from the streets of London, past the well-remembered university town, the detective and the doctor alighted on a small platform in front of an even smaller station. Looking up at the sky, Watson tucked his now-unnecessary umbrella under his arm, and picked up his bag. The two men walked over a mile enjoying the local scenery.

"Here is the spot we shall pitch our tent for the night," Holmes declared, tapping the ground with his walking stick.

"Our tent," Watson said, a statement with hints of doubt in it.

"Yes, our tent," Holmes replied. 

"This is where you're saying we should pitch our tent," Watson questioned, a rare event in their friendship.

"Yes, Watson, this spot has all the qualities of an excellent camp site," Holmes answered flatly.

Watson, however, was not so easily convinced.

"Holmes, I have been with you on many adventures. I have trusted you in the face of danger of every sort -- bullets, poison darts, noxious fumes, Professor Moriarty's entire criminal empire. I have let my medical skills lapse in accompanying you, failed at marriage three times due to participating in this detective business, and broken three bones in an incident you won't even let me put before the public. I have weaned you from your addictions, entertained your delusions and charades both knowingly and unknowingly, and even spent an overnight in the company of that wretched Josiah Amberly at your request."

"Yes," agreed Holmes.

"But you are telling me, that we're going to pitch our tent, here, in the middle of the street, in front of a milliner's shop, in a public thoroughfare?" Watson glared at Holmes with the level of rage that can only come from over twenty years of sharing an apartment.

"Yes," Sherlock Holmes told Watson. "I'm sick of camping. We're staying at that inn across the street. Pitch that tent into that rubbish heap over there, and let's go have supper."

********************

Okay, at least Holmes isn't farting this time.

It occurred to me, as I took a long walk before dusk tonight, that the tent joke is actually the perfect condensed Sherlock Holmes story. The punchline is the classic change of perspective from "Oh, they're sleeping under the stars" to "They were supposed to be in a tent," with that added seasoning of the great criminologist being the victim of a crime. The Hound of the Baskervilles is a demon hound that Holmes changes our perspective to see it's a normal dog at the end. A "Sussex vampire" is shown to be a woman sucking out poison. A strange, meaningless job is a ruse to tunnel out of a basement. 

So I went with a change of perspective that, in the end, was not all that funny. Not really an M. Night Shyamalan twist there, and not really a good joke, either.

And on we go.

A New Tent Joke

 Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson went camping . . . stop me if you've heard this . . .

Sorry, but you haven't, and, really, this is a blog post and I'm just going to keep typing, so settle in.

After a good meal of trout, freshly caught in a nearby river, Sherlock Holmes reached into his well-worn leather knapsack and pulled out a harmonica.

"Have I ever told you about the time my grandfather was of service to the Hohner brothers, Watson?" Sherlock Holmes asked, then immediately put the harmonica in his mouth and started playing a sprightly tune before Watson could answer. Watson, quite taken with the tune -- an old camp favorite from his days in the Northumberland Fusiliers -- began to sing along with full-throated delight.

After the third verse and a complete description of the lady whose virtues the song extolled, Sherlock Holmes stopped playing and cocked his head slightly to one side.

"Do you hear that, Watson?"

Watson stopped and listened.

"It's the song of the woodlands, Holmes. The insects, the night birds, the gentle breezes passing through the trees above. And . . . there! In the distance, a lonely canine bays at the moon in lieu of good company. We must not be too far from a farm. The crackle of our own campfire, making our own ripple on this gentle sea of sound . . . what could be better!"

"To truly perceive one's surroundings, one must let the genius loci enter the quieted mind, and hear what lies inside, waiting to be heard."

Watson relaxed and let his mind go still. His ears attuned to catch some secret nature's view-halloo.

Sherlock Holmes rose slightly from his seat in the fashion of a Spanish caganer, and let trumpet a mighty wind, which carried in Watson's direction, offending his nostrils shortly after the sound had offended his ears.

"I am setting fire to our tent," Dr. Watson announced, and promptly doused it with kerosene and lit it with a glowing ember from the fire.

********************

Okay, I didn't know where that was going when I started, but when it took that audio turn, it had to go Blazing Saddles. Apologies to my more respectable friends for that cheap shot. I shall try again another day. 

The Rise of the Unreal and Sherlock Holmes

 As a few of you might have noticed, I sometimes play around with a podcast called Sherlock Holmes Is Real. The title itself comes from the longstanding game of Sherlock Holmes fandom approaching our favorite detective as if he were a real, historical personage. The rich, detailed original texts from Conan Doyle made this entirely possible, as he portrayed Holmes's era so elaborately. Sherlockians with a bit of whimsy in their soul have enjoyed amusing ourselves with this little game whilst the rest of the world clicked along doing real things and paying real attention to the real efforts of real people.

We used to be the odd ducks, didn't we? Maybe not so odd as the Society for Creative Anachronism, who actually got out there in the dirt and acted like they were in another time, but we held our own in our odd little duck pond. And then we'd go to work at our jobs, spend time with our families, and do all that stuff that needed doing, keeping our little fancy of Sherlock Holmes being a real person for the fun times.

I remember, back in the last century, when someone would say to me (as happened more than once), "If you pretend Watson wrote the stories, people will think he did and won't learn about Conan Doyle!"  My response, depending upon their level of intensity where it was spoken or not, was "People are not that stupid. They'll figure it out."

I mean, Conan Doyle's name is on the spine of the books. They'll figure it out. Right?

Since most folks' contact with Sherlock Holmes is no longer book-first, I don't think that's a problem. Movies, television -- if you don't put "Inspired by true events" at the beginning or the end, only a blessed handful of humans mistake the characters depicted as real. Especially when you're talking about the kind of movies Sherlock Holmes has been in lately. So I don't think the theory that Sherlock Holmes is a real person is going to gain even Flat Earth believer ranks.

But we do have a lot of Flat Earthers these days. And True Believers in, ironically, unbelievable numbers about all sorts of goofy, and often dangerous, stuff. (Thanks, internet!) It almost takes the fun out of pretending a silly thing like Sherlock Holmes being real.

And yet, and yet, and yet . . . here we are.

For pretending Sherlock Holmes is real builds up the belief in us that reason is real. That paying attention is important. That knowledge in all its flavors, is useful. And even that the true facts behind what might appear to be supernatural are usually pretty natural. 

He is a banner to raise in times when all that is in short supply.

And that, I think, is one reason Sherlock Holmes has been so very real to us for a very long time, and, hopefully, will continue to be so.

When Sherlock Holmes has to go into the garbage . . .

Going to whine a bit this afternoon, so forgive me.

 Forty-five years of Sherlockian life does lead to a certain level of accumulation.

I'm not talking about collecting here. I'm talking about the bits and pieces that either just came your way or were extras of things you created or just generally had Sherlock's name or picture or was related to something that had Sherlock's name or picture. Now, the following words might bother a few of you, and there may be some denial triggered as well, so take a breath and just hold for a second after I use these words, but I think what I'm talking about here is Sherlockian trash.

I know, I know, "one man's trash is another man's treasure," but sometimes you just shouldn't be held responsible for finding that other man. Only so much time in the world, and sometimes, the trash has to be taken out. Or recycled.

Whilst a lot of society functions in the paperless world of the internet at this point, t'was not always so. Materials were printed, photocopied, mimeographed, or retyped for even the most limited of moments -- a paper presented at scion meeting for eight people that you made fifteen copies of, for example. Not something you throw away immediately, and eventually these pile up. Or those thirty extra copies of the local Sherlockian society newsletter that got printed up in 1992, that, gee, they're old, but are they collectable? Copies were send to the big library archives back in the day, so it's not like they're vanishing off the face of the earth if you dump a few.

And there's a limited amount of this stuff you can pass along to younger Sherlockian friends as novelty items. Or sit out on a giveaway table at a con. And a lot of it doesn't have meaning or significance to anyone from another generation or who wasn't there at the time, and you can't expect it to. They have their own detritus picked up along their path.

As impossible as it may seem to some younger version of ourselves, especially a 1980s incarnation, eventually one has to decide that not everything with a deerstalker and a pipe is a holy relic. And some of it might actually need to go into the trash. We do live in an age of massive storage for digital photos of things, so that might ease the conscience a little bit, as throwing photos on a blog might give the Sherlockian historical record a chance of seeing the thing if it ever needs seen. 

For now, back to cleaning . . .

What To Say.

 So, I have this blog.

I've had a blog for twenty-two years now. Ten of those years were on a website that no longer exists, where I'd post weekly, on Sunday nights. After that came this version, where posts came at the pace of things to write. Daily for events, weekly if I could manage, and otherwise, randomly as the spirit moved.

 The spirit doesn't seem to be moving me as much lately, for several reasons. First, especially when it comes to the aforementioned Sunday nights, is that I somehow wandered into other outlets, and now put out a weekly podcast, a monthly chronology newsletter, host a monthly Zoom, and, oh, yes, there's that other podcast hanging out there that I haven't ever quite figured out what to do with. Sometimes, you just get ideas for stuff that hold on to you like a curse. And that's just on the Sherlockian side. I won't get into the things my job has been putting me through of late.

Okay, okay, let's not worry that this is one of those "I have to leave" statements we see so often on social media and the like. This isn't that.

This is me just wondering what to write. Like I said, other things competing for time, but at the same time, something has changed. The internet has changed, to be sure. The algorithms have taken the reliability of anything you write being seen away, unless you pay to play. And we live in an age where we are overrun with opinions, and I am no longer young enough to foolishly believe my opinion is all that important for the world to hear. Annnnd, at some point, you've had the same opinions long enough that even you're bored with them. The world isn't going to change on some points, as foolish as they might be.

The world literally has more writers than it ever has. More published writers, too, now that the gatekeepers are barely holding the gates up, just so name celebrities can walk through. Can an individual writer's voice can be heard against the din? I wonder about that, too.

And we're all just fodder for somebody's AI or the other at this point. Any Zoom call your on is apt to have a little AI assistant quietly making notes of what was said, like a creepy little spy in the corner of the room. It can take the best of what you said, combine it with better things it learned from other places, and make its own swell-sounding statements.

It all can be pretty depressing, if one is leaning toward the gloom, especially with all the other shit flowing from a certain volcano of rot of late. And what can one do against all of these bleak omens of shadows overtaking the Earth?

I guess one can write. And even if one has nothing to say, there are still some words that will follow other words into forming sentences, and sentences into paragraphs. And maybe just have enough humanity left in the results to let our friends know that we're still alive and maybe not a software replicant of someone they used to know . . . for now.

And on we go.