Being Very Stupid Is Just Fine

The following is the opening editorial from this week's episode of The Watsonian Weekly, for those of you who would rather read than listen:

Well, I’m going to start this week with an editorial, because it’s a snowy holiday weekend and what else do I have to do. Next month the John H. Watson Society is going to have yet another reader’s theater adaptation of “The Blue Carbuncle” for its December meeting, and in looking forward to that, I ran into a line in that tale we often forget about.

Holmes is making all his deductions about Henry Baker’s hat, and Watson says:

“I have no doubt that I am very stupid . . .”

When we hear a bit about Watson’s literary agent most weeks on this podcast, we hear Arthur Conan Doyle calling Watson Holmes’s “rather stupid friend,” but when the words come from Watson’s own mouth it’s another story.

In Red-Headed League, Watson writes “ I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I was always oppressed with a sense on my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes.”

John Watson does not have any problem feeling stupid and admitting that Sherlock Holmes is smarter than him. I know, we want to sympathize and go “Oh, Watson, you’re not really stupid,” and defend the poor guy, but I think that misses that those admissions are a part of what makes Watson a wise man.

We’re seeing too many people on social media who try to argue with experts in fields of science and elsewhere with no knowledge, simply because they feel like no one is smarter than they are. None of us knows everything, nor should have an opinion on everything to fill those gaps, and admitting that we’re stupid standing next to a more knowledgeable soul is an admirable quality. Normalizing admitting you’re stupid, as Watson does in “The Blue Carbuncle” is actually a goal we should steer toward. Watson’s quote: “I have no doubt that I am very stupid ...” belongs on a T-shirt, not as an act of belittling Watson but as a campaign toward letting ourselves recognize our deficiencies when they stand in the way of moving forward.

I mean, I bet you can think of a person right now whose failure to admit how stupid they’re being is holding a whole lot of people back from success. It’s practically a pandemic at this point.

So that's my editorial for this week. On to the Watson news.

PluriBSI

 Okay, stick with me on this one. It's gonna be a ramble.

Also, *SPOILER ALERT* if you don't know what the Apple TV show Pluribus is about and are still planning to watch the first episode and find out. If so, come back later, because I'm about to explain the premise a few paragraphs down.

Are spoiler alerts still a thing?

Content warnings, yes. But spoiler alerts?

Anyway, so I watched the third episode of Pluribus just now. If you haven't seen it, it's about a situation where humanity basically becomes a friendly, happy hivemind except for a dozen or so people. And the main character just can't seem to get around to enjoying the situation, even though every single person on Earth except that dozen want to use their shared mind to try to make her happy. And she just doesn't want to be happy.

So I watched that, then I came upstairs and found I Hear of Sherlock Everywhere's latest blog post, "Tips for Making the Most of the BSI Weekend." You know, the BSI Weekend, that week in January when a whole bunch of Sherlockians descend upon New York City to dress up, eat dinner, hob nob, and buy books. You meet what seems like everybody at that time, though it's not really everybody, just people who can get to New York in January, whether because they live close or can afford the trip.

And then Pluribus and the BSI weekend, a.k.a. Sherlock Holmes's birthday weekend, if you're not involved with the Baker Street Irregulars, merged in my head. As when it comes to that particular event, I feel much like Carole, the main character of Pluribus. I just don't want to join the hive mind, as pleasant and inviting as the members of that collective might be. I usually put it down to not being a fan of New York, but it's more than that. It's just too many people, too many places, and too many expectations.

"Bring business cards (a quaint tradition)," Scott Monty writes, "You will be meeting a lot of new people." He's not lying. You meet a ton. And then you will, if you are me, forget you met half of them. Scott has a whole lot of good tips for the neophyte attendee, solid tips. But, at this point in life, far too many of them are also reasons a person like myself might want to avoid the whole thing. And the members of the happy hive mind that do enjoy it, just don't often understand why. So one must always have excuses at the ready. The excuses don't help truly convey your perspective, but excuses do seem to pacify the hive members for long enough to change the subject.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not anti-NYC-birthday-weekend for those who want it.  Things might just get a little too "in the bubble" sometimes, and folks in said bubble can forget that the rest of us don't always see the happy bubble the way they do. 

One morning this week, I breakfasted with a twenty-something fan of many a movie and TV franchise who told me how much he loved BBC Sherlock. Not because I'm a Holmes fan, just because he was rolling through things he really liked. And he loved BBC Sherlock end to end. I then, much to his amusement, told him of the rise of its fandom, its interactions with the traditional Sherlockians, and all the ways it changed lives. He found it fascinating, knowing nothing of Johnlock, original Canon comparisons and Granada, conspiracies borne of fan expectations, or even any problems with that final season. He just loved the show. And was completely outside the bubble. All our Sherlockian bubbles. Except that one basic, "I really like BBC Sherlock bubble" where we could share space and discuss the potential for the series returning as a possible theatrical film. And that was just fine. 

Because those overlapping parts of our personal Venn diagrams are what build community, what keep the hive of humanity working together, as separate and different as we are. Yet in the TV show Pluribus, all of humanity except a dozen or so people aren't just overlapping any more. Their Venn diagram is on solid circle. They all live in exactly the same bubble. And they really want those few who remain outside to be brought into that bubble, and know the true unexplainable joy that they all feel but the main character doesn't. Yet if we all have the same experience, the same intake, we lose something, just as when an AI tries to combine all of our diversity into a created output. (But that's an entirely different discussion.)

As we approach another January, the character of Carol from Pluribus just seems more and more relatable to some of us. And we look forward to February.

My last Sherlock Holmes game

 We have a really good game store here in Peoria, one that compares well with game stores in much larger cities, called "Just for Fun." Having been gifted some cash for a certain annual event a while back, I decided to stop in and treat myself with a budget large enough to get whatever game or games I wanted. And there were so many new and new-ish Sherlock Holmes based games. I literally could have walked out with six or seven (Say it, kids!) new games, and I already own a whole bunch of Sherlock Holmes based games. Now that our old friend is out of copyright, the floodgates are open!

But I think I'm calling it quits on games that have to do with Sherlock Holmes unless a real proven stand-out comes along. Except for one. And that's the one I bought on this trip. I'd heard it existed, but just hadn't sought it out yet. The game?

Mystery Fluxx. It has it's own Sherlock Holmes card, the only detective it calls out by name instead of generic description.

The reason that I'm picking this one above all others? Because, you see, in addition to being a Sherlock Holmes fan, I am also a Fluxx fan. And I've been a Fluxx fan for decades now. It's a great game, a card game where the cards you play actually change the rules of the game, but it's still easy to learn, so unpredictable that it defies any competitive spirit you might have, and is rarely the same game twice.

I've owned Fluxx 1.0, 2.0, Stoner Fluxx, Eco Fluxx, Zombie Fluxx, multiple Star Trek Fluxxes, Holiday, Oz, Doctor Who, Olympus . . . so many variations of this freakin' game. But Mystery Fluxx is the first time it crossed into Sherlockian space outside of possible homegrown versions. (Did I encounter one at 221B Con years ago? My memory is a bit fuzzy there.)

So, personally, I'm declaring Mystery Fluxx the winner of the Sherlock Holmes gaming wars and taking that deck and going home. Your collecting of games starring our friend can continue, and you might want to catch me in a generous mood one day when I'm cleaning out my basement!

What level do we Sherlockian at?

 Way back in April, a goodly number of us attended a conference that emphasized the importance of the local Sherlockian society. The point was well made, and it was a fine conference, but there was a mistake one could easily made walking away from that conference in the joy of just being there.

While there were many an Indianapolis local there from the Illustrious Clients, for the most part we were all handing out flyers, etc., promoting our local societies to people who weren't local to the place we are from. We encouraged people to come visit us, log on to our Zooms, etc., and that's where I suspect one could miss the point. It isn't people coming from other cities served by other societies that make a local Sherlockian society strong and healthy. It's the people who live in your town. Any visitors are just the icing on the cake, not the cake itself.

It seems like a very obvious point, but it's an issue that can suck the life out of a local Sherlockian society. If a group's best and brightest are keeping their Sherlockian gaze on distant horizons -- the birthday weekend, the conferences that draw from across the country, the larger journals, and the friends from distant places -- they are apt to overlook the needs of their local group.

Am I calling anyone specific out in that statement? You bet I am . . . myself!

Even if you don't go to New York every year, even if you've had that BSI shilling long enough to be bored with it, the siren song of the larger Sherlockian community outside of your town still beckons. Some members of a local scion will always share you interest, but the larger part of what often makes up a local Sherlock Holmes society are people who just like talking about Sherlock Holmes with their local Sherlockian friends. They have no thoughts of being invited to a Baker Street Irregulars dinner, or driving up to Minneapolis to see a rare tome. They just like the local hang. And that's fine.

In the early 2000s, I had a lot of non-local aspirations. Hosting a Sherlockian website, publishing a bi-monthly journal, just kicking things up a level, right at the time when our local scion needed leadership. My usual partner in crime, who was great at keeping local meetings running, had retired from the job, and I just wasn't giving the local scion the attention it deserved. Had I been born at some later time, I might have gotten some sort of attention deficit diagnosis because ritual and routine have never been my strong suits, and that's what keeps a Sherlock Holmes society chugging along. You can have creatives doing random, wild guitar solos of Sherlock work in your group, but the steady drumbeat of an ongoing meeting schedule and regular events are the beating heart that keeps a group alive.

As I've gotten older, I've come to really appreciate Sherlockiana at the local level. Our monthly library discussion group is the steady drumbeat that keeps Holmes alive here, and I'm appreciative of that.

"Okay, Boomlockian!"

One eternal question that circles Sherlockiana like an overhead vulture has long been "How do we get more younger people into our Sherlockian world?" As so many Sherlockians are grandparents, indoctrinating school kids always pops up as an answer. Grandparents have enough distance from their parenting days to think that you can get a kid to like something you like, I suspect, but what do I know?

Well, one thing I do know is that Sherlockiana can be expensive. Folks at the end of their careers have often built up more money than folks at the start of their careers. We see more older Sherlockians for the same reason you see more older folks on cruises -- they are more likely to afford such luxuries. But given the way the money game is more and more slanted against new players, I wonder if that will hold true forever.

The Boomlockians seem to be doing okay. (Yes, "Boomer Sherlockian." I'm not proud of that. But, being one, I can say that.) Most of us seem to be okay with country club level Sherlocking. And a few of us are apparently doing much more than okay.

Yet we're probably coming to a time when we need to think of cheaper on-ramps to full participation in Sherlockian culture, if we truly want to keep the old Sherlockian culture. Like being able to be recognized as a full-fledged contributing member of Sherlockian society with paying for a New York vacation just to attend a certain dinner. We've got Zoom now, we could literally recognize someone for their achievements with no cost to them or expectations that they come to New York two to three times to prove their dedication. And it isn't just New York. The old expectation that everything needs to have a banquet, something every traditional Sherlockian ever to wander into 221B Con seems to want to suggest, needs a good solid look.

A lot of things happen in Sherlockiana because someone has enough in their bank accounts not to fret when a big bill for an event comes due. Or are so caught up in the fever of the fandom that they just don't care about those bills coming due.

Every now and then I think of that one Sherlockian group that was so proud of themselves and their history that they never needed to adapt to the changing world, and that group nearly fell off the map completely. We like to think the things we like are impervious to change and will go on forever. We like to see ourselves as a part of that eternal thing, a touch of immortality.

But the times, as ever, are a'changing. A select number of country club Sherlockians will certainly be able to maintain a certain level of Sherlockian events and travel as long as there are old people with money and a few youngsters in their wake. But a new Sherlockiana, if the fandom does not fall with literacy rates, will surely evolve to fit the lives people can afford in the decades ahead. 

Might be time to start thinking about that.

My Comfort Sherlock Holmes

 It's easy not to expect much from a TV Sherlock Holmes. The medium has given us such random incarnations of the great detective -- actors like Roger Moore, Tom Baker, Matt Frewer, and James D'Arcy make the casting choices seem practically random. And once cast, who knows what direction the script and director will take them.

So when Watson on CBS announced Sherlock Holmes was returning from Reichenbach Falls yet again, to be played by Robert Carlyle, most famous in my mind for The Full Monty from the showrunner who gave us Elementary, well, let's just say I was not optimistic. (Apologies, Elementary fans, but I still just don't get it.)

Sherlock Holmes turned up in Watson's kitchen in the middle of the night, making a sandwich, just as casually as you please. No disguise as an old book dealer. No air-gun worries. Just "My dear Watson . . . I don't suppose you have any horse radish."

He offers Watson the chance to hit him for faking his death, but Morris Chestnut's Watson is no Martin Freeman Watson. This Watson goes in for the hug. And then lets Holmes finish making his sandwich.

"I was hoping we could start small," Holmes starts when asked about how he survived and what he was up to. There is a tenderness between the two. Not ship-worthy, but that of real friendship. Holmes admits to fearing he's hurt their friendship, and then does start small with that simplest of questions, "How was your day?"

And he had me.

Robert Carlyle's Sherlock Holmes was kind and gentle, with that sort of wisdom we expect from a aging sage. The episode that follows, then, is Watson telling Holmes about his day, and the latest medical mystery. The two talk all night, until the sun rises the next day, as one would expect of two close friends so long apart. It reminded me of the set-up for Lee Shackleford's play, Holmes and Watson, where the two friends spend their first night together post-Reichenbach talking it out. But that was more dramatic, not this quiet, not this comfortable.

I was surprised at how much I loved this new Sherlock Holmes. No diagnosable personality disorders, no over-dramatic quirks. Just that sage old friend you'd love to have in your life. Like those Holmeses from a day when genius detectives didn't have to have some personal defects to counterbalance their superior brains for the more mundane minds. From a day when we trusted our experts, and desperate influencers weren't trying to puff up their own opinions by tearing down the learned.

In a time when things are as messy as they've ever been, Robert Carlyle brought us a "comfort Sherlock." The kind of Sherlock Holmes that I'd love to find in my kitchen making a sandwich some evening after having a pleasant evening with a date who was still asleep back in the bedroom. (Okay, so that date part is just the icing on the Watson cake.)  I was really thinking this Watson might leave his current love interest and start chasing cases with Sherlock Holmes, but no! This Holmes lets Watson get on with his life . . . even if Holmes does suggest that Mary Morstan and John Watson might really be the couple that should be togther.

I happy with this new Sherlock Holmes. And his secret mission to deal with that very real problem we have with the uber-rich right now. I'm looking forward to his eventual return.

Just Watson's Grandparents?

 In all my years as a Sherlockian, and lately a Watsonian podcaster, I have heard many a conversation and read many a thought on John H. Watson's sad brother and his late father. The watch scene in The Sign of the Four has etched that one into Sherlockian minds like the pawnbroker's scratched ticket number mentioned in that same scene. But in all that time, I've never heard anyone speak of Watson's grandparents.

Tonight's library group discussion of "The Adventure of the Empty House" brought a particular line from that story to the fore: 

"The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame."

Tracing a person's profile on to black paper and then cutting it out was an nice, low-cost way to do something like a portrait before photography was a thing. The middle and lower classes could afford to hang such a shadow portrait of a loved one on their wall in the Victorian era, and apparently Watson's grandparents were fond of the form. The idea that a young John H. Watson's silhouette was once hung upon their wall is intriguing.

Silhouettes of Sherlock Holmes, inspired by that window shade in "Empty House" or not, have long been a part of Sherlockian culture going back a long ways. How far back? Well, let me propose a first silhouette of Sherlock Holmes that goes back long before anyone ever read of him. Because what did Watson write?

"... one of those black silhouettes which OUR grandparents loved to frame."

And who was he with when that "our" came up?

Sherlock Holmes.

Sounds a little bit like Holmes and Watson had the same grandparents, doesn't it?

Holmes and Watson as first cousins? Which would mean Watson only pretended he didn't know about Mycroft (like he doesn't seem to know about Moriarty when we know he did). And that Stamford bringing them together was a little different than we imagined: "Hey, I heard your cousin was looking for someone to share rooms with."

Well, it's a thought. Always something fun coming up at library discussion group night.

Explaining Sherlock Holmes

 Yesterday, someone asked me if I could explain Sherlock Holmes to them. It took me a bit to get back to that question, and I thought, "why not share what I come up with to answer that." So here we are.

Sherlock Holmes.

Originally a detective character in four novels and sixty short stories published between 1887 and 1927, Sherlock Holmes became the model for generations of fictional detectives to come. Working with the police, but not one of them, Holmes used his special talents for seeing details, working out theories, and presenting solutions in a dramatic fashion to solve mysteries in a very entertaining fashion. 

Most of his stories are narrated by his friend Dr. Watson, whom fans of Sherlock Holmes sometimes like to pretend actually wrote the stories instead of the true author, Arthur Conan Doyle. The level of actual historical detail that Doyle layered into the stories gives fans a window into the Victorian era in which Holmes worked, so that if Sherlock Holmes goes to a restaurant called "Simpson's" you can often look it up and learn all about it from historical sources. This makes Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson almost seem like historical characters who actually existed, delighting their fans all the more and confusing a few folks along the way.

As time has gone by, versions of Sherlock Holmes in books, TV, and movies, have moved beyond the Victorian era and been used for drama, comedy, and nearly every other sort of entertainment you can name, including commercials and pornography. It was once said that there was more written about Sherlock Holmes than anyone besides Jesus and Napoleon, but at this point, I think he might be beating Napoleon. The images of a fore-and-aft cap and a magnifying glass, used by early actors to play Holmes on stage and screen, now symbolize detective-work when applied to anyone in cartoons or live action. Sherlock Holmes has, in the nearly one hundred and forty years since his creation, become a part of our culture across most of the world.

Okay, that's my answer. Most folks might have used an AI to come up with that at this point, but I needed the mental exercise and was very curious what the answer was myself. Having studied Sherlock Holmes for over forty years, it was fun to see what came out of my brain on the topic.

My kind of Sherlockiana

Sherlockiana is such a far-ranging hobby that one constantly has opportunities to look into the distance and go, "Why aren't I doing that thing?" Sometimes the answer is obvious, like watching a certain Will Ferrell movie or spending a year working out a detailed system for putting dates to Watson's cases is to people who aren't me. But then there's the opposite, when you do a thing and go "YES! This is why I am in this hobby!!!"

I had one of those times Monday night, recording the latest episode of Sherlock Holmes Is Real, when Talon King, Dr. Janet Peters, Mrs. Horace Thimbleburger, and Shecky Spielberg went on for an hour about "The Case of the Night Train Riddle" which they seem to believe is actual documentary footage of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson solving a case. (It's the premise of the podcast later episodes, if you haven't bumped into it yet.) It'll be coming out later this week.

But if you type "Sherlock Holmes is real" into Google, the AI will immediately tell you, "No, Sherlock Holmes is not a real person, he is a fictional character created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle." Because the AI does not know how to have fun, and is also kind of a jerk. It makes up its own pretend facts when it wants to, but doesn't seem to want to let others to play games or have a podcast whose name it disagrees with.

But, not being an AI myself, I do like to play silly games. Life is work. Sherlockiana is a nice escape from the chores of life and whether it's getting together with other Sherlockians or fiddling around with my own brand of Sherlockian scholarship, the most silly, the most absurd Sherlockian tangents have long been my favorite. It's what makes a Holmesian like Paul Thomas Miller such a treasure. 

We've come so far since Rex Stout simply gender-bending John Watson was the height of Sherlockian hilarity. So far! These days we have things like Mike McSwiggin finding the funny in Sherlockian chronology, of all things. The list of Sherlockians who have made me laugh is tempting to get into here, but we all have different folks who catch us with the right silliness at the right moment. It's been woven into our culture from the earliest days.

Ronald Knox, Christopher Morley . . . they were not taking this thing seriously at all. It took time and academia to push those borders. I get it -- some of my first Sherlockian writings were term papers where I had to be serious to get a grade. But that's not where the best stuff is for this little black duck. So here's to the fun bits! Hope yours are many and just the best.

We Come To This Place . . .

 I see Nicole Kidman a lot. Sometimes once a week. Sometimes more.

I'm referring, of course, to her monologue before every movie shown at the local AMC theater. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, here's a link to it. Her monologue is like part of a church ritual that brings the faithful together for what is about to take place. Is she turning AMC audiences into a cult? Could very well be. But being in a certain other fandom cult, I know cults aren't always about sexual slavery and drinking poisoned Kool-Aid.

"We come to this place . . ." Nicole begins, eventually closing with ". . . stories feel perfect and powerful. Because here [dramatic pause] they are."

A lot of that speech applies to Sherlock Holmes as well as AMC Theaters. Not all stories, like all movies, are actually perfect or powerful. A whole lot of them suck. But even the bad catch some of the radiance of the good, elevating them at least to a level where they get noticed.

But lately, with Sherlock Holmes and this hobby we call Sherlockian, I've begun to ponder why we do come to this place. It's a large and diverse city-in-miscrocosm of a hobby, with neighborhoods that each have their own personality, posh venues, long-standing institutions, and back alleys that can make our Sherlockopolis look a bit different for each of its citizens. It may look like one single entity from a distance, but, oh, it is not even close to the simplicity of what any one view can take in.

And we all come to this place, this Sherlockopolis, for our own reasons. Community, connections, creative outlets, and, primarily, the chance to go somewhere outside our normal lives. And since it's a place of imagination, it can be whatever we need it to be . . . for us, for our own escape from the day-to-day. But there are other minds, with other imaginings here too. John Watson's everyman quality, spread across a world of people, makes him a secret legion of perceived John Watsons.

One of the best terms to come to any fandom in recent decades . . . and the Sherlockopolis is a fandom city, make no mistake about that . . . is "headcanon." Headcanon is the simple acknowledgement that we all have our own interpretation of the characters and stories that we share with the world. There are, of course, those who are sure their headcanon is actual Canon, whether due to innocence or narcissism, and they do like to interrupt a conversation to speak their truth on occasion. But its their truth, not always ours, and not what we came to this place for.

We come to this place for the things we share. The things we enjoy together. The things we want to learn together. Some of us may be like farmers, who enjoy living outside the city and growing ideas, writings, art, or presentations, but every now and then we have to come to town to share our produce, talk to the other farmers, and catch up on the news. Or take a little vacation there.

But our Sherlockopolis has no Nicole Kidman, framing our coming experience with a little monologue that just will not go away before every outing. We have to decide why we come to this place on our own.

And sometimes that bears thinking about.

What If We All Just Did Clickbait Headlines?

 By now, most of us are probably used to it. The headline reads "11 Years Later, I'm Still Mad About What BBC's Sherlock Did To This Beloved Book Character." The photo underneath it in your news feed results shows Martin Freeman as John Watson. They don't tell you what character, so you'll click to find out. They show you Martin Freeman so you'll click if you like him. They tell you they're mad about BBC Sherlock so you'll click if you want validation in the emotion you still feel about that show.

Click. Click. Click.

Now, in our Sherlockian world, some areas move much slower than the rest of the world. We don't have a click-baity website of our own, luring engagement to any fandom entity. Heck, the traditional faction of our hobby still revolves around a printed journal. And it sure doesn't use headlines like "One Hundred and Seventeen Years Later, I Can't Believe Conan Doyle Used This Dead Character in Wisteria Lodge." You either already subscribe to the journal or you don't, and nobody is picking it up off a pharmacy magazine display.

But what if we did use teaser headlines to lure people to our works. Take the winter 2024 issue of The Sherlock Holmes Journal, for example, just grabbed up randomly from a shelf.

"Even Jack the Ripper Should Have Known This Hat Was Just A Mistake"

"The One Act Play That Caused Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson To Do These Favorite Things"

"One House Shows What All of England Thought About This Country"

"The Weapon That Changed Everything And Sherlock's Part In It"

"Did Conan Doyle Just Copy Sherlock Holmes From This Old Book?"

"How Sherlock Holmes Made Me Do A Hotel Rendezvous"

"Holmes Fans Won't Stop Battling Fans of This Literary Character!"

"Going To College For Reasons You Won't Believe"

Am I going to explain what those articles were really about? Of course not, because as with all clickbait, the tease is the thing. Just trying to force you to do something you wouldn't normally do. And if you did pick up that issue of The Sherlock Holmes Journal, your ultimate reaction, as with the clicking of any clickbait headline will probably be "Oh, it's just that. I knew about that." Not to say there aren't facts in the SHJ you might not have known. But the topics are not nearly as remarkably outside of your current knowledge as the headlines might cause you to hope.

Teaser headlines have been with us a very long time. But thanks to digital media, we now have more than ever, and my lame attempts above don't nearly do justice to the art form its become. And clicking on the link is definitely less profitable than ever as well.

"I'm not interested in that."

 We're all about having opinions these days, thanks to that great concert hall of a billion stages that we call the internet. Blogs, podcasts, videos long and short . . . putting our opinions into a public space for validation or hoped-for entertainment value is what we do now. Occasionally, however, it might be good to just leave things alone.

So here's my review of CW's "Sherlock and Daughter."

I'm not interested in that. Watched enough to learn I wasn't interested, probably not going back. And as Stan Lee used to say "Nuff said!" 

[Weeks pass.]

But then my companion, the good Carter, watched the entirety of the first episode and went "It wasn't too bad." And then HBO Max decided it was worth putting on their service, and it started popping up on promos there. And CBS Watson is now well in the rearview mirror, no more distractions.

"London 1896" -- that date is going to haunt me. Sherlock Holmes comes in bossy, making basic deductions, looking like David Thewlis, he then sees a red piece of thread on a boy's wrist, gets freaked out and runs frightened from a crime scene. There's not a part of that sentence that is anything that makes me want to watch this particular Sherlock. Cut to New York City and a girl named Amelia Rojas gets suckered by the worst cast crime boy, then tries to buy a ticket to England without money in an exchange that's just hard to watch. 

A still-bossy Sherlock Holmes abuses Mrs. Hudson's sister, who was just in the hall talking to someone who looked like a poorly cast Watson, but then we hear what might be a Moriarty voiceover of a kidnapping paste-together note threatening the kidnapped Watson and Mrs. Hudson, and there's a finger in a box that apparently used to belong to Holmes's maid? Ugh. I don't know if I can take much more.

Amelia Rojas meets a rich American girl destined to wed a random aristocrat on the ship to England, shows what a good artist she is. But the rich girl's mother is very unpleasant and hates poors, even though Amelia sure doesn't dress or look all that poverty-stricken. At this point I'm wondering where the happy part of this show is, or if the creators are of the "fiction is all character abuse" school.

There's a metal disc with a hole in it that moves across a map of London as Amelia makes her way to 221 Baker Street and its basement servant's entrance where she is instantly mistaken for the replacement maid in the giant kitchen of 221 Baker Street. Did I mention that 221 is huge inside? London of 1896 apparently had more available space pre-blitz.

Amelia meets unpleasant Sherlock. (Ohhh, the metal disc is her belt buckle. I see it now.) Things go about as well as one would expect. Sherlock deduces she's American from her accent, and calls out her belt buckle as Californian craftsmanship. Weak sauce, man. Weak sauce.

OMG, Holmes's burst-in clients are the parents of Amelia's ship-friend, and that makes Amelia  an unwanted assistant to crabby Sherlock.

Okay, I seriously don't understand what I'm supposed to enjoy about this. I tried. I really tried. But it's so unpleasant across the board to my particular tastes. Twenty-seven minutes in and I'm out.

It will probably have its fans, as everything does. And good for them! I mean, a lot of people gave up on CBS's Watson after one episode while I found enough fun in even its goofy bits to continue finding some joy there. But this one . . . definitely not my cuppa tea.

So let me know how it goes. Hearing about it second-hand might be my best way to enjoy Sherlock & Daughter.

The Ritual

Okay, let's talk about scary, cultish things. Like chants. And rituals.

So forget everything you know about the words below and just read them in your head, with the voice or voices the words compel.

Whose was it?

His who is gone.

Who shall have it?

He who will come.

What was the month?

The sixth from the first.

Where was the sun?

Over the oak.

Where was the shadow?

Under the elm.

How was it stepped?

North by ten and by ten, east by five and by

five, south by two and by two, west by one and by

one, and so under.

What shall we give for it?

All that is ours.

Why should we give it?

For the sake of the trust.

Now, you and I know that those words are the Musgrave ritual. But we don't think of it as a ritual, Sherlock Holmes having showed us the truth behind it. Yet it was, when encountered by generations of Musgraves, a ritual. Something performed as a regular ritual observance, with no other meaning than what the listener derived from what was plainly a responsive reading. Perhaps the head of the family asked the questions and the family responded in unison. Perhaps someone new got the honor of playing inquisitor every Christmas or New Year's or some other significant day of the year.

But ritual, it was, ritually observed. 

The thought of passing something from someone long gone to someone still to come. Something so important that one should give everything that one owned so that "he who will come" shall have that sacred thing, that was entrusted to the family in some bygone age. The ritual does not say who is coming, or what he'll do when he gets here, but we know his gender. Musgraves of a more religious bent could have imagined it was the second coming. Darker minded generations might have feared this mysterious "He." Perhaps early readers of the ritual had been told who "He" was, perhaps not.

The symbolism of sun and shadow. "The sixth month" instead of June, like "the first" might not be January. The possibility that "sun" is a play on "son," like in that one old Star Trek episode. A square that goes from ten feet wide, to five, to two, to one, rounding down on fractions as it halves itself to the infitesimal microcosm of "so under." 

One could build a cult around those words, easily enough. Rituals have their own ordered appeal. And for many centuries, that's what the Musgrave ritual was . . . just a ritual, for a family with a cultish mission. 

But at least is wasn't a curse, like those poor Baskervilles got!

Our Own Singular Addiction

 Of all the things that author and publisher Jack Tracy might be known for, perhaps my personal favorite is that he had a good standing line for signing his cocaine book.

"In celebration of our own singular addiction," Jack wrote in my copy, as he surely did in many a copy of that book.  It's just perfect, and I have never signed a book of my own with anything that matched it. "Our own singular addiction." And lest you mis-interpret that, let me tell you that it wasn't a shared love of cocaine or anything else illegal. It was, of course, Sherlock Holmes.

Entire talks have been given comparing our Sherlockian hobby to an addiction. And we can chuckle at that idea, like one of those funny memes about never owning enough books. (You're not going to re-read every one of them -- move some along to other readers! At some point you're just a hoarder.) But it truly can be an addiction that affects our lives just like a drug addiction.

We get a taste. We like it. We start chasing that high. Our tolerance increases. We start getting disappointed that doses aren't giving us the same high they once did. We spend more money, chasing that high we remember. We get grumpy when dosing still doesn't match what we remember. We switch to a different form of the thing. We switch to yet another similar thing. A few of us go cold turkey, but there are no interventions, no surgeon general's warning, no near-fatal crash that puts us on the straight and narrow.

We ride the highs, we wait out the lows, we stay on the Sherlock train because we know what pleasure it can bring. And all our friends do it, because . . . oh, yeah, that's how we met those friends.

"Our own singular addiction." While Jack Tracy's ghost may not haunt me -- thank goodness -- his words still do. And the addiction, now a lifestyle choice, continues.

Conan Doyle at the American Oddities Museum

There are moments of happy discovery as a Sherlock Holmes fan, letting the master detective lead you into places you'd not have thought to go. And this past Friday night, that fannish urge led me to Alton, Illinois, a river town on the banks of the Mississippi near St. Louis.

The promo read "Join Master Magician Carlos David at the American Oddities Museum as he presents a chilling parlor show base on those traveling mediums, mystics, and mind-readers of yesterday. . . a night of magic and mystery, inspired by the kinds of parlor shows that were practiced by fraudulent mediums when they took advantage of people like Sir Arthur." As we don't often focus on the "wacky celebrity with questionable beliefs" side of Conan Doyle in the Sherlockian world, it seems like a rare opportunity.

Entering Troy Taylor's American Oddities Museum, one finds the nicely curated work of a man enthusiastic about his interests. Troy Taylor is a name that might be familiar to an Illinois Sherlockian who was around in the 1980s, when he was running Decatur's local Sherlockian group, Ferguson's Vampires. I had corresponded with Troy a little bit at that time, and even commissioned some art from him for the Dangling Prussian, so it was pleasant to see the business he's built up following his passions, having written over one hundred and twenty books and doing an incredible number of ghost tours and events, enough to make you wish Sherlock Holmes was as popular as ghosts!

Rob Nunn in his native environment, surrounded by books.

The largest room in the museum was set up as one would for an author's reading, several rows of chairs in an intimate setting, but also lights dimmed with electric candlelight and some excellent light background mood music, nice to listen to with an interesting eerie feel, not too creepy, but not too normal.

Carlos David is a very experienced, very good magician, well versed on Conan Doyle and Harry Houdini, and the balance of mystery and reality woven into his show was spot-on. You could see how someone who wanted to believe in active spirit communication as much as Conan Doyle did could have their beliefs enhanced and justified by tricksters with such impossible feats that could be attributed to ghosts. In the Sherlockian world, we get a lot of talks and presentations by folks who aren't skilled professional entertainers, so if was a joy to see someone who was very good at what he does connect it with Conan Doyle.

I'm not going to go on about the show at length, as my friend Heather Hinson will be writing it up for the Parallel Case blog soon. (Also, I'm tired after a week of travel.) Heather was touched by the ghost of Kingsley Doyle at one point during the show, so I'm sure she's going to have a lot of thoughts! But it was a lovely evening, in good Sherlockian company, and another reminder that letting that one great spirit -- the spirit of Sherlock Holmes -- lead you on adventures can be a whole lot of fun!

Some history of the 221st Southumberland Waffleers, 2025 edition

 Sherlockiana always winds up being about so much more than Sherlock Holmes. He is our center, the piton we anchor our line to, but once that spike is placed, we roam so far afield in our celebrations of him. Including the Waffle House.

The origins of the 221st Southumberland Waffleers, our legion celebrating the Waffle House breakfast at Sherlockian events, can seem a bit hazy. And since the group's start only two years ago, remarkable moments have happened worth noting.

The 221st Southumberland Waffleers had to start in Atlanta, where Waffle House itself began in 1955. Atlanta being so large, however, the journey of the Waffleers, for me, began about forty miles from that original site in Avondale Estates at Waffle House #777, at 143 Highway 74 South, Peachtree City, Georgia, on Friday, April 14, 2023. Steve Mason, a four-star general of the Waffleers if ever we had one, had tried other Waffle Houses in the area surrounding the Atlanta Airport Marriott with Rich Krisciunas and found them questionable at times. I consider Steve and Rich's work scouting missions in Waffleer pre-history, because our true spark, our real pivotal moment in the origins of the Waffleers had to come from an Englishman, as all Sherlockiana must . . . but not Sherlock Holmes this time.

The key incident on that April morning in 2023 was the desire of one Paul Thomas Miller to eat at a Waffle House. Having come to Atlanta all the way from Portsmouth, dragging ethereal Conan Doyle mojo in his wake, Paul was making choices about how to spend his limited time in the states, and one of those was to see what a Waffle House was all about. It was my first time to try one as well, inspired by Paul's desire, and I did much research in coming up with Waffle House #777 to provide an optimal Waffle House experience. Some would later say that #777 was a Waffle House too far, and that one passes too many other Waffle Houses to get to it from the Marriott, but it will always be my waffle home, and anyone who has been there belongs to the 777 corps of the 221st in my mind. (Hey, I don't know how military stuff works, I just eat waffles!)

I think it was that very day that we found a name for the Waffleers, modelling it after Watson's own Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, as we discussed our Waffle House adventures in the hotel bar. I was busy working in the dealer's room that year, and did not record that event in my rather weak blog entries for that year. But by 2024, the Waffleers were. going full steam, having made our way north to Dayton, Ohio, now a second regular outpost of Waffleer activity. A month later we were back in Atlanta, and fully engaged as Waffleers. My report on the group from that month was much more extensive.

2024 was also the year Max Magee started the 221st Southumberland Waffleers Facebook group. Getting nine people to go at once and the manager giving us hats was a pretty big "critical mass" moment for us.

It has seemed like the core of our Waffleer movement has been getting Northern Sherlockians introduced to a Southern staple -- each trip an achievement for Yankees who've never had breakfast at the chain. (Do we call Northern folks "Yankees" any more? I dunno.) Waffleers have dined in the Indianapolis area, the St. Louis area, and more since the initial Atlanta excursions. (The chain does not extend much above the St. Louis-Indianapolis-Dayton line.) There have been extraordinary measures made for the Waffleer cause, including multiple breakfasts in a single morning, the eating of the smothered and covered, pushed-to-the-very-limits of Waffle House hash browns by Northern Erica, and one attempt at a Waffleers medal of honor. Crystal Noll and Heather Holloway discovered the Waffle House museum at the location of the original Waffle House and recovered important documents for the Waffleer archives. 

But, what, you may ask, does this have to do with Sherlock Holmes?

More than you would think. Breakfast was a meal that Sherlock Holmes appears as a welcoming and considerate host on several occasions. Ham and eggs, rashers of bacon and eggs, even curried chicken, but no waffles appear in the original tales of Holmes. This is probably due to a decline in waffle popularity in the late 1800s due to cheaper sugar prices making other confections more popular. Also, while there are Brussels waffles, Belgian waffles, Flemish waffles, and American waffles, "British waffles" is not really a thing. And putting maple syrup on waffles is totally an America thing, as table syrups grew popular in the late 1800s when Americans started moving to large cities. (Log Cabin syrup was first created in 1887.)

Sherlock Holmes's time in America in the 1900s could have brought him in contact with American-style waffles, but the Waffle House itself was still decades away. Still, Waffle House was born two years before Holmes died, according to William S. Baring-Gould's timeline. But this Waffleer activity still remains more about Sherlockians and their food-bonding habits than Sherlock Holmes himself. And that's enough.

Will this little fad fade, as the years pass and we try to eat healthier breakfasts? Or will this Waffleer cult become as entrenched in Sherlockian culture as some of our other odd habits? Who knows?

In the meantime, tip your servers generously. We still want to go to Waffle House, and we want them to enjoy Sherlock Holmes and Sherlockians as much as we do.

Maybe we don't mention Aunt Clara after all?

 I'm not known as a big fan of traditions or ritual. There are some I feel quite kindly toward, like Vincent Starrett's wonderful poem "221B." And then there's another Sherlockian tradition that originated in Chicago that I'd be quite okay if it faded into history as it should. So let's talk about that one for a minute.

The song "We Never Mention Aunt Clara" got promoted last month at the Canonical Conclave as a grand tradition exemplary of what we needed to pass on to future generations. But let's think about that for a moment. a.) It's not a great song. Even the B.S.I. got tired of it for awhile at one point and dropped it from the program. And b.) Our Sherlockian connection to it is the theory that it's about Irene Adler from "A Scandal in Bohemia," basically playing into her ex-boyfriend's slander of her as "an adventuress." 

It was written by a Chicago lawyer John D. Black in the 1920s according to one source I found (Editor's Note: That source is dead wrong, according to Washington sources. You know.). The A.S.H. website places it in 1936, being written by a couple named Willis. It got sung around some male-only East coast clubs in the late forties and early fifties, because . . . well, oooo, boy, guys! Hotsy-totsy, woo-woo-woo! The wives aren't here, so let's sing about the naughty lady! (Look, that's the way they talked in the 1940s, don't blame me!)

So, Irene Adler, whom Holmes had in his book as "Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto -- hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw -- yes! Retired from operatic stage -- ha! Living in London -- quite so!"  Holmes liked the opera, and seemed impressed by her credentials before he'd even seen the woman. But nothing in that book about partying her way into lavish gifts from her lovers, as seems to have been Aunt Clara's career. (Inevitable side note: Aunt Clara could more properly identified as Mrs. Hudson for those of us familiar with the movie Holmes & Watson.)

Taking a woman who properly earned her place by work in the arts and going "Yeah, she really got everything she had from dudes!" is some real 1950s men's club thinking. One message of the song is "Hey, mom, don't slut-shame your sister-in-law!" (The fact she couldn't just take the picture off the wall entirely implies that her husband was making her keep it on the wall.) -- a message that seems more feminine than masculine. And was this song even meant to be sung by guys? I mean, the singer is kinda going, "Yeah, I'm gonna seduce me some rich and powerful men in Europe and make bank!" Not saying a guy couldn't do that, with the look, make some abs . . . but not most Sherlockian males I know.

It's just a weird thing all around when you start actually thinking about it. And siding with a royal villain about a Canonical character who has been more maligned than any other over the last hundred years. The B.S.I. brought it back to their annual dinner the same year they started letting women into the club, too, which might not be something we want to call out as time moves on. Am I being too "awokened" upon this topic? Back to poking bears, as I've been wont to do on occasion?

I dunno. Just seems a little problematic when we could just find a better song for group sing-a-longs. (Nobody ever does "Aunt Clara" on karaoke nights. "Baker Street" works just fine.) 

The Midwest BSI Canonical Conclave 2025, or Last Weekend

 It was Thursday before I went 24 hours without talking at length to some Sherlockians.

But then there that twelve straight hours last weekend of doing nothing but talking to Sherlockians. It's taken me a while to get the time to stop and reflect upon those twelve hours. And I'm probably going to be reflecting upon them for a while, so let's get the bare bones of the story out of the way.

I went to Indiana. The three and a half hour drive crosses a time zone and makes it a four and a half hour drive going East, so I wasn't able to make it for lunch but grabbed a sandwich at a Penn Station in Brownsburg before committing fully to Indianapolis.

1:30 P.M. -- The Midwest BSI Canonical Conclave begins. I arrive at the Woodstock Club, winding through its surrounding golf course to the grand hundred-year-old clubhouse. Four bookbags filled to various volumes dangle from my arm, carrying deliveries from Iowa, a display, a notebook, chronology guild handbooks, some snacks, and a few random impulse items. At the registration table, I get a name tag, enter a fifty-fifty drawing, draw a name for an icebreaker game, and pick up an additional book bag with the event materials in it.

Two tasks must be done immediately: a.) Deliver one book bag to Scott Monty as instructed by parties who shall remain unnamed, just to intrigue the reader, and b.) Take my display materials for our local Sherlockian society to the area reserved for said display.

It's probably hard to see the display for the Hansoms of John Clayton in the photos of the two display tables because the one foot by three foot reserved spaces were a bit crowded for easy delineation and some societies had arrived early to take up a bit more space. The display was also back in the furthest corner of the event space, so I'm not sure how many people got to see it. The societies display situation was, perhaps, the one thing in the whole day that just didn't really work, so let's get that out of the way up front. And it was the first thing I had to deal with, so there's that.

When you first entered, however, the 221B Baker Street display was well worth a look.

The pictures don't really capture the amount of detailed bits and pieces were present to remind one of that famous sitting room. Tantalus, check! Gasogene, check! Harpoon that Holmes carried back from the butcher shop in "Black Peter," check! So many things! There was a rumor that the number of scones that Mrs. Hudson placed on a plate next to the butter with parsley on it diminished as the day went but that was surely just hearsay.

Of course, let's not active like there weren't almost a hundred people there to meet, re-meet, and spy upon, for opposite the 221B display was a cash bar . . . and people.

2:00 P.M. -- We gather in the next room full of tables, and the program proper begins.

Steve Doyle is the master of ceremonies, with his opening remarks on the importance of Sherlockian societies and also some words from the head of the Baker Street Irregulars, Michael Kean, who could not attend. Steve said he'd already been asked "When's the next one?" even before the program started, and then started having people stand up by how many scions they belong to. Unfortunately there were no therapists present to help those final people standing up with their addiction to joining clubs.

2:30 P.M. Mike McSwiggins talks about Sherlockian Chronology, starting with an explanation of how "Reigate Squires" definitely took place on the day of the Conclave. Since my own chronology agrees with his assertion, I was good with that. 

He went from the simple calculation of the date of "Reigate Squire/Squires/Puzzle" to the complexities of working out the date of "Silver Blaze," as he related the joys and sorrows of chronology. During the Q and A that followed, someone asked "What percentage did Baring-Gould get right?" and his answer was perfect: "Ten." As much as people are drawn toward the timeline Baring-Gould set in his well-published Annotated, it does tend to have some pastiche-y choices to fit the editor's narrative. (Dakin is Mike's choice for best in the field.)

In retrospect, Mike's talk on Sherlockian chronology seemed the oddest piece to the puzzle of the Midwest BSI Canonical Conclave. True, Mike is a very entertaining speaker. And also true, Sherlockian chronology has had quite a low-grade vogue of late amongst the hobby. But what did it have to do with scion societies, as most of the program seemed to be focusing on? I'm still not sure. But we did enjoy it, and one could not ask for a better lead-off to the "It's not a conference, but it is a conference" vibe of the affair.

2:40 P.M. -- The last time I will be accurately recording in this blog, as the schedule was about to go off the rails a bit from the "Roll Call of Scions." Steve Doyle read off the list of Sherlockian societies which someone in attendance listed as their primary group, and the members of each stood up when their group was called. Many societies have always boosted their census with "corresponding members" who just subscribed to the group's publications. Now Zoom meetings have done the same, so when you saw a person standing up for local groups that are hundreds and hundreds of miles from each other, it came as no surprise. (Though more than one person does occasionally travel hundreds of miles to a local scion meeting.) And, of course, the Illustrious Clients of Indianapolis had the highest body count, being the host society for the event.

The roll call itself could have easily been predictable length on the agenda, but it was followed by the opportunity for a representative from each Sherlockian group to go to the podium and speak for a minute about their group. Of the nearly hundred people in attendance a good fourth to a third of them lined up to speak, with Steve Doyle administering a police whistle after a minute's time. (Which, like the Academy Awards walk-off music, did not always work.)

It was both a good time to hit the restroom down the hall and also to thoroughly peruse the handouts table and gather up the dozens of brochures, one-sheets, and free books if you were in line to speak about your group, as the line was so long that it wound right past the handouts table.

So many handouts!

3:10 P.M. (on the program, not reality) -- The scion roll call and mini-talks was followed by a full half hour break. The half hour breaks were one of the major niceties of the event. There were no dealer's tables as has become a conference staple, but there was a cash bar in the next room, so it basically made the afternoon an ongoing cocktail party with plenty of opportunity for socializing.

3:40 P.M. (on the program, not reality) -- Door prizes were offered up once everyone was summoned back to their seats, and we had all drawn the name of someone else in attendance when we first arrived. The icebreaker game involved was that you had to find that person and learn a fun fact about them so that if your name got called for a door prize, you had to tell who that person was and tell the fact to claim the prize. In a room full of strangers, I think I would have found this icebreaker off-putting and forced, but at this event, if you didn't know the person whose name you got, you could pretty much ask one of your current acquaintances to point them out for you and introduce you. I helped a couple of people with this, as did many others. This was not a room full of strangers.

The name I picked was David Zauner, whose name I didn't recognize immediately, but once I found him, I went "Oh, yeah, I know David." Sherlockiana is like that, as you definitely meet more people that your brain can hold over the years. His fun fact, as a forensics expert, was that he was once able to pull a fingerprint in blood from a pair of jeans to identify a suspect. But I did not win a door prize, so I didn't get to announce that to the room.

3:45 P.M. (on the program, not reality) -- Jim Hawkins gave a talk on John Bennett Shaw and that great Sherlockian career that resulted in Sherlock Holmes society after Sherlock Holmes society being created across the country, after Shaw started his first one in 1967. One key fact I learned from Jim's talk was that Shaw's famous weekend workshops on Holmes were inspired by the schedule of a Ron DeWaal workshop Shaw had attended in Denver. Having been to a few of the twenty Shaw workshops, I was familiar with the patterns of his events and wondered why no one has re-created one since Shaw passed in the nineties. A few folks I mentioned this idea to loved the idea, and I don't want to say anything just yet, but it might result in something. One of the hopes for this event was that all this gathering and opportunity for talk might result in energy and ideas, so I would definitely say it succeeded.

4:00 P.M. (on the program, not reality) -- The highlight of the entire day had to be Annie Turano, a violinist who played the Granada "Baker Street Suite" from the Brett show's soundtrack. Pamela Wampler give a nice introduction about Patrick Gower's work, and then . . . well, hearing that music played live for the first time was more of a treat that one realizes. This was the third time for many Illustrious Clients present, as they were introduced to it unexpectedly at the funeral for someone very important to their organization, Don Curtis, an unimaginable moment.

4:15 P.M. (on the program, not reality) -- Another half hour break, definitely appropriate after that last bit.

4:45 P.M. (on the program, not reality) -- Back for door prizes and fun facts.

4:50 P.M. (on the program, not reality) -- With nearly one hundred people present, we actually had a discussion. Steve Doyle opened the floor for any topic people wanted to bring up about Sherlockian societies, their care and feeding. Much of the talk leaned toward concerns about new members, younger members, continuity into the future, capturing history to carry into the future, the sort of thing an aging population tends to worry about. And I'll be honest, sometimes I feel like all this worry about making sure what we have now will exist in the future costs us a bit of that future. You don't want to just watch slideshows of your grandparents vacations -- you want to have your own vacations. Tradition and history are great for seasoning and framework, but we can't spend too much of our time archiving and miss doing the things that make life worth writing about. There are plenty of younger Sherlockians out there, we can't always just sit in our habitual place and wait for them to come to us. (I did bring up good ol' 221B Con, the party held by younger Sherlockians for younger Sherlockians that the traditional lot tended to avoid like cooties.)

5:10 P.M. (on the program, not reality) -- Sherlockian Show-and-Tell commenced, with Steve Doyle explaining that he had found while many Sherlockians didn't want to get up and give a speech or a toast, they would get over their fear of public speaking to talk about a cherished Sherlockian item from their collection. And some people did bring very cherishable items to tell the tale of. Much envy was had.

5:50 P.M. (on the program, not reality) -- Scott Monty got the group singing that old BSI standard "Aunt Clara," told the history of the thing, then let singing of it's sequel song.

One more final pre-dinner break while the country club staff hustled to get table bits set out for a banquet at the same tables we'd been at all day, clearing glassware and brining new full glasses, etc. And then...

6:30 P.M. (I think we were finally close to back on schedule, but who knows?) --

Food. My compliments to the Woodstock Club kitchen that they were able to serve a very nice meal to such a crowd. Enjoyed it a lot. It had been quite a while since lunch. I might have found a new reason not to be fond of the old "Aunt Clara" staple out of hanger. But I held it together. Also, the dessert (not pictured) was a small chocolate sundae with as much chocolate syrup as ice cream. Curiously, I found there was no problem with that at all. Also, the iced tea they had available all day for non-drinkers was pretty good iced tea. Other people were dining there that Saturday night. Prom kids were outside getting their pictures taken. The Woodstock Club seemed quite a lovely venue.

And, of course, this being a Sherlockian banquet, we had to have toasts. It was a nice change that all the toasts were not to the usual four or five subjects. We got Christopher Morley by Ira Matetsky, Vincent Starrett by Bob Sharfman, the original eight scion societies by Scott Monty, Elmer Davis by Louise Haskett, Clifton R. Andrews by Shelly Gage, and, saving the best for last, Jay Finley Christ by Rudy Altergott.

7:30 P.M.  -- Post-dinner break, a good time to pack up one's scion display.

7:45 P.M. -- A short talk called "What Binds Us" by Mark Walters. I had quit taking notes by that point, and my memory isn't what it used to be.

8:00 P.M. -- Closing remarks by a very pleased Steve Doyle for a memorable event that exceeded expectations. Bringing together a room full of what John Bennett Shaw called "sparking plugs," those key people who make societies happen, and you're gonna have a good time.

8:15 P.M. -- A final musical bit to end the evening, Ann Lewis singing her adaptation of Vincent Starrett's poem "221B" in song, accompanied by her music arranger Andrew Motyka. It would inspire some things later in the evening, but wait for that.

8:25 P.M.? -- Good-byes are never easy, so I bolt for the car so I can get to the Holiday Inn Express, check in, and see who turns up.

9:00-ish P.M. -- Standing in the lobby of the Holiday Inn Express when I get a call from Rob Nunn of the "Where are you, what are you doing?" sort.  Very shortly after, Rob, Max, Rudy, and I head to a bar called "Gatsby's Pub and Grill" across the parking lot from the hotel. Beverages and munching pizza follow.

My only photo from the bar

Fun fact: My favorite character on CBS's Watson is Dr. Darian. The name of our waitress at Gatsby's was actually Darian. Though she wasn't a doctor, she did administer our . . . wait . . . why didn't I order brandy? Ah, well.

Other Sherlockians show up eventually, after trying another bar first, Kira, Adam, Ira, Anatasia, and Madeline, and Rob Nunn keeps talking about Sherlockians as Muppets. We encouraged him with many suggestions. And he wrote them up, posting most of them. 

Interspersed with Rob's Muppet chat, we were in a karoake bar with karaoke happening in the far corner. And we like to do karaoke, but not this night. Noooo, this night I was inspired by the singing of Vincent Starrett's "221B" that closed out the Conclave. So I started trying to sing the words "221B" with every other song on the karaoke list. And people started joining in. Our proudest moment, and making our way through the entire song in hearty bar-room voices, was singing "221B" to the tune of "Folsom Prison Blues." We may have had to stretch a few syllables here and there, but it kinda worked. And what's a night of drinking without some bellowed singing that confuses the other bar patrons?

Ah, but no matter how glorious any twelve hours of Sherlockian fellowship might be, it has to come to an end some time. And 2:21 A.M. is for those much younger and heartier than myself. So ...

There would be Sherlockian breakfast in the Holiday Inn Express complimentary breakfast area. Sherlockians would continue to appear to dine. But I had to force myself out the door and on the road to get home in time for the John H. Watson Society zoom where I ran a slide show of the pics that are on this blog (and a few more -- this is the edited edition). We talked about the Midwest BSI Canonical Conclave there a bit, and we talked about it a bit more on another Zoom I was on, and a Google hang-out, and ... well, we'll probably be talking about this one for a while.