A Study in Jelly Bellies.

These kids today!

Forget the violent video games, tonight I learned that children . . . THE CHILDREN, I TELL YOU! . . . are emulating one of the first and foremost killers of both the old Canon and the new Canon. And they don't even know they are doing it, being slowly trained in his deadly methodology without their knowing it by a corporate entity. If I was utterly paranoid and a Mormon, I would be quite concerned right now . . . quite concerned!

What am I talking about?

Well, you remember Jefferson Hope, don't you? The American avenger or the death-game cabbie who would present his victims with two pills, one harmless and one a deadly poison. And then he would let them choose . . . "You take one and I shall take one." A fifty-fifty chance of life or death! And somehow, Hope always seemed to come out on top, either proving his cause was blessed by some higher (or lower) power, or he was just one lucky son of St. Louis.

Now, the Jelly Belly company has come out with their Jelly Belly BeanBoozled line . While they previously came out with some very awful flavors in their Bertie Botts Any Flavor line based on the Harry Potter books, now they seem to be taking a page from A Study in Scarlet and matching those gag-worthy beans with tasty flavors in IDENTICAL beans.

Are you getting a tutti-frutti jelly bean, or a stinky socks bean?

Are you getting the classic buttered popcorn bean, or rotten egg flavor?

Suddenly, Jelly Belly has turned a generation into Jefferson Hopes, challenging their little friends to a starter-game of "Which pill is the poison?"

What's next? Nerf harpoons to aim at their little friends' chests?

Of course, the use by mature adults in a controlled Sherlockian gathering environment to experimentally simulate the Jefferson Hope murders for their own intellectual study . . . that could be a constructive use of these beans for higher purposes, and I would encourage students of Sherlock Holmes to do as much testing as possible upon their friends while these Study in Scarlet Jelly Bellies are still on the market.

"I could image his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid," Stamford once said of Sherlock Holmes, in explaining him to a pre-Sherlocked Watson, "not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of enquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects."

Having a friend try a new energy drink is doing that very thing (caffeine is an alkaloid), and jelly beans are much less dangerous than those devil's brews, so even if you're more of a Stamford than a Sherlock Holmes, your conscience might let you get away with such a test.

 If you are a mature adult of course. We don't need the kiddies getting any ideas for their future cab-driving careers.

Done and done with August.

T'were I truly a dedicated Sherlockian, I might have spent yesterday working over the remaining blanks on the annual John H. Watson Society Canonical Treasure Hunt, but instead the day was happily spent at the local Erin Feis where I could indulge those Celtic quarters of my roots and listen to a very delightful band with a bagpiper. The one moment of Sherlockian thought all day was trying to decide if I wanted to buy a keychain with the Moriarty crest on it or have another pastie.

But as with everything, there comes a time when one just has to bring it to a close and move on, so this morning I compiled a final list of answers and sent it off to my team's captain slapped my hands together in a "done and done!" gesture, and moved along. I still have to finish transcribing the leaked pilot to West of Baker Street, the Sherlock Holmes TV show that doesn't exist in this reality, before September and the fall season kicks in as well. After all, what good is an episode recap of a leaked pilot if the season has already started!

It will be good to have this mad August over, in any case, and get back to more interesting stuff. I was tweeted a link to what one assumes are some kind of transcripts of some improvised cases of Sherlock Holmes from a Chicago improv group, and I'm still puzzling over those a bit. As the group performs in that area of Chicago where one finds it slightly difficult to find a place to keep one's automobile handy for escaping the city after the show, I probably won't be seeing the show in its best-consumed form. But having participated in a lot of group-writes of Holmes stories, which are basically silent literary improv of a sort, it's interesting to try to see what stage-folk produce when attempting their version of it.

And I think the last bit of this month will involved some clean-up of the old Sherlockian library room, which has been a mess occasionally referred to in this blog. When one has an extra room or two in the house and can devote the whole of one to Holmes, it would seem like a very good thing . . . at first. But once one ceases to go in there other than to find a particular book or toss something into be sorted later . . . well, the sorting bill comes due at some point.

Ah, August. What a month you were. So looking forward to September.

Where I draw the line . . . .

This question. This question right here.

61. Out of the natural order of things, these villains, one committing assault and one committing murder, were themselves intended to be used as tools in the commission of other crimes. Which assaulter and which murderer?

Followed by it's clue.

“#61: The compendiums/encyclopedias of Holmes (Clarkson, Goodrich, Tracey) have compiled lists of ‘types of death’, or ‘murders’. I would focus on these deaths as these are very specific and fewer in number, perhaps, than assaults. “Out of the natural order” is provided as a clue for you to consider. For example, Sebastian Moran committing murder or assault would certainly not be out of the natural order of things–this behaviour from him would very much be expected. So you are looking for a death inflicted upon another by an entity that would not be expected to commit murder–a death caused by this entity would be very surprising; going against ‘nature’ so to speak. Once you add the surprise to the given information that the entity was to be used in the commission of another crime, the ‘murderer’ you seek should be much easier to find. You find this unexpected death, and a similar assault will come to mind perhaps.”

We're down to the last five days of the annual John H. Watson Society Canonical Treasure Hunt, and after doggedly pounding through the questions, one by one, flipping and twirling and cranking up old devices in search of answers, driven by sheer obsessive compulsive tendencies when all else fails, it's time to play arteest, wave my lace ponce hankey and go, "No, too much clew! Too much explanation! Too much! Too much! Too much!" (And they didn't even mention the Harrington! Good god, man, the Harrington! The quiet competitor to the Goodrich, the Harrington, which even now sits open upon my desk . . . along with the Clarkson and the Goodrich. Yes, kids, there was a time before Mr. Moonfind . . .)

I'm not done with the quiz, of course. Just refusing to answer that question. Taking that one percent of control of my life back. Letting my team-mates have a go, unless they, too, decide to stand with me in protest of that villainous number sixty-one. Let others win with one hundred percent! We shall stop at ninety-nine and retain our dignity!

Or not . . . who knows what mad answers may appear in the blanks after the questions when this month is done? Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures seem! Owen and George agree with me, don't you, boys?

Five . . . more . . . days. Five. But no matter what brain fever this hell-quiz wrecks upon my senses, it still won't be enough to convince me to watch another season of Elementary, I promise you that. 

Owen might. And Brenda will stare at whatever is on in front of her these days. But George? No way! You go, George!

Ozymandias did know how to party, but I don't see him bringing a pie to my house.

Last week, I spent the better part of a day writing an essay about the Undershaw situation that never saw the light of blog. Conan Doyle's former home is now the focal point of some ill will in among the fans of the author, and yet another article showed up about it yesterday: "Is Undershaw a House of Cards?" by Luke Kuhns. I suppose the title refers to the possibility it could all come tumbling down, and not that willful, corrupt polticians are involved, as in either of the House of Cards TV shows, and looking at the pictures that accompany Kuhns' article, one can see that there is that danger.

Undershaw is a house ravaged by time and neglect already. Its clock is ticking, and, unfortunately, it seems that those who would like to preserve it could very well cause its collapse by trying too hard to control how it passes into the future.

It's not an issue that is new to us in Sherlock Holmes fandom. If you don't count religions as fandoms, we're perhaps the oldest game out there, and we've seen our share of those who would attempt to freeze a moment in amber, keeping some aspect of the past alive well past its enjoyment expiration date. It can be as simple as taking up a credo of "No one will ever do X as well as Y did," and refusing to take in anything new in that field. Or it can be a ambitious as attempting to institutionalize one's own view of what Sherlockian culture should be.

It can be the work of our inner child, shouting, "Again! Again!" one too many times after a moment of great fun. It can be the work of our inner ancient, fighting to shape some sort of legacy to outlive our frail and ephemeral forms. The motives are quite natural and can even be noble, when one truly is trying to give something to others . . . note I said give something to others. Whether or not they take it is still up to them.

Because as we move into the future, we tend to only carry those things with us that are of use to us, in the world in which we currently exist. Conan Doyle's home, still standing in some form, can be a beacon, a touchstone, a wonderful thing. Conan Doyle's restored kitchen cupboards, exactly as they were when he lived there? Not seeing a lot of good in those.

Not far from Peoria is the town of Hannibal, Missouri, where Mark Twain's boyhood home has entertained sight-seers for over a hundred years. Mark Twain is like America's Shakespeare. (Hey, we're a young country, we take what we can get!) But England already had a Shakespeare, as well as just about every great name in English literature, for obvious reasons. Conan Doyle doesn't exactly have the rarity and tourist value of a . . . well, let's be blunt, a Sherlock Holmes . . . or a Mark Twain. If there was money in selling tickets to Undershaw, it wouldn't be in the shape it's in now.

But sometimes, we can carry the past forward into the future in a way that's still meaningful, with a few necessary modifications. The steamboat that runs out of Mark Twain's hometown, for example, has a diesel engine. Steam boilers would take far too much maintenance to provider all of the riverboating joy that that steamboat brings to tourists all summer long on the mighty Mississippi. Undershaw could still have meaning and importance with the changes that putting a school on those grounds might entail. And do good work besides.

I will admit to being far from conservative. I enjoy change, perhaps a little too much. So you really shouldn't take my opinions on preservation of historical records. (Honestly? I even think the B.S.I. archives at Harvard are a bit over-the-top.) But in recognizing my own prejudices, I also know that there's a flip side to that coin -- those who enjoy a perpetual state of sameness a little too much. Our best path always falls somewhere in between.

Time for a montage!

Ten days left in the annual John H. Watson Society Canonical Treasure Hunt.

Those who have attempted this hundred question test might be feeling a little battered and bruised at this point -- slamming yourself into an immovable object repeatedly will do that to you. And we bookish sorts are not that sturdy to begin with. Staring blankly at a question for far too long, when you could be doing something that might even be fun, is a symptom more than a few of us have had at this point, especially as one's efforts drive one late into the evening.

This is the point we give up, right? The point we say "Screw this!" to the Spartan diet of Canonical queries and gorge on life outside the sixty stories. The place where we quietly back away from the contest and hope that nobody remembers we took up the initial challenge. The moment when we remember we're just a half-wit bruiser from Philly who can in no way stand up to a title shot against the heavyweight champion of the world.

At this point, you don't even have to win. You've seen how easy it would be to just give up and not finish it. And other people are going to do that. But are you other people?

God, I hope not. Other people suck. Don't be one of them.

Just get back up, do a few push-ups to rev your engine and see what your will is capable of forcing your skinny arms to do, and finish the ten days. (Or eight. No sense in risking missing the deadline.)

Let me tell ya something, kid. This quiz was written by a human. And what are you?

As a very wise man once said, "What one man can invent another can discover." I can't tell you how often I've used that one. Personally, it's been of more use to me than any other quote from that oh-so quotable fellow. 

Who said it and when he said it, is something I'll leave as one more puzzle for you. If you don't know it, you should. Because sometimes, having to struggle with something brings out better things in us. Like reminding me where that very quote came from . . . I had pretty much forgotten where that came from, even thinking it came from somewhere else than it actually did. Until this latest little ordeal of Sherlock's own . . . .

Back to the push-ups.

Konnichiwa, Mr. Elementary!

(Possible spoilers. Stop at any time.)

It's hard for the average American to understand the anime culture of Japanese television. I sure don't get it. Buy, ya know, you really don't have to understand why something exists to appreciate it. Most great art is like that.

In a discussion with friends this evening, the subject of popular anime came up, and on the list, as we discussed some we'd seen and enjoyed and those we hadn't seen, a show called Death Note came up. I didn't learn more than the name, and that it was "a little dark," so when I found a little time on my hands when I got home, I pulled it up on Netflix.

The premise, in the first 22-minute episode, was simple, supernatural, and well laid out: A good student comes upon a notebook that will cause the death of anyone whose name is written within it. And he decides that he can use it. Not a bad little premise, and one stripped bare for its short run time. A live action American show would have added a goofball best friend and an unrequited love interest and padded it out to double the twenty-two minute run time. This, however, was rather simple and elegant in its lack of such stock trappings.

So, supernatural show, you wonder . . . what does it have to do with Sherlock Holmes?

The second episode, which I immediately watched after the first, laid down the central conflict for the show. The greatest detective in the world takes an interest in the mysterious deaths caused by the notebook. Is the greatest detective in the world Sherlock Holmes?

Well, no. Because if he was named "Sherlock Holmes," and someone wrote that name in the notebook, he'd be dead, right?

No, in Death Note, the greatest detective in the world is named "L," and the one person who can contact him is named "Watari."  Close enough for me.

But "L" having a Watson isn't just what makes him the Sherlock of his universe. He's a clever fellow, and after watching the first two episodes of this show, I'm eagerly awaiting the battle of wits to come.

Just after watching forty-four minutes of what many in this country would dismiss as "a cartoon."

Yet a cartoon that gets right much of what a lot of shows with live actors just can't seem to pull together. Not sure where the show goes from here, good, bad, or indifferent, but I'm looking forward to finding out. There are those who like to say "any Sherlock is good Sherlock," but I've always stuck with "anyone as good as Sherlock is good Sherlock." I don't need the name, just the spirit.

And I think I've happily found that spirit once more. Your mileage may vary, but, hey, it's your mileage. Go where you like, and I shall as well.

This season, following Death Note for a time.

Oh, torturous August!

At the end of last month, I wrote about my little bitterness with the Sherlockian quiz and past encounters with that devilish device. I thought I had seen the worst punishments a quiz could inflict. I thought there was no more damage a quiz could do.

I thought wrong.

Every other quiz I cited in that previous post had one thing in common: They were administered live and in person, and the quizmaster was forced to stay in the room for us for every minute that their tortures were going on. At the point the quizmaster could take it no more, time was called, and we were all free to win or lose and go on with our lives.

I've seen long-form tests of Sherlockian knowledge before with no time limit, administered by one entity or another with the inducement of some title or honorific bestowed by the quizmaster if one completed the test. Sherlockians who want to prove themselves are never in short supply, so such things do get done . . . eventually . . . and often with the help of every ally the test-taker can muster. But I've avoided those monsters, choosing to spend my time enjoying Sherlock Holmes in other fashions.

But as I wrote back in July, this year I thought "what the heck" and agreed to participate in the Annual John H. Watson Society Canonical Treasure Hunt, not fully considering the fact that the hundred-question quiz goes on for the ENTIRE MONTH OF AUGUST. And as one plays this game on a team, it's a little less conducive to just walking away . . . one can't let one's team down, can one?

My team has got most of the questions done, but now we're coming down to those vexing matters where one is just trying, not to test one's knowledge of the Holmes stories, but to just understand what the question-writer is getting at. And putting down PRECISELY THE RIGHT ANSWER. We've all been busy this month, so time is a hot commodity and one can only comb through a particular story so many times. And let's not even get into matters of editions.

Straight-forward questions have never been the staple of the most notable Sherlockian quiz. John Bennett Shaw was famous for tormenting attendees of his workshops with trick questions like "Case history of a character in Gone with the Wind" or "If baseball was played in southern England, the man who would 'call em' would be?" Shaw liked puns and word-play, and it helped to have a certain looseness of the mental faculties to pick up his train of thought. But, as I mentioned earlier, Shaw was usually there, giving you the answers within an hour or less, and letting you laugh at the places he'd tricked you.

Perhaps Shaw knew that Sherlockiana contains among its ranks some dangerous obsessive-compulsives who would gnaw at a puzzling bone for years on end, should you challenge them just so. So he didn't put out his quizzes WITH A MONTH LONG TIMELINE.

My fellow Peoria Sherlockian, Melissa Anderson, commented earlier that "my team could not always maintain generous feelings toward [the Treasure Hunt's previous quiz-master] during the Hunt," so I hope that she and Margie Deck, this year's interrogator, take my all-caps statements with the understanding that THEY'RE BEING MADE UNDER DURESS.

And this is just the mid-way point of August.

I should have known better. Truly, I should have.