The Philip Jose Farmer we did not see on Sherlock Holmes

I was perusing a local used book store Saturday and looking appreciatively at their selections from Peoria's local science fiction great, Philip Jose Farmer. Even though his name might not be as well known among the younger generations, his popular Riverworld series made the best-seller lists and even had an attempt at a TV series. For the Sherlockian, his The Adventure of the Peerless Peer is a nice little addition to the collection. First teaming Holmes up with Tarzan, and later, when the Burroughs estate ruled otherwise, rewritten with Mowgli as "The Adventure of the Three Madmen."

Sherlock Holmes, as Farmer wrote him, was that classic elder Sherlock of pre-Cumberbatch times. Farmer, it should be noted, did not think to write of Sherlock Holmes as a sexual being. This might not seem like an odd thing to most, as so many authors of the last century left Holmes mostly asexual. But Philip Jose Farmer? Did you ever read what he did with his two favorite younger heroes, Tarzan and Doc Savage?

It's been a while, and full details escape me, except for a particular pair of steel fangs and a slaver who liked jungle men a little too much, but if you know the full length and breadth of Philip Jose Farmer's works, you know that even fifty years ago, he was getting stuff in print that would do any modern writer of fanfic proud with its level of sexual detail and kink. He even did name-changed clones of his favorite pulp heroes to get them a little lusty adventures of the flesh.

But not Sherlock Holmes.

Had Phil Farmer still be writing when Benedict Cumberbatch showed us that Sherlock Holmes could still be a young and oddly-sort-of virile chap, one wonders where he might have gone with one of his favorite heroes along those lines. Not that there's any void of that sort of thing at the moment, needing to be filled, but still, a Peorian who spent his college years soaking in Farmer's works has to wonder what stories the author might have told.

Would Sherlock have appeared in A Feast Unknown, with his own clone to match those of Tarzan and Doc Savage? (Lord Grandrith and Doc Caliban) Or might he have struck out on his own dark sexual adventures, turning his acute senses and focus to pleasures of the flesh? One thing is for certain -- given the freedom writers now have with Holmes, and Philip Jose Farmer's love of playing in other authors' toy boxes, I think we would have seem something more than an older John Watson getting a little randy about a jungle girl in The Adventure of the Peerless Peer. ("The older the buck, the stiffer the horn," to quote Farmer's Watson.)

But the era of Philip Jose Farmer is long over, and we've got many a new writer to try their hand at exploring Holmes's bedroom potential . . . many a newer writer, he wrote, heading back to his fanfiction marathon.

The Three Patch Podcast Challenge

It's December second, and I'm insane.

Why, you ask? Maybe it's failing this year's November NaNoWriMo spectacularly. Maybe it's the fear of an oncoming Christmas season that will not be ignored. Or maybe I just really needed to push my boundaries.

It's the beginning of the month, and the Three Patch Podcast has recently come out, as it usually does, thanks to some really hardworking folks. It's a huge podcast, a lot to listen to, and what's even more huge: a lot to completely digest. In the current episode, Episode 86: The Curtain Rises, there are over forty fic recommendations for the listener to follow up on. Over forty of varying lengths, and fics can be huge!

Now, as Sherlock Holmes is oft said to be a "literary" fandom, a phrase which to some means "the Doyle, and nothing but the Doyle," I sometimes feel like Sherlockiana as a whole has not quite realized the gold mine that has been growing beneath our feet. Writers are growing and developing in the fertile soil of Sherlock in land that many pre-judged years ago as a barren trash-field. I've had some good experiences reading in that land, however, and trust me, I don't just accept any old crap as good writing. In fact, it's getting harder and harder to find writers that hold my attention.

Which brings me to the reason I'm insane today. Not because I've enjoyed a bit of fanfic, and even written a minute amount. No, because I'm making December my first ever attempt at what I call "the Three Patch Podcast Challenge." Because I feel like that podcast challenges me every episode, and I've never taken them up on said challenge before, though I'm sure many have. What challenge, you ask?

I'm going to attempt to read every single fic rec from this month's Three Patch episode notes in the month the podcast came out. As I said, it's over forty. Is that even possible? Hell if I know, I'm just pointing at a mountain peak and going, "There! That's where I'm headed!" Since fic-work can range from a single short story to an ongoing, massive novel-length work, titles alone give no clue as to what lies out there. Chances are I may look ahead after testing the foothills of a first chapter and go, "NEXT!" But you have to head into those foothills to find out, don't you?

Blog posts of my progress will be coming, whether it's success or failure. But now that the idea has entered my head, the attempt must be made . . . because I'm just a little bit obsessive that way.

Truly insane? On a divine mission from a Sherlockian God? (You know, should She exist, She has to be a Sherlockian, don't you? Only makes sense.) Or just another foolish dream destined to be dashed against the rocks of reality?

We shall see. Off I go . . . . I'll report back in a few days. Send a search party if you don't hear from me by Friday.

His best friend and his true love?

There's a concept that diamond marketers and I have long disagreed upon. As one more tool in their push to convince people they need diamonds to make relationships function, the advertising folks like to use the phrase "for your best friend and your true love." And, to be blunt, that has always seemed to me to be shorting folks one relationship in their lives to deal with the insecurities of another.

If you've truly found such a person and still want to make that claim after the honeymoon phase of a relationship is done, well, congratulations. But there's a test that my best friends have passed that a true love rarely gets the chance to take, and when I look at Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson of the Doyle Canon, I see them passing with flying colors.

There is an old saying "absence makes the heart grow fonder" that doesn't really apply to best friends in my book. They were great friends to start, and when they go away for a time and return to your life, that same great friendship hasn't changed. It's like they never left. But when your true love leaves, you feel that absence like a hole in your being. You pine. You long. Your heart grows so much fonder that it hurts. And, if and when they return, well, things are not exactly the same as if they never left. (Probably a lot more sex at first, for one thing.)

John Watson of the original sixty stories is always leaving Sherlock Holmes, and every time he returns, they pick up where they left off. Sherlock Holmes even does that "I'm dead. Oh, no, I'm not!" thing and they still pick up right where they left off. To me, that smacks heavily of best friends.

Imagining the angst and drama of a true love that goes through all of the departures and reunions of Doyle's original duo makes their tale something so different that one can hardly focus on the mysteries they're solving. It would be interesting to see a Canon-faithful rewrite of the original sixty that delved into Holmes and Watson as each others' true love, the way Rob Nunn did a rewrite of the Canon with Holmes as a criminal in The Criminal Mastermind of Baker Street, and I know there are folks out there with the talent to do it. It would be a hard emotional journey for said writer, I'm sure, because a Sherlockian's every impulse is to see our two heroes happy . . . and I don't think all their comings and goings (titter if you must) would be a happy love story.

As best friends, though, they seem to do just fine. John can still have Mary for his true love, Sherlock can have crime as his true love, and Canon life goes on.

But, hey, if they were both best friends and true loves, maybe they could get a fancy diamond ring for each other out of the deal.

The high cost of a certain kind of Sherlocking

This week, I ran head-on into a little "sticker shock" at the price of a Sherlockian weekend that I was looking forward to. It's getting to be a common issue these days, and I'm not talking about a big New York weekend here. This was one of the non-airfare-involved ones.

For most of us, one of life's basic tenets is "How bad do you want it?" Nothing is completely out of reach, but it becomes a question of how hard you're willing to work, what you will sacrifice, and what other responsibilities you have. Sherlockian activity is definitely one of life's luxuries and not a necessity, as much as it might feel that way sometimes. And luxuries come after food, rent, taxes, daycare, medical insurance, and all that other no-fun stuff we do Holmes so we can ignore for a time.

(Yes, I said "do Holmes." Titter if you need to, titillation is what he's here for.}

Around the turn of the century, being a late baby-boomer, double-income, no-kids man-child sort made such choices a no-brainer (along with all those other late baby-boomer no-brain man-child choices one made back then . . . action figure shopping sprees, I mean, c'mon). But times change, and we now have more things to push money toward than ever before. Monthly Patreon support of our chosen artists, lists of software subscription fees, and all those other new bits that didn't exist a decade or two ago. So many choices!

Which takes us back to "How bad do you want it?" What takes priority?

At this point in my life, I have the advantage of a certain "been there, done that" dampening of desire. Certain speakers have been heard many times before, certain venues are no longer mysteries to be explored. And while I'd love to see all of my long-distance friends more often, at some point in a life of travels you just get too many of those to see them all. But there's also a feeling of incompleteness when certain Sherlockian travels were once a regular part of life, then aren't.

In the end, it seems to me to become less about re-living the past and more about deciding what is good for one's future. What activities offer a path into better Sherlocking ahead and not just trying to re-create moments that can never be re-created? Which big-ticket choices are an investment in Sherlockiana that might yield a future dividend and which are just another diversion in a world of diversions?

I think I've decided for me. You do you, and good luck!

Percy Phelps, love him or hate him?

"Because he's exactly the sort of mewling little snot you'd expect to be named Percy Phelps."

-- from "The Adventure of the Navel-Starer" by G.S. Denning

As parodies and revisionary writings continue to grow, it's inevitable that our re-readings of the one true Canon Sherlockian start being affected by same. And that is exactly what has happened with my latest re-read of "The Adventure of the Naval Treaty" following a recent reading of the first story/chapter in My Grave Ritual by G.S. Denning and a re-characterization of Percy Phelps much like the quote above.

Not that I was ever quite in love with Percy Phelps. Watson's line, "it seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him about the playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket," is perhaps the most prettily phrased way of explaining bullying ever written, and as we love Watson, Sherlockians tend to show bias in the reading of it. "Well, there must have been something about Percy that deserved that whacking, if Watson went in for it!" 

When Watson refers to Percy having an uncle who was a lord, he calls it "this gaudy relationship" . . . which makes one wonder if Percy liked to brag about it a bit. Just being related to a lord would not seem to be a "gaudy" thing in itself unless one wore it as a badge of honor. So Percy may have been a bit overly proud. But Watson thought Percy was brilliant, too, and who else did Watson know whom he also thought was a bit overly proud sometimes and definitely brilliant?

Yeah, that guy. The guy Watson loved best in his adult life.

And Watson does say he was "intimately associated with Phelps," even with all the shin-whacking. So, at this point, one starts to suspect that John Watson had a "type," and start looking for any other Holmes/Phelps similarities. Or other things.

Percy is still a young man, to Watson's eyes, and Watson, to Percy, is completely changed by his moustache. And on the very eve of being married, Phelps, being of a "sensitive nature" lets the theft of the naval treaty push him into a "brain fever" that seems to completely throw the brakes on any thought of marriage. And what does Phelps do immediately after deciding not to marry right away?

He writes John Watson. Very soon he is coming to spend the night at Baker Street, one of the few ever to rate that honor. He gets a Mrs. Hudson breakfast, and is the only person ever to kiss Sherlock Holmes, even if it is just on the hand. And Sherlock Holmes has some interesting final words for Percy Phelps at the case's end:

"I can only say for certain that Mr. Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust."

At this point, with the police on Harrison's trail and an expect capture possible, why does Percy Phelps need to worry about Harrison's mercy? Would anyone expect a physical attack once the treaty business is definitely done? Or is Holmes talking about Harrison showing mercy by not spreading certain facts about Percy Phelps that might not be public knowledge . . . and something one wouldn't want known in Victorian Britain.

In G.S. Denning's comic rewrite of "Naval Treaty," he creates a Percy Phelps that Watson cannot stand in the slightest. Going back to the original story, however, one starts to wonder if exactly the opposite were true. One doesn't even really need to leave the Doylean Canon to start shipping "Johrcy" if one looks at the case with a modern eye, which I'm sure has been done, even if my sleepy near-midnight brain can't quite remember it. So remind me if you get a chance.

Peoria's Sherlock Holmes Story Society meets tomorrow night at the North Branch library, so we'll see what they have to say.

P.S. I wanted to relate Phelps's "Dr. Ferrier" to a certain Lucy Ferrier that was, in a certain Doylean manuscript, Watson's first love. Curious place for that name to re-appear, eh wot?

"Can you ever forgive me?"

With January soon upon us, seeing the recent film Can You Ever Forgive Me? was evoking a certain New York weekend to me more than anything with Sherlock Holmes in it. The endless parade of bookstores, bars, and restaurants setting the scenes of the film have been the sort of mainstays of every trip to the city I can remember. And also, that touch of sadness a Midwestern native can find in the idea of living in a crowded old metropolis.

Can You Ever Forgive Me? is based on the life of Lee Israel, whose literary success and subsequent criminal failure seem very much life something many of our Sherlockian friends have the potential for, deep inside. And Israel's forgeries attempting to mimic Dorothy Parker take one back to the Algonquin Round Table, Christopher Morley, and the like, from an era many a Sherlockian have wanted to mimic over the years.

It's odd when something so completely non-Sherlockian evokes so much of one's Sherlockian life, as this movie did for me.

Even the scenes involving the stench of Israel's apartment, seemingly caused by a cat whose leavings were never cleaned up, reminded me of a Sherlockian we called "the cat man," whose massive book collection absorbed so much litter-box smell that a book from his house would have to spend at least a week in the garage to air out before it was in a state to read. Seeing the books lining the main character's apartment in that movie brought back some dreadful memories.

Oddly, for all the crime, alcoholism, and cat poo portrayed in Can You Ever Forgive Me?, there is a tone of sweetness there, and an empathy for those among us whose manner pushes people away at every turn . . . something else we are not unfamiliar with in Sherlockian circles. Ours is a community that shows kindness to the odd ducks, probably due to the fellow at the center of it all.

The title of the film Can You Ever Forgive Me? comes from something Lee Israel wrote while pretending to be Dorothy Parker, writing that she should have stationery printed up with the phrase, as often as it would come in handy. Sherlock Holmes might have done as well in getting some nice cards printed up for Watson, even though he never uses those exact words in asking Watson's forgiveness for Holmes's latest little betrayal.

And even that comes into play in the film, a bit of betrayal between friends. Sherlock-like? Maybe. But then again, when you're a Sherlockian, you tend to see a bit of your hobby everywhere, even in a movie that has nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes.

The Old Horse

After a long weekend of house cleaning, I find myself thinking a lot of a certain Conan Doyle creation . . . that isn't Sherlock Holmes.

After having a heart attack the year prior to his death, Conan Doyle drew a cartoon he titled "The Old Horse." In the cartoon, the old horse that represents Conan Doyle is pulling an overloaded wagon piled with all his life's work. And even though they are his accomplishments, his triumphs, they still weigh heavily on the boney nag, giving the indication that they are what wore him out and brought him to this place on the road.

While I am not quite as old, nor anywhere close to as accomplished as Doyle, going through the house cleaning, I saw the actual physical manifestations of decades of collecting and just hanging on to the detritus of a Sherlockian life. Box upon box, shelf upon shelf, raw materials for projects that both succeeded and didn't, enough that if I piled it up in one horse drawn wagon it would probably kill a lone horse.

"Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our lost loves are the worst," old Trevor told a young Sherlock Holmes in "The Gloria Scott." And even though all the things we've loved over the years too much to throw them out aren't ghosts, per se, and they aren't the worst, they're still there, awaiting your time and energy to deal with them before someone else one day has to.

But the leaves are raked, the kitchen is clean, and the laundry is all folded and put away, so the little dent I made in unloading my own version of that Doylean wagon amidst life's other chores will have to suffice for this holiday weekend.

I'd like to give an ominous word of warning like, "Be forewarned, ye younger than I, don't let that ye love pile too high." But these are limits we all have to test for ourselves. Just don't give yourself a heart attack before you get a feel for what Conan Doyle's "The Old Horse" can tell us, like he did.