Too much? Not yet!

 "I do too much," I say.

"Well, stop doing things!" the good Carter replies.

This scene plays out so much at Sherlock Peoria Central that you'd think we were running daily matinees.

September 1 is finally here and my "Blogaugust" goal of a blog post for each day of the month (but maybe not necessarily on that day) is over. I actually enjoy just sitting down and dumping out my thoughts on you kindly folks who find them worth a read, either due to a congenial topic or just side show strangeness. The very act of writing is a like a different sort of meditation for me, focusing my mind, distracting from other cares, and just getting to play with words. It's really the same as a diary or journal in a way, just one I'm willing to leave the little padlock open on.

"Web log," the root of "blog," makes it sound a bit like being on the web is being on an ocean or space voyage, and your browser needs a logbook to document your adventures. Which is not all that far from the truth. I suppose I could be writing pastiches, as there seems to be an ongoing market for those of late (at least for the publishing of them -- not sure how big the buying market actually is). But surely we're nearly out of Victorian word combinations to follow "The Adventure of the . . ."  (Hmm, I think there's a blog post there.)

Adding a podcast (or two) to one's internet resume is not helpful to one's blogging output, and adding a monthly newsletter to that, one can build a routine self-expectation of output that makes all those other projects one inevitably says "yes" to a little rougher to find time for. And one will say "yes." 

Add in some travels, a little sick time, all those lovely streaming shows . . . and one gets this past August, and a lot of statements of "I do too much."

But the thought of quitting any of it? Well, I've quit things before. I even did an actual "quiet quitting" of Sherlockiana itself in the early nineties, but that didn't take. But all of those things I've quit before have left their scar tissue. They don't make it easier to quit other ventures, they actually make it harder. You know what regret feels like from leaving a project behind, killing a website, ending a society or publication. You get haunted by those endings and their "might have been" alternate futures.

As I wrote about last post with the Occupants of the Empty House, sometimes things come to a natural end. At some point, we just can't do things any more for actual changes in our lives and the new barriers they bring. And hard choices have to be made.

But for me? For now? Well, "Blogaugust" may be done, but Sherlockiana is a playroom with far too many toys to go down for a nap just yet. (And from kid to adult, I fight sleep like it's come to steal my cookies.)

On we go.

The End of an Amazing Occupation

 Forty-five years of a Sherlock Holmes society without a major city feeding it Sherlockians. That's a feat.

Word came out this week that the Occupants of the Empty House will be closing its scion doors with a final meeting on Saturday, September 17th. Hard news to hear, but understandable. Organizations age with their membership, and without another generation's Sherlockians to hand the keys to, closing time is just a natural part of their lives. And as the 1970s and 1980s were a boom period for Sherlockian scion societies, we've seen a lot of those close up shop over the past three decades. The Occupants held out as long as they could, especially after the death of one of their most energetic members, but their time has finally come.

While it's very sad news, especially following the passing of Nicholas Utechin this week, we have to pause to look back at everything that was accompished in that forty-five year run. Its members came from all over Southern Illinois, holding dinner meetings at a variety of restaurants. As those restaurants often went out of business, as restaurants do, the Occupants eventually settled at Alongi's in Du Quoin, Illinois, where they held out for a very, very long time. (And where their final meeting will occur.)

Du Quoin, Illinois currently has a population of almost six thousand residents. It's not a big town. It's about an hour and a half from St. Louis and the societies there, and a half hour north of Carbondale, Illinois, the nearest college town. The group's first BSI member, Newt Williams, came from about forty-five minutes east around Herrin or Marion, if I remember correctly. (And I definitely remember spending a birthday weekend at an Occupants meeting in Marion.) It's really hard to convey the distance and amount of two-lane state highways involved in the Occupants existence from the start, but it's what always made the society something of a miracle.

One could get into their long-running monthly newsletter, The Camden House Journal, the many Christmas annuals, their Gasogene Books collection Commanding Views from the Empty House, the various items commemorating various occasions they produced, but as with any club, it is the people that leave the biggest mark on you. The late Gordon Speck and his travel partner Bill Cochran spread the club's goodwill across so much of Sherlockian America, whether it was the New York weekend, a Minneapolis symposium, Dayton, Indianapolis, or many another place Sherlockians gathered.

The Occupants of the Empty House actually spawned at least four other Sherlockian societies from the energies it built up in its membership, giving folks who wouldn't have connected with the Sherlockian world otherwise -- due to living in small towns in Southern Illinois -- a route into the greater hobby. That was always the sign of a really great Sherlock Holmes society, that ability to provide an entry ramp for those who would otherwise never know of the larger hobby, pre-internet. These days, you can just start googling and encounter things. Back in the eighties, you had to see a newspaper account, meet the right person, or just see a sheet of paper on a library bullletin board, and the Sherlockian societies those things led you two were key.

Ah, but time has its way with all of us, and there always comes a point when you have to pause and look back at what a great trip it has been, trying not to be as sorry for the loss as just glad you got to have it all to start with.

Thank you to everyone associated with the Occupants of the Empty House, and all who had a kindly thought in that direction over the years. It was a good run.

Candles of the Canon (and off to bed)

Ever think about the items of Victorian life that we don't really get too excited about in the Canon? Gasogenes? So cool! Basket chairs? Nice! Foolscap? Well, if you have to hand-write something, of course!  And then there are candles.

Candles.

The red wax candle of A Study in Scarlet, used by Jefferson Hope to illuminate his pill-based judgment of his prey, lighting the murder scene for the contable who discovered it, and left for Sherlock Holmes to consider at the scene.

There's the candle that Sherman the bird-stuffer lights when Watson knocks on his door after two in the morning after driving through "silent gas-lit streets." That same candle is used to introduce Watson to Toby.

Henry Baker seemed to have used many a candle to make his way upstairs after coming home at night, but he is far from the only one in the Canon making their way through the house at night with a candle to light their way. Even if a house was set up for gaslights, it's not like people were flipping switches as they walked into a room as we do now. Candles served an important purpose.

Effie Munro's daughter had "cozy, well-furnished apartment, with two candles burning upon the table and two upon the mantelpiece" at night. Four candles lighting the room was enough light for her to play and for Watson to consider it "a lighted room."

Candles on mantelpieces, candles as clues, Lestrade carrying a couple candles with him when needed -- Sherlock Holmes bending over with candle in hand is the first thing Watson sees the morning "Abbey Grange" begins. But the times are changing. Henry Baskerville's first thought about Baskerville Hall is. to put "a thousand candle-power Swan and Edison right here in front of the hall door" and get rid of the creepiness of the place. But once Watson gets inside his bedroom at the Hall, the Barrymores have filled it with enough candles that, with the brightly colored wallpaper, cheers things up without bringing Thomas Edison into the picture.

There are a lot of candles in a gothic tale like The Hound of the Baskervilles, probably more than the rest of the Canon put together. Candles were an everyday part of life in the Victorian era, yet they change the atmosphere of a room completely for the modern soul.  Even recreating a Canonical scene with candles just seems a little ominous? Four candles lit up little Lucy Hebron's playroom, which is cool enough, but the Tregennis family played their last game of cards by the light of four candles. Creepy, creepy, creepy.

Not sure where a Sherlockian goes with candles, as I'm rather fond of electricity myself and the electric light does make the reading go a bit better. Should we have more candle-lit banquets or other meeting gatherings? Maybe? Just maybe not card parties.

Blog posts I'm not writing tonight

 Way back in 1971, that grand old Sherlockian, John Bennett Shaw, was rejected by The Baker Street Journal for an article titled "To Shelve or Censor," in which he called out some of the more "objectionable" passages of the Sherlockian Canon. "A plumber with a rising business." "He cuddled the misshapen butt." "I went to it on my knees." And, oh, those Watson ejaculations!

It's been a full fifty years since Shaw did his naughty little census of the Canon. He also did it without a search function on a digital Canon, so you have to respect his commitment to reading the entire Canon with as filthy a mind as he could in 1971. Pondering how many things are in our parlance now when it comes to ribald topics, I considered doing a little update on Shaw, grabbing up phrases like "Here you are, doggy!" where Holmes could be appearing to search up classics in the Kama Sutra, but at some point, I realized that whilst certain terms might be common to the fic community, I might not want to go into full blog mode on things like pegging in the Canon. 

It's a different world now . . . people aren't hiding their kinks quite so much.

But do we need a blog post titled "Sexual Positions Named After Canonical Characters?" Probably not from me. (You kids have fun, though.)

Sherlockian chronology is a great topic, right? Ain't it great? Nice, safe Sherlockian chronology. Nobody trying to date cases by Mary Morstan's menstrual cycle . . . oh, dammit, next Watson is trying to work out his wife's fertility calendar and putting his three continent's experience to work, and we're back to, yes, topics I was trying to avoid tonight, to keep my reputation as a dignified Sherlockian elder. (Hey, that spit take wasn't necessary!)

But, I'm a blog post behind in my schedule for the month, and I've got to go somewhere with this.

No tea bags in the Canon, have you ever noticed that? The first tea bags were actually patented in 1903, just about the time Holmes was retiring from detection, so it makes perfect sense that there was no tea bagging in the Canon. Not much to fill out a post there.

Did you realize only one person in the Canon is thirsty without being blood-thirsty or about to die of thirst? That person is in Watson's imagination, of course, as he imagines he and Holmes waiting for a figurative "thirsty beast of prey." Okay, that's mildly sexy, without being too embarrassing to the kids. Except for the part about using slang I'm too old for. Man, Shaw threaded a needle back in 1971, but then, he was doing a talk for a smoke-filled room of chortling old boys, not the whole of the internet.

Yeah. I think I'll stop now.

"Welcome to Hansoms"

 The Sherlockian society system is a quite complex one, mainly in that there isn't really a system. It's a shame, really, for after watching an episode of Welcome to Wrexham, about two celebrities investing in a soccer team to try to move it up in the English football league system, I have a new dream.

Let's best honest, for starters: Here in Peoria, we once had a top-of-the-line Sherlockian society. Monthly meetings, monthly newsletter, annual banquets, one of the few typeset journals before desktop publishing became a thing . . . all that stuff.  Founded by a New York Times best-selling sci-fi author, the club had a pretty weird name, sure, but the Hansoms of John Clayton was pretty much hitting on all cylinders . . . once.

The fall of the Hansoms of John Clayton wasn't exactly Game of Thrones drama, as with the relegation of any Sherlockian society. Mainly just the loss of a star player or two, some bad management choices with a new head office, loss of enthusiasm by the supporters. And yet, Peoria, Illinois, still has a steady Sherlockian pulse keeping some aspect of the Hansoms alive: A monthly library discussion group and, oh, maybe one Zoom meeting during the pandemic to help the Legion of Zoom aspirants.

Now, if you haven't seen the documentary series Welcome to Wrexham, let me explain the premise.

TV star moneyed Rob McElhenney and movie star moneyed Ryan Reynolds invest in the Wrexham football club with the intention of bringing it back to its former glory -- or at least moving it up the British football league tiers to give the city the football club it would love to have. As sports fans themselves, they know how important a team can be to a city and really want to make it work. And part of that is making a documentary about it to help support the endeavor.

Sounds like a great plan on paper. Since the show just started (and I don't follow British football news) I'm not sure how it turns how. But here's the thing:

If there are any moneyed Hollywood celebrities out there who haven't allied themselves with a Sherlockian society already and would love to invest in a club with a decent history, maybe do a documentary on bringing it back to . . . well, raising it's . . . or . . . hey, the Sherlockian society system is complex, like I said. Anyway, I would have seven words for such folk:

"Welcome to the Hansoms of John Clayton."

S.P.O.D.E., P.O.O.P., and now, N.O.P.E

 Remember that time that Sherlock Holmes thought he'd act all crazy to trap a murderer?

"I cannot think why the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures seem."

And then, "No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world, then, be overrun by oysters?"

Somewhere in the misty New York fog of a Sherlock Holmes birthday weekend, Steven Doyle sat at the head of a table at The Oyster Bar at Grand Central Station and convened a new Sherlockian society based on those words. "We have done our part," Holmes said, and that sort of comment, to any Sherlockian, is apt to inspire emulation. And thus The Society for the Prevention of Oysters Destroying Earth, or S.P.O.D.E. was born.

And, as with the Baker Street Irregulars, scions and sub-groups began to spring up. And somewhere in the mix, as typically happens between American and British Sherlockian/Holmesian worlds, a British version sprang up: People Opposing Oyster Proliferation, of P.O.O.P.

Now, that British society really gets to the heart of what these Sherlockian and Holmesian heroes are doing in following that cause Sherlock Holmes felt worth raving about: Using their own bodies to convert the dreaded oysters into harmless fertilizer. There is no greater sacrifice than using one's own body to further a cause, and I salute them.

But at the same time, I find that I must remain a conscientious objector from that human versus oyster battle. It's just too gross a fight for my more delicate sensibilities. And I know there are others like me out there, who might feel lesser for abstaining from service of this cause. With that in mind, I am announcing the formation of a new Sherlockian society.

"No Oysters Please, Eatery!" shall be both our name and out non-battle cry. As with those of us who have refused to indulge in other of Sherlock Holmes's filthy habits, the tobacco, the morphine, the cocaine, this new society, N.O.P.E. shall be for the support and encouragement of those innocent Sherlockians who find themselves at dinner across from S.P.O.D.E. or P.O.O.P members who decide to combat the oyster masses without regard to collateral visual  or other damage.

My own story of one such incident helped inspire this new support society. I was attending what I thought was a normal Sherlockian society dinner meeting when a S.P.O.D.E. enthusiast directly across from me set into his mission with great gusto. A few days later, I was stricken with a variant of Covid-19. Coincidence? Perhaps . . . or perhaps not! Full investigation of an oyster/Covid connection has not been undertaken to my knowledge, so who knows?

Should you choose to join this new society of common case, below is a membership card. You're in. Let others fight those oysters -- we have better things to do with our digestive systems, and probably don't need the mythological sexual potency that such a campaign is said to bestow, anyway.

Hard looks across the Sherlockian web

We've always been aware that our grand Sherlockian society is not without a few clunkers.

One of the things I have always enjoyed about the social aspect of a hobby like Sherlockiana is the way it brings us together under a common interest and all else falls away. You meet new friends at a conference, you go out to dinner, you talk for hours about things you love, and often come away not knowing their job, their politics, their religion, their criminal record . . . . and you just enjoy them for who they are as a Sherlockian. Even the doofuses.

In an information age, however, we're all becoming more Sherlock Holmes and less John Watson, taking in more data about pretty much everyone than ever before. In some cases, like a friend I just saw on Facebook cheering college loan forgiveness, you go, "I always knew they were an all right sort!" and just smile at their agreeable opinion. In other cases, like when you're talking to a friend whose company you've enjoyed and they start speaking positively about a political figure you despise, you kind of weigh the factors in your head, going, "Well, they're nice enough about most things, so maybe they're just misguided on this one thing." And if it's just an opinion, not an action, you might let it slide.

And then there are the really bothersome ones, as when Paul Thomas Miller started calling out MX Publishing on Twitter this week after doing just a little internet digging. Between an editor's online choices of showing us who they are and the questionable work of a particular charity, there were some pretty ugly ideologies being exposed. The kind of ugly that you just don't want to associate with your happy place, especially if you got a little ego-boost from being published in a collection associated with folks involved in those ideologies at some point. It's can be hard to look at. But . . .

A personal hobby is always full of personal choices. Headcanon, what books fill our shelves, who we like to have dinner with -- the Sherlockian world isn't exactly the same place for any two of us. And as much as we like to round upwards and go "Sherlockians are just the best people!" occasionally some of them aren't. Choices get made. Sometimes we're the one making the choice, and sometimes we're the one someone else is making a choice about. But choices, inevitably, get made, for as the old song says, "If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice." (Not the biggest Rush fan, but I've chosen of few of those as friends over the years.)

When you look and see someone repeatedly choosing hate over love, exclusion over inclusion, or general assholery, you get to make choices. We all get to make those choices. And while I'm not going to preach on what choices you should make, feeling that your happy place is also a good place, and you choose for it to be a good place, well, I might leave that as a suggestion for optimal results in a hobby. Our time is limited.

So, good luck out there. I hope you get optimal results from Sherlockiana or Holmesiana, whatever you choose to call this thing.