Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Had you known how treacherously close we were to sailing for Plug Island, gentle reader, you would’ve fashioned a plank, put on a blindfold, and promptly hanged yourself from the crow’s nest. Save your noose for another day, however, and pay heed–we shall sacrifice ourselves to the gods of free advertisement soon enough, just not tonight.
There was a point in my childhood when reading grew from an externally motivated ritual, a behavior nourished by Book It pins and small pizzas, into a self-sufficient entity. A kind entity, you see, substantiated in the writings of Roald Dahl, Lloyd Alexander, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I’ve been revisiting Sherlock Holmes lately in an effort to consume things not written on the Internet and, more conveniently, because I found a big honkin’ book in my closet. Illustrated, even, with the original drawings for Doyle’s short stories.
Sherlock wields an observational acuity so rich in style, any self-respecting geek would be remiss if he didn’t thirst for it. I mean, who wouldn’t want the ability to see a woman’s sleeve and deduce, in English and French and Latin, she prefers gardening with steel trowels; the gala she attended last evening closed its bar long before 9 PM; her husband exited from the left side of a carriage today; and she murdered him. We haven’t considered the other sleeve yet.
What I didn’t realize, what I failed to presume until now, is how similar these stories are. They adhere to the same arc, episode after episode, and to an extent the predictability is enjoyable. Certainly Superman shouldn’t prevail against Brainiac, or an atrocious costume, without getting the shit beaten out of him. The Batmobile needs to stay black and metallic, simply because mauve isn’t really acceptable in Gotham City.
If you’ve ever wondered why so many people like Sherlock, I’ll make it easy for you. Think of the following as a poor man’s Cliffs Notes for the storied affairs of our famous detective and his slower sidekick.
“Watson, you fat imbecile, stop by Baker Street.”
“Watson, do talk about your old war wound again.”
Client stumbles into apartment.
Watson ejaculates.
Client dies.
“Watson, try to guess what I’m thinking. Oh, you lose.”
“Watson, why don’t you munch on some crumpets while I hit the coke?”
Watson ejaculates.
“Watson, why don’t you grab your revolver, not because you’ll need it but because it’ll occupy you while the grown-ups talk.”
“Watson, I’m simply overwhelmed by my crushing intellectual abilities. Also, I deduce you’re a moron.”
“Watson, fetch my magnifying glass. And my hat. And my magnifying glass. And my hat. And my coke. And my papers. Now put back my hat. Now my coke. But not my papers. You lose again.”
The more puerile readers should know Brits go #2 when defining “ejaculate.” You also know our conversation’s over, right? No? How elementary of you.