|
Spencer HemingrayHOMICIDAL BUTLERS, INC. IN THE BASEMENT WITH A BUTTERKNIFE When Electra and I were small, our parents (like many at the time) indulged in the prevailing gender stereotypes when it came to choosing our reading material. Electra received the whole series of Nancy Drew mysteries and I got the Hardy Boys. We each secretly read each other's books in the same way that we played with each other's toys and (much later) dated each other's friends. We also regularly played the board game Clue. We often created our own scenarios and any corpse found around the homestead became a candidate for our next Mr/Ms Body. And why stop there? Any locations, weapons or motives were fair game—I'll never forget the case of the kippered herring, the solution of which was Mr Mustard, with a butterknife on a slice of toasted rye. Clue brought us solidarity, I suppose, though comparing the Hardy Boys to Nancy Drew created more tension than it was worth—we never found anything to pull one strongly ahead of the other. I have recently come across a piece of information which shed some light on the deadlock—these two series of children's mystery books actually came from the same source—and were written by ghostwriters in the employ of Stratemeyer Syndicate, founded by Edward Stratemeyer. He was also responsible for The Bobbsey Twins, Tom Swift, The Rovers and several other profitable (for the syndicate) series of children's books. The ghostwriters, mostly newcomers in the field, were given an outline by Edward who paid them $50 to $150 for the finished manuscript. All future royalties (some quite substantial over time) went to the syndicate. My reading tastes have changed over the years — when I was in junior high I was reading Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie, but then I discovered science fiction and reading traditional mysteries became a thing of the past. I still enjoy a good mystery, but my current involvement is limited to television and films. Who can forget classics such as Dashiel Hammett's Maltese Falcon, protagonists such as his Sam Spade and Nick and Nora Charles, Gardner's Perry Mason and Chandler's Philip Marlowe? And what about the the Master himself, Alfred Hitchcock—is there anything he created which doesn't stand the test of time? I'll leave it to the experts to talk about what's happening on the contemporary scene. Mystery subgenres have expanded to include Cozy, Amateur Sleuth, Professional Sleuth, Police Procedural, Legal/Medical, Suspense, Romantic Suspense, Historical, Mixed Genre, Private Eye, Noir, Crime and Caper. Hmmm, capers—sounds like that would go well with a red herring on rye. In this issue we have articles and stories by your peers with enough talent among them to make a few publishers stand up and take notice. And for a change of pace we have included a story by Arthur Conan Doyle which is NOT about Sherlock Holmes. Our poetry section includes work from one of my favorite contemporary poets, Bev Jackson, and the penultimate poem from the Godfather of Mystery himself, Edgar Allen Poe. Enjoy. © Spencer Hemingray 2002 BAR NOIR DARK ROOTS In May, my brother touched briefly on our shared appreciation for the dark roots of the noir sub-genre through its classic progenitors Raymond Chandler and Dashiel Hammett. What he didn't mention is that even now he likes to reprise one of our favorite teenage pastimes. And, hey—I admit to getting a little carried away with it myself. Hey, baby—what have I told you about playing the Third Man Theme when I'm sitting right here with you—and who the hell are you talking to? To our alleged readers—all 79 of them. Alleged readers? Don't bite the foot that stomps your grapes, Electra. Without those 'alleged' readers, where would we be? And just where am I? My life ain't exactly duck soup, is it? I had a promising career as a musician and now I'm a hack newshawk for a rag with offices in the back rooms of the seediest hotel in Gator Springs. The ONLY hotel in Gator Springs, E. And may I also remind you that this seedy, cockroach infested dive is also our home, sweet home. Let's not air our dirty laundry in front of THEM, Spencer. Now you're pitching them the third person—they're all standing or sitting just on the other side of the glass and can hear every word you say. And weren't YOU just about to air our dirty laundry? What was this about our favorite pastime? You don't really propose to tell them about THAT. Jeez, Spencer. Give me a break! No, I meant the Nick and Nora gig, but now you've queered the mood. Sorry, Sis. Hey, folks. You just go ahead and read the issue—there is some great stuff for you to enjoy. ~ Hey, you big lug. what say we go on up to your room and dig out the bracelets? Now you're playing my tune, baby. Last one up has to do the dance. © Electra and Spencer Hemingray 2002 WHAT'S UPDIKE? RABBIT REHASHED Not too long ago, I was tossing back a few beers with my old friend Jerry Smith who was down for a bit of fishing with Ernie Junior. I mentioned we were going to do an issue tied in with John Updike and he laughed out loud. "Isn't he the cat who wrote Rabbit, Run? Forty years ago I closed the book and sailed it across the room to the wastebasket. It stayed there and went out with the trash." It was probably 15 years after that trashing when I read Rabbit Redux—must have been the monthly selection from my Playboy Book Club. I wasn't as ruthless as Jerry—hell, I paid for the damn thing, at least it was gonna smarten up my bookshelf. I never made it through the volume, but I had to admit what I did read was beautifully written. Unfortunately, it reminded me of sushi—gorgeous little tidbits, but you still need a stiff drink to drown out the taste of raw fish. Maybe it was boring, or maybe I was just too young to appreciate it. We will never find out, I promise you. Funny thing is, I was stuck on a trip a couple of months ago with nothing to read and found a copy of Updike's Bech a Book in my hotel room, right on top of the Gideon. I must say I was pleasantly surprised. I stayed up all night reading it and when I got back home, bought the sequel. Maybe the second helping was more than I'd bargained for, but still a lot more palatable than those long winded Rabbit tracts. Imagine my surprise recently when I was at a book signing in Atlanta for Maryanne Stahl's Forgive the Moon and found myself standing in line next to the foremost collector of Bechiana, Marvin Federbusch, of Cedar Meadow, Pennsylvania, right out of Bech is Back. I would have known him anywhere from Updike's description. There he stood before me, "sallow and sour, yet younger than he should have been, with not an ounce of friendly fat on him. He was red-eyed from a nap, and his hair, barely flecked by grey, stood straight up. The lower half of his face had been tugged into deep creases by the drawstrings of some old concluded sorrow." I asked him if he'd read the copy of Ms Stahl's book he held carefully in his hands. He said, "Oh, I never read them. It takes away from the value if the pages are creased or the binding is cracked. This one won't be worth quite as much as a hardcopy first edition, but you take what you can get." I asked him if he knew what Updike would be worth. He said, "What's Updike?" © Spencer Hemingray 2002 SHIP OF FOOLS STATISTICAL GRAVITY While I was a journalism student at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, I worked with my dad installing Fiberglas insulation in order to pay my way. That was when I got the nickname Mr Resistivity, the last of the Hemingray insulators. That might be funny to a few of you, but it wasn't all that funny at the time to me. When I'd come home after a long job with a case of the screaming pink itchies, I felt like a real loser. The only thing that kept me going was knowing it was only temporary. My dad died without doing much of anything else and never really appreciated how important his sacrifices were to me and Electra. He was a real Willy Loman of a guy—could have been the poster child for this SHIP OF FOOLS, sharing passage with those for whom the common denominator is a fatal leak in the proverbial hull. Those of you who really know our publisher, Carrie Berry, appreciate that she is a unique individual who sometimes poses challenges which might not make a lot of sense. Still, things generally gel into something worthwhile if we only listen. Subjects often morph a few times before we get into the spirit. This issue was originally supposed to be called STATISTICAL GRAVITY, inspired by her poet friend, Jon Dark, who described an old man's nodding head as another one of 'gravity's toys'. Carrie later alludes to this in her own poem the word: always looking behind you In his painting The Ship of Fools, Hieronymous Bosch depicts the whole of humanity afloat on a foolish voyage, drifting aimlessly through time. The passengers in this issue's SHIP OF FOOLS, in much the same way, are all subject to gravity's pull. Note to readers of Dean Webb's SMACKDOWN: SHIP OF FOOLS: Any mention of author's expenses or other remuneration for Gazette stories is pure fiction. © Spencer Hemingray 2003 Read more about the Hemingrays on visit iggy's fandango
|
