Copse and Robbers

 

Lego Advent Calendar Haiku 2020 Day 16

The Christmas Robber
Comes on cat burglar feet to
Steal a podracer 

 

What Do You Think You’re Doing?

Hard-Boiled Hardcovers

Long have my literate friends urged me to delve into the seedy neon realm of America's master of the two-fisted crime story, Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. When these two collections went on sale a couple of months ago, I eagerly snapped them up. Now they await my pleasure. But where to begin? 

Books I Read in 2013

Since 2011 I've been keeping track of what I read. Here are the 112 books I read in 2013, listed in order of completion and ending with Tarzan and the Leopard Men, which I just finished.

The Jungle Book (Rudyard Kipling, 1894)

Steel and Other Stories (Richard Matheson, 2011)

The Art of War (Sun Tzu, circa late 5^th century BCE)

The Postman Always Rings Twice (James M. Cain, 1934)

They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (Horace McCoy, 1935)

Man Plus (Frederik Pohl, 1976)

Yellow Submarine (Charlie Gardner, 2004)

Earthbound (Joe Haldeman, 2011)

Impulse (Steven Gould, 2012)

The Metamorphosis (Franz Kafka, 1915)

Thieves Like Us (Edward Anderson, 1937)

Star Trek The Next Generation: Losing the Peace (William Leisner, 2009)

Star Trek Titan: Fallen Gods (Michael A. Martin, 2012)

The Tomb (F. Paul Wilson, 1984)

The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ (Philip Pullman, 2010)

Star Trek Mirror Universe: Rise Like Lions (David Mack, 2011)

Redshirts (John Scalzi, 2012)

Hitchers (Will McIntosh, 2012)

Star Trek Typhon Pact: Plagues of Night (David R. George III, 2012)

Star Trek Typhon Pact: Raise the Dawn (David R. George III, 2012)

Star Trek Typhon Pact: Brinkmanship (Una McCormack, 2012)

Star Trek: Allegiance in Exile (David R. George III, 2013)

The Cassandra Project (Jack McDevitt and Mike Resnick, 2012)

Tintagel (Paul H. Cook, 1981)

Arctic Rising (Tobias S. Buckell, 2012)

Cadillac Beach (Tim Dorsey, 2004)

The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine (Michael Lewis, 2011)

The Big Clock (Kenneth Fearing, 1946)

Sci-Fi Savant (Glenn Erickson, 2011)

Torpedo Juice (Tim Dorsey, 2005)

Robopocalypse (Daniel H. Wilson, 2011)

Amped (Daniel H. Wilson, 2012)

The Big Bamboo (Tim Dorsey, 2006)

Hurricane Punch (Tim Dorsey, 2007)

Phases of Gravity (Dan Simmons, 1989)

Vintage Season (Catherine L. Moore, 1946)

In Another Country (Robert Silverberg, 1989)

High-Rise (J.G. Ballard, 1975)

On Board the U.S.S. Enterprise (Denise and Michael Okuda, 2013)

The Wasp Factory (Iain Banks, 1984)

Atomic Lobster (Tim Dorsey, 2008)

The Human Front Plus… (Ken MacLeod, 2013)

The Bridge (Iain Banks, 1986)

The Dark Fields (Alan Glynn, 2001)

Little Book of Vintage Horror (Tim Pilcher, 2012)

Little Book of Vintage Sci-Fi (Tim Pilcher, 2012)

He is Legend (Christopher Conlon, editor, 2009)

The Dynamite Art of Alex Ross (Alex Ross, 2011)

The Long Earth (Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter, 2012)

Joyland (Stephen King, 2013)

Tarzan of the Apes (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1914)

The Return of Tarzan (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1915)

The Beasts of Tarzan (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1916)

The Son of Tarzan (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1917)

Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1918)

Jungle Tales of Tarzan (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1919)

Tarzan the Untamed (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1920)

Tarzan the Terrible (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1921)

Tarzan and the Golden Lion (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1923)

Tarzan and the Ant Men (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1924)

Tarzan and the Tarzan Twins (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1963)

Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1928)

Tarzan and the Lost Empire (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1929)

The Eyre Affair (Jasper Fforde, 2001)

At the Earth’s Core (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1922)

Pellucidar (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1923)

Tanar of Pellucidar (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1930)

2312 (Kim Stanley Robinson, 2012)

New Taboos Plus… (John Shirley, 2013)

Existence (David Brin, 2012)

Tarzan at the Earth’s Core (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1930)

Slow Apocalypse (John Varley, 2012)

Tarzan the Invincible (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1931)

The Dead Man’s Brother (Roger Zelazny, 2013)

Tarzan Triumphant (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1932)

Tarzan and the City of Gold (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1933)

The Hercules Text (Jack McDevitt, 1986)

Year’s Best SF 4 (David G. Hartwell, Editor, 1999)

Star Trek: From History’s Shadow (Dayton Ward, 2013)

Singularity Sky (Charles Stross, 2003)

Iron Sunrise (Charles Stross, 2004)

White Fang (Jack London, 1906)

Angels of Vengeance (John Birmingham, 2011)

Accelerando (Charles Stross, 2005)

The Complete Peanuts, 1987 to 1988 (Charles M. Schulz with an introduction by Garry Trudeau, 2013)

The Quantum Thief (Hannu Rajaniemi, 2010)

Bloom (Wil McCarthy, 1998)

Web of the City (Harlan Ellison, 1958)

The Bottom Line: The Truth Behind Private Health Insurance in Canada (Diana Gibson and Colleen Fuller, 2006)

7 Against Chaos (Harlan Ellison, 2013)

The Wellstone (Wil McCarthy, 2003)

Star Wars Art: Visions (J.W. Rinzler and Eric Klopfer, editors, 2010)

All Our Sisters: Stories of Homeless Women in Canada (Susan Scott, 2007)

The Sharing Knife, Volume One: Beguilement (Lois McMaster Bujold, 2006)

New Stories from the Twilight Zone (Rod Serling, 1962)

The Sharing Knife, Volume Two: Legacy (Lois McMaster Bujold, 2007)

The Sharing Knife, Volume Three: Passage (Lois McMaster Bujold, 2008)

The Art of Vampirella (Josh Green, editor, 2010)

Neuromancer (William Gibson, 1984)

Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance (Lois McMaster Bujold, 2012)

The Sharing Knife, Volume Four: Horizon (Lois McMaster Bujold, 2009)

The Art of Star Wars (Carol Titelman, Editor, 1979)

Turbulence (Samit Basu, 2013)

Stellar Cartography: The Starfleet Reference Library (Larry Nemecek, 2013)

Lost in Transmission (Wil McCarthy, 2004)

Tarzan and the Lion Man (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1934)

To Crush the Moon (Wil McCarthy, 2005)

The Ten Commandments: An Epic Journey (Michael McMurtrey, 2013)

The Complete Peanuts, 1989 to 1990 (Charles M. Schulz with an introduction by Lemony Snicket, 2013)

Supergods (Grant Morrison, 2011)

Robots Have No Tails (Henry Kuttner, 1952)

Tarzan and the Leopard Men (Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1935)

Fiction:99

Nonfiction:13

Science fiction:38

Fantasy:26

Star Trek:10

Tarzan: 19

Peanuts collections:2

Mainstream:23

Top Authors
Edgar Rice Burroughs (22)
Lois McMaster Bujold (5)
Tim Dorsey (5)
Wil McCarthy (4)
David R. George III (3)
Charles Stross (3)
Iain Banks (2)
Harlan Ellison (2)
Tim Pilcher (2)
Charles M. Schulz (2)
Daniel H. Wilson (2)

Books by Decade
-500s: 1
1890s: 1
1900s: 1
1910s:7
1920s:9
1930s:9
1940s: 2
1950s:2
1960s:2
1970s: 3
1980s:7
1990s:2
2000s:22
2010s:41

Oldest Title: The Art of War (circa 5th century BCE)
Newest Title: Turbulence (2013)

Female Authors: 8
Male Authors: 62

Final Thoughts
This year's list isn't quite as genre-heavy as last year's, but I didn't read as many women authors as I should have - something to address next year. I made it almost all the way through Burrough's Tarzan and Pellucidar series, with just a few left in each; they're as entertaining as ever. Lois McMaster Bujold continues to impress, though the Sharing Knife series isn't quite as strong as her other work, but middling Bujold is still much better than most fantasy and science fiction out there.

This year I intended to read The Lord of the Rings and finish the Harry Potter series, but for whatever reason the mood never struck. Maybe I'll tackle them in 2014. 

The Transgression

There came a time in ancient Callidar when that great southwestern city was rocked by a terrible wave of primal criminality. The people were puzzled, for was not life in Callidar rich and good, and every day full of new pleasures? Was not every belly filled with food, every child protected and educated, every soul sheltered? And yet crime ran rampant, despite the best efforts of the courts, clergy, judge, jury and constable.

At the height of the crime wave the streets became unsafe. Drivers crept along thoroughfares, eyes darting back and forth, searching for the lawbreakers who might leap into their path at any moment. Pedestrians eyed each other suspiciously, wondering who among them had broken the laws that kept everyone safe.

One day Constable Sorbonne caught a criminal in the act - an innocuous young man with fine blonde hair and a ruddy complexion reddened by the blistering sun of Callidar. Constable Sorbonne followed kept his hands clasped behind his back as he followed the young man, putting on an air of carefree innocence, never giving any hint of his suspicious. The blonde had that look of incipient chaos about him.

And at last, as they passed a bustling Labanno's ripe with the scent of steamed gizzle and fluir, the blonde stepped toward the curb, casting his eyes left and right down the street. There was a controlled intersection only meters away, and yet - and yet! - the man stepped boldly into the street.

"Stop right there!" bellowed Constable Sorbonne, and the young man shot bolt upright, hopping back to the sidewalk, his face flushed with shame, head hanging low.

"What were you thinking?" said the constable as he place a firm hand on the youth's trembling shoulder. "You could have caused an accident, or been injured!"

"But the crossing is all the way over - " the youth began, pointing. But Constable Sorbonne would have none of it.

"The good books teach us that civilization works when we act in harmony and with consideration at all instants," the constable misquoted (though not badly). "How many seconds would you have saved crossing here, even had you avoided disaster?"

"Perhaps five or six," the youth admitted, his purple eyes troubled.

The Constable nodded. "Lad, how much police time do you think jaywalkers such as you have cost the community this year alone? Time that could have been better spent helping elders with their groceries or guiding lost children home?"

"I don't know," moaned the youth miserably.

"Four full days," intoned the constable, quoting, absolutely correctly this time, the latest statistics.

"I'm sorry," mumbled the young man.

Sensing the ineffable air of true remorse, Constable Sorbonne allowed a soft grunt of begrudging approval to puff past his thin lips.

"Very well, then, a warning it is," decreed the constable, and the small crowd of onlookers that had gathered released their held breath as one organism, a sigh of communal relief. "Next time and all other times, use the crosswalks. They're for your protection."

"Yes sir!" beamed the young man, bouncing off to the corner and making a show of pressing the pedestrian walk signal.

Constable Sorbonne tipped his hat to the youth and resumed his patrol, whistling happily once more. The crime wave wasn't over, but he'd made a substantial contribution today.

So it was in ancient Callidar, its peace disturbed for long weeks before serenity returned.

Rescue on 81st Avenue

Summer, 1992. I pulled into the parking lot on 81st avenue and 105th street, just a couple of blocks away from Warp One. I had my day planned out: pick up some comic books, walk across the back alley to Greenwoods' to browse for novels, cross Whyte Avenue to spend a couple of hours at the Wee Book Inn, and then break for lunch somewhere along the avenue. It was going to be a good day, I thought as I shut the car off and then swung myself out into the summer heat, making sure to push the lock down and hold the handle up as I when I closed the door; otherwise, the lock wouldn't engage. 

I shut the door firmly, released the handle. And then through the window I saw my keys, still dangling innocently from the ignition. I'd locked myself out of my little silver Corolla station wagon.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and stared at the keys for a minute, as if I could step backwards in time and get myself out of this through sheer force of will. There were no cell phones back then, and I had no change for payphones; I was on my own.

Or so I thought. For down the sidewalk came two imposing figures, rough-looking bearded men in jeans and leather jackets.

"You lock yourself out?" asked the burlier one.

"Uh huh," I said shamefaced.

"No problem," he said, and reached into his jacket, unfurling an unwound coat hanger. With balletic grace, he stepped past me and wormed the long, stiff wire inside the door frame, wriggling it around until a catch popped and the lock popped up. The entire process took only a second.

"Thanks!" I exclaimed, opening the door to retrieve my keys. But my benefactors were already halfway down the block, their hands raised briefly in offhand acknowledgement of my gratitude.

With my keys safely tucked away in my pocket, my thumb hovered over the lock once more...and then retreated without pushing it down. I casually flipped the door shut and headed east down the sidewalk. On that day, at least, locks had caused nothing but trouble. Why encourage them?

Not I, the Jury

They say revenge is the best medicine, love only hurts when you're having fun and never give a sucker an even break. What that has to do with this story I don't know, but maybe it'll all make sense in the end, like a cheap dime novel with a ludicrous final-page plot twist that makes you throw the book out the nearest window. Or maybe it'll just be another half-baked blog post with a laborious setup and little payoff. What do I know? I'm just the writer, I'm not qualified to judge - not I, the jury.

With my summons folded neatly into a paperback copy of Tim Dorsey's The Big Bamboo, I reversed my salt-stained Kia out of the garage at 7 a.m. into a refreshingly bright and warm spring morning, the accumulated snow finally, begrudgingly, melting, like a cheap ice cube at one of those all-night blues joints that never closes because the inspectors don't visit that end of town anymore.

The drive to the law courts was simple enough - I'd plied these roads before too many times, often under less than ideal circumstances, like when your gas tank is running dry and your bank balance hasn't seen the plus side of zero for nine weeks. Today my tank was full but my pocket change was running empty as I pulled into the underground parking lot beneath our spiffy new city hall. I was sweating bullets as I fished through my pockets and plunked coins into the soulless face of the 8-hour meter - Loonies, Doubloons and quarters only, no nickel-and-dime jazz for the downtowners. When I plugged the last quarter into the slot the meter read just a hair over four hours. Having never served on a jury before - at least not an official jury, if you catch my drift - I sweated a little, wondering if jury selection would conclude in time for me to avoid an expensive fine. Well, it was all in Lady Luck's hands now, I thought.

I rode the elevator up to street level, crossed the street and found the law courts entrance, only to discover that I'd arrived a half hour before the doors even opened. Sixteen bits in parking money down the drain for nothing, and now I couldn't do anything but loiter in the stiff breeze with the half-dozen other mooks who'd been a little too eager to perform their civic duty.

I flipped open my beeper to check for jobs, but as usual of late I was out of luck unless I wanted to edit a hog farm journal or go back to throwing press releases into the media meat grinder (both of which, incidentally, start to look good after a few months of living off your good-hearted trophy wife's paycheque). That took all of 45 seconds, so I decided to take a walk around the building, as always amused by the multi-million dollar edifices on the west side of the street and the ramshackle pawn shops on the east side. That seemed like some kind of metaphor about the justice system, but I'll be a Tanzanian moose before I could tell you what it all meant.

After my stroll I read a few pages of Dorsey, but I couldn't get my mind off the case - the case that had brought me to these granite steps. Of course I had no idea regarding the details of the case, because that was secret. So as usual, my mind was spinning its wheels and burning itself out uselessly on metaphysical conundrums I sure as hell wasn't going to solve while waiting for some bureaucrat to open up the building.

And then suddenly it was 8 a.m. and I was shuffled into a security checkpoint line with the other prospective jurors. I cracked a thin, world-weary smile as I spotted a poster: "THE FOLLOWING ITEMS HAVE BEEN CONFISCATED FROM PERSONS ATTEMPTING TO ENTER THE LAW COURTS." Underneath that caption, grainy photos of brass knuckles, a switchblade, pistols and a hand grenade. I congratulated myself for not being dumb enough to get caught with that kind of contraband, just as the metal detector went off and I was pulled aside for further inspection.

"Just stand over here, sir, with your arms out." I played it smart, wondering what I'd forgotten to put in the little grey basket. The guard waved his wand up and down my body until passing over my midsection. Beep. Like a dope, I'd forgotten about my belt buckle.

"Just remove the belt, sir, and try again."

If my face was flushed just a little with embarrassment, well, I wouldn't be the first guy singled out for special inspection because one of the rules slipped his mind in the heat of the moment. On my next pass through the checkpoint I was clear, and the guards waved me through. I collected my meager belongings and headed upstairs to Courtroom 317, where hundreds of people in various states of boredom, fear or annoyance waited. What a hodgepodge of humanity, a small selection of Homo Sapiens Albertans: black, white, brown, yellow, pink, purple, red and that was just the hair. I cooled my heels while the big clock's cool digital numbers winked by, until at last a silver-haired, smooth talking gent had us line up again with our summons papers. One by one we showed him and his partner our papers, and they gave each of us our jury number. We kept that new number in our heads and passed it on to the clerks, high-class dames who were not only efficient, but friendlier than you'd expect in a place of such dead-serious business.

"Please have a seat in the gallery, sir," one of them said after handing me a small two by two-inch card with my name, address and previous occupation on it in plain Courier type.

"You mean up there?" I gestured over her shoulder, until realizing even as I said it that I'd probably just pointed at the spot where justices normally sit. But she only laughed and said "Anywhere in those brown seats on the floor, sir." I found a spot on one of the many long wooden benches and gave my heels a second cooling. Once everyone had their little cards, the clerk stood up to give us the lowdown on what was going to happen. Frankly the process seemed so simple as to defy explanation, but just in case some of us needed things spelled out, she started a video that played on two 46-inch flatscreens mounted on the courtroom walls - a modern innovation that seemed out of place in the mid-70s, wood-panelled gestalt of the place.

On screen an inoffensively good-looking guy with hair like a Ken doll explained how important it was that we were here, and how our participation made democracy and the justice system possible. I absorbed the soft sell with only mild cynicism - I still wasn't very good at crushing that idealistic inner child under the weight of the school of hard knocks. After the video was over, the bailiff escorted us from the courtroom so the lawyers could set themselves up. A few minutes later, we all filed back into the room like good little herded citizens. One of the clerks called the roll, the judge entered, we stood, we sat, and the judge repeated the same shpiel we'd just heard in the video, only with more class and panache. He seemed like a sincere and reasonable guy, just the sort of judge you'd want if you were ever threatened with the big house.

And then the lottery began. The clerk filled a metal cylinder with copies of our little cards and pulled twenty names. Folks approached the front of the courtroom, some slouching forward reluctantly, others springing up with delight, some a little nervous. When twenty names were called, the judge asked if anyone had any reasons why they couldn't serve on a jury, and about half those twenty hands shot up like they'd been flung from a catapult. One by one they told the judge their stories - I have a paid vacation coming up, I have a heart condition, I'm the only person working the night shift next week and so on. The judge excused each and every one of them, and I found myself admiring his compassionate wisdom. Maybe the system works, thought that idealistic little boy, and I stomped him back down with a well-practiced silent "shaddup!"

The remaining potential jurors were then called, one by one, before the prosecuting and defending lawyers. I took careful note of these legal eagles - one looked like he'd just stepped out of law school with the ink still drying on his degree, while the other looked like the guy that played My Favourite Martian. In turn, each lawyer took a look at his notes, then the prospective juror, and muttered either "content" or "challenge." There were a lot more challenges than I expected, and they had no pattern I could grok. The clerk had to draw lots of twenty twice more, and another lot of twelve, before twelve jurors had been chosen - and I was surprised to find myself part of that last lot. The prosecutor had no beef with me, but the defence attorney took one long look at me and barked "Challenge!" I returned to my seat, not sure if I was disappointed or relieved.

With twelve jurors chosen, the lawyers packed up their gear. To my surprise, the lawyer who'd challenged me approached me on his way out, smiled, winked and whispered "Good luck!" I couldn't figure it. Good luck for what? Did he think I wanted to serve on a jury, and hoped I'd get picked in for the next trial? Was he sorry he'd had to reject me? Or did he think I wanted to avoid the responsibility, and had his fingers crossed that my name wouldn't be drawn again? I couldn't answer those questions, because I didn't know myself what I wanted.

It took only a couple of minutes for selection for the next trial to begin. This time around my number was called during the very first random draw. The silver-haired gent who'd taken our summons papers pointed out where I should stand, and leaned over to whisper "You should buy a lottery ticket after this." I couldn't help but agree - the odds of being drawn twice seemed pretty long. This time around the tables were turned: the defence had no problem with me, but the prosecutor took one look at me, grinned in a not-unkindly way, and proclaimed "Challenged!"

"You're excused, sir," said the judge. I nodded and left the courtroom. I had just minutes to spare over at the City Hall meters - plenty of time to ruminate a little while I made my way to the parking lot.

What did it all mean? Are we all just names and numbers in big spinning wheels, waiting for our number to come up, only to be tossed aside for some arbitrary reason we'll never know? Or do we escape fates worse than death every day, Lady Luck stepping in with her gentle, invisible touch to deliver us?

I hated bathos, but I needed a pizza. Case closed.

Aiieeee, the Jury

When I left the Alberta Legislature behind last May, I suspected that it might be a while before I landed another job. I've been fortunate enough to land some freelance writing assignments and a really wonderful online tutoring job for one semester at Grant MacEwan, but a full-time job still eludes me nine months later.It's been a frustrating process, but I remain grateful because I know other Canadians have far greater obstacles to happiness. I'll find the right position, but I have no right to expect it to happen overnight.

The purpose of this post is not to whine about my job search, but to highlight the little curve balls life tosses from time to time. This morning I confirmed that today's EI payment was my last. Alarming news, yes, but I knew it was coming, and Sylvia and I made plans long ago in the unlikely (or so I thought) event that my benefits ran out before I'd found another job. I filed away the news, returned to my job search, and found five positions that each sounded quite appealing. With another batch of applications bravely assaulting the fortifications of HR filtering software, I felt as though the day hadn't been a total loss.

A couple of hours later, Sylvia asked me to take her to Tim Horton's for her signature medium mocha ice cap supreme. On the way we picked up the mail, and...

"Why do I have a letter from Alberta Justice and Attorney General...wait, are you kidding me? Is this a jury summons?"

I tore open the envelope and there it was: a summons to appear at the Court of Queen's Bench for jury selection.

I can't decide if this is the best timing in the world, or the worst. On the one hand, I'm unemployed, so there's really no better time to do my civic duty. And it's a duty I take very seriously; if it turns out that I'm chosen during jury selection, I'm ready to serve. More than that; I'd be proud to serve.

On the other hand, what do I do if a prospective employer offers me a job while I'm sequestered? "What a great offer! I can't wait to start working for you! Er...can I start six months from now, once this trial is over?"

Of course I'm painting a very improbable scenario. The odds of being picked are very slim. The odds of the trial lasting more than a couple of days are slim. And the odds that an employer will make an offer at the worst possible moment are slimmest of all.

...this is exactly what's going to happen, isn't it...?

The Pitcher Plant

One fine, sunny afternoon in the summer of 1991 Sean Woods came home in search of refreshment and instead drank deep the sour draught of betrayal.

His teenage frame slick with sweat, muscles aching from the exertions of a hard-fought game of sandlot baseball, Sean anticipated with relish the sweet, cold iced tea that awaited him in its simple but comforting old pitcher of green plastic, the one with the ounces marked off in neat embossed type along the side of the container. As the youth hopped up the back stairs, flinging open a screen door whose mosquito netting bore the gashes of his cat's playful assaults, Sean imagined how the cold, wet chill of delicious lemony sugar water would erupt upon his tongue, sending a shivery rush of invigorating flavour through his weary bones.

Metaphorically licking his lips, Sean bounded into the kitchen and flung wide the refrigerator door. The green pitcher sat there like a silent emerald siren, beckoning him, and the lad could do naught but claim his prize. Triumphantly he grasped the pitcher, lifting it high and tilting it backward, the dark liquid within flowing into his waiting mouth.

So parched was the young shortstop that he greedily chugged down his repast, every cell starving for the expected burst of refreshment. But that burst never came. Instead, Sean recoiled in horror, his esophagus rebelling, gagging, spewing up dark brown froth over lips twisted in sudden, shocked disgust.

"MALLGGHHH!" yelled Sean, slamming the pitcher down on the counter, coughing and spitting - for the innocent-looking yet duplicitous pitcher contained not delicious iced tea, but plain water befouled with dish soap! Sean eyed the rank concoction with disbelief. Who would do such a thing - and why?

Enraged, Sean confronted his older brother, who having heard the commotion while reading in the basement rushed upstairs to see what was going on.

"Why would you put a pitcher full of water and dish soap in the fridge?" Sean demanded. "I drank it - I nearly puked!"

But Earl couldn't answer, doubled over with laughter, trying to protest his innocence between guffaws, tears pouring down his pink cheeks.

"I - ha ha - what? D-dish soap? Ha ha - oh dear - I swear I didn't - oh no - hee hee -" And so on.

Fuming, Sean later asked his mother if she had, for some reason, laid the trap, but she seemed entirely puzzled:

"Why would I do that?"

Father, too, professed ignorance. And so, to this day, the Mystery of the Tainted Tea remains among the greatest unsolved enigmas of the Woods family lore.

Today, in his mid-30s, Sean remembers the incident well. When asked how he washed the taste out of his mouth, Sean answers:

"I didn't. It lingers to this day. No one confessed."

The case remains unsolved.

So Long to The Shield

Back when Sylvia and I first started dating she introduced me to The Shield, a cop drama with a twist: rather than follow the exploits of typical crime fighters, The Shield focussed on a small group of corrupt officers, the Strike Team based out of "the barn" in the (fictional) Farmington district of Los Angeles. Fascinated by the show's gritty style, taut writing and above all Michael Chiklis' performance as the sociopathic Strike Team leader Vic Mackey, I eagerly purchased the first season on DVD to catch up and watched each following season as it was released to home video.

Sylvia and I watched the first five seasons together, but then suddenly, for whatever reason, I burned out on the show - not because of any dip in quality, but because the show's bleak landscape simply got to be a little too unremitting; I moved on to lighter pop culture fare for my after-work entertainment. Sylvia finished the show on her own, and it wasn't until the last month or so that I decided it was finally time to complete Vic's story. We sat down together tonight to watch the last two episodes of the final season, and now that it's all over I have no choice but to place the series in my personal top ten television dramas. But why?

While The Shield is ostensibly about the corruption of Vic Mackey and his Strike Team contrasted with the efforts of good cops to uncover that corruption while also handling the regular run of murders and assaults in the show's crime-ridden version of LA, there's a subtext - intended or not - that critiques the racial and class divides in contemporary Western culture, divides that seem to make Mackey's corruption inevitable. After all, Mackey's thuggish policing tactics, his thefts and murders don't arise in a vacuum - they're a sociopath's response to a world that offers little opportunity for decent quality of life for far too many citizens. Not that this excuses Mackey's criminal acts; far from it. The show makes it clear that Mackey's primary justifications, that everything he does is to protect his team and his family, are subordinate to his primary motivator: Mackey likes to win, whatever the cost. A skilled manipulator and bully, if he ever appears sympathetic it's because those emotions are engineered to obtain that exact response.

Against this backdrop the show also follows Latino police captain, then city councillor, then Mayoral candidate David Aceveda, the man who initially suspects Mackey of corruption, pursues him and eventually winds up tainted by Mackey - like nearly every other character who crosses the man's twisted path. Aceveda's arc, though minor in comparison to the show's throughline, nonetheless adds important thematic meat to the show. Aceveda's political career requires unsavoury compromises from beginning to end, and even if he wins, as seems likely (the show's finale doesn't portray the actual election), he's become too much like Mackey to really make the changes that the city needs. Aceveda isn't a villain like Mackey, but he was always in it for himself, and by the show's conclusion he's only grown more cynical and self-serving.

Mackey's web of deceit eventually traps him, of course, as it must in conventional Western drama, but in an immensely satisfying way; he winds up trapped in a hell of his own making, theoretically gaining immunity from his crimes but losing his friends, family and reputation in the process. And there's enough ambiguity in the final seconds to suggest that he's going to at least attempt to dig his way out; the man is, after all, a venomous serpent, and it would be against his nature to accept defeat.

The show's purest characters - Farmington chief Claudette Wyms, Detective Dutch Waggenbach and Officer Julien Lowe - escape relatively unscathed, their moral compasses intact (though Wyms is slowly dying of lupus). The series implies that they will continue to fight the good fight as long as they can, perhaps even more effectively now that they're free of Mackey's dark influence.

The citizens of Farmington, however, don't have much to look forward to. Their world is one of economic desperation, broken families, random violence and drug addiction. While the main characters of the show (or any conventional show) can at least rest assured that they'll enjoy drama and narrative closure, the nameless denizens of The Shield's world, the citizens the Strike Team and Farmington's detectives and police offers are ostensibly meant to protect, will shuffle along as supporting players in their own lives, left out of the spotlight, bystanders impotently observing the stories of more important players.

Just like the rest of us.

And that is of course the show's message, conveyed most bluntly in its splash screen by a shattered police badge: the shield cannot protect us. But if we take that metaphor a step further, perhaps it's also saying that society's current configuration, with its growing distance between haves and have-nots, no longer protects or nurtures a majority of citizens. Once again, things fall apart and the centre cannot hold. Perhaps that's assigning too much meaning to a cop show, but sometimes subtext speaks louder than text.

A Few Words About Tim Dorsey

Tim Dorsey writes satirical comic novels about crime, politics, madness and drug abuse in Florida. The ostensible protagonist is Serge A. Storms, a mentally ill man who despite his heinous crimes is somehow sweet and likeable - perhaps because his victims are usually evildoers of one sort or another, perhaps because he's an enthusiastic history buff and unrepentant booster of his mixed-up home state.

I'm not normally drawn to crime novels, but last year I stumbled across Dorsey's name and novels while researching something else - I forget what. The synopses of his books sounded so crazy that I decided to buy the first five.

So far they haven't disappointed. Dorsey's sense of humour is dry and very pointed, pricking holes in the contradictions of Western society with uncanny insight and verve. Serge's misadventures are hilarious, but for a series protagonist he's off-camera much of the time as Dorsey shifts viewpoints all over the Florida map, painting a vivid picture of a diseased society that's somehow full of life despite constantly dancing at the edge of disaster.

Above all, these books are funny. At one point during the second book, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Serge and two of his accomplices attempt to order food at a drive-thru while somewhat incapacitated by drugs. Earlier in the story three different law enforcement agencies run an undercover sting at the same time, only to discover (after a narrowly-avoided gunfight) that everyone in the room is a cop of one kind or another.

I laughed until tears came to my eyes on these and several other occasions while enjoying Dorsey's books. I look forward to reading the next seven or eight in the series.

No Government Online Surveillance...For Now

Here's why democracy is important: thanks to the actions of citizens like you and me, and especially the folks behind Open Media,  the federal government has withdrawn the online surveillance sections of their omnibus crime bill. The provisions would have forced internet service providers and cell phone companies to monitor their customers and hand over information about your online and mobile telephone activities to police - without a warrant. The implications of this are pretty scary, especially for creative types; I've exchanged story ideas with friends over email that I certainly wouldn't want to be misconstrued by overzealous CSIS agents.

Even in the Internet era, privacy rights and civil liberties remain vital to our progress as a civilization. Warrentless surveillance is the sort of thing you can imagine in police states - not democracies like Canada.

Open Media's online signature drive gathered enough supporters to convince the government to shelve a very bad idea...at least for now. I urge everyone who cares about civil liberties to keep their eyes and ears open; if we don't keep an eye on the government, they're going to be keeping an uncomfortably close eye on us.

Postscript: Arson on the Road to the Edge of Nowhere

A couple of weeks back, I documented the trip Sean and I made to Manitoba, including our stop at the old Etsell farm. I'm doubly glad we went, because scarcely a year later, some miscreants burned the old Etsell house, home of our mother and aunts, to the ground.

Photos courtesy of my cousin David.

It was indeed arson, at least according to witnesses. A lightning strike or other natural cause would have been sad, but much easier to bear than this senseless vandalism. Thankfully no one was hurt, and I hope the perpetrators are caught and punished and never do anything this stupid again.