So let’s begin with the one you all worked out a long time ago, who is The Drunk? The drunk is one Dashiell Hammett, a man so intoxicated he needed a couple of drinks inside him before he could start drinking. Hammett may not have been much of a novelist, but rather the earliest Gonzo Journalist, since many of his stories have an autobiographical ring to them. Read any of the Continental Op stories and you quickly realize that it was merely because he’d put his name on the cover that the character’s name is never said inside the books. I’m not saying the books are embellished a bit, but I am saying that most of them ring so true that they could only be from experience. He only wrote a few books, although there are a wealth of short stories, but we’re going to focus on the book that made me step back from The Brink.

Now, this is where the tale gets a little muddled. See, I never really stopped reading exactly. I always sort of read, and I always listened to audiobooks. The audiobooks thing became a dual cure when it was discovered that both ADD and dyslexia were real things that hampering the fuck out of a young boy with a curious mind. And there comic books, but lets ignore those for the moment. Audiobooks will often come up because I have hundreds upon hundreds of them. I was a member of one of those Columbia Record Club style audiobook clubs. That will come up later, so let’s leave it to one side for right now.

Besides I didn’t read this book in audio format. I don’t remember how I got it into my head to read the book, but I did. All I can think is that I was getting tired of reading The Shadow novels, which I was starting to find irritating. Tolkien no longer appealed and I was probably going through my first period of having an issue with Stephen King. I had seen The Maltese Falcon and I recognized the name on the cover as the writer of that, even though it would be years before I read that book. No, instead I saw a title and decided to try and read the book for some reason. I have a feeling that I was sitting there, thinking that reading and me were going to give it one more try and if this book didn’t turn out like I wanted then I would bullshit my way through the rest of my life pretending I’d read stuff.

So I get started on The Dain Curse and… just wow. If anyone had told me that while I was being forced to read mind numbingly pointless shit like Gentlehands, that were books out there that had stuff like this in them, I would have slapped them in their lying mouths and told them to stop lying like the lying motherfuckers that they were. See, I had been forced to read such complete and utter shit in school that I was compeletly and utterly turned off the idea of trying to read anything that didn’t have elves, dragons, machine guns, zombies, or hot Victorian sex in it.

Now, The Dain Curse has a few juicy murders, but that is so not the point. Imagine if you, that you’re an impressionable young lad, maybe 17 or so. You’ve had boring, pointless shit like The Grapes of Wrath rammed down your throat for years, although to be honest you were a little distracted by the turtle in the first chapter and kept wondering when it would return before you worked out that the turtle couldn’t help you. Five points if you understood ANY of that btw.

So, you’re about 17 right? You’re male, right? And you’ve almost come to the conclusion that comics might be the only books you read from now on, right? The Old Man and The Sea has done nothing to inspire confidence in the world of the written word, you’re done with this whole reading thing, right? Okay, now imagine reading this story where a young girl is being held quasi-hostage by charlatans posing as religious figures and cult leaders. They’ve been shooting this girl up with morphine, they kill everyone around her, they’ve fucked this little girl’s head and the only person who can help her is a guy who might not give a fuck if the world ended tomorrow.

That, perhaps, more than anything else was the thing I really liked about the book. The main character isn’t classically likeable. Oh sure, you come to like and admire him, but not in the pandering way that most writers use to get you on their side. Most writers let you know who your hero is, and that he’s the hero right away. You’re sympathy is with them from the word go, unless you’re dealing with a tedious piece of “literature” and then the character is unlikeable from the word go. What I found interesting about Hammett, is how disinterested he is in what the hell you think. His characters aren’t likeable, unlikeable, or anywhere in between, they’re people. Granted, I would later find this trick used by dozens of hard boiled writers and of course most the good film noir characters are like this too, but this was my first. You always remember the one that popped your cherry, you know?

This is also a drug book, but without the tediousness of having to read about some asshole cramming everything he can get his hands on into every orifice they’ll fit in. Sorry Hunter, enjoying your book and all, but seriously. Most your drug books are tediously annoying because they’re written from the point of view of the junkie. I can’t even remember what that piece of shit our 11th grade teacher made us read was called, but it was a book about a boy all fucked up on smack. It was from his point of view and it was all “Drugs are bad M’Kay?” and it rang about a true as a bell made of marzipan. You want a drug book? How about a description of bringing someone down of a morphine addiction? From the point of view you’re most likely to be in? “Friends help friends come down off smack, and it kind of sucks.” You sort of feel like he’s been there, like he’s describing a situation he remembers exactly what the skin of a dope fiend looks like.

I remember the light bulb switching on over my head when I read this book, because it said that you didn’t need monsters to have an interesting book. There was nothing fantastic in this book, just a lot of stuff that could really happen in real life. No ghosts, no monsters, no pen names come back from the dead to avenge themselves on the writer who killed them, just drugs and sex and madness and money and murder.

I also remember sitting there and asking aloud, “Why the hell did no one tell me there were books like this out there?” I remember being fairly offended that we’re been given unreadable shit to try and wade through… and The Great Gatsby*, while there were books like this in existence? People who wrote like this were around and we were wasting our time and effort on the crap we’d been wasting our time on? I was now offended about how English class had treated me up until that point. I could begin to comprehend the reasons as to why no one had ever given me a glass of ilk this book.

And why not? Hammett was a dead white guy, and he wrote books. He wrote books about the human condition, and about people being shitty to each other. All the things my English teachers seemed to love! Hell, there was even pretentious stuff in the narration once in a while. Why the hell didn’t we read him in class? Was it because they were afraid we might enjoy something and take up a lifelong joy of reading? That was the only answer I could come up with. Many, many mystery books, audiobooks, and movies would soon follow. I can’t say my life long addiction to mystery stories started here, because that germ got started way earlier, but it helped.

And for that, we have a drunk who wrote trash to thank.

*Forgot the foot note! I actually liked The Great Gatsby, although I maybe the only person I know who does.

Where was I? Ah yes, fat as public property. Men get it, women get it, women get it a hell of a lot more. I think being fat does do this, but so does simply being female.

I would like you to look at this cover for GQ magazine, where a photo of Michelle Williams features prominently. Tell me she is not being treated like a piece of public property. The headline alone comes to me as “How dare this bitch not show us her tits before?” and acts as if she should have posed in her underwear a long time ago.

I would like to blame our old foe in this one, and explain why I rarely mention it.

See… when every I read the words “The Patriarchy” I tend to think of Adam West saying it. Try it with me for a moment.

Best Batman Ever: Yes Robin… it’s our old foe… The Patriarchy!

The Only Robin We’ll Really Accept: Holy slut shaming! (punches own palm) You’re right Batman, it’s the only explanation!

Best Batman Ever: I wonder what… diabolical scheme that… enslaver of souls has planned this time.

You can hear him can’t you? You know The Patriarchy is played by Peter Lorre or some shit, right?

I normally roll my eyes, since I’ve seriously heard someone claim the patriarchy as why their shoes didn’t fit them right. That is as opposed to the real problem, she bought the wrong size. However, I think that actually probably is the problem here. I mean, you can’t even make a music video that’s supposed to celebrate geek girls without having all the girls in it conform to the 8% body fat rule. Also, they have to be naked and on their backs. Natch!

There is a massive feeling that women are just public property, from shaming one who gets fat, drooling over anyone who happens to conform to the momentary standard, to telling one that gets raped to be glad it happened, society acts like women are public property. So yeah, for all those reasons, I want people to leave Paula Deen the hell alone. Also, I want someone to bring back the old Batman crew for one last caper against The Patriarchy, because how cool would that be?

And he could make a pun after doing it too.

BIFF! POW!

Best Batman Ever: Your days of corseting humans into rigidly defined gender roles are over Patriarchy.

So, at the Emerald Partition, we’ve got our own nice store brand and one of the things we sell are almonds. We’ve got a bunch of different kinds, but they were on sale this week. Now, I don’t want to portray our customers as vultures or anything, but the fact is that when our brand of almond goes on sale, people scoop them up. They were 2/$5 this week, which means you get about 18 ounces for 5 bucks. Compare that to the price of Blue Diamond almonds, which are $4 for 6 ounces. Mind you, Blue Diamond goes on buy one get one free sale once a month or so. I like Blue Diamonds flavors better, but if you just want normal salted almonds, they’re about the same.

AAAANYWAY! Our sales start Sunday and end Saturday, so there were NO almonds left this morning. Ah, but this was Truck Day, which is held in reverence by the customers and contempt by the employees. I have neither contempt nor reverence. It’s just a day like any other. I neither feel fear, nor elation about it. It’s just another event to be endured. That however, is neither here, nor there.

What you must understand is that the almonds were on sale, this was the last day of the sale and we were out of almonds for the time being. I was standing idle, waiting in quiet anticipation for the moment when the truck would arrive, when I was approached by an old man.

The old man scowled at the place where the almonds were not, and then looked at me, continuing to scowl because I didn’t have the good grace to flinch from his steely gimleted gaze. I have a rule at work, the bigger the smile, the less I mean it. I was giving a rather wide smile, one that looks a little too pleased with the situation, but doesn’t actually show any teeth. When I show teeth with that grin, people claim I look like I’m about to go for their throats. You have to smile though, otherwise the bastards know they’re getting to you, and you can’t let the bastards know they’re getting to you.

“You got anymore of these sale almonds?” The old man barked, with a voice that wants you to believe he saw D-Day. The problem with that is, he couldn’t have been more than 75 or possibly a well preserved 80. Let’s say he was 80, which would have made him about 13 at the end of the war. So if anything, he was a drain on resources and working for the Nazis during WWII.

“We’re all out right now sir.” I said politely and airily, as if the subject mattered little more than a butterfly’s fart. “They tend to go fast when they’re on sale and…” I did not get to finish.

For you see my dears, my darlings, this fellow was going to instruct me on economics. He was going to tell me why we really didn’t have almonds. Strange to relate, supply and demand weren’t the mainstays of his lecture.

“It’s because they know people want ‘em!” This old Nazi collaborator snapped.

“Oh?” I asked, with an air that invited more. You see, I treat every interaction with a customer the way hostage negotiators treat the nut with the AK-47. Always friendly, never contradictory, keep them talking, keep them thinking your on their side. Right now, keeping him talking seemed the wisest choice of action.

“You see, they put them on sale because they know they won’t have ‘em.” The man explained. “They know people want ‘em, so they don’t send you any. See, they don’t want people to be able to buy almonds.”

Now, I try to be reasonable. I don’t just tell people they’re idiots when they rant about how Obama is a French Canadian Presbyterian terrorist. I listen with attention when someone explains that it’s okay for the pope to rape children because he’s infallible and as such what he’s doing to kids can’t be rape. I even try to follow along when someone tells me that Bachman-Turner Overdrive woman was right to say we should open our embassies in Iran that we closed them in 1980 just so we can close them again. This had me stymied for a moment, because you can’t show your obvious contempt for the terrorist according to the negotiator’s rules.

Oh, and he wasn’t done.

“It’s a conspiracy!” He claimed, and I deserve a medal for valor, strength and extreme sexiness for not busting out laughing. “They want to keep people from being able to buy these almonds at the low price, they’ll only send you almonds after they jack up the price. That’s how it works, they keep the almonds from the people, see?”

Because that’s how a store works. You know people want to buy something, so you don’t sell it to them, right? I swear to god, at any moment I thought he was going to bring the Jews into it. He was very much the type and I’m not giving anything like the full rant here because trying to follow that rabbit hole would be never coming back without the help of some serious mushrooms. I could just hear him though, telling me that the Jews were working hard to keep almonds out of the hands of decent Americans who only want a fair shake and could have one if that Obama wasn’t hiding his learner’s permit from the white man! He kept going on though, never quite getting to the point of insinuating exactly who they were or why they were so enamored of jerking the chain of those who just wanted a can of almonds. All I know is that Almonds = SRS BSNS!

I mulled over my options, including just going all John Rambo and doing the guy in with a glass bottle of planter’s sitting next to my hand. I could sully my blade, but it’s a small knife and I would have to really work at it to finish him off, and I like a quick kill. Instead of blood shed, I went with the most honest answer I could come up with that might mean everyone got to go home alive.

“Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “Our truck is going to arrive in a few minutes. If you come back this afternoon, I’m sure there will be more almonds on it.”

“We’ll see.” He screwed up his face and squinted one eye at me. “We’ll see at that.”

And so the old man left the store, deprived of his almonds because They were keeping them from him. The truck came, I went to help unload it, and what do you suppose was on the truck? What do you suppose was one of the first things I stocked? A boat load of ALMONDS! Because they knew we’d had them on sale and they knew we sell a lot of them and they knew we needed more of them. I raised my fist in solidarity with my brothers, the ones who had brought the almonds.

Almonds for The People!

But you have to hurry, sale ends tonight.

2. How a drunk, two college teachers and abridged audiobooks brought me back to reading.

3. My personal history of blade ownership, from knives to swords and beyond.

4. A how-to on making the best chili ever.

5. What I expect people to bring to a relationship besides just themselves.

Put simply, To Build a Fire is the story of a moron freezing to death. This isn’t even, as my English teacher claimed, a story of man against the elements and the elements won. No! This is death by stupid. On the man’s death certificate, the coroner just wrote “Cause of Death: Stupidity!” because that’s what killed this guy and it pissed me off to read about it. Thing is, I knew from the first few lines that this guy was a goner. I knew a bit about survival even at age 11, when this particular piece of dog shit first frustrated the hell out of me. I’d just got done hating Call of The Wild and hoping we’d be done with this Yukon bullshit when my English teacher pull this thing out and forced us to read it at gun point. I clearly remember the gun. It was a Drexel .32 with pearl handles and flaking chrome.

I would have liked to burn the book that contained the story, but was not allowed matches at that time for some inexplicable reason. I hated having to sit through the inevitability, because I knew this guy was a dead man. Maybe it was the way it was written, maybe the teacher spoiled it by hinting it might not all work out, maybe I had just read a London book and worked out the guy was going to die and it was just a question of would the cold get him or those dastardly Chinese that London was always ranting about. No, I knew it couldn’t be a Chinese person, because this man was going to die of stupid. You get that from the first page, this is a dumb motherfucker and he’s gonna freeze to death.

That’s what bugged me from the start, I could see every mistake he made, which is actually easy because he does everything wrong. There is not one step he puts right. Some might argue that this makes the story a good teaching tool, but those people are idiots and if you see one crossing the street in front of you, slam on the gas. To Build a Fire is a worthless on this front because it doesn’t tell you how to do anything right, it just tells you how to do things wrong. You can’t just give someone the bad example and say “Now don’t do that and you’ll be fine” because it fails to give the proper example. You cannot have Goofus without also having Gallant. Just saying “Don’t do this.” doesn’t make people feel like they know what they should do, it also doesn’t make people feel they know how to react if they find themselves In Alaska and hunted from a helicopter by a failure at life who quits everything halfway through.

When asked what problems I could possibly have with this wonderful story, I looked the teacher square in the face and declared “People this stupid don’t deserve to have fire!” That was it, right there, more or less. I’ve often changed a few words and found this phrase very useful. When having to watch an episode of Lost “People this stupid don’t deserve to have a raft.” when watching the doctor in Day of The Dead “People this stupid don’t deserve internal organs.” and so on. Putting it simply TBFS is when you have a character that is simply too stupid to live.

Having a story with a character that suffers from TBFS who isn’t treated like the waste of protoplasm that they are is one of the quickest ways to yank my interest from a story. I’m not saying every character has to be Nero Wolfe or even an Archie Goodwin. Hell, I’ll take a Bertie Wooster for the afternoon if I don’t have to keep him and you can promise me he’s house trained. However, I shouldn’t be sitting there thinking that the only reason your moronic character hasn’t swallowed their own tongue is that you can’t actually do that.

I like a flawed character as much as the next person, providing that the next person likes them within a reasonable limit set by my standards. However, when the flaw is stupidity, I loose patience. When I can see that someone is going to die because they’re not smart enough to walk away from a situation, or they’re too stupid not to stick their hand into a hornets nest, or whatever sort of reason that their death will be labeled a suicide via proxy by any reasonable thinking person, I am not a happy camper. When I see that a character probably isn’t going to make it because of tragic events that they have no control over, but try to control anyway, I’m a happier camper. Hamlet doesn’t suffer from TBFS, but Ned Stark does.

One of these days I’m going to write about how English class nearly snuffed out my desire to read anything of any kind ever. And then I’ll tell the tale about how a drunken ex-Pinkerton and two former college teachers, who both wrote trash, brought me back from the brink. Ten Points to anyone who can name all three authors from the scant information I just gave.