The excursion train hosts a “Blues Express” every month. I can hear the opening number from my porch. The fellow’s singing his heart out. Then there’s a nice long guitar bit. It’s pretty darned good guitar playing too. I’m grooving. The song ends, the dude speaks. My Lord, he’s excited. I might be listening to a big stadium concert. He says, “Hey! I just wanna… blah blah blah!” And the crowd goes… mild.

 

I guess the “Blues Express” isn’t very well attended tonight. Hearing it now makes me wonder, what must it be like to perform on a moving train? And, since the train happens to be moving right at this moment, I wonder how long it shall take for the sound of the music to fade away entirely? Well, if I bought a ticket and boarded the “Blues Express” I suppose I might be hearing the rest of the song even now, but in that case I wouldn’t be writing this. (What a loss.)

 

So.

 

I’ll let you know. Right now it’s sort of ambient. I can hear the bass, that’s about it. No, it’s gone now. The train whistle is much louder than the band.

 

Today was another great day for industry – somebody’s industry – well, no, also mine. It wasn’t bad. That’s right – I speak of my day in the past tense at 9 P.M. because the days of my going out on a Saturday night until 3 in the morning are now a vague and fuzzy memory.

 

I’ll bet money the WT is looking down a pool cue right about now, her hair spilling out like root beer on the green felt of the table. I know what it must look like. Everybody and his brother – and quite possibly my own brother – is gathered around behind her in a semi-circle or horseshoe shape, just watching. And they’re not watching the silly ball. That’s funny.

 

What do bars smell like without cigarette smoke? The last time I went to a public house we were still smoking, ashtrays every couple of feet on the bar. I can’t think of the smell without cigarette smoke. Yes, I know we’re not all New Yorkers here. Smoking is illegal in the bars in New York State, or has been for… however long. Not too long. Long enough. Whatever. You get the idea…

 

I don’t have a point, so I’ll get right to it…

 

I guess I must feel my age. I don’t look it. I don’t think it. But I feel it. I’ve never acted my age – good Heavens, no. But I sure do feel my age today.

 

I wonder if the band will still be playing on the return trip? Then I can hear it fade in.

 

Fade out, fade in, fade out, fade…in.

 

Check One, Two. Is this thing on?

 

It’s an interesting stage of one’s career in music to be playing on a moving train for a small handful of people whose applause are inaudible from two blocks away. I’ll bet there’s a girl dancing in a black spaghetti string top, arms up in the air, lips drawn, and so on. Dark brown hair. In her… 30’s? Yes, but she is dressed just as she would have been dressed ten or so years ago when she first discovered this band. It could even be the same outfit, or pieces of it. Time stopped for her then. She is a “groupie.” By the sound of it, this band should rate one or two groupies, don’t you think?

 

Oh that’s right – you can’t hear it. You’re imaginary.

 

I’ve always wanted to stop time. The trouble is choosing exactly where to stop time – at what point in time? I must choose carefully.

 

Now there is a moth on my monitor – ah – computer screen. It is currently obscuring the letters o-n-g in the word “long.” I think it is the sleepy time moth. What? You have never heard of the sleepy time moth? Sho’ now… One day I must tell you all about the sleepy time moth.

 

Until then, farewell.

 

 

John Dickson Carr returns to take writing credit for this 1943 Suspense! broadcast, "The Customers Like Murder," with the star Roland Young.

There was a family get-together in Connecticut that I forgot to attend. I believe it’s today. I received the invitation two months ago. I planned to go. I told several of my customers that I intended to go, and that I might be away at the end of June. But days pass into days, weeks into weeks. This morning I realized that the very day of the event had come, and I am here and not there. To make a decision to do a thing is not the same as doing it. I made a decision, checked it off in the box in my mind next to where that decision is written, and then forgot to take the actions that must follow it.

 

I think most of us do this sort of thing from time to time. I know, for instance, a young woman who believes she is “saved” because one day in a church a long time ago she made a decision to offer her life to Jesus. She also keeps a statue of a many-armed god of some sort in her home. In front of it she makes offerings of incense. Am I being judgmental if I am slightly bewildered by this? Maybe so.

 

But of course I have just told a lie. I am not in the least bewildered. I have a pretty good idea of what her thought process must be. She has fallen prey to eclecticism, which is an ugly-sounding word I don’t like to use in conversation, but it certainly applies in my friend’s case.

 

Having eclectic tastes is not the same as eclecticism. (Ouch! This is going to be a short segment because I really don’t like that word.) There is nothing wrong with having a Second Empire sofa next to an Art Deco sideboard, and between them a folding TV table from Big-Mart. There is nothing wrong with putting the music of Hildegard Von Bingen on a compilation CD along with Pantera, if that is what floats one’s boat.

 

(Yes, I did. It seemed like a good idea at the time.)

 

My friend is “looking for loopholes,” as W.C. Fields so famously explained he was doing when his daughter found him reading the Holy Bible.

 

“Bill, what on earth are you doing with a Bible?” she asked.

 

“Looking for loopholes,” said he.

 

There are some who would judge my friend rather harshly. I think she is merely hapless, clueless, and lovable. But all of this is to say that a decision to do a thing must be followed by the action of actually doing it. To say some sort of prayer to the effect that you are turning your life over to Jesus, no matter how warm and fuzzy the feeling might be at the time, is meaningless if it is not followed by actually turning your life over to Jesus. To say you are going to Connecticut is meaningless, no matter how well intended such a decision may be, unless that statement is followed by a course of action involving (probably) a bag being packed and a car being driven, and so on.

 

Some decisions – important ones – require taking many steps. Each step is another action which ultimately brings one closer to whatever the goal expressed in the decision may be. One may decide to become an astronaut, for instance. There are ways to do that. There may be several variations, but basically those ways must involve following the example of others who have decided to become astronauts and then followed through on their decision to actually do so.

 

In the case of being Christian, (rather than just saying one is Christian), the Communion of Saints is very helpful: Saints are like astronauts. One may learn how to be a Christian by reading about the Saints. For instance, a person may ask himself, “Did Saint Mary Hoo-hoo decide to give her life to Jesus and then make offerings of incense to a pagan god?” If the answer to that question is no, then we may conclude that isn’t the right way to do it.

 

I hear my friend saying, “Oh you and your if thens!” (At which point I realize it is time for us to stop talking and go get some ice cream. She likes chocolate. I like coffee.)

 

There are some who say that the Scriptures alone, without the aid of authoritative interpretation and without the aid of religious tradition, will bring a person to the goal of being Christian just by reading this line here and that line there whilst ignoring many other lines which may seem to contradict them. But no one can ever be free from all tradition. For instance, a church which teaches that all that is necessary to be a Christian is to make a decision to be one without following it with a course of action to become one has in so doing established both authority and tradition. It may be a reactionary tradition, but it is a tradition nonetheless.

 

There are also some who will say that the Saints can’t really teach us anything, or, if they can, they cannot also see us or hear us from wherever they are, so it makes no sense to try talking to them. That’s the other very helpful aspect of the Communion of Saints – being able to talk to them, ask for their help, and so on. Maybe there are some who take it half way, saying, “Yes, they set a very good example, but…” (I say, “Good, you’re halfway there, keep going.”)

 

It seems very strange to me that a person can believe in a God who created everything out of nothing – which is the most preposterous suggestion that has ever been made – and then simply can’t believe in the Communion of Saints, or simply can’t believe in the Eucharist. That is like saying, “I believe in ghosts but I don’t believe a person has ever seen one.” OK, so what on earth is the point of believing in ghosts if that is the case? What is the point of believing the most preposterous suggestion that has ever been made and then to reject as incredible several far less challenging ideas that seem to arise quite logically from that first one?

 

Indeed, that first suggestion is perfectly logical, though preposterous, because nothing else is.

 

 I have decided to go to Connecticut, but should I actually go there? No! That’s where I draw the line.

 

And here I sit. Not in Connecticut.       

Picture Time.

 

 

I write the White Lodge in this room, on this old computer. Here is also one of two reading chairs, depending on what I am reading. Sleeping chairs, too. The tree is artificial – which is good. I am very adept at keeping non-living things alive. Not so the real thing.

 

 

The other reading chair is in this room, where the big stereo is. That’s War Pig guarding the door. Isn’t he cute?

 

 

I sleep in this bed.

 

 

I drive one of these cars.

 

 

I work all day with this achingly attractive young lady. I try not to look. It isn’t easy. I try not to pick her up and carry her off to Duke Squabbler’s castle – wherever that may be.

 

 

When I look out my kitchen window this is what I see. Black Lodge Hill is barely visible this time of year with that awful big tree in full leaf. It’s very green. I like green.

 

 

And the kitchen window itself is here. This is the only place where the sun comes into the house, so this is where the geraniums and the myphets live.

 

 

Anyhoooo, I had gotten away from using my camera. Why? I don’t know. I suppose the novelty wore off. I forgot I had it. When you become so wealthy that you forget about a thing you possess it is time to consider whether or not you are worthy of your wealth. Things mean nothing unless you are grateful for them. What I mean is that I own nothing as a result of my hard work and industry. What I mean is I do not achieve, but God provides.

 

People who don’t thank God for the things they have cannot really be said to own anything. They merely live surrounded by things, overcome by things, overpowered by things. And things control them. We hear the word consumerism quite a lot. People consume rather than attain, collect rather than aspire. This is why a typewriter which was made in 1914 still works exactly as it did when it was made, while a computer that was made yesterday is obsolete before you get it home. It is the nature of all matter to fall apart. Nature is matter. Matter is things. The more we value things, the less those things have value.

 

What the hell is a “garage sale” anyway? How does such a phenomenon occur? I guess I’m glad it does. Everything I own is someone else’s garbage – even the clothes I wear, with a few exceptions. It’s beautiful because I love these old things of mine.

 

Many people call the earth “Mother Nature.” Such people are pagans. They worship things. Someone told me that one of our presidential candidates said America is no longer a Christian country. I don’t know if the candidate did actually say that, or not. But I do know it is a true statement. The Church speaks of America as a Mission country. Just like any backwater of civilization in days of old, America requires missionaries. Again.

 

I was squabblering the other day with a fellow who wishes to sell his house. Elizabeth was with me. Squabblering – that means being the Squabbler. I thought he might be better at dealing with people than I am, having all his years of experience – 3,337 to be exact. I (the Squabbler) was telling him about the house I almost bought. The owner was an old farmer dude. He said if I gave him a certain amount we could shake hands on it. I told him I’d think it over. Then, suddenly, I got a call from this Real Estate lady. It’s a long story, but the whole thing went downhill from there.

 

Squabs said, “Because, you know, a man’s as good as his word. What good is a woman?”

 

“A woman tells him what to say,” Elizabeth piped in.

 

The property owner said, “Are you sure you two aren’t married?”

 

Squabs: “Thank God, no. I mean – Alas, no.”

 

Well, the property was… interesting, but not private enough. You can see it from down the road. I’m looking for something deep in the woods. This particular place did have two houses – a second one, without modern conveniences, was located farther up along the drive, behind the trees. That does make it somewhat attractive. I could dig a nice fire pit back there. Nice people could come over on a Friday night, or whatever. The White Tornado could arrange it. We could just… chill.

 

This all started because I wanted a fire, and they aren’t allowed where I’m living. Everywhere I look I ask myself, “Where will the fire go?”

 

Well, I confess to having a great deal of difficulty negotiating with women. Everything in me rushes to accommodate them. I’m not going to change because I’m right to be a gentleman; the world is wrong to pretend that some other way is better. Better? What I see isn’t “better.” What I see convinces me to run – run far. Find a place in the woods. Burn my fires. Then I’ll invite you all to come sit by my fire. And I won’t say a word. I’ll just listen to you. If I seem to be sleeping, poke me with something. If that doesn’t work I’m probably dead. In that case, go on talking. I won’t interrupt.

 

Well, I’ve been feeling a little down in the dumps – you know, the place where fathers and sons go to have a little quality time, burn a few tires, shoot rats… Gee, I miss shooting rats, but I still enjoy a good tire fire. Mattresses are good too.

 

What’s a sure way to cheer me up? Why, posting a little Old Time Radio will surely do the trick.

 

Don Quinn was the writer for Fibber McGee and Molly, and also the program playing now, “The Halls of Ivy,” which ran from 1949 to 1952. This is the audition, or “pilot,” program. Phil Leslie took over writing FM&M when Quinn began this project. “The Halls of Ivy” made the jump to TV after its short radio run. Like FM&M, the stars of the program were a married couple, Ronald Coleman and Benita Hume. But unlike FM&M, the show was situation comedy from the get-go, and it provided more sophisticated humor.

 

"The Halls of Ivy" co-starred Gale Gordon and Willard Waterman. Gale Gordon, a seasoned radio veteran long before embarking on his TV career, (“The Lucy Show,” et. al.), was also a regular on FM&M during this period. Waterman, whose voice sounds just like Hal Peary's, replaced him as Gildersleeve in "The Great Gildersleeve," which we will be hearing starting in September. He also played Gildy in the short-lived TV show. Oh, it’s just one big happy NBC family… Both Waterman and Gordon died in 1995.

The picture is of Waterman with his Gildersleeve co-stars.

 

 

On my way to Heaven – slowly but surely – I’ve found a place that would be perfect for my new home. Too perfect – it’s creepy. It may be a place I won’t wish to leave when it comes time to go to Heaven. And that calls to my mind the question “Can’t I go back and do it again, and again, until I get it right?” That question is called Reincarnation, and as religious beliefs go it’s a pretty one. But the funny thing is it’s always a question, never a teaching. God doesn’t teach it. People invent it. Why do people invent it? Well, probably for the same reason I post Old Time Radio when I’m down in the dumps: it cheers them up.

 

I’m not sure I fancy the idea. If I had to keep coming back until I finally “got it right” I would have to keep coming back for Eternity. No, I don’t fancy that idea at all. I much prefer salvation. It’s less complicated. You see, I know what it is to be forgiven for doing bad things. I know how it feels to be forgiven. It’s kind of a weird feeling, but not unpleasant. Reincarnation is a little like pretending you’re God because the emphasis is really on forgiving yourself.

 

Zoroastrianism – that’s a good one. When a man dies he sits at the head of his body for three days. Then a chasm appears before him; spanning it a narrow bridge. On the other side of the chasm is Heaven. I’m sure it looks quite Cecil B. DeMille. Well, on the third day a beautiful woman crosses the bridge from Heaven. The man must walk out over the chasm to meet her. If he has been good in his life he follows her into Heaven, but if he has been bad the beautiful woman turns into an ugly old hag and pulls him off the bridge into Hell.

 

Wow – that sure does sound like my marriage.

 

But anyhooo, at the end of time everybody gets released from Hell and allowed into Heaven, so I suppose the Zoroastrian Hell has some attributes of Purgatory. And well, it just so happens our lives on Earth have some attributes of Purgatory too. Except for this: In Purgatory we don’t keep trying until we “get it right.” Salvation is something God does for us, not something we do for ourselves. Living on Earth is definitely something we do for ourselves, by ourselves, but life will end – Finito, we’re done.

 

Will I ever take that vacation? The termites in my head desperately need one.

 

Oh yes, Elizabeth (The White Tornado, The Amazing Monkey Girl) has given me a dog. Or, that is – she is growing me a dog. (She raises dogs. Did you know that? Well, if you didn’t, now you do.) This puts the pressure on me to move out into the country no later than 8 weeks hence. I’m not sure that can happen. Well, I couldn’t have a dog here – at least not permanently. Oh I must have thrown such a wet blanket on her this morning. I’ll bet she wanted me to be happy. Lawdy, I’m a prick.

 

But don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll get it right.  

The famous artist lady’s face twisted into an expression of bewildered horror when the Squabbler spoke. I took him to a party last night over at Chateau Creekside. But first we had to pick up my dear friend Methuselah, the poet, in Rhubarb Valley, passing right by that 100 acres with the saltbox house smack in the middle of it which is the perfect property for me and exactly twice what I can afford, which, combined with the furious riffage of the Mahavishnu Orchestra in my car, made for a bittersweet beginning of one of these social functions I’d almost rather not attend. I brought the Squabbler along so that he could deflect the attention of the other guests away from me. In person I am really quite shy, though it may not seem that way from my writing. Who can tell?

 

A young man from one of the colleges played a Yamaha electronic piano – Jazz standards. At one point the Squabbler was telling a story and the young man inserted a walking bass line into it, reminding me of readings we used to do. Very amusing. But overall, there was altogether too much food and fireflies. I got a good fire going – which I think is the chief reason I am invited to these things – and thought about how seductive my bed must look just lying there waiting for me back at home.

 

Today: wet. Into each life some rain must fall, but… really.

 

The oddest thing happened just now. The lady on the other side of a sales counter leaned up upon her elbows as if to kiss me, and there she was. We were speaking in low tones with mingling breath. I was wondering if my facial hygiene was in order. I had only just awoken. I’d hate to think the lady was about to kiss a hairy nose, and then perhaps thinking better of it. I may get myself in trouble going to the store. Hope springs eternal.

 

I seem to be thinking in clichés today. That may be an afterglow of the party. When people are assembled socially who know each other only slightly or not at all, clichés are bound to pepper the conversation. If you step out of the common circle you may frighten famous artist ladies. I would turn my back on the Squabs for only a moment and suddenly he’s talking about Lot and his daughters in the cave.

 

 

It ain’t necessarily so –

It ain’t necessarily so –

The things that you’re liable

To read in the Bible,

It ain’t necessarily so...

 

Yes, that young fellow played that song at some point. There were several Gershwins.

 

Methuselah is working on finishing the story begun in “A Winter’s Tale.” That’s interesting. We were talking about W.C. Fields. Just imagine being overcome by yourself. I wonder what it was like to be alcoholic in those days. Hmm – probably about the same as now.

 

I don’t like alcoholic exceptionalism: people in AA talking about how special they are for having obsessive thoughts when the truth is everybody has obsessive thoughts. If those people in AA bothered to listen to anybody except themselves they would know that. No – they are special for one reason only: too much whiskey.

 

When filling out profile information on Internet dating sites I always click on the box marked “Non Drinker.” It is a true statement.

 

Don’t get me started…

 

My guess is that lady behind the counter is one of those who enjoy kissing. She has lovely full lips and large dark eyes. Some people like to kiss more than other people do. So what? Some people like cashews more than other people do. I am thinking that I may return for a re-fill just as soon as I click on “Submit.” I like cashews.

 

Gesundheit.

 

This post is really about nothing. I hope I am good at writing about nothing. In college they teach the children how to write about less than nothing. After I got out of college - (and I still have the police report to prove it) – I had to unlearn how to write about less than nothing and teach myself how to write about nothing.

 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

 

Well, I may just make an offer on that 100 acres even though it’s more than I would have liked to spend. It is just that perfect. Perhaps I can throw together an LLC with a few likely speculators… Uh-oh, there it goes again: I’m scheming. I can actually hear the termites in my head talking excitedly. You see, I supposedly went to that party last night to get my mind off its treadmills for a little while, but – oh well – it didn’t seem to work.

 

Visions of the Emerald Beyond is the name of the Mahavishnu Orchestra album I was playing in the car. It’s one of those that was either loved or hated. The more straight Jazz-oriented folks might think it was ‘over the top.’ Well, it is ‘over the top’ – that’s just the truth – but in such a breathtaking way. It’s such a gorgeous, rich, romantic album. It’s full of rather violent kisses – you know the type, when things start to heat up.

 

Oh my – just freeze the frame right there. That’s perfect: just when things start to heat up. There is no climax/anti-climax, or depression, or ambivalence. No family is founded. No buildings are torn down. No trains speed through tunnels like an old movie montage. There is only the heat formed by expectation - the words and the breath, and the lips. Just think of it: an endless kiss!

 

At one point – this was outside on the patio, with the piano music playing, my lovely fire burning into perfect marshmallow red cinders - the famous artist lady was saying, “And then at night, if they needed light, they would shake the lantern full of fireflies…”

 

The Squabbler: “There were fireflies on that night, after the fall of Sodom and Gomorrah…”

 

The Lady: “Really?”

 

I can’t take him anywhere. 

    

 

Mary Astor stars in this 1943 Suspense! program, “In Fear and Trembling.” The story does not have a happy ending.