pause behind Maison Cinq——Cat's Gotta Eat

Author: Joel D Canfield

Archie Goodwin’s Blues

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

Seven steps up from West Thirty-Fifth
To an old brownstone
Whose bulky genius wouldn’t work at all
If I left him on his own

Hoisting himself out of that custom chair
Only exercise he’ll get
Elevator to his orchids fair
So he doesn’t break a sweat

If it wasn’t for my needling
He’d have nothing much to do
If there was no Archie Goodwin
There’d be no you-know-who

Inspector Cramer in the big red chair
Chews on his unlit cigar
He swears someday he’s gonna get us both
But we all know he won’t get far

Theodore up in the orchid room
Saul and Fred and Fritz and me
Jump through hoops to suit his every whim
Best you’ll hear is ‘satisfactory’

If it wasn’t for my needling
He’d have nothing much to do
If there was no Archie Goodwin
There’d be no you-know-who

Never leaves the house on business
Unless some flummery’s afoot
Maybe a meal upstairs at Rustermann’s
But he’d prefer to just stay put

So I go out with Lily Rowan
Flamingo lays out quite a spread
Back home a snack is always waiting
Big glass of milk and off to bed

If it wasn’t for my needling
He’d have nothing much to do
If there was no Archie Goodwin
There’d be no you-know-who

They come in droves to hire the genius
But disappointed out they go
He seems impervious to needling
Unless the bank account is low

But when he finally takes an interest
He sits and thinks and thinks and sits
Lips pushing in and out with eyes closed
About as active as he gets

If it wasn’t for my needling
He’d have nothing much to do
If there was no Archie Goodwin
There’d be no you-know-who

“Please sit down; eyes at a level”
“Will you have a beer with me?”
He doesn’t stand, he won’t shake hands
The author’s name his physiognomy

I’ve put up with this enfant terrible
Forty years and maybe more
And through ’em all I’ve quit so many times
I’d love to even up the score

If it wasn’t for my needling
He’d have nothing much to do
If there was no Archie Goodwin
There’d be no you-know-who

If there was no Archie Goodwin
There’d be no you-know-who

The Ineffable Adventure of Jake Calcutta and the Third Act

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

In our third installment, Jake Calcutta, Temporal Journalist, swaps jibes with the Bard of Avon, flirts with the publican’s daughter, sasses Mission Liaison Felicity Bruttenholm . . . and singlehandedly saves the greatest writer in the history of the English language from the rubbish bin of history

Available at Amazon, you can pay through PayPal, or send me $2 by Zelle (joel@spinhead.com or 715-205-5355) or Venmo…

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…or, and here’s where it gets weird, mail me $2 (two US dollars or, frankly, the equivalent in any currency, paper or coin, including a bank check) to this address:

Joel D Canfield
4854 E Meadow Land Drive
San Tan Valley AZ 85140

then download it right here

Download The Ineffable Adventure of Jake Calcutta and The Third Act

writing exercise: 3 voices, 3 events

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

A writing exercise proposed on LinkedIn: pick a few authors or characters with a distinctive voice, and a few everyday or commonplace events, and write about those events in those voices.

The first three voices I thought of:

  • Jackson Lamb (from “Slow Horses”)
  • Raymond Chandler
  • Jane Austen

Three top-of-mind events:

  • finding out my mom’s health is failing
  • our air conditioning is dying
  • I love chicken nuggets

If we cross-table those, I have 9 options. Here are 3.

First, the worst possible combination: finding out my mom’s health is failing—as Jackson Lamb, the reprobate leader of the failed in “Slow Horses”, as portrayed by the perfectly chosen Gary Oldman:

Old dame’s been dotty some time. Should’ve pegged it long ago, made room for someone useful. Why do we have mothers, eh? Horrible creatures, pushy and whining, making fathers and sons miserable in equal portion. The ancient Greeks had it right: spontaneous generation. That’s the ticket. Take the sniveling ’emotions’ right out of it. Now shut up and shove off.

(I have, ahem, polished his colorful metaphors a bit for a public venue.)

Raymond Chandler writing about air conditioning problems:

Sweltering. My desk blotter was crying for mercy. Shirt cuffs had wilted like last week’s daffodils. And the smell. Let’s just say no one was bottling what I had to sell.

Jane Austen expressing her love for chicken nuggets:

There, plated oh so serenely next to properly charred Brussels sprouts and a lovely portion of creamy buttery mashed potatoes, the real purpose of the repast: bite sized morsels of yard bird, properly encrusted with toasted bread crumbs, placed artfully next to a sauce of such divine tangy sweetness, a tomato-based smoky dip truly fit for these magnificent victuals.

The 6 left to do:

  • Jackson Lamb on air conditioning
  • Jackson Lamb on chicken nuggets
  • Raymond Chandler on mom’s health
  • Raymond Chandler on chicken nuggets
  • Jane Austen on mom’s health
  • Jane Austen on air conditioning

Jackson Lamb comments on the lack of air conditioning:

AIR CONDITIONING? Listen, you mewling little girls, you should have been with us in Berlin. I drowned three massive rats in a tin can just with what dripped off my hairy fat white backside. Poured off so fast they didn’t have a chance, poor beggars.

Raymond Chandler on hearing about my mother’s failing health:

Destiny. Our mothers give us life and then leave. No point crying over blood being thicker than water. No point crying at all. Life circles like a moth, like a wolf, like a drain.

Jane Austen on air conditioning failing:

Goodness. What little breeze had sprung up is but a memory, the remains of Sunday supper, gone, forgotten. The oppressive weight of damp air, too too warm for polite society, prevents any thought of dance or even a turn about the room.

And 3 left:

  • Jackson Lamb on chicken nuggets
  • Raymond Chandler on chicken nuggets
  • Jane Austen on mom’s health

Jackson Lamb on chicken nuggets:

You are flipping kidding me. Not slapped enough as an unwanted stepchild, looking to fill your quota? Take one step closer. I really mean that. No, I’ve changed my mind. You eat them and see which of us dies sooner.

Raymond Chandler on chicken nuggets:

About as chickenlike as road kill and yet so addicting we’ll both be living under a bridge hawking window washes before long.

Jane Austen on mom’s health:

Oh my dear, you must be devastated. To be conflicted about familial love is to question how to be oneself. A son’s love should be precious to his mother—but how can one build a bridge with no riverbanks to anchor it?