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At Disputations this time, the 1940 BSI dinner photograph plus a new key to it, but there because the key -- though better than the one in my BSJ Christmas Annual -- is still incomplete, and potentially contentious in some cases.
Received, from William Hyder BSI, a copy of a€?Aunt Claraa€? Clarified: Unearthing the Original Tune of a€?We Never Mention Aunt Claraa€? in the Year of Its 80th Anniversary. Read: in the January 6th Wall Street Journal, a€?Grappling With Historya€? about an a€?Artist and Empirea€? exhibition at Londona€™s Tate Gallery that would have had Dr.
Also read, at Arts & Letters Daily a few days ago, this review of Michael Dirdaa€™s latest book about books, from the Weekly Standard. Next montha€™s BSI weekend will include the annual BSI Special Meeting at The Coffee House club on W. On the 16th, I promised an announcement next time of something new coming to this website, something I hope of considerable interest to followers of the BSIa€™s history.
So Edgar Smith was a very familiar figure to the Irregulars of his era, and to readers of my BSI Archival History series so far. Eventually I hope to issue the completed entirety as another BSI Archival History volume in print, updated by additional research along the way, along with any information readers of the serialization may send me. The final two essays about Conan Doyle biography from the second edition of my book The Quest for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: Thirteen Biographers in Search of a Life.
The next two essays about Conan Doyle biography from the second edition of my book The Quest for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: Thirteen Biographers in Search of a Life. The first two of half a dozen essays about Conan Doyle biography by me and other Baker Street Irregulars which constituted new material of a second edition, in 1997, of my 1987 book The Quest for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: Thirteen Biographers in Search of a Life. New York in the summer of 1939: several minutes of lovely color movie of the city, filmed in 16mm Kodachrome by a French tourista€”my thanks to Susan Dahlinger BSI for sending it to me. Would a top executive of General Motors deign to see a fledgling, wet-behind-the-ears devotee of the Master? As I entered I encountered two secretaries furiously typing with intense looks on their faces.
During the time she was out of the outer office, I took a furtive glance at the papers being typed so assiduously. Periodically during our meeting, one of the secretaries would pop in to check something in the BSJ copy, and to tell Mr. I was chatting with Russ Merritt BSI, professor of film at the University of California at Berkeley, about RKO Radio Pictures, my favorite movie studio of the 1930s and a€?40s, and telling him about H. The next chapter of my Great Alkali Plainsmen history, this time about my own ten years running it from long distance, in Washington D.C.
Started, at Books, my 1988 history of The Great Alkali Plainsmen of Greater Kansas City, without which I would probably have never gotten into all this BSI history stuff. Russell Merritt BSI provided us a link to the podcast of the BBC Promsa€™ August 16th concert a€?Sherlock Holmes: a Musical Mind,a€? of music from Holmes movies and television from Basil Rathbonea€™s Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror to the present day. At Disputations, some thoughts prompted by my review of Russell McLauchlina€™s two books about what planted the seeds of Baker Street Irregularity in that first generation.
At Essays, a 1996 Five Orange Pips paper about Richard Hughes, the legendary Australian foreign correspondent in East Asia, and The Baritsu Chapter he co-founded in 1948, with some additional material. A question from Nicholas Utechin BSI about the New Series BSJ in the early 1950s, and my answer at Ask Thucydides.
A retrospective review by me of two works by the late Russell McLauchlin BSI, founder of The Amateur Mendicant Society of Detroit. And some information below about the availability of my chronological BSI Archival History volumes, now that the first five and my BSJ Christmas Annual about the 1940 BSI dinner are out of print.
I was horrified, by the way, to see used copies of my historical novel Baker Street Irregular for sale for up to $188!A  Ita€™s still in print for less than a quarter of that!
Ia€™ve been able to restore the photographs for my and David Galersteina€™s Spring 2004 Baker Street Journal article about Edgar W. A photograph of Jay Finley Christ has been added to my paper a€?Hounds Bounding: The Unleasing of Jay Finley Christa€? in the Essays section.
If I were to describe vividly my reaction to reading Baker Street Irregular side by side with your volume of explanation, you would accuse me of gushing. First of all, you will be amused and proud to learn it was difficult to maintain my method of alternating chapter and notes.



You had hinted that there were many facts among the fiction, but I was still surprised by the extent of the truth of the story.
Also at Reviews is one by Donald Yates BSI of Christopher Music BSIa€™s new book out of the Amateur Mendicant Society archives. Under Essays, here, is a discovery about Christopher Morleya€™s hideaway office at 46 West 47th Street, New York, at which a great deal of literary work and management of the BSI was conducted from 1938 on. A long-time member of The Great Alkali Plainsmen of Greater Kansas City is University of Kansas film studies professor John Tibbetts, who has followed Sherlock Holmes in movies for many years. At Links are a new selection of current items along with some additions to the continuing list, notably the one for the late Donald Libeya€™s John H. Last time I reported below about this 1933 photograph of Chicago literary men at Schlogla€™s, which also appeared in the revived Saturday Review of Literature in January. Starrett hoped Bob Casey would become a charter member of The Hounds of the Baskerville (sic) when it was founded in 1943, but it didna€™t happen. I have talked before (and will again) about Schlogla€™s, the teutonic Chicago restaurant on Wells Street that was the local Mermaid Tavern for its literary and journalistic circles, and for Vincent Starrett and The Hounds of the Baskerville (sic) what Christ Cellaa€™s was to Morleya€™s Three Hours for Lunch Club and the early BSI. When this book began to be written the hands of the big wall clock at Schlogla€™s had already advanced to half past two, and as I looked up at the great disc of the pendulum, somnolently swinging back and forth like an animated moon, I saw reflected within its highly polished surface a merry and leisurely company that gave no signs of going home. We may never recover that copy of the book, but we shall speak again, and again, of Schlogla€™s. In the revived organ featured below, I write about the New York Police detective who protected Christ Cellaa€™s speakeasy while the BSI gestated there, and why he said a€?To hell with Sherlock Holmes!a€? in his 1930 book You Gotta Be Rough (published by a charter member of the BSI). And in the article I wondered: a€?Did Mike Fiaschetti ever sit at that table in Christ Cellaa€™s kitchen while Chris Morley was there with his friends gassing about Sherlock Holmes?
THE Cavaliere Fiaschetti, Chevalier of the Crown of Italy, otherwise Big Mike ofA the New York Police Department, found the right collaborator when he narrated his memoirsA to Prosper Buranelli.
I take it as proven that Mike Fiaschetti, former chief of the Italian Squad in the New York Police Department, is a rattling good narrator, and Mr. His account of the detective business is rather different from the romantic fictioneera€™s.
Natural shrewdness, obstinacy, and guts are presumably the foundation qualities for detecting, as most likely for anything else; but the central necessity, according to Mike Fiaschetti, is a wide acquaintance among stool pigeonsa€”i.
Here come the diggers!Children are fascinated with bulldozers, backhoes, payloadersa€”diggers of all shapes and sizes. Andrea Zimmerman and David Clemesha are married and have created several children's books together, including Fire Engine Man and Trashy Town, an ALA Notable Book. Smith a€“ Ia€™m loath at this point to call it a biography, hence the title that Ia€™ve adopted -- has been a work in progress a long time: too long, as other books and the irregularities of life had to be given priority at different times. Smitha€™s ancestry, parents and birth, his growing up and early education in Brooklyn, early work in business along with college by night school, and the World War. Smith that, by the way, when he was finished with the present interview, he might wish to return calls from the CEO of General Motors and the Secretary of Commerce.
The next several weeks were spent happily reading and rereading the manuscript and the books Mr. I did not find any copies there of Irregular Memories of the a€?Thirties, which has always been the scarcest.
Conan Doyle, Nineteenth Century Mana€? from the 2014 Saturday Review of Literature, and a€?The Hound Upon My Bookshelf,a€? my essay about the great BSI and collector Vincent Starretta€™s first edition of The Hound of the Baskervilles, from The Caxton Cluba€™s 2011 volume of essays Other Peoplea€™s Books.
It was a thoroughly engrossing experience, and now I want other authors to supply me with a side volume for my favorite books, though many of them are dead.
I have read the novel twice already, but several times in this reading I noticed I was in the second or even third chapter before I returned to the notes -- your plot still pulled me insistently along. I hope everyone will enjoy Sources and Methods, and Baker Street Irregular as well even more. Don Yates was active in this superlative scion society himself for many years, and out of his personal archives has provided a 1955 Detroit Free Press photostory about the AMS.
It appears here in the form it took for a handout at the May 5, 2015, Morley Birthday Lunch of The Grillparzer Club of the Hoboken Free State. Schlogla€™s was for Vincent Starrett what Christ Cellaa€™s speakeasy in New York was for Christopher Morley, and it was a favorite of Morleya€™s as well.


Grotesque and disproportionate the scene, distorted in this concave mirrora€”a strip of olive-colored ceiling above and a flare of light from cut-glass chandeliers, then a strip of brown which I identified as the paintings indigenous to a tavern, then tables and chairs, and men bent over the polished wood in all sorts of easy attitudes. Between thema€”I like to imagine them sitting down for long evenings over plentiful ravioli and asti spumantea€”they have put together a grand book.
Buranellia€™s skill and charm have made this a€?essay in constabulary biographya€? a work of eminent satisfaction. He tells how he first got into the police by cribbing from a young Irishman who sat next to him in examination. In this playful picture book, simple alliterative language and bold, colorful images capture a child's love of building and creating. I said that I would not think of asking, but he insisted on giving me a few recent examples of the Writings About the Writings, and then proceeded to hand me a typescript copy of his essay a€?The Adventure of the Worst Man in London,a€? which he signed. Smith had given me, and recounting to my associates in The Creeping Men my glorious encounter with this wonderful person. This week I cast a wider net, and did find one copy for sale at the Amazon website -- for an utterly appalling $2000 (plus shipping).
This time, perhaps because I was reading with intent, I noticed how well you delineated among the Irregulars in the tone and rhythm of their speech. I was also impressed by the extent you used real events from [Elmer Davisa€™s] Office of War Information, and two types of cryptanalysis, sliding Woody into them neatly.
They might linger here for hours, unaware that the deepening gray outdoors was brought on by something more unalterable than soot; unmindful, too, of the pounding of iron wheels high up on iron trestles, or the clanging of street cars, or the churning roar of motor trucks. I had explored them all and traveled up and down their carte du jour; I had indulged in delights gustatory and olfactory, and bewailing the fact that America had no cuisine worth the name, I had come back reluctantly only to find Schlogla€™s within three hundred yards of the desk where I performed my daily task. The portrait of Fiaschetti that emerges is attractive indeed: a€?a Renaissance bravo turned into a New York policeman,a€? with the vehement gestures of Italy and the hard jaw of a Center Street cop. Christopher Morley was a member of The Coffee House (founded 1915 by Vanity Fair editor Frank Crowninshield and literary friends of his), in the 1920s and early a€™30s before the Great Depression got him by the throat (and pocketbook). As much as that, I liked reading about the reasons that emerged for some of your choices -- it all made the novel much richer. They were placid and comfortable even as that old patron at the third table, un vieux, if ever there was one, who had sat in that self-same chair thirty years or so, save for the time lost in the distraction of home and business, partaking of his hasenpfeffer with paprika, etwas ganz feines, pulling lazily at his long filler havana, sampling now and then his goblet of RA?desheimer. Fiaschetti, who is still only in the middle forties, was the son of a Roman bandmaster and is himself a musician.
We learn that false whiskers and the analysis of cigar ashes play comparatively little part in the grim routine.
Indeed there is none of the Philo Vance esthete about Mike; this book would cause the cultured Vance many a painful shuddera€”partly, perhaps, because it is written so much better than any of Mr.
You trade freedom for information, says Fiaschetti, and remarks with his seasoned wisdom of the world that freedom is always a valuable commodity. She studied fine arts for children in college, then later went back to school at UCLA and became a dentist. Thirty yearsa€”that went back almost to antiquity in Chicago, where the calendar began anno incendi, in fact this very house had remained unchanged since the day that it was reared upon smoldering embers and charred walls, and if one dug deep enough the spade would strike bricks and debris that are all that remain to tell of the great firea€”as in ancient Troy. For sixteen years he was a New York police detective, and in his six yearsa€™ command of the Dago Squad he sent twelve murderers to the chair. Thirty yearsa€”and he might sit there another thirty years, toying with his hasenbraten and spaetzle, pulling at his long havana, if life could be endured that long again without the RA?desheimer. Buranellia€™s best episodesa€”of which Detective John Cordes was the heroa€”began by a conversation overheard from an adjoining telephone booth.
What could be more genuine than the tale of the spaghetti-joint keeper who did not report the murder until mid-afternoon because to do so earlier would have spoiled his luncheon business, and he had already bought his supplies for that meal.
The humor and skill of these offhand narrations will not blind you to the savage and terrifying realities behind them.



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