Five Card Stud

  

I don't think I've talked about this movie before, other than to mention it in passing, It's a western-mystery classic that I never get tired of. I watched it this week while my wife was out of state.

First things first: The Blasters and Blades podcast with JR Handley hosted my and Jana Brown. We talked general nerdery and Accidental Pirates in particular - a great time, aside from the fact that I appear to have the charisma of a dry dish rag. The blank wall behind me in no way highlighted any good thing about me. I did get to mention that the sequel to Accidental Pirates is a go for publication as well.

 We now return to our irregularly scheduled programming:

Five Card Stud, directed by Henry Hathaway, written by Marguerite Roberts and Ray Gaulden, stars Dean Martin, Robert Mitchum, Inger Stevens, and Roddy McDowall. My love for this western is probably irrational, but I never miss an opportunity to watch it if I find it on television. This week I watched in on Prime Video. The film is nearly sixty years old, so I'm not hiding any spoilers. 

Several men begin a game of 5 card stud. After Van Morgan (a gambler played by Dean Martin) goes for a break, the game comes to a halt when Nick Evers (played by Roddy--without ape makeup) catches the lone stranger at the table cheating (his cheat roll came up snake eyes). They drag him out to an impromptu neck-tie party as the guest of honor with Nick as the fervent MC of the occasion. When Van tries to put a stop to the festivities, Nick invokes parliamentary procedure in the form of a pistol barrel across Van's skull. The stranger's body is discovered the next morning. Van heads out for Denver, saying goodbye to his girlfriend Nora (played by Katherine Justice) and her brother Nick at the Evers Ranch were Denver Pyle plays the father.

After Van's departure a new preacher arrives in town.

He aims to bring God's word to the boom town of Rincon. Shortly after his arrival, one of the poker-playing hangmen is found smothered in a barrel of flour. (It was obviously all-purpose flour even though I don't believe that is one of the commonly intended purposes). Another of the card players is strangled with a barbed wire fence for his bow tie.
 

George (played by Yaphet Kotto) was tending bar the night of the poker game and goes to Denver to warn Van not to come back lest he end up all breathless too. Naturally, Van notes that everybody loves somebody sometime and heads back to Rincon with George. He finds that the boom town is booming and has acquired a new business.

Lily Langford (played by Inger Stevens) runs the establishment that offers shaves, baths, and miscellaneous, Naturally, Van is intrigued.

The survivors meet to discuss the suspicious activity and come to the conclusion that one of them must be the killer. Another man dies, hanging from the ropes to the church bells. The miners go wild wanting the sheriff to do something about the killings. A deputy's attempt to disarm the miners results in his death and a shoot out in town.

Van and Reverend Rudd helps bring an end to the shoot out. Rudd is quite a pistolero We get a fire and another death. Somewhere in here there's a funeral and we find out that Nick has been feeding Rudd the names of the participants in that ill-fated game of 5 card stud, pretending all the time that he tried to stop the hanging.

At one point, Nick and Van have a tussle in the graveyard. Their struggle ends on the grave of the hanged stranger. They walk away wary but without any excess perforations.

We get to see Rudd kill George, who had no part in the hanging but Nick wants him dead. The killing goes bad and Rudd is forced to shoot and run, leaving enough time for George to provide a clue about who punched his ticket.

When Nick meets Rudd in the graveyard again to give him the final name, he admits that he led the hanging and now must put Rudd down lest the preacher kill him now that he has the name of the last man who helped in the killing of his brother, the cheating stranger in the game. Nick magnanimously allows Rudd a last request to read a scripture on this solemn occasion. He selects something from the book of Samuel Colt in .32 caliber. It's a killer.

Nick reacts badly to the chosen verse. It's really all in the delivery.

Nick's funeral will be at the Evers Ranch and Rudd volunteers to take the body and coffin out in his buckboard. First he stops by the saloon to see Van and invite him to ride out with him. Van declines, indicating that he'll be out a little later.

Van meets Rudd on the road. He figured it out with George's clue when Rudd tipped up the last chair at the card table. In the confrontation, Rudd again resorts to scripture but has his Bible upside down, and Van figures out somethings rotten in Denmark. They go for their guns. Van is wounded in the arm but sends Rudd across the threshold of mortality into the arms of his cheating brother.

Nora cleans and wraps his arm and Van tells her goodbye. 

All the other card players and George are dead. Van and Lily part ways temporarily to meet in Denver or somewhere, unless the kiss Van gave her didn't keep him on her mind. Van rides off, and the closing credits roll to the music.

That's the gist of Five Card Stud. It's not much of a movie, but I like it beyond it's worth. There are lots of familiar faces. There's at least one Star Trek connection. The romance never overshadows the real story line, although there is a question about whether Van will choose Nora or Lily. When I first watched it as a kid, I couldn't believe Roddy McDowall was a bad guy. Watching it now, I wonder how I didn't realize that he was involved. It's obvious in everything Nick does. He's about as likable as a sharp stick thrust repetitively into one's eye. Anyway, it has about the perfect mix of gun play, romance, and mystery to make it a pleasure every time I see it.

 

 

Shuffling off this mortal coil

  

I suppose that's what writers tell their characters. I don't make a habit of offing my creations--at least not the ones who have become interesting and integral to the story. However, we occasionally fall upon times that try the writer's soul, when a beloved or captivating character must become referenced only in the past tense. 

Should the character's demise be played out on stage, or merely reported by messenger number three or via a sad dispatch from the front? I'm in favor of the matter getting stage time, provided that it's meaningful. If I've gone to the trouble of creating a name and backstory and linked the character's tale to the hero or plot, that character deserves a demise worthy of the role. More importantly, beyond what any character deserves, the reader has earned the scene. If the reader has had any chance to get attached to the individual, the reader needs understand that the dissolution fulfilled some purpose, that the sacrifice ennobled the character, revealed a flaw, or that the progression of the story required it. Such matters merit the stage--and should make for great reading.

A major character's expiration demands at least one good scene, if not a series of scenes with a foreshadow, a build up, and terrible climax. A little dialog or soliloquy adds a meaningful touch and can provide closure or resolution to some lingering question--or not. Final words cut short or imbued with ambiguity may provide more questions to be resolved later--and the generation of intriguing questions often drives interest and deeper meaning in the story. Remember the Trauma, the Drama, and the Dream, my three keys to great stories.

Naturally, I now think of a character whose demise did not get a full treatment and think I could've handled it better. On the other hand, I recall some characters who crossed the threshold of immortality and feel a sense of satisfaction with their final scenes even though they will be missed.

 

 

Box of Disappointment

 

The refit of Xanadu continues without help from Rush, Olivia, ELO, or Coleridge. A box of disappointment arrived today. I ordered it last week. I should've known better than to order through P. Andora Co. How did I come to request this delivery of dismay?

It's not a long story, but it goes back to before we closed on the new digs. When male offspring came to have a look at the place, we happened to look at the furnace filter. It looked like a bad and fatal case of black lung. Fortunately, there was a new filter sitting by the unit and we swapped in the clean one. After closing and move in, I thought it would be prudent to acquire an additional filter for change in the future. I noted the size on the old filter and went to the local hardware store to procure the ready replacement. 

I thought it would also be prudent to make sure the standby filter fit properly. <Morgan Freeman voice begin> It did not fit. <Morgan Freeman voice end> I compared the sizes as printed on the filters. They were the same. However, small print indicated the new filter was several millimeters bigger in the troublesome dimension. The local store gladly took the return of the filter, and I went online to find filters that matched down to the millimeter. Not-the-Nile store made the order easy and the delivery arrived within an entirely acceptable time frame. It's a box of six, because the filters are much cheaper by the half-dozen.

Once again, I decided to check the fit. It did not fit.

What?! The measurements all corresponded precisely--I had ordered the same exact size--but the fit was off by more than an inch, not mere millimeters. I had a big box of regret, failure in a six-pack.

There was a mystery here. A little investigation and a tape measure provided the clues I needed. Both the original black lung filter and the handy spare had been cut down from the size printed on them to remove a couple inches, and then reassembled, still bearing the now-false printed size. I suppose that if the previous owner could resize the filters, so can I. However, I would have preferred to have ordered the correct size and avoided the manual resizing.

By the way, I know where you can get a good deal on some furnace filters. 

I've saved the best for last.

There is good news. Out of the blue--even though I had been hoping for a response for many weeks--came a thunderbolt of fortuity. Raconteur Press has informed me that my sequel to Accidental Pirates has been accepted for publication. Of course, there will be rounds of editing and cover creation and all the tedious stuff in between the conditional acceptance and the final product, but I've already heard words of joy from happy readers who have fallen in love with Chris and Kenny and their adventures. Get Accidental Pirates here.

Wait! There's more! I was on the Blasters & Blades podcast with JR Handley and Jana Brown this week. I don't know how long before it goes live, but I'll post a link when it does.

Refitting Xanadu

The good ship Xanadu, as I'm currently calling it, complete with stately pleasure dome and caves of ice but no sign of Olivia Newton John, possesses no dearth of dings demanding attention. Yesterday repairs to the vessel consumed most of the day. I don't quite remember where it began, but I recall correcting a faucet nozzle early in the process. The main task was a minor matter by most standards: a sheet rock and insulation issue where water had damaged it under previous ownership. 

I had the foresight to pick up a roll of insulation during the week. I didn't have the prescience to pick up a utility knife. I knew that I had such a tool, so never thought about getting one. The removal of the bad gypsum was mostly accomplished by gravity before I touched it. A good jerk and the rest of it came down. I removed the remaining nails, measured the hole, and transferred the measurements to the replacement sheet rock that was already on hand. During the course of these events, I did trash the ruined drywall and swept the area multiple times. Gravity was the culprit. The hole was horizontal rather than vertical and up rather than down relative to the floor. The insulation that had been blown in would sometimes catch a gravity wave and make the less than 2 foot fall to the floor upon which I had to lay to accomplish many parts of the task.

With the replacement marked, I looked for my utility knife in vain. I still don't know where it is. I know where it used to be. I kept it on the bench in the garage - of course, that place is over 300 miles away, and I know it's not there now, what with it getting packed when we moved. One would expect the purchase of a utility knife to be a quick and simple affair. Mostly it was. There were many to choose from, but I selected one that already had my name on it. With a slightly arched handle, it felt good in my hand, like some deadly ninja device, and promised not to cause more pain to me than to the target material. 

It was the assembly that gave me troubles. No blade had been loaded. There were blades inside; I heard them rattle when I shook the tool. They were cleverly hidden within the device that was as easily cracked as a Herring Hall & Marvin. I managed. It would seem like an easy matter to install the new blade into the knife. It wasn't. I tried about 30 times to get the blade to seat properly in the knife so that it could be properly extended and retracted with the thumb-operated control. The two pieces of hardware refused to cooperate. I don't know what I did differently, but on the 30th, or perhaps I exaggerate and it was only the 28th try, the planets aligned and must've I held my mouth just right.

The knife cut very well, and I didn't make a mess of the drywall or the insulation that I cut with it. The planets really had aligned, and I kept holding my mouth just so. In only slightly less time than they took to build the pyramids of Egypt, I had the gypsum sheet cut and screwed in place. I followed that job with replacing the 8 foot long florescent light tubes--having discovered the replacement tubes being concealed beneath the fallen sheet rock--and again demonstrated my ninja-like proficiency with the utility on the remaining gypsum board to cut a cover for the attic crawl space.

The storage room shelves required a supporting actor for their monotonous performance, so I auditioned a 2x2 for that role. The actor required some attention in the form of measuring, marking, and cutting with the circular saw before final casting. Upon completion of those actions, it seemed like a decent match. A few pointers from the screw gun made it fit the role perfectly.

I experimented with refrigerator and freezer options as well as parking options, finding success with the former but not the latter.

Meanwhile, the co-captain of the ship pursued her own agenda. She got a lot of boxes unloaded, and drafted me for a preliminary rearrangement of the furniture, during which we discovered that pianos are not very flexible. If only it were an accordion.

________________ 

 Here's the latest AI copy from the persons or scammers contacting me about Accidental Pirates:

What makes this novel compelling is the immediacy of its premise, two brothers, a simple summer outing, a crack in the rock, and suddenly the Caribbean of the 1770s. Pirates, dragonlings, flintlocks, and a fire-breathing Green Lady create the kind of high-stakes wonder that hooks young readers quickly. But beneath the swashbuckling energy is something equally important: brotherhood, courage under pressure, and the quiet transformation that happens when ordinary boys are forced to become heroes. 

It's not bad.

 

Crib on the Borderlands

 

Chained to a rock at last. Fortunately, I don't see any eagles descending--at least not until the lender demands the monthly pound of flesh. We moved up (i.e., escaped) from the rental apartment, where the neighbors allow their dogs do their duty near the doorway, in the doorway, or on the stairs, to an almost-country manor. The wide open space begins on the other side of my back fence. The yard is small and the neighbors are too close, but they're not directly below my feet nor cheek by jowl with only paper-thin walls in between. We were already seeking a new abode (following the sale of the chateau) but the new roommates added to the joint below and the loud video games thundering on to three in the morning beneath our bedroom goaded us into accelerating the move. 

We had hoped to move two weeks earlier, but the repetitive demands from the lender and waiting on the seller and third parties to assemble their waterfowl into linear formation hindered our haste, shackled our swiftness, and delayed out dispatch. This may be the shortest move I've made since college. Although, the move from the rental in W town to the chateau was only a couple miles more. At least this move wasn't to another state or from one side of a large state to the other. Can we reside here with hopes of permanency? We had hoped that would be the case back at the beloved Chateau du Chat Gris, but after graduating 3 kids from the schools, including putting our youngest through the school system, to college, on a mission, and back to college, circumstances dictated a change of residence.

In many respects, that move across the state has been great--notwithstanding the squalid pad. My wife has made new friends--like she always does--and I've met more wonderful people. I like associating with people who are better than I am. One would think such association would help make me a better person, but apparently I'm content to benefit from their attitudinal largesse and magnanimity without fear of catching the malady myself. What can I say? Natural immunity, I guess.

I must think of a name for the new place. We were relieved of the little chat gris, so that option is gone. We are located on a border of sorts and the back fence is a stone wall. A not-too-distant mountain is visible out the back, and I've positioned my writing desk so that I can enjoy that view while slinging vowels and consonants in reckless abandon without fear of hitting anything in that direction. Mountain View Estate? Crib on the Borderlands? Fortress of Insufficient Solitude? Whatever handle I decide to hang on the place, it's still a move up from the former hood where a lady was murdered just across the street.

The new abode has sufficient rooms that I now have a dedicated writing room--that's a first. My wife insisted that I do this thing I do in isolation. Speculation leads me to believe that she doesn't appreciate my requests for her to do what she does more quietly and not to talk to me while I'm feeding my addiction. Although, it could be that having my writing desk with inspiration buddies openly displayed thereon constitutes a source of embarrassment for her. The more likely reason is that I and the desk are simply in the way, have been for many years, and she needs a break from us.

The writing desk was my office desk in my private practice. It has been scarred in several moves; it received new scratches and gouges in the move out of the hood--I blame those good folks who lent a hand but lacked love for the labor and the desk. The squalid pad had a room I could've used for a writing room, but we couldn't get the desk into it. When we moved into the new digs, we had to remove the door to get the desk into the room--and then it was tight squeeze. With any luck, I'll never have to move it out.

Instead of worrying about moving the desk, I'll direct my attention to the wonderful places we'll go, this desk and I, as we wrangle words and phrases from atoms alphabetical into adventures somewhat historical or construct elaborate tales with scenes unreal and fantastical. 

However, those adventures must wait a bit. I've got about dozen address changes I need to complete.
 

 

French Cavalry and an Interview

Wellington confirmed that the French cavalry was the strongest on the European continent during the Napoleonic era.

The heavy cavalry mounted frontal charges during battle to break enemy infantry or route their cavalry.

The medium cavalry performed charges like the heavy cavalry and also acted as ‘mounted infantry.’ (See the picture below, Detaile's "Charging French Dragoons").

The light cavalry conducted reconnaissance before battle and pursuit of the routed enemy after battle.

--Napoleon's Cavalry, Artillery, and Technical Corps 1799-1815 by Gabriele Esposito

Why these bland tidbits of Napoleonic tactics that are well known to every student of the era? I'm glad you asked. I'm assembling facts and details for a short story featuring my three favorite fictional cavalry officers of La Grande Armee: Beaujeu the dragoon, Pichon the chasseur-a-cheval, and Gavrel the hussar. These three sprang to life in a story I wrote set in Egypt. Although that story remains unpublished, the three cavalrymen delighted readers in "Seventh Hussar and Aide to the Mage," published by Raconteur Press in the Wyrd Warfare anthology edited by Chris DiNote, in which they fought at the battle of Borodino.

The story in progress has them at an engagement shortly after the Egyptian campaign and long before the Russian campaign. It's an interesting battle and has been a fun one to recreate in all the various games I've played based on the battle. Naturally, our brave cavaliers will play a pivotal role that may not be well known to history. Spies, dark magic, and the desperate struggle between exhausted forces combine to threaten Bonaparte's position and demand more dangerous deeds for these heroes behind the official proclamations of victory.

Speaking of dangerous deeds, I dared to meet with The Halfling and the Spaceman to discuss writing and Accidental Pirates. I had a great time with the genial hosts.

A week or so ago, I met for another interview with another vlogger, but technical difficulties prevented anything more than a brief visit. We'll reschedule that one. Additionally, I've been invited for the Blasters and Blades podcast early next month. Of course, I'll post a link when it happens.

 

Books for Boys

I've got Accidental Pirates on my mind because I dropped in on Les Freres Corses this week. They're not bookworms by any stretch of the imagination. I don't think they've ever even read a chapter book from beginning to end. Accidental Pirates has changed that. When I stopped in for a short visit. Chris, the brother upon whom the character telling the story in the book is based, immediately grabbed the book and showed me that he was reading it, pointing out that he only had one chapter to go. "They should make this into a movie!" he exclaimed.

That response makes all the time I spent writing Accidental Pirates a complete success. Getting even one boy to read is a victory. Most of the boys I know--arguably, not that many--don't read much at all. Many boys do read, but young male readership has dropped off steadily over the last decade or two. In fact, some report (by which I mean the standard search engine) that reading for pleasure among 11-16 year old boys has dropped steeply in the last 20 years. Only 12% of Gen Z boys read books. Why? 

I suppose there is no single reason. Casting around for suspects, I know that video games provide immediate feedback for less effort invested than reading. Video games require less imagination and often channel non-stop excitement--a steady stream of mind crack that rapidly addicts the player to the immediate rush feedback. The digital rush leaves the mind in a state of decay with nothing to show for the time spent. I liked video games as kid, but I couldn't play them continuously. I had to go to the arcade and the quarters or nickels soon came to an end. Video games were a rare delight. Now many players spend fewer hours at a full-time job that they do with their eyes glued to the gaming screen. I still like video games, but they can't hold my interest like they did when I was a kid. At any rate, getting boys to read faces direct competition from video games.

Suspect number two is the short video. Boys can watch an endless scroll of short videos on youtube and other sites. Watching short videos requires even less effort than playing video games. There's a lot to be learned on these videos, but mostly they absorb time and brain cells with little long-term benefit. Don't ask me how I know.

We should look at another suspect in this crime against boys: Publishers. Who runs the publishing companies and decides what books get published? It's not men. Women and girls read more than men and boys, so it's natural to expect that more books directed to women and girls would be published--but boys suffer for it. It's a truism that most girls will read books with boys as the main characters. The opposite is not true. Boys rarely read and enjoy books with girls as the main characters. Boys want action and adventure. They want to be able to imagine themselves as the heroes who save the day, solve the crime, and vanquish the foe. Tea parties, frilly dresses, girls engaged in long conversations, and even tomboys doing fun and weird things (I'm talking about you, Pippi) don't hold much appeal for boys. Put a girl with red pigtails on the cover and you turn away 90% of boys who would be interested if a boy were featured. Maybe boys are sexist. Maybe I'm sexist. I don't think I am, but I do know that I can usually tell after reading a paragraph or a page whether a man or a woman wrote the story. Most women tell stories with a different tone and emphasize different aspects that do men. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I came to recognize the difference at an early age and realized that I usually preferred the male tone, even though I continue to enjoy stories written by talented women.

I'm happy to report that Raconteur Press has taken up arms against this sea of suspects. Raconteur Press continues to publish adventure books for boys to promote the dreams that come by exploring the undiscovered country of an exciting tale. RP has already published several great adventures for boys in a variety of genres:

Dreams of Fire and Gold by Fred Philips

Meteor Men by Scott Schad

Boy's Own Starship by Christopher Nuttal

I've Got This by Frederick Key

Fossil Force by Graham Bradley

Accidental Pirates by Stanley Wheeler 

I've probably missed a couple titles, but if you have a boy who reads, or who would read if he had the books before him, you can't go wrong with any of these titles.