A Mixed Bag

In the realm of teen music, nothing is sacred. It began with the DJ-as-artist movement. Once upon a time disc jockeys with an entertaining line of patter were fêted: Wolfman Jack, Casey Kasem, and America’s television DJ, Dick Clark. Some might suggest that as consumer music became less creative, DJs became more so. They ruled their club kingdom and, for a few hours each night, they became stars.

FL Studio

DJs began to ‘remix’, then ‘scratch’, laying down alternate tracks, overlaying dance rhythms like dubstep, adding percussion, reverb, echo, sampling, hip-hop lyrics, and autotune. Some remixes became B-sides of the originals. Remixes were seldom improvements over the underlying works, but they proved popular.

Kids emulate their heroes. They download bootleg copies of FL-Studio, a powerful program to create music, but also remix beyond the recognizable. Confined to garages and high school dances, there isn’t anything overtly criminal, not counting the illegality of purloined programs and pirated music.

But kids learn one thing, to take someone else’s work and make it their own.

Helene Hegemann, 17

Bagged in Berlin

Imagine such activity in the literary world. Aspiring authors combine plots from Rob Lopresti and John Floyd, then set them in Stephen Ross’ New Zealand. They borrow a lingerie-challenged character from Fran Rizer and crib entire pages of humour from Melodie Campbell. Because they can’t grok the tradecraft details from Dixon Hill and RT Lawton, they copy them verbatim.

They call that work their own, no credit given. They win acclaim, they win awards, they win movie rights.

When caught and challenged, they not only claim everyone does it, they insist Rob, John, Stephen, Fran, Melodie, Dixon, and RT nobbled their ideas from others.

One of our readers pointed out this is happening in Germany and, instead of being punished, the young authoress is being honored. Seventeen-year-old Helene Hegemann filched phrases and pages from others including passages from the novel Strobo by pseudonymous author ‘Airen’. Helene says everybody does it, that’s what kids do these days. She calls it ‘mixing’, not plagiarism. She has her defenders, including the finalists committee for the $20,000 prize at the Leipzig Book Fair.

Sandbagged by Bitches

Readers might remember famed romance writer Cassie Edwards, author of a hundred novels which resulted in ten million copies sold. Ms Edwards, noted for her research, lifted paragraphs, passages, and poems from the non-fiction material of others and offered no attribution. Romance reviewers ‘Smart Bitches’ ripped her throat out, ruining an otherwise envious career.

Defenders of new age appropriation point out Cassie Edwards was a different generation, that those were the dark ages of six years ago.

Returning to the music comparison, I suppose one might argue the anthem America the Beautiful was the result of a remix. A third party combined the poetry of Katharine Lee Bates with the melody separately composed by Samuel A. Ward and arrived at a composition greater than the sum of its parts. The difference is that the ‘remixer’ neither claimed credit for the work nor pretended to wield a talent greater than the original authors.

Bagging the Question

If there was one statement that caused me to entirely lose respect and sympathy for Helene Hegemann, it was this jaw-dropping, in-your-face sentence: “There’s no such thing as originality anyway, just authenticity.”

I kept returning to her words, trying to forgive by asking what the hell does she know at seventeen? Other than residing in a moral vacuum, of course. I take pride in creativity and originality and my colleagues do as well, chosen for those very qualities.

But this is my unoriginal opinion. What is yours?

---

Botched AZ Execution?

By Dixon Hill

When I picked up the Arizona Republic newspaper at Circle K, at four Thursday morning, the headline screamed: "Botched Execution!" in bold caps.

Later, online, I saw that news of what transpired in the death chamber, here in my home state, had been broadcast on national morning news programs.

But, what really happened?  Different media outlets seemed to cover different parts of the story. Some observers claimed that Joseph Wood spent the last hour, or more, of his life, after being injected with a lethal concoction, gasping and struggling for breath, while others claimed he was merely snoring, evidently sleeping away the last hour or so of his life in no pain.

Lack of sound, to go with the video picture being watched by some witnesses, is evidently at least partly to blame for this disagreement.

One positive note (depending on how you view executions, that is):  It seems everybody agrees that he wasn't clenching his fists in pain, the way a recently condemned prisoner in another state was, when it took him a long time to die from lethal injection.

What's your take on it?

I thought, since it was my turn to blog, and I live in the state where this happened, and SS is about crime and punishment, as well as detection and writing, a discussion of this situation might just fit for today.  There are links below for those who want more information.

You can click HEREto read the Arizona Republic coverage of this story, which includes an explanation of how the state withheld certain information concerning the execution from the prisoner, as well as interesting information concerning exactly what got Joseph Wood put on death row.  There is a local news television coverage here also, because the Republic is associated with the TV station in question.

If you click HERE you'll be taken to an excellent article in the L.A. Times about a Federal Appeals Court judge who suggests executions should now be conducted via firing squad -- and even in more surprising manners.  His reasoning might strike a chord with you . . . believe it, or not!

The condemned man was not the only person to pass away, this week, however.

I'd like to take a moment to say goodbye to a man I never met, named James Scott Bumgarner.

You probably know him by the name he legally adopted later in life: James Garner.  While Jim Rockford will continue to live on in The Rockford Files and Maverick reruns, I can't help mourning the loss of an actor who could portray such a person so well, I felt as if I knew him.

Wallace on left; Ladmo on right.

Also:  Beneath the fold, on Thursday's front page, I found an article about the passing of another good man.

Bill Thompson, who played Wallace on the long-running local "Wallace and Ladmo Show" for kids, had died on Wednesday (from old age, of course, not of lethal injection).














Ladmo died some years back, so now -- for those who know the characters -- only evil Gerald is left.

Damn it, Jim!  I'm going to miss both you guys!  And I never even really knew either of you.

 See you in two weeks,
--Dixon

Happy New Year 2016!

By Dixon Hill

It occurs to me, as I'm writing this, that my blog post will probably hit the net about the same moment that the big ball in NYC hits bottom to ring in the new year.

If this is the first website you're reading in 2016, then permit me to wish you:

"Happy Electronic New Year!"


It's been an interesting year, hasn't it?  From terrorist strikes in the news, to the first-ever 1st Stage of a rocket landing on a pre-planned pad -- standing erect, no less!

Great troubles.  Great strides.

Much like any year, I suppose.

It's common to ask, "What does this new year, 2016, hold in store for us?" in essays such as this one. I'm not really the sort of person who tallies things by the 12-month package, however.

Well, I do tally certain things that way: my taxes for instance.  But, I don't usually sit around and look back over what I've accomplished this past year, or how things have improved or gotten worse around the world.

I leave all that to the talking heads at CNN and Fox News.  They can ramble and rail.  And, I can switch them off.  Imho: they're just trying to find something to fill all that airtime, anyway.  I get my news the old fashioned way: I read it.

Of course, I do my reading the NEWfashioned way: I read it online, usually at the NY Times site, sometimes at websites maintained by select other papers.

The point is, though, I READ my news, because I like well-thought-out reporting that skips the spin or hyperbole, unless I'm clearly warned with a phrase like: "News Analysis" or "Editorial."  With a paper -- on paper, or online -- I get to choose: I can read human interest stories if I want.  Or, I can just stick to hard news.

I like that option.

I enjoy reading our Sleuth Sayers blog here, too.

Since this is a New Year's post, I suppose I should mention that this year is a special one for my wife and me: our youngest child is now 13 (as of yesterday).  Our last teenager.  Now THAT is a milestone, to me.  I should probably also add that I hope to land more short story sales this year, along with an agent to represent my longer works.  And I invite readers to chime in with their thoughts on family, news, or what they hope to accomplish this year.

See you in two weeks!
--Dixon

Comicon Results

By Dixon Hill

 ComicCon results from two weeks ago:
 "Zombie's one -- Human's zero!"

That, at least, is the way our nurse claimed that the X-ray tech reported the results of my wife's foot exam two Saturdays ago.  Those of you who read my last post, know that my son attended ComicCon in Phoenix.  But, what I didn't tell you is that my wife, Madeleine, went with him on Saturday because I had to work.

The first thing they did, upon entering, was scramble up to the top floor of the Phoenix Convention Center to the Zombie fighting exhibit, in which patrons pay a buck to be issued a cap gun and make their way through a cloth maze populated by folks dressed as zombies, who in-turn growl, lunge, grab at, and sometimes lightly grasp said patrons as they pass.  Want to make the zombie quit attacking you, shoot it in the head with your cap gun.

My wife understood the rules -- All but one!


You have to shoot a zombie in the HEAD, because that's the seat of the creature's malfunctioning brain.  My wife blazed away at the zombies, who mostly fell down -- except for one female of he species, who kept coming back for more.  When she snatched at Madeleine's foot, my wife stepped back and turned in the same instant.

Her reward?  The zombie gave up, and the fifth metatarsal (the long bone in the foot behind the pinky toe) on Mad's right foot went POP!  A spiral fracture, which the doctor said is sometimes called, "The dancer's break," due to the rotating back step that often proves the catalyst.  My wife, whom I first met while we both members of the  101st Airborne Division, then proceeded to accompany my son through the rest of that day's Comicon, a task that necessitates walking for (quite literally -- in the true sense of the word) miles.

She proved a sensation at the hospital that evening, however.  Nurses and orderlies kept sneeking in to ask, "Is it true?  You broke your foot fighting zombies?  How AWESOME!"

"You're a celebrity," I told her.

"We're getting old."  She shook her head.  "They aren't excited about the zombies.  It's the idea that an old lady broke her foot while fighting zombies.  That's what they find awesome."

"Oh, that's not true," I replied.

"Yes it is.  And we are getting old."

Our sons, Joe (with beard) and Quentin (red shirt,cowboy hat)
appear on the evening news, in a story about Comicon.

"Your not old!  You're not even fifty, honey!"

She rolled her eyes.  "You're killing me here.  You're killing me."

Maybe I should have said, "...not even forty...."

Both of my feet still work, so duty calls.

I'll see you again in two weeks!
--Dixon



         

Where Will I Be, and Why?

By Dixon Hill



There is a surprising connection between what I've been looking at online, today, where I'm going this afternoon and next Wednesday, and the general topic genre of SleuthSayers.

Instead of telling you all about it, right off the bat, however, I'm going to give you a few pictographic clues, and let you sleuth your way to an answer.  (Bear the time of year in mind, along with the fact that I have 3 kids: 26,19 and 12, and you'll finish a step ahead.)

I'll let you know if you're right, at the bottom!

Photo 1

Ready for the clues?




You've already been seeing them.

(Or are some red herrings???)

Photo 2

Photo 3

Photo 4

Photo 5

Clues to the Photos:

 Photo 1:  Trainees running at the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office Training Center.

 Photo 2:  Outside of the MCSOTC

 Photo 3:  Arizona State University (main campus) viewed from above south-western edge. 

Photo 4:  This badge is the sort that my daughter's boyfriend will recieve this afternoon, when he       graduates from the MCSOTC course for prison guards.

Photo 5:  The new building for Journalism at ASU, where the Walter Cronkite School is now housed, along with state of the art television studios used by KAET TV and the Cronkite students.  (Maybe this is a bit of a red herring, but I like the building.)

My daughter's boyfriend is setting out on a career as a prison guard -- which seemed apropos to our blog genre, given that this his where most culprits hopefully end up.  I don't know how long his career will last, but his brother is among many graduates who successfully used this training as a step toward becoming the police officer he now is.  So, who knows what the future holds in store for this young man.  My wife, kids and I are going to his graduation in just a few hours.

 Meanwhile, on Wednesday, my son's girlfriend will graduate from the Creative Writing program at ASU, and begin her foray into the print media world.  She hopes to eventually become an editor.  Again, something I thought suited our interests here quite well.

 Hope you enjoyed the game!  And, I'll see you in two weeks.
 --Dixon

A Different Type of Writer Program

By Dixon Hill

Harboring a secret (or maybe not-so-secret) desire to write for television?

Are you at least 21 years old?

Do you have an unsold short story or stage play manuscript lying around, or maybe an original TV pilot is burning a hole in your computer document library?

Think that, by May 1st, you could write (or polish-up) a spec script for one episode of a current (2014-15 season) prime-time cable or broadcast television series?





If you answered "Yes," to those four questions, CBS may be looking for YOU.

The Writers Mentoring Program at CBS has graduated 70 emerging writers over the past 11 years, and their website claims that 33 careers have been launched as a direct result.


Why would CBS do this?  According to their website: "As part of its ongoing commitment to create additional access for writers of diverse backgrounds CBS' Diversity Institute has launched a different kind of writers program... ."



The website adds: "The focus of this six month program is on opening doors: providing opportunities to build relationships with network executives and show runners; to support new and emerging writers in their efforts to improve their craft; and to develop the interpersonal skills necessary to break in and succeed."

Each writer who gets into the program will meet regularly with two different mentors: a CBS network or studio exec, and a senior-level writer on a current CBS drama or comedy series. While the executive provides creative feedback on the participant's work, as well as advice and support designed to help further the participant's career, the senior-level writer helps the participant formulate and meet career goals.

If you think about it, that's sort of like pairing an aspiring print-media writer with an editor or agent and a successful writer, the editor or agent providing editorial advice while the writer shares tips on selling work to publishers.

Other elements of the program include small workshop-style meetings with industry professionals such as CBS "show runners." According to the website, speakers would include:"executive producers, agents, managers, development and current executives ... (so that) participants ... gain a better understanding of how the business works from many different perspectives as well as creating the opportunity to make critical networking connections."

Participants will also get the chance to spend time observing a writing room in action, and get a look at CBS development departments.

If you think you might be interested, bear in mind that you'll need to be in the L.A. area for a MINIMUM of five days during the six month program. Being available in L.A. for the entire time, however, would probably prove more beneficial. And remember: this is not a paying job. Finally?Better get cracking! Because you have to have your application in (along with selected writing samples) by May 1st.

You can find details on the CBS webpage by clicking HERE.

If you decide to go for it: GOOD LUCK and BEST WISHES!!!

--Dixon

What I've Been Reading

By Dixon Hill

I've been pretty busy these last several weeks, but that hasn't kept me from snagging the odd moment to read.  I've chosen among old friends and new ones, and the list looks something like this:




Death in Paradise by Robert B. Parker

My wife and I enjoy watching the Jesse Stone mysteries, so I jumped at this book when I saw it on the shelf.  Never having read one of them before, I found it even better than I'd expected.  Perhaps it's a burden, having to picture Tom Selleck as Stone (since that's how I'd first encountered Stone on-screen), but I didn't find it any trouble, and I really enjoyed the book.

As a side note, there was a TV series with this title, and I might just blog on that in the near future.

By the Light of the Moon by Dean Koontz

This one was a re-visit to an old friend.  Yes, it has mystery, suspense, and yet is strangely filled with love, but it also has a science fiction element that might not appeal to every mystery reader.  Those who loved super hero comic books during childhood, however, will probably love this adult-styled  . . . well . . . I'm not sure exactly how to define it.  But I love it.









River of Death by  Alistair MacLean

I fell in love with MacLean's writing the first time I met it, with Ice Station Zebra, a book with a protagonist who seems to create his very own definition of "unreliable narrator."

Reading MacLean since my days in the army, I'm not as captured as I was in childhood.  Still, it's nice to get a fun little romp (only 253 pages in paperback) with this story of those wreaking vengence on Nazi SS officers who thought they'd managed to escape punishment in the depths of the Amazon.

The Blue Hammer by Ross MacDonald

WOW!  I suppose it's wrong to describe writing as "lush, spare prose," but I find it difficult not to when it comes to this one.  Spare to the point of nearly shifting the feel into one of poetry, the writing in The Blue Hammer really knocked me out.  Not just a pun, either.

I have to admit, I figured out the final little "twist" long before the ending.  But, with writing like this, I didn't mind sitting back and enjoying the ride to a location I knew was calling our name.  Additionally, the title had me pondering its meaning for awhile after reading.  Finally, however, I came up with a meaning that satisfied me.


Saint Odd by Dean Koontz

This is at once a new entry and an old friend.  Saint Odd is the latest, and final, of Koontz's Odd Thomas series, which chronicles the off-beat adventures of a young fry cook who happens to see dead folks (including Elvis and Sinatra) and tries to save the world, or at least parts of it, with each installment.

The storyline began several years ago, and in this final installment it (almost) ends with Oddie's death.  And what a death adventure this is!

Never before have I read a series in which the main character died, then wondered if the series might continue to follow that character anyway -- without bringing him back to life on earth.  But, this one has me wondering just that.

See you in two weeks,
--Dixon

Locked Room Mystery in Argentina

by Dixon Hill

There are times when I read something, and I think it would make an excellent post here on SleuthSayers.  Often, I try to post a synopsis of what I've read, adding information about it from other sources in order to round out the story a bit more.

When the originating source, however, is such a truly fantastic article that appeared in The New York Times, I find myself thinking that any attempt at a synopsis would simply be foolish.

There are those who may cry foul, claiming that I shirked my duty by doing what I'm about to do. While I, personally, would admit that I'm not submitting my own writing on this post today, which means my own work here on SleuthSayers is pretty short this time, I don't feel I'd be able to agree with the idea that I'm shirking my duty.

Drawing people's attention to a story such as this, is something I feel duty bound to perform.

Additionally, as you'll see, this is a real and quite contemporary locked room mystery of sorts -- though whether we'll ever see justice done, remains an open question.

To understand what I'm talking about, please click on this link HERE . You'll be taken to a page of The New York Times, and a story that -- in my opinion -- is must reading.  About something that happened far south of where you and I live, on the day when our nation was celebrating the life of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Sadly, this story is one of injustice to another group of people.  But, it's one I firmly believe you'll find worth reading.

Since I originally created this post, I saw that one national television news outlet had run a story about it.  I was on my way out the door at the time, so I didn't get to see what they reported, or how they handled the story.  On Wednesday, January 28th, I found an interesting follow-up article in The New York Times, which you can read HERE .

Sincerely,
Dixon

An Imaginative Time of the Year

By Dixon Hill

It's that time of year again -- my 13-year-old son's favorite.  Not just because it's summer, and school let out last week.  There's more.

This weekend, Phoenix Comicon runs Thursday through Sunday at the downtown Phoenix Convention Center.

And the Q-man is stoked!

That's him on the right, in this year's almost-completed costume.  He's going as "The Sniper" from the video game  Team Fortress 2.  You can see a pic of the character he's "cosplaying" below.

Quen's still missing a scope and laser range-finder from his rifle, and a few other details, but we're working to fill the gaps by Thursday morning.

I'm writing this Wednesday night, since all my regular free time will be consumed by Comicon activities with Quentin over the next few days.

Comicon or bust!

This year, those activities include a screening of the film Jaws, with live commentary and a talk by the screenwriter, Carl Gottlieb -- and, later, a discussion and demonstration of Bartitsu (You Holmes fans know what I'm talking about!).

Writing workshops are also scheduled, and I'll be attending a few about Science Fiction and Steampunk, to get a few tips I might use in "outside the box" mysteries, while the Q-man goes to see Billie Piper from the Dr. Who TV series. And, once again, we'll be trying to get him into the Cosplay Contest at the comicon.

Those who attended Left Coast Crime, earlier this year, may find it humorous to learn that the Phoenix Convention Center, where I'll be spending the weekend, is just across the street from the hotel LCC was held in.

We're still not quite finished moving in, as you can see in this picture taken in our kitchen (above right).

See you in two weeks!
--Dixon

The Hatbox Baby Mystery

The Hatbox Baby, then . . .

By Dixon Hill

The mystery of the Hatbox Baby has intrigued Valley residents for decades.  That such a tiny personage could engender such widespread and enduring interest, perplex so many -- and even work to damage innocent lives -- can seem almost inexplicable.

Yet:  One baby.  In one hatbox.  Managed to do just that.

Christmas Eve of 1931, a young couple, not long married, was driving home though the desert. They had taken their cousins up north to see snow, and were on their way back home, when their car broke down about seven miles west of the mining town of Superior, a town not far from the Superstition Mountains, home of another Arizona legend.

The Hatbox she was found in.

Ed Stewart pulled over in the open desert and, while he worked to get the car running (some say he had to clear the fuel line) his wife, Julia, walked around through the brush and cactus.  She heard a noise, similar to a baby's cry, and walked over to find a hatbox sitting by a clump of mesquite.

She called for Ed.

Ed came over and looked more closely.  Inside the hatbox, lay a 10-month-old baby.

. . . and "The Hatbox Baby Now."
83 yr old Sharon Elliot in 2013

Once Ed got the car going again, the young couple took the baby to Mesa Constable Joe Maier.

Maier temporarily placed the baby in a maternity home run by a woman known as Ma Dana.  A few days later, she was adopted by a couple with no children.

The story made national news in 1931.  Valley newspapers usually ran Christmas stories about her discovery each year.  For decades afterward, Valley residents and newspapers asked, "What ever happened to the Hatbox Baby?"

The answer: she had a full life and even raised three kids of her own.

For most of her life, Sharon Elliot didn't know she was the famous "Hatbox Baby."  In fact, she didn't even know she was adopted.  She finally learned the truth in her mid-fifties.  Yet, she still doesn't really know who her mother was, or how she came to be abandoned, in a pasteboard hatbox, in the middle of the open desert on Christmas Eve.

But what of the couple who found her?

Rumors flew!

The couple hadn't been married long, and wagging tongues claimed it had been a "shotgun wedding," the baby "discovered" in the desert so they wouldn't have to own up to their premarital misdeeds.

In the end, the couple fled the Valley, moving elsewhere, seeking land where no one had heard of the baby they found in the desert.  It became a point of contention between the two of  them, and they constantly refused to answer interview questions from reporters who hunted them down years later.

Thus, while we ponder who could have left a baby in such an inhospitable place -- in only a hatbox -- we are also faced by what may well be the greater mystery of the Hatbox Baby:  Why did folks allow wagging tongues to do so much harm to a young couple who did nothing but save a baby from near-certain death?  In one sense, the Stewart's lives might have been much simpler if they had simply convinced themselves that they had heard nothing crying out there in the lonely desert on that Christmas Eve.  But, then again, they would have had to live with the guilt.

This quandary filed not in the Twilight Zone, but in the SleuthSayers blog, under "A" for Arizona oddities.

--Dixon

A Short Post (Shocking, I know)

By Dixon Hill

If all goes well, as you read this I'm beginning my second day at my first mystery writers conference.

I've never attended a conference of this type before.  For one thing, I have neither the resources nor time to travel much.  When I learned that Left Coast Crime was to be held in downtown Phoenix, however, my travel concerns evaporated.  And, when I got the word, a few days ago, that my employer was willing to let me take the necessary time off work, I suddenly found I could finally attend a writers conference!

So, this weekend, I'm attending Left Coast Crime.

I have no idea what I'm in for.  But, I'm looking forward to meeting other members of SleuthSayers, as well as other authors and various members of the publishing industry.  I only got my final permissions lined up at the last moment, however, so I'm busy jumping through hoops to complete everything I need to finish before taking off for the conference.

Thus, my entry today will be short.  Something that's sure to astound most folks who've read my posts!

I'll do my best to take some pics, so I can post them and let you know how things went.

If you have any suggestions for me -- such as, for instance, conference activities I should definitely attend -- feel free to make them in the "Comments" section of this blog post.  I'll have my cell phone with me, so I should get the chance to read them, though I might not have the chance to respond in a timely manner.

See you in two weeks!
--Dixon

Twilight of the Temperature

By Dixon Hill 

This post is slated to go up at midnight on Friday, May 2nd. But, that’s about 11:00 p.m., Thursday night here in Scottsdale. So, I’m writing this on the day it will go up here: Thursday, May 1st.

Depending on where you’re currently hanging your hat, it May not look as if Spring has sprung yet.

Sitting here, writing on the balcony of our new apartment, however, with a hummingbird that keeps flitting in to look around (I suspect it’s attracted by the scent of my pipe smoke.), it sure looks like Spring time to me.

Besides:   It’s May First.   It’s my birthday.

So, I know it really is Spring. Which, in the mythical Dirk Gently’s Dictionary of the Sonoran Desert, is defined as: “That short twilight-like interlude between the chilly temps of Winter, and the roasting hell that is—for so many, at least—Summer in the Valley of the Sun.”

I’m not one of those folks who decry the Summer heat, however. I welcome Summer as a time when I can jump in the pool the way the Snow Birds have done all Winter. The thermometer rises, the Snow Birds depart, and the water calls.

On the other hand, I also get a kick out of some other folks, such as a fellow I met the other night. He’s a young guy, recently graduated from college and now working an entry-level job of his chosen career field, eyeing that long and long-anticipated ladder-climb. We were talking, and he mentioned, “Everyone says how hot it is here, but I’ve been here since October and it’s not really all that hot.”

I couldn’t stifle a slight chuckle as I said, “That’s because it’s not hot yet.”

“It has been,” he retorted. “It was in the high eighties, and even hit ninety of few weeks ago.”

I nodded, and shared my standard thoughts on 90-degrees. “Right. Ninety degrees: that’s my favorite temperature, actually. If it’s at night—or you’re in the shade—with a slight breeze, it’s like heaven. Without shade or breeze, it’s a nice temp to hit the pool; you can lay out without looking like an egg left on the sidewalk too long. Perfect temperature!”

Now that quip about an egg left on the sidewalk is a joke, of course, but here are a couple of YouTube videos of eggs being fried on frying pans on sidewalks in Arizona. In both cases, however, I have to say I think they’re actually being fried by the frying pan, instead of the sidewalk. Sidewalks tend to dissipate heat too well to fry eggs. Frying pans, on the other hand, can make all the difference.

 VIDEO 1           VIDEO 2 

Meanwhile, I’ve been pleased to discover the management team at our new apartments is throwing a party in honor of my birthday! I discovered this after picking my son up from school, and finding a flyer on our door about a “Taco Night” picnic scheduled to take place on the lawn outside in a few hours. How kind of them.

Though I really don’t do birthday parties, and though I suspect it might be no more than a collection of Taco Bell fare, I suppose I should make at least make an appearance. Who knows? Perhaps it will be fun. At the very least, I’ll have the chance to people-watch while eating tacos.

See you in two weeks!
--Dixon

Cheap Christmas Leather Luxury

by Dixon Hill

Note:  I wrote this a few weeks ago, but then saw that Melodie had already loaded a much better (and far funnier) writerly chair story into our blog list.  At that time, I shelved this one.  Recently, however, I decided it never hurts to let folks know about the physical items directly supporting a writer's endeavors.  After all, someone may be interested.  So, here below is the article about my own chair.

My wife bought me a chair for Christmas.

I found out about it two days before Christmas, and three days AFTER she told me that she and I weren't getting each other presents this year.

She said the same thing last year, too -- which wound up with me out scouring a local 24-hour Walgreen's at around 10 am Christmas day.  So, I'd already gotten her a present for this Christmas, completely ignoring what she'd said.

Consequently, learning about the chair didn't phase me.

Dragging it from the store, bungee-cording it to the roof of our car and carrying it up the stairs, however, did.

Thank God for the assistance of our oldest son, Joe.  Without his help, I'd still be plodding up those steps.  Because that chair is heavy.  I mean, seriously: it probably weighs in with around the same mass as a nice leather-bound set of Hugh Hefner's Complete and Unabridged List of Personal Happy Memories . . . er, uh, I mean . . . his Personal Sins.

Anyway . . .  My wife got me the chair, as she explained, because I needed a better chair for writing.

I certainly wasn't gonna argue about that.  I write (as many of you know) out on our apartment balcony.  I've got a little rolling desk out there, comprising a short but hefty wooden cabinet that our son, Joe, built in shop class, which sits atop a 2x4 & caster device designed to move heavy furniture.

The way Joe built the cabinet, I've got a strong wide shelf about ten inches below the nice, flat top -- upon which perches my laptop when I'm working.  I keep cigars, tobacco, pipes, pipe cleaners, lighters, pens and other odds and ends down on that shelf.  The mouse sits on the arm of my chair, and the keyboard sits on my lap.  The caster wheels let me roll the "desk" up close when writing, and push it back when I stand up.

Until my wife bought me that chair for Christmas, though, I was sitting in a green, plastic, Adirondack-style lawn chair that didn't give me a lot of lumbar support.  Okay: It hardly actually gave me ANY support, being plastic and quite flexible.  Additionally, it was pretty low-slung, so I actually sat a bit too low to see my laptop screen very well.

Perhaps, therefor, you can understand why I wanted something a bit more comfortable.

Problem was: it also needed to be cheap and not too nice, because it would be sitting outside. Winters here in the Valley, might not be too rough on outdoor furniture, but summers are BRUTAL to them.

Madeleine's solution was brilliant.  She found a nice big red fake-leather cushy armchair at Goodwill. The chair was in great condition and had been priced at $25.00, but she got it on sale for 50% off.

So, I now sit in a $12.50 armchair to do my writing.

In fact, I'm sitting in it now. It's 11:11 pm (an auspicious hour, surely! LOL), and chilly enough that I've got a blanket over the chair to protect my backside (I'm wearing shorts) from the cool fake leather.  I'm wearing one zippered jacket in the normal manner, with a second open and spread over my legs.  And I'm quite comfortable.

As to my feet:  They're nice and warm too.  In a pair of house shoes my son, Quentin, gave me for Christmas.

See you in two weeks,
—Dixon

Pigs, Horses & Bulls

Back on October 8, 2013, Dale Andrews shared some British phrases, what they mean to the English, and the very different way that listeners sometimes interpret them.  More recently, Dixon Hill wrote about speaking in languages other than American English.
Dale and Dixon set me to thinking about differences in meaning and understanding of expressions right here in the USA.

SleuthSayer readers and writers are spread far and wide.  I was born fewer than thirty miles from where I live now in South Carolina, and today I want to have a few words with you about the language of Southernese.

Anyone who's ever attended a little country church in the South knows that regional preachers often introduce their sermons with an anecdote or joke.  Don't get worried.  I don't preach, but I do want to share a quick story about Southernese with you.

                That's Nice

Two elderly southern ladies are sitting on the front porch rocking.  The first one looks at the second one and says, "See this beautiful silk dress I'm wearing.  My husband bought it for me to show how much he loves me."

Second lady says, "That's nice," and keeps rocking.

First lady holds up her hand in front of the other lady's face and says, "See this gorgeous diamond ring. My husband bought it for me to show how much he loves me."

Second lady says, "That's nice," and keeps rocking.

First lady points to her shoes.  "See these expensive shoes I'm wearing.  My husband bought them for me to show how much he loves me."

Second lady says, "That's nice," and keeps rocking.

First lady says, "And what did your husband do for you to show how much he loves you?"

Second lady says, "He sent me to a fancy finishing school in Virginia so they could teach me to be a southern lady."

First lady says, "And what did you learn?"

The reply:  "They taught me to say, 'That's nice,' instead of 
'bulls_ _t.'"

Bless Your Heart

Right in line with "That's nice" is "Bless your heart," which some people think is a sweet statement that southerners say all the time. They don't understand that it actually has nothing to do with religion or blessings or being sweet.  It's a passive-aggressive way of calling the other person an idiot and frequently follows a negative comment.

Living in High Cotton

Cotton was a key crop in the South for many years.  The most successful harvest came from tall bushes loaded with fluffy white balls because the taller the bush, the greater the returns and the easier it is to pick.  "Living in high cotton" indicates a person is doing well--successful and wealthy. 

Rode Hard and Put Up Wet

"That gal looks like she's been rode hard and put up wet."
Don't think this is a sexual innuendo; it's not.  It means a person looks like they may have had too much to drink or stayed up too long the night before.  It's based on horse grooming. If a horse runs fast, it works up a sweat, especially under the saddle. After running, a horse should be walked around to dry off before going back to the stable.  If this isn't done, the horse will look sick, tired, and worn out, which is rode hard and put up wet.

Madder Than a Wet Hen

Someone who looks madder than a wet hen is being compared to a female chicken who gets irritated at the farmer when eggs are gathered because she wants to sit on them and hatch biddies.  This is called "broodiness," and the cure is to dunk the hen in cold water.  Does a hormonal hen who has had a cold water bath sound like anyone you know?

Happy as a Dead Pig in the Sunshine

I confess that this one isn't as popular as the other examples, but it brings up thoughts of Patricia Cornwell's The Body Farm. I need to connect this column to mystery and/or writing, so I'll share it. Pigs that die outside in the sty, become dried out by the sun. The skin pulls back around the lips giving the dead pig a grin. Hence, a dead pig in the sunshine looks happy.

One More

"That's about as useful as boobs on a bull."

If I have to explain that one, there's no hope for you to learn to speak Southernese.

Until we meet again, take care of . . .you!

Waging Love in Ink

by Dixon Hill

y column is a little different (and perhaps a bit more light-hearted than usual), today.


But, I thought you might get a kick out of it.

Valentine's Day is coming up, and I’d like to submit this as a salute to the pending Lover’s Holiday, coupled with my own wedding anniversary on February 18th. (I blew the date, over the prior weekend, while speaking to my wife, incidentally. And, stubborn woman that she is, she’s unwilling to grant me any brownie points because the 18th and the 28th — the day I mistook for our anniversary — both end in 8. My claim? Hey! I got the eight right, honey!)

Before I get to the fun stuff, however, I need to take about ten paragraphs of your reading time to explain something about what you’re going to read.


My mom was what she called “A Creative Writer.”

She defined Creative Writing as: “Fiction wrapped around a kernel of truth,” if I correctly recall the phrase. And, I heard this definition often enough, during my childhood, that—though I may have gotten the specific wording wrong—there’s no need to worry: I’ve definitely captured her intent.

That definition didn’t bother me, until I got older and undertook to earn a Poli-Sci degree I never finished. (As I used to quip to my army buddies: “I wound up in uniform, because -- having earned a sum total of thirty-three credit hours during my three years and two summer sessions at Arizona State, in my teens -- I felt moved to take an extended sabbatical, in order to give my professors a chance to mature.”) After completing my army adventures, I went back to school to become an engineer, which is how I wound up earning a J-school degree—because I wanted to write fiction: Clear evidence that “The Army Way” of doing things had been indelibly embedded in my neural pathways! And, during all this time, the unannounced mixing of fact and fiction (or opinion) in supposedly non-fiction articles and stories began to chafe against my grain.

Today, I probably write what my late mother would have termed: “Creative Writing.” And, in fact, concerning one of my stories, she said, “I like this a lot, but I don’t understand why you call it fiction.”

I told her: “Creative differences, Mom,” and left it at that.

In my stories, I work to render most of that ‘kernel of truth’ down to an ethereal point, where it (hopefully) transforms into theme, while sprinkling the uncooked “reserved portion” atop the finished product (like a garnish) to add verisimilitude. This, at least, is what I tell myself.

What I don’t call it, is anything but: FICTION.

To me, if any small part of a story is made-up or embellished, the label Non-Fiction must be removed and traded-in for a label clearly reading Fiction. If a writer’s opinion is added to a story, through direct comment or via manipulative voice, I want to see that story clearly labeled too. In this case: Opinion or News Analysis works for me—either one provides a clear heads-up. And, I’ve written these introductory paragraphs to give you just that very sort of “heads-up.”

While I may embellish slightly, making my wife sound snarky, or Leigh Lundin a cruel taskmaster, I try to stick pretty close to the truth in my posts. The piece below, however, was written several years ago, when I was a student in Dr. Christine Ferguson’s Magazine Article-Writing class at Scottsdale Community College. The assignment was to write a Service Piece—a short article explaining where one might find a good deal on stemware, for instance. Or pens, as in this case.

At the time, however, my concerns about mixing fiction and fact hadn’t fully gelled. Consequently, the story below is just that -- a mix of fact and fiction, what my mom would have called "Creative Writing." Pasquale Pagliuca (Puh-squal-lee Pag-lee-oo-ka) was a real guy, whom my buddies in the cigar store turned me onto. Pens International was a real store, though sadly Pasquale has passed away and I think the store is gone now. The throwing and catching of the book happened as described in the article, but the college girlfriend part is all bunk. And, contrary to what you may read, I wound up in Pasquale's store, as a class exercise, to interview him about expensive pens—an interest of mine, which I don’t have the money to call “a hobby.”

I had a hard time finding my way into the story, until I lit upon a fictional vehicle, which I envisioned as being the type of thing I had run across in GQ. I never tried to sell it anywhere; it was a class assignment, and not the sort of thing I usually do. But folks seem to get a romantic kick out of it, for some reason—so I thought I’d put it here.

Finally: In addition to saluting the upcoming two “Dates of Amour” — I’d also like to submit today’s column in tribute to Dr. Ferguson, and SCC Professor Dan Braezeale (now retired). Between the two of them, their inspired teaching (Journalism and Fiction Writing, respectively) led me to realize my brain didn’t want to spend the rest of its life doing engineer work. To that end, I’ve left the story as I found it in my computer—no reworking it. And, so . . .

(Rod Serling’s voice says) Submitted for your approval:

Waging Love in Ink
By Dixon Hill

Women did this to me! A college girl friend started it when I wrote her a love letter, using a ballpoint pen. I thought I’d never hear the end of it!

So I wrote her, using a calligraphy pen. My letters looped, swirled, and danced. The capital P stood poised on a razor’s edge, gradually widening like a stiletto. And the part of the P that bulged could only be described as—burgeoning!

Her eyes widened as she read it. A small pink tongue darted out, wetting her lips. Her bosom began to heave! The next morning, sneaking from her dorm room, I knew I had discovered the secret weapon in the war of love. I have since wielded that weapon on numerous occasions, and have never failed to vanquish my opponent.

After getting married, I let the weapon rust. The war was over. Both sides had declared a victorious cease fire at the wedding. Or so I thought. When my wife read last year’s Valentine’s card, written in ballpoint, I could see that I had made a grievous error in judgment. What I had thought would be an ever-lasting peace, was armistice at best.

I should have done what I did in college, and bought a Schaeffer calligraphy set, with the pen, three nibs, and four ink cartridges—all for fifteen bucks—and had done with it. But no! I had to have something special—like a Cobalt Bomb versus the puny thing we dropped on Hiroshima—that sort of pen.

And that’s how I wound up getting my ass kicked in a battle of wits with Pasquale P. Pagliuca. He owns Pens International. I called up and left a message explaining my quest. Pasquale invited me in—and the fight was on!

To prepare, I read an entire book: A History of Calligraphy by Albertine Gaur. Here, I learned that Egyptians made the first pens, the Greeks developed the first nib, and that while the quill was used in the West, Arabs used reeds aged in fermented manure. Then I poured over articles from Forbes, The Office, US News, and The New York Times. I even blew the dust off of such voluminous tomes as: Encyclopedia of American Industries, Second Edition; and Market Share Reporter 1999. I learned that Eisenhower and Macarthur used Parker pens to sign the surrender documents at the end of World War II, and that Bill Gates bought a pen that may have been Tolstoy’s. In short—I became an expert!

I sped to Pens International. Swaggering through the glass and steel doors of the modern high rise, I spotted my opponent in his small shop. His fifty-five year old bulk was enveloped in a blue oxford, dark pants, and sandals. Topped by woolly gray hair, and ensconced in a green leather chair, he looked like a Mafia kingpin on his day off.

“This is going to be a push-over,” I thought, walking in. But, oh! he was crafty. He started off by suckering me.

Rubbing his arthritic hands, he sighed, “Old age ain’t for wimps, kid.” I hadn’t been called a kid in twenty years. But if a centenarian hobbled in, Pasquale would probably bellow, “Have a seat, young man!”

He strikes without warning. Saying he’s got to straighten me out fast, he launches into a diatribe, claiming that ink color and paper type are as important to love letters as the type of fountain pen used. He throws a book at my head. I catch it, inches in front of my nose. The title reads: The Gift of a Letter. Realizing that—in the immortal words of Bugs Bunny—“This means WAR!” I wade into the fray, experts facts blazing from my mouth with a machine gun staccato!

Pasquale counters with a flank attack, saying he could write a love letter with any fountain pen. Particularly, “with either one of these two pens. It depends on my mood . . . each one has a different colored ink.” Damnit! He’s made it back to ink type, again!

I’ve got to get my hands on one of those pens! He may say he’ll use any fountain pen, but none of his cost less than a grand. And I’m dying to write virtual ink mushroom clouds, which will vaporize any mental chastity belt my wife may have! Sensing my weakness, Pasquale begins a fifth column action, designed to destroy my will to fight.

He unclips a Cristoforo Colombo II from his pocket. The only briar wood pen made, it retails for around $1500. My eyes capture the beautiful grain patterns of the briar—the same wood used to make pipes. “There’s something about briar wood in your hand,” Pasquale intones. “It’s such a nice, sensual, warm experience.” He slides a pad of parchment across the desk, saying, “Take it for a test drive.”

The feel of warm wood, the nib scratching over paper while the ink glides fluidly out, ignites my senses. My knees go weak. Good Lord! What would this do to my wife?

Pressing his advantage, Pasquale hands over a $1000 OMAS Celluloid, telling me that OMAS is an Italian acronym for: From the Workbench of Armando Simoni. With Svengali overtones, he encourages me to, “Sit back. Just get comfortable.” I feel my defenses crumbling.

He hands me a silver pen filled with an ink mix of King’s Gold by Schaefer, and OMAS’s Sepia. “Check this color out. Can you imagine somebody opening up your letter, with a gold hand-painted border, and reading that?”

I surrender!

I spend the next two hours being educated by Pasquale. He surprises me by saying that he used to love Mont Blanc, but since the company has changed hands, “I wouldn’t sell one to anybody I liked.” He tells me the Pelican 1000 is a “World Class Pen” for around $500, and the Caran D’Ach is an excellent pen for $150, while the $100 Colibri Scribe is really, “three pens in one: a fountain pen, roller ball, and a ball point.”

At the end I wander dazedly out the door. Phrases like “iridium tip”, and “rhodium mask” ricochet through my brain. I clutch my purchase to my heart—the model I bought is classified: TOP SECRET, only Pasquale knows for sure. I make my way to a Crane and Company stationery store; Pasquale has praised their cotton paper until I have to have it, or die.

After that I headed for home. I have my new weapon—locked and loaded, ready to fire! When my wife arrives home from work she’ll be impaled by the full thrust of my new rapier.

—30—


See, Mom? I really was listening to what you said about writing, all those years.

Love,
Dixon

See you guys in two weeks! And, Have a Happy Valentine's Day!
Dix

Where Cattle Are King

By Dixon Hill

In the great western films, the cattle baron may be a hero or a villain.

But, he is nearly always male.

And powerful.

Tovrea Mansion ...

Tovrea Castle ...

The Wedding Cake Castle ...

These are the names normally provided when visitors to Phoenix ask, "What is that odd building?"

And, visitors DO ask.

Primarily because this house, once home to the locally famous Tovrea family, who were Valley cattle barons, is tucked right into a curve of the loop 202 freeway not far from Sky Harbor Airport.  Though the photo below is several years old, it provides a good view of the 202 curving around the top (north) end of the photo to run north-south along the eastern edge of the old Tovrea estate.  The castle, or mansion, is sitting on that raised hill near the center of the photo.

The road near the top of the estate (north end) is Van Buren, while the one running past the bottom or south end is Washington.

Incidentally:  That facility bordering the west side of the estate -- the one with all those white semi-trucks parked around its perimeter, and located on the left side of the photo -- is the main Phoenix post office.  This is about where the stockyards used to start, which did not make for heavenly scented air in or around the castle's location.

This, at least, was the opinion of Alessio Carrero who had made a sheet metal fortune in San Francisco after migrating from his native Italy.  In 1928, having also become a successful land developer, Alessio moved to Arizona with the dream of turning the area we see in that photo above into a subdivision and adjoining resort called Carrero Heights.  What we now call Tovrea Mansion (or castle) was initially slated to serve as a hotel.

The problem was:  The place stank.

Oh, it was pretty, alright.  But, the Tovrea stockyards and meatpacking plant sat right next door.  And that Tovrea facility was NOT SMALL.  In fact, it was a world-class operation, one of the largest packing plants in the U.S.  The company, founded by E.A. Tovrea, who began his cattle career at the age of ten, had the motto: "Tovrea - Where Cattle Are King!"

EA was not a man to shirk hard work.
He is seen here with his wife, Della.

EA Tovrea powerful cattle and shipping baron.

Though Carrero tried to buy Tovrea out, in hopes he might make his development work, such was not to be.  There are those who say Mrs. Tovrea liked the looks of that hotel Carrero had been building on a desert knoll not far from the stockyards.  On the other hand, there are those who say it was E.A. who had his eye on the place, and that his wife fought like a wildcat to keep from having to live so near to thousands of head of beef.

Whatever the truth, the hotel and the land around it changed hands in 1931.  E.A. and his wife moved in soon after, turning it into their home, though E.A. lived little more than a year longer.  His wife, Della, would stay on in the home until her death in 1969.

And . . .

There are those in The Valley who speak of a curse, because robbery and murder seems to track certain Tovrea family wives.

Which is why I mentioned Tovrea Castle at Correro Heights (as it is now formally known) here on Sleuth Sayers.  As I mentioned once before, I intend to post articles about crime scenes of interest to those who might attend Left Coast Crime in Phoenix this upcoming Feb. 25th through 28th.

The castle, and the associated restaurant below are fairly nearby the hotel where the conference will be held.

The Tovrea Castle society runs wonderful tours through the old home, as well as the adjoining cactus garden, each day.   Additionally, you might want to spend an evening eating a great dinner at the old "Stockyards Restaurant" a place first opened as a cafe within the company's office building.

That building still stands to today, and the Stockyards Restaurant is still going strong -- along with a nice bar.

The restaurant today.  

I'll be getting to those crimes I mentioned, in the next installment.

See you in two weeks!
--Dixon

A sign from yesteryear, and how the place got its name.

The restaurant's hay-day.

That bar inside is pretty darn nice.