All posts by Lars Walker

Ronald McDonald, matchmaker

Originally broadcast on a Twin Cities TV station, this story comes from Neatorama. The McDonald’s in question is about three miles from my house.

Fifty years ago, then 16-year-old Steve Rydberg was working at a local

McDonald’s. Since he worked at the grill, his co-workers developed a code

to let him know whenever a cute girl walked in the restaurant.

Here’s a wonderful story of how Steve met his true love back then and

how he surprised his wife on her birthday fifty years later at the same

McDonald’s:

The Untamed, by Max Brand

Dan was laughing. At least that chuckling murmur was near to a laugh. Yet there was no mirth in it. It had that touch of the maniacal in it which freezes the blood. Silent halted in the midst of his rush, with his hands poised for the next blow. His mouth fell agape with an odd expression of horror as Dan stared up at him. That hideous chuckling continued. The sound defied definition. And from the shadow in which Dan was crouched, his brown eyes blazed, changed, and filled with yellow fires.

If the passage above, taken from Max Brand’s novel The Untamed, seems a little turgid to you, I am in agreement. The book was free for Kindle, and I’d never read any Brand, so I thought I’d give him a try. I don’t think I’m going to be a fan. The prose is labored, and dialogue (though the slang is probably authentic, since the author actually worked as a cowboy for a while) clunks like a counterfeit double eagle.

And yet… considering how literary tastes change, I could see how this could have been an extremely popular book in its time. There’s a mythic quality to it, especially toward the climax, where the image of a mysterious rider in the dark, whistling a weird melody as he approaches with death in his hands, evokes a scene that could have inspired Sergio Leone. Continue reading The Untamed, by Max Brand →

The Rocky Mountain Moving Picture Association, by Loren D. Estleman

I’ve always had a fondness for tales of early Hollywood. It was an amazing time and place in history, in a sense the culmination (as author Loren D. Estleman himself argues in this novel) of the American Wild West. There, in the dusty hills of sleepy Los Angeles, a dysfunctional aggregation of eastern Jewish businessmen, stage actors, vaudevillians, European artistes, and ordinary cowboys improvised like mad to create an art form that had never existed before, and so had no rules or traditions to which to appeal.

Loren D. Estleman is best known as a mystery novelist, but he also writes good westerns, and The Rocky Mountain Moving Picture Association contains elements of both genres. It’s a fun book, and I enjoyed it quite a lot.

Presented in the form of three long flashbacks, interspersed with vignettes describing the main character’s (and Hollywood’s) later history, TRMMPA tells the story of Dmitri Pulski, who when we meet him in 1913 is working for his father, an ice merchant with an operation in northern California. His father, who has received a huge order for ice from the titular Rocky Mountain Moving Picture Association, has grave doubts about the likely solvency of such an enterprise (“Moving pictures are a fad,” he explains, “but people will always need ice.”). So he sends Dmitri south, along with a Russian immigrant co-worker, in a Model T to investigate. Continue reading The Rocky Mountain Moving Picture Association, by Loren D. Estleman →

Film Review: “John Carter”



It’s all very strange. All I keep hearing is that Disney’s John Carter movie is turning out to be one of the greatest flops (in terms of profits vs. costs) in history. And yet I’ve yet to see anyone actually say they hated it.

Of course my web surfing is mostly limited to conservative sites, but several of the bloggers I read have reported on seeing it, and every single one of them likes it.

So I went to see it too.

I liked it.

Not a perfect film. But a good afternoon at the movies, suitable for most of the family. Continue reading Film Review: “John Carter” →

Friday stuff

Finished another Dick Francis— Driving Force. Not among Francis’ best, in my opinion. It’s about a former jockey who runs a transport service for race horses. He discovers somebody’s been smuggling something under his trucks. This is one of those books where the hero could have probably saved himself a lot of unpleasantness if he’d just gone to the police with what he knew in the first place.

Viking news! Mel Gibson says he’s still working on his Viking movie, in spite of losing Leonardo DiCaprio (what a loss!) as the star a couple years ago. He’s working on the script with Randall Wallace (Braveheart). That all sounds good, except that he now tells us his attitude toward Vikings: They are “very unsympathetic characters and these guys will be bad.”

I know a guy who was actually approached to find reenactors to be extras in the early stages of this project. I contemplated trying to bring my outfit up to code, just to be part of it. I probably won’t lose any sleep about not participating now.

A foolish post

In a Viking reenactment group on Facebook that I belong to, somebody asked an interesting question recently. “I know a guy who’d like to portray a Viking fool,” he said. “What do you people think about that?”

The response was unanimous (very much to my pleasure, since there’s precious little unanimity among Viking reenactors on anything). There’s no evidence for jesters in Viking culture, and the very idea is not one that fits with the Viking ethos.

I thought I’d meditate on the reasons tonight. It has to do with issues I’ve addressed before.

The Viking culture, steeped in its heathen virtues, set personal honor above all things. You could make jokes about your enemy all you wanted—as long as he wasn’t present. If you made a joke about him to his face, it meant you wanted a fight. No insult could be overlooked, if a man was to keep his social standing. “It was just a joke! Lighten up!” wouldn’t buy you any tolerance. A cutting word was no different from a blow.

Gradually, with the coming of Christianity, that changed. Honor culture lingered (the duel was still legal in places well into the 19th Century), but it came gradually to be accepted that a man did not demean himself if he admitted a fault (Canute the Great, only a second generation Christian, did penance for a man’s murder, which must have been hard for a fellow so close to Asa worship. I need to remember to examine that when he comes into the Erling books). Continue reading A foolish post →

Flying Blind, by Max Allan Collins

This one’s a heartbreaker.



Yet another Nate Heller mystery from Max Allan Collins here. Flying Blind is all about the disappearance of Amelia Earhart. I’ve always steered clear of the Earhart business myself, because I don’t much care for stories where the girl dies (though I’ve written some, come to think of it). Most of what I know about the Earhart mystery came from an old episode of Unsolved Mysteries, and this book actually fitted in pretty well with the speculations on that show.

This story starts in 1935, when Chicago private eye Heller is hired by Earhart’s slimy husband, P. G. Putnam (of the P. G. Putnam and Sons publishing house), to be her bodyguard on a lecture tour. She’s been receiving threatening letters, Putnam says (although there’s some suspicion he created them himself, to garner publicity). Privately, he asks Heller to find out if Earhart is having an affair. Though he feels guilty about it because he despises Putnam and likes Earhart, Heller agrees to do the job. He ends up having an affair with her himself. Continue reading Flying Blind, by Max Allan Collins →

“The Year of the Warrior” vindicated. A little.

When I wrote The Year of the Warrior, I took a historical gamble. I included among the buildings at Sola farm, where the hero lived, a heathen temple.

That may not sound too audacious, but in fact I was flying in the face of all the research I’d done on Viking life. In book after book, I’d read that historians believed there were no temples in the Norse religion; that religious ceremonies were performed either in the open air or in the chieftain’s home.

But Adam of Bremen, in his history of the bishops of Hamburg, insists that there was a temple at Uppsala, Sweden. And having a small shrine just seemed right to me, so I put one in the story.

And now this, from the Archaeology News Network:

Located at the site of Ranheim, about 10 kilometers north of the Norwegian city of Trondheim, the astonishing discovery was unearthed while excavating foundations for new houses and includes a “gudehovet” or “god temple.” Occupied from the 6th or 5th century BCE until the 10th century AD/CE, the site shows signs of usage for animal sacrifice, a common practice among different peoples in antiquity. Over 1,000 years ago, the site was dismantled and covered by a thick layer of peat, evidently to protect it from marauding Christian invaders. These native Norse religionists apparently then fled to other places, such as Iceland, where they could re-erect their altars and re-establish the old religion.

I love being right. It doesn’t happen very often.

One thing that puzzles me is that the article suggests that similar temples have been discovered outside of Norway. Why has no one told me about this?

“If this is war…”

Author Sarah Hoyt, who was kind enough to let me post on her blog not long ago, hit one out of the park yesterday, with an outstanding post entitled “War is Hell,” which addresses the currently popular accusation that conservatives are waging war on women.

War is where the enemy decimates your numbers – like, say in China where abortion is killing mostly females.

War is where you are kept from learning – like in most Arab countries, where women have restrictions placed on their education.

War is where your houses are burned, your children taken away into slavery, your goods looted, and you are dragged away in chains.

In the United States, right now, women have preferential treatment – by law – in any company that gets federal funds (which heaven help us, right now, is most of them.) Women live longer than men. Cancers that affect females get more money and more attention than those that affect only men. Women have the right to be sole deciders on abortion, and if they decide to keep the child and make the man pay, he pays. (This by the way is a complete reversal of the “penalty” of sex which used to fall mostly on women.) And if he doesn’t pay, he goes to jail. Divorce courts award custody to mothers overwhelmingly. Oh, and in college campuses, women outnumber men.

If this is war it is war on men. And I’ve had just about enough of everyone who claims otherwise.

Read the whole thing.

Father Ailill on St. Patrick’s Day

Despite being always full of great good wishes for all the Irish on the feast day of their patron saint, I have too much integrity to stoop to the low trick of pretending to be Irish, when I’m obviously not.

So to keep the discussion at the high level of authenticity it deserves, I have instead asked for a guest column from a true Irishman beyond suspicion, Father Ailill, Erling Skjalgsson’s priest:

To all the elect within the range of this message, whether Irish or Norse, or even Scot or English, yea even unto the barbarians of distant lands, wherever you may be, scattered about the islands of the earth,

Greetings.

I, Father Ailill, have not been unaware of doings among men since my Elevation nearly a thousand years ago. I have paid some attention to the course of the world, and to the state of the Church, and I have but one word for all of you, small and great, learned and uncouth:

Stop it.

I mean it. This has gone beyond a joke.

Where does one start? The excesses of your generation would make scrap enough to fuel a thousand bonfires, but in view of the day I’ll just draw your attention to the way you mark—I’ll not say observe—the saint day of Patrick of Ireland.

Now I happen to know Patrick myself. He lived far before my corporeal time, of course, but since my Elevation we’ve become fairly chummy, and I’ll tell you, just between you and me and the hearthstone, it’s best not to raise the subject of St. Patrick’s Day in his presence. If it’s all a joke, you may as well know the guest of honor doesn’t get it. He said to me once, “If I’d known they’d honor my memory by getting drunk on green beer and puking all over policemen, I’d have gone to Frankia and become a hermit. I’m not kidding. St. Augustine never lets me forget about it. And I’ve taken to avoiding Boniface altogether, because he never sees me but he starts singing that ‘Frosted Lucky Charms’ jingle, and then gets to giggling.” Continue reading Father Ailill on St. Patrick’s Day →