Personal appearance alert: Tomorrow (Friday) and Saturday, April 10 and 11, I will be – Lord willing – at the Rivercentre in St. Paul, participating in iFest Minnesota. I shall be selling edifying literature and generally spreading my special brand of sunshine.
There used to be an event called the Festival of Nations, held in St. Paul for many years. But Covid stifled it, and then they up and decided they wouldn’t hold it anymore. My Viking group had been longtime regulars, and we’ve missed it.
But now it has risen, phoenix-like, from the ashes, in the form of iFest Minnesota. It will be a smaller event this year; I’ll be interested to see what’s survived.
I’ll even have a special offer for purchasers of the full Erling Saga.
If you call at a country house where you are not known and try to get the butler to let you come in and search the premises for photographs of his employer’s nephew, you will generally find this butler chilly in his manner, and Coggs, the major-domo of Ickenham Hall, had been rather chiller than the average. He was a large, stout, moon-faced man with an eye like that of a codfish, and throughout the proceedings he had kept his eye glued on Sir Aylmer’s, as if peering into his soul. And anyone who has ever had his soul peered into by a codfish will testify how extremely unpleasant such an ordeal is.
Among all the priceless works of P.G. Wodehouse, my favorite individual piece is (I’m sure I’ve told you this before) is the short story, “Uncle Fred Flits By.” But Uncle Fred, the Earl of Ickenham, the living embodiment of aplomb, a man of good nature but utterly without shame, also stars in a few novels. One of those is Uncle Dynamite, and I think it’s one of the Master’s best. I’m not sure if I’ve read it before; I know I got a kick out of it now.
The plot of Uncle Dynamite is difficult to describe, because it’s one of Wodehouse’s most complex tales. I shall merely note that fact and describe a couple of the main story lines.
Uncle Fred’s long-suffering nephew Pongo Twistleton is in love with a girl name Elsie Bean, of whom Uncle Fred approves. But their engagement has been broken, and now Pongo is engaged to Hermione, a beautiful novelist who wishes him to go to her father’s country estate and judge the babies at the Bonnie Baby Contest at the approaching church féte. This is, of course, a prospect to make Pongo tremble and reach for a sustaining drink – except that he’s pretending to be a teetotaler, to please her. Uncle Fred, who finds himself temporarily at liberty because his wife has gone on holiday, offers to come along and substitute for him. Hermione’s father immediately suspects that Pongo is an imposter. Meanwhile, Elsie Bean (the former fiancée), who is a sculptor, has hidden some jewels inside one of her clay busts so that a friend can smuggle them into America and avoid tariffs. But that bust finds its way into Hermione’s home, and somebody will have to burgle it…
You get the gist.
Uncle Dynamite was a pure delight. I chuckled all through. It has my highly prized recommendation.
Looking back over my recent posts, I note that I have not yet updated you on my progress as an Uber Eats delivery driver. No doubt that omission accounts for the unsettled state of the commonwealth lately.
I can report that I’ve gone out on two evenings, and made a total of three deliveries. I messed up each of them in some way, but I remain (to my own surprise) undaunted. I approach the experience with fear, and am full of self-criticism the following day – but while I’m actually driving, there’s a strange sense of exhilaration. I thought I was immune to the thrill of novelty, but apparently even old dogs can enjoy new tricks.
The first night was last Thursday around 5:00 p.m. It was cool and misty out. I drove up to Brooklyn Center, near the ancient ruins of Brookdale Mall, because there are a lot of fast food places in that area. After receiving a bunch of ridiculous job suggestions (Uber Eats always throws a lot of low-paying – even money-losing – rides at you when you first log on), I got an order for about $6.00 for a ride of about 2 miles (as I recall). I took that and drove to Wing Stop. I carried my newly purchased hot bag (red in color) inside. The order was ready, but it took a couple minutes to get the clerk’s attention. At last he handed me the sack, and also a cup, telling me the customer wanted a Dr. Pepper, and I needed to fill that myself at the automated fountain.
This is where I messed up, no doubt due to nerves. I filled the cup, snapped a lid on it, took a straw, and then (stupidly) put the cup in the bag with the food, zipping them both inside.
When I got out to my car, I had some frightened moments, wondering what I’d done with the drink. When I looked in the hot bag, there it was, and of course it had tipped over. Some of the pop had spilled. I emptied the spilled soda pop onto the ground, and drove to make my delivery. The customer, as promised, met me outside their house, and the delivery was completed. The paper sack was a little wet, but not too bad, I thought.
I would have done another run, but of course my hot bag was now wet with soda pop inside. I opted to go home and wash it out. It was enough that I’d done a delivery, I figured. Take things in baby steps.
Friday was full of other matters, so I went out again Saturday evening. I thought I’d lurk in the town of Crystal instead of Brooklyn Center that night. There are a lot of eating places around there too. But when a decent job showed up, it sent me right back to Brooklyn Center. As I drove, another offer showed up (we call that “stacking.” It means you can do two deliveries in roughly the same area, saving time and increasing pay). So I took that too. (In trepidation, but I took it.)
My first stop was Panda Express. Drove in, and that’s when the trouble started. The Uber Eats app was absolutely certain I had not arrived yet. The map said I was there, but the app wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do when you arrive (as I understood it). I went in and got the order, but in my car, I was still unable to inform the app that I was where I was. Not only could I not proceed to the delivery map, I couldn’t make my second pickup either.
In desperation, I called the deliveree and asked for their address. I drove to their place under the guidance of Google Maps, and made the delivery. Then I called support and explained to somebody in India what had happened. He said they’d fix it and give me credit for the delivery. I asked if I should still do the second delivery, and he said I should.
So I went to Little Caesar’s Pizza. Same problem. I solved it the same way, and made a similar call to India.
At that point I figured either the app was glitching, or (somehow more likely) I was doing something wrong. I decided to close up shop for the night and do some research on how to use the app properly.
Tonight my friend from my Bible study group, the guy who urged me to take this mad course in the first place, has promised to ride along with me for one delivery, to show me what I’m doing wrong. Once that’s accomplished, I assume the low places will be exalted and the high places made low, and I will sweep all before me, going from strength to strength.
I’ve been picking up Perry Mason novels by Erle Stanley Gardner whenever a bargain deal shows up for an e-book. I didn’t expect much from them at first, frankly, but I’ve found them surprisingly enjoyable. These are artefacts of an earlier publishing era, when mystery writers did not aspire to literary brilliance (though Gardner delivers good, polished prose), nor psychological insight (though Gardner can surprise you), nor cinematic thrill rides. The goal was to play a game with the readers, providing all the clues and challenging them to solve the puzzles.
The Case of the Gilded Lily is characteristic. Stewart Bedford is a wealthy, socially prominent, and respectable businessman. He has recently married a much younger woman, what would now be called a trophy wife, and he is proud of and devoted to her.
One day a shady character shows up in his office and threatens to publicize certain embarrassing facts about the new wife’s past, unless Bedford “loans” him a large amount of money. This leads to Bedford spending an evening (chastely) in a pair of motel rooms with a beautiful young woman. Later he loses consciousness, apparently drugged, and awakens to discover his blackmailer shot to death (with what will prove to be his own gun). Not a fool, Bedford calls Perry Mason first.
I have to give author Gardner full credit for misdirection. My experience with the Perry Mason novels is that I’m always pretty sure I’ve guessed who the real culprit is, and I’m always wrong. That’s the nature of the game, and Gardner was a champion.
Cops burned out of homicide. Not because of blood or gore or being outwitted by criminal masterminds. No, because of its monotony: The same easy suspects, the same filthy apartments, and same kinds of people doing the killing. The pressure from the brass to clear cases. And the paperwork. And that forever part, dead, gone completely… if they let themselves think about it too long.
Cincinnati homicide detective Will Borders is back on the job, but not as he would wish, in Jon Talton’s Powers of Arrest, second entry in a series. Will underwent surgery for a spinal tumor, which left him in a lot of pain, but able to walk with a cane. Because of his service record, the brass let him work now as Public Information Officer, sending out news releases and speaking to the cameras. It’s frustrating duty for a man used to being on the front lines, but it’s police work, and he’s mostly grateful to have it.
Someone is murdering young people, mutilating them sexually. Nobody links the crimes until a young female detective is killed – she’s an actual celebrity, star of a reality show. Will is drawn in when he finds clues leading to his own stepson as a suspect.
Among the murder victims are several nursing students, and that brings Will back into contact with their instructor, Cheryl Beth Wilson, with whom he shared danger – and some mutual attraction – in his previous adventure. This case will give them an opportunity to get closer, though Will fears he’s too damaged to be a lover.
I was impressed by Powers of Arrest. The book is well-written, the characters are interesting (though I thought the culprit insufficiently concealed). No political correctness was noted (perhaps the reverse), and Cheryl Beth is some kind of a Christian, though not a church-goer. At least her faith is treated with respect. Author Talton very clearly loves the city of Cincinnati, which he describes beautifully (you’ll probably want to visit). The love story was engaging.
Recommended. Cautions for language, premarital sex, and disturbing themes.
The air lay as heavy as a quilt soaked in used engine oil.
The third book in Scott Bell’s Sam Cable series, about a tall Texas Ranger with a remarkable capacity for absorbing physical trauma, including gunshot wounds, is June Bug. There are only three books in the series so far, but the author’s Afterword says he’s planning more. I look forward to them.
FBI agent Rita Goldman is the first to guess that a group of Chechen terrorists are planning a bioweapon attack on the US. This takes her back to Texas, where she is reunited with Sam, with whom she has a whole lot of sexual chemistry, though they’ve been hands-off so far. Memories of Covid are naturally recalled, but what they’re dealing with here is a lot more virulent and frightening than that. And this is not the kind of story where the Rangers save the day before a lot of civilians get hurt.
But worse is to come, if Rita and Sam can’t stop the ringleaders before they get on a plane. And that will be difficult once they’ve both been captured and tied up for use as hostages.
But don’t count them out.
I enjoyed June Bug, though it concentrated more on action than I prefer. I personally would have enjoyed a few more relaxed moments; I like the main characters’ back-and-forth. And the trope by which the hero keeps suffering disabling injuries but just continues on duty and fighting is overused in thrillers (in my opinion).
Still, Scott Bell is a good writer, and I like the characters, and the dramatic tension never flags. I didn’t like June Bug as much as the previous two books, but I liked it fine anyway. The stories feature conservative dog-whistles too (in my opinion).
Cautions for rough language and intense situations.
What progress have I made in easing into Uber Eats driving?, you ask breathlessly. “Well,” I can say, “I watched a few more instructional videos, and (with much prayer and fasting) I also opened the actual app and set up a couple things.
Baby steps.
A funny thing happened the other day while I was working on the magazine for the Valdres Samband (an organization for descendants of immigrants from a particular region of Norway), which I edit.
A while back, one of my stalwart helpers sent me a link to an autobiography, the length of a short book, by one of the pioneer Norwegian pastors in the Midwest. Because of its length, I’ve split the work into three sections for publication– and an appended tribute to his wife will constitute a fourth installment. Good reading for historically-minded people, which our members tend to be.
But I had some trouble working with the text, which came to me in a pdf. You can copy and paste from a pdf to a Word document, but you’ve got to watch it every minute, because the algorithm often mistakes words (especially Norwegian words) and punctuation. And one of the pages got scanned crooked. That one couldn’t be copied and pasted at all; it would have to be transcribed. I was trying to print that page to work from, because it’s a pain to switch from one browser tab to another, but my printer had gone on strike (we have since come to an accommodation).
And then, while going through my saved files, I discovered a Word document with the same title as the biography. I opened it and – what do you know? – I had already edited the whole document for publication, and forgotten about it completely. I guess I did it after I finished the last issue, just to ease my future labors. Ungrateful wretch that I am, I failed to remember my own generosity to myself.
Is this a sign of approaching dementia? Could be, but I think I’ve always been like this. “Boy, you’ve got a one-track mind,” my dad used to say. Once a thing is out of my sight, I tend to forget its existence. Which explains why nothing’s ever put away in my house. Also my social life.
I’ve probably got the Great American Novel tucked away somewhere around here, lost down the memory hole.
From time to time in this space I’ve announced exciting new developments in my employment history. I’m afraid I may have bragged a little, boasting about translation jobs and books (self-) published.
Today I must humble myself, as is appropriate in Lent. My delusions of grandeur are past. My pomp has taken physic. I have signed up to drive for Uber Eats.
I complained of my financial challenges to the guys in my Bible study, and one of them kept urging me to try UE. “You can work when you want,” he says, “and pick your jobs.” Also, you don’t need a very nice car, like an Uber driver, which matters in my case.
So I did it. My understanding was that the vetting process would take a few days, but I got approved in one. I was not prepared for this; I figured I’d have more time to summon up my blood and play the tiger. However, the YouTube videos I’ve been watching suggest that you really ought to have a hot bag to keep your orders warm (or cold), and my order for one of those won’t show up till Thursday. So I’ll hold off till then.
On Thursday, I’ll probably come up with another excuse for delay. I am, to say the least, a timid driver.
The great joke of it has not escaped me – I lost my translating gig due to Artificial Intelligence, and this job is likely to go the same way. Even as I write (according to news reports), Uber is testing out self-driving delivery vehicles.
I suppose we all wonder where this will end. What job is safe from our digital overlords? I’m convinced that AI will never do creative work to match human art. But what it can do is work cheap. It’s the ultimate illegal immigrant, undercutting wages for the natives.
But if nobody has a job anymore, who’s going to buy all those cheap products? And how will mere humans subsist?
Perhaps after the Great Revolution, every human will be assigned a personal robot. That robot will do the human’s work, and the human will be paid for it, being legally responsible for the maintenance of the machine.
But what will we do with our spare time, then? Judging by our current behavior in the first stages of AI, I’m not optimistic.
This is another installment in Colin Conway’s The 509 series, about policing in the Spokane area. I like Conway’s novels very much, his short stories (oddly) not much at all. But The Graffiti Conspiracy is a novel, and a pretty good one from where I sit.
Detectives Quinn Delaney and Marci Burke are assigned to the murder of Earl Ricci, a maintenance man for a real estate management company, who was shot to death while covering up graffiti painted on the back of a vacant building.
There are several suspects, including the talented young man who painted the graffiti, and former associates of Ricci’s (at one point he was accused of stealing money from an fleabag hotel, the Hope, which has since been gentrified. This theft, the subject of one of the 509 short stories, shows up in one way or another in several of these novels).
The solution, once it is found, does not involve any shooting or chases. Just a sad story in a sad world, where confused people take the line of least resistance.
Like all the other 509 novels, The Graffiti Conspiracy is character-driven and highly believable. Cautions for adult matter, and moral ambiguity.
After the second Great War had been won, the victorious Americans went home to an undamaged country. They proceeded to build the freest and most prosperous society the world had ever seen. Vowing that their children would never suffer as they had, they lavished on them high-quality education, material comfort, and indulgent freedom.
This postwar generation was known as the Baby Boom. These “Boomers,” as they came to be called, took advantage of their opportunities, enjoying their freedom to the utmost, giving no thought to future generations – indeed, they made it a point to have few if any children of their own.
Yet this was not enough for them. They desired even more freedom. They identified Christian Puritanism as the one thing that was keeping them from total self-indulgence. “Let us destroy Christian Puritanism,” they said, “that there may be no limit to our license.” And so they did. Their contemporaries in Europe did the same. Together they plumbed the depths of depravity, squandered their nations’ wealth, and left the whole mess to the progressively smaller generations that followed them.
And when the Boomers finally aged and weakened, and realized that they must soon relinquish power and die, they said, “It is not right that the world should go on without us to enjoy it. Let us destroy the world – or let us at least destroy our civilization.”
And so they turned their civilization over to Islam, so that all liberty would be erased.
And this is why the name of Boomer remains a hissing and a byword among all the peoples of the earth, even unto this day.
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