The Shrine of Concors Discors: TEXT

"QUICK, WATSON, THE NEEDLE !" or…

"*REAL* HEROIN ADDICTS DON'T WEAR SHORT SLEEVES"

by Ompallios

The dark side of my sense of humor, the part that I wish I could deny and yet of which I'm secretly proud, makes me typically act like an iconoclast.

"Iconoclasm" is a favorite word and concept of mine. Mine is a harmless, light-hearted and innocent iconoclasm, if such a thing can exist. A friend of mine is fond of saying about herself, "Hey, after all, you can't polish a turd." I find that hilariously funny every time, though I hear her say it almost weekly. Yet my friend is gorgeous and poised, has immense savoir faire and the gift of gab, and can charm the warts off a horned toad.

If she's a turd…. Lord, where do I fall on the totem pole…? I'm thinkin' ~underground~.

(Did I mention that I digress when I write?)

(…and that I use LOTS of parentheses? Parentheses are a writer's way to digress with her honor intact.)

(But I digress…)

Anyone with a three-digit I.Q. (to which I aspire for the new Millennium) has to love Sherlock Holmes… or more specifically Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. As a book collector, I own a handsome set of the Holmes stories compiled and meticulously annotated by William S. Baring-Gould. (Any man with a hyphen in his name is to be avoided at cocktail parties. The last one I met was an insufferable fop surnamed "Beverly-Hole," and he lived up to it quite conscientiously.) In Baring-Gould's Holmes collection, he expresses sulfurous distaste over the phrase that opens this little ejaculation of mine… "Quick, Watson, the needle!"

The less self-absorbed fans of Conan Doyle cite this phrase as being the most common Holmesian catch phrase. Bloody good for them. The not-so-easygoing
fans (including Mr. Baring Hyphen Gould, who's no doubt phoning his solicitor about this article as we speak) detest that phrase. Baring-Gould SAYS so… in his otherwise marvelous collection.

Well, I'm sorry, but he lost me at that point. I'm a single mom with a lovely teenage son, for whom in part I'm amassing this large and eclectic book collection, among other things. The Holmes book will be one of them.

But Baring-Gould's shocking aversion to some Innocent Iconoclasm (that was the sound of me reacquiring my point) made me move his book to the bottom shelf. Oh, and since I'm on a Holmes thing here…

You HAVE to love John Watson, M.D. I mean…. he's eternally, completely, abysmally resigned himself to the role of second banana (of COURSE I know he's fictitious, you cretin!) If I were the Doctor, I'd have shot Holmes up ~myself~! "Elementary, you son of a bitch."

Horned toads don't actually have warts, per se… I know this; my earlier metaphor wasn't a poor example or oversight. I just wanted you to think you HAD me. Horned toads CAN however squirt blood from their eyes when they're pissed off. I find that fascinating.

Incidentally, with the encouragement of my friend (known to you all as "Cyclopean Orm," a fascinating wit and professional writer… go read his articles RIGHT NOW!), I'm composing this article in Atlanta airport with a martini buzz. Gimme some darn credit here. I promised myself I'd type this up without changing a word.

Oh, and I also promised myself I'd publicly salaam to Felix (no knee comments please) for having the terribly poor judgement to post my writing. I warn you though Felix… my heart will always belong to Cyclopean Orm. I need to wave HI to my absent son who's with his dad for several weeks. Purely figurative, he won't read this, but Hell, it works for me. A little like a cathartic, you know?

Writing like this is my iconoclasm showing. Iconoclasm is a GOOD thing, I'm sure of that. Keep saying to yourself my friend…. Life'd be dull without people like me. And Felix and Cyclopean Orm too (they get a freaking royalty when I refer to them).

My friend Michelle (travelling with me and sitting here as I write this) once called me "Erma Bombeck With an Attitude and a Big Honkin' Machete."

Given that corollary: I'd use it happily and readily on William Baring-Gould... the D.A.R…. William Randolph Hearst (and Patti's idiotic, scrawny boyfriend Steven Weed)…. Debby Boone… oh, and maybe a horned toad or two, since they already have that blood thing going on.

But don't honk me off, dear reader, for I have so many ideas and so few targets. I have to go catch a plane and seek new idols to innocently topple (or at least spray-paint with graffiti).

Adieu mes amis.

-Terri F., known affectionately as ompallios7@aol.com to her little friends.