Rediscovered: Biography Month Once More on These Mean Streets

What ho, it is Biography Month once again on Up and Down These Mean Streets — last time I did one was July 2012. The new bio of Jim Tully was a big excuse that time, and no doubt the major moment to come out of the proceedings was Terry Zobeck’s discovery of a “lost” interview with Hammett (lost for decades, until Terry did the essential sleuthing to uncover it, anyway). But I also squeezed in coverage of bios on M.P. Shiel and other tidbits. We’ll see what this round brings. . . .

The official release of Nathan Ward’s The Lost Detective: Becoming Dashiell Hammett on September 15 is the motivating factor this month, building up to a talk by Nathan in the Mechanics’ Library in Post Street on September 30. No better excuse needed.

And as usually happens, suddenly bio stuff is in the air. I was catching up on the horn with my pal Leo Grin, who mentioned that Donald Sidney-Fryer had informed him that he had finished his autobiography (you’ll remember Leo and DSF from one of my adventures in Musso & Frank). Awhile back Leo was telling me that the first part of this autobio apparently covers memories from the womb and before (that’s all I know), and if I heard him correctly the title will be Hobgoblin — then some sort of sub-title, like The Life of Donald Sidney-Fryer or Exploits of the Last Courtly Poet or something. Don’t think it’ll be out this month, but be warned, it could mark the excuse for a future Bio Month.

And yesterday I went to the new Tenderloin Museum for the first time, to check it out and see about doing some talks. At the moment they have five authors covered in their interactive displays: Hammett, of course, who lived a couple of blocks away in 620 Eddy, and Miriam Allen DeFord, William Vollmann, Fritz Leiber and Saroyan (I’ll have to look next time to see how Saroyan gets squeezed in).

I can do a talk on Hammett’s life in the hood without thinking twice about it. Ditto Fritz, who I knew well in the years he was a denizen of the Geary Street corridor. And I proposed a talk about the Horror Intersection of Geary and Hyde — where you had Fritz living in 811 Geary and writing Our Lady of Darkness, and earlier Stan McNail, author of Something Breathing, just down Hyde, and in recent years Stan Sargent, author of The Taint of Lovecraft, living just up Hyde. Literary biography, and lots of it.

Heading out from the museum I decided to stop in Saigon Sandwich, Larkin just south of Eddy — a woman on the tour some months back had blurbed their sandwiches as both great and cheap, and I hadn’t had the time to look into it before now. I think a key motivating factor from my own life — remember, this is Bio Month — was the futile quest to find gyros that Morgan “The Morgman” Holmes led me on during PulpFest. No gyros. But Saigon kind of made up for it, filled the void. Delicious, pretty messy sandwiches — I think Morgan would be interested.

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Tour: For September and October

012412 tour3

Okay, before the promised El Niño rains start crashing down this winter — if they start crashing down — I’m giving the gumshoe-wearing public a chance to walk the Hammett walk to their hearts’ content.

In September anyone with $20 in hand and four hours or so to kill can show up on Sunday September 13 or Sunday September 20 — noon start near the revolving “L” sculpture.

And in October I will be leading Hammett tours each and every Sunday in the month — partly because people asked for some of those dates, and partly because the Mechanics’ Library wanted to make sure anyone attending the talk by Nathan Ward on Wednesday September 30 would have a chance to do the tour, if they get all fired-up by the presentation.

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Rediscovered: The Fugitive Library of Young Scott, and Haefele’s Proto-Panel

You know those stories you read, about how some guy has gone off to war in Afghanistan or someplace and comes back to find out that his soon-to-be-ex-wife has sold his dog? Or all the stories about soldiers who put their stuff in a storage locker, only to find when they get back that the contents have been auctioned off?

Turns out that something along those lines happened to Scott Connors — or Young Scott, as I call him. He maintains that now that he is older than H.P. Lovecraft lived to be, I should drop the “Young” bit, but for me he’s ever the precocious teen who showed up one day in weird fiction fandom, when a bunch of us emerged in the mid-70s.

Scott wasn’t in combat, but some years back he was in the military for a stretch, stationed in Germany and along the DMZ staring down North Korea. He had his books stored, and got word that they’d all been ruined in a Pennsylvania flood and thrown out.

When I spotted the copies of books by Fritz Leiber and H. Warner Munn inscribed to Scott at PulpFest, I didn’t know why they were there. Yeah, maybe Scott needed money at some point and was forced to sell them — even the arch-bookman Vincent Starrett agreed that financial need was a reason to sell your library, and about the only reason. But even if that had been the case, I knew that someone like Scott — like me — would want those copies back. So I picked them up, just in case.

Turns out that Scott does want them (“Thanks for looking out for me here! I managed to pick up another inscribed copy of Fritz’s book, but I’d much rather have mine back”) — and that they would have been among the books supposedly flooded and thrown away.

He had no clew that the story about a flood was made up until he happened on the copy of Strange Harvest that Don Wandrei had inscribed to him, and realized that the books had just been sold out from under him. Brutal.

Now he’s got a tentative start on getting that first library of his back, with Wandrei and Leiber and Munn.

If you happen to have some book inscribed to Scott that would fall into that era, 1970s and early 80s, maybe think about selling it back to him — but don’t gouge the poor guy. I imagine the books are widely scattered by now, some no doubt lost along the way. The dealer who had the titles at PulpFest told me he got them from a guy’s estate, who had died three or four years before.

Once they were sold out of storage, who knows how many different ways they jumped?

Oh, and since we’re on the topic of Young Scott, at PulpFest John D. Haefele told me that he had appeared on a panel once before — sort of — before the Cthulhu Mythos panel he headlined.

I’m not sure I want anyone to recollect that first panel — Scott (or somebody) recommended at the last minute I sit in at the 2005 World Fantasy Convention in Madison, Wisconsin, the year Arkham House was being honored. It was held on Thursday, titled “The Early Years of Arkham House,” and the scheduled/listed participants were Walden Derleth and Dwayne Olson. Apparently Scott also was invited at the last minute. I seem to recall that very few people were in attendance, probably due to the timing. . . .

I was not an official participant, never listed, hardly participated, no recordings, no notice of any kind that I can recall.

If you don’t get the idea, Haefele maintains that for the sake of accuracy, “please be clear that I view that as something quite different than the Mythos panel at PulpFest.” Check.

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Frisco Beat: Noir at SFO


Man. Look at this ultra-Frisco display of noir:

Left to right, the latest and greatest edition of the Hammett Tour book (trade paperback state), Nathaniel Rich’s survey of noir films shot or set in the Cool Grey City, and the noir short story classics volume from Akashic edited by Peter Maravelis — I wrote the first, got mentioned in the second, and have a tribute to Hammett in the third (one of my best reviews of all time appears on the Amazon page for Classics, where a guy says: “The 4 stories in the first section are fabulous. The Hammett stories in the second section [I don’t have the book handy, so cannot remember if there was one or two Hammett stories] are also well done.” There was one Hammett story, and me).

Devon Morf shot in a note with the photo above attached on Wednesday, saying, “I was in town for a gig and saw this in the Chronicle Books SFO shop. Maybe it was Aviator Books but I remember seeing Chronicle Books logo on the wall.” Technical details aside, a bookstore in the airport.

Devon used to live in the Bay Area, but now he’s up in the wilds of Washington state or someplace like that, but he gets around a lot with his punk rock band. One of the last times I talked with him he was telling me about a bunch of dates they’d just played in Mongolia.

I had to say, I was really surprised to see that selection of books in an airport, where I expect only bestsellers on sale. Don’t get me wrong, very cool — and kudos to the clerk who had the savvy to set up that display.

You want local noir, the book kiosk at SFO can get you started.

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Hammett: And Walker Martin

Even rambling on at some length, I couldn’t cover every detail or drop every name in my PulpFest report — though I consider some of that action taken care of by links to other posts, which namecheck people I skip entirely. Plus those include photos — I never take photos.

I could have done more on the subject of collecting, believe it or not. For example, John D. Haefele hauled in a trunkful of dupes and stuff he wants to get rid of, so Saturday morning I introduced him to dealer Nick Certo to their mutual benefit. Certo was the major guy there who handles the sort of books Haefele had bought, and then upgraded.

(Tom Krabacher benefited from the trunk of loot, too. He’d helped Haefele track down some obscure August Derleth items in the science fiction pulps, so Haefele gave him a copy of the Arkham first edition of Leiber’s Night’s Black Agents — Fritz’s first book ever. Looked pretty nice to me, at a glance, but I’m sure Haefele has landed a perfect copy in the meantime. I imagine his collection as looking brand new, every book just published that day. . . . )

And of course I noticed a tantalizing little detail mentioned casually in Walker Martin’s convention report:

I also sold quite a few interesting items, including 12 bound volumes of Adventure from the 1920’s; several bizarre crime digests from the 1950’s like Off-Beat and Two-Fisted; and a couple of Smart Set’s containing early stories by Dashiell Hammett, including his first appearance.

If you recall my report on the previous PulpFest I attended back in 2012, near the end I mention making “a last pass through the dealers room” where:

Walker Martin showed me the issue of Smart Set he had for sale (which he hadn’t had on his table through the entire convention, as far as I know — his sales methods are arcane, but they apparently work for him) with Hammett’s very first appearance in print, priced at $2000. He had another issue of Smart Set with the second or third story for merely $700 (it’s those firsts that bring in the big bucks, always has been, and I suspect always will).

So, some four years later, and at a rate of at least two pulp conventions per year (though who knows if the issues of Smart Set were set out for the ogling of the public), the arcane sales technique finally worked its magic.

And someone landed the very first appearance in print of Hammett.

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Rediscovered: PulpFest 2015 — On the Whole, I’d Rather Not Be in Philadelphia

PulpFest 2015

Got to the airport predawn on Thursday August 13, plenty of time to fly to Phoenix, catch the connecting flight to Columbus, Ohio, so I’d hit this year’s PulpFest by 4p.m., before they even cracked open the doors of the dealers room.

But the plane left late and the connecting flight to Columbus was gone. I could wait for the next direct-to-Columbus jet, leaving in the 6p.m. hour and rolling in around one in the morning (presuming nothing went wrong). Or, if I flew to Philadelphia and transferred back, I could reach Columbus in the ten p.m. hour.

Okay, give me the boarding pass. . . .

Dropping down over Philly was fun, spotting the old Colonial town next to the river and doping out more or less where the Poe house would be. I hadn’t been on the ground there since NoirCon in 2008, when I made sure I got to the Poe house — in part because H. P. Lovecraft (125 anniversary birthday boy for PulpFest this round) had blurbed the Philly residence as even better than Poe’s Baltimore cottage. HPL had made the visit immediately after the house opened to the public.

While I was wayyy over the mark for Ohio, at least I was adjacent to authentic Lovecraft turf — and doing a pretty good job rationalizing being back in Philly for no good reason.

My group was summoned for boarding. I spotted a guy coming in from the other side of the waiting area and pointed a finger at him.

“. . . Don. . . ?” Mike Chomko said, as if I was the last person on earth he expected to see that day in Philadelphia.

A quick flight west, and a ride to the hotel with Jack Cullers, who’d come to pick up Chomko but had plenty of room for me, too. I dropped my kit in the room on the 18th floor — great view, but looking away from the downtown area and the Arena that had so impressed me during the previous PulpFest I’d attended. For a moment, I hoped there’d be some thunderstorms rolling through, like last time — and then, realizing I was doing my return flight through Chicago, thought, no, please, no thunderstorms. I’ll be sitting in airports forever. . . .

With a vague memory of the hotel, I took the elevator to floor 3 — and spotted the bar in the distance below on the mezzanine level of the enormous atrium. Holding down a table were John D. Haefele and Tom Krabacher, sharpening their knives.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been collaborating with Haefele on one project or another since 2002, but we had never met. That was a major reason for me to hit PulpFest this time. Meet Haefele. Honor HPL for birthday 125. Tie in with other pals I don’t see that often.

Krabacher only drifted into my sphere recently, in the last year or two, though he seems to have been active in pulp fandom for awhile. Since he lives in the Sacramento area, I see more of him than I do of most people. He’s still doing the a.p.a. thing — PEAPS, with Warren Harris who discovered the origins of The Midget Bandit not long ago — Warren was at the last party I went to at Krabacher’s house — and also REHupa, the Robert E. Howard amateur press club where I have pulled a couple of stretches over the years.

And sitting unseen at the table as I pulled up a chair and ordered my first official beer of the convention, Steve Eng. . . . Krabacher reminds me a lot of Steve. Looks more or less like him, has much of the same affect. I told him that when I first met him, and Krabacher said, “Is that a good thing?” I guess he hadn’t heard of or read any material by Steve. I assured him, yes, that’s a very good thing. Pretty much an equation for an instant pal. Not Steve, but some William Wilson variant of Steve.

As for Haefele, I told him years ago that one of the reasons I’m happy to help with his various projects on August Derleth is because Eng was such a big fan of Derleth — so much so that I once inked in on a checklist the title of a prospective book I might do with Steve on the subject. A book or two down the road Haefele plans a biography on Derleth, which he told me he had titled August Derleth.

Man, that title sucks, I told him. Here, I’ll give you the title of the book I was going to do with Steve: August Derleth of Arkham House.

Now, that’s a title.

Haefele slid a manila envelope across the table. He’s been clearing out dupes and stuff he doesn’t need any more, and included one of the items of Arkham House ephemera I had yet to land, plus four chapbooks by Donald and Howard Wandrei I hadn’t picked up yet. Thus, each night during PulpFest I got to savor a pulp crime story — including a sale to Black Mask — by Don Wandrei I hadn’t read before, which is kind of the idea of the whole gathering, I suppose.

As nearby tables swarmed with people in Japanese-style anime masks and costumes, part of an enormous convention swamping the hotel, and maybe some early arrivals for the gay baseball or softball tournament that also swarmed the hallways, we held down the fort — a lone outpost of the pulp jungle — until we wrapped it up near closing time.

First day down.

Friday kicked off with breakfast with Haefele in one of the hotel cafes. I realized if I was going to get maximum jabber time in, it might be better to stay in-house instead of wandering around downtown Columbus too much. When the dealers room opened at 10 I grabbed my registration badge and copy of The Pulpster and made a quick circuit of the room.

A guy with a tableful of Sword-and-Sorcery paperbacks — Dave Weatherley, something like that (I should have picked up a card) — asked if I’d sign some stuff, which included my contributions to the first two issues of the Robert E. Howard zine The Dark Man. And I soon encountered a couple of the REH fans who were around for previous PulpFests, Scott Hartshorn and Jim Barron — others from yesteryear, such as Indy Cavalier, Ed Chapstick, Rusty Burke and more, were nowhere to be seen.

Scott asked if I was looking for anything, and I mentioned that I planned to get Will Murray’s new Doc Savage/Shadow crossover novel and his history of pulp westerns. Scott said, “He’s already sold out of the hardcovers.”

The collectors pounce fast! And serious collectors want the limited hardback states on items like these.

Me, I just wanted trade paperback copies to read, but scurried over to Will’s table in case the Shadow was running low — that would be my Shadow fix for this convention. But when I asked about the western title, Will said he forgot to bring copies, in the heat of packing up various Doc Savages and his new authorized Tarzan novel. However, he had spotted a copy on Jon Gunnison’s tables and told me where to look.

Wasting no time, I found it — 10% off, at that — and brought it back for a signature. I wanted Wordslingers in particular for airport reading, in case I got stuck for a lot of extra hours. Last PulpFest I attended I got Will’s collection of Doc Savage articles Writings in Bronze and that pulled me through an extended Atlanta connection and the flight home.

I stopped by Paul Herman’s pulp-laden tables, which you can see in some of the pics used here (and from the photographic information, it looks as if Paul hangs with other pulp hawkers after hours). Paul’s been on the tour, and was helping out on a top secret, epic project Terry Zobeck has been thinking about for Up and Down These Mean Streets. But then Terry and I began pondering, What If they just publish the whole thing someday — will the effort be worth it?

Paul instantly killed that line of thought: If Terry doesn’t do it, who will ever do it?

Yeah, right. . . . No one else will ever go through The Whole Thing. Someone else might want to try it, but only Zobeck can do the full and exacting Zobeck Treatment. Right there at PulpFest, the top secret project grabbed a bright green light. And it is maximum, iconic pulp.

At Wilson Warneld’s tables I snoozed-and-loosed on a limited Fritz Leiber signed slipcased edition I was thinking about getting — thought too long, someone else popped for it. But I kept coming back, because he had first editions of Fritz’s Our Lady of Darkness and H. Warner Munn’s The Banner of Joan, each inscribed to Scott Connors. I’ve known Scott since he was 17, and figured, Hey, maybe Scott wants those back. I gave Scott a call but his number had been changed. Then began trying Ron Hilger to see if he could relay the info, getting no answer on the home phone and busy on the cell. As I kept coming back I began trading bookman tales with Wilson, telling him why Avram Davidson’s should have allowed the first edition of The Phoenix and the Mirror to be pulped, but he didn’t, and how Underwood-Miller came that close to going belly-up during the Brandywine Books deal they had with Barnes and Noble or another chain back in chain bookstore days.

Around noon Morgan “The Morgman” Holmes rolled in. He did the circuit quickly and was there when a young guy mentioned he had a copy of the Hammett Tour book for $15. Haefele looked at it and said, “The first edition.” Nope, said I, this is the first state of the second edition. I was about to put it back for some prospective buyer, then thought, jeez, it’s cheap, I may as well buy it. The guys found it funny, me picking up an old edition — but at that price, I figured why not? (It’s already gone.)

Facing starvation after his drive in from Pennsylvania, Morgan enlisted me and Krabacher on a quest for a gyros place he found last year, maybe eight blocks or so from the hotel. Pretty much every time I’ve talked with Morgan on the phone for the last few months, he’s raved about the gyros place. Largest, best gyros ever encountered. Not to be missed.

Haefele had to move some books around, so we were on our own — and after some muggy sightseeing discovered the almost mystical gyros café from Morgan’s memory was no more, so we made the best of the hamburger establishment that holds down the location today, before heading back to full A/C.

Sitting with Haefele off the bar we got to chat with George A. Vanderburgh — Haefele has done a title with the Battered Silicon Dispatch Box press — who decided to enlist me in a Solar Pons fan club, if I’d read some Solar Pons yarns before the next pulp convention. I’d met Vanderburgh at the first PulpFest I attended, going up to his table with my pal John D. Squires. The main reason I hit that convention was the chance to see JDS after many years, and tie in with Morgan Holmes again. And now I’m on the hook to read some Solar Pons, I guess. . . .

At various times I’d glance up to see pulphound John DeWalt charging happily along in a small posse of his pals. Such absolute delight. John pulls a brief cameo in the extras material in my eBook The Dark Barbarian That Towers Over All.

And at some point as Haefele, Krabacher, Morgan and I held down a table in Bar2 the official editor of PEAPS and former OE of REHupa, Brian Earl Brown, passed through briefly, looking completely exhausted from whatever ordeal he’d gone through to get there.

The panel on the Cthulhu Mythos was set for that night at 9:50, and more than once leading up to it — if not constantly — Haefele kept talking about how he dreaded public speaking, he didn’t want to do it but he’d do it. Since I talked him into it, he wanted me on the panel, and I figured I’d sit next to him in case I needed to nudge him to Stop Talking. Off mic Haefele is a complete Chatty Cathy, and I calculated that impulse would surge to the fore. And so it did.

Chet Williamson — Guest of Honor for PF this year — came up after the Mythos panel and adjourned with us to the bar for drinks. I have known of Chet since the 1970s — we were in at least one or two a.p.a.s together in that era — but hadn’t met him before. I think he really enjoyed listening to Haefele go off on some Lovecraftian topic — honest, the panel had merely warmed the Derleth Mythos maven up. Loosened the cork. I said to Chet, “You’re listening to the major Lovecraft critic alive today,” and I meant it. Other people may prefer other critics, but I trust my judgment.

On Saturday, no breakfast — Morgan, Krabacher and I planned to hit Schmidt’s Sausage Haus in German Village as soon as it opened and you want plenty of appetite to do it justice. Paul Herman advised me, “Cream puff.” We parked a few blocks away from the restaurant and absorbed the atmosphere of the historic neighborhood. And maybe worked off some of the cream puffs tromping back to the car.

By the time we returned to the hotel, Haefele was well into his 1p.m. signing at Chomko’s table, moving out copies of the trade paperback of Derleth Mythos. He’d mentioned that he hadn’t had any reason to sign his name in years, and that morning was going to practice up some. Krabacher and I gave him time to get used to the pen again, then handed over our copies of the first edition hardcover — as I always say, rare as rare can be. You had Haefele sitting in the midst of a pulp convention of some 400-plus collectors, some of them arch-collectors, and only those two copies of the hardback got ink.

Haefele is among the arch-collectors, I’m sure — he’s always looking to upgrade copies, talking about the as-new subtle pages of 1960s paperbacks he has in his set, a complete Arkham House and a near-complete run of Arkham ephemera. He told me that people who had bought copies the day before returned with them for the signing — but that some of the copies had bent covers, coffee stains. . . .

Why would you want to get a bent copy signed, Haefele wondered. . . .

“But you signed it, right?” I asked. He said he did. Always sign copies, that’s my motto. If Haefele’s going to hang out with me he needs to sign the books — but the trick is that he’ll just never show up at enough conventions to really build an inventory of signatures, so hold onto that signed read-to-hell copy.

Bob Byrne, the Solar Pons Guy who had asked me to do the Guest Post “Pigeons from Hell from Lovecraft” on the Black Gate blog, told me he’d be at PF on Saturday, and I found him at Bill Maynard’s table — Maynard is the Fu Manchu Guy. And I guess Bob is Solar Pons Guy, Jr., since Vanderburgh clearly is Solar Pons Guy, Sr.

Bob told me he wanted to get a John Hancock in his copy of Willeford, but he couldn’t find it — one box or another, and I know the feeling. But on the other hand, he remembered buying it off Dennis McMillan’s table with me there during the Bouchercon in Austin in 2002, so we figured it probably was signed, anyway. And he dug out a copy of the Hammett Tour book, third edition first printing from City Lights, so I signed that.

I was talking with Bob and Bill, Morgan and others, when I noticed Wilson Warneld beginning to pack up his stock. Not sticking around till Sunday morning. I’d tried to get some kind of message through to Scott Connors about the inscribed books, with no luck, and it was push-comes-to-shove time. Even if Scott didn’t want them back, I guess I can always use another inscribed first of Our Lady of Darkness (I have firsts inscribed to me and to my pseudonym Geo: Knight) and Munn isn’t signing any more books. Wilson and I cut a deal.

At 7:55p.m. the panel Weird Editing at “The Unique Magazine” was set, and we hiked over to it from the bar and put it to bed without any trouble. I haven’t listened to the recording as yet (and probably never will), but to wrap it up I held up my copy of Haefele’s first edition hardcover, telling the audience: You’re not likely to ever see a copy of this book again. I quote a moment from the first that got left out when Haefele juggled stuff around for the trade paperback — Derleth kind of surprised that fan Rah Hoffman had missed an issue of Weird Tales.

I knew Rah, and he once told me — and I thought this would be of interest to current fans of The Unique Magazine — that fans of his era, trying to save money, would subscribe to the magazine, then let the sub run out. After awhile they’d get a notice to re-subscribe, but to make it appealing they’d be offered a discount off the newsstand price. And they could begin the renewed sub with any issue they chose. So they sub, let it lapse, re-sub back to the last issue they’d missed. I think Derleth caught Rah in one of those ebbs, because when he died not long ago at age 93 (I believe it was) Rah still had his complete collection of Weird Tales.

After a couple of drinks in the bar, Haefele — with a long drive home the next morning — bowed out, but Krabacher lured me and Morgan to a room party in 1502. Looking off toward the old Ohio State pen — I thought, you know, this might have been the very room I had during that last convention. . . .

Krabacher had hit the party the night before, too, getting the most out of PF until 4 or 5 in the morning. Really scorching that candle. He’d agreed to have breakfast with Haefele and me at around 7a.m. Sunday, though, so I think he only stayed at the confab till maybe 3a.m. this time. . . .

Believe the guys holding down the fort were named Bill Mann and Bill Thinnes. I hadn’t met them before. The Pulpster editor Bill Lampkin came in for awhile — I was thinking about asking him about an editorial change he keeps making to articles I send in, where he puts book titles in quotes, and of course story titles in quotes. I understand making the names of pulp mags bold, just for the hell of it, but it always bothers me to not have the book titles in italics — or, as sometimes happened in the old days of mimeograph zines, in all CAPS (weirdly, when you mock up an Author Page for Amazon, they won’t allow italics on titles in the main blurb, so you have to put those in CAPS like in the old-timey fanzine days). Just looks bizarre, and I can’t figure out any reason for it.

Bill Mann wondered about a guy he hadn’t seen at cons in awhile, began describing him. Not a lot of detail, but for some reason I said, “Chuck Miller?” — maybe because Chuck died recently. Thinnes looked Chuck up on a tablet and passed it around. Yes, that was the guy Mann was thinking of. This group of pulp fans all knew Chuck from various conventions in the area, and I knew him as half of the publishing concern of Underwood-Miller — did several books with them back in that day. But right there, a round of off-the-cuff memorial tributes to Chuck. He was well liked.

Walker Martin came in talking about how he’d just happened across an orgy and/or riot with police breaking it up, kind of like how he almost got jumped in the elevator last time I was there. “How do you manage to see all this action?” I asked him. “Because,” Walker said, “I’m not sitting in here drinking beer like you are.” But of course he was now in the room where the beer was. . . . An unerring instinct, I’m sure.

I noticed that Walker and Krabacher had on the same T-shirts, with images of the pulp Unknown on them. Some kind of Pulpy Pulp Pulp thing, no doubt. But as more people came into the room, I made my escape so there’d be room for the new arrivals and I could wake up for breakfast with Haefele.

Amazingly, Krabacher showed up too, not too late, and we had the last gabfest for the weekend. I told them my extended Golden Dragon Massacre saga, and Haefele mentioned taking his cat on camping trips, on a leash (real Lovecraft fan, I tell you).

After the adios to Haefele, I circled the dealers room a final time and began chatting at the Sword-and-Sorcery table. I told the guy about how Morgan Holmes was the big expert on the S&S paperbacks of that boom era, while he pointed out various rarities. Yeah, I’ll drag Morgan over here to check on them, I told him — and soon Morgan wandered in.

I’m not sure if the guy believed me when I blurbed The Morgman’s expertise, but as he indicated this paperback or that, Morgan said, Got it, Got it, described the plots in detail. The guy gave me a look of awed wonder, and I waggled my eyebrows at him. When I say expert, I mean definitive expert. It is a tribute to the guy’s stock that Morgan actually found a couple of items he needed on display.

Soon after, we headed out, Morgan dropping me off at the airport before winding his way home, hitting more paperback bookstores. I got to Chicago okay (great views of the city flying over), read some of Will Murray’s Wordslingers — and ended up on a plane that ran an hour and a half late.

But at least I didn’t get routed through Philadelphia again.

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Frisco Beat: “Cairo’s Hotel” Grabs a New Alias

In the latest and greatest edition of The Dashiell Hammett Tour book, I advance a new theory about why the various fictitious hotels in The Maltese Falcon picked up their names — one of several fresh litcrit wrinkles I toss in, pulled from long years hoofing the mean streets with time to think deep thoughts.

But many people prefer to believe that a hotel with a similar name must be the basis for this hotel or that hotel.

From the earliest days of people trying to dope out which fictitious lodging from the novel was based on which actual hotel, the hotel Joel Cairo stops in — the Belvedere — has been assumed to be based on the Hotel Bellevue at approximately 501 Geary Street, southwest corner of Taylor. Check the book for more of my ideas about that, if interested.

The Bellevue hasn’t been the Bellevue for several years, however. It got a renovation and reopened as the Monaco, and the Monaco it was for quite awhile — so long that I got used to calling it the Monaco.

For your information, the name just got changed again recently. I first noticed the new signage on August 11.

What was the Monaco is now the Marker.

Bellevue. Monaco. Marker.

Make a note in your Hammett’s Frisco logbook.

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Rediscovered: John D. Haefele’s “Why HPL?”

lovecraft image

On the occasion of HPL: Birthday 125, how about another origin story from yet another guy who traveled to PulpFest to honor H. P. Lovecraft?

In this instance we showcase how John D. Haefele first encountered the Old Gent from Providence, leading to a lifelong reading and collecting passion. You’ll note the ghostly presence of HPL in the backdrop of the cover for John’s major book on the origins of the Cthulhu Mythos, A Look Behind the Derleth Mythos — instant classic, not to be missed if you have even the slightest interest in Lovecraft.

And at this very moment John is plugging away on his next title, Lovecraft: The Great Tales.

Take it away, John:


Eleven years old, camping in the back yard, I listened raptly to my best friend’s amateur renditions of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Lurking Fear” and “The Curse of Yig.” I was a fan of TV’s Twilight Zone (but frightened by Thriller). I had a closet stuffed with SF comic books.

But now I had to find the paperback editions of Cry Horror! and The Macabre Reader, to read those tales by Lovecraft — confident I’d find more. . . .

August Derleth of Arkham House had a knack for getting the books he published into the local library system. When a new branch opened near my Wisconsin home in late ’63, I searched the shelves for Lovecraft — and found Frank Belknap Long’s The Horror from the Hills. The small print on the very cool jacket tipped me to the publisher’s existence, and before long I received the 1964 Anniversary Stock List and related brochures.

For the next half-dozen years, August patiently answered the baker’s dozen juvenile queries I sent to the House, all about HPL, who was already my favorite author.

I discovered my other favorite author during college years. J. R. R. Tolkien was a fad in 1969, but he remains the only writer other than HPL to capture my life-long interest. (Robert E. Howard came close at the time and threatens yet to make three.) There were also a handful of mind-blowing nonfiction titles — for example, Alvin Toffler’s Future Shock. I plowed through that one faster than I did Frank Edwards’s Stranger Than Science, a decade earlier.

Then came Lovecraft’s Selected Letters. In the early volumes, HPL was a mechanistic materialist who understood better than the philosophers how the immense scale and complexity of the fixed universe would forever exclude humankind from unraveling its clockwork. This same immensity would also preclude the metaphysical — absolute reality, according to HPL, is forever out of reach. Practically speaking, it doesn’t exist at all.

HPL modified these early views in later letters, allowing for Probability, recognizing a blindly impersonal, rather than inimical, cosmos. Lovecraft’s view of time — that “galling” impersonal force — tied only too well to Toffler’s view. Literary scholars use “cosmic indifferentist” to label this unique worldview, which still fascinates me, even though in his correspondence HPL never satisfactorily answers the metaphysical conundrum posed by Olaf Stapledon’s unperceptive cat in old London, oblivious to the existence of finance or literature.

HPL does fantasize some possible answers in his fiction. That’s where I caught my first glimpses of the higher orders of being, their super-mundane purposes, and greater-than-three-dimension constructs. HPL’s fictional setting, the true background of the Cthulhu Mythos, is a multiverse: worlds within worlds, dreams within dreams, unfathomable depths of time, ocean, and earth.

In the fiction HPL’s indifferentism manifests itself as “cosmicism.” I feel the immensities of time and space, the loss of personal identity; I experience a thrill-ride that I’m compelled to repeat time and again, that I enjoy repeating.

I know that HPL had fun crafting this ride. It was sheer genius — mainly his — calculating that the process itself could abet the result. Fostering contemporary authors to write more stories, some directly related, others vaguely parallel. Alluding to past writers, to their concepts. No longer moored. The full meanings lost.

But HPL’s work comprising the center of this calculation — the Lovecraft Mythos — is a multiverse of its own, encompassing the tale within the tales of the Cthulhu Mythos.

No doubt about it. HPL — my literary friend — a writer for all ages — just happens to be endlessly fascinating.

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Rediscovered: “My Pal HPL”


Today is birthday 125 for good old H. P. Lovecraft — and that landmark anniversary was the excuse to jet off to PulpFest and participate in the panels on the Cthulhu Mythos (HPL’s major claim to fame) and Weird Tales (where HPL’s involvement is the major claim to fame).

For the convention program book, The Pulpster, they asked several noted Lovecraft fans — some attending PulpFest, some not — to do about 500 words on encountering HPL and Weird Tales. I may as well put up my tidbit here as a birthday candle of sorts, since in the program book they didn’t use the concluding italics (a Lovecraft staple), and changed a few other things (and didn’t use any individual titles).

So, here you go. As a pal of mine used to say, “It was a hell of a spell, HPL.”


If by chance a much younger me had yet to encounter a single story from the pulp pages of Weird Tales, that situation changed cataclysmically in 1967 when the Frazetta cover for the Lancer paperback Conan the Warrior attracted my eye. Under one set of wraps, both “Red Nails” and “Beyond the Black River” by Robert E. Howard — two of the greatest stories ever to appear in the Unique Magazine. You have to feel sorry for critics who do not appreciate the Texan’s artistic achievement. Me, I got it instantly.

More stories from Weird Tales followed, with Clark Ashton Smith my next favorite of the crew. In my opinion, if you’re going to name your magazine Weird Tales then you need genuinely weird fiction, and no single writer better served that need than Smith. From Arabian Nights fantasy to cold grue, he could dish it up, and in a style that let you know you weren’t reading the Saturday Evening Post.

Meanwhile, my initial encounters with H.P. Lovecraft weren’t doing anything for me. I’m pretty sure the first tale I tried was “In the Vault,” and although it is perfectly serviceable boneyard horror, I doubt anyone today would put it at the top of an HPL list.

The turning point in my regard for HPL came when I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area and met George F. Haas, a lifelong fantasy fan and good friend of Clark Ashton Smith — George had bought the first issue of Weird Tales straight off the newsstand, and every issue after that. He explained firsthand how readers knew Lovecraft was top rank as soon as “The Outsider” hit print. No question as far as the audience for Weird Tales was concerned, here was the new Poe.

And I finally read “The Call of Cthulhu.”


I often reread HPL, especially my favorite stories. “The Festival.” “The Shadow over Innsmouth.” The Case of Charles Dexter Ward. The seemingly effortless “The Haunter of the Dark,” the Old Gent’s last yarn for Weird Tales.

But as I grew into a fan, I had a parallel experience I’ll always be grateful for — meeting actual pals of HPL. Certainly, anyone reading Lovecraft’s many letters will feel almost as if they are getting the mail themselves, but how much better to sit hour after hour talking to Donald Wandrei, after I moved for awhile to St. Paul. In Wandrei’s darkened book-stacked living room I first met E. Hoffmann Price, who I would see again and again after moving back to San Francisco. And I’m glad I made the trip up to visit with H. Warner Munn in Tacoma for a week.

If these guys all liked HPL, I had no doubt I would have too.

Stopping in New York years ago I talked my pal Ben P. Indick — a longtime Lovecraftian, like so many of my pals — into making a drive into Brooklyn to track down the Lovecraft residences. On the way back we paused outside the apartment where Frank Belknap Long lived. Long saw more of HPL than any of his other friends, and I had never met him. But his wife could be a pest, and Ben told me that while he knew them — we could walk right up to the door and ring the bell — he hadn’t attracted the attention of Madame Long in a few months and preferred to keep a low profile.

I understood. We looked at the lit first floor windows for a moment before heading off, leaving another potential connection for me to Lovecraft unmet.

Alas. Young Belknapius! It was not to be.

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Rediscovered: More First World War

When I began fielding Michael Stoler’s query about the use of the expression “the First World War” in Hammett’s “This King Business” from 1928 last month, I had the impression that I had encountered the use of “First” — not just the war, not just The Great War — in my reading somewhere along the way, long before World War Two began to lurk on the horizon.

Though it nagged at me a bit, I didn’t have time to rummage around looking for sources — PulpFest was coming up, requiring some brush-up on Cthulhu Mythos and Weird Tales info for the panels I was penciled in on. Then the sudden request for something for the symposium on Robert E. Howard for Black Gate. Once I signed on to that, I figured getting “Pigeons from Hell from Lovecraft” online before PulpFest would be the way to do it. What the hell, I’m easily distracted.

But our pal over in Scotland, Steven Meikle, just popped in confirmation that my nagging impression was right:

I read with interest on your site about Hammett using “The First World War” in “This King Business” and someone pointing it out as if it was an anachronism. While it may have been an editorial change, the term was in fact used as early as 1920.

Steven sends along a link to a book from 1920, The First World War: 1914-1918 — and a link to more info on the author, Repington.

So, if Hammett had used the term First World War in a 1928 Op yarn, it would have been okay. Thought you’d want to know. . . .

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