Sunday 17 February 2008

The Secret Mathematic - Chapter Eleven

The Secret Mathematic is a science-fiction novel told in an indefinite number of chapters, posted serially by me, your investigative host, Cheeseburger Brown. This is the eleventh installment.

Chapters: 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|...

News: Ephemera Bound's new hardcover edition of my novel Simon of Space is available now via Amazon and Barnes & Noble or direct from the publisher (as of this writing, B&N has the best price). Please consider picking up a copy in order to help me make the case to the media barons that stories like these are stuff people care about.

Multimedia: Listen to the The Secret Mathematic Overture in MP3 format, by Syntax Error.

Related reading: Stubborn Town, Three Face Flip, The Long Man, Plight of the Transformer, The Extra Cars

And now, our tale continues:


It's winter in Winnipeg, and colder than you care to imagine.

The little bungalow on Heathrington Avenue is covered in snow, and surrounded by lines of yellow police tape that flap in the wind. The boulevard is crammed with cruisers. A supervisor car draws up beside them, nosing into a narrow gap at the end of the ice-choked driveway. The engine quiets and the red bubble lights on the roof stop spinning.

Lieutenant Blake steps out, grimaces, and hunkers lower into his coat. The constable standing at the curb offers him a nod. Blake nods back.

Inside the small house a dozen men and women work to document the scene. Camera bulbs flash, then whine as they recharge. Investigators wearing rubber gloves label and tag objects, then draw diagrams of where they sit. A pair with filters over their faces use white tape to mark the outline of the corpse curled into a foetal position on the carpet beside a worn easychair splattered in bloody vomit. Blake puts his hands on his hips, frowning critically. "Alright people," he calls, "let's get this stuff bagged and boxed."

"Wait," calls a voice. "Not yet, sir!" Blake turns.

Blake works to avoid rolling his eyes as the youngest and least usefully jaded member of the force scampers up to him, tucking a loose lock of red hair back into her bun and then straightening smartly. "There's a special consultant coming, Lieutenant. He's asked that we leave everything in place until he's had a chance to look around, sir."

Blake's frown deepens. He stares down the neophyte until her cheeks flush. She's pretty. He wonders if she's got a trigger finger for sexual harassment complaints. He grunts. "A special consultant? Who?"

"S. Mississauga, sir."

Blake rubs his stubbled chin. "Mississauga, Mississauga...where do I know that name from?"

"He's applied to the force, sir. Several times, actually."

Blake sniffs. "Oh yeah? Why'd we turn him down?"

"He's handicapped, sir. The captain said he's not physically fit for duty, no matter what his scores are on the detective exam."

"What kind of handicap we talking about here, Wainwright?"

She shifts uneasily, eyes leaving his. "He's got no arms and no legs, Lieutenant."

Blake blinks. "You want to say that again?"

"He was a thalidomide baby, sir."

Blake drags his hand down his face, blinking wearily. "And what makes you think this freak has an angle here?"

"I liased with him at the academy, when those trainees went missing in Assiniboine Forest. He's got a gift, sir. He just...figures things out. I've never seen anything like it."

"He's not another goddamn psychic bullshit-artist, is he?"

"Nossir. No bullshit whatsoever."

Blake grunts again. While Wainwright's gaze is averted he takes the opportunity to look her up and down. Not bad. Small tits, but a highly forgivable ass. "I'll give him thirty minutes," he says flatly. "Thirty-one minutes from now I want the coroner's car loaded and the rest of this evidence on its way downtown. No ifs, no ands, no buts."

Wainwright nods. "Absolutely, sir."

They turn in concert as a measured rapping sounds at the front door, which then swings open to reveal a tall native with close-cropped black hair and a long tan overcoat. His eyes are ringed by surprisingly thick haloes of lashes, his cheeks high and hard. With a stiff, black-gloved hand he plucks the end of a hand-rolled cigarette from between his thin lips and casts it into the bushes. He exhales fumes. "Constable Wainwright," he pronounces, his voice a low rasp.

"Mr. Miss," she says. "You're here just in time. This is Lieutenant Blake. Lieutenant, allow me to introduce S. Mississauga."

Blake licks his dry lips. He glances briefly at the newcomer, then looks back to Wainwright. "Thirty minutes," he says. Without looking over again he addresses Mr. Mississauga: "You want a run-down of the situation?"

"No," says Mr. Mississauga.

Blake frowns, but continues. "There's not much to it. I'm not even sure we need you here today, Mississauga. Indigent native male, mid-fifties, imminent foreclosure on the property, a run of liquor and valium cocktails chased by drain cleaner. Open and shut."

Mr. Mississauga walks into the front hall. His motion is methodical but unsettling, his pelvis swinging side to side to cast his artificial legs ahead a step at a time, the knees locking and unlocking with practiced tosses of momentum. "Christ," whispers Blake. "He walks like the goddamn Tin-Man from The Wizard of Oz."

Mr. Mississauga says nothing as he passes the uniformed duo, his head bobbing under the influence of his strange locomotion. Blake unconsciously shrinks back slightly toward the wall. Mr. Mississauga wobbles into the livingroom, slowly circling the easychair and the body. The forensics team looks up at him, their expressions surprised and uncomfortable. They look over at Blake who offers them a vague nod.

The consultant makes a few slow rounds about the livingroom, bending to stare at a pack of playing cards on a tray, then pausing to sniff the foam face of a set of cheap speakers, his blade-like nose twitching. He patiently examines every object along the cluttered mantel.

"What the hell is he doing?" whispers Blake.

Wainwright says, "He's just looking. That's what he does. He looks everything over, memorizes every detail, and then he somehow just works it all out."

"What's a pack of cards got to do with a suicide?"

Mr. Mississauga turns toward them from the far end of the room. "I do not know, Lieutenant," he says. "Thus, I cannot presume to ignore it."

Blake coughs awkwardly. "Fine, fine," he says dismissively. "Just get on with doing your thing, Mississauga. We don't have all day." In a much smaller voice he says to Wainwright out of the corner of his mouth, "He's got a helluva sense of hearing, this guy."

"Yes," agrees Mr. Mississauga, limping into the diningroom to squint at rows of dusty glasses in a scratched, paint-peeled hutch. "I do." He pauses to peek under the table, then carefully moves each chair aside in turn and examines the depressions their feet have left in the stained rug. He disappears into the kitchen next.

Blake is frowning again. "Kind of gives me the creeps."

Wainwright shrugs. "He can't help it, sir."

"Yeah, well, I don't like the idea of him wandering around all by himself. Escort him through, Wainwright. And stay close."


She catches up with him as he approaches the bedroom, rocking back and forth to keep each lifeless foot shuffling in the narrow corridor. The forensics boys in the bedroom are chuckling to each other as they work. "In the end, man, it's just another dead Indian..." says one, trailing off as Mr. Mississauga's shadow falls over him. "Um, hi," he says. "Are you the consultant?"

"Take a break," snaps Wainwright, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

The forensics boys wordlessly slip by, sucking in their guts to avoid grazing Mr. Mississauga on their way out. He ignores them, patrolling around the periphery of the bedroom and then stopping to examine each object and piece of furniture quietly. Wainwright watches him with her arms crossed, leaning at the jamb.

"Back at the academy," she says, "you told me you became a detective to track down your father, Mr. Miss..."

Mr. Mississauga says nothing.

"So," she continues, "did you ever find him?"

He looks up, his chocolate brown eyes deep and unreadable. "Yes," he says crisply, then resumes his examination of the waste basket behind the closet door. Next he turns his attention to the closet itself, noting and briefly sniffing each outfit on the rack.


"Just another dead Indian."

Wainwright looks down at her feet. "I'm sorry," she offers. "What happened to him?"

Mr. Mississauga straightens and faces her, his legs clicking quietly as they lock in. "He happened to him."

"What do you mean?"

He gives her a small, tight, humourless smile. "Not every case presents a mystery, Constable. More often than not people end up dead for the simplest of all reasons: the way they lived." He pauses. "My father drank until his body failed. He was utterly alone, so no one tried to stop him. He was native; such a fate was not unexpected. There was no fuss."

Wainwright falls silent for a moment. "What about your mom? Is she still around?"

"She's lost."

"You're looking for her, too?"

"No," he says, manoeuvring one gloved, artificial hand to pick up a dog-eared address book from the dresser. He flips through it, eyes flitting. "I know exactly where she is. But she's lost."

Wainwright isn't sure what to say.

Mr. Mississauga looks up from the address book. "What about you, Constable? Is being on the force everything you had hoped?"

She knits her fingers together. "It is and it isn't," she says guardedly. "I'm thinking of going out for the Mounties, actually. You know, going federal...getting a chance to work the big cases."

"There are no small cases," claims Mr. Mississauga, replacing the address book the dresser. "Only small detectives."

"Are you trying to be funny?"

He looks into her eyes briefly, shrugs, then stumps past her back into the corridor to the kitchen. She shakes her head and then turns to follow. In the livingroom the coroner's people are hauling the corpse up onto a stretcher. Mr. Mississauga ignores them. They find doing the same difficult, stealing glances at the strange, wobbling native from the corners of their eyes.

"Watch it!" yells one, catching the corner of the stretcher before it falls. The body slumps precariously toward one edge.

"Sorry," mutters the other, refocusing on the task at hand.

A second later everyone in the room jumps as the stereo starts blasting a raucous strain of bluegrass music, banjos plucking deftly around a chorus of harmonious vocal lament. It cuts out almost instantly. All eyes turn to Mr. Mississauga as he leans over the receiver, apparently oblivious to the commotion he has caused. He placidly ejects a cassette tape, sniffs it, then pulls it partway out with one black gloved finger to read the hand-lettered label. His hand buzzes quietly as the fingers move, then click as they snap into place.

He drops the tape back into the receiver and turns around. He gives Wainwright a brief bow of the head and then without a further word hobbles to the front door, opens it, and leaves.

Blake blinks. "Where the hell is he going, Wainwright?"

She swallows. "I think he's going to take a nap, sir."

"A nap?" Blake cries, face colouring. "How much is the department paying this clown?"

"It's his way, Lieutenant. That's how he comes up with the answer."


"He sleeps on it, sir."

Blake closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He appears to be counting to ten silently, but when he opens his eyes he doesn't seem significantly more calm. "This was your recommendation?" he asks darkly, gaze locked on Wainwright.

She shrinks slightly. "Yessir. And...I stand by it. Mr. Miss'll solve this for us. You'll see."

"Solve what? A suicide? Jesus Christ! Remind my wife to send him a congratulatory glazed ham!"

This is the beginning and not the end of Lieutenant Blake's diatribe, and three hours later every syllable of it is still knocking around destructively inside Wainwright's head. She slouches at her desk, attempting to generate a typewritten report from her colleagues' illegibly scrawled notebooks. The fluorescents buzz; the typewriter hums. She looks down at it and sighs, noticing that the last line has been mangled by words from her subconscious: Assessment of the victim's property does not indicate goddamn creepy-assed indian.

"Does anybody have whiteout?" she calls forlornly over the cubicle tops.

Blake rushes by pulling his coat on over one shoulder. Wainwright jumps up from her chair and jogs after him down the aisle. "What's up, Lieutenant?"

"McGuiness scared up a lead. It looks like it may not be suicide after all. I'm rolling with Klein to check it out. I want those reports done by the time we get back. Got it, missy?"

"I'd like to come, sir."

He scoffs. He figures if he can make her feel small now it will increase the chances she'll give in to dinner, to make it up to him. "Just finish the goddamn paperwork, Wainwright. I think you've screwed up enough today."

She stops at the reception desk, mouth tight. Klein rushes around from the other side wagging a file folder in his meaty hand. "Lieutenant!" he calls, dusting doughnut powder from his shirt, "we've got a name!"

Blake breaks into a satisfied smile. "Give it here."

The telephone rings. The extension for Wainwright's direct line is flashing. She reaches over the counter and picks up the receiver. "Wainwright."

Klein hands the file folder to Blake. He flips it open and scans the page.

Wainwright hangs up the telephone. "George S. MacLellan," she says.

Blake pauses. He looks up from the file, blinking. "That's...right," he says slowly. "That's Klein's lead."

"That was Mississauga on the line, sir," she says quietly.

"What did he say?"

"That is what he said: he said, 'George S. MacLellan,' and hung up."

Blake shows her the file. It features a booking photo of a fat, sour-looking white man labelled GEORGE STEPHEN MacLELLAN and then a long list of priors. Klein swallows the end of his doughnut with a loud gulp. "Who the hell is Mississippi, and what's he got to do with my lead?"

Wainwright shakes her head curtly. "It's not a lead," she tells him. "If it comes from Mr. Miss, it's a collar."

Blake is staring at her seriously, assessing her expression. After a moment he nods. "Okay. Klein, bring your car around. Wainright: you'll roll with us. Now let's bag this bastard and get him in for questioning."

Wainwright grins. "Yessir."


Simon said...

Just idly trolling my feeds on a Sunday afternoon to come across this little gem. Nice.

I'm fairly certain that Mr. Miss is becoming rather firmly entrenched in the annals of CBB characters as my favourite. His is quite nearly the most unique situation of them all, so he does have that going for him. I do so love rooting for the underdog.

It was nice to see Wainwright again. She's had Miss's back for quite some time, hasn't she? And paid for it over the years too, judging by her situation in The Extra Cars. I guess a decent ass will only get you so far, even in the forces.

For some reason, I've always pictured a slimmer version of Graham Green as Mr. Miss. sort of like his character in Dances with Wolves, but with a crew cut. Maybe a little bit of Wes Studi, but I think Green has more of the eyes for it.

Mandrill said...

Huzzah, and congrats on the book. I'll be asking the wife's permission to order one momentarily.

Enjoying the current story immensely, even though I'm not commenting as much.

fooburger said...

thanks for the chapter...

Who's the Stephen McWhoever again?
Sounds kinda familiar...

Need a diagram or something to keep the names straight. :) I think this is mainly because we're reading a lot of these names over long periods of time (in the installments), rather than fresh as-book-read. Almost would be nice to have a script auto-index names with links to stories in which they've been referenced... I think this hits at a fundamental difference between this format and the standard novel.

This wording stumbled the read a bit, for me... Obviously it's a pair of police officers, but the reference caused a 'look back' for me just to make sure.

"A pair with filters over their faces"

dunno.. just thought maybe 'pair of them with...' or 'pair of officers with...'

I can't wait for the big rumble royale where Lallo, Sky, Zoran, and all the others mix it up in a big cage match.. :) Wait.. that's probably the wrong channel.

Sash said...

I'm with you on the underdogs, but I still think Mike is my favorite. There are so many tied for second though, including Mississauga.

I think I'm starting to see where all these could tie together - you're withholding just enough information to make me uncertain about my theories. That's great on your part as a writer and extremely frustrating on mine as the reader.

Oh, and yea! for a new copy of Simon of Space! Do you mind if I BookCross a copy? Its usually a good way to get new readers.

Teddy said...

We've never heard of this George, because I VERY seriously doubt that Novice George's name would come up in a murder case. Although, it could be that Mr. Miss is simply pointing them at somebody who knows more about the case than he does...

I like Tim most, because he's the quintessential improbable hero. Difficult to like, not popular, EXTREMELY nerdy, very much like me. Also, the whole time traveller thing, that's pretty freaking cool.


Mark said...

A chapter with Mr. Miss is always a good one. I'm still wondering when we'll see how he came to eat lukewarm Campbell's Scotch Broth.

But more than that (by a little), I can't wait to see how he first comes upon the damage done to the time-space continuum thingie.

gl. said...

if blake is such a hardass, i'm having a hard time believing he'd be willing to allow a rogue "consultant" to take an extra 30 minutes on a case with such little significance and which he already thinks is solved. maybe if his supervisor requested it, but certainly not from wainwright.

al said...

I am liking this chapter a lot. I love how you write the reactions of people to Mr. Miss.

As for who should play him in the upcoming movie, who better to play the worlds greatest detective than the worlds greatest detective... Batman!! or a skinny Christian Bale if he's not available.

Cheeseburger Brown said...

Simon says,

For some reason, I've always pictured a slimmer version of Graham Green as Mr. Miss...

Indeed we would have to adjust the vertical hold a smidge -- a sort of stretched-out version. For reference: Graham Green

Fooburger asked,

Who's the Stephen McWhoever again?

Some low-life who offed his buddy, possibly over something trivial. I don't expect we'll meet him: he exists only to demonstrate Mr. Miss' prowess at sifting the scene for clues and coming up with the right connections.

"A pair with filters over their faces"..."

Noted, thanks kindly.

Sash mentioned,

Oh, and yea! for a new copy of Simon of Space! Do you mind if I BookCross a copy? Its usually a good way to get new readers.

That sounds like a brilliant idea, Sash!

Teddy argued,

We've never heard of this George, because I VERY seriously doubt that Novice George's name would come up in a murder case.

Quite right -- beyond the fact that I'm pretty sure Novice George would be nothing but a twinkle in his parent's eyes at this point, and his parents would probably be playing Pokémon and listening to Hannah Montana all day.

Mark mentioned,

I'm still wondering when we'll see how he came to eat lukewarm Campbell's Scotch Broth.

I think his first inspiration on that front was probably the way he was drugged by Dean Willoughby. How he settled on his exact brand and flavour of safety food, though, I'm not at all yet sure.

gl. said,

...maybe if his supervisor requested it, but certainly not from wainwright.

That's a good point. I'd imagined that it was indeed someone higher than both of them that gave Mr. Miss' assignment the nod, but perhaps I should make that explicit in the chapter so we're not left wondering about Blake's apparent inconsistency.

And al chimed in,

As for who should play him in the upcoming movie...

I'm iffy on Simon's Graham Green plug, but I'm not sure Christian Bale would be appropriate for Mr. Miss, either. Maybe I should do some digging on my own to see if I can't come up with a fantasy cast that fits my own mental images. Let me noodle it for a bit and see what I come up with...

Cheeseburger Brown

Cheeseburger Brown said...

Oops, also: hello Mandrill!


Big t said...

Mr. Miss is definatly in the top 3 favorite chracters, along with Mike and Lallo. I have a friend "horse" from North Dokota, he is 6'4", and has bad knees and wears a trench coat and eats out of cans. I often put him in my mental movie. He makes a pretty good Mr. Miss. Wes Studi is too short. Graham Green is close but not tall enough and maybe too round in the face. It would be nice to have the actor Native. I would love to play the part but I am also too round in the face.

FooBurger is right, we need a diagram or something for reference, I use the comments to help, these guys always give enough feedback to spark my memory. CBB I have forgotten, is Mr.Miss's mother Native?

I too have to ask the "old lady" for permission, not that she's controlling, she is just better with money than I am. I tend to get myself in trouble.

CBB have you ever thought of putting one of your stories into script form and possibly make a movie? Better work on getting a book deal first Huh, sorry I get exited easy.

Bridget said...

Mr. Miss was my favourite from the moment he stepped off the plane and into the Hot Foo. I find others' reactions to him endlessly entertaining, but it's usually more interesting to see the ones who "get" him than the ones who don't, like Wainwright, Aglakti or his Dad. Makes me wonder how I would react to him

"Assessment of the victim's property does not indicate goddamn creepy-assed indian."

Heh. That's about right, yep.

Cheeseburger Brown said...

Mateo said,

It would be nice to have the actor Native.

Damn straight. There's little that offends me more in an adaptation than changing the ethnicity of characters for marketing purposes (for example, see the movie trailer currently running about the kids who gamed the Las Vegas card tables -- in the movie they're white, in real life, they were Asian).

If they ever do make a movie adaptation of Simon of Space, my first demand is that Simon retain his genetic ethnicity as an Asian man.

If somebody ever tried to do an adaption of a Mr. Miss story and wanted to cast him white, I'd officially shit a brick.

The ethnicity of my characters is something I've been challenged on before. Each time I find the discussion utterly surreal. I think I've mentioned here before how I was once asked by the CBC to "justify" the fact that my main supporting character in a TV show premise was East Indian.

My lame answer (which failed to impress anyone): "Well, he was born in India."

I work in the most multicultural city on the whole planet (according to the demographics), and mixing professionally and socially with people of all sorts of colourful backgrounds defines my sense of "normal." I really don't know what to say when I'm asked to explain including such diversity in my stories.

All I know is this:

1) Not everyone can best relate to pretty white people.

2) Different cultures and sub-cultures are interesting, and lend characters colour and depth.

3) "Cultural appropriation" is a criticism launched only by prescriptivist dickweeds.

CBB have you ever thought of putting one of your stories into script form and possibly make a movie?

Matt Chapman down in LA had been working hard toward that very goal, but I'm afraid a serious wrench has been tossed in the works by the Writer's Strike. It may be over now, but I have no idea how long it will be until Hollywood powers-that-be become interested in new pitches again. They've got quite a backlog to work through, first.

Cheeseburger Brown

Shadowphone said...

Woohoo! Maybe I'm not alone, but I knew exactly where we were in the first paragraph. Nice to have a little more backstory (but I can't wait to see what action is born of this exposition).

CBB, thanks for letting us know what happened to Creek, sad though it may be.

To preservation of the characters' ethnic heritage, hear hear! Also, I didn't have any trouble with the "pair" line.

Simon said...

"I work in the most multicultural city on the whole planet (according to the demographics), and mixing professionally and socially with people of all sorts of colourful backgrounds defines my sense of "normal." I really don't know what to say when I'm asked to explain including such diversity in my stories."

That seems like the perfect reply to the original question. Of course, it's way easier to come up with that in writing than on the spot. If only we could UNDO, SEND and DELETE in conversation, we could all sound a lot smarter.

Plus, more topical to the post, I really liked the "lead" and "collar" line that Wainwright ended with. The wordplay on "lead" was delightful.

Dan said...

I just returned from a two and a half week vation to the happiest place on earth with my 7 younguns. What a delightful game of cath up awaited me here! As always, the chapters are wonderful. "Bad Traffic" should be added to the related reading. the only complaint I have is way back in chap 8. "Yves double-clutches, gears down and hits the hammer." is uber cheesey! I've also ordered the hardcover.

Thanks, CBB

THE Danimal

Anonymous said...

Dan, welcome back! I can't imagine how much that trip must have cost...

I also can't imagine anything called "cath up" (shudder) being referred to as "delightful"... so I'm thinking that's a typo :)

Man, I didn't even notice that Bad Traffic wasn't up there.

Can't wait for Tenny to find his way into a plotline...

Teddy said...

I also noticed that Plight of the Transformer was in the related reading. I think if he hasn't shown up yet, he won't be a major player in this chapter if he does show, and that particular story was just as much about Lallo and releasing information about the Long as it was about Tenny, and we've already seen Lallo in this story. I do hope he shows, though. As devious as he is (he works for the government, I don't trust him), I like him.


fooburger said...

That's a good point Teddy... Tenny is my vote for most neglected character in CBB-verse... Loved it... probably my favorite character... get to work on that CBB.. :)

I'm glad that story was brought up, because I'd almost forgotten about it. My mind had almost rummaged it out.

Sometimes I wonder if the people who wait for an author's entire series to be finished before diving in and reading everything at once are the ones who better see how all the dots connect.
I couldn't imagine reading Zelazny's Amber series over the course of (well, it was years, I assume?). When I got hold of the series I just dropped everything from my schedule, including sleep, and went flat-out.

There really are different forces at work in a serialized medium like this. It has its benefits (sticking around in your mind more) and its drawback (dust in the mind). It would be interesting to hear what things work better/worse than they do in book-at-a-time series.

Mark said...

fooburger, I wondered about the time between books phenomenon, too. When you have a mind like a steel sieve (like me), you don't do well at remembering characters or events from stories long past.

I've never read series books, really, so I have no experience to compare to this.

I would think that now, even with books published in the traditional manner, the simplicity of discussing them online would help keep one book fresh in the mind while waiting for the next. Whereas in many small towns it may be difficult to find someone who's reading Piers Anthony's Magic of Xanth series or Keith Laumer's Retief series (just examples from friends I had), the Internet changes all that.

Simon said...


A friend of mine who used to work in a bookstore encountered a fella who had his own work-around for the pause between books in a series. Every couple years the same guy would come into the bookstore and snatch Robert Jordan's newest book off the shelf and then take it home to join the others he had purchased and NEVER READ. He was going to wait until the series was finished before even starting the entire hardcover collection.

I was staggered by the expense, patience and, I can only imagine, high potential for disappointment that poses.

One of the reasons I thrive so much in these comment threads is because I rely heavily on this sort of "collective" to prompt my remembory and fish out the salient details that make the enjoyment of these stories even more enjoyment-able.

Anonymous said...


Has your friend begun reading now that Robert Jordan has passed on before completing what he claimed was the final book?

I was pretty disappointed when I found out that George Martin still had a long way to go too... fortunately the Dark Tower series is finished, so if I decide to keep going I won't have to worry about that.

CBB, be careful out there on the road, and take good care of yourself!

Bridget said...

At last, I put in my order for Simon of Space. I had to find something else to order with it (to qualify for Amazon's free shipping). I finally settled on Son of Stitch 'n Bitch: 45 Projects to Knit and Crochet for Men Guess I better finish the man's 14 ft. Tom Baker Dr. Who scarf before my order get here.

On the other hand, it should add some interest to the "people who bought this book also bought" feature. Just in case you're wondering.

3) "Cultural appropriation" is a criticism launched only by prescriptivist dickweeds.

Huzzah, CBB. Ain't Toronto grand?