Runyon's Holiday Spirit: The Hot Tom & Jerry

NOW one time it comes on Christmas, and in fact it is the evening before Christmas, and I am in Good Time Charley Bernstein's little speakeasy in West Forty-seventh Street, wishing Charley a Merry Christmas and having a few hot Tom and Jerrys with him.

This hot Tom and Jerry is an old time drink that is once used by one and all in this country to celebrate Christmas with, and in fact it is once so popular that many people think Christmas is invented only to furnish an excuse for hot Tom and Jerry, although of course this is by no means true.

But anybody will tell you that there is nothing that brings out the true holiday spirit like hot Tom and Jerry, and I hear that since Tom and Jerry goes out of style in the United States, the holiday spirit is never quite the same.

The reason hot Tom and Jerry goes out of style is because it is necessary to use rum and one thing and another in making Tom and Jerry, and naturally when rum becomes illegal in this country Tom and Jerry is also against the law, because rum is something that is very hard to get around town these days.

For a while some people try making Tom and Jerry without putting rum in it, but somehow it never has the same old holiday spirit, so nearly everybody finally gives up in disgust, and this is not suprising, as making Tom and Jerry is by no means child's play. In fact, it takes quite an expert to make good Tom and Jerry, and in the days when it is not illegal a good hot Tom and Jerry maker commands good wages and many friends.

from "Dancing Dan's Christmas," by Damon Runyon

I cannot say for certain where I first came across the once-common warm holiday cocktail called the Tom & Jerry, but it may well have been in the writing of Damon Runyon; I came across "Butch Minds the Baby" in either a short story colelction of Dad's or some anthology or another in junior high.

Runyon's potent mixture of high vocabulary lowlifes and antiquated dialogue spiced with Prohibition-era slang sank its hooks deep into my brain at first exposure so that when I stumbled across a used copy of Runyon - On Broadway in the Leduc Bookshop, I snapped it up.

Runyon taught me what a Roscoe was without spelling it out:

Good Time Charley says he does not blame him, at that, as Miss Muriel O'Neill is so beautiful that he will be dancing with her himself no matter what, if he is five years younger and can get a Roscoe out as fast as in the days when he runs with Paddy the Link and other fast guys.

...how even bodily assault can be made humorous and potentially justifiable:

It finally becomes necessary for Charles to tap him on the pimple with a beer mallet, and afterward the constables come around, saying what is going on here, and what do you mean by tapping people with beer mallets, and the only way Charles can wiggle out of it is by stating that the character with the beard claims that Mae West has no sex appeal. So the constables go away saying Charles does quite right and one of them has half a mind to tap the character himself with something.

... and conveys the difficulty of minding one's own business while interacting with fast guys who have handles like Kitty Quick:

'Listen,' he says, 'do you know anybody in Europe?'

Well, this is a most unexpected question, and naturally I am not going to reply to unexpected questions by guys from Philly without thinking them over very carefully, so to gain time while I think, I say to Kitty Quick:

'Which Europe do you mean?'

I owe the majority of my love of language and turns-of-phrase to my father, but Mr. Runyon definitely has a hand in there as well.

As a result, when I came across a container of Tom & Jerry mix at a store the night before last, and remembering the important role it plays in Dancing Dan's Christmas (readable here and highly recommended), I really had no choice but to pick it up.

Bear in mind that the Tom & Jerry was an old-timey drink when Runyon wrote about it in the 1920s, going back a century or so at that time, and was possibly created as a promotional aid to a play by Pierce Egan called Tom & Jerry or Life in London, the first production to run for 100 consecutive performances in London, but whether this is due to the quality of the play or the assistance of the spirit imbued in the beverage is unknown.

The proper drink is like a warm milk punch or egg nog and normally comes from a batter made by mixing separated egg whites and yolks, sugar and butter and one thing and another before adding it to hot milk (or water, cocoa, or coffee) along with brandy and dark or spiced rum.

The Collins mix is more like a syrup or paste, similar to a jar of hot buttered rum mix, and I added two tablespoons to a cup of milk heated in the microwave, then dutifully added an ounce each of Captain Morgan and VSOP and stirred them together.

Now, I am pre-disposed to liking hot boozy drinks when the weather starts turning cold and I am also a fan of egg nog (until I am not) so this creamy, aromatic and gently spiced cup was right up my proverbial alley. Give me a hot Thermos of Tom & Jerry and I could be convinced to try out for the Iditarod, and I might even forego the dogs.

Furthermore, Audrey's version, made with hot water due to her fear of phlegminess, was also quite tasty, just not quite as creamy - a difference more of texture than taste, really.

While sipping, I looked up the Damon Runyon passages where I had first encountered this elixir, and ended up reading her the entirety of Dancing Dan's Christmas while she showered - Runyon's prose is a joy to read aloud, as I hope the excerpts above make evident. We also discovered that Tom & Jerrys were once served in their own bowl and mug sets, many of which can be found on eBay and Etsy and the like:

Man, I do not like to think of myself as a materially driven fellow on the general, but if I had the kind of domicile that would facilitate storing a bepoke bowl and mugs for a seasonal hot cocktail, I would find that most copacetic.

Regardless of serving vessel, however, I hope I have the opportunity to make hot Tom & Jerrys a more routine part of my holiday hospitality - after all, it is no longer illegal, and while it might not increase my wages, we can all use the friends it can bring, as Mr. Runyon asserts in the passage above.

UPDATE: Here is the recipe for those interested; consider adding the egg yolks to the butter before mixing to make things easier. Very tasty as a cocktail but also makes a very tasty cup of coffee!

From The Badger #46, by Mike Baron and Ron Lim

Balancing Act(s) - Dune Part Two, Reviewed

(Spoiler-free, I think? I mean, this book is pretty old...)

Movie adaptations of literary classics (and I certainly include Frank Herbert's 1965 masterpiece Dune in that category) are a decidedly tricky business for everyone involved, from the producers trying to replicate success from one medium to another, to writers choosing what parts of the canon to keep, remove or change; directors and production designers trying to re-depict vistas, characters and technology on the screen; and fans of the original material and previous adaptations holding their breath to see how the latest interpretation has turned out - to their eyes, at least.

Director and co-writer Denis Villeneuve's 2021 Dune adapted the first half or so of the novel, and was acclaimed by many critics and fans (myself included) despite being viewed as an unfinished work. It is hard to believe that such an epic depiction of family, politics, betrayal and war serves primarily to set the stage for an even more titanic tale of clashing cultures, revenge, prophecy, propaganda and planetary deliverance, and which is ten minutes longer to boot.

So does Villeneuve deliver the goods with his conclusion, Dune Part Two? Does he stick the landing? Well, yes and no.

It is a marvelous adaptation in the truest sense of the word; one artist rearranging elements of another's work to create a new version in a different medium. The broad strokes remain largely unchanged, depicting the struggles of Paul Atreides (Timotheé Chalamet) and his mother Jessica (Rebecca Ferguson) as they look for succor amongst the hardened and suspicious desert Fremen. Paul strives to balance his compulsion to avenge his murdered father with his desire to avoid a galactic holy war in his name.

Meanwhile, Fremen leader Stilgar (Javier Bardem) believes more and more in the possibility that young Paul is the mahdi, the deliverer promised by prophecy but also contrived by the manipulations of the Bene Gesserit religious order. Jessica leans into this belief (and the possibility that Paul is also fulfilling the BG prophecy of the kwisatz haderach) while Paul actively avoids it, and his eventual Fremen love interest Chani (Zendaya) openly disputes it.

It's been a while since I read the novel but I don't recall the external tension being this pronounced, with so many disbelievers among the Fremen of Sietch Tabr, with the underground shelters of the southern hemisphere being depicted as more fundamentalist ("[Stilgar] is from the south. Could you not hear his accent?" made me laugh.) And Chani's perspective and resistance to manipulation is a welcome addition, giving her character far more depth than in the novel.

In fact, all the female characters enjoy more nuance and agency in this movie than in the novel; Chani, Jessica, Princess Irulan (Florence Pugh), and even Paul's sister (Anya Taylor-Joy) who, unlike the book, remains both unborn and unnamed by the end of this version. 

Villeneuve has his work cut out for him, balancing the agendas for not only all these characters but more, as well as the various factions they represent. But he not only does so with a clarity the 1984 film and 2000 mini-series don't match, he still finds appropriate moments for action scenes that blend brilliant spectacle and scale with plot momentum and character dynamism. The first Fremen attack on a Harkonnen spice harvester is a feast for the senses, with drama and a real sense of consequence.

He also continues to display a singular and masterful visionary eye, depicting the introductory gladiator battle of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen (a hairless and nearly unrecognizably cruel Austin Butler) not just in black and white (in order to differentiate the sands of the Harkonnen homeworld of Giedi Prime from those of Arrakis), but in infra-red, under a black sun. Amazing!

Dune Part Two is a great story with wonderful performances by an amazing cast, but it would almost be worth seeing in IMAX even with the sound off just for the amazing visuals. And not just the cinematography by Greig Fraser (The Batman, Rogue One) either, although his sunsets, desert vistas and transitions between Paul's visions are at times breathtaking. The costumes and production design are artful and ambitious in a way that far too few films, even science-fiction, are too timid to attempt.

Fans of previous adaptations (including Jodorowsky's unmade version) may see nods and homages to them in this film as well; I saw traces of H.R. Giger in the cityscapes of Harkonnen-occupied Arrakeen and the costumes and architecture of Giedi Prime, and David Lynch's art deco flourishes elsewhere.

And the sound! IMAX increases the bass and resonance as much as the screen size, bringing even more impact to the distorted vocals of the Spacers Guild (presumably?), unfamiliar languages, the thud of descending harvesters and the roar of cresting sandworms. 

I am thrilled beyond words at the notion that more of Herbert's lexicon (Fedaykin, crysknife; Bene Gesserit, etc.) will be getting an even larger footprint in popular culture. What future filmmakers are seeing this film, glimpsing this unique world, and becoming inspired to create their own works in the future?

Now, there will inevitably be those who will say that Villeneuve and his co-writer Jon Spaihts took liberties with the canon and that they were excessive or unneeded, but I will not be one of them. Every departure seemed to make for a better movie in my regard, a film that felt expansive and epic yet personal and tightly spooled despite being the better part of three hours long (2:46). So why can't I be more fulsome in my assessment of Part Two? 

For much the same reason I can't say The Empire Strikes Back is a better film than Star Wars. Without giving too much away, despite ending the movie at virtually the same point as the novel, the sense of resolution is muted, and the movie wisely avoids the temptation to tie a triumphal ribbon around the whole affair. Instead, arrows are pointed to the future, a natural point to pause (but not really finish) the story is reached, and Villeneuve, clearly a fan of the novel's sequels, has already committed to a third film incorporating Herbert's sequel Dune Messiah. 

A sequel has not yet been greenlit by Warner Bros., but this is not surprising; Part Two was not confirmed until 4 days after the release of Dune, so perhaps the same will hold true for the next film? I certainly hope so and will buy a ticket (in IMAX again) as soon as I am able.

In the meantime, though, how can you judge whether or not someone has stuck the landing when they are so evidently eager and unfinished? 

The Great Bookshelf Cull of '24

In the novel Buckaroo Banzai, the Great Man eulogizes a fellow Hong Kong Cavalier by saying of him, "he loved and slew, he made music and made merry, and never owned more than he could carry on his horse."

Despite the other differences, I feel people comparing us after I pass will not remark on my lack of kills so much as they will point out my tendency to hang onto things.

Not to a hoarding level - at least, not from my perspective, and I can't help but feel Audrey would not leave such behaviour unchallenged, but yes, there is an enticing, nearly sultry overlap between preparedness and sentimentality that can be quite debilitating, it turns out. Particularly when it comes to books.

Friends of ours are moving, and watching them go through the process of shedding decades of potentially or suddenly unnecessary accumulations has prompted Audrey and I to examine our own situation. And in a historically rare and fortunate alignment of time and motivation, we determined that on this Family Day long weekend, we would at last pare down our collection of books.

The stacks in question were six bookshelves of various sizes, qualities and provenance. Many of the books residing on these shelves were perpetually obscured, either by an additional row of books in front of them, or stacks of other items like compact discs. Some shelves bowed like the shoulders of Atlas under their burden, and Audrey believed the left-hand lower cupboard door had become a load-bearing element, but it turned out to just have been stuck. 

The gap in the second shelf from the bottom was recently vacated when, in anticipation of this weekend's endeavour, I asked my friends if anyone wanted my collection of Inferno! magazine, the first publication from Games Workshop's publishing arm, Black Library. Now I have the satisfaction of knowing all 44 issues are going to a good home, where they will be appreciated.

A few items were likewise rehoused, but the vast majority of them made their way to the Goodwill donation centre, including my Latin textbook from university. I also recycled the cheat sheet I used to help memorise tenses and declensions and the like - by which I mean, I memorized the sheet itself and painstakingly wrote it out before every major exam; such was my challenge with rote memorization.

That textbook and reference has accompanied me from Augustana in Camrose to two apartments in Edmonton, across the country to Toronto and back to Edmonton; it felt almost a shame to part ways after all that time together! But part we did, and from many other reference works as well. My rubric had a pinch of Marie Kondo's joy-bringing to it, but focusing on what Wikipedia or other websites could do just as well as these often out-of-date dead tree editions allowed me to be particularly ruthless with the non-fiction items.

Before too long, the downstairs table was carrying a significant number of volumes.

So much so that we exhausted our supply of boxes, so we took the half-dozen or so that we had filled over to Goodwill, and resupplied at the liquor store on our way home - with more boxes, that is.

Being forced to audit one's accumulations can be a trial, and a blow to nostalgia to be sure, but it is rewarding for all that. It is a chance to encounter one's former self, as when I encountered two books I had ordered from Scholastic probably in elementary in Willow Park. I elected to let go of my sole Alfred Hitchcock and The Three Investigators book, but maintained my copy of Lester Del Rey's Tunnel Through Time, recalling an early bonding experience with someone thirty years ago who I am still privileged to call my friend.

I came across my very stylish invitation to the 2005 GW Veterans' Dinner, where the company would fly employees and their partners to the U.K. to receive their 10 year plaques and a leather jacket.

Glory asked if I missed it, the culture and all, and it's true; there are times when I really do. But on the other hand, my current workplace has a number of people who share my dedication to doing good work, even if the subject matter isn't quite as entertaining as Space Marines and toy goblins. And to be honest, I have probably saved myself a great deal of clutter just by not working for a maker of fabulous toys and games.

From that same trip, I found what I believe was a napkin from the cafeteria at the Tower of London (?) that obviously I held on to because of a certain similarity in names:

And on one shelf, this exquisite (if tarnished) box which should be on its way to Toronto to join its namesake before too long:

Moments of reverie slowed us down but never fully overtook us.  By the end of the afternoon, we had whittled enough away to get rid of the smallest bookshelf entirely.

In addition to being smaller and tidier, things are a bit more organized now, and there is still room for a handful more volumes. This was an afternoon well spent!

But wait - why is Audrey gazing over at the shelves full of boardgames?

Memories of Bayport and The Hardy Boys Detective Handbook

With Fenya currently packing up her belongings in order to move them out to Toronto, there is quite a bit of sorting going on, mostly of the keep/ditch variety. Some hard choices for sure, but with limited space in their first shared dwelling (550 sq. ft.), she had been doing pretty well at divesting thus far.

Looking at the bookshelves in the basement, I know my own time of reckoning is coming nigh; dusty college textbooks, references untouched since Wikipedia is easier, wonderful paperbacks meant to be read again "someday"... the list goes on. 

Some books will be kept because they are likely to be reread (Lord of the Rings), some because they should be re-read (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance), and still others because they are great ones to lend out (like that copy of Inside Delta Force I loaned out to someone and has yet to return).

Some are on the bubble, tipping between practicality and sentimentality. That kids' edition of Tarzan with the Ape/English dictionary in the back? That will be hard to part with. Harder still will be the long-coveted grail of my childhood - The Hardy Boys Detective Handbook.

I was reading before I trundled off to first grade (no kindergarten in rural New Brunswick where I grew up) and was a voracious reader. A cousin of Mum's introduced me to the Hardy Boys when I was in first or second grade, and I was agog. These weren't kids like me or grown ups like my folks, but something in-between...

They went to school but also drove cars, knew judo and boxing, were proficient with scuba equipment and firearms, and regularly thwarted kidnappers, smugglers and thieves. They also regularly rescued their own father, who got into an awful lot of tight scrapes for a world-famous detective. I fell for the series like a safe dropped out a window.

My personal collection was only a handful of second-hand books gathered from garage sales or received as gifts, but I pored over the stacks in the library at Willow Park Elementary (after passing Mrs. Cameron's read-aloud test required to check out books from the upper elementary section) to make sure I hadn't missed any.

I read all the Hardy Boys I could find at the Leduc Public Library as well, looking over the checklist on the back covers to see if there were any titles I had missed. One volume tantalized me terribly with its unfamiliar formatting and the absence of any descriptor you might use to convey a sense of the unknown, such as mystery, secret or clue: The Hardy Boys Detective Handbook.

My mind reeled at the thoughts of what legerdemain might be contained within such a tome, and its very elusiveness only increased its credibility in my eyes over the years.  And on one fateful day, when Dad was purchasing a book at the Coles in Southgate Mall and I dutifully looked over the DI-DO section of the young readers section to fill gaps in my Hardy Boys reading list, there it was.

I hurriedly brought it over to my father, breathlessly explained how long I had been searching for this particular title, and begged him to purchase it for me. This was not something I did a whole lot of (I don't think?), and he and Mum both liked to encourage my reading. This coupled with the real-world information credited on the cover to a retired Bureau man swayed him enough to drop $3.95 and elevate him to truly heroic status in my eyes.

And make no mistake, I devoured that book. It was set as a series of short stories featuring everyone's favourite teenaged detectives, but each one was followed by a non-fiction chapter outlining the techniques, science or equipment used in the preceding tale. Fingerprinting, surveillance, crime scene analysis, plaster casts of foot or tire prints and photography were but a few of the topics covered. What nine-year-old didn't want to learn how to tail a suspect without getting caught, or where the best places were to dust for fingerprints? 

I never got so far as to build my own fingerprint kit (with dusting powder, adhesive tape and index cards) but marveled at the inside lingo of loops and whorls provided no doubt by legit G-man William F. Flynn.

One lesson about observation really stuck with me; after witnessing a motor accident, Frank and Joe Hardy describe one of the autos involved while their hapless friend (and consistent transportation provider thanks to his jalopy) Chet Morton confesses he only made out a blur. 

One of the brothers patiently explains that observational skills can be developed over time, like a muscle, but will not perform if left unexercised. He demonstrates by turning Chet around and saying, "You've been with us all morning; describe the shirt I'm wearing."

Poor Chet guesses incorrectly, and the brothers don't chide him, but encourage him to work on it, because they may be quasi-fetishized establishment squares, but are good chums and stand up fellows nonetheless. I immediately pictured myself failing that selfsame test, and would probably do so today as well, despite the valuable lesson Frank and Joe tried to teach me. But their encouragement of their less-observant comrade stuck with me even more.

Despite my fervent and misguided childhood wishes (pro tip: don't tell your friends you wish one of them would get kidnapped so you could rescue them), I never got the opportunity to truly apply anything I'd learned from the Hardy Boys Detective Handbook. I did get a nice basic understanding of how forensics worked, and its limitations, which made me a bit more critical of other youthful mystery series.

And I read most of them: Alvin and the Secret Code, Alfred Hitchcock and The Three Investigators, Encyclopedia Brown, etc. Kids interacting with adults, interesting settings, and always a puzzle to solve, a mystery to unravel- but only the Hardy Boys backed it up with one book of real-world knowledge, and I am grateful for that. And for Dad, who was not an easy sell on such things, who relented to my pleas almost a half-century ago.

Yeah, I am probably going to hang on to that Handbook.

(Original 1959 edition with even squarer Hardys)

The Case for Books and The Man Built by Childcraft

The year I started school back in NewBrunswick, my father purchased a set of encyclopedias for my sister and I. It sat on the upper shelf of a custom book rack with the words "World Book" emblazoned on the side of each volume, and encompassing the entirety of the alphabet, as one might expect. Those reference works were a constant within my life, from before I could read until I left home for university.

But the second shelf is what brought me joy and taught me to love learning and knowledge: the Childcraft series, also known as the "How and Why Library."

15 volumes, each dedicated to a specific theme such as "How Things Work," "About Animals" or "World and Space." Truly, these were a timely blessing to a pre-internet childhood (and one with only three television channels).

Many were the Sunday afternoons or time between school and supper where I would pore over various volumes, some more so than others. About Animals was a favourite, as was World and Space - less so the Poems and Rhymes. But I remember reading most if not all the stories in the Children Everywhere volume, returning many times to read a short tale about a Swiss boy who rescues a marmot from a golden eagle, and a Lithuanian boy who climbs a tower to fly the old flag in the face of an occupying Soviet regime.

Some of the illustrations were remarkable, depicting an impossibly dense field of stars or an intimidating triggerfish. 

I am also confident that a straight line can be drawn from the lavish illustrations of Beowulf and my later readings of The Lord of the Rings and Conan.

Looking through the books recently, the things I hadn't remembered gave me pause for thought - had my love of mythology spawned from these stories and drawings?

Were they my first exposure to my favourite dinosaur*?

*Look, I know the dimetrodon is technically not a dinosaur and is instead merely a prehistoric lizard, but it still shows up in packs of dinosaur toys, so let it go, all right?

Was this where my appreciation/revulsion/horror regarding the komodo dragon, an enormous monitor lizard with powerful jaws and saliva that was not only venomous but also acidic, began?

But it was the 1975 Annual "The Magic of Words" that provided the most insight into my younger self.

Wherein I learned the provenance of names leading from ancestral occupations, and how "ghoti" could be pronounced "fish" if you put enough spin on it...

The first time I had ever come across Shakespeare was in this beautiful and whimsically illustrated scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream."

And learning that the Rosetta stone was cracked by a man who had seen the artifact as a boy and determined then that he would be the one to learn what the hieroglyphics within it were trying to convey to us, centuries later. Like a real-life Hardy Boy (my other familiar literary companions of childhood) he seemed to me.

My love of etymology and vocabulary, my appreciation for legend and history, and my enjoyment of trivia can probably all be traced to this one book within a remarkable set.

I loved reading these books, and I loved having a frame of reference for many of the things the teachers spoke of in elementary school. Constantly raising my hand, always happy to volunteer an answer or ask a question about something not covered yet, I quickly developed a reputation as a brainy kid. And I adored it and leaned into it, probably more than I should have, honestly. 

But despite the fact I bought a slide rule at a yard sale and a book on how to use it at the second-hand book shop on main street, it was never just an affectation - I honestly did love knowing things, and sharing the interesting things I found out about. I still do, obviously.

And I am still tremendously grateful for these books, a collection that answered hundreds of questions but galvanized a thousand other inquiries. I am a bit sad that the girls never found them as appealing as I did, but on the other hand, this spared me explaining why we weren't building a cardboard submarine, as I always pestered my father about...

And neither of them have asked to have potato chips crumbled on top of tunafish casserole, as I begged my mother for at least quarterly...

But the time has come at last to say goodbye. We have friends from church whose children and nieces and nephews are a bit bookwormy (bless them!) and who enjoy the retro charm of such things, so it is comforting to know that almost a half-century later, these Childcraft books may yet be appreciated.

But I can't believe they will appreciate them as much as I did. 

Thanks, Mum and Dad - I wish this revelation about how influential this one, doubtlessly significant purchase was on me had come earlier so I could have shared it with you.

But knowing you, you probably knew it more than I did.