Due to my prolific need to clear my bowels, at home and during VYPH recordings, I’ve been joyfully escaping the borish realities of 21st century human behaviorisms by indulging myself in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famed creation, Sherlock Holmes.

You could imagine my excitement when I just came across the news that Robert Downey, Jr. will be playing him in a new film adaptation directed by fallen Kabbalist Guy Ritchie. I believe this calls for a “Huzzah!”

I think the only thing that could make me happier than this would be to find out that Quentin Tarantino was going to take a shot at the Raymond Carver’s Philip Marlowe mythology. Seriously, how do we make this happen?

Read all of the Sherlock Holmes stories for free, on-line at Sherlockian.net

If you haven’t done yourself the favor of indulging in one of western literatures greatest fictional creation’s let me coerce you with this opening paragraph from the Musgrave Ritual. Come on, the guy is a coke-shooting Mason who, when he’s not solving fucking mysteries, lounges about his cluttered apartment in a drug haze using his pistol to languidly shoot sketches into the wall across from him. Keith Richards can kiss Sherlock Holmes’ ass. Read on:

“An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should distinctly be an open-air pastime; and when Holmes in one of his queer humours would sit in an arm- chair, with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V.R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.