Morg Malden didn’t have much use for modern technology. Sounds like a cliché. Malden sounded like a cliché. If Stacy Keach hadn’t done Mike Hammer in the 1980s, he’d have had to do Morg Malden. Malden was opinionated and had little use for the parts of the world that had passed him by. “I don’t need any of that crap,” he told me. Appeals to the information superhighway were lost on Morg. “I learned all I need to know about human behavior by the time I was 16. They ain’t doing anything different now. They’re just doing it more often.”
I wish I knew more about Ross Macdonald (who also published as John Macdonald and John Ross Macdonald—not to be confused with fellow hardboiled scribe John D. MacDonald) than I do. He was once regarded as the third member of the hardboiled trinity—Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler being the other two.
Harper is a fine movie based on Macdonald’s first Lew Archer novel, The Moving Target. I’ve also read The Underground Man and liked it. I need to watch The Drowning Pool (sequel to Harper) still.
Macdonald is currently underappreciated, or so his admirers insist. His literary reputation is certainly not what it was. Macdonald (who had a PhD in literature) was attempting to bolster hardboiled crime fiction’s literary value. Macdonald (born Kenneth Millar and husband of novelist Margaret Millar) has a very strong Freudian undercurrent running through his novels.
I find that Macdonald’s writing (and I include Harper in this general category) has a very different, more intellectual tone that Hammett or Chandler. This is not to say it is better or worse. I have not read as much Macdonald as I would like to—or as much as I intend to. But I find he doesn’t have quite the hardboiled edge that Chandler does. But then again, who else is really comparable to Chandler? Still, I think Ross Macdonald might better be qualified as one of the leading lesser lights than as the natural successor to Hammett and Chandler.
She was holding up the line. That was reason enough for not liking her. The line at the post office stretched from the counter all the way back to the P.O. boxes. I was in the middle and waiting impatiently with an unwieldy package.
“I know the post office is slow, but this is ridiculous,” griped the surly, middle-aged lady behind me. But any ridicule was lost on the girl at the counter. She had some complicated transaction that kept the only clerk running between the counter and the back of the post office, bringing a new form each time.
You know what they say about the scenery not changing when you aren’t the lead dog? It’s true. And it was true in the line at the post office. We were all treated to an extended display of this girl’s backside.
Her ass was what some might call voluptuous. And she knew it. Thin, tight sweatpants hugged her derrière. Her panty lines were obvious. The sweatpants did little to disguise the panties digging in to her taut flesh.
I guess some of the men in line considered this adequate compensation for the wait. I like feminine charms as much as the next guy. But not when my schedule’s tighter than that tart’s panties.
My apologies for the late replies. But there are several questions waiting, and I intend to get to them. The semester has been rather busy, and I haven’t had as much time for noir as I would like. I will be getting to them in the coming days. And if anyone has anything they’d like to ask, my ask box is right there.
That said, I can answer this question rather simply. As with my previous icon, the current one is a picture of me. I’m quite fond of hats. And I thought it looked vaguely noirish.
The crowd was liquored up. They stomped and swore. But it was all in good fun. No one cared if the opposing team got some verbal abuse. But just in case, the stadium gad security personnel standing between the stands and the field.
Calling them security guards seemed an overstatement. They just stood there mostly. And politely asked fans to stop whatever fan activity the stadium didn’t want to be liable for. I wasn’t sure how secure they actually made the stadium—or any of us watching it.
The guy standing between my section and the field looked earnest enough. He was very serious as he stood there stolidly. He had a wart under his right eye. It stood out against his pale pink face. He was a stocky man, but gave no indication that he knew how to use his bulk in a fight.
He just stood there looking gravely serious. His hair was cropped closely. It was a reddish color. What the Brits might call ginger. He would make me feel very secure indeed—if only I were a jar of marmite.