Category Archives: Pop Culture Mysteries

Jun 09 2015
7 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #001 – Here’s a Story – Part 2

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES – CASE FILE #001:

PART 1 – Hatcher hates commies, fancy coffees, and angry dames in trousers.

And now Pop Culture Mysteries continues…

The LA Public Library.  The joint was lousy with books as far as the eye could see.  It was comforting because over the past year I’d kept hearing that they were going the way of the dodo bird.  I hope they don’t.  If there’s one thing this old shamus likes, it’s the feel of a printed page in my fingers as I pour through a volume of tall tales.

Iris the Librarian - She ran circles around Hatcher on the beep bop machine.

Agnes the Librarian – She ran circles around Hatcher on the beep boop machine.

They also had a bunch of beep boop machines and it became clear to me I was going to need access to one in order to solve my first pop culture mystery.  Ms. Donnelly’s men had yet to bring the ones promised me to my office.  That was aces in my book.  I wasn’t looking forward to having them.

As I sat there in front of one of the machines, I scratched my head and probably bore a close resemblance to the first caveman to ever see fire.  I tapped a key.  Nothing.  I tapped another one.  Nothing again.  I tapped a third one.  This message popped up on the screen:

An error of type 110147 has occurred.

“So fix it up and get it going, fella,”  I replied out loud.  “Come on now.  I don’t have all day to spend on this nonsense.  I’ve got a serious caper to sniff out, see?”

“SHHH!!!!”

I looked up to my left to find an old gray haired bird who was tickling the keys of her beep boop machine like she was a Jazz man in front of a baby grand.

“Sir,”  the old lady said.  “You know the computer doesn’t talk to you.”

“It doesn’t?”  I asked.  “Then what the hell is it good for?”

“What are you trying to do?”  the gal asked.  “I’m one of the librarians here.  Maybe I can help you.”

“I need to find whatever I can about an architect,”  I replied.  “Some swarthy curly haired gent who went by the name of Brady.”

“You should pull up the Internet,” the old woman said.

“The whatternet?”

“Oh,”  the lady said.  “I don’t know how to explain it to you, young man.  The computers talk to each other and share information?”

“That went over my head higher than the cow did when he jumped over the moon, ma’am.”

The old gal sighed and took the key typer thing away from me.  She ran her fingers on the keys and made the beep bop machine throw up a screen with a blank box on it.

I sat there like a useless bump on a log, watching the broad as she typed in the words, “B-R-A-D-Y…B-U-N-C-H.”

“That was one of my favorite shows,”  the lady said.  “Yours too I suppose?”

“Never seen it,”  I replied.

While the librarian surfed the Interwhatever, I opened up the file Delilah had brought me and read Bookshelf Q. Battler’s marching orders:

Detective Hatcher,

Here’s the story…of a lovely lady.  She was bringing up three very lovely girls.  All of them had hair of gold…like their mother….the youngest one in curls.

Here’s the story of a man named Brady.  He was busy bringing up three boys of his own.  They were four men living all together.  Yet, they were all alone.

I didn’t write that.  That’s the theme song to the classic TV show, The Brady Bunch starring Robert Reed as Michael and Florence Henderson as Carol Brady.

The lyrics go on:

“Till the one day when this lady met this fellow and they knew that it must be more than a hunch, that this group must somehow form a family…that’s the way we all became the Brady Bunch.”

That’s how the song goes, but it’s rather convenient, is it?  That’s how the group became a family?  That’s all that happened?  Just sweep the past of what happened before Mike met Carol under the rug, right?  Nothing to see here folks.  Move along.

If you ask me, the whole thing smells worse than an open sewer grate.  Mike Brady had three sons and no wife.  Carol Brady had three daughters and no husband.

What happened to Mike Brady’s first wife, Hatcher?  What happened to Carol Brady’s first husband?

Your first pop culture mystery – “What the hell happened to the original Brady spouses?”

Godspeed, Hatcher.  My 3.5 readers demand an answer to this baffling conundrum.

Yours truly,

Bookshelf Q. Battler.

I closed the file and looked at the Brady Bunch fan website the old librarian lady had managed to pull up.  She was a sweet old gal who reminded me of my grandmother, complete with a need to stop every five minutes and offer me a butterscotch candy, which I accepted eagerly.  It reminded me of the good old days, a simpler time when you could accept candy from a stranger without ending up in a hospital.

Her name was Agnes and on her own computer she was looking up information about high blood pressure remedies for her old husband Herbert, who she told me was at home sick in bed and feeling lousier than the floor of a bus station bathroom after a three day weekend.

She was happy to have my company and I was glad to have her help.  Win-win.

“I have a grandson your age,”  the old gal said.  “He makes fun of me all the time, telling me I don’t know anything about computers, but boy howdy, you really know nothing.”

I moved that little thing they call a mouse around but nothing happened.

“You been living under a rock for awhile, son?”

“Something like that,”  I replied.  “Wanna do a sleuth a kindness and ask this contraption to figure out what happened to Mr. Brady’s first wife?”

“Oh,” Agnes said.  “You know, that’s a good question.  I watched that show for years and never once thought to think about what happened to the first Mrs. Brady.”

“Well,’  I said.  “It’s a good question, isn’t it?  Did she dump Mike and run off with the milk man?   Did Mike ship her off to a convent?  Did she have a nervous breakdown and get carted off to a rubber room by the men in the white lab coats?  Did he push the broad down a flight of stairs, make like it was an accident to the cops and collect a big pay day from the insurance company?  God Sakes Alive, Agnes! This man might have chopped his first wife into a million pieces and buried her under his front porch for all we know.”

“Your mind goes a mile a minute,”  Agnes said.  “Just like my grandson’s.”

“And what about Carol’s first fella?” I asked.  “Was Carol a cold fish and he couldn’t take the celibate lifestyle any longer?  Did he come home one night too many reeking of cheap booze and the perfume of an even cheaper hussy?  Did she lose control and hack him to bits with a butcher knife?  Strangle him in his sleep?  Blow him away with a 12-gauge and dissolve the body in an acid bath?  That’s how I’d do it.  Not that I would, but if I had to, I mean.  Christ, I hope the poor man either passed away from natural causes or at the very least maybe he and Carol had an amicable split.”

“It’s all very interesting,”  old Agnes said, “But why are you so preoccupied with this?  It was just a silly TV show.”

“Never you mind, Agnes,”  I replied.  “Do some typey typey on this weirdo device, will ya?  See what you can come up with.  I’m gonna hit the head.”

Detective Jake Hatcher is on the case.  Well, Agnes the Librarian is anyway.  Hatcher has to tinkle.  See how this caper unfolds in the next installment of Pop Culture Mysteries!

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler (2015)  All Rights Reserved.

Old lady librarian photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Attorney Donnelly notes that the first Brady Bunch spouses were not murdered or otherwise dispatched via foul play and that part of this post is just a joke.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jun 08 2015
4 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Case #001 – Here’s a Story – Part 1

By:  Jake Hatcher, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Private Eye

POP CULTURE MYSTERY QUESTION:  What happened to the original Brady Bunch spouses? (Or, what happened to Mike Brady’s first wife and Carol Brady’s first husband?)

“Son, I’m going to tell you one more time what I want and if I don’t get it, we’re going to have a serious dilemma on our hands.”

The lad on the other side of the counter stared at me blankly, a dumbfounded expression on his face.  We both spoke English, but it felt like we were from different planets.

“I want…a cup…of coffee.  Black.  No sugar.  No cream.”

If there's two things Jake Hatcher hates, it's Commies and Fancy Coffees.

If there’s two things Jake Hatcher hates, it’s commies and fancy coffees.

Immediately, the kid started in with the fancy mumbo jumbo.

“Do you want a half-caf, quarter-caf, decaf, or slim caf?”

I slapped my forehead and looked around.  The line behind me looked like it stretched all the way back to China.

“Buddy,”  I said.  “I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.  Just pick one of those.  Any one.” 

“Mega size, king size, or ginormo size?”

“I don’t know,”  I said.  “Smallest size you got.  I just need a little jolt, kid.”

“Vanilla shot, butter shot, raspberry shot or do you want the mango starlight swirl with optional honey berry jasmine?”

Instinctively, I reached under my trench coat and gripped the handle of my old service revolver.  Betsy, I called her.  Old Bets and I shot over a thousand Nazis together in World War II and I never went outside without wearing wearing her in a shoulder holster under my trench coat.  I’d developed a bad habit of grabbing my piece whenever I was annoyed.  (No pun intended).  That’s what happens when you live life on a razor’s edge.

It dawned on me the coffee shop worker was just a boy, no more than sixteen or seventeen, and although I was decapitating scum sucking agents of the Third Reich two at a time when I was only a little older than he was, I decided to give him a pass. 

After all, it wasn’t his fault that he was born at a time when the world was being flushed down the toilet like yesterday’s dinner.

“Take the pot of coffee behind you and pour some into a cup,”  I said.  “Then don’t do anything else to it. Just hand it to me.”

The kid acted like I’d just asked him to paint the Mona Lisa and decorate the Sistine Chapel for extra measure.  He did as I asked and handed me my coffee.

“That’ll be three-seventy five.”

One more surprise.  This strange new world was full of them.

“For a cup of coffee?!  Jumpin’ Jesus H. Christ on a Pogo Stick! Son, what kind of film flam operation are you running here?”

“I’ve got it.”

There she was, sauntering up behind me like a beautiful dream made reality, Ms. Delilah K. Donnelly, Attorney for my newfound employer, the reclusive Mr. Bookshelf Q. Battler.  She wore a slinky black dress and of course, her strand of glistening pearls.  She retrieved a plastic card out of her clutch and handed it to the lad.

“Debit or credit?”  he asked.

“Debit,” my colleague replied.

“Electronic money,”  Delilah explained.  “Takes the price of the coffee right out of my bank account.”

A dame buying me my morning joe.  The indignity of it all.

“Yeah,”  I said.  “We had credit cards in my day, ma’am.  Only tycoons, industrialists, homosexuals, communists and fellas named Lance used them though.  And back then we just had those click clack things that made an imprint of the card on carbon paper.  Personally, I’ve always believed a man should never buy something he can’t dole out the cash for.”

“Then you won’t be buying much these days, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said as the boy returned her card and handed me my coffee.

“I have half a mind to report this establishment to the DA,”  I said.  “Three-seventy-five…the nerve.  Rita Hayworth better come sit with me while I drink this and…”

I stopped myself, realizing I was in mixed company.

“…and I’d tell her to take a long walk off a short pier because I’m busy with you, ma’am.”

We found a table.  I pulled the lady’s chair out and held it for her as she parked her keister.  

“That’s sweet,”  Delilah said as she clacked open her briefcase.  She retrieved a file and handed it to me. 

“Your first case.”

I opened up the file.  Notes, records, transcripts and nine photographs – three boys, three girls, a man, a woman, and an old lady in a blue apron.

“I’ll shake a leg and get to work on this right away,”  I said.

“No hurry,”  Delilah replied.  “I’m sure Mr. Battler prefers a thorough investigation over a fast one.”

I pulled a cigar out of my pocket, struck a match and lit it.  Suddenly, everyone in the place came down on me like a ton of bricks.

“Disgusting!”  shouted an old lady behind me.

“Put that out!” 

“You can’t smoke that in here!” 

“Oh my God!!!!”

The complaints bounced at me faster than a kangaroo on a trampoline.

Angry Dames in Trousers - Hatcher hated them as much as commies and fancy coffees

If there’s THREE things Jake Hatcher hates, it’s commies, fancy coffees and angry dames in trousers.

Some dame wearing trousers waltzed on over, a look on her mug like someone had just beaten her with the business end of a Louisville slugger.  I assumed she was the manager or the boss or something.

Lady bosses.  I’m not against the idea.  I’m just not used to seeing it.

“Sir!”  the woman said.  “This is a no smoking establishment!  I’m going to have to ask you to leave!”

I turned to Delilah.

“Did I miss something?”  I asked her.  “Did the Nazis have a comeback while I was asleep?”

“We’d better go,”  Delilah said.

Good old Delilah.  I hated to see her go, but I loved to watch her leave.  Her derriere was like two ripe cantaloupes packed into an airtight sack, swinging left and right to the tune of their own internal metronome.

Outside, we found a bench and took a load off.  I sucked on my stogie.  Delilah pulled a silver cigarette case out of her clutch and popped a smoke into a long black filter.  I struck another match and gave the lady a light.

“Thank you Mr. Hatcher,”  the lady lawyer said.  “Such a perfect gentleman.”

“Pull out a lady’s chair and offer her a light,”  I said.  “Two rules old Ma Hatcher taught me.”

“She taught you well,”  Delilah said.

“Yeah,”  I replied.  “What the hell was that back there?”

Delilah blew out an array of smoke, too troubled to bother with her usual rings.

“You’re in a different day and age, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said.  “Smoking has been banned in all public establishments.  It’s considered vile and bad for your health.”

“Back in my day if a fella wanted to kill himself it was his funeral.”

“True,”  Delilah said.  “Although modern science tells us smoking negatively affects the health of those around the smoker as well.”

Hatcher was a ten pack a day man.

Hatcher’s a ten pack a day man.

“Hogwash,”  I replied.  “Tell me another whopper why don’t ya.’”

“You can’t argue with scientists, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Buncha no good eggheads if you ask me.”

There we sat and smoked away like a couple of broken chimneys.

“Ms. Donnelly,”  I said.  “If I may be so bold, there’s something about you I can’t quite put my finger on.”

“I don’t think you should be putting your finger anywhere on me,”  Delilah said.  “It’s never a wise idea to mix business with pleasure.”

“I never drop a fudge pile where I get my dough either, sister,”  I replied.  “But that wasn’t what I was getting at.  There’s something about you that’s different from the other dames I see around here.”

Across the street, there was a young woman with short purple hair, a ring in her nose, a pink tank-top that revealed tattoo covered arms, and a pair shorts so tiny they barely covered her posterior.

“Take that painted hussy for instance,”  I said, pointing at the floozy.  “Broads like that are a dime a dozen these days.  You?  You dress, act, and sound like a high falutin’ gal from my time and yet, you know all about this modern era – like how to pay for stuff with electronics and how to use a beep boop machine.”

“Speaking of,”  Delilah said as her phone buzzed like an angry bumblebee looking for a flower to copulate with.  “That’s Mr. Battler.  I’d better call him back.  He wants a legal opinion on the propriety of writing, and I quote, ‘the ending of Dexter sucked big donkey rectum.’”

“Helluva job you’ve got there, counselor,”  I said.  “But I’ll figure you out soon enough.”

“I hope you don’t,”  Delilah said as she stood up and stretched out her hand.  “A girl’s got to have her secrets, you know.”

“Ma Hatcher never taught me about that one,”  I said as I completed the handshake.

And with that, I watched Delilah walk down the street until she was a blip on the horizon. 

After that, I stood there on the sidewalk, puffing away on my stogie and doing my best to ignore all of the free, unsolicited advice.

“Damn dude,”  a local yokel said to me as he passed me by.  “Gotta quit that man, you’re gonna drop dead from cancer.”

“We all gotta go sometime,”  I replied.

Will Hatcher figure out what happened to the Original Brady Bunch Spouses?  Join us next time on Pop Culture Mysteries!

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015  (All Rights Reserved)

Coffee, angry woman and smoking detective photos courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jun 08 2015
Leave a comment
Pop Culture Mysteries

POP CULTURE MYSTERIES!

Pop Culture Mysteries is a new feature on the Bookshelf Battle Blog, hosted by a storytelling nerd of world renown, the one and only Bookshelf Q. Battler!

Jake Hatcher, a hardboiled 1950’s film noir detective in the tradition of Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe, has agreed to solve one hundred pop culture mysteries and file his reports right here on bookshelfbattle.com

LADY: Oh Detective, can you solve the Mystery of Why BQB Only Has 3.5 Readers? HATCHER: Because he stinks worse than a swamp on low tide day, ma'am. Now that'll be five bucks.

LADY: Oh Detective, can you solve the Mystery of Why BQB Only Has 3.5 Readers?
HATCHER: Because he stinks worse than a swamp at low tide, ma’am. Now that’ll be five bucks.

SOME CASES CURRENTLY ON HATCHER’S TO-DO LIST:

1)  How the hell did Doc and Marty from Back to the Future know each other?

2)  Why didn’t Rose take a seat in one of the life boats so Jack could keep that lousy piece of driftwood in Titanic?

3)  Who shot first?  Han or Greedo?

All these and more coming soon…but first up tomorrow…What happened to the original Brady Bunch spouses?

Do you have a pop culture mystery you want to put Detective Hatcher on?

Tweet it to @bookshelfbattle or leave it in #popculturemysteries (Because BQB totally owns that shit now)

Tell him on his Google Plus page

Drop it in the comments of bookshelfbattle.com

Together, we can help Jake solve 100 mysteries, earn 500 bucks and go back to 1955 where he will live like the King of Siam with his bag of green Abe Lincoln portraits.

Film noir detective and client photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jun 07 2015
3 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Enter the Blonde – Part 6

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES:

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5

“Are you sure?” Delilah asked. “I’m not sure you understand that in 2015, five dollars is not considered a lot of money. It doesn’t go as far as it did in the 1950’s.”

I felt my smile muscles get some exercise for the first time in forever.

“Lady,” I said, “I don’t care. I’ll solve one hundred mysteries for this chump, take his five hundred bucks shutterstock_246824179back to 1955 and live like the King of Siam!”

“You could live like the Emperor of the Universe in 1955 with fifty dollars an hour, which is really a more fitting wage for a private investigator today, especially one with your training and skill.”

Delilah slinked back into my chair.

“Oh,” she said. “Please forget I said that. Mr. Battler will be very cross if he learns I spoke ill of him.”

“Ma’am,” I said. “I doubt a fella who wastes his life away watching the boob tube and making with the typey typey on the beep beep bop machines has much money. Does that big galoot even have fifty bucks per case to spend per case?”

“Between you and I, I don’t think so,” Delilah confided in me. “I wasn’t even sure he had five hundred bucks until he put the sum in an escrow account to pay you upon the completion of one hundred pop culture mysteries.”

“Then it’s settled,” I said. “Although, I have to say, I’m not sure I’m the right man for the job.”

“How’s that?” Delilah asked.

“I slept for nearly sixty years,” I said. “How in hell am I going to be able to answer cultural questions for a man of the modern era?”

Delilah slapped her hand down on the desk.

“That’s precisely why you ARE the best man for the job!”

“How do you figure?”

“You’ll come at these mysteries with no preconceived agenda,” Delilah replied. “You won’t have already formed an opinion. You’ll be able to provide Mr. Battler’s 3.5 readers with full, detailed, unbiased reports!”

“True enough,” I said as I clanked my shot glass against hers. “And I suppose it will be nice to solve a case without having anyone shooting at me for once.”

“Oh my,” Delilah said. “Now I can’t provide you with any guarantees on that, Mr. Hatcher. Hollywood folk are very sensitive about their art, you know.”

It's all about the Lincolns.

It’s all about the Lincolns.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a stogie. It was one I kept close to my heart, ready to be smoked on special occasions. I couldn’t think of anything more special than the chance to become a five hundred-aire.

“Don’t worry about me, doll,” I said. “Whatever those showbiz folk fling my way, I’ll catch it and put it up on my mantle.”

“Very well,” Delilah said as she handed me a pen and the contract.

I signed it. Instantly, I felt a strange sensation. A chill took me over and squeezed me to the very depths of my soul. It made me feel nauseous. I doubled over and grabbed my stomach but then as quickly as it came, it was gone.

“Are you all right?” Delilah asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Suppose I’d better lay off the hooch du jour.”

Delilah stood up and extended her hand. I shook it. It was silky smooth, like touching God’s butt cheek.

It’d been awhile since I’d touched any part of a woman. It was nice.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” Delilah said in an authoritative, business-like manner.

“Likewise,” I said. “What now?”

“Ahh,” Delilah said. “Well, we’ll need to make some changes around here. Some men will be by your office within the next few days to set you up with equipment you’ll need to research your cases, namely a T194 Alpha Desktop Unit, High Speed Transmission Cable, WI FI uplink, and of course, a top of the line Android cellular phone.”

“Come again?”

“We’re going to set you up with a couple beep bop machines.”

“OK,” I said. “Those things make me more nervous than a cat in a sack on laundry day, but hell, if five hundred big ones are on the line…”

“We’ll be in touch,” Delilah said as she snapped her briefcase shut and sashayed her way out of my life as fast as she’d dropped into it.”

Now that she was out from behind the desk, I was able to observe that her black dress went down to just above the knee, revealing the sweetest, smoothest, sultriest pair of getaway sticks this side of the Rio Grande.

To my dismay, she was using them to get away from me as fast as she could.

And who could blame her? No high society dame was ever going to be caught dead with a bum like me. It was a fact I’d learned to accept a long time ago.

I never learned to like it, only to accept it. Drinking helped with the acceptance process.

In fact, it was time for another.

It would go well with my moo goo gai pan.

This concludes Pop Culture Mysteries: Enter the Blonde!  Join us next time as Jake Hatcher, Private Eye tackles his very first pop culture mystery!!!

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All rights reserved.

Detective and money photos courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jun 06 2015
3 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Enter the Blonde – Part 5

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES: Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4

“Lady,” I said as I threw the letter down on the desk. “Is this some kind of joke?”

A legally binding contract with a reclusive anonymous blogger who claims to own a magical bookshelf? What could possibly go wrong?

A legally binding contract with a reclusive anonymous blogger who claims to own a magic bookshelf? What could possibly go wrong?

“Mr. Battler has a peculiar sense of humor,” Delilah said. “But this issue is not a laughing matter to him. He takes his entertainment very seriously.”

“He names himself after an inanimate object?” I asked.

“It’s a code name,” Delilah replied. “Based on his very sensitive work involving his magic bookshelf. I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to divulge his true identity.”

“Sounds like a real loser if you ask me,” I said. “Listen, if it’s all the same, I’d rather not run around like a schmuck trying to answer all the questions this dim bulb has about television, ok? Please. If you know how to get me back to 1955 then just tell me before I go bananas.”

Delilah opened her briefcase and pulled out a piece of paper and a fountain pen. “That’s all part of the deal, Mr. Hatcher,” she said as she handed me what appeared to be a contract.

TOTALLY LEGALLY BINDING LEGAL CONTRACT

(SERIOUSLY, IF YOU BREAK THIS, A JUDGE WILL THROW A GAVEL AT YOUR HEAD)

DATE: June 1,2015

PARTIES:

Bookshelf Q. Battler, Professional Blogger

Jake Hatcher, Old Timey Style 1950’s Style Private Eye

RE: Pop Culture Mysteries

Mr. Hatcher agrees to solve 100 pop culture mysteries posed to him by Mr. Battler.

These inquiries may be delivered to Mr. Hatcher any time of day or night by Attorney Donnelly.

Mr. Hatcher must be prepared to investigate at a moment’s notice. (Seriously, if some messed bullshit happens on next week’s episode of The Blacklist, Mr. Battler is going to want to know the who, what, where, when, how and why of how said shit went down posthaste).

Mr. Hatcher must file a report with Attorney Donnelly after the completion of every pop culture mystery, providing Mr. Battler’s 3.5 readers with full detail of how the caper was solved.

Upon successful completion of each case, Attorney Donnelly is authorized to pay Mr. Hatcher the sum of no less than five, count em, five American dollars.

Upon the completion of one hundred pop culture case files, Mr. Battler will provide Mr. Hatcher with detailed information as to how he fell asleep in 1955 and woke up in 2014. Further, at such time, Mr. Battler will explain to Mr. Hatcher how to return to his original time period.

Additionally, if Mr. Hatcher should choose not to return to 1955, he will have the option to sign-up to take on another one-hundred pop culture mysteries.

However, should Mr. Battler think of some other bullshit to entertain his 3.5 readers with, he reserves the right to tell Mr. Hatcher to go pound sand with a wet rock.

BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER’S SIGNATURE: Bookshelf Q. Battler

JAKE HATCHER’S SIGNATURE:

I looked up from the contract and shook my head.

“Lady,” I said. “Is this fella for real?”

“Yes,” Delilah said. “Five dollars per case, I know. A paltry sum. Perhaps it isn’t my place to say this as I represent Mr. Battler and therefore must remain loyal to him but I did advise him that he should offer you more as I doubt you will be interested in…”

“I’LL TAKE IT!”

Really?  Jake Hatcher, P.I. willing to work for a measly five bucks?  Find out why on the next installment of Pop Culture Mysteries! Pop Culture Mysteries – Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All rights reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jun 05 2015
3 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Enter the Blond – Part 4

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES:

Private Eye Jake Hatcher returns to his office to find a mysterious blonde dame who, as it turns out, is legal counsel to none other than Bookshelf Q. Battler.

Part 1    Part 2   Part 3

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“A lady lawyer?” I gasped. “Jiminy Christmas! Lady drivers, lady voters, and now this?”

After falling asleep in 1955, Detective Jake Hatcher woke up in 2014 and has spent the past year investigating out the crazy new world around him, wondering how he got here and how to get home. Follow his adventures on

After falling asleep in 1955, Detective Jake Hatcher woke up in 2014 and has spent the past year investigating the crazy new world around him, wondering how he got here and how to return to his own time.

Delilah rolled her eyes and blew a cloud of smoke in my face.  My powers of deduction led me to believe that she did so on purpose.

“You certainly are a man from the first half of the Twentieth Century aren’t you?”

“I didn’t say I agree with the sexism of yesteryear, ma’am,” I said. “I’m just having a hard time adjusting to a world I barely recognize is all.”

Delilah poked her button nose back into the file of dirt she had on me.

“In 1955, you fell asleep in this very office,” Delilah said. “When you opened your eyes in the morning, you found yourself in the year 2014. Physically speaking, you hadn’t aged a bit. For the past year, you’ve been wandering the streets of LA in an aimless manner, desperately trying to figure out how you lost fifty-nine years.”

My jaw dropped lower than a discount plumber’s butt crack.

“How do you know about that?” I asked.

“Like I said,” Delilah replied. “I like to know everything there is to know about someone I intend to hire.”

“This world is the most topsy turvy ride I’ve ever been on and I want to get off, see?” I said. “Everyone beep beep bopping on computer machines, dames strutting down the street in trousers like they own the joint, and coffee shops that serve you everything but black coffee. If you know how to return me to my own time, sister, I’d sure appreciate it if you’d flap your gums and fill my ears full of that knowledge.”

“That brings us to my employer’s proposal,” Delilah said. “I represent one Mr. Bookshelf Q. Battler, a blogger who is the proprietor of a website known as bookshelfbattle.com aka the Bookshelf Battle Blog.”

I made a face that looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

“I’ve been trying my best to learn about everything I missed,” I said. “But you’re going to have to spoon feed me that one, ma’am.”

Delilah pantomimed her fingers in a motion as if she were a secretary in an office typing pool.

“My client does typey typey on the beep bop machines,” she said.

“Oh,” I replied. “Fancies himself the next Mickey Spillane I suppose?”

“Something like that,” Delilah said as she handed me a letter. “Here. Read for yourself.”

FROM THE DESK OF BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER

World Renowned Poindexter, Nerd Blogger, Reviewer of Books, Movies, and Assorted Cultural Happenings, Champion Fighter of Yetis

June 1, 2015

Dear Detective Hatcher,

Terrorism. War. Global Warming. Virus epidemics. Reality television. By now, you have realized that the world is a much different place than the one you left behind when you fell asleep on that fateful day in 1955.

In some ways, it’s much better. If a man slaps his wife around, people are more likely to do something about it.

True, it’s still not guaranteed that someone will do something about it, but there is a clear statistical trend that shows that if a man uses his wife’s face as a stand-in for a heavy weight speed bag, the authorities may very well take notice. In another sixty years, I’m certain we’ll get that guarantee of action in the face of spousal abuse.

African Americans are no longer treated like second class citizens. At least, our government has been wise enough to demand that this be so. Whether or not this is actually the case is…well…check back on that in sixty years too.

All I know is that all of the “WHITE ONLY WATER FOUNTAIN, DRINK SOMEWHERE ELSE, DARKIES!” signs have been taken down and that is a great deal of progress since your day.

Institutions of higher learning have sprung up like wild flowers, allowing minds of every race, color, creed and orientation to blossom under their guidance while employment opportunities abound for all.

Well, at least they did for awhile until the stock market took a great big ginormous dump all over the place in 2008 and well, look, by 2075, we’re going to have this whole shebang running like clock work. I guarantee it.

Of course, things have also gotten worse in many ways since your day.

Health officials run scared over a new virus every five minutes.

I’m no medical expert, but essentially what happens is somewhere in the third world, a chicken sneezes on a goat, said goat sneezes on a cow, the cow sneezes on a human and then like 10,000 humans drop dead in ten seconds flat. And the media feels the constant need to remind us every five minutes that the dreaded “Chicken/Goat/Cow Virus” could be lurking anywhere, maybe even in our breakfast cornflakes.

Don’t even get me started on the media.

Weapons have gotten deadlier since the 1950’s and believe you me when I tell you that more screwballs have them than ever before.

Your average street gang has more firepower in the back of a van than the Russian-Cuban alliance ever pointed at the US during the Cuban Missile Crisis. For many years, the Bloods and the Crips have been threatening to nuke one another over an unseemly joke told at the expense of one of their mothers during a game of three card monty gone bad.

Terrorists run rampant the world over, demonstrating their claimed religious ideals by chopping off heads of people they disagree with and posting it all over social media.

I mean, holy shit, if I try to post the same link to my lousy book blog twice in one day, I’ll get a sternly worded passive aggressive form e-mail written by some 20 year old Silicon Valley chump who made his first million before he grew pubes but sure, let’s just let whackos the world over post their malicious mayhem for the whole world to see…and I’m sorry.

I’m off topic.
Bottomline? I don’t like the world I live in and the world has, on a daily basis since I was born, made it clear to me that the feeling is more than mutual.

I prefer fantasy worlds – ones created by writers and artists.

Books, movies, TV, video games. Yes Hatcher, they have video games now. You should play one. You will trip like there’s no tomorrow.

During the brief moments I spend in these fictional worlds, I’m happier than I ever am in reality.

But the questions, Hatcher. I have so many questions about the popular culture to which I have grown hopelessly addicted to.

You might even call these questions – “Pop Culture Mysteries.”

(Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015, Hands off you Silicon Valley Freaks!)

Who better to solve a mystery than Los Angeles’ most notorious private eye?

For security reasons, and also because my compound is messy as all get out, we will never meet. My maid just quit and I can’t find another one willing to work in the same house as a Yeti. Can’t say as I blame them.

My attorney, Ms. Donnelly, will take it from here. I trust she will handle all of the details. Be advised I have provided her with the authority to speak for me in all matters.

I look forward to working with you, Mr. Hatcher.

Yours Truly,

Bookshelf Q. Battler
Blogger-in-Chief
Bookshelf Battle Blog

Will Ms. Donnelly be able to negotiate an accord between Bookshelf Q. Battler and Detective Jake Hatcher?  Find out in the next part of Pop Culture Mysteries:  Enter the Blonde!

I know.  I know.  Horrible title but it would be too much work to change it now.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jun 04 2015
8 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Enter the Blond – Part 3

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES: ENTER THE BLONDE 

PART 1 – Detective Jake Hatcher arrives in his office to find a mysterious blonde dame…

PART 2 – …who seems to know an awful lot about our fearless  private eye.

Attorney Delilah K. Donnelly, Examiner of Bookshelf Q. Battler's Legal Briefs (That's not an inappropriate pun or anything, he really gives her a crap ton of paperwork.)

Attorney Delilah K. Donnelly, Examiner of Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Legal Briefs
(That’s not an inappropriate pun or anything, he really gives her a crap ton of paperwork.)

“I’m here to offer you a very lucrative deal, Mr. Hatcher.”

How many times had I heard those famous last words uttered to me by a she-devil in a skirt?

“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re going to tell me that you want to hire me to take incriminating photos of your good for nothing husband in the throes of passion with his cheap floozy secretary. Only you’re going to shoot them both before I arrive and when the cops show up, they’ll mistake me for the trigger man. While I’m getting outfitted for a pair of striped pajamas, you’ll be on your way to Barbados with a pile of your dead hubby’s cash. Whaddaya say, sweetheart? Am I warm?”

“You’re ice cold,” the dame said with a chuckle. “My goodness, you certainly are distrustful of the fairer sex.”

“I trust no one, ma’am,” I said. “Dames have just given me more reason not to.”

My uninvited guest puffed away on her filtered cigarette and gave me the old once over with her eyes, looking at me in much the same way a lion must look at a fat gazelle with a gimpy leg.

“I hope one day you’ll learn to trust me, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Doubtful,” I said. “Especially when you’re probably going to try to bat your pretty little eyelashes at me out of a mistaken belief that you can make me fall in love with you and dupe me into killing your husband because you’re too chicken to do it yourself? Did I figure out your fiendish scheme yet?”

“Some detective you are!” the lady said as she snapped off her right glove and stretched out a finely manicured hand, complete with red nails polished so brightly I was able to see my mug staring back at me in them.

“You failed to deduce that there’s no ring on my finger!”

I stared at that dainty hand and silently kicked myself on the inside for letting a clue slip past me. Maybe it was late, maybe it was the extra doses of Jack Daniels, but that gal had gotten one over on yours truly, and I didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

“Even so,” I said. “It’s been my experience that a woman with a body like yours is always up to no good and this palooka didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, see? I think you made a mistake in coming here, sister. The all-day sucker store is two blocks down.”

“You’re really something else, aren’t you Mr. Hatcher?” the dame asked. “My employer warned me about you.”

“Your employer?”

“Yes,” the woman said as she handed me a business card. It read:

Delilah K. Donnelly, Esq.

In-House Counsel for Bookshelf Q. Battler

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jun 03 2015
5 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Enter the Blond – Part 2

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES – ENTER THE BLONDE:

PART 1 – Detective Jake Hatcher returns to his office to find a mysterious blonde dame sitting behind his desk.

That dame was all class, but a bit snooty – like an exceptionally attractive school marm.

Detective Hatcher prefers old school typing.

Detective Hatcher prefers old school typing.

She read from the file of poop she’d scooped on me with all the enthusiasm of a professor giving a lecture on transcendental metaphysics.

“In 1920, you were born one Jacob Ronald Hatcher in Bayonne, New Jersey,” the dame said. “Parents Gus and Mitsy, a barber and a housewife, both solid citizens who never did you wrong, unlike your conniving brother Roscoe who…”

“Yeah do us all a favor a skip over Roscoe, lady,” I said.

“In 1938, you turned eighteen and moved to Hollywood, deluded by the misguided hope that your handsome face and macho physique would be more than enough to provide you with a career as a movie star…”

“People have done more with less,” I interrupted.

“Alas, like most newcomers to Tinseltown, you were turned away by every producer and found yourself on the streets,” the dame continued. “You made your living as a prize fighter, taking on all comers and throwing matches for a fee under the names of ‘Punchy McGee,’ ‘Take a Dive Dan,’ and ‘The Down for the Count Kid.’”

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, it’s not my fault that was a rigged racket.”

“War broke out three years later and in your early twenties, you found yourself in Europe, fighting on the front lines,” the dame said, studying the file like it was the Old Testament. “I see you fought in D-Day and marched with Allied Forces all the way to Berlin.”

“You ‘aint just whistlin’ Dixie, ma’am.”

“There’s a notation here that you were involved in a special mission?” the dame asked.

I gulped my drink and poured another.

“That’s right.”

“Care to share?” she asked.

“Hitler,” I said. “I punched him in the face.”

The dame’s big blue eyes widened with shock. “Excuse me?”

Adolf Hitler - historians agree that the last words he heard before Detective Hatcher's fist collided with his face were,

Adolf Hitler – historians agree that the last words he heard before Detective Hatcher’s fist collided with his face were, “Sprachen zie punch?”

“I infiltrated a secret Nazi bunker and punched Adolf Hitler square in his stupid face,” I said. “Knocked the son of a bitch out colder than your demeanor.”

I could tell by the look on the dame’s face that she was impressed.

“You punched Adolf Hitler in the face?”
“Yes ma’am.”

“Adolf Hitler…Der Fuhrer of the Third Reich?”

“That’s the one.”

“I thought he committed suicide,” the dame said.

“That’s what the powers that be want you to believe, ma’am,” I said. “Truth be told I delivered Hitler to General Eisenhower, who had Old Adolf hauled off by a bunch of G-Men to a secret government lab. They did all kinds of experiments on him. They wanted to see what made an evil lug like that tick in the hopes they could prevent another monstrous dictator from popping up ever again. Given the headlines these days, it doesn’t seem to me like they were very successful.”

“And you’re telling me this…why?”

“You asked,” I said. “I’m not a liar, ma’am. A lady asks me a question, I give her an honest answer. Mitsy Hatcher raised a gentleman, I’ll have you know.”

“But the dishonorable discharge?”

“The brass didn’t want the public to know about Operation Fuhrerpunschen and I was a loose end,” I said. “They booted me out on a bunch of trumped up charges that weren’t worth the paper that they were printed on. Ordered me to keep quiet but hell, all of those bums are long dead now so it’s not like there’s anything they can do to me.”

“I see,” the dame said, turning her attention back to the file. “You returned to LA in 1945 and joined the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Seemed like a shot at a steady paycheck,” I said. “Didn’t realize it was an invite to every two-bit thug to declare war on me…and honest cops? They didn’t last long back then.”

“I’m not sure they last long now either, Mr. Hatcher,” the dame said as her sad lips curled up into a rare smile. “Now, after the incident vis a vis your wife’s infidelity with your partner, you quit the force and went out on your own as a detective for hire, is that right?”

“That’s the long and short of it, ma’am,’ I said. “But what gives with the twenty questions anyway? You writing a book or something?”

“No,” the dame replied. “I just like to make sure I know everything there is to know about a man before I hire him.”

“Speaking of,” I said as I looked at my watch. “It’s been longer than five minutes and you’ve yet to explain to me why you’re here.”

Why is this dame here?  Find out in the next part of Pop Culture Mysteries: Enter the Blonde!

(Yeah, I know, we really need to fire the guy who writes these post titles).

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jun 02 2015
6 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Enter the Blonde – Part 1

By: Jake Hatcher, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Private Eye

Jake Hatcher, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Private Eye

Jake Hatcher, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Private Eye

It was a dark and stormy night.

The kind of night where it doesn’t just rain cats and dogs. It pours flabby tabbies and labrador retrievers.

The H20 pumped down from the skies, dancing on the pavement like so many Swan Lake ballerinas. It sloshed all over my wingtips as I buttoned up my trench coat, tilted my fedora downward, and began wondering if an ark wouldn’t be a bad investment.

Luckily, I reached my office before I was swept away to Timbuktu.

Times were tough and money was harder to come by than integrity on network television. All I could afford was a one room hovel above a Chinese restaurant. It worked out well. I was a sucker for moo goo gai pan and my landlady, good ole Ms. Tsang, never failed to have a hot plate full of it waiting for me whenever I came home from a long night of sleuthing.  Gratis.  Free of charge.  I didn’t even have to pay for it.

Ms. Tsang was truly a sweet old gal.

I ate a forkful of my free dinner and headed upstairs to my digs, the door of which was prominently marked:

Detective Jake Hatcher

Private Investigator

Reasonable Rates/No Refunds

I popped open the door and relieved my worn out carcass from my sopping wet coat. The fedora? It stayed on. Many a ne’er-do-well has tried separate this gumshoe from his favorite hat and not lived to tell the tale. I wasn’t about to do the job for them.

My mind was swimming for shore and I was ready to drown it before it started doing the backstroke. I had an appointment with one Mr. Jack Daniels. He was an old friend I knew all too well. Some might say too well, my third ex-wife among them.

I poured myself a shot and there it sat before me, staring me straight in the puss like an uninvited house guest that refused to leave. An angel on my left shoulder told me to pour it out the window and sober up. The devil on my right shoulder told me to guzzle it down and keep ‘em comin.’

The devil won. He always does.

I tilted the glass against my lips and Mr. Daniels’ special prescription for what ailed me trickled through my lips, across my tongue, and down my gullet, where it immediately went to work on making all the bad memories go away.

Liquor – my best friend and my worst enemy.

Mysterious Blond Dame

Mysterious Blond Dame

“A bit rude not to offer a lady a drink, isn’t it detective?”

My heart beat faster than a conga drum in the hands of Matthew McConaughey during one of his special transcendental experiences. I turned around and there she was – a beautiful buxom blonde behind my desk, her shapely keister parked directly in my very own swivel chair.

“If we’re talking about manners ma’am, I assume it’s frowned upon to break into a man’s place of business and act like you own the place.”

She wasn’t your average broad. This dame had a face that could make the angels cry and a body that could convince Satan to turn the heat down in Hell. Lush red lips, flawless china doll skin and although she was sitting on it, I assumed she was packing the kind of caboose that could convince a man to ride the rails all the way to Albuquerque.

“Oh, I assure you there was no break in, Mr. Hatcher,” the dame said. “Your landlady let me in.”

“Oh she did, see?” I asked. “Now why in Sam Hill would she go and do a fool thing like that?”

“I told her we were old friends.”

“Friends?” I asked. “No offense ma’am, but I don’t know you from a hole in the wall.”

My visitor puffed away on a long filtered cigarette. She held it in a hand covered by a black glove that went all the way up to her elbow. Around her neck dangled a strand of pearls, the cost of which could have fed a small country.

She dressed like she had an account at every boutique on Rodeo Drive and spoke with the perfect and precise diction of a finishing school graduate.

“All friendships must begin somewhere, Mr. Hatcher,” the dame said. “What’s holding up that drink?”

I had half a mind to show her the way out, but my inquisitive side drew me in. I poured a shot of the sweet brown goodness and handed it to her, then suffered the indignity of having to sit down in the rickey chair on the opposite side of my desk, the one I reserved for clients in need of my services.

I checked my watch.

“I’m bushed after a long day of giving the criminal element of Los Angeles the old what for, ma’am,” I said. “So you’ve got five minutes to state your business before I give you the old heave-ho.  No pun intended.”

“My, my, my,” the dame replied. Her lips pursed as they blew out a smokey circle that rose into the moonlight creeping in through my one and only window. “I must say, Mr. Hatcher, you’re the first man I’ve ever met who was in a rush to be free of my company.”

“Now see here, ma’am,” I said, matter-of-factly, “This old gumshoe’s heart has been pierced by more stiletto heels than I care to count. I’m sure you’ve convinced many a sailor to crash his ship on the rocks with your siren’s song, but this fish is wise to the hook in your worm, see? I’m immune to your feminine wiles.”

“Aww,” the dame said as she mocked me with an insincere pouty face. “Poor Mr. Hatcher. Still reeling over the loss of your ex-wives I take it?”

“All three of ‘em,” I said. “But I fail to see how that’s any of your business, doll face.”

“Your first wife, Trixie Bordeaux, she cheated on you with your old partner back in the day when you were a detective for the LA police department, didn’t she?”

“Walked in on them while they were dancing the horizontal mattress mambo in my own house,” I replied. “That’s a sight that can never be unseen.”

“Your second wife, Muffy Sinclair,” the dame continued. “She shot you six times and left you for dead, then ran off to Tahiti with your boorish brother Roscoe.”

“She was a crack shot and yet she managed to miss every vital organ,” I said. “Somewhere deep down that bird was still crazy for me.”

“Your third wife, Constance Connors,” the dame said. “She was the best wife you ever had and yet you fouled that one up on your own.”

“Sad but true,” I said. “I hit the giggle juice hard to dull the pain my first two wives caused me, never realizing I was pushing away the only dame that’d ever been loyal to me until it was too late. She ran away from me faster than a long distance marathon runner on uppity pills.”

“I certainly hope you’ve cured your addiction since then?” the dame asked.

“I can handle my hooch, sister,” I said as I poured myself another shot. “Say, how in the bloody blue blazes do you know so much about me anyway?”

On my desk was a big black briefcase. It wasn’t mine so I knew it belonged to my guest. She popped it open and pulled out a manilla file folder, stuffed to the brim with paperwork.

“I know everything there is to know about you, Mr. Hatcher.”

What’s in store for our fearless detective? Find out tomorrow on Pop Culture Mysteries, an exclusive new feature on the Bookshelf Battle Blog.

Copyright (c)  2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

Images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Jun 01 2015
12 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Shorter Introduction

I don’t know about you, 3.5 readers, but whenever I consume pop culture, I’m filled with more questions than answers:

"I'm sorry Ma'am. I have no idea what the hell that magic invention is."

“I’m sorry Ma’am. I don’t have the foggiest idea as to what the hell that magic invention is.”

  • What happened to the original Brady Bunch spouses?
  • How the hell did Doc and Marty from Back to the Future know each other?
  • Why didn’t Rose just get into the life boat like she was told so Jack could have that hunk of driftwood?
  • Who, if anyone, let the dogs out?
  • Was it the same person who put the bomp in the bomp ba bomp ba bump?
  • Han or Greedo – who shot first?
  • How was it possible for the crew of the SS Minnow to get lost during a mere three hour tour away from charted land?
  • Why does Miley Cyrus insist on sticking out her tongue, crossing her eyes and making a face akin to that of a stroke victim?

I refuse to allow these pop culture mysteries to go unsolved for a minute longer.  Thus, Jake Hatcher, the newly appointed Private Eye for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, will chase down leads, hunt for cues, review the evidence at hand and crack these cases wide open for the reading pleasure of my noble 3.5 readers.

The above questions?  Just some of the inquiries I plan to send Hatcher’s way.

Do you have a pop culture mystery for Hatcher to solve?  Submit it in the comments on bookshelfbattle.com or tweet it to @bookshelfbattle  #popculturemysteries

Did I mention that Jake is 1955?  Yeah, so needless to say, he hasn’t exactly figured out computers and cell phones yet.  Don’t worry, I, your illustrious blog host, Bookshelf Q. Battler, will make sure he gets your mystery questions.

And who knows?  Maybe along the way Hatcher might even share a mystery or two from his time as an LAPD detective or from when he had his own private investigation business.  His World War II stories aren’t too shabby either.

Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.  Our tale begins tomorrow when Hatcher is paid a visit from a mysterious blonde dame…

Copyright Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,
← Older posts
Newer posts →