The Fredösphere

Yesterday I wrote a long post on the Tom Swift Jr. books.  It was too long, really.  I tried to stuff too much into that thing.  I could (should, really) go back and trim the thing down, adding an apologetic postscript at the end.

Or I could write more today.

So let's start with this "Chow" character.  He's the Aunt Gertrude for you Hardy Boys readers:  Chow is a nurturing but definitely non-parental presence.  I'm wondering about the very odd decision to make Chow a man.  He's very low on testosterone and frankly, he's stupid.  I'm also wondering about what it says about Tom's security and self-image that he needs to keep a court fool like Chow on the payroll.  Chow's ethnicity is problematic -- at first the name made me think we were getting some kind of horrifying Asian stereotype.  But no, we're told he's from Texas and the name merely refers to food, the only thing Chow understands.  Analyzing his speech for hints of his origins is hopeless; the writers can't seem to get a handle on the Texas twang, and it comes out as Middle America Moron.  Memo to Chow:  dish up all the chili you want, but please don't talk.  Please.

"Bud and I are taking off right away for a little experiment," Tom told Chow.

"With those folks from another planet?" Chow asked eagerly.  "You mean you got that lil ole gadget figured out so's you kin talk to 'em?"

Tom told him that the "gadget" was to be radio impulses in the form of mathematical symbols.  They would convey a message to the space beings.

"A message about what?" Chow asked.

"It's clear," Tom replied, "that the only reason these people haven't visited us is because they don't know how to penetrate our atmosphere without being crushed to death."

What's the matter with 'em?" Chow asked.

I think they may have very light bodies,"  Tom said, "and be highly paramagnetic."

"What's that?" the cook demanded.  "See here, Tom, you ought to talk English to me."

With the practiced gesture of an aristocrat, Tom swung his riding crop across Chow's face, applying just enough force to maximize the old man's shame while minimizing his physical pain.

"You forget your place, Chow," Tom remarked quietly.

I'm still not over the way eighteen-year-old Tom barks orders, and everyone just obeys.  Tom wants the FBI to decrypt his enemies' communications?  They'll get right on it, Tom!  Tom wants the US Navy to lend him some ships?  Here they are, Tom!  This just can't be real in a day when most guys emerge from adolescence in their mid-thirties.  Move the action to the Middle Ages, and maybe we will believe it.  Tom Cardinal Swift and His Amazing Automatic Indulgenator!

Which reminds me:  I think tomorrow is going to be another Anti-Pope Thursday.  You won't want to miss it.

This concludes my exposé of the dark underbelly of boy's lit, although I reserve the right to rescind this declaration at any moment if I think of more funny stuff to write.  For something similar on the even more disturbing world of pandering to girl's fantasies, I direct you to Michael Blowhard and His Incredible Aquatomic Website.