#macbean

[novelties-and-notions]

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 10, Correspondence

The Klibchuk Correspondence: Klibchuk's Letter

Sir,

I write in a state of some agitation, having just seen the bumper Xmas number of the Dundee Marmalade Review, and in particular the page giving the results of the competition for a 50-word story about Christmas, wherein the third running-up entry is ascribed to yourself. I need hardly say that the source of my agitation is the description of klibchuks as 'those weird hats they wear'.

How would you like it, sir, if I were to describe a macbean as a weird hat?

The name of Klibchuk has long been held in high esteem in my native country, and although I may have been reduced to peddling oranges (with and without seeds) in my exiled state, I remain a proud member of my family. Under happier circumstances, I would send my seconds to demand satisfaction of you, but in these decadent times I can only demand that you arrange for an apology to be printed in the next number of the Dundee Marmalade Review.

Yours in dudgeon,

Count Nikolaus Stephan Wenceslas Klibchuk

[teenagedirtstache]

Rossa, superimbottita la giacca con carre e toppe grigie su salopette in piumino, Lineasport; passamontagna Red Devil; occhiali Brigatti. Tessuto termico supercomfort per la giacca-sottotuta, Macbean; berretto imbottito, Conte of Florence. Sharianna ultra-hot version in verno in tessuto ice-gray con cappuccio, inserti rossi e fodera in lana scozzese, Sergio Tacchini; sacco a pelo e attrezzi Nordler Elite

[novelties-and-notions]

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

Reluctantly, as I sit here in this dark cupboard (or closet), I remember a meeting with DH Lawrence.

I had climbed the steep road to the top of Wurmsley Hill, in order to admire the view of the slag heaps and the rows of miners' cottages, when I saw the author coming towards me, wheeling a bicycle along the pavement. I confess that I always found him rather distasteful, and I tried to avoid him, especially after the time he tried to engage me in a wrestling match on the rug before a log fire. However, one has to be civil, so I felt obliged to greet him. "That's a smart-looking machine you have there."

"The bicycle!" His exclamation seemed disproportionate to the humble bike. "Liberty!" he continued, more to himself than to me. "Could you even know, in your civilised pedestrianism, the liberty this contraption, most brilliant of products of the human soul, can bring?"

"I suppose it gets you about, as long as the weather is fit."

"Yes," he spoke scathingly. "It gets me about. And that is that all you see?"

"I don't cycle myself these days."

"I suppose not. And I suppose the time will come when I too will cease my cycling, will be pulled back to the stones, the cold, dead stones of these pavements. Or close myself up in some motor-car, like a snail in its shell, suffocating on fumes, detached from the world, slave to the internal combustion engine!"

"But now, you tell me, you prefer to cycle?"

"I prefer? No, it is the bicycle that prefers to carry me. I must let it carry me where it will."

"How interesting!"

"And what ecstasy in that carrying! To burst out of the potting shed, called by the inexorable road, the outward pull that reaches within, the answering swell of the body, ready to merge with the machine. The tyres rolling over the black tarmac that surges through the whirling spokes, the power of the pedals turning, turning wheels, two wheels turning as one over the blackness that rises through the frame into the saddle, embracing the loins, pulling onwards, the surge, the road, blackness, the loins, the loins!"

"Steady on, old chap." But I could not calm him. He flung his leg over the cross-bar, leapt into the saddle, and sped off down the road, his frenzied cries of "The loins! The loins!" becoming fainter as he pedalled furiously down the steep hill. I gazed in alarm at his frantic descent, as he hurtled downwards, oblivious to the bumping of the cobbles. Racing into the bend at the bottom of the slope, he applied the brakes. Too suddenly, too hard. As the brake pads grasped the wheel rims tightly, the bicycle came to an abrupt stop. The writer did not, but flew over the handlebars, crying "Ecstasy! Transcendence! Oof! Ouch!". The bicycle, relieved of its burden and the embrace of the brakes, rolled slowly along the road, and came to a halt leaning nonchalantly on a lamp post.

I shook my head sadly as I murmured to myself A fool and his bicycle are soon parted.

[novelties-and-notions]

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

Orson Welles… Orson Welles… Oh yes, here in this dark closet I certainly remember meeting the great actor and director, a memory poignant with disappointment – and wonder.

I confess to having been intimidated at the prospect of my interview with a man whose reputation loomed so large over film, radio and theatre. So I did my research, read about his stage productions and radio broadcasts, and diligently watched Citizen Kane seventeen times. Armed with a wealth of information, I prepared some questions, which I hoped were not too impertinent or naïve.

I rang the bell to his apartment, expecting to be met by some personal assistant or other flunky, but to my surprise it was the man himself who held the door open for me, and with his "Welcome, young man" I heard that unmistakable voice in person for the first time. He accompanied the greeting with an expansive wave of his hand, which to my amazement, suddenly bloomed with a bunch of paper roses. "Or perhaps you don't like flowers?" he enquired, with a raised eyebrow, flicked his wrist and the bouquet vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

He smiled, and murmured "Your mouth is open," before turning and making his way through the hallway. I followed, self-consciously clutching my notebook, and soon found myself in a sparsely-furnished room. My host had already seated himself at a small table, which was covered in a plain cloth. He signalled to me to take the chair opposite him.

"Now, then. What is it you would like to ask me?" I consulted my notebook, but before I could pose my first question, he spoke abruptly. "Just a moment, Do you always keep your pipe behind your ear?" He leant across the table, reached around my head and apparently pulled out a pipe. He looked at it, then grinned. "No, I beg your pardon, it's mine," and waved his hand over the bowl, which began to smoke.

I confess to being somewhat nonplussed by the course this meeting had taken. Welles, on the other hand, leaned back and drew on his pipe in a relaxed manner. "Now, where were we?" he asked pleasantly. "Are these your notes?" Before I could stop him, he had picked up the notebook I had carelessly put down on the table. "Do you really need these? No, you don't." He plucked a large handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it round the notebook, then carefully tied the four corners of the handkerchief together. He held up the bundle by the knot, shook it, and the handkerchief unfolded. My notebook was nowhere to be seen. Welles put the handkerchief casually back in his pocket.

I was beginning to tire of this magic show, and tried to turn the conversation to his famous work in cinema, but he raised a warning hand. "Perhaps later," he said, and stood up. He raised both his arms above his head, and as he did so, the table slowly rose into the air. It stopped about six and a half feet off the floor, and then the cloth began to slide down, stretching as it did so to three or four times its original size, until it concealed the tall man opposite me from my sight.

The table descended as slowly as it had risen. Behind it, there was nobody to be seen. I made my own way out of the apartment in a daze, uncertain as to what had just occurred.

There was a strange sequel to this unsatisfactory meeting. A few days later, I received a parcel, inside which I found the notebook in which I had written my prepared questions, together with a note, which read: "My apologies for keeping this little book. I took the liberty of perusing its contents, and have made some notes in response to your questions. I trust these will be of interest."

Of interest? I should say they would. Eagerly, I opened the little book, and turned to the first page on which I saw some newly-written sentences. As I began to read, the letters grew faint and disappeared before I could decipher the untidy small letters. I hastily turned to the next page, only to find the same thing happening. Whatever had been written had vanished, rubbed out by some trick of the magician's. Only on the last page of the book did one word remain: Rosebud.

[novelties-and-notions]

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 10, Correspondence

The Klibchuk Correspondence: MacBean's Reply

My esteemed Count Nikolaus,

I was honoured to receive your recent communication, and mortified to discover that I had (unwittingly I assure you) caused offence.

I regret, however, that I cannot arrange for the printed apology you clearly deserve, as I have broken off all relations with that publication. I am sure that you will understand. I too have my pride, and to be passed over in this competition in favour of clearly inferior compositions, one of which only reached the prescribed word count by virtue of a dubiously-placed hyphen, is an affront I cannot tolerate. The calendar of landscape photographs of the River Tay offered as a prize may be no more than a shoddy gimcrack, but it is rightfully mine, as any perceptive critic must agree, I have therefore closed the iron door on the Dundee Marmalade Review, and would not dignify them by an association with your distinguished name. I suggest that you too treat them with the contempt they deserve, and cancel your subscription, if you have one.

As to your question of how I would like it if you were to describe a macbean as a weird hat. My answer is that I should be delighted. I have long considered myself to be the epitome of the saying 'a man on top of his hat'. I feel that to be a hat on top of a man would constitute a bouleversement that might inject some long-overdue inspiration into my work, which, I confess, has become a trifle stale (or perhaps a stale trifle) lately.

I have learned from my attendance at moving picture shows, that 'freshmen' in American colleges are obliged to wear a species of headgear called a 'beanie'. This intelligence offered a tantalising glimpse of how it might be to be described as a weird hat – for these beanies are weird hats indeed. Alas, though, it is only a near-miss, but I live in hope that the question you pose in your letter adumbrates a more accurate compliment that might fulfil its promise.

I trust that this account will excuse my lamentable lapse in inadvertantly pouring scorn on the fine name of Klibchuk, and that you will be assured of my continuing respect for all those you bear it.

Until then, yours aye

P.Q. ("Beanie") MacBean

[novelties-and-notions]

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 7, Miscellany

50 Words for Saint Stephen's Day

"How should I know who yonder peasant is?" grumbled the page as he trudged through the deep, crisp and even snow which lay round about. "All the peasants look the same to me, in their jerkins and breeches, and their klibchuks, or whatever they call those weird hats they wear."

[novelties-and-notions]

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

I have to assume that the memories I find in this dark cupboard have been left here by their real owners. How I am able to recall them as my own, I cannot say, but how else to explain my remembrance of being in the Brown Derby on Wilshire Boulevard, when I have never been in Hollywood in my life?

The restaurant was almost deserted at that time of day. The well-known bit-part player Irving Bacon was seated alone at a large table, on which papers were scattered untidily. He beckoned me to join him.

"You can be the first to see this," he said, as I sat at his table. The tall actor gathered together some sheets, which I could now see were covered with calculations. "I have come up with a new way of measuring the stature of Hollywood actors. I'm going to call it the Bacon Scale."

He leant back, and adopted a pedagogical tone. "Until now, our assessment of the stars has been largely subjective. There is, of course, the matter of salaries, but I would contend that that is a secondary value, that only reflects the studios' assessment of a star's value, which must ultimately be derived from the audience's subjective likes and dislikes. Is that not so?"

I nodded agreement, and he continued. "The Bacon Scale is based on objective measurable quantities. First, the number of screen appearances made by any person. I ignore the role they played, because its significance cannot be objectively determined. But I do need to estimate the impact of their appearance, and here, I believe is my special insight. The impact of any actor's appearance can be measured by their height. The taller a person is, the more impression they make, isn't that so?"

"I suppose so. Up to a point."

"Good. So there you have the basis. But it isn't a simple case of multiplying the height by the number of appearances. You see, heights fall into a fairly narrow range, spread around 6', so to take proper account of differences, I subtract 5' 11" and use this height difference as the multiplier. It's quite a simple calculation."

"Yes, I'm sure, but…"

He did not give me a chance to voice my objections, but picked up a sheet of paper. "Humphrey Bogart is 5' 8", that's 68 inches, which comes to -3" when you subtract 5' 11". He made 85 films, so he gets a value of -255 appearance-inches, whereas Lauren Bacall is 5' 8½" and appeared in 72 movies, so her value is", he consulted his paper, "-180. By a similar calculation, I find that Gary Cooper is 472, and so on."

This didn't seem right to me, but Bacon was in full flow, so I said nothing. "To make comparisons simpler, I divide all these appearance-inch numbers by a standard value." Here he adopted a demure expression. "I have appeared on screen 541 times and I'm exactly 6' tall, which means I have a value of 541. So I divide the raw values by 541 to get a standard value, in units of Bacons. When I do the division, I find that Bogart is -0.47 Bacons, Bacall is -0.33 and James Cagney -0.78. To 2 decimal places, that is. Betty Grable was quite short so her 83 appearances only give her a -1.07. And as for Mickey Rooney…"

"Yes?"

"-5.72. Sad, isn't it?"

I couldn't refrain from asking, "Is it the case, by any chance, that nobody is greater than 1 Bacon?"

"Not at all. John Wayne was a big man, at 6' 4", and he made 184 films, so he gets 1.7 Bacons."

I started to object, but no sooner had I opened my mouth than he raised a hand to stop me. "I know what you're going to say. What about Shirley Temple? I admit that child actors are a problem. The studio records give Temple's height as 5' 2", but when she made Wee Willie Winkie she can't have been much more than 3' 6". I think for the moment, I'll just leave the kiddies out. After all, if Shirley Temple, then why not Rin Tin Tin?"

It felt cruel, but I had to point out the flaw in his method. "If I understand correctly, anyone who is shorter than 5' 11" scores less the more films they have appeared in. That can't be right, can it? And what about actors who are exactly 5' 11" tall? They would end up with 0 Bacons, no matter how many films they were in."

His face fell at my words. I tried to encourage him. "I'm sure the problems aren't insurmountable, but I think what you need to do is consult a mathematician. If I run into one, I'll tell them to get in touch with you. In the meantime, keep working on it." With that, I made my escape.

[novelties-and-notions]

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

The encounter with Albert Einstein, which I recall here in this dark cupboard (or closet) as if it were my own memory, was brief but significant.

On enquiring for the distinguished scientist, I was surprised to be directed to the bathroom, but, sure enough, I found him there. He was staring bleakly into the open toilet cistern, at the siphon and ball valve within it. "It still won't flush," he said, and demonstrated by pulling the handle. A mournful gurgle was the only result.

"The old… thing, whatever you call it… there," he pointed at the siphon mechanism, "was broken, so I got a new one. There are no instructions, of course. Still, it seemed that a simple thought experiment could reveal the underlying structure. I imagined riding a water molecule through the cistern. What effect would the forces acting on me have on my trajectory? You know, turbulent flow is very difficult to model, so I found I had to formulate some tensor equations to get a more accurate picture. Even then, some simplifications were called for. But the formalisation did reveal some unexpected properties, and it was quite evident that there was a misconception in the existing understanding of these things." He picked up a small piece of metal. "It's quite evident, when analysed correctly, that this is not only redundant, it positively impedes the operation of the system."

He looked puzzled. "It was a simple matter to remove it, but…" Again he tried to flush, and again nothing resulted. "Evidently, a more sophisticated model is required." He looked thoughtful for some time, but then sighed.

"The housekeeper has called a plumber. I'm expecting him any minute."

Sure enough, there was a knock on the bathroom door, and a burly man carrying a bag of tools entered. He took in the situation at a glance, sucked his teeth and shook his head sadly. "They didn't ought to have done that," he said, as all tradesmen must. "I'm afraid this is going to take a bit of putting right. Cost you."

Einstein looked embarrassed, and led me out of the room, saying "We'll leave you to it," to the plumber.

"You know," he said to me, "if I were a young man again, I wouldn't try to become a scientist. I would rather choose to be a plumber"