-The Agency in the House of Hemp-

English language detective novels have come a long way since the likes of Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, Dashiell Hammit and Mickey Spillane. Without blowing my patrons' collective privacy with specifics, the genre is still very popular today - as if you couldn't have guessed from the inundation of crime lab television, where every other corpse had a career in modeling. Were I not respectful of the viewers' collective privacy, I'd say you could use the nielsens to spot a definite necrophilic vibe.

What products do advertisers market to that niche?

Apart from the auto-erotic autopsy fanopolis, the genre maintains the tried and true (if slightly less lucrative) protagonist-centered storyline - "detective with skeletons in his closet, ghosts in his head, and fire in his loincloth." It's a cult of personality, and I did not use the male pronoun lightly - these sleuths are overwhelmingly male street brawlers and gunslingers whose plotlines have all been trod before. What varies most these days is the handicap. We've seen barely functional alcoholics too many times to count. We've seen Widowers. Indigestion. Ex-military trauma.

They've had to get more creative lately.

I have heard tell of a show on the telly starring Tony Shalhoub titled "Monk," a show about a neurotic detective. Mental illness is almost as popular as "special victims." Adrian Monk must be designed to appeal to those red-blooded Americans who require frequent coagulants. Still, it's a good handicap. Nothing bores me more than watching a B-movie actor drink yellow water straight out of the bottle.

Which leads me a mite closer to my idea for the next great detective. The only available office space in town is shared by a Hemptorium filled with colorful extras. The detective starts the day with a clear, precise mind. But as the mystery progresses, the neighboring fumes begin to confuse the issue. By the end, the detective is comparing two sheets of paper faxed from the phone company, eyes unblinking for many minutes. The audience is screaming: "The same phone numbers are on both - during the day, when Mark was at the mill! Trixie knew her husband was having an affair, but communicated with Bella all the time. They must have set him up!"

{Blink.}

"FOCUS, DETECTIVE POTHEAD, FOCUS!"

Has anyone done that yet?