Ask Marlowe, Redux

A column of ill-advised advice by Philip Marlowe, Private Eye “I don’t do happy endings, sweetheart — just truth with a hangover.”

Letter #1:

Dear Marlowe, I woke up one morning and discovered I’d turned into a giant insect. My family won’t look at me, my boss wants a note from a doctor and I can’t get out of bed without tipping over like a drunken beetle on a waxed floor. Any tips on coping with sudden, grotesque alienation?

Signed, Bugged in the Bedroom

Dear Bugged, Sounds like you got a bad case of the ol’ existential hives, pal. World’s full of bugs — most of ’em wear suits and smile while they stab you in the back with an apple. But turning into one? That’s above my pay grade. Here’s the rub: if your family can’t love you as a six-legged freak, they probably didn’t love you as a two-legged one. Roll yourself out the door and find a new nest. Preferably one without shoe-throwing.

Keep your antennae up, Marlowe

Letter #2:

Dear Marlowe, Life is a burden, my husband is a bore and the only passion I’ve found is in the pages of tawdry novels and the arms of disappointing men. I buy an awful lot of hats. Now I’m drowning in debt and ennui. Is it wrong to want more than this mind-numbingly provincial life?

Yours, Emma B.

Dear Emma, Dame, you’ve got a champagne appetite and a gin-rickey budget. You want romance, but you’re fishing for it in a sewer. Men like those aren’t knights — they’re just waiters who forget your order once the table turns. Take off the hat, pay the bill and get yourself a hobby that doesn’t involve melodrama or arsenic before it’s too late.

Try knitting. Or crime. Marlowe

Letter #3:

Dear Marlowe, My uncle murdered my father. My mother married the guy. A ghost told me to take revenge, but I keep stalling because I think too much and talk in riddles. Should I act, or just keep brooding in black until I rot like the rest of Denmark?

Regards, H. Prince of Something or Other

Dear H., Look, kid, I’m no therapist, but if your dad’s ghost tells you to whack a guy, you’d better make sure the old man isn’t just a bad batch of mead and repressed trauma. Your problem isn’t indecision — it’s ego wrapped in a soliloquy. Stop talking to skulls and start making moves. Or don’t. Either way, you’re not making it to Act V with both kneecaps.

To thine own self be less annoying, Marlowe

Letter #4:

Dear Marlowe, I met a boy at a party. He’s from the wrong family. We made out on a balcony, got married in secret and now half our relatives are dead. I faked my death to avoid an arranged marriage and, well ... he didn’t take it well. Honestly, I think we might have rushed into things.

Help, Juliet C.

Dear J., Sweetheart, that’s not love — that’s a tragic misunderstanding with a body count. You two fell faster than a stool pigeon in cement shoes. Next time, try a second date before the double suicide pact. Also, invest in better messengers. And maybe a cellphone.

Stay alive, doll. Drama ain’t romance. Marlowe

Letter #5:

Dear Marlowe, The Lord told me to sacrifice my son. Like, literally. Knife, altar, firewood — the whole package. I trust Him, but this feels ... extreme. Is it a test? A metaphor? Or should I start sharpening the blade?

Sincerely, A. from Ur

Dear Abe, I don’t claim to know God’s plans — I have enough trouble figuring out the dame across the hall. But if the Big Guy tells you to off your kid, maybe get a second opinion. You got faith, sure, but blind obedience and sharp objects don’t mix. Lucky for you, He tends to pull a last-minute switcheroo. Just ... maybe keep the kid away from camping trips for a while.

Burnt offerings are overrated. Marlowe

That’s all for this week, folks. Send your troubles, your tragedies and your tangled monologues to: Dear Marlowe, ℅ The Lonely Street Lamp Post, Los Angeles, CA. And remember: If you’re in too deep, hire a PI — or at least a decent bartender.