Phhhhhhhwwwwwwww!

That’s the sound of me, blowing the dust off this blog.

Last week, Kafka wrote, re: this blog: "Update the bloody thing. Consider this an order."

As you can tell, I have a problem following orders.

I do feel guilty that more than a week has blown by without an update. Father, forgive me, it has been seven days since my last blog entry… God loves playing jokes on me. The moment I decide to start this damned thing, life gets all kinds of interesting.

Interesting, in this case, means trying to do two full-time jobs—editing an alternative weekly newspaper, teaching—as well as revising novel #2, working on novel #3, and still having enough time to be a dad, husband, and a lone wolf who dons a rubber suit and takes to the streets of Philadelphia to wage a one-man war on crime. (But let’s keep that last bit on the down low, okay?)

I’ve got to be honest: updates on this sucker may be infrequent from now clear through Thanksgiving. If you miss me, you can check out my new editor’s letter every Thursday in the Philadelphia City Paper, starting this Thursday. Nothing terribly ambitious, trust me… more or less it’s me playing the MC role, pointing out the good stuff in each week’s edition, cracking some self-deprecating jokes, etc.

I’m having a devil of a time naming it, however. For one thing, you ever try to rhyme something with "Swierczynski"?

Until the next update... really, I'm going to try harder, I swear... Happy Halloween.

This One's For the Gischler

Just a belated word of thanks to Victor Gischler, who not only pinch-hit for me at the B-Con "Following Ripley" panel, but also urged people to read my stuff.

Now Victor is one of the most talented crime novelists working today. He's on a very short list of modern writers (Bruen, Guthrie, Banks, Stark, Pelecanos, Starr) I'll buy no matter what. If Victor decides to write a 800-page character study that involves cats and static cling, baby, I'm there. Gun Monkeys sold me on his writing, and his "Hardboiled Dixie" columns at Plots With Guns sealed the deal, but it was his mad genius Pistol Poets—a twisted fusion of street crime and campus life—that made me a Gischler Fan for Life. I'm dying to read his third novel, Suicide Squeeze, due in early 2005.

So I'm hugely thankful, and touched, by Victor's frequent mentions of me at B-Con. I'd almost tempted to ask: You sure you have the right Swierczynski? But there are only a few of us. (And the other "Duane Swierczynski" who's a writer does historical romances.) Unlike a certain presidential candidate, Victor remembered Poland. Big time.

Ain't That a Shamus

I want to give an official Secret Dead Blog round of applause (c’mon now, stand up, let’s put those hands together) to all of the recent award winners at B-Con, including Kate Stine, Laura Lippman, Jason Starr, and most especially Ken Bruen—the “Pope of Galway Bay” to his friends.

Ken winning the Shamus was so perfect. For the non-mystery readers in the audience: the Shamus is annual award given by the Private Eye Writers of America to the best new P.I. fiction in four categories: short story, novel, first novel, and paperback original. The Guards certainly qualifies. The Jack Taylor books are the most raw, blisteringly powerful P.I. novels I've read since I picked up my first C.W. Sughrue. Jack ain't foolin' round, yo.

But I also think the Taylor series have something that eludes many other P.I. novels: crossover appeal. The proof? Let me introduce my wife, henceforth known as The Bride.

Now the Bride and I have opposite tastes on most things... to a comical degree. The Bride loves sauces, seasonings, condiments; I prefer things plain. The Bride is into vegetables; I'm not sure I've consumed one willingly since 1982. The Bride is a little bit country; I'm a little bit rock 'n roll. Our tastes are so opposite, whenever I buy a new bottle of wine, I pour her a sample first. If she wrinkles up her nose, I know I’m going to love it, and vice versa. It’s better than having an in-house sommelier.

Same goes for reading preferences. The Bride shies away from most things noir and crime; I can’t get enough of the stuff. (Yes, The Bride has read my two novels, and has claimed to like them, but temper this with the fact that I've fathered her two children. At least, I strongly suspect I have.) Anyway, when I started e-mailing Ken on a regular basis, The Bride wanted to sample his work. I thought, Oh boy. This’ll never work. I mean, this is Ken Bruen we’re talking about here. It just doesn’t get any more noir than this.

I handed her The Guards, and waited. With a smug expression on my face.

She loved it.

She ran to my bookshelf—my personal noir stash!—and comandeered the next three Taylors.

Didn't she know there weren't "Oprah" stickers on the damned things? What the fuck was going on?

Actually, it made perfect sense. Yes, the Taylors are undeniably noir, but they're also infused with humanity, compassion, and a fiercely unique worldview. Ken's taken the best ingredients of multiple genres—from noir to the whiskey poets to mainstream lit—and served 'em up in a cocktail that goes down easy yet knocks you on your ass. The Bride got the same buzz I did, but probably for different reasons. Yet we both couldn't stop turning the pages. To me, that's crossover appeal.

If only Ken would start making wine, our liquor bills would be slashed in half.

It's not a matter of Ken writing his "breakout" book; he's already there, at the top of his game. I'm just waiting for the rest of the world to clue in. Awards like the Shamus can only help spread the message.

(Of course, I have the last laugh. I've read the fifth Taylor in manuscript, and The Bride has not. Nanny nanny poo poo...)

The New Job

There's nothing like waking up, stumbling downstairs, picking up the newspaper from the chilly concrete, and then seeing your own grisly mug staring back at you.

That's what happened this morning, and you can read all about it in this Philadelphia Daily News column by Dan Gross. (Registration is required, but the people at BugMeNot.com can help you around that.)

But it's true: I'm the new editor-in-chief at the Philadelphia City Paper, this town's top alternative news weekly. I'll start on November 1st, but in the meantime, I'll be busy getting to know the staff and learning the ropes. I'm also in the middle of the semester at La Salle, so life is going to be fairly... interesting for me clear through Thanksgiving.

And as for that gay Mummer story... well, that's an entire post in itself. I'll save that for another day. Just explaining the whole idea of the "Mummers Parade" is going to chew up some serious space. Suffice to say that it involves sequins, accordions, cross-dressing, banjos and excessive drinking. (And you thought B-con was wild.)

Man Plans, God Laughs

As it turned out, I had to cancel my trip to Bouchercon. My lovely bride needed emergency surgery on Wednesday--she’s doing fine, thank God. Perhaps the worst part was sitting in the waiting room, and watching a local TV news segment on “mothers who die young, leaving children and husbands behind.” (No, I’m not making this up.) This is why I avoid TV.

Special thanks to the Pope of Galway Bay, Mr. and Mrs. Sunshine, and the K-Buster, who made all the difference this week.

Anyway… you’ll have to rely on the B-con reports from Sarah, Kafka and Charlie. Hell, it’s early Sunday morning, and I still don’t know who won that damned Shamus and Anthony Awards. It’s killing me.

I’m also sorry I missed the chance to sample a pint of authentic Canadian Molson, Dave. Instead, I’m sitting here in Philadelphia, nipping at a bottle of Hofbrau Oktoberfest, listening to Mott the Hoople ("All the Young Dudes"). For years, I thought the chorus was a sly advertisement for Playboy: "All the young nudes, carry the nudes, boogaloo nudes…"

But all is not nudity and misery here in Secret Dead Blog Land. Coming soon are full reports on….

1.) The advance review copies (ARCs) of Secret Dead Men, which were sent out this week, and

2.) Exciting new job news. Honest. This is not a cheap ploy to force you to check this blog again in a few days. I swear!

Slouching Towards Bouchercon

First, thank you all for the congrats on Smell the Roses. The words from Mrs. Sunshine were a special treat. I promise, Mrs. S: I’ll try to avoid mentioning the words “plums,” “one-handed,” and most of all, “Bubbles,” in front of your husband.

And Charlie, brother, you can call me any damn thing you want. I’m counting on you to help me find food so we’re not tossing back the Jameson with Ken on an empty stomach. Guys like us need a club sandwich or two if we’re going to keep up with the Pope.

Speaking of…

Just a few days from now, I’ll be hopping a plane to Toronto for my first Bouchercon 2004 (or, “B-Con” as the young kids say these days). This is going to be my first convention of any kind. Wait… that’s not entirely true. As a writer for Philadelphia Magazine, I once attended a convention of people who hold conventions. It’s true. In 2001, the nation’s top convention planners gathered in the Pennsylvania Convention Center to meet with people who represented convention centers hoping to attract those convention planners to their convention center.

I was sorely tempted to present myself as the president of the Association of Americans Against Mass Gatherings of People and try to book a convention. ("Sir, how many members will you need to accommodate?" "Just one—me. You got a problem with that?")

Hopefully, B-Con won’t be as surreal. I'm going to document as much of the experience as I can in this here blog. I’ll share my fan/geek moments (e.g., dropping a full pint of beer in front of Jason Starr), report on as many panels as I possible (including the one I’m on with Jason, Ken, Simon Kernick, and Barry Eisler), and of course, detail the sordid underbelly of B-Con for certain blog readers* interested in such things.

(* Actually, just Ray Banks. Note to self: Make up stories about heroin, whipped cream, a feathered boa, jumper cables and a rusty car battery named “Susan.”)

If any of you have any B-Con advice to share, I’d love to hear it. No matter what, I’ll be packing a bunch of turkey sandwiches. Charlie, you want mustard or mayo on yours, bud?