Happy Birthday, Parker

Four years ago this very moment, our son Parker was born. Last night, the Bride and I were talking about all of the things we were doing the day before--setting up baby gear, walking to the corner ice cream shop, watching a Drew Barrymore movie (Driving in Cars With Boys) and generally worrying ourselves sick, but not talking about it. The Bride had a C-section scheduled for the next morning because Parker, being Parker, had himself turned all around in the womb. A week or so before, the doctors tried something called an "external version," which is where they try to flip the baby around from the outside. Not only did this fail, but it was as hideously painful as someone trying to flip your lungs around... from the outside. C-section it was. The photo at left was taken not too long after Parker popped out like toast. Very, very bloody toast.

And now we're both stunned that four years have gone by like a blink, and Parker is just this amazing little boy, full of questions and ideas and a sense of humor you've got to experience to believe. I find myself wanting to apply the brakes more and more, slow down and savor every moment with him, because I know that in just a few blinks...

Happy birthday, Parker. We've got presents for you, but they're nothing compared to what you give us every day.

... and Here She Is Again

Mere hours after I posted the cover of The Blonde, the copyedited manuscript arrived from St. Martin's. This is the interesting step in the publishing process where you get to see all of the things you screwed up. I do enjoy a good, tough copyedit. It keeps me honest, and never fails to illuminate some of my blind spots as a writer. (For instance, I'm still really, really bad at the serial comma thing.)

If you've never had the pleasure, here's the deal: You receive a copy of your manuscript, covered in red pencil (though in this case, the pencil marks are more of a brownish-purple, like a mole that doesn't look quite right) and little yellow Post-It notes. But that's not all. You also get a style sheet, listing all of the trademarks or uncommon words used in your book. This is always fun to read, because the list is almost like noir/zen poetry-rap:

double cross
doughnut
douche bag
deliveryman

Or:

backward
bed-and-breakfast
blow job

There are also notes on grammar and punctuation specific to the book, too. For instance:

thoughts being cap and separated from rest of sentence by a comma; set roman unless italic used for emphasis: He thought, That's fucked.

Last but not least, there's a letter from the poor copy editor who had to suffer through the book, which includes some general observations and thoughts. For instance:

There are many sentence fragments here. I have left almost all as is, since author had obviously chosen somewhat of a staccato style.

Me? Staccato? Nah.

Anyway, I have until April 13th to review the brown-purple pencil edits and respond to yellow Post-It queries. (I've scanned in the very first page of the novel to give you an example; click on it to make it larger.) If I don't like a change, I can "stet" it; otherwise I leave it alone. I can respond to the Post-It queries with other Post-It notes, or just write "ok" on them. Anything major, I'll duke it out with my editor, Marc.

The copyedited manuscript step is educational, but also nerve-wracking. (Any writers out there care to back me up on this?) It's pretty much the last chance you have to correct any awkward sentences or bone-headed fact errors. The next time I see it, it will be typeset as a galley, and from there it becomes increasingly difficult to make any changes. And I believe a novel is never finished; it is merely surrendered.

It's also the step... if I remember correctly... when you read your manuscript closely, and you realize that you actually can't write, people have been lying to you, you suck beyond all suckability, and that every sentence you've written is flawed at its most fundamental level.

They tell me this is normal.

Here She Is

Isn't she a beaut? (Click on the handcuffs for a larger view. Okay, actually you can click anywhere, but I thought it would be cooler to say "click on the handcuffs.") This comes from the same creative genius -- Jennifer Carrow -- who brought us the kick-butt Wheelman cover. And while The Blonde is not a sequel to The Wheelman, both are set in the same universe, so it's nice that the covers look like a matching set. Three things I especially love about this cover:

1. The bold red background (my editor Marc's idea),

2. The mysterious, ghostly-looking... yet oddly alluring... Blonde herself. And of course,

3. The handcuffs. Pretty damned inspired.

What you think? Would you be caught walking around with a book like this tucked under your arm?

The Wheelman is a Gumshoe Nominee!

David J. Montgomery has just posted this year's shortlist for the 2006 Gumshoe Awards, and I'm pleased as hell to find myself on that list -- along with some good friends of Secret Dead Blog. Here's the rundown:

Best Mystery:
As Dog Is My Witness by Jeffrey Cohen (Bancroft Press)
The James Deans by Reed Farrel Coleman (Plume)
Savage Garden by Denise Hamilton (Scribner)
To the Power of Three by Laura Lippman (William Morrow)
The Wheelman by Duane Swierczynski (St. Martin's Minotaur)

Best Thriller:
The Lincoln Lawyer by Michael Connelly (Little, Brown)
Company Man by Joseph Finder (St. Martin's Press)
The Only Suspect by Jonnie Jacobs (Kensington)
Falls the Shadow by William Lashner (William Morrow)
Creepers by David Morrell (CDS Books)

Best European Crime Novel:
The Big Over Easy by Jasper Fforde (Viking)
Kiss Her Goodbye by Allan Guthrie (Hard Case Crime)
Jar City by Arnaldur Indridason (St. Martin's Minotaur)
Have Mercy on Us All by Fred Vargas (Simon & Schuster)
The Vanished Hands by Robert Wilson (Harcourt)

Best First Novel:
The Color of Law by Mark Gimenez (Doubleday)
Tilt-a-Whirl by Chris Grabenstein (Carroll & Graf)
The Baby Game by Randall Hicks (Wordslinger Press)
Sacred Cows by Karen E. Olson (Mysterious Press)
Beneath a Panamanian Moon by David Terrenoire (St. Martin's Minotaur)

Big congrats to all of the nominees. Winners will be announced May 9th.

My personal picks? Lippman's going to roll over the rest of us like a monster truck. It'll be down to Connelly and Morrell in the last round; not clear who will triumph. Al "Sunshine" Guthrie will mop up the floor with the rest of the Euro-folks. And for "Best First," I'm thinking it'll be a battle royale between Olson and Terrenoire. (Hint to Olson: feint right; David always falls for that. He looks tough, but bleeds easy.)

The Secret Dead Blog Interview: J.D. Rhoades

I first met J.D. "Dusty" Rhoades in Houston last March for "Noir Night," and I took a liking to him right away. Anybody who can hang tall with an Irishman, a Scot, a Polack, two Texans and a long-haired guy from Brooklyn until 4 a.m. is a winner in my book. But I became a Dusty Rhoades fan around 3:30 in the morning, as we all sat in McKenna Jordan's living room, and I heard Dusty read the blistering first chapter of The Devil's Right Hand aloud. He had me at "She ain't no damned lesbian..."

Here it is, almost exactly a year later, and Dusty's second novel, Good Day in Hell, is available at fine bookstores everywhere. I packed an arc of Hell for my trip to Birmingham, figuring when in the South, might as well read some kick-ass Southern crime fiction. It had me glued to that uncomfortable-ass plastic airline lobby seat for hours. I was actually disappointed when it came time to board the plane, because that meant I had to spend a few minutes away from the book.

Dusty was kind enough to spare a little time to gab with Secret Dead Blog about his new book, his writing process, and where the nickname came from.

Secret Dead Blog: The first Keller novel was The Devil's Right Hand. The sequel is Good Day in Hell. I can see where this is going. The third Keller will be... Springtime for Beelzebub. Right? Right?

J.D. Rhoades: Well, it was originally called Safe and Sound, but I think I like yours better.

SDB: You pulled off the rare trick of writing a sequel that's better than the original. How did you do that?

JDR: Awww, shucks, tweren't nothin'. But seriously, folks... I try to make each book better than the last. Otherwise, what's the point of writing the next one?

SDB: Good Day features the most psychotic couple since Bonnie and Clyde, or maybe even Jim and Tammy Faye. Based on anyone you know?

JDR: Not an exact representation, no. But I've always been fascinated by the people I meet in the court system who, at some point, decided to create their own personal Apocalypse. They just decide, "fuck it, I've taken as much as I can take, I'll burn the world down and me with it," and, well, hijinks ensue. In real life, of course, what mostly happens is that their final kamikaze blaze of glory doesn't work out, they live through it, and they end up in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, slouching in front of a judge on their way to a long, long stay in the Department of Corrections.

SDB: Your next few novels: all Kellers, or will you be sneaking in a stand alone at some point?

JDR: Don't know. I've got the opening scenes for both a new Keller and a standalone written. I'm pretty excited about both, so we'll see which one someone will pay for.

SDB: What's your writing routine?

JDR: When I'm working on a book, I try to do at least 700-1000 words a day. I mostly write on my laptop, which means I write all over the house...in the bedroom, on the front porch, on the back deck by the light of the tiki torches....I particularly like that last setting. It's got a nice barbarian feel.

SDB: You're a newspaper columnist and a novelist. How do you resist the awful temptation to starting making shit up and putting it in your column? I mean, everybody's doing it. Jayson Blair. James Frey. This Nick Sylvester cat. C'mon, aren't you the least bit tempted?

JDR: I do that all the time. But since I'm mostly writing satire, it's okay. The biggest problem with writing satire, however, is staying ahead of reality.

SDB: Are you nicknamed "Dusty" after the Jim Thompson novel?

JDR: Wow...you know, I'm 44 years old. I've heard people mention Dusty Rhodes the New York Giants slugger and Dusty Rhodes the professional wrestler (aka "The Amurrican Dream"), but this is the first time I've ever heard the bellhop from A Swell-Looking Babe mentioned. You are either monumentally cool or you are the crime fiction geek's Platonic Ideal of geekiness. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Shorter answer: No. As far as I know, the parental units have never read Jim Thompson.

SDB: Who's in your crime fiction Hall of Fame?

JDR: Dashiell Hammett. Raymond Chandler. John D. McDonald. George V. Higgins. Richard Stark/Donald Westlake. Dennis Lehane. Robert Crais. Ken Bruen. Up and coming: there's this funny talkin' dude named Guthrie, who's showing some real promise. This Starr feller from New York City, and this big galloot from Philly who wrote about a wheelman are also ones to watch.

SDB: C'mon, admit it. Keller #3 will be titled, Oh Yes, It's Hades Night, won't it? Don't you lie to me!

JDR: I can pretty much guarantee you that one's a non-starter.

Blogger (hic) Apologizes

"Blogger here. Yeah... um... got stinkin' drunk today. My bad. Had so many plastic cups of Lite beer with green dye that I accidentally yakked into one of my own servers. It was a real "Erin Go Blah" moment. Shut a bunch of blogs down for 18 hours or so... including Secret Dead Blog. Yeah, yeah, It was a dick move. I know. But whatever. I'm Blogger. I'm free. You want to complain? Yeah, thought so, bitch. Put some more Pogues on and let me get back to my drinkaroonis, okay?"

True Irish (Unplugged)

As promised, in honor of St. Patrick's Day, here's the full, unedited version of Ken's piece. (See yesterday's post, "Strange Bruen," for more details.)


LA FEILE PADRAIG

( ST PATRICK'S DAY)

BY

KEN BRUEN

Last year, on my American tour, I was in Milwaukee for St Patricks Day. It was the one leg of the tour that homeland security loved me, they heard me accent and asked

“Where’s your green tie?”

The most green I was showing was in me gills at the fear of flying.

On the plane, the stewardess asked if I’d like a bottle of Guinness?

At 6.00 in the morning?

Am…………no thanks.

I was proving to be a poor advertisement for me nation.

Milwaukee was up to its arse in snow and I knew in Ireland, in me home town of Galway, they were having spring weather.
After a reading in Richard Katz’s bookstore, with Jason Starr and Reed Farrel Coleman, we went to………..yup, the pub………and the customers, alerted to me arrival, had lined up shots of Jameson and green Guinness.

It’s a complete mystery to us in Ireland how you could desecrate a pint with green dye……..are ye stone mad and we do know ye mean well but god almighty………in Guinness.

Crime Spree magazine, run by the family Jordan had laid on a party that would put the Irish to shame, mountains of delicious food and not a green cabbage in sight and no spuds or bacon but a choice of every other dish you’ve ever longed for and as they knew I coming, a crate of Jameson.

I kid you not

That is an Irish welcome.

In Ireland, we’d be supplying pots of tea and soda bread.

Richard drove me back to my hotel at, I’m ashamed to admit it, 11:00 and no, not 11 the following day. His Jeep made light work of the thre feet mounds of snow and I said

"That is one heavy snowfall."

He gave me the Milwaukee look, part warmth, part astonishment, said

"That’s spring weather, ain’t nothing."

I rang home before hitting me bed and asked the family what they had for their St Patrick's Day dinner

I hate to smash myths and folklore but what they had was typical of the new rich international Ireland.

Chicken curry
Nice merlot
Cheesecake

And my teenage daughter had fries and a Big Mac from McDonalds.

I know I should lie, I owe it to the irish Tourist Board and say they had

Stew, with spuds and bacon
Poteen
Custard and rhubarb.

In hope of rescuing the old lore, I asked if they watched The Chieftains concert but alas, my wife watched Doctor Phil and my daughter watched The O.C.

If The Simpsons ever do Ireland, they’re in for the shock of their Springfield lives

Desperate now for a touch of the past, I asked my wife if the parade had bodhrans, Uileann pipes, spoons and jig n reels.

She asked how much Jameson I’d had?

As in

“Was I demented?”

She said the parade was led by the new gay and lesbian alliance and the award for best float went to a group from Nigeria who’ve been domiciled in Galway got five years.

I ended the call with

“Gra go mor.”

Translate as……….mountains of love and she, in her Irish fashion snapped

“Whatever.”

On the plane the next day to Boulder, I read in the newspaper of an American journalist who approached a man in an Aran sweater, on Grafton St., believing he’d found a real Irishman and was told the man had arrived two days ago from Bosnia.

When the stewardess asked if I’d like some coffee, I was so temped to ask

“You got any Jameson stashed back there?”

As footnote to that day of Irishness, I saw on CNN later that evening that a batch of snakes had been discovered in Northern Ireland.

St Patrick had obviously moved to other territories.

I began to sing the opening lines of "Galway Bay."

Strange Bruen

I'm proud to point you to an original piece of writing from Ken Bruen in this week's City Paper. A while back, we realized that we were short a column on the food page for March 16, so I thought it would be fun if Ken would set us Americans straight on how to do St. Patrick's Day right. Hence, "True Irish."

However, I had to do the unthinkable:

Edit Ken.

You see, Ken turned in about 800 words of brilliance. The problem: the column space can only accomodate 450 or so.

Yeah.

So I promised Ken that I'd do some gentle surgery and run an abridged version in the paper, but then release the full monty on Secret Dead Blog tomorrow, at the top o' the mornin', in honor of the holiday.

Hope you enjoy it.

(If any Bruen junkies would like a complimentary copy of this week's issue--which, I might add, features an excellent cover story about long-forgotten Philly noir writer John McIntyre--drop me a line and I'll put one in the mail. Offer only good in the U.S., otherwise Cindy in accounting will have me hurt.)

A Bad Situazione

Here's my latest City Paper editor's letter. It's about a case you may be familiar with, if you're a member of International Thriller Writers, or if you've checked out Sarah's blog or David Montgomery's Crime Fiction Dossier lately.

American journalists have to deal with a lot of crap: government that seems to equate "asking questions" wit "treason." The emphasis of journalism as busines enterprise versus the public's right to know. And then there ar those annoying little bastards who keep making stuff up an passing it off as truth.

But as hard as it is out here for an American truth pimp, this is nothing compared to what journalists face in Italy.

Ask a particular question, and you could have your phone lines tapped. Your home searched. Your finances ruined, along with your reputation.

Oh … and you might be accused of being an accessory to murder.

This is what happened to Douglas Preston, a New Yorker contributor and a best-selling novelist (Relic, with Lincoln Child). Preston has been working with Italian journalist Mario Spezi on a nonfiction book about "The Monster of Florence" [police sketch at left], a serial killer who shot or stabbed 14 people between 1974 and 1985. The investigation became the largest and most expensive in Italian history. Preston and Spezi's book, due out in Italy next month, is critical of the police and prosecutors, specifically chief examining magistrate Giuliano Mignini and chief prosecutor Michele Giuttari.

On Valentine's Day, Preston flew to Italy to work with Spezi on the manuscript. A week later, he was arrested and brought before Giuliano Mignini himself.

Over the course of three hours, Preston was grilled senseless.

"When I explained that my activities as an investigative journalist were privileged," Preston wrote in a newsletter, "Mignini shouted that this wasn't about freedom of the press, but was about a criminal matter of the 'utmost seriousness.'" Preston was threatened with arrest unless he answered their questions.

Mignini played back phone conversations between Preston and Spezi, repeating them, asking about the "real meaning" behind certain words.

At one point, Preston asked if he was being charged with a crime. Mignini told him, yes: planting evidence to frame an innocent man, obstruction of justice and being an accessory to murder.

Preston had never encountered anything remotely like this before. "Not even in Cambodia," Preston told me via e-mail, "where I did a story for National Geographic on the looting of ancient Khmer temples by, among others, the Cambodian military."

Is this business as usual in Italy?

"Italy does not have true freedom of the press," Preston says. "Judges, prosecutors and politicians routinely sue journalists for libel, not necessarily to win cases but to ruin journalists financially and intimidate them. … More rarely, troublesome journalists who can't be shut up by lawsuits are accused of crimes."

After the three-hour ordeal, Preston was given a grim choice: leave the country now and the charges will be suspended, or face arrest. He left. "With an indictment hanging over my head," he says, "I don't dare return to Italy for the publication of our book on April 19. I assumed that because I'm an American citizen that I would be immune to this kind of harassment. Was I naive."

Spezi, an Italian citizen, has it even worse. After Preston's interrogation, Spezi's apartment was tossed for a third time. According to Preston, the Italian police even leaked that Spezi was involved in the murders, and had links to a Satanic sect.

Preston made it back home safely and immediately starting getting the word out. (I heard about the case through the International Thriller Writers group; we're both members, but have never met.)

But he's extremely worried about his writing partner.

"Spezi is at grave risk," Preston wrote. "His financial health, his career, and his very freedom are at risk. Yesterday he wrote to me: Lo sono molto depresso, per avere fatto il nostro dovere, mi ritrovo in questa situazione."

Translation: "It is very depressing that, for having done my duty as a journalist, I find myself in this situation."

Fortunately, the story is circulating, largely through blogs, both here and in Italy. And recently two of Italy's largest newspapers have written about the case, and U.S. Sen. Susan Collins of Maine (Preston's home state) has asked the State Department to intervene.

This story is chilling, and makes me appreciate what we do have in the U.S. For now.

Every time someone tells me, "Asking that question helps the terrorists," or mentions the financial costs of telling the truth, or, God help me, abuses the public trust with a bogus piece of journalism …

I'm going to think of Mario Spezi.

A Fresh Hit of Sunshine

Al "Sunshine" Guthrie does this to us all the time. Prepares for a big trip (say, to Noir Night in Houston, or to Bouchercon), and just before he leaves, updates -- at long last -- his widely acclaimed Noir Originals website. Sunshine left today for Left Coast Crime, so... you guessed it. This time, it's installment #7, the "Not-So-Secret Issue," and showcases fiction by Gary Carson, Raymond Embrack, Joseph M. Faria, Pearce Hansen, Harry Shannon and that loveable young whelp Dave "Giamatti" White. (I'm especially excited to see the first two chapters of Dave's forthcoming novel, When One Man Dies, out there finally.)

There are also four interviews: Mr. White talks to Charles Ardai, Jim Winter grills Jason Starr, The Amazing Raymundo (Banks) gabs with Charlie "King of the Road" Williams, and Sunshine himself, for some fool reason, chats with me.

If it is true that Sunshine prefers to update NO before big trips, I say we send him on multiple big trips throughout the year. (Hint, hint: the Edgars are just around the corner!)

Flashing in the Gutters, I Wish I Could Quit You

So what we got now is Flashing in the Gutters! Everything's built on that! That's all we got, boy, fuckin' all. So I hope you know that, even if you don't never know the rest! You count the damn few times we have been together in the last few weeks and you measure the short fucking leash you keep me on - and then you ask me about my latest story, "Verbinski Doesn't Appreciate It," and tell me you'll kill me for needing somethin' I don't hardly never get. You have no idea how bad it gets! I'm not you... I can't make it on a coupla pieces o' flash fiction once or twice a month! You are too much for me Tribe, you sonofawhoreson bitch! I wish I could quit you.

Here We Go Again

From my City Paper "Editor's Letter" today:

I was going to write about the Nick Sylvester/Village Voice thing, especially considering that Nick used to contribute short items to us now and again. (For those of you who missed this, Nick was suspended from the Voice for inventing an entire scene in a recent cover story about Neil Strauss' book, The Game.)

But what can I say that hasn't already been said about writers like Sylvester, Frey, Blair and Glass? Maybe it's a matter of volume. In that case:

YOU IDIOTS NEED TO STOP MAKING SHIT UP.

YOU ARE CORRODING THE PROFESSION.

STOP IT NOW.

Want to write a brilliant scene about something that never happened? There's this wonderful thing, been around forever, called FICTION. Want to write about things that actually happened, and want people to believe the things you write? Then enter into the sacred trust of NONFICTION. Which means you're promising people you won't make shit up. Don't blur the two. Get a little peanut butter (fiction) in your chocolate (nonfiction), and it's fucking FICTION.

Hope this clears things up.

(Side note: for an oblique Otis Twelve reference, read the first couple paragraphs of the editor's letter.)

Scene from an Italian Restaurant

Yeah, I did it again. Sent another piece o' flash fiction to Tribe's Flashing in the Gutters. This one's called "Nice Meatball", and was inspired by a conversation a friend once overheard. It's only, what, something like 273 words? Take you 20 seconds to read it. Go on. What else you got going on right this very second? While you're there, check out the other bits o' flash, courtesy folks like Otis Twelve, James M. McGowan, Christa Miller (whose story knocked me on my ass), Paul A. Toth, Charlie "Lefty" Williams and Jason Evans.

What, Me Worry?

Swierczynski completists (if such people exist... doubtful) will want to check out the April issue of Men's Health, which will contain my short humor piece, "Things That Just Don't Matter." (Subtitle: "Let some other guy worry about all this nonsense.) I stress the word short: it's a two-page spread -- with lively illustrations from Steve Brodner, like the one at left -- detailing the things you don't need to worry about in life. For example:

Perfect attendance.
People who take personal and sick days are happier, more rested, and in better physical condition to beat the living crap out of people with perfect attendance.

Check it out. Even if you're not a man, nor particularly healthy.

City of Brotherly Slugs

Now and then he got another twinge on his left side, where a bullet had nicked him last month in Philadelphia.

That's a line from the opening chapter of Richard Powell's Say It With Bullets, the latest from Hard Case Crime. I read that line and thought, wait a second. Nobody sets a crime scene in the City of Brotherly Love for the fun of it. I'll bet this Powell cat was from Philly...

And sure enough, a couple of Google queries later, I learned that Powell was a son of Liberty City. Born here in 1908, Powell worked at the long defunct Philly Evening Ledger as well as the N.W. Ayer & Son advertising agency, the legendary Philadelphia firm that came up with slogans like "I'd walk a mile for a Camel" and "A diamond is forever." Powell even wrote a novel called The Philadelphian, for Pete's sake. Can you get more hometown than that?

Happy to learn there was another Philly noir great (in addition to Goodis, McGivern and Dexter), I e-mailed Hard Case honcho Charles Ardai to learn more.

Secret Dead Blog: Charles, we've known each other for a while. You know I'm from Philadelphia. And yet you didn't tell me you Richard Powell was a Philly boy? What gives, man? Where's the love?

Charles Ardai: I have the world's worst sense of direction -- also the world's worst sense of place. I can get lost in my own apartment. One consequence is that I never know where friends live, or where authors are from, or where books are set. In fact, I just assume all books are set in New York City. Sometimes it's a sort of subtropical neighborhood with beaches and palapas and such, sometimes it's the part of the Upper West Side known for windswept plains and saguaro cactus. So: I kinda knew on some level of my addled brain that Powell and you were both Philly boys, but...not on the level of my brain that actually does things like "thinking" and "remembering."

SDB: When did you first read Say It With Bullets?

Ardai: I first read Say It With Bullets in 2002. Found myself laughing my ass off. And that's rare. First of all, my ass is quite firmly attached. But apart from that it's just plain hard for a book to make me laugh out loud. A smile here or there, sure. But actual laughter? But here was Richard Powell with his self-deprecating one-liners and wonderful situations (like the scene where the main character just can't pick a bar fight no matter how hard he tries), and I was just gone. It was the reading equivalent of a great old black-and-white Bob Hope comedy.

SDB: Admit it: there's a serious Philly streak in the Hard Case series as of late. Powell's out this month, and then we have Philly native Seymour Shubin's Witness to Myself in April. Edgar nominee Al Guthrie even once visited Philly. Is Philly the most noir city going, or what?

Ardai: Philly Noir. Philly Noir. Hm. I think there may be an idea for an anthology in there somewhere.

SDB: Okay, so maybe not. But it's up there, right?

Ardai: Listen: A few years back, a friend of mine who lived in Philly got mugged on the street and seriously beaten up in the process. Ever since then, I take Philly pretty seriously as a noir city.

SDB: Do you know much about Powell's life? Was it tough tracking down his estate?

Ardai: I know Powell went to Princeton and later worked as an ad agency executive. I know he worked for the US War Department during WWII and as a police reporter. He wrote a series of books about a husband and wife team called Arab (short for "Arabella") and Andy Blake -- also funny, though a bit more dated than Say It With Bullets. And I know he had a daughter, Dorothy. That's pretty much all I know. Fortunately, though we sometimes have to do a lot of work to track down estates, in this case it was simple because I discovered (more or less accidentally) that Powell's estate was handled by the same folks who handle David Dodge's, and we'd already bought one Dodge book.

SDB: Not to beat a dead horse... but c'mon. You have to admit that Philly is the noir capital of the U.S. (excluding New York, L.A., Chicago, Missoula, Seattle, Miami, Baltimore, Skiatook and Poughkeepsie.) Am I right or am I right?

Ardai: Skiatook Noir. Skiatook Noir. Hm.

It's a Noir World, After All

So yeah, I'm checking out the news, skimming stories in the New York Times today, and I find this piece about budget cuts at NASA. In the third graph, I spot this amusing tidbit:

Among the casualties of the budget cuts are attempts to look for habitable planets and perhaps life elsewhere in the galaxy, an investigation of the dark energy that seems to be ripping the universe apart, bringing a sample of Mars back home to Earth, and exploring for life under the ice of Jupiter's moon Europa — as well as numerous smaller programs and individual research projects that astronomers say are the wellsprings of new science and new scientists.

Budget cuts are tough. Nobody likes to tighten belts. But do you think, just maybe, it would be a good idea to squirrel away a little dough for this "dark energy that seems to be ripping the universe apart" thing?

My recommendation: a laser cannon mounted on a golf cart driven by a talking duck.