As Promised...

... here's a link to my appearance on Good Morning America NOW. It was broadcast at 9 a.m. and 2 p.m. today, and will live on at ABC's website.

I haven't watched it yet, and I don't think I will. (I really, really, really hate seeing myself on camera.) But trusted friends who have seen the clip say I did okay, and held the book for the camera and opened the various clues like a pro. Which is nice.

Did the Cloverfield joke make it? Just curious.

Your Monday Moment of Noir

"Now, turning the Polaroid snap over and over in his fingers, Blaze felt empty. He felt like when he looked up in the sky and saw the stars, or a bird on a telephone wire or chimbly with its feathers blowing. George was gone and he was still stupid. He was in a fix and there was no way out. Unless maybe he could show George he was at least smart enough to get this thing rolling. Unless he could show George he didn't mean to get caught. Which meant what? Which meant diapers. Diapers and what else? Jesus, what else? He fell into a doze of thought. He thought all that morning, which passed with snow whooping in its throat."

Blaze
by Stephen King, writing as Richard Bachman
(Scribner, 2007)

Blast of Coolness

Later this year, the Criterion Collection will release Blast of Silence, one of the best (and bleakest) noirs I've seen in a long, long time. The DVD will feature cover artwork and a four-page comic adaptation by Sean Phillips (Criminal, Marvel Zombies). Phillips gave Wizard.com the skinny, along with the revelation that director/star Allen Baron was also a 1950s-era comic artist.

Times Square Confidential

Ah, there's nothing like leaving your house when it's still completely dark, there's a moon hanging in the sky, and it's freezing out.

But one bus, two trains and three thaw-outs later, I made it to Penn Station in New York by 9 a.m., at which point I caught a cab to Times Square. (Lame, I know, but the train had arrived late, so I was running late, and... well, I did mention how cold it was, right?) If you've even been to Times Square, you know that ABC has their studio in full view, right on the corner of Broadway and 44th. I was instructed to report to a certain steel door on 44th Street. Security checked me. The show's producer, Christina, met me in the lobby, then took me upstairs to the makeup/green room area. We rode up in the largest freakin' elevator I've ever seen. The Cloverfield monster would have fit in this elevator.

I met the makeup team, and pretty much wished them luck. "I'm a writer," I explained. "They don't let us out much." They sushed me, and started to apply the goods, especially under my eyes. (I inherited these dark circles from my dad. We both look like we were born to be extras in George Romero flicks.) The end result? I didn't look quite as dead as usual. Kudos to the makeup team!

From there, I went back downstairs to watch host Gigi Stone interview the first female Iron Chef (or something like that; honestly, I was too nervous to really comprehend what the hell they were talking about). Next thing I know, I was being fitted with a microphone. Then they showed me how to face my copy of Dr. Watson towards one camera, while at the same time, keeping my eyes locked on Ms. Stone. Nervous as I was, this seemed like an impossible task, like, Okay, we need you to dismantle the nuclear device while looking up at the ceiling and performing these simple differential equations. I would have liked an hour to rehearse; I had 15 seconds.

But you know, once you dive in, you've just gotta swim. I don't honestly remember much of the segment. I think I made all of the points I wanted to make. I was told I did fine, and held the book towards the camera so expertly, there was no need to tape any pick up shots. Which makes me really proud.

I'm pretty sure I slipped a Cloverfield joke in there somewhere, because at about 4 a.m. that morning, I had dared myself to. So that was cool.

Then it was over. I thanked everyone, recovered my jacket, and headed out into cold Manhattan morning. I stopped by and met with my Marvel editors for a while, kind of forgetting that I was, um, still wearing makeup. (Honestly, Axel, I'm just that rosy-cheeked!) I stopped into the Empire State Building and picked up a few gifts, because my son is a complete Empire State Building junkie. He'd have pinups of that sucker on his bedroom ceiling if he could.

Anyway, the ABC thing should be online sometime next week. I'll link to it, unless I made a complete ass of myself and/or I still look like a member of the walking dead.

If It's Friday, I Must Be in Times Square

At nine o'clock this morning, if you were to have asked me where I'd be nine o'clock the next morning, I would have said: "Um, my desk? At work?"

Nope. Instead I'll be at the Times Square studio of ABC News Now, taping a segment about The Crimes of Dr. Watson. Surprised the hell out of me, too. But the book seems to have caught the eye of a producer, and she liked it enough to invite me up to talk about it. Which is awesome. The segment (as long as I don't completely botch it, that is) should air sometime next week, both on cable and online.

The only downside is that I have to report to the studio by 9 a.m., which means I'll be leaving Philly really really early. I don't even want to think about how early. Yes, they joke about Philly being a suburb of New York. But that's only if you don't have to commute from Northeast Philadelphia to Times Square on a cold Friday morning. Then, somehow, it feels much further away. Like, two states away.

So, no Hardboiled Friday entry tomorrow. But Saturday morning I'll catch you up on what happened at the taping. Wish me luck.

Where the Hell I've Been

This blog has cobwebs on it. I know, I know. I came up for air late last week to do a short little Cloverfield entry, and since then, it's radio silence. (I'm still thinking about Cloverfield, by the way. It's the kind of movie that sticks to your ribs.)

Anyway, there's no big reason, other than the obvious: I've been busy as hell. The Bride and I had a short vacation to celebrate our 10th anniversary, um, about five months after the fact. (If you recall, I had surgery on our actual anniversary, and there's nothing romantic about painkillers and blood-caked tampons shoved up your nose.)

Then, I had a visit from a Very Cool Surprise Guest who I can't tell you about. No, really, I can't. Not until the contracts are signed, and the all-clear given. All I can say is: it's somebody who will be working on turning one of my novels into a movie. Who is working with someone else really, really cool. Somebody you know. I know, I suck! But swear to God, the moment I can spill, I'll do it here.

Anyway, we had an 11-hour meeting on Sunday, then more meetings Monday, and then I was suddenly putting another issue of City Paper to bed, and that meant I had very little time to blog. Or sleep.

But I am going to make it up to you. I've got a backlog of stuff I need to share with you. Book recommendations. Noir Moments. Hardboiled stuff. Comic book thingys. And other assorted announcements. Stay tuned, and all will return to normal. Or what passes for normal 'round here.

There will probably even be another Cloverfield post or two.

Crimson and Cloverfield

The Bride and I caught the first showing of Cloverfield this morning. I loved it; the Bride stumbled out of the theater like someone smacked her with a two by four. While I don't think it's quite as revolutionary as some people are claiming (84 Charlie MoPic blazed that trail back in 1989, and of course, there was Blair Witch), but it is one powerful monster movie. The shadow of 9/11 looms large here; it's hard to imagine this movie being half as successful without it. The terror we all felt as we were glued to our TVs (or watching the towers fall, live) is the same kind of terror at work here, because the characters have no idea what is happening to them, or why. And the most horrifying moments aren't even on camera; little snippets of dialogue ("it was eating people") and title cards ("the area formerly known as Central Park") were far more effective than anything CGI-created. (Not that the creature itself isn't scary; I don't think I've ever seen anything like it.) In short: highly recommended. Especially if you enjoy the sensation of being smacked with a two by four.

Your Monday Moment of Noir

"With this CD and the four previous ones behind it, Huey Lewis and the News prove that if this really is a small world, then these guys are the best American band of the 1980s on this or any other continent—and it has with it Huey Lewis, a vocalist, musician and writer who just can't be topped."

American Psycho
by Bret Easton Ellis
(Vintage Contemporaries, 1991)

Hardboiled Fridays!

"He reached down and squeezed his most famous feature through his tight leather pants. Then he punched me in the face. I wasn't out cold but it hurt like hell and everything went red and swimmy. I could feel rough hands on my body, wrenching my clothes and throwing me down on slick, crinkly plastic. Scratchy rope around my wrists and ankles and my first semi-delirious thought was, Bondage, are they crazy? You can't shoot bondage and sex in the same scene!"

Money Shot
by Christa Faust
(Hard Case Crime, 2008)

You're a Mean One

The Philadelphia Daily News today reports on the arrest of a man who broke into a family's home on Christmas and stole... well, you can probably guess:

[Christopher] Smith entered a home on Rhawn Street near Verree Road through a locked back door by using a pry tool and stole presents right from under the family's Christmas tree, police said. "It was a unique job in and of itself because, number one, it occurred on that day," said Major Crimes Capt. John Gallagher.

Nice, eh? Hope they roast his chestnuts over an open fire, if you know what I mean. But the most interesting detail comes later:

Smith's accused lookout, Robert Stanley, 44, of Croydon, Bucks County, who police say weighs more than 500 pounds, is in custody in Bucks County on an unrelated charge, and police are in the process of obtaining an arrest warrant for the Christmas Day incident for which Smith was charged.

So let me get this straight. The Christmas Bandit has a fat dude—whose belly almost certainly shakes like a bowl full of jelly—as his lookout man? I mean, c'mon. Was he also wearing a red shirt with puffy white fringe? Did he say to his pal, "Yo, Chris, make sure you grab some cookies and milk in there—I'm starvin', man"?

The Fat Lookout is soooo begging to show up in a story. I may even write an entire novel about him.

Remind Me to Never...

... taunt sickness/virus infections/the plague, saying, nanny nanny poo poo, you didn't get me this time, wah wah. Because you know what? The sickness is always listening.
Lesson learned, folks.

Your Monday Moment of Noir

"I pop two Nurofen and wash them down with a bottle of warm water. As I pull into the carpark, I see a fat child screaming her way down a slide shaped like an elephant. Her dad, a Pringle sweater with the look of a fortnight father about him, sups a pint of real ale and watches her out the corner of his eye. Sunday drinking. Warm and relaxed, even though the skies are streaked grey and back. Outward respectability when a storm is brewing."

Saturday's Child
by Ray Banks
(Polygon, 2006)

This one comes with Secret Dead Blog's highest recommendation. And while it's been available in the UK for a while now, Saturday's Child makes its American hardcover debut today. Yes, today. Get your arse to a bookseller, stat.

Hardboiled Fridays!

"The short guy came up at him from under the pole lamp. With one swift, slashing movement, he neutralized the nerve endings in both of Daredevil's legs, from the knees down. As his legs buckled Daredevil came forward and met the man's nose straight on with a right. He could hear the prod fly out of the little lock picker's grasp as the man toppled over backward onto the pole lamp."

Stan Lee Presents The Marvel Superheroes
edited by Lein Wein and Marv Wolfman
(Pocket, 1979)

Secret Dead Blog Recommends: Shoot 'Em Up

Just watched this tonight, and damned if writer/director Michael Davis didn't sit down and make a list of all of the cool things you could do with guns in an action movie, cut 'em out, rearrange 'em, then come up with a storyline that (sort of) links 'em all together. But I don't care that the storyline is shaky, because this is one pretty amazing list of things you can do with guns in an action movie. We've got gunplay during sex. Gunplay in a whorehouse. Gunplay mid-air. Gunplay with moving vehicles. Gunplay at childbirth. Gunplay above a death metal club. Gunplay with parachutes. Gunplay in an ice cream parlor. Gunplay in a gun warehouse. Gunplay with diaper changing tables. Gunplay with carrots. Motherfucking gunplay on the motherfucking plane.

And on top of all that, Shoot 'Em Up gives us the apex, the zenith, the peak, the ne plus ultra of gunplay:

Gunplay with Paul Giamatti.

Of course I loved it.

Deceptively... Deceptive

The Bride has discovered Jessica Seinfeld's Deceptively Delicious, the art of hiding healthy and nutritious ingredients in ordinary meals. And by "healthy and nutritious," I mean stuff I haven't voluntarily consumed since 1984 or so. (Namely, vegetables and/or any form of plant vegetation.)

Sounds like a positive thing right? Uh uh. There's an extremely sadistic side to this practice, and it is this: the reveal.

And by that I mean the moment, after the meal been consumed, when the Bride reveals the hidden ingredient(s) I've just consumed.

Wholesome chicken nuggets? She put something called "flaxseed" and sweet potatoes in there. Your basic mac and cheese? Shit's got fucking cauliflower in it.

I drew the line at dessert, which was allegedly a chocolate chip cookie.

"What's in it."

"Just eat it."

"I need to know what's in it."

"Just eat it."

"Tell me what's in it."

"Just eat it."

I ate a nibble.

"There are ants in here, aren't there!"

"No ants."

"Cockroaches? I swear, I felt something pop in my mouth."

"Nope."

"Grubworms? Maggots?*"

"Oh just eat your cookie."

So thanks Jessica Seinfeld. Thanks a fucking lot. You've turned supper into a goddamned Agatha Christie novel.

(* They were actually garbonzo beans. Or so the Bride claims.)

Secret Dead Blog Recommends: The Joe Pitt Casebooks

It's become a ritual for me. Christmas Day, open up a Barnes & Noble or Borders Gift Card. December 26, get my ass to a Barnes & Noble or Borders to pick up the latest Joe Pitt Casebook.

Joe Pitt, of course, is Charlie Huston's vampire PI. I know, I know. Sounds like a thousand other books that take a supernatural character (say, a witch, or a wizard, or Anderson Cooper), dress him/her up in a fedora, strap a gun to his/her sides, and nudge 'em out into a Gritty Yet Fantastical Urban Environment. And somehow, this mystical PI manages to save the world from an invasion of orcs, or something.

That ain't Joe Pitt.

Because Joe Pitt lives in New York. Yes, the real New York. He's got real New York problems. He's got people constantly trying to fuck with him. And forget trying to save the planet from mystical creatures; most of the time, he's trying like hell to avoid his ass getting beat to death. In the latest installment, Half the Blood of Brooklyn, Pitt shares his fondest wish:

Rogue.

Alone.

God, I want it.

God, I want to be alone. Please let me be alone. Leave me alone. Don't ask me for anything. I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want to think about anyone else anymore. I'm no good at it.

It's a sentiment I totally get. And see, that's the appeal of Joe Pitt, and the world he inhabits. It's our world, with the same bullshit problems of money and political in-fighting and turf wars and ideological battles... only, with the extra layer of vampirism—here, caused by a blood-bourne "vyrus"—to raise the stakes. (Like I could resist that?)

If you're a Charlie Huston fan, but haven't dipped into the Pitts because of the supernatural stuff... just get over it. They're as brutal and brilliant as his straight crime novels. And that means they're as brutal and brilliant as it gets.