Damn Near Sexy

Today's New York Times Sunday Styles section has a neat piece about "the graying of naughty." But when it comes to writing about senior citizen porn, it must be said that Laura Lippman was there first. (Writing about it, people, writing about it.) Real-life porn star De'Bella has nothing on Mona from Laura's "Femme Fatale," which appeared earlier this year in Damn Near Dead.

DND, by the way, just received the "Book of the Year" nod from the Murder and Mystery Books 101 blog. I couldn't more thrilled. Huge congrats to every contributor. What's really gratifying is that every reviewer who writes about Damn Near Dead highlights different stories, which tells me that this anthology truly has something for everybody. Even people who dig elderly porn stars.

Again, let's give a standing O to David Thompson, the mind behind this Alzheimer's-addled madness.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to lock my office door and cue up Cocoon.

Year End Review(s)

Sorry Secret Dead Blog's been quiet lately. It's not that I've been swimming in oodles of free time thanks to holidays. Quite the opposite. You see, newspaper editors do have days off, such as Christmas and New Year's. But a day off only means you have to cram five days of work into four, which makes things pretty damn interesting on deadline day (Tuesday). Add to that a steady stream of visiting relatives and random toy assembly (Secret Dead Blog's... er, I mean, Santa's hands are still bruised and cut from assembling a certain toy train table), and there's not much time left for this joint. Again, my bad.

I've been especially neglectful in mentioning some of the really kind praise The Blonde has received lately.

Most recently, award-winning sci-fi writer (and wildly popular blogger) John Scalzi included The Blonde in a list of "Books to Spend Your Gift Cards On." The Scalzi Effect is not to be trifled with; I noticed that within mere hours of his posting, my Amazon rating shot up. Not that I check it obsessively, or anything. (Huge thanks, John.)

A few weeks ago, Marshal Zeringue, who runs the Campaign for the American Reader website, pled his case for writing The Blonde screenplay adaptation.

Meanwhile, J. Kingston Pierce, over at The ever-awesome Rap Sheet, named The Blonde as one of his Top 10 picks of 2006. God bless you, Jeff.

And look! So did Bobby McCue at The Mystery Bookstore in L.A.!

As did Scott Mongtomery, also at The Mystery Bookstore! (Thank God these guys didn't compare notes beforehand.) Especially cool is the fact that Damn Near Dead also made his Top 10.

Elsewhere, Mystery News's James Clar gave The Blonde such an outstanding review, I'm still drooling over myself in slack-jawed shock. He also awarded the book five quills, which means "must-read" in Mystery News-speak. You can read a simulcast of the review right here. I've never met Mr. Clar, but I think I owe him something expensive and shiny.

And a big hug and a huge bottle of expensive-ass wine goes to Ruth Jordan, who made me blush when I read her review of The Blonde in the most recent Crimespree.

(That's not to say that Mr. Clar wouldn't receive a hug. As I said, I've never met him. I don't want to presume.)

How did I forget to link to the awesome interview Sandra Ruttan did with me at Spinetingler? I should be horse-whipped. With a horse.

Ditto for forgetting to link to John McFetridge's funny and thoughtful take on The Blonde. I do believe that books should speak for themselves, but man, did John really nail it.

And last, but not leastly, The Killer Year Blog mentioned The Blonde during its long week of recommended reads. Though in full disclosure, the book was was recommended by my good friend and mentee, Dave White. And I do have a hazy memory of slipping him a twenty and an Amstel Light while mumbling something about "a mention on the Killer Year blog." But I'm sure he meant it anyway.

Okay, enough of this self-strokeage. Tune in tomorrow for a special "Swierczy '07 Preview," which will include an exciting announcement. It will shock you. Or at least, it will shock John Rickards.

The Wheelman: A Trailer

This morning I told Allan "Sunshine" Guthrie that I'd been transferring family Christmas videos to DVD using iMovie. (Hey, it's a festive way to kill time until the Polish food is ready.) Sunshine said something like, "Why don't you do a trailer for one of your books?" Friggin'Sunshine. I spent the next hour or so composing a mini-soundtrack (using Garage Band), pulling odd bits of video and photos together, writing copy, and editing. The result is serious amateur hour, and the titles are blurry as fuck, but it does have a funky charm to it. Sort of.

And check out the cameo from a certain famous crime writer...



How are you spending your Christmas Eve? (Don't worry. My Polish ass will be assembling toys in a matter of hours.)

What Critics Are Saying About Graham Powell's CrimeSpot.Net

"Dude, it puts the 'great' in 'aggregator.' Or something like that." --Richard Inabox, Creative Sex Drive Webzine

"I love how posts are sometimes like, 5,487 weeks old. It's instant pure sweet nostalgia." --Mark Foley, Pageturners.Com

"What's particularly satisfying is how some CrimeSpot blurbs don't have headlines, and there's no way to click through to read the actual post. And now if you'll excuse me, I have to reach for the boughs laden with luscious fruit, hanging just above my head." --Tantalus, GreekMythTortureBlog.com

"I don't look a fucking thing like Duane Swierczynski." --Raymond Burr

"[Shrugs]." --Jack Reacher

"Okay, let's face it--Graham Powell has done us all a solid by spending serious time and bandwidth on our nerdy mystery blogs. We should all buy him a drink. Or give him a round of applause. Even though I'm still sore about the Raymond Burr thing." --Secret Dead Blog

Thank you for CrimeSpot, Mr. Powell. Good show, indeed.

Grind Over Matter

The official trailer for Grindhouse, the Quentin Tarantino/Robert Rodriguez horrorfest--and my absolute must-see flick of 2007--premiered at Yahoo today. Check it in blood-splattered, high-def Quicktime for optimal viewing pleasure. I am so fucking in line for this movie, it's not even funny. I hope it doesn't open on The Bride's birthday, or anything. Because even though I love her with all my heart... c'mon, it's Grindhouse.

A Question for the Ladies

Informal poll: How many of you think that -- after this latest SNL viral video has bored its way into his brain -- you'll catch your boyfriend/husband/significant other up late on Christmas Eve, hacking away at an empty gift-wrapped box with an X-acto knife?



(Thanks to Jeff "Double True" Shelby for the tip. Er, I mean suggestion.)

The Dark Side of Rocky, with Apologies to Charlie Williams

Here in Philadelphia we've gone Rocky-wacky. The big premiere was last night at the Prince Theater near Broad and Chestnut, and Sly Stallone was on hand to pose for endless photos and even take a dash up the Art Museum steps. But a little over a year ago, before Rocky Balboa was announced, on a hot August afternoon, I visited 1818 Tusculum Street, the little afterthought of a block that served as Rocky's home in the original.

And man, were neighbors bitter:

Up at the corner, near 1818, there's a beefy man in a red and blue sports jersey. "Rocky's a bum," he says. "All the money he made, he should have fixed the neighborhood."

Here's the complete story. (Photo by Michael T. Regan.)

Severance Package: The Abridged Version

My dear BFF, Christin Kuretich, says she enjoys my novels. But one day, she admitted that they're... well, a little too gory for her. So I promised that I'd send an abridged version of my next book so that she can enjoy it without reaching for the sick bag. Here then, for the very first time, is the complete text of my next novel, Severance Package, not due to be published until Fall 2007 at the earliest, with all of the bloody stuff edited out. Enjoy!

Severance Package

(The Christin Kuretich Edit)

by Duane Swierczynski


The

and

or... but

therefore

sunlight

Chainsaw

building

"Oh, wow, those are some seriously ripe oranges, my friend," she said, as she

The

Or

However

"In light of this fact, I think our best move would be to...."

The exploding pickle complete drenched his...

Actually

The fact is

The

The

and

"I never knew a human heart could look like that."

And they all jumped on the trampoline, their spirits soaring, wondering if it was time yet to serve the cotton candy--the big, hot, fluffy pink sugar-coated dreamsnack of their collective futures. "Let's draw pictures, too!" she said, smiling.

THE END

Another Favorite 80s Pop Song Couplet

I only smile when I lie
Then I'll tell you why

--"Kiss On My List," Hall and Oates

Two Hard Men, Sitting in a Tree

I've been interviewed a handful of times. But Mike Kowalski, the shadowy-yet-loveable assassin from The Blonde, has never had the pleasure. That all changed this week over at Hard Man, the strange new blog from Gallan "Sunshine" Uthrie. Or his main man, Pearce. Or maybe both. Maybe Sunshine is Pearce. Or they're dating. Someday, well have this all sorted out. Until then, enjoy the Jacobean insanity.

(P.S. Oh, Pearce? Kowalski told me to tell you that he's going to snap you in half like kindling wood. Hey, I'm just the messenger.)

Theresa Schwegel Revealed!

Get yer mind out of the gutter. I'm talking about a member of the DHS Family here. Imagine my joy when I opened up iTunes this evening to find a brand new installment of Behind The Black Mask: Mystery Writers Revealed downloading itself, and featuring none other than Theresa "T" Schwegel! Don't be the only uncool kid on the block not checking out this interview. (For a direct download, click right here.) And while you're at it, pick up a copy of Entertaniment Weekly, which gives props to T's latest, Probable Cause, in the books section. Which I haven't read yet. Because somebody, oh, I'm not going to name names here (cough cough T cough cough) hasn't, like, maybe sent her favorite Polish sibling an ARC or anything. But it's all good. I'll be making my way to pick up my own copy like the rest of the masses...

The Blonde: The Prologue You've Never Seen

Previously on Secret Dead Blog, I talked about the prologue to The Blonde, and how my editor urged me to cut it. Now, with the gift of hindsight, I see that he was absolutely right. The book opens as it should, with the blonde telling Jack Eisley: "I poisoned your drink."

Still, for shits and giggles, I thought I'd post the original prologue here. It doesn't spoil anything. Doesn't really add anything either. It's just a bloody little opening to a bloody little novel.

(One irony: Laura Lippman convinced me that prologues, generally speaking, suck, and that I should cut this. Little did she know that I named a character after her, and she appears... you guessed it. In the cut prologue. Sorry!)


The hotel door snicked shut.

Smith didn’t know it, but he had ten seconds to live.

He was thinking how thankful he was she’d left on her own. No awkward moments. Which was good, considering they’d shared a series of them last night. He put his fingers to his temples.

Nine seconds.

Already, the hangover. Mixing too much last night. First oversized tumblers of Polish vodka with ice in the airport bar, so finely distilled it tastes like water. Beers to maintain pace and three fingers of scotch whiskey to rev it up again and then another vodka here, from room service at the hotel, too, because then she’d been hungry for flipped eggs…

Eight seconds.

Really bad fucking headache. Smith sat up and swung his feet out from under the covers. The air conditioning was on full-blast in here. Didn’t help his head. He needed warm humid air. Why did he bring her back here? What had he been thinking?

Seven seconds.

He imagined her naked body—dirty thoughts had a way of beating away the pain. But it didn’t work this time. It was still there. Behind his eyes. Stabbing more than a bit. And here he was, due to give the city of Milwaukee a song and dance about why his little boutique firm should be awarded the opportunity to redesign the municipal website…

Six.

… oh, and look at the fucking time. In less than an hour. Smith tasted the inside of his mouth, bit his tongue when the twisting in his brain intensified.

Five.

Motrin. Now. Four. Five. Six capsules. Get it working. Get this blinding pain out of his skull. Was this a hangover? It couldn’t be…

Four.

Up, up, up. Nearly tripped over his laptop bag on the way to the bathroom, which was on the floor, next to the silver tray and yolk-stained plate. Fuck, something was wrong…

Three.

A vision in the mirror: his own face, but through a wall of water. The tears in his eyes. The vice around his head, squeezing squeezing squeezing…

Two

Unbearable.

one

What would Laura think when they found him like this?

Laura.

Blood spurted from his nose and the wall of water turned red and the last thing Smith saw was a river of gushing red from his open mouth, splashing the sink and splattering upwards and there was a tap in his mind and up until this point it had been a trickle but then someone turned it up real high…

Editor's Letter: Life, Mystery and Crime

(Simulcast at www.citypaper.net.)

"Pass me that book, under the Matthew Pearls."

It was a trade paperback with a thin layer of dust on top. The Quaker City, by George Lippard.

"Ever hear of this?"

I shook my head.

"Ooh, you're going to like this guy."

I was having a beer with my friend Ed Pettit, a reviewer and blogger. I'm a book nerd; Ed is a hardcore book nerd. You know how in high school, some nerds would hang out with even bigger nerds to make them feel like less of a nerd? This is why I like hanging out with Ed.

The Quaker City's full title is The Quaker City; or, the Monks of Monk Hall: A Romance of Philadelphia Life, Mystery and Crime. Don't let the "romance" bit throw you. As Ed explained, The Quaker City is a lurid tour of Philadelphia vice circa 1845, and it's full of not only lusty monks, ghouls and gore, but also has scathing critiques of the Philadelphia elite and the political system. (You can read a complete copy online here.) "Shall we elevate the Devil along Chestnut Street?" one character asks, "or shall we subside quietly to our homes?"

The Quaker City is all but forgotten today.

However, when it was published in 1844, Lippard's novel was wildly popular, not just here but across the country, Ed tells me. Bootleg copies started turning up in Europe. Lippard himself, in a preface to a later edition of the book, wrote: "Shall I tell how it has been praised — how abused — how it has on one hand been cited as a work of great merit, and on the other, ... denounced as the most immoral work of the age?" If a young nation had a Stephen King, it would have been Lippard.

Yet, like The Quaker City, Lippard is all but forgotten today.

Philly has this weird tendency to ignore its own sons. Lippard, a police reporter, dramatist and novelist, doesn't deserve to be remembered just for his gothic Philly potboilers. You know that old story about the Liberty Bell being rung so much on July 4, 1776, that it cracked? It's not true — and don't let any tour guide tell you otherwise. It originated in a Lippard novel about the Revolutionary War. (Lippard also saved his friend, Edgar Allan Poe, from being homeless a number of times.)

Lippard was also a die-hard social justice crusader; if he were around these days, he'd no doubt be protesting the casinos along with the rest of the "Philadelphia Phourteen" (see Loose Canon). There was plenty to set Lippard off. His Philadelphia was full of murders, political scandals and flagrant abuse of the poor. In fact, Lippard writes that he was inspired to write The Quaker City out of fear of the conditions in his native city:

I was the only Protector of an Orphan Sister. I was fearful that I might be taken away by death, leaving her alone in the world. I knew too well that law of society which makes a virtue of the dishonor of a poor girl.

I read those lines and thought of Brian Hickey 's cover story this week, "Disposable Lives." Hickey spent a week in Atlantic City talking to the people who knew the four murdered hookers who have been grabbing headlines for the past month. And what Lippard feared would happen to his sister is exactly what happened, Hickey reveals, to those four dead mothers. The setting is different, but Lippard's "law of society" rings true, more than 160 years later.

So do the political scandals. And God knows, so do the murders.

Lippard died young — at age 32. His photo is shockingly contemporary. Take away the 1840s gear, put him in a tight black T-shirt and a pair of thick black glasses and he could be living in Port Richmond right now.

He's buried in Lawnview Cemetery in Rockledge, about 10 minutes away from where Ed and I sat, drinking beer, talking about his life and work.

Ed was right. I like this guy.

My Favorite 80s Pop Song Couplet

A singer in a smoky room
The smell of wine and cheap perfume

--"Don't Stop Believin'," Journey

Peter Boyle (1935-2006)

Younger folks (i.e., people Dave White's age) probably remember him as Frank Barone on Everybody Loves Raymond. But to me, Peter Boyle will always be The Monster from Young Frankenstein, the first movie I ever saw. (I was two years old.) It's still one of my favorites. And I have a poseable Monster/Peter Boyle doll sitting on a bookshelf at home in front of my Richard Matheson collection.

Boyle died this morning at New York Presbyterian Hospital.

I met Boyle exactly once: the day I graduated from college. We're both La Salle University alumns, and in an incredible stroke of good luck, Boyle was on hand for the ceremony. Not only that, but he personally handed out the diplomas to everybody who'd earned a communication degree. I took the pigskin, shook Peter Boyle's hand, and thought, Wow. Life has come full circle. I was too dumbstruck to say anything meaningful. And there were people lined up behind me. But I'll never forget that moment.

(Thanks to Mr. Pettit for the tip.)

From Maggie Griffin

If I had seen this earlier, this would have been the Christmas card I'd send this year. (If I sent Christmas cards.) I wish I'd thought of this when I was 10.

Even Ambition Dies

Today marked the last official stop of the Blonde Ambition Tour 2006. (Granted, there are a few stops in early 2007, but not many.) This afternoon found me manning a table at the Barnes & Noble in Willow Grove, Pa., right next to the Holiday Books display and across from the oversized Gift Books display. Facing me, specifically, was the big-ass U2 gift book. After a while, Bono really started to creep me out.

But huge thanks to everyone who stopped by, said hello and bought a book, including Lois, Matt K. (who drove in from Jim Thorpe, Pa., winning the Secret Dead Blog Long Distance Dedication Award), Drew, Maeve, Christine, Marie, Demian, Stephanie, and the guy who insisted that Marilyn Monroe and Britney Spears were sex slaves of the U.S. government, and that the war between humanity and extraterrestrials would be coming to a head in the near future.

Nobody asked me where the bathroom was, which is a marked improvement over last year. A nice Japanese lady did ask me if my book was a love story, to which I replied: "Yes, only with exploding heads." She laughed, after an awkward moment or two.

Geez--what do you tour after a tour is more or less over?

Oh yeah. That's right. Get back to work on another book.

Which I am.

This Week's Editor's Letter: Pulp Faction

From a series of e-mails to my book editor, kicking around ideas for my next crime novel:

To: Marc
From: Duane

Thanks for your notes on The Crackhead. I think it'll do even better than The Blonde. Who doesn't love crack — especially around the holidays?

Okay, so the next one. I'm thinking of going more realistic with this one. The working title: The Streets. Picture this: The mayor of the fifth largest city in America is dogged by accusations of pay-to-play shenanigans. The feds come down like a college sophomore on frat house date. We've got indictments. Wiretaps. Jail terms handed out like Pez from a Patrick Meehan dispenser. But somehow, the mayor stays clean — not even the tiniest microbe of mud hits the guy.

Then one day, the mayor's own brother ... the guy who helped him up through the political machine since their humble early days ... a simple hot dog salesman ... is nailed by the feds, too! For income tax evasion! On lucrative city contracts! And the kicker is, the mayor is actually clean, but nobody will believe him.

What do you think?

To: Duane

I like the city corruption angle, but what do you mean the mayor is clean? His administration sounds like it's dirtier than Britney Spears' passenger seat. No way people will believe that he's innocent.

Thought you said you were going for realism here?

To: Marc

What if I include this scene where the mayor goes before the city and says something like, "I don't believe any opportunity he got, he got because of his relationship with me. I think he got it because he earned it." A real tear-jerker scene, you know? Inspire the city, a la Billy Ray Valentine, etc.

To: Duane

Let me get this straight. The brother of the guy in charge of the city has all kinds of lucrative deals with the city, and the guy in charge of the city doesn't know about it?

To: Marc

Look, I know you're having trouble with this idea, so I went ahead and wrote a treatment of The Streets. (See attached file.) I think you'll see the potential after you take a look.

(Also: Did I mention that the mayor's brother also runs a successful tour company with giant vehicles that can drive on land and sea? Think about what Bruckheimer could do with that!)

To: Duane

Read your treatment. Interesting. Especially the epic land/sea battle between the duck boats. Torching the Ben Franklin Bridge may have been a bit much, but we can discuss that later.

But I still think The Streets has serious suspension of disbelief issues. You really think readers will swallow:

• The big concert scene, with Bono and Snoop Dogg, where the mayor's brother receives the minority contract to run the food carts, and the mayor says he didn't have anything to do with that?

• That the mayor's brother sells hot dogs and runs a fleet of giant amphibious vehicles?

• The scene where the brother shrugs his shoulders and says, "I am the worst record keeper in the history of modern man"? At least give the man a plausible alibi here.

• And your new soliloquy, where the mayor addresses the city and says: "My brother's business dealings are his own affair ... I can assure the people of this city that my brother has not received any unfair advantage from my administration"? Dude, c'mon. His last name is the same as the mayor's. Of course people are going to treat him differently, thinking they have an inroad to the mayor's office. Can your mayor acknowledge this? He's acting like he met his own brother on the subway one night.

Maybe it'd be best if you focused on Blonde 2: Die Job.

To: Marc

Yeah, I kind of see your point. I maintain readers in Philly would totally get it.

No worries, though. I've already started work on the next one. The working title: Nobody Ever Dies in Philadelphia.

If Only All Disney Movies Could Be This Good

Here We Go Again

Now it's Augusten "Running With Scissors" Burroughs being accused of making shit up in his memoirs, according a piece in next week's Vanity Fair by Buzz Bissinger. (Bissinger, by the way, knows from his phonies--he wrote the story about New Republic fabricator Stephen Glass that was adapted into the excellent Shattered Glass.)

Say it out loud: If you want to embellish your life with fiction, publish it as a "novel." It worked for me with Secret Dead Men!

Lost in the Village and Other Updates

I had prepared a lengthy and insightful post about my trip to New York on Saturday, but my bodyguard/handler/mentee Dave "Giamatti" White beat me to the punch with this fast and loose account. Now I feel that I should not bother. Read Dave's instead.

But a few points to add, and a few bits of writing-related goodness:

* On Saturday I learned that The Mysterious Bookshop is starting a hardboiled mystery discussion group in January, and their very first pick is The Wheelman. This is completely fucking cool. You can take Oprah. Give me Otto.

* Maggie Griffin, for the record, writes the best shelf-talkers in the business.

* Dave White came very close to becoming mystery fiction's WORST HANDLER EVER but redeemed himself with five minutes to spare.

* You're the man, Charlie Stella. Thank you.

* Jason Pinter looks like he could be a cousin of mine.

* Sean Doolittle and I were on the same island, yet failed to meet up. This is a crime. I blame Dave White for getting me lost in the West Village.

* Am I one of the few mystery authors lucky enough to meet Bonnie's mother twice? I might be.

* If Sarah Weinman had been with us, we wouldn't have gotten lost.

* The Houston Chronicle showed some love to The Blonde, calling it "brilliantly paced insanity." Much like my life.

* GumshoeReview.com seemed to enjoy The Blonde, too, but had problems with my nanotechnology, calling it "magic science." Guilty as charged. My stuff is much closer to Alias's Rambaldi Device than Michael Crichton's nanites. (Come to think of it, I used to write my first horror stories in high school science class when I should have been paying attention.)

* If I had paid more attention in science class, I might have been able to navigate us out of the West Village with the aid of the moon.

Oh, Baby

Guns. Giamatti. Is there really anything else you need?

The Blonde Takes Manhattan

The Blonde Ambition Tour is winding down, and tomorrow finds me in Manhattan, doing drop-in signings at the three coolest mystery bookshops in town. Noon, I'll be hanging with Bonnie and Joe at Black Orchid (303 East 81st Street). Dave "Mentee, The Freshmaker!" White will be there as well, acting as my bodyguard/handler. (Not that I need handling.) Around three, I'll be at the Mysterious Bookshop (58 Warren Street), still mourning the loss of the Westlake-assembled bookselves. And by five I'll be at Partners & Crime (44 Greenwich Avenue), hanging with Maggie Griffin. So if you're anywhere near Manhattan tomorrow afternoon, stop on by and say hello. I know--I'm no draw, but there are some rumors of special guests along the way, including a certain Idiosyncratic One. A Cleanup Man. A Man in Black. Maybe even a Thrilling Detective.