California Wrap (Up)

I was much too jet-lagged to post last night. The Bride and Brood picked me up from the airport, and then I readjusted to Philly time, namely by eating a cheesesteak. (I'm not making that up.)

But that doesn't mean I didn't have a bright, hot, sunny blast at the L.A. Times Festival of Books. Saturday morning started at Rite-Aid. Gischler bought a fetching little striped pen; Doolittle bought sunscreen, as well as a horror double feature DVD for $3.99 that included two movies nobody ever heard of. (For barely two bucks a movie, how can you go wrong?) Soon, we had parked and started the long march to Dickson Plaza at UCLA, the heart of the action.

To reach Dickson Plaza, however, one must ascend the "Janss Steps." Calling these steps, however, is misleading, for they seem to extend right up to where Earth's atmosphere begins to thin. These are not steps; this is a motherfucking ziggurat. And it was hot. Did I mention how hot it was? Seriously hot. I can still feel the cells on my cheeks transmogrifying into skin cancer.

Once I started breathing normally again, it was time to enjoy the festivities. It didn't take long to start seeing familiar faces, which I will namedrop here, in no particular order: Christa Faust, Robert Gregory Brown, Brett Battles, Laura Lippman, Jason Starr, Reed Coleman, Jim Fusilli, Peter Spiegelman, Nathan Walpow (who, I learned, once had a bit part on Sledge Hammer), Daniel Woodrell, Megan Abbott, Robert Crais, Robert Ward, Aldo Calcagno, Don Winslow, Michael Connelly, Tod Goldberg, Will Beall, John Shannon, Jerry Stahl, Craig Johnson, Anthony Rainone, Ben LeRoy, Michael Connelly... and I'm probably forgetting a half dozen people.

Most surreal moment (honorable mention): Standing near a burger tent riffing on anal-themed crime novels with Faust, Browne, Battles, Gischler and Doolittle (e.g., Kiss Anal Goodbye.) Faust started it. I swear.

Most surreal moment (first place): Toward the end of the signing session at the Mystery Bookstore booth--and this was around 5:45 p.m., so everyone's a little punchy--I spy this gaggle of blonde California teenaged girls. In front of me is my book, The Blonde. How can I resist?

"Hey, girls," I said. "I named this book after you."

One girl approached the table. I half-expected her to say: Shut! Up!

Instead, she said:

"I don't read."

Naturally. Which was why she was hanging out at a book festival.

Meanwhile, one of her friends stared at my name on the book. "How do you pronounce that?"

I pronounced it.

"What?" she said.

I pronounced it again.

"Huh?"

I smiled. "It's Polish for Smith."

Then she looked at me, then looked at her friends, and said:

"I'm going to marry him just so that I can have a cool name like that."

Then my would-be underaged California trophy wife walked away from the table... without purchasing a book. Hell of a way to start a romance, sweetheart. Hell of a way.

Live from the LAT Festival of Books

It's about 7:20 a.m., California time, but because my Polish ass is still on Philly time, I'm wide awake. (Was wide awake, actualy at 3:30 and 5:37, too.)

I'm typing this at from the lobby at the Westwood on Wilshire. Gischler and Doolittle are presumably still crashed out upstairs. We had a blast last night--first, at the Mystery Bookstore's booze-soaked shindig, followed by dinner in a fancy joint a few blocks away where a literal gang of us (including Jason Starr, Jim Pascoe, Aldo Calcagno, Robert Gregory Brown, Brett Battles, Mark Haskell Smith, Stephen Blackmoore) dined in a private room that sort of looked like a cage. I am sure this was no accident. You get a bunch of crime writers in your fine eating establishment, you take every precaution.

Unwilling to call it a night, Gischler and Doolittle managed to break into the locked pool area of the Westwood, where they smoked cigars and I kind of stared off into the distance, still in shock that I'd been up so damn long. Good times.

Anyway, not sure how much I'm going to be able to update, but I will when I can. Got a bunch of signings today--at 11 a.m., 3 p.m. and 5 p.m. (California time). If I'm not asleep by 7 it will be a miracle.

Post-Edgars, Pre-L.A.

Well, you've probably heard by now that Bill Crider didn't win an Edgar for "Cranked," his much-lauded Damn Near Dead story. However, Bill's Lone Star-style tie was the hit of the Edgars Banquet. And the award for Best Short Story did go to Charles Ardai, a good friend of Secret Dead Blog. So that was nice.

The highlight of the night for me was shaking hands with Donald Westlake (a.k.a. Richard Stark), a longtime hero of mine. I didn't totally fanboy out, but I came close. Thank God for Sarah Weinman, who not only managed to get Westlake's attention for me, but also kept the conversation going when the only word in my head was darrrrrrrrr....

But there's no rest for the starstruck. Today I'm headed out west for the L.A. Times Festival of Books, and tomorrow I'll be at the Crime Time Books booth with Victor Gischler, followed by the Book 'Em Mysteries booth at 3 p.m., and finally the Mystery Bookstore booth at 5 p.m., with both Gischler and Sean Doolittle. If you're at the festival, definitely stop by and say "yo."

Gearing up for the L.A. Times Festival of Books

Here's Diamond Dave to put you in the mood!

(With a nod to The Gischler.)