Happy New Year, Buddy Boy

Today's the first day I've felt relatively human since Christmas morning; I think the flu is gone. And just in time to say goodbye to the year gone by. The Bride and I don't have anything special planned--we never do. I used to play in a bar band, and all throughout high school and college and well into my 20s, every single New Year's Eve was spoken for. And I always hated that. It's one night you're supposed to be with the ones you love, not worrying that some drunk is going to puke on your keyboard. So ever since getting married, the Bride and I have observed the same, possibly lame, routine: lay in the champagne. The cheese and crackers. A good movie. (Often, The Apartment, which is one of our all-time favorites.) And just hang out. Maybe get a little friendly.

New Year's Eve is also a time to look back at the year gone by. And while it's been a tremendously shitty one internationally (tsumanis, hurricanes, the continued tyranny of George W. Bush), it's been outstanding personally. I watched a lifelong dream--publishing a novel--come true twice. I've spent the past year working a dream job: editing a weekly newspaper. Every day, I watched our kids become smarter, taller and absolutely more beautiful by the day.

I'm especially thankful for--and yeah, I know, this is going to completely ruin my hardboiled rep, but screw it--the people who've filled this year with acts of kindness that still make my heart ache. I won't embarass you all by listing your names. You know who you are. (Yes, Dave, I mean you, too.)

So to all Secret Dead Blog readers everywhere: In the coming year, may all of your heists be large. And may no one leave you a dye pack.

Here's to 2006. Six years in, and nobody's come up with a good nickname for the decade yet.

Down With the Sickness

Two reasons you haven't heard much out of Secret Dead Blog lately: 1.) the usual pre-holiday madness, and 2.) the fact that I woke up Christmas morning with the flu. Ho ho ho, indeed. It's not so much that I hate the physical discomfort (though chills and headaches and nausea is nobody's idea of a good time). It's that I feel so friggin' unproductive while I'm sick. I'm unable to write more than a few sentences. I can't read any type of fiction -- I must have picked up and put down a dozen books in the past two days. I can't even listen to music, since anything louder than crickets having sex makes my head hurt.

But fear not: I'm sure I'll recover soon, and I'll be able to do a real end-of-the-year post. And if not... well, hey, those copies of Wheelman you bought will become slightly more valueable.

One final question, though. I keep seeing this bright white light, and hearing voices of my dead relatives beckoning to me. Should I go towards the light, or have another ginger ale?

The Only Time This Has Ever Happened

Today the Bride called Szypula's, the Polish bakery in Port Richmond, to pre-order our Christmas babkas and rye breads. They asked her for a name, she told them, and as usual, started to spell it: "S as in Sam, W, I..." But the person on the other end of the line cut her short. "We got it." Righteous!

I Really, Really Can't Go Home Again

Faithful Secret Dead Blog readers will remember my post from last week when I discovered that two alleged members of a large-scale drug ring, arrested in July, lived on the same block where I grew up.

About 30 minutes ago, I read a news story in the Northeast Times that almost made beer come out of my nose.

Those two alleged drug dealers? Michel Vargas, 22, and Maritzel Colon, 19? The ones who were allegedly part of a ring that pushed $227,000 worth of heroin per week?

Um, they lived IN MY HOUSE. 4738 Darrah Street, shown above, in happier, gentler times, circa 1974. (It's the one with the guy in the doorway. I think that's my grandfather.)

Yes, that's right; a quick call to my mom confirmed it: Vargas was the guy who bought the house from them back in summer 2002.

Just to recap, in case you weren't paying attention: My parents sold our house to a pair of (alleged) drug dealers.

They didn't know of course. Mr. Vargas, I'm sure, seemed like a nice guy. Who was to know that they'd be part of an organization that would... again, allegedly... go on to sell hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of coke in the first half of 2005?

Still, it's a bit of a mind-fuck to learn that the house you grew up in, took your first steps in, read your first books in, wrote your first stories in, felt up your first girlfriend in (sorry, Mom) would be the future home of people who may have spent their days stuffing horse into tiny plastic envelopes.

Guess I found an idea for my column next week...

A Plate Full of Heart Attacks and Other Wild Texas Adventures with Brewer and Thompson

The plane back to Philly was delayed, but only by 45 minutes. And thanks to a decent headwind, we touched down not too long after the scheduled arrival time. However, as predicted, I did end up taking one plane, two trains (R1 and the R8) and one automobile (the Bride and the Brood, picking me up from the station) to get home. I did not have to bed down with an oversized shower curtain ring salesman who mistook my ass for a pair of pillows.

But back to Houston.... my biggest shock was stepping out of Bush Intercontinental Airport and feeling an icy wind slash right though me. I swear it was colder in Houston than Philly. You could see the stunned looks on people's faces. By the time David Thompson, publicity manager at Murder By the Book (and top dog at Busted Flush Press) picked me up, I thought I'd be the only person in Houston to ever die from exposure.

I made David promise to get me to the store early enough to do some shopping. (The Bride suspects this is the only reason I agree to do book signings in mystery shops. That's completely not true. It's just the main reason.) Before time ran out, I was able to pick up a copy of a Stark House reprint of two Day Keene novels, Framed in Guilt and My Flesh is Sweet, as well as a rare-ish British edition of Dean Koontz's Chase, Ian Rankin's Watchman, the paperback of Road to Purgatory by Max Allan Collins, and finally Bullets by Steve Brewer, my partner for that night's signing.

For an unbiased take on the event, let me steer you to this entry over at Bill Crider's place. I'm not sure how funny I was, but Steve was a riot. Just meeting him made me want to read everything with his name on it -- especially his Bubba Mabry series, the first of which (knock wood) looks like it's about to become a feature film starring Jay Mohr.

After the event, David took us to Goode's, the best seafood joint in town. Like a lemming, I ordered the same thing Steve and David ordered: fried catfish, which was pretty much a coronary on a plate. (Although I should point out that David ordered the diet version: red beans instead of french fries.) Having shaved off a few weeks from our lifespans, David and I hit the Red Lion, a low-key pub with a roaring fireplace (in Houston! A fireplace? I mean... come on. Were they expecting this cold snap when they built this place!?), where we were joined by MBTB's McKenna Jordan, who is also David's girlfriend. Another round of drinks, and David and I were besotted enough to reveal our secret 1980s TV crushes. I was shocked to learn that David took a fancy to Kim "Tootie" Fields from Facts of Life; meanwhile, I stunned David when I told him of my longtime secret passion for Nancy "Jo" McKeon. Like I said: we'd had a few to drink.

Anyway... this afternoon I'm headed down to Baltimore to take part in the final Home Invasion of the year: Laura Lippman's "Hardboiled Holiday Drop-In." I'm not sure who else will be dropping in, but I hope my beard-in-progress doesn't scare everybody. (It's Day 10; the Bride says it's coming along nicely. I think I look like a Slavic hitman fresh out of a methodone clinic.)

More later...

Six Bucks and My Right Nut Says We're Not Landing in Philadelphia

This morning I'm flying Houston for a signing with fellow bank heist author Steve Brewer at Murder By the Book. (If you happen to be in the area, by all means, stop by and say hi. Word is there will be some cold bottles of Lone Star on hand...) I'm very much looking forward to seeing David and McKenna and the gang again -- I had a blast at the store back in March. But I am a little worried about getting back tomorrow. You see, they're calling for at least five inches here in Philly, and... well, I might be looking at a Planes, Trains and Automobiles situation on the way home. Worse case, I guess I can always catch the people train out of Stubbville.

See you tomorrow. Be good to each other.

You Can't Go Home Again, Unless You Want to Score a Bag of Face-to-Face

So there I was, bright and early this morning, reading a Philadelphia Inquirer story about a drug ring in Philly that was broken up back in July. Seems these four guys, over a seven month period, allegedly sold more than $5 million worth of coke and heroin, which was sold under various brands like "Face-to-Face" and "White House" and "Versace." I read a little further and discover that two of the people arrested, 19-year-old Maritzel Colon and 22-year-old Michael Vargas, lived on the 4700 block of Darrah Street in Frankford.

I grew up on the 4700 block of Darrah in Frankford.

Nice to see that all kinds of successful professionals are coming from the old nabe.

Frankford Fever: catch it!

Pragnę się z Tobą kochać (*)

Let it never be said that the good people of Port Richmond don't know how to treat a fellow Pole. Yesterday's reading/signing/beer party/wine tasting was just fantastic. I met a ton of cool people, sold an amazing number of books, and even had time to raid Greg Gillespie's vintage paperback shelves. (More on that in a minute.)

But let me walk you through yesterday's event one step at a time. The Bride and I arrived just before 2 p.m, and I snapped this photo of the bookstore:

The building is amazing: a former theater that eventually became a hardware supply shop. "For years," co-owner Deen Kogan told me, "this was the only place you could find certain pieces." While Deen and Greg have been busy filling the place with books, they've also been selling off the former inventory. In fact, when I called the shop earlier this week, the machine says, "Port Richmond Books and Hardware."

As I mentioned yesterday, Port Richmond is the quintessential Polish neighborhood. I mean, look. Right across the street. A joint selling babkas:

Szypula's (and you thought my last name was tough) is the official rye bread and babka supplier of the Swierczynski family during the holiday season. They also donated a pound cake to the event, and it was pretty much the hit of the wine and snack room.

Yes, there was a wine and snack room. Greg's wife Meg, a professional caterer, supplied the cheese and crackers, and Italian meats and mozzarella balls, and Polish meats and spicy mustard, and pita and hummus, and plates of other goodies I don't even think I saw. Meanwhile, Tom Kelly of the Philadelphia Wine Company generously supplied bottles of his Fishtown Red and Fishtown White. And three different breweries -- Yard's, Victory and Yuengling -- donated cases upon cases of beer.

Let me give you a glimpse of the wonders within the Port Richmond Bookstore. Here's me, in the vintage paperback room, about to press my pudgy Polish palms to the beaches of Heaven...

Somehow, I found myself drawn to this room whenever I had a free moment, scanning the gloriously faded and cracked spines.

But I couldn't browse forever. Soon enough, I had to earn my beer and cheese. I had to read. And discuss. In front of people.

As it turned out, in front of a lot of people. As you'll see in the next post.

(* Loosely translated: "I want to make white hot desperate love to you.")

Chcę poznać interesującego mężczyznę (*)

When Greg Gillespie told me he expected about 25 to 30 people for this event, I confess: I thought he was being absurdly optimistic. And then when he told me he had ordered 30 copies of The Wheelman for the event, I thought to myself: Geez, I hope he doesn't mind being stuck with two dozen of those suckers. Maybe he can use them as door stops or beer coasters.

But I am a man of little faith. Because as it came time for the reading, the room quickly became standing room only. Here's a photo Lou Boxer snapped. (The beauty in the blue coat is the Bride. She's vowed never to appear on camera at Secret Dead Blog.) You can see me in the background, the panic setting in.



When it came time to start, I found myself looking at a full house. Greg had a serious amount of friends. I mean, take a look at these bright and smiling faces. I couldn't even capture it with single photo. Here's the left side of the room:

In the front row, by the way, is Steven Lee (red jacket) and Michelle Borowitz (to the right) of Heirloom Bookstore in York, Pa.

And here's the right side of the room. The Bride, in the blue L.L. Bean barn jacket, ducked her head just in time.

By the way: everyone is wearing jackets because... well, the heat isn't actually working properly in the store yet. And it was in the high 30s yesterday in Philly. But yeah, nothing's perfect. I'd still move into this store in a heartbeat.

Finally, I got down to the business of signing. And once again, I learned that I know nothing about this business, because we ran through 30 copies of The Wheelman in less than a half hour. Meg, who told me she was the Bouchercon "signing room Nazi," took care of the long green, while I put pen to paper and got busy:

That's Meg behind me. At the corner of the table is Curt Broad, who used to own Marlo Books in the Roosevelt Mall. Curt being there meant the world to me: Marlo was the bookstore I haunted as a teenager. Back then, if I came across an extra $20, it was a no-brainer: $15 of that would be spent on horror paperbacks at Marlo, and the rest would go towards a movie ticket. Curt kept a truly great and ecclectic stock of horror titles right in the middle of the store, and that's where I got my first fix of Joe Lansdale, John Skipp and Craig Spector, David Schow, Richard Matheson, Richard Christian Matheson, Dean Koontz, and everybody else who was writing horror in the late 80s. I was seriously depressed when the store closed a little more than a year ago. (Now the Roosevelt Mall is dead to me.) But I used to fantasize about signing a novel at Marlo, so having Curt there, as I signed copies, was still a boyhood dream come true.

And to his right is Julie, owner of Julie's Corner Bar just across the street. An awesome corner tap room that just screams "old man bar" in all of the right ways. I'm telling you. Port Richmond. I could live here.

After the signing, the Bride and I relaxed, and ate, and drank, and mingled, and yeah, whenever I had a chance, I went back to that vintage paperback room. The draw was too great. It beckoned to me. We stayed until 7, and I left with the best non-beer buzz I think I've ever felt.

Let me wrap up by thanking the people who made this possible just one more time: Lou Boxer, who has been an ethusiastic supporter from the beginning, and who came up with this idea. Deen Kogan and Greg Gillespie, who gave this unknown Polish kid a chance to hawk his book to their closest friends. Our beloved beer and wine sponsors -- Philadephia Wine Company, Yard's, Victory and Yuengling. And to everyone who ventured out to spend a chilly Saturday afternoon hanging out with me and the Bride.

(* Loosely translated: "I want to meet an interesting man." Oh yes, Secret Dead Blog is full of useful language lessons.)

A return to my Polish roots

A lot of Philly-area Polish families grew up in Port Richmond; I wasn't one of them. But I have a special place in my heart for this neighborhood, and its clean tidy streets and immaculate rowhomes and Polish restaurants and shops. So I'm happy to be part of the opening festivities for one of its newest businesses, Port Richmond Books, helmed by Deen Kogan and Greg Gillespie. (If you were at B'Con this past year, you saw Greg's table; it was pretty much the first thing you saw when you walked into the dealer room.)

I'll be there today at 3 p.m., reading and discussing The Wheelman, then partaking of the beer generously donated for the event by local brewers Yard's and Victory. (I love the fact that at least three stops on my book tour have had official beer sponsors. That just rules.) There will also be a wine tasting at 4, and food and good cheer all around.

If you're anywhere in the area, stop by:

Port Richmond Books
3037 Richmond Street
(215) 425-3385.

It's not far from Richmond and Allegheny. (And a bonus: the Bride will be there! Making a rare public appearance!)

I'll blog about the event later, but let me thank Greg, Deen and Lou Boxer -- who was the mastermind of this event -- in advance. They've been extremely generous, cool and supportive. They make me want to move to Port Richmond.

Due to An Unfortunate Personal Grooming Error...

... which had left me looking like a demented Amish farmer -- you know, the one Amos and Jebbediah never discuss, and try to keep hidden in that secret room behind the barn -- Project Beard has been forced to start all over again. I know, I know: the Bride is disappointed, too. (Secret Dead Blog tried to salvage the situation by crafting what was left into something resembling a goatee, but the Bride was like "Uh, no. No frickin' way." Sigh.) So starting today, December 1, Secret Dead Blog vows not to shave until January 2006. At the very earliest. We now return you to you regularly scheduled life.