It's Me, Not You. Remember That

Here's my very last City Paper editor's letter. (It's Valentine's Day, so of course it' s a breakup letter.)

What Did I Do This Morning?

Ah, nothing.

Update: Thanks for all of the good wishes, guys. But I feel like I should give this post a warning label: Kids, don't try this at home.

A little bit of history: I sold The Wheelman about a month before I took the City Paper job. (This was back in the lazy, hazy crazy days of 2004.) There, in the span of one month, two lifelong dreams came true. People would ask how I managed to do both, and I'd laugh and make some kind of wisecrack like "Well, I don't really have a social life." (Utterly true, by the way.) Lately, though, I've been lucky enough to be stumble into more opportunities. What was a fun sideline turned into a full-fledged second career. I realized that I'd eventually have to choose. And in the past week, it became clear that it was the right time to pull the trigger.

What this means is that I'll finally have the chance to give novels and comics my full attention. I want to write more than one book a year. I want to write more comics, and Marvel has been great about giving me more opportunities to do so. There are also other projects that I'm looking forward to pulling off the perpetual back burner.

And yes, God help you all, I want to blog more.

Don't get me wrong: This is a leap of faith. I didn't inherit a large sum of money, or rob a bank. To be honest, part of me is having a freakin' heart attack right now. But I also know that I would have always regretted not taking a shot when it presented itself.

So prepare for more Swierczy than you can possibly stand. And wish me luck.

Punished

Whoah... what happened? Did anybody catch the license plate of that van? Where am I? What have I been doing the last seven days? Why are my clothes covered in blood and dirt?

Yep, that's what it feels like to have deadlines run all the hell over you. Sorry for the lack of blog posts this past week; your Moments of Noir and Hardboiled Fridays and everything else will return next week.

But if you've missed the sound of me blabbering on about stuff, you could check out this Q&A I did with Steve Ekstrom over at Newsarama yesterday.

Or, read my editor's letter in this week's City Paper, in which I realize I've outlived my biological usefulness.

Um, Did I Happen to Mention That...

... this week, somebody sent the City Paper a handwritten note, threatening to kill Philly cops? And included in the envelope were two armor-piercing bullets? You can read all about it in my column this week.

City Paper's Writing Contest!

The Philadelphia City Paper just announced its 22nd annual writing contest, and I can't believe I totally forgot to mention it here on this blog. (Because, like, I'm running the damned thing.) This year, we're looking for true stories under 2,500 words. The deadline is noon on December 10; the first place winner lands the cover slot for our January 3, 2008 issue. You'll find more details right here at the official contest web page. So have Ms. Wilkes prop you up in the chair and hand you a couple of painkillers. You need to get typing, you dirty, dirty birdies.

For Love of Edgar

Mystery fans/goth nerds/teenagers who wear too much black eyeshadow... this is the City Paper you've been waiting for. Ed Pettit makes a strong case for why Edgar Allan Poe should henceforth be known as a Philadelphia writer. Meanwhile, Laura Lippman offers a hilarious rebuttal on behalf of her hometown, which currently lays claim to Mr. Poe. And you really need to click on this cover to see it in its full glory. (Yes, life at an alt-newsweekly sometimes involves having a Poe impersonator bound and dumped into the trunk of a Lincoln Town Car, down by the river, under the glow of a full moon.) Since it's our Fall Book Quarterly, you'll also find a bunch of fiction and nonfiction reviews. Dig in!

Buried and Loaded

I've been meaning to post a "Book Report" for a while now... I've read a ton of great stuff over the past few months. But until I get off my lazy Polish ass, you'll have to make do with this, my editor's letter from this week's City Paper. Therein, I discuss everyone's two favorite topics: death and taxes.

Tired of Reading? Like, Words and Stuff?

Then this week's City Paper is for you. It's our first-ever Comics Issue, featuring 16 really funny, weird, profound, crass, and otherwise mind-bending pieces of graphic goodness. We put out the call for comics entries a few months ago, and I'm absolutely thrilled with what people sent our way. Check it out, and if you're so inclined, head over here to vote for your favorite. (I won't reveal my favorite, but I crack a goofy smile every time I look at this one.)

"Sidewalk Tiger" Concludes, Plus...

Here, finally, is "Let Us Prey," the third installment of my short noir story, "Sidewalk Tiger." (You can find part 1 here, and part 2 here.) Hope it was worth the wait. I'd love to hear what you think, if you're so inclined.

But while you're over at the CityPaper.net site, be sure to check out this week's cover story, "85 Shots," by staff writers Doron Taussig and Tom Namako. Granted, I'm biased, but I think this is one of the best crime stories we've ever run. The boys hit this one right out of the park. And it's nice to have a cover like this in a week when Kate Couric and CBS News was all up in our jock, calling us a "City Under Siege." (You know what? Maybe they're right.) If you're a crime fiction fan, this story is required reading.

"Sidewalk Tiger: Stalking the Game"

Sorry for the lack of posts lately. We've been on vacation for the past week at an undisclosed location somewhere in the so-called "Delmarva" area. Fun was had. Skin was burned. Quarters were lost. (Tip to parents everywhere: If your kids win a game on a pier amusement center and one of the prizes is a plastic trumpet, do not allow your kids to choose the trumpet. Trust me on this.)

Anyway, "Stalking the Game," which is part two of my noir short story, "Sidewalk Tiger," appeared yesterday in the City Paper. You'll find it right here. (And Part 1 is here.) Look for the final chapter, "Let Us Prey," next Thursday.

New Fiction: "Sidewalk Tiger"

I swear, I'm not jumping on the bandwagon. I'd planned to do this before I saw Robert Ferrigno's serial fiction in the Seattle Times this week, or read about Gary Phillips's "The Underbelly," which just kicked off at FourStory.org.

But in tomorrow's City Paper, in place of my usual editor's letter, is the first installment of a short noir story called "Sidewalk Tiger." (Part 2, "Stalking the Game," will follow next Thursday, and the final installment a week after that.)

When I say short, I do mean short: the entire story is only 2,100 words. That's because my editor's letter slot only has room for 720 words (if I'm lucky), so I knew whatever I wrote had to work in bite-size installments. Does it? You tell me.

(Hat tip to The Rap Sheet for the Ferringo/Phillips skinny.)

Smoke

There is a certain time when I am at peace. When my mind is clear, and life is reduced to its necessary elements. When I stand behind my house and stare at the sky, and quietly reflect upon the day's events, or future plans. When I am delighted by the laughter of my children.

When am I at such peace?

When I am in my back driveway, grilling meat.

I don't know what happened, but it came on strong this year. I've grilled for years, ever since the summer of 1998 when we lived in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn that somehow, impossibly, was blessed with a back deck. (And for only $1,110 a month!) So I grilled dogs and burgers. Sometimes a piece of chicken on a patch of tinfoil, but that's not really grilling. That's using an outdoor oven.

And every summer since then, I've grilled. It is expected of me. But my repertoire remained frozen in 1998: Dogs. Burgers. The occasional piece of chicken on a patch of tinfoil.

This year, everything changed.

Don't know if it was turning 35 or what, but suddenly I was fascinated by grilling. I looked up recipes online. I consulted books for tips. My menu grew exponentially — to chops and ribs and clams and God help me, I'm even thinking about vegetables and kebabs now.

This past weekend, for Father's Day, the kids gave me something I'd been hinting about for a few weeks now.

Oh yeah, I've gone charcoal.

Granted, it took me three hours to properly cook four pieces of chicken. (I don't think I added enough briquettes.) But the euphoric smell of the char, of the ash, of the roasting flesh ... it's still in my head as I type these words. I want to stand up, gather the entire staff of the City Paper and take them on an El ride to my house, where I will pour the Kingsford and await the intoxicating splendor of burning stuff.

Such pleasure it brings me.

Which means, of course, that it's doomed.

I can picture it now. Me, out back with a Yuengling pounder, putting the final touches on my Southwest-style shark kebabs, when a guy in a suit will walk down my driveway.

He'll be a city councilman. He'll ask me what I think I'm doing.

Grilling, I'll tell him. Want a kebab?

What about the secondhand smoke?

Huh?

The councilman will point to the house next door.

Do you think it's fair that your neighbors have to put up with all this smoke?

Hey, I'll tell him. That was only the first time, because I forget to open the vents at the bottom of the grill.

The city councilman will shake his head, sad expression on his face.

Sorry. This won't do.

He'll pull a bright and shiny piece of legislation from his jacket pocket.

And these words will echo in my head as I'm dragged, screaming, from my beautiful little 22-inch Weber kettle grill, trying desperately to stab my attackers with a two-pronged fork:

When they came for the smokers, you said nothing.

When they came for the trans fats, you said nothing.

When they came for the hippies playing guitar in the park, you said nothing.

Yeah. Frickin' guitar players in the park. This week's City Paper cover story by newcomer Will Dean details the latest skirmish in this city's war on personal freedoms.

My dad used to play his guitar outside. He'd smoke, too, and probably have a slice of pound cake between sets. In this town, that makes my dad a three-strikes lifer. Some may cry "police state" and all that, but I think the reason for the assault on the citizens of Philadelphia is more banal.

We've got a city full of serious problems: rampant murder, a broken education system, widespread, corruption, stalled economic development.

So what do our leaders go after?

The hippie with the pound cake.

In other words, the low-hanging fruit.

The stuff that grabs headlines, and makes it look like they're actually doing work.

I don't need City Council to tell me what to do with my lungs. I don't need the legislative branch of the fifth — whoops — sixth largest city in the U.S. wrestling over their abortion stance. I don't need them to snatch the pound cake from my table. And I don't need them to roust musicians from a public park.

Seriously, Council, enough of this shit.

Don't piss me off. I've got a two-pronged fork, and I'm not afraid to use it.

(Simulcast at www.citypaper.net.)

Re: Generation

I'm out of it.

I'm writing this on three hours' sleep. Last night, my sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy, even though he was about a month early. (Guess the little guy isn't meant to be a journalist when grows up.)

I wasn't there. Instead, I stayed home with our own two kids while my wife drove down to the hospital. So I paced back and forth in front of my cell phone. Word came shortly before 1 a.m. that all was fine, even though they had to open my sister up and deliver the baby like toast.

Around 2 a.m. I decided to lie down and try to read for a while, keep myself awake until the wife returned. Before I knew it, I had drifted under the gentle shroud of sleep for about six seconds before my cell phone rang. I flipped it open. Part of my brain — confused as to why I suddenly and violently decided to kick it back to consciousness — sent commands to my body to make it tremble uncontrollably.

Mmrrrrpf, I said.

My wife told me she was coming home soon.

Ummpf, I said, which translates to: I'll try to wait up for you.

I tried to wait up for her.

And I succeeded, until the last six seconds before she arrived. Again, the gossamer quilt of blissful repose drifted down over my head ...

The front door opened.

My brain was like, Fuck you, dude.

We stayed up and talked for a while — the kind of talk you have when you're both way too tired.

Do they know who the father is, I asked.

Stop it, my wife said.

(My sister is actually married to a great guy. Polish. From Bridesburg. What's not to love?)

Still can't believe my baby sister had a kid, I said.

Both of them, my wife reminded me.

(My youngest sister, Marcy, gave birth to a little boy just one month and 11 days ago.)

When that happened, I asked the same question:

Do they know who the father is?

Stop it, my wife said.

We also talked about how crazy it was that my parents, who are only in their mid-50s, now have seven grandchildren. Stranger still that my grandfather, who's 81, can claim 12 great-grandchildren. Whenever I look at the Ben Franklin Bridge, I think of my grandfather, because they were born the same year.

But forget them. I think this is crazy for me. I was 10 years old when my sister was born. I remember it well, because my dad was out playing a music gig (he was the guitarist in a cover band called False Teeth, even though he was only 33 at the time). My dad had to leave before the final set and rush over to Rolling Hill Hospital in Elkins Park to meet his firstborn daughter, Jamie.

I don't know if anyone's ever told my sister this, but I'm fairly sure my parents named her after a Van Halen song.

My little sister Jamie was my first experience with a real live baby. Like, one that could die if you didn't take care of it right. Sure, there was my younger brother Gregg, but I was 3 years old when he was born, hence not quite eligible for baby-sitting duties. And one of the objects of being an older brother is to try to kill your younger brother every once in a while. Toughens him up.

So Jamie was my first hint of what raising a baby was like — the sleepless nights, the crying, the feeding, the changing.

I wanted nothing to do with it.

Only crazy people had babies, I thought. They're too much damn work.

I was 30 when our son was born; 31 for our daughter.

But I knew the deal back when I was 10: they are too much damn work.

The passage of time between 10 and 30, though, is really startling. I have vivid memories of being 10, as vivid as my memories of sitting up last night, pacing back and forth in front of a cell phone. Twenty years, in a flash.

Generations are like waves slapping against a beach. You can see those who have gone before you, and if you're lucky, spent time with them before they disappear into the sand. You can look back and see the wave behind you. Bigger and bolder than any other wave.

I guess I'm midwave right now. And maybe I should spend more time looking forward and backward. Because it doesn't take too long before...

I'm out of it.

(Simulcast at www.citypaper.net.)

Drink Beer with Swierczy!

Tonight! I'll be at the Grey Lodge Pub, only the best damn bar in Northeast Philly, for Authors A'Plenty 5 along with forensic thriller writer D.H. Dublin (Jonathan McGoran to his pals) and comic book artist Rob Reilly. Beer, books and good conversation will be on hand. Especially after I've had a few beers.

Also on hand: the Bride, making a rare public appearance. (For those of you who think she does not exist, now's your chance to meet the beautiful redhead I hired to play the part of... er, I mean, your chance to meet my wife.) And Dave White, who says he just loves "the illadelph."

And in the Department of Strange Coincidences: At the same time the Grey Lodge is rockin' "Authors A'Plenty," they'll also be hosting the victory party of Al Taubenberger, the Republican candidate for mayor. What makes this is a coincidence is that he's the cover boy in the latest City Paper. Hope he liked the piece (which is the cover debut of new CP staff writer Tom Namako). If not, well, that's why God invented beer.

Want to See a Cartoon Version of Me?

Then check out my editor's letter this week. Especially if you write/draw comics. (I think I'm most accurately rendered in the final panel.)

The Return of Devil-Bug

This week's City Paper is extra special to me because it marks the cover debut of my good friend Edward Pettit. (You know Ed, Secret Dead Blog reader. He's the guy who mistakenly believes he lives in the 19th century.) Ed wrote a great profile of George Lippard, Philadelphia's first best-selling author back in the 1840s. But beyond that, you could even say that Lippard was the Pete Dexter of time, stirring shit up in his own penny newspaper on a weekly basis. Far as we know, nobody beat the hell out of Lippard, but he did die young. Oh--you know that whole myth about the Liberty Bell cracking on July 4, 1776? Lippard wrote that, too. But forget my shorthand version. Check out Ed's piece for the real thing.

(The cover illo is by CP regular Bill Westervelt, and depicts "Devil-Bug," a nasty creature from The Monks of Monk Hall, Lipppard's best-known novel. I was talking this over with Reseca Glasser, our art director: Doesn't Devil-Bug need to have his own plush doll?)

The Philadelphia Rock and Roll Coffin Blues

In my editor's letter this week, I talk about why I'm never hurting for novel ideas and why I'm thinking about fleeing Philadelphia (sort of), along with a little bit of shameless self-promotion.

Every week I'm treated to a cornucopia of plot ideas that seemingly belong in the world of crime thrillers, but routinely happen in real life. My problem is that I can't use very many ideas from real life, because no book editor would believe them.

In this past week alone, we've had ...

... the mayor's brother, currently indicted by the federal government, and who recently spent a few hours in jail for unpaid traffic tickets, standing outside City Hall, draped over a coffin of unknown origin, belting out a religious song with the emotion and vigor of an Italian opera star.

... private eyes, partially bankrolled by a casino, knocking on people's doors because they signed their name on a petition.

... teachers routinely being slapped, punched and beaten to the point of needing dental surgery at West Philadelphia High; meanwhile, a Germantown High teacher is recovering from having his neck snapped by a student.

You can read the whole thing at www.citypaper.net. And while you're there, take a look at the kick-butt music package, assembled by Patrick Rapa and shot by Michael T. Regan. Especially you young crazy kids who are into the rock and roll. Or, if you're a bracket-head, sign up for Nick Norlen's Philly Madness! Or, if you're into machine guns and blow, go on a Scarface date!