The greatest mystery in all of modern journalism was solved today. And I just can't help but think one thing:
Is it just me, or is it really funny that "Deep Throat" turned out to be a guy named "Felt"?
I mean, c'mon.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
5 Things I Don't Give a Damn About
1. Georges Perrier pulling ads from Philadelphia Magazine because of a story about PR flacks… Christ, I can’t even bring myself to finish this sentence.
2. Either Paris.
3. Parents who rent advertising space on their children.
4. The romances and racially-insenstive speech patterns of TV news reporters.
5. The detailed Frankford El itinerary from the guy with the Nextel walkie-talkie phone. “Yo, m’at Somerset.” Beep-beep. “Yo, m’at Tioga.” Beep-beep.
2. Either Paris.
3. Parents who rent advertising space on their children.
4. The romances and racially-insenstive speech patterns of TV news reporters.
5. The detailed Frankford El itinerary from the guy with the Nextel walkie-talkie phone. “Yo, m’at Somerset.” Beep-beep. “Yo, m’at Tioga.” Beep-beep.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
A Small Measure of Proof That I've Achieved a Certain Level of Maturity
Headed home on the Frankford El this evening, two shifty-looking characters were hawking foul-smelling incense sticks and knock-off perfume bottles. Walking up the length of the train car, they came up with a nicknames for everybody. "Hey, J. Lo, can I get you something?" "Hey, professor, want something for your ladyfriend?" "Yo, brother, let me hook you up." That kind of thing.
When they approached me, the leader gave me the once-over and said, "Hey, district attorney, need some of this?"
District attorney.
Wow.
Usually, I'm mistaken for an off-duty cop or -- if I've just had a haircut -- a state trooper. But district attorney? Hot damn. Must have been the tie. I'm really coming up in the world.
(Note to self: Wear ties more often to impress shifty-looking characters on the train.)
When they approached me, the leader gave me the once-over and said, "Hey, district attorney, need some of this?"
District attorney.
Wow.
Usually, I'm mistaken for an off-duty cop or -- if I've just had a haircut -- a state trooper. But district attorney? Hot damn. Must have been the tie. I'm really coming up in the world.
(Note to self: Wear ties more often to impress shifty-looking characters on the train.)
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
The Two Michaels
Dig Michael Connelly? Then check out my brief look at his Philly roots in this week's City Paper.
Dig Michael Penn? Well, if you mean the brother of Sean and Chris, you're out of luck. But in this week's WTF, I talked to the other Michael Penn, a direct descendent of William Penn, the guy who, like, founded Philadelphia.
That's all the Michael coverage I have this week. Really, that's it. Thank you for your cooperation. Have a pleasant evening.
Dig Michael Penn? Well, if you mean the brother of Sean and Chris, you're out of luck. But in this week's WTF, I talked to the other Michael Penn, a direct descendent of William Penn, the guy who, like, founded Philadelphia.
That's all the Michael coverage I have this week. Really, that's it. Thank you for your cooperation. Have a pleasant evening.
Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Private Eye Novels (Third in a Series)
Lesson #3: On Negotiating (Stealth)
Want to squeeze something out of somebody? Keep your trap shut as much as possible. Ross Macdonald’s snoop Lew Archer doesn’t ask a million questions. He knows that silence is an uncomfortable vacuum, and people will do anything to fill it. Once they start gabbing, start listening.
Here we go again, I said to myself. True confession morning, featuring Archer the unfrocked priest. I should have gone to City College and been a dentist and gone in for something easy and painless like pulling teeth. If you really need my help, you’ll have to tell me what with.
—The Drowning Pool (1950)
This is handy for when you need to learn something—in a business negotiation, perhaps, or when you’re interviewing someone for a job. It’s also handy to keep in mind if you’re like me and you blabber when you’re nervous. [Silence.] Yep, it’s definitely bad to blabber when you’re nervous. Blabbering is not good. [Silence.] Not at all. [Silence.] Reminds of when I killed four people and buried their bodies near the old saw mill... damn!
On Negotiating (Hard)
Sometimes, the quiet approach won’t work. You’ll have to lay your cards on the table.
I stood up. “Lester, let me show you something,” I said. And brought my gun out and aimed it at his forehead. “This is a thirty-eight caliber Colt detective special. If I pull the trigger, your mastery of the martial arts will be of very little use to you.”
—Spenser, in Mortal Stakes (1975)
Now will you come along willingly or do I bunt you over the crumpet till your sneezer leaks buttermilk?
—Dan Turner
Want to squeeze something out of somebody? Keep your trap shut as much as possible. Ross Macdonald’s snoop Lew Archer doesn’t ask a million questions. He knows that silence is an uncomfortable vacuum, and people will do anything to fill it. Once they start gabbing, start listening.
Here we go again, I said to myself. True confession morning, featuring Archer the unfrocked priest. I should have gone to City College and been a dentist and gone in for something easy and painless like pulling teeth. If you really need my help, you’ll have to tell me what with.
—The Drowning Pool (1950)
This is handy for when you need to learn something—in a business negotiation, perhaps, or when you’re interviewing someone for a job. It’s also handy to keep in mind if you’re like me and you blabber when you’re nervous. [Silence.] Yep, it’s definitely bad to blabber when you’re nervous. Blabbering is not good. [Silence.] Not at all. [Silence.] Reminds of when I killed four people and buried their bodies near the old saw mill... damn!
On Negotiating (Hard)
Sometimes, the quiet approach won’t work. You’ll have to lay your cards on the table.
I stood up. “Lester, let me show you something,” I said. And brought my gun out and aimed it at his forehead. “This is a thirty-eight caliber Colt detective special. If I pull the trigger, your mastery of the martial arts will be of very little use to you.”
—Spenser, in Mortal Stakes (1975)
Now will you come along willingly or do I bunt you over the crumpet till your sneezer leaks buttermilk?
—Dan Turner
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Private Eye Novels (Second in a Series)
Lesson #2: Dames
Okay, I'll admit it. Many private eye novels aren’t exactly enlightened when it comes to women:
She had a seventy-eight-inch bust, forty-six-inch waist, and seventy-two-inch hips—measurements that were exactly right, I thought, for her height of eleven feet four inches.
—Shell Scott in Take A Murder, Darling (1959) by Richard Prather
But many Eyes—even the tough ones who brush their teeth with sandpaper then rinse with Jack Daniels—obsess over their love lives at great length. For emotionally-stunted crime fans, the P.I. novel is a safe place to kick around thoughts about the opposite sex. Take a look at this gem:
Never sleep with anyone whose troubles are worse than your own.
—Lew Archer, in Black Money (1966) by Ross Macdonald
This used to come in handy when women would refuse to sleep with me. (I simply reasoned they were worried about a late cable bill, or something.) But it’s also handy to know your limitations:
Just as it is dangerous for an artist to search too hard for the murky headwaters of his power, it is folly for a dwarf to entertain romantic thoughts of a beautiful woman.
—Dr. Robert “Mongo” Frederickson, a P.I., college professor, and former circus dwarf from In The House of Secret Enemies (1978) by George C. Chesboro
On Keeping Dames Happy
The dean of P.I. love was Travis McGee, created by John D. MacDonald. McGee is a laid-back guy who lives on a big houseboat (The Busted Flush) and makes a career of helping people in trouble—more often than not, beautiful women in trouble.
Only a woman of pride, complexity, and emotional tension is genuinely worth the act of love, and there are only two ways to get yourself one of them. Either you lie, and stain the relationship with your own sense of guilt or you accept the involvement, the emotional responsibility, the permanence she must by nature crave. I love you can be said only two ways.
And fifty times, apparently. Over the course of 21 books, McGee beds more than four dozen women (including an Avon lady), clocking in at about 2.5 per novel. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t pause to savor each one:
If there’s no pain and no loss, we can leave it to the minks. People have to be valued.
Tomorrow: Negotiating.
Okay, I'll admit it. Many private eye novels aren’t exactly enlightened when it comes to women:
She had a seventy-eight-inch bust, forty-six-inch waist, and seventy-two-inch hips—measurements that were exactly right, I thought, for her height of eleven feet four inches.
—Shell Scott in Take A Murder, Darling (1959) by Richard Prather
But many Eyes—even the tough ones who brush their teeth with sandpaper then rinse with Jack Daniels—obsess over their love lives at great length. For emotionally-stunted crime fans, the P.I. novel is a safe place to kick around thoughts about the opposite sex. Take a look at this gem:
Never sleep with anyone whose troubles are worse than your own.
—Lew Archer, in Black Money (1966) by Ross Macdonald
This used to come in handy when women would refuse to sleep with me. (I simply reasoned they were worried about a late cable bill, or something.) But it’s also handy to know your limitations:
Just as it is dangerous for an artist to search too hard for the murky headwaters of his power, it is folly for a dwarf to entertain romantic thoughts of a beautiful woman.
—Dr. Robert “Mongo” Frederickson, a P.I., college professor, and former circus dwarf from In The House of Secret Enemies (1978) by George C. Chesboro
On Keeping Dames Happy
The dean of P.I. love was Travis McGee, created by John D. MacDonald. McGee is a laid-back guy who lives on a big houseboat (The Busted Flush) and makes a career of helping people in trouble—more often than not, beautiful women in trouble.
Only a woman of pride, complexity, and emotional tension is genuinely worth the act of love, and there are only two ways to get yourself one of them. Either you lie, and stain the relationship with your own sense of guilt or you accept the involvement, the emotional responsibility, the permanence she must by nature crave. I love you can be said only two ways.
And fifty times, apparently. Over the course of 21 books, McGee beds more than four dozen women (including an Avon lady), clocking in at about 2.5 per novel. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t pause to savor each one:
If there’s no pain and no loss, we can leave it to the minks. People have to be valued.
Tomorrow: Negotiating.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Private Eye Novels (First in a Series)
Lesson #1: Cocktails
Fictional private eyes drink the way priests pray. And for them, constant worship is the only way to survive the mean streets with their souls intact. What do dicks drink when they’re on a tough case?
I poured some of the cognac in the champagne glasses and the waiter put champagne on top. There is nothing that gives you a rear like champagne laced with good cognac. Try it some time.
—Karl Craven in Solomon’s Vineyard (1942) by Jonathan Latimer
They don’t know how to make them here. What they call a gimlet is just some lime or lemon juice and gin with a dash of sugar and bitters. A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose’s Lime Juice and nothing else. It beats martinis hollow.
—Terry Lennox in The Long Goodbye (1953) by Raymond Chandler
Three ounces of gin to one ounce Vermouth.
—Nick Charles on the perfect martini in Hammett’s The Thin Man (1941)
But you don’t have to get fancy:
Any beer in the fridge when the beer store’s closed is good beer.
–Robert Parker's Spenser
On Mixing Cocktails and Dames
The Continental Op in Dashiell Hammett’s Red Harvest (1929) said it best:
I had gotten blind drunk on gin and laudanum with the girl called Dinah Brand. I should have known better than to try that combination.
On Dealing With A Hangover
In the P.I. Bible of Drinking, The Long Goodbye, Philip Marlowe comes to the realization that he’s “looking at life through the mists of a hangover.” What does the toughest dick in L.A. do about it?
I decided to kill the hangover. Ordinarily I was not a morning drinker. The Southern California climate is too soft for it. You don’t metabolize fast enough. But I mixed a tall cold one this time and sat in an easy chair with my shirt open and pecked at a magazine… I was handling the drink carefully, a sip at a time, watching myself.
Jonathan Latimer’s booze-soaked private eye, Bill Crane, had another solution to the problem of hangovers: Never stop drinking long enough to have one.
Tomorrow: Dames!
Fictional private eyes drink the way priests pray. And for them, constant worship is the only way to survive the mean streets with their souls intact. What do dicks drink when they’re on a tough case?
I poured some of the cognac in the champagne glasses and the waiter put champagne on top. There is nothing that gives you a rear like champagne laced with good cognac. Try it some time.
—Karl Craven in Solomon’s Vineyard (1942) by Jonathan Latimer
They don’t know how to make them here. What they call a gimlet is just some lime or lemon juice and gin with a dash of sugar and bitters. A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose’s Lime Juice and nothing else. It beats martinis hollow.
—Terry Lennox in The Long Goodbye (1953) by Raymond Chandler
Three ounces of gin to one ounce Vermouth.
—Nick Charles on the perfect martini in Hammett’s The Thin Man (1941)
But you don’t have to get fancy:
Any beer in the fridge when the beer store’s closed is good beer.
–Robert Parker's Spenser
On Mixing Cocktails and Dames
The Continental Op in Dashiell Hammett’s Red Harvest (1929) said it best:
I had gotten blind drunk on gin and laudanum with the girl called Dinah Brand. I should have known better than to try that combination.
On Dealing With A Hangover
In the P.I. Bible of Drinking, The Long Goodbye, Philip Marlowe comes to the realization that he’s “looking at life through the mists of a hangover.” What does the toughest dick in L.A. do about it?
I decided to kill the hangover. Ordinarily I was not a morning drinker. The Southern California climate is too soft for it. You don’t metabolize fast enough. But I mixed a tall cold one this time and sat in an easy chair with my shirt open and pecked at a magazine… I was handling the drink carefully, a sip at a time, watching myself.
Jonathan Latimer’s booze-soaked private eye, Bill Crane, had another solution to the problem of hangovers: Never stop drinking long enough to have one.
Tomorrow: Dames!
Godspeed, Holy Father
I don't know about you, but this is far more miraculous than a water stain of the Blessed Virgin on a California underpass.
(Mad props to Tenacious D and Nuclear Beef.)
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Noir Idea of Fun
The sixth installment of Al "Sunshine" Guthrie's Noir Originals is now up, and it's packed with essays about some of my pet obsessions (Richard Stark, comic books, David Goodis) as well as novel excerpts from up and coming noirists, and most exciting of all, a sneak peek at the cover of the Polygon edition of Sunshine's Two-Way Split. Not that the PointBlank cover wasn't cool, but this one is far moodier. I'm digging it.
It's a lazy Sunday afternoon. Do yourself a favor and check it out.
I'm going to do the same thing... just as soon as I recover a pounder can of Yuengling from the fridge.
(Like I said, it's a lazy Sunday afternoon.)
It's a lazy Sunday afternoon. Do yourself a favor and check it out.
I'm going to do the same thing... just as soon as I recover a pounder can of Yuengling from the fridge.
(Like I said, it's a lazy Sunday afternoon.)
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
New Forms of Ugly
I've always wanted to see my name on the cover of a published novel. I've never wanted to see my face in one.
It's not that children shriek and throw rocks whenever I walk down the street, but it's not as if I'm mystery fiction's version of Jude Law, either. I'm a tall, stocky Polish guy who kinda looks like the love child of Dolph Lundgren and Elvis Presley. (Or so I've been told.) In other words, The Bride didn't marry me for my looks.
So you can understand why I was a bit nervous today, posing for my author's photo for The Wheelman.
I didn't take any chances. I hired the best: Michael T. Regan, affectionately known as "Rego!" (and you gotta say it that way... Reeeee-GO!), the City Paper staff photographer. Mike was fucking awesome. Instead of taking a lunch break, he lugged his photo gear up from his car and into the newspaper's conference room -- which doubles as our photo studio -- and set up the backdrop, the lights, the whole nine. Then he spent an hour snapping away at Your Humble Polish Narrator, trying in vain to make me look a little leaner, a little meaner, and a lot less dorky.
I didn't go for gimmicks. No outfits, no guns. No cigars, no sunglasses. No dogs, no armadillos. I played it straight. Smirked in a few shots, but mostly tried to look like my usual self. Why fuck around, right?
After the shoot, we wandered back to Mike's little photo cave -- a cubicle with a cardboard roof, to block out the flourescent lights -- to check the results.
And let me tell you, it was a bit of personal hell to see 107 versions of my apple-cheeked face staring back at me on a computer monitor.
But finally, we settled on one that I think will work. (I showed The Bride a copy, and she agreed.)
Given what Mike had to work with, he pulled off a goddamned miracle.
So my undying thanks to Rego. Whenever he has a chance to work his color-correcting magic on my grisly mug, I'll post the results here in this blog. Unless the FCC tells me it's inappropriate.
It's not that children shriek and throw rocks whenever I walk down the street, but it's not as if I'm mystery fiction's version of Jude Law, either. I'm a tall, stocky Polish guy who kinda looks like the love child of Dolph Lundgren and Elvis Presley. (Or so I've been told.) In other words, The Bride didn't marry me for my looks.
So you can understand why I was a bit nervous today, posing for my author's photo for The Wheelman.
I didn't take any chances. I hired the best: Michael T. Regan, affectionately known as "Rego!" (and you gotta say it that way... Reeeee-GO!), the City Paper staff photographer. Mike was fucking awesome. Instead of taking a lunch break, he lugged his photo gear up from his car and into the newspaper's conference room -- which doubles as our photo studio -- and set up the backdrop, the lights, the whole nine. Then he spent an hour snapping away at Your Humble Polish Narrator, trying in vain to make me look a little leaner, a little meaner, and a lot less dorky.
I didn't go for gimmicks. No outfits, no guns. No cigars, no sunglasses. No dogs, no armadillos. I played it straight. Smirked in a few shots, but mostly tried to look like my usual self. Why fuck around, right?
After the shoot, we wandered back to Mike's little photo cave -- a cubicle with a cardboard roof, to block out the flourescent lights -- to check the results.
And let me tell you, it was a bit of personal hell to see 107 versions of my apple-cheeked face staring back at me on a computer monitor.
But finally, we settled on one that I think will work. (I showed The Bride a copy, and she agreed.)
Given what Mike had to work with, he pulled off a goddamned miracle.
So my undying thanks to Rego. Whenever he has a chance to work his color-correcting magic on my grisly mug, I'll post the results here in this blog. Unless the FCC tells me it's inappropriate.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Literary Smackdown!
I don't know about you, but I've been enjoying the blog-based bitch-slapping that's been going on between reviewer David J. Montgomery and self-styled "Ink Slinger" Paul Guyot.
The deal? Guyot challenged Montomgery to a novel-writing duel. Both, apparently, had half-finished (or barely started) novel manuscripts lying around, and Guyot decided to kick things into high gear.
It all started with the gentle salvo: "David J. Montgomery is a wuss."
Guyot continued:
I am calling his review writing, goatee wearing, self-righteous butt out! ... Starting right this second, whichever one of us is the first to complete a full first draft of our manuscript wins dinner (including wine) AT THE RESTAURANT OF WINNER'S CHOICE at whatever conference or convention is first up after the ms is finished.
Montgomery, keeping his cool, responded:
Although I have a day job and you don't, you have kids, so I suppose that balances out. ... Okay, pal, you're on.
Reasonable, eh? Not for long. Soon, Montgomery couldn't resist a little trash-talking of his own:
I will crush Guyot like Poland. As soon as I finish blogging.
Despite this appallingly insenstive remark about one of Europe's finer countries, things still seemed civil. Then came this roundhouse kick, courtesy Guyot, in a seemingly unrelated blog entry:
Every time I see one of these guys driving down the street in a Hummer I just want to roll down my window and say, "Hey, sorry about your penis!" ... I bet David J. Montgomery drives a Hummer.
As usual, Montgomery tried to take the high road and play peacemaker:
I don't mind the crack about the size of my genitalia...I do, however, resent my name coming after a sentence that includes "really, really, really fat guy."
But Guyot was having none of that:
I want to point out that I am in no way inferring that David J. Montgomery is a really, really, really fat guy. I would never stoop to that kind of virulent trash talk. I am simply inferring that he has a very small penis.
At which point, Montgomery decided to pull out the big guns: a report on the progress of his novel. The total? 3,000 words since the beginning of the competition, on top of the 30K Mongtomery already had.
Now go get your f*ing shinebox, Guyot!
A short while later, Montgomery couldn't resist another taunt:
I just finished my thousand words, so that's my quota for today. I can almost taste that steak now...
Guyot's initial response:
Crap.
But later, on his own blog (in an entry entitled "David J. Montgomery is a Wuss II"), Guyot added:
So. 30,000 words. Okay, 33,000... I'm cool. I'm good. So, this means that I'm spotting Monty roughly... 27,500 words. No worries. I got this.
(Notice: it's "Monty" now.)
Where will the trash-talking and sucker punches end? Who knows. But I do know that having a deadline, especially one enforced by wise-ass friends who will never let you hear the end of it (cough cough Dave White cough cough) is a great way to guarantee you'll finish a draft. Because otherwise, you'll never hear the end of it. Broadcasting the duel on a blog just raises the stakes.
Just watch the comments about Poland, okay?
The deal? Guyot challenged Montomgery to a novel-writing duel. Both, apparently, had half-finished (or barely started) novel manuscripts lying around, and Guyot decided to kick things into high gear.
It all started with the gentle salvo: "David J. Montgomery is a wuss."
Guyot continued:
I am calling his review writing, goatee wearing, self-righteous butt out! ... Starting right this second, whichever one of us is the first to complete a full first draft of our manuscript wins dinner (including wine) AT THE RESTAURANT OF WINNER'S CHOICE at whatever conference or convention is first up after the ms is finished.
Montgomery, keeping his cool, responded:
Although I have a day job and you don't, you have kids, so I suppose that balances out. ... Okay, pal, you're on.
Reasonable, eh? Not for long. Soon, Montgomery couldn't resist a little trash-talking of his own:
I will crush Guyot like Poland. As soon as I finish blogging.
Despite this appallingly insenstive remark about one of Europe's finer countries, things still seemed civil. Then came this roundhouse kick, courtesy Guyot, in a seemingly unrelated blog entry:
Every time I see one of these guys driving down the street in a Hummer I just want to roll down my window and say, "Hey, sorry about your penis!" ... I bet David J. Montgomery drives a Hummer.
As usual, Montgomery tried to take the high road and play peacemaker:
I don't mind the crack about the size of my genitalia...I do, however, resent my name coming after a sentence that includes "really, really, really fat guy."
But Guyot was having none of that:
I want to point out that I am in no way inferring that David J. Montgomery is a really, really, really fat guy. I would never stoop to that kind of virulent trash talk. I am simply inferring that he has a very small penis.
At which point, Montgomery decided to pull out the big guns: a report on the progress of his novel. The total? 3,000 words since the beginning of the competition, on top of the 30K Mongtomery already had.
Now go get your f*ing shinebox, Guyot!
A short while later, Montgomery couldn't resist another taunt:
I just finished my thousand words, so that's my quota for today. I can almost taste that steak now...
Guyot's initial response:
Crap.
But later, on his own blog (in an entry entitled "David J. Montgomery is a Wuss II"), Guyot added:
So. 30,000 words. Okay, 33,000... I'm cool. I'm good. So, this means that I'm spotting Monty roughly... 27,500 words. No worries. I got this.
(Notice: it's "Monty" now.)
Where will the trash-talking and sucker punches end? Who knows. But I do know that having a deadline, especially one enforced by wise-ass friends who will never let you hear the end of it (cough cough Dave White cough cough) is a great way to guarantee you'll finish a draft. Because otherwise, you'll never hear the end of it. Broadcasting the duel on a blog just raises the stakes.
Just watch the comments about Poland, okay?
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Goodbye, and Thanks for All the Blood
In this week's City Paper column, I meet two people who've had it with Philadelphia. (Consider this part of my ongoing City of Philadelphia quality-control series. If you're not happy with Philadelphia, I want to know about it.)
Also of note: a story about a local crime scene cleanup company that has a delightfully weird and gruesome lede:
Suicides who make their final exit via gunshot are almost always men. They usually pick the bedroom for their short goodbye, and more often than not it's equipped with a ceiling fan, says Kenneth Poles, 32, who should know, having cleaned up the blood, body fluids and gore left behind by 60-some suicides. Those fans almost always seem to be whirring when the shot is fired, splattering blood and tissue and making an already difficult job just a tad harder...
Come to think of it, my home office has a ceiling fan.
Also of note: a story about a local crime scene cleanup company that has a delightfully weird and gruesome lede:
Suicides who make their final exit via gunshot are almost always men. They usually pick the bedroom for their short goodbye, and more often than not it's equipped with a ceiling fan, says Kenneth Poles, 32, who should know, having cleaned up the blood, body fluids and gore left behind by 60-some suicides. Those fans almost always seem to be whirring when the shot is fired, splattering blood and tissue and making an already difficult job just a tad harder...
Come to think of it, my home office has a ceiling fan.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Tuesday Postings
Writing a blog post on a Tuesday is always a dicey proposition for me. Tuesdays are when I read most of the exciting, action-packed proof pages for the next edition of City Paper (we publish on Thursdays). As fun as that may sound, by the end of the day, I've read so much that I'm half-worried that my eyeballs will pop out of their sockets during my trip home on the Frankford El. And then I'd have to, like, chase these little eyeballs all the hell over the place. That train moves fast. Bucks a lot, too. And on the Frankford El, people will spill coffee and beer and whatnot on the floor, so maybe an eyeball would stick to a certain part of the floor. Which would be handy. Because eventually, I'd find it. But my luck, that wouldn't happen. My luck, one off my eyeballs would roll halfway out the doors, and the conductor won't see it (because eyeballs are small) and close the doors, squishing it like that eyeball was squished in that oh-so-gross (yet deeply satisfying) scene in Kill Bill, Volume 2. Or maybe I'd find an eyeball, and it wouldn't be mine. But I'd pop it in anyway, because I'd be desperate.
So yeah, posting on Tuesdays. Definitely a bad idea.
So yeah, posting on Tuesdays. Definitely a bad idea.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Three Writers
I've been lucky enough to cross paths with three of my favorite mystery writers in the past three days.
This past Thursday morning, I interviewed Michael Connelly up in Manhattan. It was scary, the way he stormed into the lobby of the Michelangelo Hotel, smashing lamps and spitting at people, screaming "anarchy!" before taking a vacuum cleaner from a shocked housekeeper and using it to beat a nearby poodle to death. I could smell the fetid stew of tequila, cigar smoke and blood from a dozen yards away. He'd had a wild couple of days, and he still had the Edgars banquet ahead of him...
Oh, I kid, Mr. Connelly, I kid. He knows that.
In reality, Michael was incredibly laid back, friendly, soft-spoken, and tolerant of my rambling, stuttering questions. A real class act, and a dream interview.The only surreal break in the action was when one of the elevator doors opened to reveal Don King... yeah, that Don King... who dressed in a jacket that looked like it had been sewn from a pleather American flag. Sharing his car was Connelly's kick-ass publicist, Shannon Byrne, who stopped by to say hello and reveal that she was an avid reader of Sarah Weinman's blog.
A short while after the interview, I wandered over to the Mysterious Bookshop on 56th Street and bumped into Max Allan Collins. Okay, I didn't quite bump; I introduced myself. I'm a fan, especially of his Nolan novels--and last summer, Max ("Al" to his friends, but I hardly known him, so I'll still with Max) graciously agreed to discuss the series with me for Al Guthrie's Noir Originals. We shook hands, and resumed shopping.
After Max left the store, the clerks started buzzing.
"You know who I thought that was?"
"I know. Elton John."
"Me, too!"
"I looked up and thought, Oh my God, that's Elton John."
That's when I piped in.
"You know what's sad?" I said. "I'm such a mystery geek, I looked up and thought, Oh my God, that's Max Allan Collins."
Pathetic, I know...
Later, I'd planned to meet up with the elusive (yes, elusive) Dave White later that day, but forces conspired against me. Luckily, he drove down to Philly yesterday to have lunch with a friend, and on the way back made a detour to the Great Northeast to chow down on some wings and beer with Your Humble Polish Narrator. I took Dave to Curran's Irish Pub--a 2003 "Best of Philly" Winner--located down by the industrial riverfront, in the shadow of I-95. Grim, in that "old Detroit" from RoboCop kind of way. Still, we had a blast.
Later, Dave met The Bride and The Brood (Parker and Sarah) at Casa Swierczynski, and halfway through dinner, listening to Dave talk, it hit me.
"Dave," I said. "Do me a favor. Say: 'And I'm not drinking any fucking Merlot!' And like, say it angrily."
"What...?"
The Bride started howling. She got it, too.
"What...?"
Here's the thing.
Dave White? He sounds exactly like Paul Giamatti from Sideways. Swear to Christ. Pinkie swear.
Looks not a damn thing like him, but close your eyes, and you're practically Thomas Haden Church.
This past Thursday morning, I interviewed Michael Connelly up in Manhattan. It was scary, the way he stormed into the lobby of the Michelangelo Hotel, smashing lamps and spitting at people, screaming "anarchy!" before taking a vacuum cleaner from a shocked housekeeper and using it to beat a nearby poodle to death. I could smell the fetid stew of tequila, cigar smoke and blood from a dozen yards away. He'd had a wild couple of days, and he still had the Edgars banquet ahead of him...
Oh, I kid, Mr. Connelly, I kid. He knows that.
In reality, Michael was incredibly laid back, friendly, soft-spoken, and tolerant of my rambling, stuttering questions. A real class act, and a dream interview.The only surreal break in the action was when one of the elevator doors opened to reveal Don King... yeah, that Don King... who dressed in a jacket that looked like it had been sewn from a pleather American flag. Sharing his car was Connelly's kick-ass publicist, Shannon Byrne, who stopped by to say hello and reveal that she was an avid reader of Sarah Weinman's blog.
A short while after the interview, I wandered over to the Mysterious Bookshop on 56th Street and bumped into Max Allan Collins. Okay, I didn't quite bump; I introduced myself. I'm a fan, especially of his Nolan novels--and last summer, Max ("Al" to his friends, but I hardly known him, so I'll still with Max) graciously agreed to discuss the series with me for Al Guthrie's Noir Originals. We shook hands, and resumed shopping.
After Max left the store, the clerks started buzzing.
"You know who I thought that was?"
"I know. Elton John."
"Me, too!"
"I looked up and thought, Oh my God, that's Elton John."
That's when I piped in.
"You know what's sad?" I said. "I'm such a mystery geek, I looked up and thought, Oh my God, that's Max Allan Collins."
Pathetic, I know...
Later, I'd planned to meet up with the elusive (yes, elusive) Dave White later that day, but forces conspired against me. Luckily, he drove down to Philly yesterday to have lunch with a friend, and on the way back made a detour to the Great Northeast to chow down on some wings and beer with Your Humble Polish Narrator. I took Dave to Curran's Irish Pub--a 2003 "Best of Philly" Winner--located down by the industrial riverfront, in the shadow of I-95. Grim, in that "old Detroit" from RoboCop kind of way. Still, we had a blast.
Later, Dave met The Bride and The Brood (Parker and Sarah) at Casa Swierczynski, and halfway through dinner, listening to Dave talk, it hit me.
"Dave," I said. "Do me a favor. Say: 'And I'm not drinking any fucking Merlot!' And like, say it angrily."
"What...?"
The Bride started howling. She got it, too.
"What...?"
Here's the thing.
Dave White? He sounds exactly like Paul Giamatti from Sideways. Swear to Christ. Pinkie swear.
Looks not a damn thing like him, but close your eyes, and you're practically Thomas Haden Church.
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