If I Can Just Get Off This L.A. Freeway Without Getting Killed or Caught

Bags are packed, the iPod is loaded, I'm ready for the L.A. Times Festival of Books. If any of you are around Westwood... oh say, noonish on Sunday... stop on by. I'll be signing Expiration Date and wearing sunscreen and hanging out with some very cool people at the Mystery Bookstore tent. I'm also signed up for that Bukowski tour, so I'm sure I'll have some photos and updates for you next week. (As well as L.A. updates over the weekend.)

In the meantime, more very kind Expiration reviews have appeared. Carole E. Barrowman at the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel says: "This hard-boiled - no, make that deliciously scrambled - story would make the kind of film Johnny Depp would want to star in, Elmore Leonard would want to script, Terry Gilliam would insist on directing, and whose soundtrack would be available on an LP."

Pages & Pages Bookstore in Australia digs it, too, along with my earlier novels.

The newly-resurrected Spinetingler mag claims I make pace and plot my bitches.

And finally, Cullen Gallagher at Pulp Serenade grills me on Styx albums, Twitter, and my pulp paperback collection.

My L.A. Times Book Fest Schedule

Last time I attended the L.A. Times Festival of Books I helped Sean Doolittle and Victor Gischler break into a pool, got a wicked sunburn, and almost scored an underaged California trophy wife. God knows what'll happen this time around. If you're around this weekend, here's where you'll be able to find me:

Friday Night (4/23): The Mystery Bookstore's Pre-Fest Party (1036-C Broxton Avenue). I'll be there probably around 6:30 or 7, depending on my flight/traffic from LAX. I think I booked the exact same flight three years ago, and I showed up at the party slight dazed. Which later led to the pool break-in. So, fair warning.

Sunday (4/25): I'll be signing at the Mystery Bookstore's booth (#411) at noon, along with Eric Beetner, Reed Farrel Coleman, Gar Anthony Haywood (who recently started blogging, by the way), Attica Locke and Gary Phillips. You'll probably also see me hanging around the booth area for much of the morning. And wearing sunscreen this time.

I'm also hoping to take Esotouric's cool-sounding Charles Bukowski bus tour ("Haunts of a Dirty Old Man") on Saturday afternoon. I've heard nothing but great things about these tours, and I say you haven't really seen a city until you've nuzzled its soft underbelly.

Hollywood Hangover: Steve is Missing!

(Photo by The Bride. Somewhere, a Steve Carell fan is masturbating furiously.)

Hollywood Hangover: The Separation of Church and Sex

Near Hollywood and Highland. And just a block from where Jim Thompson spent some of his final years. (Photo by The Bride.)

Hollywood Hangover: Under the Roosevelt

(Photo by The Bride.)

Hollywood Hangover: Spider-Man on Vacation

On Venice Beach. (Photo by The Bride.)

Hollywood Hangover: Hot Dog Stick

And fresh lemonade. (Photo by The Bride.)

Cool Indie Bookstore Alert

We had a few hours to kill before flying out of L.A., so we spent some time in Venice. As the Bride will tell you, I have an almost sixth sense when it comes to sniffing out bookstores, and boy, did I find a gem right off Ocean Front Walk. It's called Small World Books, and it's kinda sorta tucked behind a restaurant, although the signs for the shop are very clear. (So, okay, maybe it wasn't my sixth sense as much as it was my ability to read very large signs.) Anyway, the shop has a kick-ass mystery/crime section, with a nice mix of indie and mainstream stuff, as well as a whole shelf full o' Bukowski. I picked up two books: a Barry Miles bio of Buk, and Stephen Cooper's Full of Life, a bio of John Fante. (Small bit of trivia: Fante spent some time writing in Venice, just a few blocks away on Westminster Ave.) Secret Dead Blog highly recommends. (1407 Ocean Front Walk, Venice, CA 90291, 301-399-2360.)

Palm Readings

I started Ask the Dust today, and already, in Chapter One, there's a passage I want to cut out and tape to my desk. It perfectly sums up how L.A. is both the perfect place for a writer and the worst possible place for a writer:

Arturo Bandini in front of his typewriter two full days in succession, determined to succeed; but it didn't work, the longest siege of hard and fast determination in his life, and not one line done, only two words written over and over across the page, up and down, the same words: palm tree, palm tree, palm tree, a battle to the death between the palm tree and me, and the palm tree won: see it out there swaying in the blue air, creaking sweetly in the blue air.

It's a wonder anyone gets any work done out here.

Live from Hollywood, Pt. 2

I'm still not used to the time change.

According to my laptop clock, it's 1:16 a.m. back in Philly. It feels like 1:16 a.m. But it's only 10:16 here in Hollywood; the Bride and Brood are asleep, and I'm sitting up doing some writing, thinking about today.

Which was a great day.

It started out at the Mystery Bookstore in Westwood, where I had a blast hanging out and signing copies of Severance Package. (And some comics and earlier novels, too.) And by hanging out, I really mean hanging out, a bunch of us sitting around a table, with me going on how about how I became a writer, my process, comics vs. novels, what I'm working on now. It was like a family dinner, only with siblings who really seemed to give a shit about what you were saying. Great, great fun. Thanks to Charlotte from Iowa, Adam the Keychain, Alex the Intern, Brett the Director, David the Brother-in-Law, Alan "The L.A. Connection" Cranis, and later, Christa Faust, Stephen Blackmoore and his lovely Inkgrrl. Among the strange topics bandied about: dental vs. genital surgery, Grauman's Chinese Theater, and a children's book about the Black Dahlia (The Lil' Dahlia: A Primer for Young Ladies). Hands off! Faust and I have dibs.

Then it was time to reward the Brood for their patience while I signed books and acted like a geek. First stop: the Petersen Automotive Museum (6060 Wilshire Boulevard, at Fairfax) which comes with the highest Secret Dead Blog Stamp of Approval (TM). Not that I'm a car junkie; I can't tell a friggin' Prius from a Lotus. But the exhibit backdrops are like jumping into a goddamned time tunnel. One step, you're in a 1930s auto insurance office; another step, you're in a 1950s suburban garage. Genius. Plus, there's at least one Steve McQueen car on display at all times. (Big thanks to Brett the Director for recommending this joint.)

The next stop was supposed to be the American Girl shop for my lovely daughter, who's hooked on American Girl like Hunter S. Thompson on Chivas Regal. But the American Girl people up and closed the motherfucker down at 2 p.m. today for a movie premiere... granted, about an American Girl character named Kitt Kitteredge, or Myra Breckinridge, or something like that... but come on! Two p.m.? With no warning ? What kind of heartless bastards enjoy stomping their hob-nailed boots into the tender hearts of young girls?

We escaped the madhouse that is the Grove, had dinner in Studio City, then did the Mulholland Drive thing, from Laurel Canyon to the 101 terminus. Beautiful and scary at the same time. We stopped at the overlook, which offers an amazing view of Universal and Burbank, but the whole time I was freaking out about one of my kids losing their minds and running off the edge of the stone observation platform... and the possibility of me, losing my mind and diving after them. That's how parenthood fucks you up. Back in the old days... the childless days... all I had to worry about was just me losing my mind and jumping from a platform or tall building. Now it's double the worry.

I also picked up a very nice pile of books today: Don Winslow's The Dawn Patrol and Brian and Bonnie Olso's Trailing Philip Marlowe at the Mystery Bookstore, then Charles Bukowski's Post Office and John Fante's Ask the Dust and The Road to Los Angeles at a Barnes and Noble in that insane Grove joint. (See, Ray? I do listen to you. It just takes me a while.)

And now it's 1:43 Philly time, 10:43 Hollywood time, and time to wrap this up.

Live from Hollywood, Pt. 1

I would have had a photo at the top of this post, but I can't remember where I packed the wire for the digital camera.

But imagine, if you will...

The soft hum of traffic near Hollywood Boulevard. The occasional irate honking of a horn. Downtown LA, off in the distance, bathed in smog. The Hollywood Sign within view. The Capitol Records building, too...

And my wife and children downstairs in the hotel pool while I wait for a rollaway bed and a mini-fridge.

So I sit here and drink yet another can of beer before it goes completely warm. And blog.

The flight here was smooth; the kids handled their first flight like stone-cold pros. (They even charmed a bunch of cookies and a free breakfast out of the flight attendants.) As usual, the Bride drove as I assumed my role as the Human GPS. We hit the 405, then Ventura Boulevard, then a Koo Koo Roo in Studio City for lunch. I had never heard of Koo Koo Roo until reading about it Kevin Smith's latest book, where it seems like every meal consumed by the Smith family comes from the Koo Koo Roo kitchens. (Can't blame 'em; the turkey sliders are good.) The Bride sought out Starbucks; I made an ego trip to the nearby Barnes and Noble, housed in a former movie theater, where I was happy to find nine copies of Severance Package, and none of them bearing a handwritten note from Lee Goldberg, telling unsuspecting shoppers that the book was total shit. (I kid Lee! He knows that.) I signed them, then bought a few books, including a new edition of one of my favorite movie books: Harlan Ellison's Watching.

And I swear to God, the first name I see when flipping through the pages: "Lee Goldberg." He interviewed Harlan for Starlog back in the 1980s, and Harlan wrote about it. (Tell me there isn't some sentient being out there, fucking with us. Tell me!)

Then we did some cruising around Hollywood, picked up some hotel room supplies at the Ralphs on Sunset (including some beer, which is getting warmer by the minute... where oh where is the guy with the mini-fridge....) and then we checked in to our hotel.

I am here blogging.

My family is a few floors down, basking in the Calfornia sunshine, splashing each other with crystal blue, hyper-chlorinated water, laughing and embracing life.

I am waiting for the mini-fridge guy.

Um, Oh Yeah...

Talk about burying the lead: I forgot to mention one of the main reasons I'm going to be in L.A. this weekend--namely, a noon signing at The Mystery Bookstore in Westwood (1036-C Broxton Avenue, 310-209-0415). Please do stop by if you're in the area.

Also: earlier today, Playboy's Jamie Malanowski posted some photos from my Mysterious Bookshop signing a few weeks ago. I have no idea what I'm pointing at in that first photo.

Come Here on Vacation, Go Home on Probation

The bags are nearly packed; tomorrow we're flying out to L.A. I haven't been out since I shacked with up with Gischler and Doolittle for last year's L.A. Book Festival, and I'm very much looking forward to returning... this time with the Bride and Brood. Yeah, it'll be tough flying with two kids. There will be heavy bags. There will be crankiness. But the absolute toughest part of packing for this trip... nay, any trip: deciding which books to bring. No, I'm serious! Now, these books are mostly for the plane, because I invariably pick up new/vintage books wherever I go (just ask the Bride). But still, the choices have to be spot-on, because while I don't want to overpack, I also don't want to be stuck with a dud, either. Oh, and they have to be L.A.-related, too. Because I'm a huge nerd.

Anyway, I've already got two sure things in my bag already: Charles Bukowski's Hollywood (as you know, I've been on a Bukowski kick) and an arc of Charlie Huston's Every Last Drop (thanks to Ms. Weinman; I count this as L.A.-related because Huston now lives in L.A.). I also want to bring a Ross Macdonald I haven't read yet.

But which one?

My choices: the new Vintage Crime editons of The Instant Enemy, The Barbarous Coast or The Blue Hammer. The first and third are late period Macdonald; Barbarous is early to mid, I think. All seem cool. There is room, however, for only one. What do you think?

I'd also welcome another L.A. novel that I might possibly already own and haven't read yet. I've been through the classics, including my Chandlers, McCoys, Connellys and Ellroys. Devoured my Lankford; got my Hurwitz on. Any suggestions?

(The first one to say Mr. Monk in Outer Space receives a nice shiny cockpunch.)

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.)