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.)

First Look: A Dr. Watson Clue?

Could this be a clue from my forthcoming Sherlock Holmes novella, The Crimes of Dr. Watson? Is this something you might pluck from the book itself, to examine at your leisure? Why, is this a train schedule? What possible significance could this have? What is Glen Rock? Why do they transport people? Where do they go to? This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife...

Anyway, yeah, I've just burned through the second round of page proofs for Dr. Watson, and holy crap is this book looking awesome. Even if my story sucks the big one, you can purchase this bad boy knowing you're getting every penny's worth of illustration and design. The folks at Quirk sure know what they're doing. Even if I don't, most of the time.

My Old Neighborhood

Nearly 90 years ago. This is Frankford Avenue at Margaret Street; I grew up right around the corner on Darrah Street.

I drove past this corner today. Pretty sure I saw a drug deal. Definitely saw hookers.

(Courtesy PhillyHistory.org, as well as Robert Cheetham.)

Happy Birthday to My Bride

I won't tell you how old she is, but as she's fond of saying: She'll always be younger.

And as Mary Jane Watson once said to a young befuddled Peter Parker: "Face it, Tiger... You just hit the jackpot." Ain't that the truth. Writers' spouses are the unsung heroes of the literary world. You have to deal with self-absorbed freaks who like to stare into space, feet propped up, and claim that they are "working." And that's just literary agents. (Oh, I kid David Hale Smith. He knows that.)

But seriously, I know how lucky I am to have such a supportive, brilliant, funny, beautiful--and frankly, patient--wife like Meredith. The problem with being a writer is that I do live in my head an awful lot, and I don't think I tell her this enough. So here I am. Embarassing her in front of THE ENTIRE BLOG UNIVERSE.

Ah, she's young. She can handle it.

I've Got a Chick Habit

So I finally saw Grindhouse; of course I fucking loved it. Even better, I caught an 8 p.m. show (along with Allan Guthrie and Ed Pettit) at the AMC Orleans 8 in Northeast Philly, which is cool because that's where I saw more or less every horror movie released during the late 1980s: Phantasm 2, A Nightmare On Elm Street Part 4: The Dream Master, Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood (and probably even Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan), Dead Ringers, Hellraiser, Deepstar Six... I could go on. When I was a teenager, I basically lived in two places: Marlo Books in the Roosevelt Mall, and the nearby Orleans 8. Both provided me with the raw fuel I craved--namely, tons of horror novels and movies and magazines and everything else that jacked my young imagination into overdrive.

And this is what Grindhouse does beautifully. It's a fucking fever dream of adolescent fantasy.

That said, I'm not surprised it didn't kill at the box office. I think the Grindhouse audience is a little more specialized than the Weinsteins may have thought. Grindhouse is for horror movie junkies like me who grew up on Fangoria magazine and slasher flicks and Clive Barker novels and Tom Savini FX and all of that good stuff. The reference point in most of the advertising and promotion has been the 1970s; but I'd argue that being a child of the late 1980s also primes you up for this movie. Still, this may be a smallish audience we're talking about. Grindhouse has the gore and thrills of a blockbuster like 300, but perhaps its references (and frankly, running time) aren't for everybody.

It comes down to one question: you're either going to buy Rose McGowan with a gun for a leg, or you're not.

One last thing: I'm a big fan of closing credits, and holy shit does Quentin Tarantino nail it with the song that immediately follows the last frame of Death Proof. It's called "Chick Habit," and it's a mid-1990s slice of retro-pop that's just dead perfect for the 80 minutes that precede it. Complain about Tarantino all you want... but the man knows how to make a soundtrack his bitch.

Pushing It

I swear, Allan Guthrie Week is over. Really. It's not my fault that a brand-new, top-shelf crime webzine called Pulp Pusher features a Q&A; with Sunshine in its debut issue. But you really should check it out. And while you're there, read the Q&A with Ken Bruen, as well as "Photos," an exclusive excerpt from Ken's forthcoming memoir, Benign Thug. It's a beautiful piece of writing that will also haunt the living hell out of you. Plus, there are stories by Ray Banks, Cathi Unsworth, Tony Black, JD Smith and Paul McGoran. All in an attractive package with the best sticker price of all: free.

Allan Guthrie Week: The Exit Interview

Secret Dead Blog: Sunshine, you’ve had quite the busy week. What’s been the highlight for you?

Allan Guthrie: Too many to mention. I did enjoy yesterday’s trip to Bolivia. La Paz reminded me a lot of Philadelphia (much warmer, though). Apart from that, I found a very nice bead shop in NYC. We don’t have too many bead shops back home, so that was fun. But the highlight has to be Thursday’s downpour which enabled me to carry my special umbrella around with me without arousing suspicion.

SDB: What was your favorite moment from Wednesday night’s panel? (I ask this not because I’m actually interested, but because I’ve failed to cover it on the blog this week, and I feel sort of guilty about that.)

AG: Ian Rankin answering, at length, your question about whether he would snort a dead relative.

SDB: All I can say is, the Scottish Book Trust plied me with scotch before the event. Anyway… in New York City, it was “Tartan Week.” In Edinburgh, is it ever “Stars and Stripes Week”? Or maybe even “Pole Day”?

AG: Not yet. But I wouldn’t be surprised to see the latter before too long. Edinburgh has a very large Polish community and they like dancing. So perhaps Pole Dance Day isn’t out of the question.

SDB: Members of your newsletter know what’s next for you, novel and novella-wise, but why don’t you tell Secret Dead Blog readers, too? (And then admonish them for not signing up for your newsletter at allanguthrie.co.uk.)

AG: Hard Man is out in the US on June 4th. Then, on August 22nd, Barrington Stoke are kicking off a new series of books for adult reluctant readers called ‘Most Wanted’. I was commissioned to write one of these, which I called Kill Clock, in which, once again, Pearce is at the helm. Then in October, Polygon are releasing my next novel, Savage Night, which features (almost) all-new characters, focusing on the Park family (Park was a hit man who appeared in Kiss Her Goodbye. The new book is about his father, mother, brother and sister – an interesting bunch). Savage Night will be out next June in the US.

SDB: What about the admonishment? C’mon, you’re made of tougher stock than that. Threaten us. Show us who’s the real hard man.

AG: Threats are for pussies. If you’re hard enough, you don’t issue warnings.

And that brings a close to our Allan Guthrie Week, uh, festivities. Regular Secret Dead Blog programming will resume tomorrow. Whtever that means. Thanks to Sunshine for being a good sport, and may the City of New York forgive him.

Allan Guthrie Week: "To Live and Die in Bolivia"

The strangest thing happened to Allan Guthrie on his return to Philadelphia on Friday. While stepping off the Amtrak train at 30th Street Station, he failed to mind the gap and tumbled forward, striking his head on a sewer main. When he woke up 14 hours later, he was convinced that he was no longer Allan Guthrie. Instead, he believed he was "El Muerte," a Bolivian hit man. He claimed that he was unable to speak English, only Portugese. Which makes no sense, because they speak Portugese in Brazil (and Portugal, of course)--not Bolivia. But you couldn't tell Sunshine... I mean, "El Muerte" that. After three hours of fevered grunting, I was finally able to reach a Portugese translator who agreed to tag along with us for the day. You are all in a world of shite, and soon you will die, El Muerte complained when we were finally able to understand him. Already, this was shaping up to be a winner of a day.

On the agenda: A little sightseeing in historic downtown Philadelphia. But "El Muerte" would only follow us at a distance, ducking behind telephone poles and alt-weekly honor boxes. You are in a world of shite, and soon you will die, he would growl every so often. We strolled through Rittenhouse Square, arguably the most swank city block in Philadelphia, but El Muerte acted as if he were under the command of a military junta in Latin America, jumping behind bushes and attempting to kill unsuspecting passersby with a white plastic spork. Lunch at the trendy Marathon on the Square was no better. El Muerte ordered pig brains, and would accept nothing else. The waitress calmly explained that no, there were no pig brains on the menu. El Muerte responded (via our translator): You are in a world of shite, and soon you will die. Then he tried to kill her with his spork.

Lunch aborted, we ended up down at Penn's Landing, where El Muerte attempted to swim across the Delaware and hijack a nearby mothballed battleship "in the name of Lothian and Borders." This was when I knew that Sunshine's real personality was slowly creeping back.

This was confirmed when we strolled in front of Independence Mall, and, rather unexpectedly, El Muerte stripped naked--except for his mirrored sunglasses and khaki baseball cap--charged at three rangers of the National Park Service, screaming incoherently. The rangers fired their taser guns, racking El Muerte's pale body with thousands of volts of non-lethal electricity.

After the smoke cleared, and as the scent of voided human bowels wafted across America's birthplace, I knew Sunshine was back. Because he looked up at the National Park rangers, smirked, and said, "Is that all you got, ya cunts?"

We Interrupt Allan Guthrie Week...

... to wish you a very happy Friday the 13th.



Still craving some gory Voorhees action? Go to CHUD.com and check out Devin Faraci's hilarious retrospective of the entire Friday the 13th series. Even though Devin is hopelessly wrong about Part VII.

Allan Guthrie Week: "Furry Stools and Double Hard Bastards"

So much for "settling in comfortably." I'm not sure what to say about this photo, other than it captured Sunshine in the throes of yet another diva-like tirade, this time in the swank halls of the Hotel on Rivington in Manhattan's Lower East Side. "Arrrrgh," Sunshine growled. "I'll show ya my lower east side, ya cunts. No way in hell that haggis was vegetarian." It is unclear if the object that appears directly under Sunshine's body is a piece of furniture, or... well, something unspeakable, and/or wombat-related. However, this much is clear: Over the past few days the security team of the Scottish Book Trust (along with a crew of fixers, palm-greasers, lawyers and crime scene cleaners employed by Harcourt and Polygon, Guthrie's American and Scottish publishers, respectively) have desperately tried to keep the ravings of Edinburgh's self-styled "double hard bastard" under control, but to no avail. By now you've probably read that story that fronted the New York Post today; despite the public outcry, Sunshine refuses to apologize to actress Julia Stiles. "Piece of piss, that's what it is," he said. "Piece. Of. Piss."

Anyway, I'm back from New York, and a bit exhausted, so my Tartan Noir panel recap will have to wait until tomorrow. (The Bride also needs to send me the photos she took on her cell phone during the event.) But I had an absolute blast hanging with the members of the Scottish Book Trust, including Marc Lambert, Sophie Moxon, Alan Bissett, Jeannette Harris, Tessa MacGregor, as well as panelists Ian Rankin and Denise Mina, who charmed the living hell out of everyone in the room.

Even Sunshine was fun, despite the fact that, every so often, he'd turn to me and, after a moment of stony silence, whisper: "Cunt."

Allan Guthrie Week: "Strap On Yer Kilts... It's Panel Time!"

I've heard through the crime writing grapevine that Sunshine has calmed down quite a bit since yesterday. He's thrown only four cell phones at his handlers--and the fourth, I must say, seems to have greatly exaggerated his injuries. (From what I hear, it's barely even a skull fracture.)

Anyway, Sunshine seems to have settled in quite comfortably. Which is good, because tonight is the big "Tartan Noir" panel, featuring Sunshine, Denise Mina and Ian Rankin, three of the biggest names in that moody little crime subgenre. But is it even a subgenre? Or just a clever bit of marketing shorthand? How much do labels mean to a writer like Ian Rankin, anyway? Is it possible that I'm test-driving some of my moderator questions in this very blog post? Find out tonight!

Actually, I'm fairly sure the event is booked solid, but never fear. Check back late tomorrow for a complete rundown. Wish us luck. And by "us," I mean "me." (Everyone else is a stone cold pro.)

Allan Guthrie Week: "Sweet Wombat Cream Now, Ya Cunts!"

The Guthries have landed safely in America. You should have seen Sunshine's seven handlers scurry around the airport, fetching his 19 matching Tartan bags and trying to stack them on a rickety PHL luggage cart. "Faster, ya cunts," Sunshine barked, making his way to the stretch Humvee limousine that his publishers had provided for his stay in the U.S., complete with a rotating crew of three drivers, intended to man the wheel in 8-hour shifts, just in case Sunshine had a craving for sauteed bok choy at 3 a.m.. Notice I said intended. As it turned out, the limo had barely peeled out of the International arrivals area when Sunshine started foaming at the mouth, beating at the silk upholstery with reddened fists. "What is this fucking shite? Ah, the cunting bastards... I told them velvet, not fucking silk!" The limo swerved to the shoulder. The driver popped out of his seat, racing for the trunk where he no doubt prayed there was a swath of tartan velvet large enough to cover the back seat, as well as a sewing kit. But Sunshine was faster. Before the driver could blink, Sunshine was pummeling the man's coccyx and arse with a tire iron. ("Never the face," Sunshine explained later. "Nobody'll go anywhere with a cunt who looks like he's gone a few rounds with a fucking meat grinder. I'm a right bastard, but I'm no sadist.") A good 20 minutes later, Sunshine returned the gore-caked tire iron to the trunk and then announced, "From here we walk. Strap on some luggage you cunts." His handlers sprung into action. If you were anywhere near I-95 North last year, just a few minutes from the airport, you may have caught a glimpse of us: a motley crew of men in kilts, charing up the shoulder, with all manner of bags strapped to our backs (18 in all; the 19th bag had contained the kilts--Sunshine never travels without a full set). Every once in a while, if you listened carefully, you could hear the occasional cry of "cunt!" bouncing off the concrete canyons of the city.

Several hours later we made it back to Secret Dead Blog headquarters. Sunshine collapsed onto the carpet and remained there until morning; any attempt by a handler to cover their boss with a blanket was met with a growl and a "piss off, cunt." Meanwhile, I crept down to the basement, where David Terrenoire was working furiously, manipulating wombats in a strange kind of frenzy.

"Only a half bucket, Duane," he said, panting.

"We have only a few hours left 'til morning," I said. "You'd better pump faster. Because Sunshine's in a mood, and trust me, this is not the kind of mood you'll tell your grandkids about someday. This is a foul mood, thick as the Scottish harrrrr."

I left David to his work and caught some sleep. In the morning, we drove Sunshine to 30th Street Station--he woke up with the idea that he'd commandeer a commuter train in the name of Lothian and Borders "just for the fucking hell of it." That's when he realized that he'd missed his usual breakfast of sweet wombat cream, and at that very moment, the Bride snapped the photo at the top of this post. We barely made it out alive.

More tomorrow, from New York.

Secret Dead Blog Presents: Allan Guthrie Week

The Discovery Channel has "Shark Week." So why not a week dedicated to master noir stylist (and the author of the forthcoming Hard Man) Al "Sunshine" Guthrie? As I type these words, Sunshine and the lovely Mrs. Sunshine are flying over the Atlantic, making a beeline for America. This Wednesday, Sunshine will be part of a "Tartan Noir" panel along with Ian Rankin and Denise Mina. And since Secret Dead Blog is serving as moderator, I'll be sure to bring you all of the exciting, behind-the-scenes stuff you crave (e.g., Sunshine's sure-to-be-demanding tour rider, which is rumored to include a "bucket of sweet cream made from the milk of wombats" and "vegetarian haggis... yes, you cuntjobbies, I said vegetarian haggis, go on now, figure it the fuck out").

But that's not all. The Sunshines will be spending part of their trip at the Secret Dead Blog Headquarters, so I will do my best to force Mr. Guthrie to guest blog now and again. We may even do one of those live blog Q&As; again. So leave any questions you might have in the commments section below, and if Sunshine gets his precious wombat sweet cream, he might be in a good enough mood to answer them. I'll even try to make him give away an advance copy of Hard Man (or two).

And yes, there will be photos.

Attaboy, Oldboys

Huge congrats to Bill Crider and Stuart MacBride, both of whom scooped up Derringer Award nominations for their Damn Near Dead stories (as reported by Nasty, Brutish and Short). Bill's story, "Cranked," is also up for an Edgar, and while he claims that a win is highly unlikely, I'd like to point out that sometimes, it does snow in Texas.

Good luck to both, and thanks to both for continuing to make this Polish editor look good.

The Return of Fredric Brown

About a month ago Secret Dead Blog interviewed Ed Holub, the director who's working hard to bring David Goodis's Cassidy's Girl to the silver screen. Now, I'm proud to bring you a Q&A; with writer/director Lance Doty, whose current project is One Dead Man, an adaptation of Fredric Brown's The Lenient Beast. I hope this heralds a resurgence of Brown, who's one of my all-time favorite writers. (His work is the reason I feel comfortable blending mystery, humor, sci-fi and violence. Brown did it all the time--and brilliantly.) There's a recent French adaptation of The Lenient Beast (La Bête de Miséricorde), but Doty's film will be the first American adaptation of a Brown work since... well, you'll see.

Secret Dead Blog: When did you read your first Fredric Brown novel/story?

Lance Doty: My First Fredric Brown novel was Martians, Go Home which I read about ten years ago, or so. I thought it was a terrific little novel, then for some reason, I put the book back on my shelf and forgot all about Fredric Brown until I picked up and read a number of his novels within a period of about three weeks: Here Comes a Candle, The Fabulous Clipjoint, and eventually The Lenient Beast.

SDB: Can you tell us about securing the rights? Was it at all difficult tracking them down? Sadly, Brown departed to another dimension over 35 years ago.

Doty: It was very difficult, but God Bless the internet and a couple of hours free time. I stumbled upon a fansite dedicated to Fredric called Paradox Lost, e-mailed a man by the name of James Roberts, who passed on the query to the author Barry Malzberg (a very talented writer), who was serving as the agent to the estate. I ran into a bit of a stumbling block with regard to the rights because the book had been adapted and produced years ago in France. A previous agent did not pass on the legal documents (or lost them), so we were unclear of what or what we could not do. Eventually, I decided to make France a non-exclusive territory and all was settled.

SDB: I read Lenient Beast a good 10 years ago, and remember it being very fast-moving, but moody. What drew you to this novel?

Doty: The atmosphere that Fredric created with this story, the mood definitely, the idea of telling the story from the point of view of each character, to get inside their head, in thinking of the story in terms of a f film, felt very fresh to me. But the strongest component that stood out for me was the theme of conviction, to witnessing how far a person will go to fight for what they believe in, that idea, really grabbed me.

SDB: How far along are you in the production process?

Doty: Right now, I'd say we're in pre-pre production. My first choice for the role of John (the serial killer) read the script and liked it (I can't mention his name), we're now trying to figure out his schedule and will base everything else on that. We've raised the money, enough to shoot it as a low-budget film, but we do not yet have a start date.

SDB: The most recent Fredric Brown adaptation in the U.S. seems to have been Martians, Go Home, starring Randy Quaid. I have nothing against Mr. Quaid, but man, am I glad to see Brown's crime work finally making its way on screen. (Okay, isn't really a question. But feel free to comment.)

Doty: You know, [Brown] really is an amazing talent, very diverse, all of his novels feel very different, I love how he experiments with narrative. It's a shame that he is not a household name, I hope that somebody, somewhere can give this man the due recognition he deserves. Whether or not it'll come out in this film, I'm not sure. But I'll certainly do my part to make his talents known.

Surrounded By Death

Here in Philly, we've got a bit of a murder epidemic (104 dead since January 1). In my City Paper editor's letter this week, I call for more weapons.

In an unrelated story, CP contributing editor Sam Adams tells the chilling story of Bob Bechtel, a man who, 50 years ago, shot a sleeping student at Swarthmore College. He's never apologized, and only recently did he tell his daughters. (Sam's first line: "Bob Bechtel doesn't sound like a killer.") It's the lead story in our Philadelphia Film Fest coverage, and very much worth your time, especially if you're a crime thriller junkie.

Will You Be My Friend?

I finally chugged the Kool-Aid and now, like the rest of the whippersnappers, I'm on the Myspace. I'd been hearing for years how all the young kids were hopped up on the Myspace, and I could only assume no good would come of it. Then I saw that perfectly respectable middle-aged men like Allan "Sunshine" Guthrie and Jason Starr were also on the Myspace, as well as cool cats like Ed Brubaker, Jack Ketchum and Warren Ellis. How bad could the Myspace be? So like Lester Burnham firing up a joint in his garage, I went and got all up in the Myspace.

If you're hooked on the Myspace, too, stop and by and visit my admittedly lame page. And if you'd like, ask to be my friend. Because I'll mostly likely say yes. Unless you're trying to sell me the Cialis.

Return to the Cadillac Desert

Three reasons to pick up the latest edition (Feb/Mar 07) of Weird Tales magazine: 1.) It will be the last one with the classic "Weird Tales" logo on the cover. 2.) It features an interview with Joe R. Lansdale, who talks about morality, religion and country music, among other topics. And last, but good God, not least: 3.) It contains a reprint of Lansdale's classic zombie novella, "On the Far Side of the Cadillac Desert with Dead Folks." Which comes highly, highly recommended. I first read this story in John Skipp and Craig Spector's zombie-thology, The Book of the Dead, and it stunned my 18-year-old self into submission. Here's a sample:

"The last bounty hunter had been the famous Pink Lady McGuire--one mean mama--three hundred pounds of rolling, ugly meat that carried a twelve-gauge Remington pump and a bad attitude. Story was, Calhoun jumped her from behind, cut her throat, and as a joke, fucked her before she bled to death. This not only proved to Wayne that Calhoun was a dangerous sonofabitch, it also proved he had bad taste."

And that's just the second paragraph, people. I re-read "Cadillac Desert" yesterday on the way to work, and it hasn't lost a single bit of muscle.

Donald Hamilton, 1916-2006

Just read the news over at Mystery*File that Donald Hamilton is gone. So damn sad. I went through a serious Hamilton phase in Fall 2001, where I tracked down and devoured the first dozen Matt Helm adventures, back to back. I'm pretty sure it was Ed Gorman who said that JFK was a weenie because he preferred James Bond to Matt Helm; I'm inclined to agree. Forget the Dean Martin movies; look at the original novels. Death of a Citizen, the first in the series, is balls-out fantastic. We read "vintage" novels and assume they'll be slightly quaint, that the action couldn't possibly match the fever pitch of modern novels. I don't think anybody's ever topped what Hamilton did with Helm's gritty, hardcore debut. Mystery*File also reports that there's a last Matt Helm adventure which may see the light of day at some point. That would be sweet. But there's also a treasure trove of Helm waiting to be discovered, and I'd love to see them reprinted.

Update: Charles Ardai, who reprinted Hamilton's Night Walker last year, writes:

In the last decade of his life, Don moved back to Sweden, where he'd been born, and lived there with his son, Gordon. He died peacefully, in his sleep, this past November. Gordon kept the fact of his death private until today, when he confirmed it in a phone conversation with me.

"We've lost a number of giants of the mystery field over the past few years -- Mickey Spillane, Ed McBain, and Richard S. Prather, among others -- and Donald Hamilton is very much of that caliber. He sold more than 20 million books during his lifetime. But unlike Spillane, McBain and Prather, all of whom were widely remembered at the time of their death, Don's passing has sadly gone unremarked.

Thanksgiving in April

As if I needed another reason to want to see Grindhouse as soon as humanly possible... here's comes this twisted little bit o' sickness from Eli Roth, the creator of such life-affirming movies as Cabin Fever and Hostel. It's a faux trailer for a slasher flick called Thanksgiving, and if you were alive during the late 1970s/early 1980s run of holiday-themed horror movies (kick-started by John Carpenter's Halloween), you'll realize how fucking pitch perfect this is.

A couple of caveats: It's pretty gory, and there is sexual content, so don't go checking it out with your toddler perched on your lap. And I recommend downloading the whole thing and watching it in Quicktime, because you're going to want to watch it again, right away. Specifically, for a little surprise where you'll be like, I did not just see that, but in fact, a repeat viewing will confirm that yes, yes you did.

Oh my gentle Jesus I cannot wait to see this movie. Or, movies. Whatever.