If all goes well... and here I'm invoking the gods of wireless internet... I'll be posting regular Bouchercon updates starting tomorrow, and running clear through Sunday. Joining me in the swank Noir Originals/Secret Dead Blog B'Con Headquarters (Chicago Bureau) will be Allan "Sunshine" Guthrie, so you can expect reports from him as well. Maybe I'll even be able to drag Ray Banks or Dave White to the keyboard for a spell.
If the gods of wireless internet frown upon me, however, this may be the same goddamned post you see for five straight days.
But let's think positive.
Dateline: Chicago...
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
You Better You Best
Late yesterday, I took a break and hit the used bookshop up the street. There, propped up on a stand, was an ARC for The Best American Mystery Stories 2005, edited by Joyce Carol Oates. Cool, I thought. I picked it up and skimmed the contents, which include stories by Laura Lippman, Dennis Lehane, George V. Higgins and Scott Wolven, among other wildly talented folk.
Then I flipped to the "Other Distinguished Mystery Stories of 2005" in the back. To my complete surprise, I saw that my Plots With Guns story, "Hilly Palmer's Last Case," was listed, along with three other PWG stories: Pat Lambe's "Union Card," Cortright McMeel's "Istanbul," and Tim Wohlforth's "Jesus Christ is Dead."
This was the first I'd heard of it. Needless to say, it warmed the cockles of my little Polish heart. What a great way to head into B'Con weekend.
So thanks to Neil (yet again) for taking on the story. I've gotten an absurd amount of mileage out of it -- a reprint in Ed Gorman's upcoming Year's Best Crime and Mystery, a Derringer nomination, a StorySouth nomination. Makes me think I should consider expanding it into a novel one of these years.
(Which is funny, because that's how the story began: as the opening to an offbeat private eye novel.)
People need to seriously buy Neil some beer this weekend. Five stories (including the Wolven story) out of 50 in Best American? That's just too damn cool for school.
Then I flipped to the "Other Distinguished Mystery Stories of 2005" in the back. To my complete surprise, I saw that my Plots With Guns story, "Hilly Palmer's Last Case," was listed, along with three other PWG stories: Pat Lambe's "Union Card," Cortright McMeel's "Istanbul," and Tim Wohlforth's "Jesus Christ is Dead."
This was the first I'd heard of it. Needless to say, it warmed the cockles of my little Polish heart. What a great way to head into B'Con weekend.
So thanks to Neil (yet again) for taking on the story. I've gotten an absurd amount of mileage out of it -- a reprint in Ed Gorman's upcoming Year's Best Crime and Mystery, a Derringer nomination, a StorySouth nomination. Makes me think I should consider expanding it into a novel one of these years.
(Which is funny, because that's how the story began: as the opening to an offbeat private eye novel.)
People need to seriously buy Neil some beer this weekend. Five stories (including the Wolven story) out of 50 in Best American? That's just too damn cool for school.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Spoiler Sport
Well, Kirkus has weighed in on The Wheelman. The review is largely a synopsis, and I'm suprised by how many spoilers there are.
If Kirkus had reviewed Stars Wars, I'm guessing the first line would have been something like this: Farm boy Luke Skywalker teams up with rogue pilot Han Solo to rescue Princess Leia from the clutches of Darth Vader -- who, by the way, is Luke's dad, and come to think of it, Leia's too, which just creeps us out.
Anyway, here's the review, with the spoiler-ish text redacted. (Hey, I'm just trying to maintain the illusion.) If you'd like the full spoiler-laden version, e-mail me.
An enigmatic getaway driver chases, and is chased by, cops and mobsters, both Russian and Italian.
After a morning robbery in Philadelphia's Center City, thieves Bling and Holden and wheelman Lennon, an Irish immigrant, are speeding to the airport when their Subaru collides with a van and flips over. Bruised and wounded, Lennon wakes [MINOR SPOILER], stuffed into a [MINOR SPOILER] and naturally without the money. Two college musicians named Andy and Mikal find him, instigating the first of many brutal encounters. When it's over, Lennon, wearing [SPOILER], heads for [SPOILER], where he hopes to rest before searching for the money, his accomplices and a young woman named Katie. Unfortunately for Lennon, Mikal is the son of a powerful Russian mobster, and Andy has a pesky, vengeful girlfriend named Lisa. Lennon, who has a long rap sheet, is [SPOILER], but he does [MAJOR SPOILER]. (He and Katie [SPOILER].) Like Lennon, Katie is tough, bruised and forced to travel a harrowing path to their reunion. Unlike Lennon, [MAJOR SPOILER].
Swierczynski's fiction debut is more style than substance, but oh, what style!
It's almost like Mad Libs, isn't it?
If Kirkus had reviewed Stars Wars, I'm guessing the first line would have been something like this: Farm boy Luke Skywalker teams up with rogue pilot Han Solo to rescue Princess Leia from the clutches of Darth Vader -- who, by the way, is Luke's dad, and come to think of it, Leia's too, which just creeps us out.
Anyway, here's the review, with the spoiler-ish text redacted. (Hey, I'm just trying to maintain the illusion.) If you'd like the full spoiler-laden version, e-mail me.
An enigmatic getaway driver chases, and is chased by, cops and mobsters, both Russian and Italian.
After a morning robbery in Philadelphia's Center City, thieves Bling and Holden and wheelman Lennon, an Irish immigrant, are speeding to the airport when their Subaru collides with a van and flips over. Bruised and wounded, Lennon wakes [MINOR SPOILER], stuffed into a [MINOR SPOILER] and naturally without the money. Two college musicians named Andy and Mikal find him, instigating the first of many brutal encounters. When it's over, Lennon, wearing [SPOILER], heads for [SPOILER], where he hopes to rest before searching for the money, his accomplices and a young woman named Katie. Unfortunately for Lennon, Mikal is the son of a powerful Russian mobster, and Andy has a pesky, vengeful girlfriend named Lisa. Lennon, who has a long rap sheet, is [SPOILER], but he does [MAJOR SPOILER]. (He and Katie [SPOILER].) Like Lennon, Katie is tough, bruised and forced to travel a harrowing path to their reunion. Unlike Lennon, [MAJOR SPOILER].
Swierczynski's fiction debut is more style than substance, but oh, what style!
It's almost like Mad Libs, isn't it?
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Smells Like Noir
A while back, the Bride picked up something called "Febreeze Scent Stories," a little plastic machine that disperses pleasant aromas in a pre-determined sequence. Here's what it looks like:
Not unlike the Penfield Mood Organ from Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Scent Stories delivers olfactory delight as well as the illusion that a drama is unfolding. See, you can buy various Scent Stories discs like "Exploring a Mountain Trail," "Relaxing in the Hammock" and "Wandering Barefoot on the Shore." A new scent is dispersed every 30 minutes, with a total of five scents per "story." Amazing, huh? Novelists blow 70,000 words to tell a single story; Febreeze pulls it off with five smells.
I think Febreeze is on to something interesting, though they're going about it the wrong way.
Fuck the mountain trail. If the Febreeze folks were serious, they'd come up with stuff like "Post-Adultery Body Dump":
Scent #1: Burnt pot roast.
Scent #2: Cheap streetwalker perfume.
Scent #3: The cordite discharge from a pistol.
Scent #4: The heavy copper of freshly spilled blood.
Scent #5: Lye and bleach. Lots and lots of bleach.
Now that's a goddamned scent story.
Not unlike the Penfield Mood Organ from Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Scent Stories delivers olfactory delight as well as the illusion that a drama is unfolding. See, you can buy various Scent Stories discs like "Exploring a Mountain Trail," "Relaxing in the Hammock" and "Wandering Barefoot on the Shore." A new scent is dispersed every 30 minutes, with a total of five scents per "story." Amazing, huh? Novelists blow 70,000 words to tell a single story; Febreeze pulls it off with five smells.
I think Febreeze is on to something interesting, though they're going about it the wrong way.
Fuck the mountain trail. If the Febreeze folks were serious, they'd come up with stuff like "Post-Adultery Body Dump":
Scent #1: Burnt pot roast.
Scent #2: Cheap streetwalker perfume.
Scent #3: The cordite discharge from a pistol.
Scent #4: The heavy copper of freshly spilled blood.
Scent #5: Lye and bleach. Lots and lots of bleach.
Now that's a goddamned scent story.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
The Avenue, the Slasher and Me
I wrote the cover story in this week's City Paper, and it's a somewhat odd blend of memoir, crime story and neighborhood profile. "Under the El" is one of my first attempts to write about Frankford, the historic yet troubled neighborhood in lower northeast Philly where I grew up. I've known for a while that I'm going to set a couple of crime novels there -- they'll probably be books #4 and 5. There's much to examine, much to exorcise.
Going into this piece, I knew I had a lot of personal ground to cover, but I didn't want it to overwhelm the story. So I tried to leave myself out as much as possible, even though this was a highly personal story. (Does that make any sense?) Sometimes, what's off the page is as important as what's on it.
And on a related note, my editor's letter this week deals with two recent high-profile crimes in Philly, and how they tie into the cover story.
Not exactly a light-hearted week 'round here at Secret Dead Blog, eh?
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Someday, When My Mind Snaps For Good...
... and I hear a high-pitched squeal, followed by the sound of an industrial-strength steel spring being wrenched from its moorings inside my skull, I'll see this, playing in an endless loop.
Mushroom! Mushroom!
Mushroom! Mushroom!
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Notes from a Ridealong
I didn't die. (Sorry to build false suspense there.)
On the contrary, yesterday's ridealong was very low-key. Part of the problem is that I was paired up with a very nice, but quiet, police officer. One tool in a reporter's arsenal is silence. Keep quiet, let the sources do the talking. Unfortunately, this is also a tool in a cop's aresenal. Keep quiet, let the other guy do the talking. We were at an impasse. And my officer was much better at prolonged silence than me.
For those who are morbidly curious, here are some of my rough notes from yesterday's session. (I've changed the names of the cops mentioned to protect their privacy.) I'm not going to end up using any of this stuff in my story for next week -- it's good for background, but nowhere near enough to hinge a scene on, even though it did end in bloodshed. Sorta.
Out with Officer McCaffrey, 30, nine years with the department. Father’s a cop.
It’s afternoon: cautions not much might happen.
Catches a call: abandoned SUV, Dodge Daytona Sport, 1994, abandoned at the XXXX block of East Thompson in Bridesburg.
Runs it through NCIC, comes back as reported stolen. Major Crimes is interested in it; wants it guarded for prints. (Meaning, guarded until it can be towed to major crimes, who will check for fingerprints.) “You can come along, just don’t touch the car.” Inside the car, which is fairly beat-up, you can see the cracked steering column, with the ignition pulled out and hanging over the top. There’s a strip of white fabric tied around the column.
McCaffrey needs a property receipt, and start the paperwork to establish the chain of custody. The choice: send someone else for the paperwork, and sit here with the car. Or have someone sit here, and go for the paperwork. Car three is nearby and agrees. We head back to the station.
While out on patrol, McCaffrey looks for anything suspicious. “Suspicious is suspicious” he says, and adds little else. No red flags to look out for. McCaffrey is quiet, doesn’t offer more than the bare minimum.
Busy times in Frankford: afternoon, rush hour, then a lull before the night.
“Major crimes may want it because there’s another story behind it.” Ordinary, a stolen car that is recovered isn’t dusted for prints. Just not enough manpower.
McCaffey starts the paperwork, tries to reach someone in Major Crimes for instructions. He asks others in the department for advice.
“Major Crimes thinks that major crimes only happen Monday through Friday,” says one officer.
The squad room: up on a wipe board, the names of the officers assigned to each squad: One squad, two squad, three squad.
There’s the “steady last out” squad, who works 11-7 every night, without fail.
Then, the other two shifts alternate: two weeks of day, two weeks of night. 7 to 3, then 3 to 11. The change of shift is stagged by a half-hour; some may finish at 2:45, while the other half 3:15.
Each board had the names of a little more than 50 officers each. (One and three had 53; two had 58.) McCaffrey is a member of two squad.
According to two cops, Foulkrod Street is the worst drug corridor in Frankford. [Name withheld] is the drug boss there; worked his way up from being a dealer.
A lot of wisecracking in the office. One cop, who has a cold, threatens to hug a female officer. “Come over here,” he says, inching toward her. “You always have a cold,” she says.
The same officer later says he hates snow. “But you like skiing,” another says. “Go figure,” he replies.
The office is what you see on TV more or less: old, beat-up furniture, desks and filing cabinets. The typewriter on one desk was a hard plastic model from the 80s; there was a hole in the clear plastic case over the striking elements.
Below that: a half-sized fridge with a padlock on it. Wondered what was inside until I saw an office key it open. It’s stocked with water and cans of soda. The office counted out some change, and added it to an honor box.
Color scheme: navy blue paint, with a band of yellow, then light blue above, painted on cinderblock. Salmon-colored tile floors. Office shared with the 2nd District. In the common area, an ATM. Bet that’s never robbed. Upstairs, Northeast Detectives HQ.
Computers are PCs a few years old. Not many of them. The laptop in Office McCaffrey’s car wasn’t working today. “It’s tempermental,” he expains. Otherwise, he could have called checked NCIC himself. “You’re lucky,” he adds. “This morning, the air conditioning wasn’t working in here. It was hot.”
McCaffrey: ultra laid-back. Alert, but not a chatterbox.
Also posted on the wall: a wipe board with “Important Numbers.” Other units, etc.
Officers joke about one hitting the lottery. They imagine the headlines: “Officer’s Girlfriend Steals Lottery Money; Leaves Officer to Hitch Back Home.” “FOP to Send Money to Get Officer Back Home.” That kind of thing.
Prostitution is a lot better than it used to be along Frankford Avenue, according to Jones, another officer
McCaffrey and another officer speculate a bit about the Dodge Daytona. “There were those guy…” says one. “Nah, this isn’t it,” says McCaffrey.
Drive back to hand off paperwork to three car, watching the Daytona. Then we drive up to Frankford again. Over the radio: “robbery in progress, three black juveniles entering back door.” Then another call: a burglar alarm has gone off. McCaffrey says many are false alarms. “A curtain blowing in the wind could trigger it.”
Up the Avenue, discuss nuisance bars. Most stops are for bar fights. One, Pat McGinniss', was a nuisance; that was shut down last year.
Call comes in: woman with a knife on Leiper Street. Another squad takes it (McCaffrey's sector is Bridesburg) but we follow. He hits the button that makes a siren blast, then hitsthe lights, and speeds up Pratt two blocks. Not much of a chase.
Stabbing at XXXX Leiper Street: At the scene, a tall black woman with a dirty white t-shirt streaked with blood was yelling; three friends—one of whom had a baby in the carrier on the sidewalk—were trying to calm her down. “Fuck you,” she’s yelling. “That’ll teach you to hit me, you motherfucker chump ass.”
“Everybody relax,” says McCaffrey, and the woman’s friends, and some neighbors, try to convince her to stay calm. But she won’t.
The victim comes out—a short, stocky black male. Naked from the waist up. There are streaks of blood on his chest, but it’s not clear where he’s wounded. Or if he’s wounded. “I don’t want to press charges,” he says. There’s a chair knocked over on the porch. An officer suggests he take a seat, get this figured out. The victim seems like he wants to get this over with, have everyone leave.
But his attacker, presumably a girlfriend or wife, isn’t having any of it. She lets loose a torrent of profanity, then, takes off her white shirt to reveal a black bra beneath. “Don’t take your shirt off,” one of her friends implores. “I need a clean shirt!” the attacker responds. It’s an ugly afternoon here an Leiper Street, just two blocks from the Frankford Transportation Center. There are quite a few neighbors out on the porch, watching the action somewhat bemusedly.
Back at the station: McCaffrey records mileage, throws nightstick and such in the trunk.
On the contrary, yesterday's ridealong was very low-key. Part of the problem is that I was paired up with a very nice, but quiet, police officer. One tool in a reporter's arsenal is silence. Keep quiet, let the sources do the talking. Unfortunately, this is also a tool in a cop's aresenal. Keep quiet, let the other guy do the talking. We were at an impasse. And my officer was much better at prolonged silence than me.
For those who are morbidly curious, here are some of my rough notes from yesterday's session. (I've changed the names of the cops mentioned to protect their privacy.) I'm not going to end up using any of this stuff in my story for next week -- it's good for background, but nowhere near enough to hinge a scene on, even though it did end in bloodshed. Sorta.
Out with Officer McCaffrey, 30, nine years with the department. Father’s a cop.
It’s afternoon: cautions not much might happen.
Catches a call: abandoned SUV, Dodge Daytona Sport, 1994, abandoned at the XXXX block of East Thompson in Bridesburg.
Runs it through NCIC, comes back as reported stolen. Major Crimes is interested in it; wants it guarded for prints. (Meaning, guarded until it can be towed to major crimes, who will check for fingerprints.) “You can come along, just don’t touch the car.” Inside the car, which is fairly beat-up, you can see the cracked steering column, with the ignition pulled out and hanging over the top. There’s a strip of white fabric tied around the column.
McCaffrey needs a property receipt, and start the paperwork to establish the chain of custody. The choice: send someone else for the paperwork, and sit here with the car. Or have someone sit here, and go for the paperwork. Car three is nearby and agrees. We head back to the station.
While out on patrol, McCaffrey looks for anything suspicious. “Suspicious is suspicious” he says, and adds little else. No red flags to look out for. McCaffrey is quiet, doesn’t offer more than the bare minimum.
Busy times in Frankford: afternoon, rush hour, then a lull before the night.
“Major crimes may want it because there’s another story behind it.” Ordinary, a stolen car that is recovered isn’t dusted for prints. Just not enough manpower.
McCaffey starts the paperwork, tries to reach someone in Major Crimes for instructions. He asks others in the department for advice.
“Major Crimes thinks that major crimes only happen Monday through Friday,” says one officer.
The squad room: up on a wipe board, the names of the officers assigned to each squad: One squad, two squad, three squad.
There’s the “steady last out” squad, who works 11-7 every night, without fail.
Then, the other two shifts alternate: two weeks of day, two weeks of night. 7 to 3, then 3 to 11. The change of shift is stagged by a half-hour; some may finish at 2:45, while the other half 3:15.
Each board had the names of a little more than 50 officers each. (One and three had 53; two had 58.) McCaffrey is a member of two squad.
According to two cops, Foulkrod Street is the worst drug corridor in Frankford. [Name withheld] is the drug boss there; worked his way up from being a dealer.
A lot of wisecracking in the office. One cop, who has a cold, threatens to hug a female officer. “Come over here,” he says, inching toward her. “You always have a cold,” she says.
The same officer later says he hates snow. “But you like skiing,” another says. “Go figure,” he replies.
The office is what you see on TV more or less: old, beat-up furniture, desks and filing cabinets. The typewriter on one desk was a hard plastic model from the 80s; there was a hole in the clear plastic case over the striking elements.
Below that: a half-sized fridge with a padlock on it. Wondered what was inside until I saw an office key it open. It’s stocked with water and cans of soda. The office counted out some change, and added it to an honor box.
Color scheme: navy blue paint, with a band of yellow, then light blue above, painted on cinderblock. Salmon-colored tile floors. Office shared with the 2nd District. In the common area, an ATM. Bet that’s never robbed. Upstairs, Northeast Detectives HQ.
Computers are PCs a few years old. Not many of them. The laptop in Office McCaffrey’s car wasn’t working today. “It’s tempermental,” he expains. Otherwise, he could have called checked NCIC himself. “You’re lucky,” he adds. “This morning, the air conditioning wasn’t working in here. It was hot.”
McCaffrey: ultra laid-back. Alert, but not a chatterbox.
Also posted on the wall: a wipe board with “Important Numbers.” Other units, etc.
Officers joke about one hitting the lottery. They imagine the headlines: “Officer’s Girlfriend Steals Lottery Money; Leaves Officer to Hitch Back Home.” “FOP to Send Money to Get Officer Back Home.” That kind of thing.
Prostitution is a lot better than it used to be along Frankford Avenue, according to Jones, another officer
McCaffrey and another officer speculate a bit about the Dodge Daytona. “There were those guy…” says one. “Nah, this isn’t it,” says McCaffrey.
Drive back to hand off paperwork to three car, watching the Daytona. Then we drive up to Frankford again. Over the radio: “robbery in progress, three black juveniles entering back door.” Then another call: a burglar alarm has gone off. McCaffrey says many are false alarms. “A curtain blowing in the wind could trigger it.”
Up the Avenue, discuss nuisance bars. Most stops are for bar fights. One, Pat McGinniss', was a nuisance; that was shut down last year.
Call comes in: woman with a knife on Leiper Street. Another squad takes it (McCaffrey's sector is Bridesburg) but we follow. He hits the button that makes a siren blast, then hitsthe lights, and speeds up Pratt two blocks. Not much of a chase.
Stabbing at XXXX Leiper Street: At the scene, a tall black woman with a dirty white t-shirt streaked with blood was yelling; three friends—one of whom had a baby in the carrier on the sidewalk—were trying to calm her down. “Fuck you,” she’s yelling. “That’ll teach you to hit me, you motherfucker chump ass.”
“Everybody relax,” says McCaffrey, and the woman’s friends, and some neighbors, try to convince her to stay calm. But she won’t.
The victim comes out—a short, stocky black male. Naked from the waist up. There are streaks of blood on his chest, but it’s not clear where he’s wounded. Or if he’s wounded. “I don’t want to press charges,” he says. There’s a chair knocked over on the porch. An officer suggests he take a seat, get this figured out. The victim seems like he wants to get this over with, have everyone leave.
But his attacker, presumably a girlfriend or wife, isn’t having any of it. She lets loose a torrent of profanity, then, takes off her white shirt to reveal a black bra beneath. “Don’t take your shirt off,” one of her friends implores. “I need a clean shirt!” the attacker responds. It’s an ugly afternoon here an Leiper Street, just two blocks from the Frankford Transportation Center. There are quite a few neighbors out on the porch, watching the action somewhat bemusedly.
Back at the station: McCaffrey records mileage, throws nightstick and such in the trunk.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
This Afternoon: Hanging with the Philly PD
The ridealong I requested is happening in about 90 minutes. We'll be cruising the mean streets of the 15th District (well, not all of it is mean) all afternoon. Along with my reporter's notebook and pen, I'm bringing signed copies of my true crime books along as a gift to the squad room, just in case they need bathroom reading in the next couple of weeks.
I'll be (hopefully) reporting back with some highlights later today...
I'll be (hopefully) reporting back with some highlights later today...
Friday, August 19, 2005
And When the Wee Fella Came Out, Things Got Weird
The Bride and I just returned from the concert at the Tweeter Center. (See earlier post.)
And I've got to say, country music is absolutely terrific. There's nothing more wholesome or fulfilling. As far as I'm concerned, there are only two kinds of music: country, and western. Country music is absolutely terrific. There's nothing more wholesome or fulfilling. Resistance is futile. As far as I'm concerned, there are only two kinds of music: country, and western. Country music is absolutely....
...makeitstop makeitstop makeitstop...
Seriously, though... for all of my misgivings, Big and Rich -- as goofy as they may appear -- are true showmen. They knew how to entertain a crowd full of "Philly hillbillies" wearing cowboy hats, waving around plastic bottles of Budweiser and interlocking arms in a strategic "grab a handful of ass through black denim" kind of way.
And anything that makes my Bride smile and dance and laugh and sing as much as these guys is okay in my book.
Some oddities, though, from this evening:
First, let me start with this guy. "Two-Foot Fred."
Now I'm not up on my Big & Rich lore, but apparently this wee fella is the star of their video, "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy." All I know is that one minute there's fireworks and flashing lights, and the next, a dwarf in a marmalade lampshade is bopping around to the music. It wasn't so much a country music moment as a harkening back to the days of carnivale.
Especially when, during the same song, the six foot, five inch Cowboy Troy (the band's sometime collaborator, purveyor of "hick hop," and country star in his own right) shared the stage. I didn't know where to look. I settled on the middle-aged couple a few rows ahead, playing grab ass.
Beer was $8 a pop. Sixteen ounces, served in a plastic bottle that would be absolutely no use in a bar fight. I drank three, and realized I could have bought a case of really decent beer instead.
The ferry that took us to Camden was escorted by two U.S. Coast Guard gunships. That was a bit weird. I mean, if we were to suddenly blow up, what would they do with those guns? Shoot us in the water to make sure we didn't suffer?
During one intermission, we encountered a large gentleman who described, in almost loving detail, how he broke the nose of some 25-year-old mosh pit idiot during a Jimmy Buffet concert last summer. Then he added, almost needlessly, that he worked for the U.S. Postal Service.
Brooks and Dunn were kind of lame, except they had three hotties dancing around in the backround, moving in unison. At one point, Brooks (at least I think it was Brooks) showed a video of himself competing in a donkey race. Toward the end, the donkey lost control, and smashed into a horse-drawn carriage. From there, they segued into a love song. Okayyyy...
The opening act, the Warren Brothers, were surprisingly rockin'. The one Warren Brother even wore an Al Pacino Scarface t-shirt. Cool.
I mentioned the beer was $8 a pop, right?
And I've got to say, country music is absolutely terrific. There's nothing more wholesome or fulfilling. As far as I'm concerned, there are only two kinds of music: country, and western. Country music is absolutely terrific. There's nothing more wholesome or fulfilling. Resistance is futile. As far as I'm concerned, there are only two kinds of music: country, and western. Country music is absolutely....
...makeitstop makeitstop makeitstop...
Seriously, though... for all of my misgivings, Big and Rich -- as goofy as they may appear -- are true showmen. They knew how to entertain a crowd full of "Philly hillbillies" wearing cowboy hats, waving around plastic bottles of Budweiser and interlocking arms in a strategic "grab a handful of ass through black denim" kind of way.
And anything that makes my Bride smile and dance and laugh and sing as much as these guys is okay in my book.
Some oddities, though, from this evening:
First, let me start with this guy. "Two-Foot Fred."
Now I'm not up on my Big & Rich lore, but apparently this wee fella is the star of their video, "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy." All I know is that one minute there's fireworks and flashing lights, and the next, a dwarf in a marmalade lampshade is bopping around to the music. It wasn't so much a country music moment as a harkening back to the days of carnivale.
Especially when, during the same song, the six foot, five inch Cowboy Troy (the band's sometime collaborator, purveyor of "hick hop," and country star in his own right) shared the stage. I didn't know where to look. I settled on the middle-aged couple a few rows ahead, playing grab ass.
Beer was $8 a pop. Sixteen ounces, served in a plastic bottle that would be absolutely no use in a bar fight. I drank three, and realized I could have bought a case of really decent beer instead.
The ferry that took us to Camden was escorted by two U.S. Coast Guard gunships. That was a bit weird. I mean, if we were to suddenly blow up, what would they do with those guns? Shoot us in the water to make sure we didn't suffer?
During one intermission, we encountered a large gentleman who described, in almost loving detail, how he broke the nose of some 25-year-old mosh pit idiot during a Jimmy Buffet concert last summer. Then he added, almost needlessly, that he worked for the U.S. Postal Service.
Brooks and Dunn were kind of lame, except they had three hotties dancing around in the backround, moving in unison. At one point, Brooks (at least I think it was Brooks) showed a video of himself competing in a donkey race. Toward the end, the donkey lost control, and smashed into a horse-drawn carriage. From there, they segued into a love song. Okayyyy...
The opening act, the Warren Brothers, were surprisingly rockin'. The one Warren Brother even wore an Al Pacino Scarface t-shirt. Cool.
I mentioned the beer was $8 a pop, right?
A Crushing Defeat in the War Against Country Music
Tonight, the Bride and I are going to see Big and Rich, along with Brooks and Dunn, and a debut band called The Warren Brothers over at the Tweeter Center in Camden, New Jersey. Yep, a night full of country music. The things you do for love.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Big and Rich, here's a photo:
The dude on the left -- frankly, I'm not sure if he's Big or Rich -- looks fairly normal, if a bit meancing in that bland, South Florida psychopath kind of way. But the dude on the right (I'm thinking this is Rich; I don't know why, I just do)... Christ, where do you begin? Did he buy those shades and honestly think, "Gee, I don't think these are too big for my face." And similarly: "No, this hat won't completely overwhelm my tiny head!"
Their big hit is "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy." Um, yeah.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Big and Rich, here's a photo:
The dude on the left -- frankly, I'm not sure if he's Big or Rich -- looks fairly normal, if a bit meancing in that bland, South Florida psychopath kind of way. But the dude on the right (I'm thinking this is Rich; I don't know why, I just do)... Christ, where do you begin? Did he buy those shades and honestly think, "Gee, I don't think these are too big for my face." And similarly: "No, this hat won't completely overwhelm my tiny head!"
Their big hit is "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy." Um, yeah.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
A Pair of Skis
Today wasn't the actual police ride-a-long; still waiting for a time on that from the 15th District. But I had a weird surprise when I walked into the station house this morning. After taking my waiver, Officer King looks at me and says, "Are you related to Officer Swierczynski?"
"There's an Officer Swierczynski?"
"Yeah," she replied. "He works out of two squad. Mark Swierczynski."
If we are related, it's news to me. I know my father has a cousin Jerry; it's quite possible one of his sons grew up to be a cop. But that's not part of the family we saw very often. And beyond that, Philly-area Swierczynskis are few and between.
More on this as it develops. And yes, I'll be sure to give an exclusive account of my police ride-a-long to Secret Dead Blog. (Whatever it is I don't use in my story, that is.)
"There's an Officer Swierczynski?"
"Yeah," she replied. "He works out of two squad. Mark Swierczynski."
If we are related, it's news to me. I know my father has a cousin Jerry; it's quite possible one of his sons grew up to be a cop. But that's not part of the family we saw very often. And beyond that, Philly-area Swierczynskis are few and between.
More on this as it develops. And yes, I'll be sure to give an exclusive account of my police ride-a-long to Secret Dead Blog. (Whatever it is I don't use in my story, that is.)
On This Morning's To-Do List
Sign and drop off a a waiver of liability at the Philadelphia Police Department's 15th District.
I've requested a ride-a-long through a particular neighborhood (more on that next week), and the police wants to make sure that I won't sue in the event of "any property damage and/or personal injury or death which may occur during the period of time which I am observing and/or being transported in a police vehicle during said observation."
Seems like a fair enough trade off to me.
I've been on a police ride-a-long before, back in 1994, but that was to observe a thriving club district (Delaware Avenue) full of party-goers and hellraisers. This one will be a little different. I'll be in a neighborhood where the incidents of aggravated assaults with guns (158 in 2004) have nearly tripled since 1998.
But hey, as Bob Morton says in RoboCop, "That's life in the big city."
I've requested a ride-a-long through a particular neighborhood (more on that next week), and the police wants to make sure that I won't sue in the event of "any property damage and/or personal injury or death which may occur during the period of time which I am observing and/or being transported in a police vehicle during said observation."
Seems like a fair enough trade off to me.
I've been on a police ride-a-long before, back in 1994, but that was to observe a thriving club district (Delaware Avenue) full of party-goers and hellraisers. This one will be a little different. I'll be in a neighborhood where the incidents of aggravated assaults with guns (158 in 2004) have nearly tripled since 1998.
But hey, as Bob Morton says in RoboCop, "That's life in the big city."
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Assless Chaps and Mud Wrestling: An Allan Guthrie Update
It's been a while since Secret Dead Blog has checked in with Scotland's cheeriest writer, Mr. Allan Guthrie. It's also been a long time since Secret Dead Blog has conducted an interview. What the hell is wrong with Secret Dead Blog? Can't it get its act together?
Anyway, here's what Al ("Sunshine" to those who know him best) had to say for himself.
Secret Dead Blog: Okay, so the Polygon version of Two-Way Split is making its way into UK bookstores everywhere. And word on the street is that it's selling like bottles of Night Nurse in the middle of winter. How does it feel?
Allan Guthrie: I'm a debut author once again, which is great. It's like having a second chance to lose your virginity, but with a year's practice in between. And, yes, I've heard that the book's sold into bookstores very well. Of course, it now has to sell out of those stores, which is another matter entirely.
SDB: This Tuesday, you'll be making an appearance at the Edinburgh Book Festival, which is a huge deal. Anything special planned for the audience?
Guthrie: Well, as you know, I'm a bit of a fashion chameleon. On Tuesday night I'm going for the retro look: string underpants and assless chaps. To be honest, I'm just following the standard author guidelines as handed out by the EIBF (the tickets are a fairly pricey £8 each, so I'm doing what I'm told lest paying customers fail to get what they've come for and ask for a refund): intro, read/discuss book for 10 minutes, questions from the chair, questions from the audience, sign books.
My co-author for the evening, Brian Hennigan, is a stand-up comedian, so hopefully he'll get the audience all nice and relaxed and then I'll take over and make them so miserable with my despairing noir outlook on life that they'll wish they were dead (which is hopefully what they've come for). But I haven't met Brian yet, so for all I know he might have a little dance routine planned for us to lighten the mood. At least I'll be dressed for the part.
SDB: In just a few short weeks... Christ, you're a busy bugger, aren't you?... you'll be making your Bouchercon debut. What are you looking forward to the most? And how long do you think you'll be detained in Customs this time 'round?
Guthrie: The in-flight movie selection was pretty good last time I crossed the Atlantic: Closer on the way over and The Grudge on the way back. It'd be great if the selection was as good this time round. I'm also looking forward to visiting the Pentagon and shaking hands with Mr Boucher.
On a serious note, I'm looking forward to the triple bill of mud wrestling bouts between Ray Banks and Russel McLean, Ken Bruen and Jason Starr, and David Hale Smith and Mark Stanton. Customs was great fun in March. The snapping on of the surgical gloves had to be my holiday highlight. More of the same would be great, but this time I'm bringing vaseline.
Anyway, here's what Al ("Sunshine" to those who know him best) had to say for himself.
Secret Dead Blog: Okay, so the Polygon version of Two-Way Split is making its way into UK bookstores everywhere. And word on the street is that it's selling like bottles of Night Nurse in the middle of winter. How does it feel?
Allan Guthrie: I'm a debut author once again, which is great. It's like having a second chance to lose your virginity, but with a year's practice in between. And, yes, I've heard that the book's sold into bookstores very well. Of course, it now has to sell out of those stores, which is another matter entirely.
SDB: This Tuesday, you'll be making an appearance at the Edinburgh Book Festival, which is a huge deal. Anything special planned for the audience?
Guthrie: Well, as you know, I'm a bit of a fashion chameleon. On Tuesday night I'm going for the retro look: string underpants and assless chaps. To be honest, I'm just following the standard author guidelines as handed out by the EIBF (the tickets are a fairly pricey £8 each, so I'm doing what I'm told lest paying customers fail to get what they've come for and ask for a refund): intro, read/discuss book for 10 minutes, questions from the chair, questions from the audience, sign books.
My co-author for the evening, Brian Hennigan, is a stand-up comedian, so hopefully he'll get the audience all nice and relaxed and then I'll take over and make them so miserable with my despairing noir outlook on life that they'll wish they were dead (which is hopefully what they've come for). But I haven't met Brian yet, so for all I know he might have a little dance routine planned for us to lighten the mood. At least I'll be dressed for the part.
SDB: In just a few short weeks... Christ, you're a busy bugger, aren't you?... you'll be making your Bouchercon debut. What are you looking forward to the most? And how long do you think you'll be detained in Customs this time 'round?
Guthrie: The in-flight movie selection was pretty good last time I crossed the Atlantic: Closer on the way over and The Grudge on the way back. It'd be great if the selection was as good this time round. I'm also looking forward to visiting the Pentagon and shaking hands with Mr Boucher.
On a serious note, I'm looking forward to the triple bill of mud wrestling bouts between Ray Banks and Russel McLean, Ken Bruen and Jason Starr, and David Hale Smith and Mark Stanton. Customs was great fun in March. The snapping on of the surgical gloves had to be my holiday highlight. More of the same would be great, but this time I'm bringing vaseline.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Sarah Weinman's Influence: Far and Wide
If you live in Philly and pick up the City Paper today, you'll find a page that was totally and utterly inspired by Sarah Weinman.
First up: my WTF column, which started with an IM conversation I had with Sarah. She'd watched The Aristocrats the night before, and I said, "Hey, wonder what it would sound like if Rick Santorum told the joke..." And that, ladies and germs, is how columns are sometimes born.
Second up: Barry Eisler guest-blogged for Sarah last week, and I thought his post on a "winnable war" was so cool, I asked for his permission to reprint it in this issue. Barry kindly agreed, so here it is.
So three cheers for Sarah: writer, reviewer, blogger, muse.
(Pssst.... um, Sarah... got any ideas for next week's cover?)
First up: my WTF column, which started with an IM conversation I had with Sarah. She'd watched The Aristocrats the night before, and I said, "Hey, wonder what it would sound like if Rick Santorum told the joke..." And that, ladies and germs, is how columns are sometimes born.
Second up: Barry Eisler guest-blogged for Sarah last week, and I thought his post on a "winnable war" was so cool, I asked for his permission to reprint it in this issue. Barry kindly agreed, so here it is.
So three cheers for Sarah: writer, reviewer, blogger, muse.
(Pssst.... um, Sarah... got any ideas for next week's cover?)
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Guess Who's in Town?
That's right: Dave White-sound-alike Paul Giamatti.
Check out this bit of gossip, which appears in Dan Gross' column in today's Philadelphia Daily News:
Paul Giamatti is friendly, and a metal-head. So says a guy who met the "Sideways" star Monday at 18th and Chestnut streets.
Giamatti, in town to film M. Night Shyamalan's "Lady in the Water" up in Bristol, noticed our tipster staring at him and asked him if he wanted an autograph.
Our source declined, saying it wasn't necessary. Giamatti then asked him, "You don't happen to have a cigarette, do you?"
The man, who doesn't smoke, said no. "That's OK, neither do I," Giamatti replied. "I just feel like if people recognize me, I should take something from them."
Freaky. Even freakier if you imagine him saying it in that Dave White-esque voice.
The story continues:
The actor then asked our source, who had his iPod headphones on, what he was listening to. Giamatti took the earphones and the actor correctly identified the music. "Oh, old Iron Maiden, nice. I like old Maiden."
And that'd be a total Dave White move. Can't you just hear him saying it?
Okay, here's my new summer project: Giamatti's in town, White's not too far away... I really need to bring the two of these guys together. I'll even supply the merlot.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
The Gilded Palace of Noir
The Wheelman "Get Your Ass in Gear" Tour '05 may be starting out in Philly, but it's going to come to a screeching halt deep in the heart of Texas.
I'm proud to announce that the last stop of the tour will be Noir Night II at Murder by the Book in Houston, Texas. The date: December 8th. The time: 6:30 p.m. The lineup: Ken Bruen, Reed Farrel Coleman, Charlie Stella, and Your Friendly Neighborhood Pole With Soul. For more details, check out the link. Yes, the one right there. Where it says Noir Night II? Click on it. (Sorry. My relatives are Polish. You've gotta explain these things.)
What is "Noir Night"? Great question. However, there are no easy answers. The audience who attended the first Noir Night have been blood-sworn to secrecy, but some details have emerged -- shared in hushed whispers in the back rooms of opium dens and honky-tonk bars. For example, Al "Sunshine" Guthrie's "the cruicifixion was noir, the resurrection, hardboiled" speech is quickly becoming this genre's version of The Aristocrats. It is enhanced, yet never quite mastered, in the retelling.
I like to think of "Noir Night" as the Flying Burrito Brothers of crime fiction -- a loose collection of outlaws and outcasts, mining the dark country for flecks of gold. At the center is Ken Bruen, the Gram Parsons of the crew (only cuter), with Murder By the Book's David Thompson in the rock-solid, ever-present Chris Hillman role. Meanwhile, other players come and go. The first lineup included yours truly (playing the "Sneaky" Pete Kleinow role), J.D. "Dusty" Rhoades (Chris Ethridge), Jason Starr (Jon Corneal) and Al Guthrie (Emmylou Harris).
The second lineup, however, features Ken, David, me again, but with the musical stylings of Charlie Stella (Bernie Leadon) and Reed Farrel Coleman (Michael Clarke).
Who knows? By the time the fourth or fifth Noir Night rolls around, it might be headlined by a completely different cast of characters. Point is: if you're anywhere near Houston in early December, catch the action while you can.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find a Parsons "Nudie suit" in Ken's size...
I'm proud to announce that the last stop of the tour will be Noir Night II at Murder by the Book in Houston, Texas. The date: December 8th. The time: 6:30 p.m. The lineup: Ken Bruen, Reed Farrel Coleman, Charlie Stella, and Your Friendly Neighborhood Pole With Soul. For more details, check out the link. Yes, the one right there. Where it says Noir Night II? Click on it. (Sorry. My relatives are Polish. You've gotta explain these things.)
What is "Noir Night"? Great question. However, there are no easy answers. The audience who attended the first Noir Night have been blood-sworn to secrecy, but some details have emerged -- shared in hushed whispers in the back rooms of opium dens and honky-tonk bars. For example, Al "Sunshine" Guthrie's "the cruicifixion was noir, the resurrection, hardboiled" speech is quickly becoming this genre's version of The Aristocrats. It is enhanced, yet never quite mastered, in the retelling.
I like to think of "Noir Night" as the Flying Burrito Brothers of crime fiction -- a loose collection of outlaws and outcasts, mining the dark country for flecks of gold. At the center is Ken Bruen, the Gram Parsons of the crew (only cuter), with Murder By the Book's David Thompson in the rock-solid, ever-present Chris Hillman role. Meanwhile, other players come and go. The first lineup included yours truly (playing the "Sneaky" Pete Kleinow role), J.D. "Dusty" Rhoades (Chris Ethridge), Jason Starr (Jon Corneal) and Al Guthrie (Emmylou Harris).
The second lineup, however, features Ken, David, me again, but with the musical stylings of Charlie Stella (Bernie Leadon) and Reed Farrel Coleman (Michael Clarke).
Who knows? By the time the fourth or fifth Noir Night rolls around, it might be headlined by a completely different cast of characters. Point is: if you're anywhere near Houston in early December, catch the action while you can.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find a Parsons "Nudie suit" in Ken's size...
Monday, August 08, 2005
And the Winner Is...
... Anonymous City Girl, who shared her favorite toast:
When LadyAdmin and I have tequila nights at Dirty Franks, we toast the best bartender in the city, Shelia.
Shelia, she gives us mas tequila
She rocks
She is a total fox
I bet she gets a lot of cocks.
As tequila night wears on, the toast gets louder and louder.
ACG's entry was clearly the winning entry, because... well, it was the only entry. (I think I need to make future contests a bit easier. Or remind people that they're going on. Or remember that only three people read this blog.)
But a contest is a contest, so ACG, the Big Book o' Beer 2006 calendar is yours. I can either send it to you, or you could pick it up at the City Paper office (since you're in the neighborhood.) Don't worry. I wouldn't do anything like install motion-sensor cameras that would snap your photo the minute you take the prize from the front desk, or try to pull footage from the surveillance cameras in our elevators. That would be crass.
Congrats to ACG, and thanks to... well, ACG for playing!
(Next contest: The Breathing Air Sweepstakes. Do you breathe air? You win!)
When LadyAdmin and I have tequila nights at Dirty Franks, we toast the best bartender in the city, Shelia.
Shelia, she gives us mas tequila
She rocks
She is a total fox
I bet she gets a lot of cocks.
As tequila night wears on, the toast gets louder and louder.
ACG's entry was clearly the winning entry, because... well, it was the only entry. (I think I need to make future contests a bit easier. Or remind people that they're going on. Or remember that only three people read this blog.)
But a contest is a contest, so ACG, the Big Book o' Beer 2006 calendar is yours. I can either send it to you, or you could pick it up at the City Paper office (since you're in the neighborhood.) Don't worry. I wouldn't do anything like install motion-sensor cameras that would snap your photo the minute you take the prize from the front desk, or try to pull footage from the surveillance cameras in our elevators. That would be crass.
Congrats to ACG, and thanks to... well, ACG for playing!
(Next contest: The Breathing Air Sweepstakes. Do you breathe air? You win!)
Friday, August 05, 2005
This One's for Ken Bruen
Here are two photos of the Irish Memorial at Penn's Landing, snapped this morning in a haze of Philly humidity. This heartbreaking piece of work depicts the ravages of the Great Hunger, and the exodus of the Irish from their homeland. It's just a block from my office, and it nails me in the heart whenever I look at it. I promised Ken a couple of pics, but I thought I'd share 'em with everyone else, too.
Ah, Swierczy really knows how to lighten the mood before a lazy summer weekend, eh?
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Secret Dead Blog Contest: Get Toasted!
A while back, I mentioned that The Big Book O' Beer had been turned into a 2006 desk calendar. As a desk calendar enthusiast, this thills me to no end.
My publisher sent me two copies. Since I'm only one person, living in only one time stream, I have no use for two calendars. Besides, having one at home and work would be crass. I mean, really. Get over yourself, Swierczy.
So instead... I've decided to give a calendar away to one lucky (?) Secret Dead Blog reader.
Here's what you have to do:
1.) Think up a creative beer toast. You know, something to say when you clink mugs. "Here's mud in yer eye." "Cheers to you, you son of a bitch." That kind of thing. My personal favorite:
The Felon's Toast
Past the lips, over the tongue
Downtown drunk tank, here we come
But follow your own muse. Write something funny. Heartfelt. Profound. Scatalogical. Twisted. Or all of the above.
2.) E-mail your toast to duane.swier@verizon.net by Sunday, August 7th, 11:59 p.m. Be sure to include your name and mailing address. Don't post your toast on the backblog. That space is reserved for wise-ass comments from Bryon Quertermous and reality checks from the Bride. Okay? Besides, e-mail is so much more personal. (Ahem.)
The entries will be judged by myself and The Bride. We'll be looking for the toast that makes us smile the most.
The winner will be announced Monday, August 8th (how's that for quick turnaround?) and will receive a copy of said calendar. Signed, even, if you want. Just in case I get famous or die sometime soon.
Good luck. Crack those beers, and get toasting!
My publisher sent me two copies. Since I'm only one person, living in only one time stream, I have no use for two calendars. Besides, having one at home and work would be crass. I mean, really. Get over yourself, Swierczy.
So instead... I've decided to give a calendar away to one lucky (?) Secret Dead Blog reader.
Here's what you have to do:
1.) Think up a creative beer toast. You know, something to say when you clink mugs. "Here's mud in yer eye." "Cheers to you, you son of a bitch." That kind of thing. My personal favorite:
The Felon's Toast
Past the lips, over the tongue
Downtown drunk tank, here we come
But follow your own muse. Write something funny. Heartfelt. Profound. Scatalogical. Twisted. Or all of the above.
2.) E-mail your toast to duane.swier@verizon.net by Sunday, August 7th, 11:59 p.m. Be sure to include your name and mailing address. Don't post your toast on the backblog. That space is reserved for wise-ass comments from Bryon Quertermous and reality checks from the Bride. Okay? Besides, e-mail is so much more personal. (Ahem.)
The entries will be judged by myself and The Bride. We'll be looking for the toast that makes us smile the most.
The winner will be announced Monday, August 8th (how's that for quick turnaround?) and will receive a copy of said calendar. Signed, even, if you want. Just in case I get famous or die sometime soon.
Good luck. Crack those beers, and get toasting!
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Pizza, Porn, Bookmarks and Beer Mugs
In this week's WTF, I revisit my old neighborhood, and finally find a reason to use my favorite fake porn movie title of all time.
Meanwhile, over at Bob Sassone's Professor Barnhardt's Journal, I reveal the "things in life that are most important" to me, along with Tod Goldberg, Steve Almond, Joel Stein and Daniel Radosh, among others.
Looking back on my answers, I realize that I was in a terribly earnest mood when I responded. What the hell is up with that?
Meanwhile, over at Bob Sassone's Professor Barnhardt's Journal, I reveal the "things in life that are most important" to me, along with Tod Goldberg, Steve Almond, Joel Stein and Daniel Radosh, among others.
Looking back on my answers, I realize that I was in a terribly earnest mood when I responded. What the hell is up with that?
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
The Secret Dead Blog Guide to a Happy Marriage, Chapter 27: When Buying More Than Two Books in a Single Day...
... make sure you bring flowers home for The Bride.
Thank God there was a flower shop in the Frankford El terminal. Of course, I pressed my luck too far when I later tried to play up the fact that I walked "blocks and blocks" through the "humid, stinking streets of Philadelphia" to find this bouquet.
The Bride looked at me and said: "That's odd. The tag on the flowers said 'Frankford El terminal'."
D'oh!
The Secret Dead Blog Guide to a Happy Marriage, Chapter 28: Avoid marrying someone smarter than you. It's a dance with the devil, every day of the week.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Monday Lunchtime Book Purchases
Already, the Bride is like, "Oh, book purchases. Really."
It's Monday, so I owed it to myself to walk up to Book Jar on 2nd Street and check out the latest used titles. (Which is kind of an oxymoron there, but work with me, people.) Anyway, here's what called out to me:
Stray Dogs by John Ridley. Read it years ago, but I love this James M. Cain-esque neo-noir enough to want to read it again.
Relentless and Kolchak's Gold by Brian Garfield, the writer who is forever doomed to have "author of Death Wish" appended to his name.
A Likely Story by Donald Westlake, which I've been trying to find for a while now.
And the strangest find...
The Night Stalker, which seems to be an oddball novelization of the "#1 TV movie of all time." The original screenplay was written by one of my heroes, Richard Matheson, and I remember this movie (and its spinoff weekly series) fondly from my childhood. C'mon now -- a grumpy Las Vegas newspaperman, tracking down a vampire? It doesn't get much better than this. Shows like these were the reason I grew up to write stuff like Secret Dead Men.
UPDATE: My apologies to Jeff Rice, the author of The Night Stalker. As it turns out, his book came first, followed by Richard Matheson's adaptation. My bad. Please don't send any blood-draining Night Stalkers after me. (Although Bill's backblog post is interesting, too...)
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