The Return

The trip back to Philly today was uneventful, except for the part in the plane where the guy in the seat behind me stopped breathing. (He was fine, after a nice long hit from the oxygen tank.) And last night I almost got my Polish ass kicked by two lads who didn't like the fact that I took a photo as they went zooming down the street on motorbikes. ("Ya fuckin' faggot fanny," one of them yelled at me, after circling back.) I already miss hanging out with Sunshine (above, on Leith Walk) and Mrs. Sunshine, but it's also good to be home, where people hurl proper insults, like "fuck you, you fucking fuck."

Fun With Sco'ish

Jakey

Buckfast

Schemie

Pram-face

Neds

Cuntybaws

A Wee Stroll

(With annotation by Allan "Sunshine" Guthrie.)

Yeah, it's a case of me being too busy enjoying Scotland to actually blog about how much I'm enjoying Scotland. The past three days have been fun, but also very busy. I don't think I've walked so much in my life.* Take Thursday for example. Sunshine suggests we head up to Edinburgh Castle and stroll down High Street though Old Town. Cool. We turn a corner near Grassmarket, and he shows me the stairs leading up to the castle. I take a look. Not bad, I think. (I did take a photo of stairs, but forgot my USB cable for the camera. Sorry.) I climb the stairs, only to discover another set of stairs. And beyond that, another. And quite possibly another, only I lost track, because I was feeling very light-headed. I have vague memories of school children** laughing and running past me, and at some point, a tap on my shoulder, urging me to fish the camera out of my jacket pocket so I can snap a photo of the castle, only I'm not seeing any fucking castle, I'm seeing, like, dots and lines and God and shit.*** There were a lot of stairs.

Then late Friday morning, Sunshine suggests that, instead of taking a bus across town to our lunch appointment, we take a relaxing stroll from Stockbridge to Leith Walk. Now, I have no idea how far it is from Dean Village to Leith Walk. Sure, I say, sounds good. We start walking. And continue walking. And walk further still. Sunshine tells me he's taking me the long way, so we can avoid uphill climbs. We keep walking. Finally, after what seems like days of walking, we arrive at Leith Walk. Later, I check the map. Dean Village to Leith Walk? Pretty long walk.****

But then again, Edinburgh is a really great city for walking, so I'm not complaining. In fact, today I set off alone and took a three-hour walk***** through Old Town, Princes Street, Rose Street, and then Leith Walk again. There was a half-marathon in Princes Street Gardens today; if I wasn't such an oversized bastard, I'd be tempted to join in. ******

* Really?
** That was actually a group of day-tripping pensioners from Dundee, the youngest of whom was 71.
*** That was probably the Buckfast. I told you to go easy on it till you got used to it.
**** That's nothing. A bracing stroll, just enough to get limbered up.
***** Three hours? Were you walking backwards or on your hand or something?
****** Baby steps, dude. Baby steps.

Never Open With the Weather

That's one of Elmore Leonard's famous 10 Rules of Writing, but I can't avoid it when talking about Scotland. The weather is just nuts. There's a cliche about this place that goes something like, "If you don't like the weather, just wait 5 minutes." This was especially true yesterday, where it went from overcast to bright sun to lashing rain to blue skies to dark clouds... all within a matter of hours. Al tells me this isn't usual, even for Scotland, but I don't know. He tells me a lot of things.

Anyway, I got up at 7 or so this morning (3 a.m. Philly time) fully refreshed, so I guess that jet lag thing was true. Now that I'm showered and smell like Imperial Leather (I'm guessing this is the Scottish version of Ivory?), we're headed out shortly to see more of Edinburgh, and meet up with a certain Pulp Pusher. More reports later.

Live from Edinburgh

I've more or less been awake since yesterday morning (save a 45-minute recharge nap earlier today). See, the way Sunshine explained it, if I'm able to stay awake 9 or 10 tonight (more or less right now), I'd have jet lag beat. We'll see. Today was great, even if it felt like it was 36 hours long.

Anyway, expect kind of normal posts tomorrow after I fall into a pleasant seven hour coma.

Live from Newark

I'm here in the waiting area of Terminal C of Newark Liberty Airport. My plane is not for quite a few hours (yeah, I'm one of those check-in early types) so I'm going to wander the terminal a bit. Maybe I'll a beer. However, if a beautiful blonde sits next to me, I'm outta there. Just sayin'.

Another update later, if something interesting happens. If not, I'll be reporting live from Scotland. Dead tired, and probably acting like a zombie, but reporting nonetheless.

Update (4:07 p.m.): No, nothing happening. Just wanted to note that I'm sitting in a Brooklyn Brewery airport bar, having a lager, looking out over the tarmac and, in the distance, Manhattan. No blondes in the vicinity. (Mostly dudes, actually.) CNN on the TV directly above my head. The only place I ever really watch/listen to CNN is in airports.

Update (5:36 p.m.): Just finished some beer and nachos (granted, not the ideal meal choice before an international flight, but you know me, walk on the wild side and all of that). I IM'd a bit with mentee Dave White. Checked some news online. Wrote a bit. Watched a 747 taxi into a gate about 50 yards away from where I'm sitting. Now I'm dissolving an "Airborne" tablet into a glass of water. It's some homeopathic concoction that's supposed to boost your immune system before hopping on a plane full of canned air. Of course, those two Brooklyn lagers I just drank may very well negate this stuff. But like I said: Swierczy walks on the wild side.

Update (6:41 p.m.): This update is for Dave White, because he asked. I'm boarding soon. Back at you tomorrow morning.

Aye... It's Back

That's right: Allan Guthrie Week returns, my friends. Only this time, instead of Sunshine's adventures in New York and Philadelphia, I'm taking the show to him. Tomorrow night I'll be flying to Edinburgh (not shown above; that's fictional Muir Island from X-Men, but it's totally how I imagine Scotland) and spending the next week with Mr. Guthrie, filing reports all of the way.

Will it match the madness of last year's Allan Guthrie Week? I have no idea, but consider this: Sunshine will be in his natural habitat this time, writing, doing readings (in Glasgow this Saturday!) and whatever the hell else he does. We're only a few weeks away from the release of his next gritty noir, Savage Night, so I'm sure things will be lively.

If you have any questions or request for Mr. Guthrie, leave them in the comments section below. I'll force him to respond, even if it's just a grunt and/or the word "cuntybaws."

Take care of the U.S.A. while I'm gone.

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?"

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.