Buried and Loaded

I've been meaning to post a "Book Report" for a while now... I've read a ton of great stuff over the past few months. But until I get off my lazy Polish ass, you'll have to make do with this, my editor's letter from this week's City Paper. Therein, I discuss everyone's two favorite topics: death and taxes.

The Mean Streets of St. Martin's

No, it's not time to renegotiate my contract. I'm talking about a paperback imprint of St. Martin's that I just stumbled across today in a used bookstore. Seems that before Minotaur, and a few years before Dead Letter, there was an SMP imprint called "Mean Streets," which billed itself as "the tough new breed of crime novel." Writes included Eugene Izzi, Tom Kakonis, Bruce Cook, Ken Grissom and Les Roberts, among others. The book I picked up was Izzi's The Booster. I've read other Izzi novels, and really dug 'em, so this was a real find.

But even if The Booster is pure crime gold, it is doomed to pale in comparison to the awesome ad copy in the back pages, which lay out the "Mean Streets" mission. For instance:

"Come walk these MEAN STREETS and find cheap lowlife, brutal murder... and great reading!"

Cheap lowlife? As opposed to the expensive shit? Anyway, here's another:

"The measure of a man is how well he survives life's MEAN STREETS. Bold new crime novels by today's hottest talents."

And then there's my favorite:

"Hey! Whatza matta wi'chu? You betta read MEAN STREETS or you're gonna pay."

There's a real nice Ah, Shaddupa You Face vibe going on there. Something you don't see too often these days.

I am now on a mission to find every single goddamned book in this series.

Into the Nerdery

Finally... at long last... I can tell you the news. Something I've been dying to spill for months now. Something that only a few close friends and loved ones have known about. Something that's been eating away at my very soul. (Okay, maybe just making a light snack of my soul.)

This November, I'll be making my Marvel Comics debut with a one-shot issue of Moon Knight called "Date Night."

For you non-fanboys, a "one-shot" is a a stand-alone, self-contained story. (Also, for you non-fanboys, that over there to the left is Moon Knight hisownself, illustrated by Dave Wilkins.)

This has been in the works for quite a while; I was sworn to secrecy by Axel Alonso, my Marvel editor. But holy fucking shit have I've been dying to blog about this. I've been a rabid comics fan since I was old enough to read, and even more so in recent years when I've been able to afford a weekly comics run. When Charlie Huston made his Moon Knight debut, I was both thrilled and jealous as hell. Thrilled, because I've been reading Moon Knight since I was 10, and I'm a huge Huston fan. Jealous... well, because I've always wanted to write comics, too. Even before I dreamed of writing novels.

That I broke into Marvel is completely thanks to Ed Bruabker, whose kick-ass Criminal I've talked about before. I pretty much owe Ed the kidney of his choice when the time comes.

Anyway, Moon Knight Annual #1 is out in November, and I have more in the Marvel pipeline. I'll tell you more in the coming weeks. But for now, just consider me a silly happy bastard. It's not often a 25-year-old dream comes true.

(*The term "nerdery" courtesy Jon Cavalier.)

In Praise of Art

In Thursday's City Paper, I paid homage to a man I've talked about in this blog every now and then: Art Bourgeau, co-owner of Philly's Whodunit mystery bookstore. But I'm not alone. Local writer Jack Curtin read my piece, then posted his own tribute to Art... as well as the day Stephen King stopped in to scoop up a bunch of paperbacks at Whodunit back in the day. Check it out right here.

Isn't She Lovely?

The full cover of The Blonde trade paperback, at finer booksellers everywhere the day before Halloween. Yes, my name is spelled right. (Wise arse.)

Tired of Reading? Like, Words and Stuff?

Then this week's City Paper is for you. It's our first-ever Comics Issue, featuring 16 really funny, weird, profound, crass, and otherwise mind-bending pieces of graphic goodness. We put out the call for comics entries a few months ago, and I'm absolutely thrilled with what people sent our way. Check it out, and if you're so inclined, head over here to vote for your favorite. (I won't reveal my favorite, but I crack a goofy smile every time I look at this one.)

Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em

Over at the Clog, the City Paper's official blog, I have a little chat with illustrator Emily Flake, the author of These Things Ain't Gonna Smoke Themselves: A Love/Hate/Love/Hate/Love Letter to a Very Bad Habit (Bloomsbury USA). It's a fuckin' riot. I'm not a smoker; the one time in college I tried to fake it, just to ask a beautiful woman to borrow her lighter, I ended up getting so sick I puked on the back of my best friend on the ride back to campus. (God I wish I were making that up.) But reading about Flake's personal wrestling match with the world's least favorite vice (seriously... heroin addicts have it better than smokers these days) makes me want to pick up a two-pack-a-day habit, just to stick it to the man. And my lungs, I suppose. If you are a smoker, consider this required reading. If you're one of those sanctimonious people who gives smokers crap every chance they get, this book will be waiting for you in the waiting room of Hell.

Nerd Alert

Here's me, in my first pair of glasses in oh, about five years. Spiffy, ain't they? My last pair broke when my son Parker was an infant, and I never got around to buying (read: didn't want to waste the money on) new ones. Since then, I've been strictly a contact lens man. Put 'em in first thing in the morning, take 'em out right before passing out... I mean, falling asleep for the night. I'll bet you didn't even know I have bad eyesight.

And boy, is it bad. Like, Captain of the Exxon Valdez bad. I've had eye trouble since 2nd grade, and even then, I wore glasses that were thick as the bottom of shotglasses. Come 1985, contact lens technology had improved enough that a 13-year-old kid could stick pieces of plastic in his eyes without too much trouble. Those contact lenses changed my life. I mean, I was still a serious nerd. But at least I wasn't a four-eyed nerd.

Which brings me back to why I've finally broken down and bought new specs. Seems that since 2002, eyeglass technology has improved to the point where my prescription doesn't require lenses that could render entire colonies of ants into tiny bits of insectoid ash with only a few seconds under a moderately bright sun. They actually don't look half-bad. Even Sarah, my daughter, told me I look "handsome" in them.

Still, though, very much a nerd.

Philadelphia, The City That Loves You Back

From today's Philadelphia Daily News: "He was abducted, beaten, shot & robbed--for $29" by David Gambacorta:

"They put me in a choke hold and started pistol-whipping me," Bishr said quietly, running his hand over his salt-and-pepper beard.

The captor whom police identified as Walker said, "'I know you own the fried-chicken place. Give me the $5,000,'" Bashir said.

"I said, 'Sir, you must be mistaken. I'm a 50-year-old man on disability with a family.' But they kept asking for a specific amount of money, and it got me worried," he said.

His captors weren't buying his story, even after Bishr gave them the $29 he was carrying. They had bigger plans.

Farley said the men drove Bishr to an abandoned property on Callowhill Street near 62nd, dragged him inside and ordered him to lie down in a bathtub and strip.

"They searched me and told me I was going to die," Bishr said. "I kept telling them that I had given them everything that I had, but they said, 'Don't think you're leaving here alive.'"