Escape to New York

 My memories of reading at Shade on April 23 are still vivid and nothing but pleasant. To give you an idea of what a great experience it was, let’s look at what we had to do to get there.

 

(Fair notice: Our train was scheduled to arrive at 3:52 for an event that began at 6:00. The cab ride to the hotel was 2.8 miles straight down 7^th Avenue; the walk to Shade was five blocks. I figured two hours would be plenty of time, but I’ll accept responsibility for cutting things close.)

 

The Beloved Spouse™ and I decided to grab an early lunch, not knowing when we’d have a chance to eat again. Since we had to stop at Walgreen’s to pick up prescriptions, and there’s a Subway fifty yards away, we chose to get sandwiches. The sandwiches were good.

 

We both made pit stops before leaving for the train station. I needed to spend some time with myself (our euphemism for “dropping a deuce”), and did so without incident until I discovered there was no toilet paper. I had to dig paper towels that didn’t look too grotty from the trash can. Said paper towels were the brown kind that still have little chunks of wood in them. Big fun.

 

Standing on the platform, our train approaching, TBS remembered she left her prescriptions in the car. One of those prescriptions was for her restless leg medication. No one is sleeping tonight.

 

The train ride itself was not how I remembered them. (Granted, my most recent train trip was in May of 2019.) The ride was too bumpy to read, the seats were not quite uncomfortable, and the car was stuffy. The train was a few minutes late getting into the Baltimore Airport Station, then paused for close to half an hour outside of Newark to accommodate double tracking.

 

Penn Station’s platforms bore an unseemly resemblance to the crowd trying to catch the last helicopter out of Saigon in 1975. The signage may be sufficient for those who pass through there regularly. We had to ask a knowledgeable-looking gentleman (looks can be deceiving) and a cop before we found 7^th Avenue. (The cop was truly one of New York’s finest and got us oriented straightaway.)

 

Hitting 7^th Avenue, I immediately learned two things.

1. Madison Square Garden is directly across the street from Penn Station.

2. A Knicks playoff game had just ended. The crowd outside the station made what we found inside seem like midnight at an assisted living facility.

What I thought would be an easy matter of grabbing a cab from an awaiting rank turned into me going into the street between cars to grab a cabbie’s attention.

 

Our driver knew about four words of English. “Where to?” came up first. TBS got in front and showed him. She had to point out our hotel on his phone GPS to make sure he didn’t take us there via Hoboken. (I already knew the route, so any turns would have been noticed, possibly causing an international incident, as my patience was already frayed.)

 

He took us to the hotel, which was unrecognizable, thanks to construction that obscured all identifying information. This was when we got the rest of our cabbie’s English: “Sixteen eighty.”

 

The time was 5:10.

 

The hotel staff could not have been nicer, nor more helpful when I wanted to verify my walking directions and where to get a cab the next morning. The walk to Shade was as expected, and seeing the sign over the door was as welcome a sight as when my covid tests started coming back negative last summer.

 

As noted before, the event was, for me, close to perfection. Outstanding venue, great readers, and a chance to see some dear friends. It went so well we decided to walk back to the hotel.

 

No, we did not get mugged. That part of Greenwich Village is probably as safe as any, there were still a goodly number of people about, and muggers will generally look elsewhere before tangling with a six-foot-plus, 220-pound man.

 

What we did see were copious numbers of plastic trash bags on the sidewalks; Monday must be trash day on Sullivan Street. Encountering the stray rat wasn’t a complete surprise, though it was a bit unnerving that he ran so close toward us. What was truly unexpected were the dozen or more that stampeded in our direction right behind him. I hadn’t seen that many rats move that quickly as a group since the movie Willard.

 

None of this detracted from the rush we got from the Shade reading, though I must admit, it’s going to take something else of that magnitude to get this small-town boy back to Manhattan.

Made in the Shade

 

There are regular venues for Noir at the Bar other than the Shade Bar in Greenwich Village. I have a lot of excellent personal experience with Yonder in Hillsborough NC, and, knowing some of the people who routinely host these events, I’m sure there are others. No offense to any of them, but there’s something special about Shade.

 

I’m a small town boy who avoids NYC at every opportunity, so my feelings toward Shade aren’t a matter of “Everything is better in the Apple” syndrome. Shade has three things going for it, two of which are crucial.

 

1. The atmosphere. I expected a bigger place; what I found was better. The intimacy of the setting means no one is on the periphery, so distractions are virtually non-existent. This is helped considerably by bartender Laurie Beck, who keeps everyone’s glasses full while never disrupting the performances.

 

2. New York City, for all the things that drive me crazy about it (I’ll delve into that in a future blog), is the epicenter of the American publishing world. The publishers and a significant majority of the agents are here, which attracts authors like hummingbirds to sugar water. Shade can draw a top-notch lineup at the drop of a hat, and routinely does.

 

3. Todd Robinson, aka Big Daddy Thug. The founder of Thuglit, Todd has launched more careers than American Idol. The list of well-known authors who got their first stories published there includes (off the top of my head) S.A. Cosby, Hilary Davidson, Johnny Shaw, Jordan Harper, and many more. (And me, but don’t hold that against him.) Todd needs only to put out the word and he’ll have well-known authors (and me) lined up to read for him; the place and time are secondary.

 

This is where I must confess to having prejudice. The first piece of my writing someone paid money for was a short story titled “Green Gables.” Todd passed at first, but liked it enough to work with me to get it over the hump. There aren’t many who do that these days, especially at venues that receive the quantity of submissions Thuglit did. “Green Gables” was selected for the anthology, Blood, Guts, and Whiskey, where I was flattered to appear with Max Allan Collins, Craig McDonald, Stuart Neville, Hilary Davidson, Kieran Shea, Jedidiah Ayres, Dave Zeltserman, and others. That was when it occurred to me that what I wrote might have an audience. I still have a photocopy of the check on my office wall. (The memo line reads, “Loot.”)

 

So, yeah, to me Shade is the Mecca of Noirs at Bars. I was beyond delighted to read last Sunday night, especially to share the stage with such talents as Big Daddy himself, James Grady, S.A. Cosby, Eryk Pruitt, Rob Hart, Tom Schreck, Rob Creekmore, Erin E. Adams, and Galal Chater. My story was well received, but not even The Beloved Spouse™ and I thought it cracked the top half of what was read that night.

 

The evening was well worth overcoming my New York aversion. You can’t understand what high praise that is until you know what we went through to get there, which is a blog post of its own, probably in a couple of weeks.

Bouchercon 2017: Extra-Curricular Activities

Bouchercon 2017 was just a conference for The Beloved Spouse™ and me the way Charlize Theron is attractive: way more than that. We like car trips and Toronto was easily drivable for us, with other attractions along the way. So here’s what else happened.

Monday October 9

Left at a reasonable hour as we had no place to be at any given time. Drove through central Pennsylvania and western New York looking at beautiful terrain with foliage not quite as spectacular as we expected (thanks, climate change) but still plenty eye-catching. Got ourselves to the Microtel in Niagara Falls late in the afternoon and needed a place to eat. The diner recommended by the hotel clerk closed early so we figured we’re only twenty miles from Buffalo, what better excuse for wings? So, from us to you, when in Buffalo and hungry, check out the Buffalo Wing Joint and Pub on Niagara Falls Boulevard. First rate and the fries with gravy were outstanding. (They offered poutine but we decided to wait for the authentic Canadian version.)

Tuesday October 10

Niagara Falls on a beautiful day. Went to Goat Island then took the stairs to Cave of the Winds where I went all the way to the edge of the Hurricane Deck. (I don’t think it was a real hurricane deck. Jim Cantore was nowhere around.) Got soaked but they let us keep the sandals, which are comfortable and will serve as nice reminders of the trip.

Lunch was at Augie’s, the diner we missed the previous night. A BLT club was very good and the perfect size. We crossed the Lewiston Bridge into Canada (more on the bridge crossings next time) and were on our way around the lake to Toronto. I adhered strictly to the speed limit and all traffic laws, having no desire to end up in a Canadian prison even though it’s been years since I saw Midnight Express. Canadians drive just as fast as Americans, but I must admit, (relatively) slow as I was going, no one tailgated me all the way to Toronto. I can’t get milk here without some Helio Castroneves or Danica Patrick wannabe trying to give me a vehicular colonoscopy.

We invested Tuesday afternoon and evening reconnoitering the immediate area and eating dinner at the Duke of Richmond pub. Excellent bacon cheeseburger.

Wednesday October 11

The Hockey Hall of Fame, baby! By far the nicest of the three I’ve been to so far. (Basketball and football the others, though I confess I was at the old basketball HOF on 1983.) Reasonably priced, even in the gift shop, and more cool stuff than a hockey fan can take in. History and a good take on the current game.

For those who are wondering, damn right I touched the Cup. It’s not like I’m going to have any official capacity with an NHL team anytime soon, so fuck the jinx. Kudos to Ryan (no last name on his badge) who knows where everyone is on the plaques of honor. Literally. Just give him your team and he’ll tell you where all your boys are, even if they just passed through. Coming here would have made the whole trip worthwhile all by itself.

Dinner in the room, leftover chicken wings from the Buffalo joint. A brief break, then Noir at the Bar at the Rivoli on Queen Street. The perfectly seedy venue was packed and Rob Brunet and Tanis Mallow put on a hell of a show. I stayed through the first two sets of readers and had a fine old time breaking balls with John Shepphird and Scott Adlerberg. Had to leave a little early, though, with a 10:00 panel on Thursday.

Thursday October 12: The Bar

We’ll cut directly to the bar. Hooked up with Kevin Burton Smith and a reader named Keith Lastnameescapes me, attending his first Bouchercon. (Sorry, Keith. It was a pleasure to meet you, though.) Peter Rozovsky was there, too, but we didn’t get together at Noir at the Bar, so fuck him. Got to talking Westerns with Gary Phillips and by the time we were done and I had time to let things settle, I had pretty much the whole plot worked out. Now it’s only a matter of finding time to write it.

Friday October 13: The Bar

Should have known trouble was brewing when I ran into The Two Erics—Campbell and Beetner—before I even got to the bar. Within five minutes Steve Lauden was there, then Mike McCrary, Gary Phillips, Lenny Kravitz Danny Gardner, and then we started drinking. The bar at Quinn’s already contained Eryk Pruitt, David Swinson, Dale Berry, Keith from Thursday, and the inimitable, irrepressible, lovely and talented Tim O’Mara. Tim got me drunk in New Orleans last year, but not as much as this time. I can’t guarantee a great time was had by all, but I had enough fun to cover several other people. (Special shout out to Alex, our waitress. I asked her what they sold that was in the Bass/Newcastle Brown range and she nailed it.)

Saturday October 14: The Bar

A quiet evening, though the wedding scene in The Deer Hunter would have been a quiet evening compared to Friday. Stopped back into Quinn’s with John McFetridge and his wife Laurie Reid, Seana Graham, Dave McKee, and fuck Peter Rozovsky. One beer and one Arnold Palmer and I was out of there, Tim O’Mara’s best efforts notwithstanding. (More kudos to Alex, who not only remembered me, but asked if I wanted “the usual” when she came to take our orders. I felt like Norm there for a second.)

Sunday October 15

One panel and the long drive home. Spectacular scenery coming down I-99 through central Pennsylvania, no traffic, beautiful and my best girl beside me. The perfect end to the perfect week. Many thinks to all who contributed. Except for that prick Chappee. More about him in the next post.

A Good Day

Saturday, May 20, qualified as a good day even by my dickish standards.

I’d never been to the Gaithersburg Book Festival before, mainly because it’s always on a Saturday and I’d have to leave the house. Ed Aymar (more on him later) suggested me as a moderator for a panel, the folks at GBF took him up on it, and I had no graceful excuse not to go.

Everyone associated could not have been nicer, and the preparations were clearly first rate. I’ve never been treated nicer at an event, not even when I was the main attraction. (VIP parking.) The Beloved Spouse and I got there early to drop off books and to catch Austin Camacho’s thought-provoking talk on black private eyes, or, more accurately, the dearth thereof. (There will be more on this topic in the weeks to come.)

Austin’s gig led into the aforementioned Ed Aymar (who gets around more than a herpes virus) interviewing Jen Conley about her short story collection, Cannibals: Stories from the Edge of the Pine Barrens, which is nominated for an Anthony. Ed broke the ice with doughnuts, then Jen carried him for 45 minutes.

At 12:15 I had the privilege of moderating a discussion with Matthew Betley and Rick Campbell. Both write military thrillers, which is a little outside my normal wheelhouse, but the stretch was invigorating. Both were excellent panelists with plenty to say and engaging manners. I’d love to meet them both again for a less formal conversation, especially after Matt wins a Barry for his novel, Overwatch.  

Next up was Neely Tucker interviewing Christina Kovac and Adam Brookes about how their journalistic backgrounds affect and inform their fiction. Another interesting set that could have lasted longer.

There was more to come, and we unfortunately had to bail before Nik Korpon spoke with David Swinson and Mark Hannan. We had things to take care of before the evening festivities, for which we needed to be in fine fettle.

Noir at the Bar has become an international institution. (Fuck Peter Rozovsky.) Ed Aymar has pretty much made the DC events his own and no one is complaining. Last year he encouraged audience participation by allowing the listeners to choose a winner, who received an engraved dagger. This year’s prize: an engraved machete. Ed don’t play.

Neither did the readers. The upstairs area at the Wonderland Ballroom was filled for the middle event in what was billed as a “Noir at the Bar Crawl,” which opened Friday night in Richmond and would conclude on Sunday in Baltimore. Ed assembled a first-rate line up: himself, Kim Alexander, Jen Conley (also doubling up), yours truly (who rarely falls so early in any alphabetical list), Nik Korpon, Adam Meyer, defending champion Eryk Pruitt, J.D. Smith, David Swinson, Neely Tucker, and the man who knows more euphemisms for female genitalia than any three cunts I know, Steve Weddle.

I’ve been to several Noirs at Bars; none matched this. Not a weak story in the bunch, but a few stood out, notably Weddle’s Scott Phillips-esque examination of TV’s The Love Boat, Ed Aymar’s whorehouse robbery, Neely Tucker’s delicious dialog, Jen Conley’s true confessions, and Nik Korpon branching out into performance art that included audience participation. None were sufficient to prevent Eryk Pruitt from defending his crown, as he walked away with cutlery for the second year in a row.

I’ve had better days, but none as a writer. Many and sincere thanks to everyone connected with the Gaithersburg Book Festival. May 19, 2018 is already reserved on my calendar. As for Noir at the Bar, that’s a special group of reprobates. I’ve been to several, and no one puts on a show like Ed Aymar. If you’re in the area for the next one and not easily offended, there’s no way to have more fun.

Noir at the Bar: The Final Curtain

Saturday night the writing world said good-bye to the Society Hill Playhouse in Philadelphia, home of NoirCon since its inception. (NoirCon has new digs for this year’s iteration, so worry not.) “Noir at the Bar: The Final Curtain” brought together seventeen crime fiction writers along with a nice audience for readings that lasted the better part of three hours, and “the better part” is exactly what is was.

Space (and memory) preclude a full detailing of the evening’s festivities. Use your imagination, given the following line-up of writers, then add at least 20% to give yourself an idea of how the evening went:

Scott Adlerberg

Erik Arneson

Jen Conley

T. Fox Dunham

Tony Knighton

William Lashner

Jon McGoran

Adrian McKinty

Richie Narvaez

Edward G. Petit

Rick Ollerman

Joe Samuel Starnes

Wallace Stroby

Duane Swierczynski

David Swinson

Dennis Tafoya

Yours Truly

Farley’s Bookshop was on hand as always at NoirCon events to provide book sales; Brookline Booksmith, Mulholland Books, New York Review of Books, PM Press, and Thomas & Mercer provided raffle prizes.

The personal highlights for me—as though hearing sixteen other writers of this quality wasn’t enough—was getting to meet in person several friends I’d known online for quite some time. No offense intended to anyone else when I mention Adrian McKinty first. I’ve been in touch with Adrian one way or another for almost ten years, when I fell in love with The Dead Yard and reviewed it for New Mystery Reader, then interviewed him when The Bloomsday Dead came out the following year. He was one of a small handful who didn’t hate me for the ending of Wild Bill and it was a great to get his autograph on a copy of his newest, Rain Dogs.

I also got to meet and talk to—at least briefly—Mark Krajnack and Erik Arneson. I’ve known both of them online for a while and getting a chance to shake hands and chat was a treat for me. Friends I’ve known in person from other events and conferences and got to at least say hello to were Scott Adlerberg, Jen Conley, Jon McGoran, Rick Ollerman, and David Swinson. Also a shout out to Janis Malley and her husband, John, friends of The Beloved Spouse™ who risked their reputations and mental health to hang out with such a cast of reprobates. (Special mention to Patti Abbott. Patti was not there, but my reading, “Frank and Marti,” owes its creation to one of her flash fiction challenges.) The only downside to such an event is its resemblance to a wedding reception: you want to see and talk to everyone there, but there’s only time for some drive-bys and the evening is over.

Last and certainly not least, thanks and kudos to Lou Boxer, Deen Kagen, Peter Rozovsky, and everyone connected with Noir at the Bar: The Final Curtain and NoirCon in general. The event went off without a hitch and was a fitting swan song for the Society Hill Playhouse. My inclusion in such elevated company was both humbling and an honor.

Noir at the Bar - Washington DC

Last Saturday night Ed Aymar hosted Noir at the Bar at the Wonderland Ballroom in Washington. Ed picked a great line-up (plus me), and no one disappointed. (My established standards are such that I rarely disappoint anyone.)

First, kudos to Ed and everyone connected with the venue. The weather was crappy, parking is difficult in that part of DC, and yet the room was SRO. Events such as this sometimes come down to writers reading for their peers on the bill. Not this time. A large and enthusiastic audience was there. This was such a good crowd, I sold a book. Can’t get much better than that.

Lest you think my sale skewed my thinking, here’s who else was there:

Peter Rozovsky (his excellent noir photos of the event are at his blog, Detectives Beyond Borders.)

David Swinson

Ed (E.A.) Aymar

Nik Korpon

Sarah Weinman

Art Taylor

Austin Camacho

Jen Conley

There were a few raffles sprinkled in, with books and booze distributed free gratis to several lucky winners. I was one, scoring an ARC of Davis Swinson’s The Second Girl, scheduled for a June release by Mulholland.

I’m not going to try to sum up the stories. First, I couldn’t do them justice in summary, and, B.) you didn’t go, so it sucks to be you. Suffice to say the standard of writing was high, the atmosphere was perfect, and it’s safe to say a good time was had by all.

Noirs at Bars are popping up faster than Republican presidential candidates all over the country, and gaining a foothold in Europe. If you hear of one near you and are into excellent noir-ish fiction, by all means, go. Admittance is free (of course food and beverage are on you; literally, if you’re not careful around the bar) and you’ll be in the company of others who not only take their crime fiction seriously, but know how to have fun with it.

Ed hopes to make a pre-Bouchercon DC event a regular thing. I know I’ll be there. Whether I get a reading slot, or not.