So besides having two amazing books coming out in early July, my friends Megan Abbott and Theresa Schwegel are about to embark on a tour -- PLUS a really interesting (and kinda creepy) side-project. Instead of hitting the bars in the various towns they'll be signing and reading at, Megan and Theresa want to visit historic true crime sites -- anything from the bank Bonnie and Clyde robbed to the hotel where Bob Crane met his maker. They're asking everybody out there to email them and recommend these infamous locales, too -- which means they're serious, so help 'em out, okay? They probably wouldn't mind a few good bar recommendations either.
It all gets me thinking about our fascination with "scenes of the crime." Whether it's staring at photographs of the house where the atrocities in In Cold Blood occured, or standing at Ground Zero, there's something about these places that both repels us and draws us in. In a way, they are the proof that these horrifying events actually occured, in the real world. And the fact that they are usually so mundane and run-of-the-mill looking makes them even more chilling, at least to me. Growing up in Southern California, I once snuck into the ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel where Bobby Kennedy was assassinated. In ruins at the time, there was still something terrifying -- and haunted -- about it. And I used to feel the same way when driving through Benedict Canyon, past the house on Cielo drive where the Manson murders took place.
I don't think I've been to any other crime scenes -- at least not that I know of -- but the feeling still resonates. Have you ever been to a famous crime scene? How did it make you feel?
So we spent the weekend celebrating my daughter's sixth birthday and I just want you to know that I wish I was six again.
I know this comes as a surprise to many of you, as most of you know me as a totally grown up, responsible, no-nonsense adult. But I am pretty sure that I would be an excellent six year old the second time around.
Anyway, we took my daughter and some of her friends to The Great Wolf Lodge over the weekend and let me just say that spending the weekend at The Great Wolf Lodge is both an awesome way to have fun and an awesome way to blow your life savings. They give you a wristband at check in and it should come with some sort of warning like "Wearing This Wristband May Require A Second Mortgage." Because the wristband is like magic. It's your room key, it's your ticket into the waterparks and it will buy you anything in the resort that you might need - food, souvenirs, beer, ice cream, more beer, more food, etc. The only non-magic part is when all that stuff shows up on your bill when you checkout.
Anyway (again), this place is FANTASTIC. It's a Las Vegas-sized resort with both an indoor and an outdoor waterpark and a multitude of other things that would take me forever to list. Just trust me. If you've got a kid or enjoy acting like a kid, this place rocks.
So we took my daughter and three of her friends there and as you can see below, I had things totally under control for the entire weekend.
They look so innocent, don't they?
Yeah, not so much...
And then when it's time to go, they magically morph back into innocent little do-gooders again...
Anyway, we had a good time and I TOTALLY had everything under control.
If you could celebrate your sixth birthday again, how would you celebrate it?
Jeff
BABES IN JOYLAND
So we heard this song all weekend and it's so brand new there isn't even a video, but I did find this nifty little pseudo video with cutesy lyrics. I was singing it all weekend. The girls were singing it all weekend.
Last year, it was a nasty case of "man rash" after playing too much golf in the hot Texas sun. I tried some anti-itch cream at first, but things didn't get better. They got worse, and eventually I had to get a prescription for super-anti-itch-and-kill-the-little-bastard-invader cream. Took a month to get well.
This year, on a camping trip here in Southwest Minnesota, my knees got sunburned. We even bought the Ultra Spray On Armor sunscreen with a UVA/UVB protection rating of, oh, a thousand, but I somehow missed my knees. So after a couple of hours swimming in a shallow lake (with my knees kind of exposed, I guess) and then canoeing, I guess I can see where the damage came from.
Not to worry. I didn't have any aloe, but I was smart enough to grab the tube of Lanacane left over form last year. That should do the trick, right? Soothe the fiery red spots? And maybe it did, for twelve seconds. By morning--and let's not forget the awful night because my anti-acid reflux pill decided not to work that day--my knees had become swollen, more red than the night before, and itchier than [YOUR FAVORITE PROSTITUTION JOKE HERE]. No problem. Again, here comes the Lanacane! Soothing balm of miracles.
In other words, the shit that was supposed to help my poor damaged skin was actually making my poor damaged skin much much worse. And, wouldn't you know it, I had used that Lanacane last year, but didn't make the connection. So, there ya go. I'll never use that stuff again.
It's just the continuing saga of Me Versus The Outdoors. I was born allergic to nearly every goddamned thing that grows or buzzes. So Spring and Summer, no matter how gung-ho I am about camping or swimming or golfing, seems out to get me. I'm always willing to try, and I do, but the results are always scratchy and sneezy (and about five other Evil Dwarves). At least I know I'm not allergic to air conditioning and TV. But I love swimming, love fishing, love campfires, love the beautiful scenery, but five minutes outside in the summer, I'm an insect magnet. A beacon in a sea of tasteless people, I suppose, for those flying nasties searching for a buffet.
Which is why Fall is my favorite season. Imagine--I can go outside and not feel like absolute shit! Wow. I long for the next trip to Duluth in October so I can enjoy the wilderness in relative peace and harmony. On paper, Summer is a great idea. Everything's sunny, hot, green, and in bloom. But if you happen to find me in a tent, bloated with mosquito bites and sneezing from cottonwood allergies, please be kind and take me to the nearest Wal Mart. A couple of hours next to the refrigerated stuff, and I should be fine.
So what are some of the things you would most love to do if not for all the trouble it would cause you?
Okay, for the FRIDAY BONUS MUSIC VIDEO, it's obvious I've gotta bring the Michael Jackson. Can't avoid it. I was thinking of the Weird Al parodies "Eat It" and "Fat", but then decided, well, that was too obvious.
Instead, let's make the jump, shall we? "Beat It" has a solo from one of my guitar heroes, Eddie Van Halen. So we've got to start there:
And that leads us into a bit of very light parody from a solo David Lee Roth (it's in there. Wait for it):
We'll bring it home with perhaps the greatest of all Michael Jackson songs, "Smooth Criminal" (with the most overblown and ridiculous video ever, too):
So, you'll be missed, Michael, you talented and unbelievable weirdo, you.
I got nothing to post about today. Good thing I don't tweet, huh? Here's a joke sent to me by a member of my James Gang that made me laugh, because I needed a good chuckle this week.
****
A guy goes to the Post Office to apply for a job.
The interviewer asks him, "Are you allergic to anything?"
He replies, "Yes - caffeine."
"Have you ever been in the military service?"
"Yes," he says. "I was in Iraq for two years."
The interviewer says, "That will give you 5 extra points toward employment." Then he asks, "Are you disabled in any way?"
The guy says, "Yes. A bomb exploded near me and I lost both of my testicles."
The interviewer grimaces and then says, "O.K. You've got enough points
for me to hire you right now. Our normal hours are from 8:00 A.M. to
4:00 P.M. You can start tomorrow at 10:00 - and plan on starting at
10:00 A.M. every day."
The guy is puzzled and asks, "If the work hours are from 8:00 A.M. to
4:00 P.M., why don't you want me to here until 10:00 A.M.?"
"This is a government job," the interviewer says. "For the first two
hours, we just stand around drinking coffee and scratching our balls.
No point in you coming in for that."
****
Share the best joke someone forwarded you recently, FOFO's.
I've had several people email me to say they want to follow me on Twitter. Problem is, I don't Twitter.
While I like to embrace technology and social networking, Twitter baffles me. Letting people know at all times of the day and night what you're up to. What your thoughts are.
Do they really care?
Yes, I change my status on Facebook, but it's usually not every hour or few hours or even every day. And when I write a new status, I take a few minutes to think about it. There is such a thing as too much information, and there are things that I'd like to keep to myself. Things that only my immediate family should know that I'm doing or thinking at the time. Or maybe I don't even want them to know.
Allowing people access to your life that much just seems like you're asking for a stalker. So you really can't complain if one shows up on your doorstep, much like the Gosselins need to stop whining about paparazzi because they want to be celebrities.
The one fascinating thing about Twitter that's come out this past week or so is the role it's playing in the Iran protests. These Tweets aren't all about me me me, but they're documenting history. A rising up. When the government kicked the media out of the country, these people turned to Twitter and YouTube to show the world what's going on. It's actually refreshing. While the media filters what we see, these reports show everything that's going on. It's truly a revolution, and in more ways than one.
So I've been thinking a lot about Jon and Kate. You know who I'm talking about. They're so famous they need no last names (other than "Plus 8" that is. Before their marital problems shot them through the top of the celebro-meter, they were famous for procreating a lot.) Last night the very, very famous parents of sextuplets and twins announced that they'd filed for divorce, deeply impacting my life as I wound up at the office until 1:30 in the morning.
Oh, we could all see the writing on the wall couldn't we? She was looking a little too cozy with the silver fox bodyguard, he was mackin' on the college co-eds. She got a reverse mullet. He started dressing like Kevin Federline.... But STILL everybody was just DYING to know what their "special announcement" was! (Do you think they're going to split? No they couldn't! What will happen with the kids? Do you think they still love each other? I hear they haven't slept together in six months! And by the way, did you see Kate in a bikini? She looks faaabulous!) This couple I personally would avoid at a PTA function -- yet the whole world wants into their business like they're Brad and Angelina or something.
I don't get it.
In fact, I don't get why a lot of people are rich and famous, and my day job as a gossip magazine writer means I see it happen a lot. Used to be, you needed some sort of talent (and yes, I consider supermodeling a talent. Sleeping with celebrities too.) But now, all you need is a damn camera in your kitchen and an annoying personality and you're gold. What is this about??? Really, think about it. I know you've got that friend. The one who calls you up when you're trying to go out the door, and bitches and moans to you for hours about all of her problems -- some of them you consider waaaay too much information -- and the whole time, all you can think about is, how can I get her off the phone? I don't want to hear all this stuff! I have things to do and besides, it's none of my business! But you put that exact same crap on TV and you just can't get enough of it?! You want paparazzi photos of that friend in a string bikini?!
One of my writer friends has this idea. He wants to go on BIG BROTHER. He told me this and he was serious. "You really want to live in a house with cameras on you 24 hours a day?" I asked. He said, "I dunno. I think it could help me sell books." I'm thinking maybe he's right.
So here's my question: Would you ever go on reality TV? Would you do it if it ensured you huge book sales?
Before you answer, keep in mind that both of Kate's books have hit all the lists.
Look, the U.S. Open is finishing up this morning and while I like to pretend that you all are the most important thing in my life, the reality is that you aren't. The U.s. Open is. And I will not miss it. Because for the second year in a row it has spilled into Monday and that is like finding still-wrapped Christmas presents the day after Christmas. So I don't have anything to say today other than - COME ON PHIL!!! YOU CAN DO IT!!! YOU ARE ONLY THREE BACK!!!
Jeff
BABES IN JOYLAND
I don't like Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus/Whatever The Hell Her Name Is any more than the rest of you - why is that girl ALWAYS yelling??? - but a friend pointed this song out to me a couple of weeks ago and now I'm hearing it on the radio about five times a day and I have memorized all the words and sing it even when its not on the radio its okay.
I'm allergic to everything else, so it kind of makes sense. But it really only takes a beer or two anymore to make my ears piping red hot and for my mouth to get itchy. Same with red wine (sigh) and bourbon, although I generally steer clear of the hard stuff anyway. Still good with frozen margaritas and daiquiris, but I have those so infrequently it doesn't matter. I guess it just happened that as I got older, my body decided it really hated alcohol.
But, hey, here's the truth: I've never been a big drinker anyway. Didn't start til grad school, and I will usually go for weeks between sharing some beers with friends or out at dinner. So in reality, I drink even less than social drinkers.
And, yeah, I've kind of played around with this crazy, drunken persona online. A lie? Not really. It just takes a lot less booze to get me tipsy than most folks, and the result is general sleepiness.
But now, it's like I'll grab one beer with dinner, then switch to soda pop pretty quickly.
What seems to make me the least shitty is a good Mexican brew like Tecate or Negra Modello with a giant slice of lime shoved inside. Like the lime kills the allergens or something.
So there ya go. I'll sneer across the bar and order another Diet Pepsi. With some peanuts on the side.
Anyway, it got me thinking about the idea of an author's persona, and how well those match up with what he or she writes about. Do you feel disappointed when the hard-boiled/noir two-fisted violence-hawk drunkard you thought was writing the book turns out to be a college professor who watches cooking shows with his wife and enjoys quiet mornings with Pop Tarts and a cup of Joe?
We all know Hammet was the detective-turned-novelist who drank until his liver surrendered. And Crumley was pretty much a modern-day pirate who could drink a roomful of the hardest core alkies under the table, and still make it through the front door without weaving. And then there's James Ellroy. I mean...yeah, wow. He's lived low, hasn't he? How much of that is an act? Plus all of Eddie Muller's tales about old-school Hollywood badasses like Lawrence Tierney. Geez.
But how about Chandler? Seemed a bookish guy who liked cats. Or Ross Macdonald? An academic with a decidedly middle-class existence who accidentally stumbled into crime writing?
Or how about the fact that Gischler, Doolittle and I all play golf, for fuck's sake?
Anyway, I often tell folks that I write about the stuff that scares me. If I'm not feeling afraid of the violence or bad behavior, then it doesn't feel real enough. I admire the people who have been through heel and shit and piss to come out on the other side and write about it. The authenticity of those writers is really appealing and can make a big impact on the page. But I've got to say that story trumps that for me. If a guy with a private jet can convince me his rough and tumble characters are like the types I might run into myself if in a similar situation (without heaping on the gravy of cliche), then I'm sold.
So, author personas--examples? Experiences? Love 'em, hate 'em?
FRIDAY BONUS MUSIC VIDEO (Too bad this is the "clean" version, so you don't get the immortal line, "They're fucking me with no grease.")
My phone rings Tuesday night with one of those 800 numbers, and I immediately think...telemarketer, ugh. But then I wonder...did I forget to pay a bill last month? (I was in deadline hell, and lots of things fell by the wayside including timely bill paying) So I answered. Yep. An automated call from my credit card company -- not giving me a friendly "reminder" that my payment was late but a "Please hold the line for a customer service representative regarding suspicious charges on this account."
That got my attention.
The customer service rep asked if I was currently away from home and out of the country -- I'm like DUH, you called my home phone number -- but with call forwarding and all that I suppose it's a legitimate question. I said no, and I'm thinking, I've scarcely left the house in the last week, let alone traveling out of the US. She said there were a couple of suspicious charges on the credit card that tipped them off. One for $2500 at a computer store, one for $700 at a discount store, and one for $26 at Domino's Pizza...ALL IN HAITI.
I'm pissed because the thing is, I'd been watching this credit card since the week after I returned from Romantic Times in Orlando. Several writer friends contacted me to say the credit cards they used at the Wyndham Hotel had charges racked up in bizarre places the following week. My friend Sasha who lives in Canada had a $900 charge at Walmart in Arkansas. Like me, the people whose cards were compromised only use that card for business, so they knew exactly where the problem lay: with the hotel. Someone at the hotel, either in the bar, the restaurant, or the front desk copied the magnetic strip information from the cards, according to my credit card rep -- so it was an inside job.
Since almost two months have passed since Romantic Times, I thought I was in the clear as far as fraudulent charges. All attendees to Romantic Times were sent an email last week from the RT director, shedding light on the credit card issues, because several HUNDRED people had this happen.
Luckily I have fraud protection and I'm not responsible for the charges. But I feel violated. Yeah, it's not as bad as identity theft, yet, this is the second time this year I've had to change credit cards. And I'm really freakin' pissed off at the Wyndham because their response? It is the customer's responsibility to check their credit card statement for errors and the credit card company's responsibility to track fraudulent charges.
WTF?
I know I'm not alone. Vent to me FOFO's if you've had this happen to you.
Last week a big box landed on my doorstep. When I opened it, I saw a sea of pink: Copies of THE MISSING INK, due out July 7.
These books, however, were not for my enjoyment. I was only their first destination. I had to sign them and send them on to Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont, Pa., one of my favorite indie bookstores.
A while back, I got an interesting proposal from Richard Goldman at Mystery Lovers. Would I be interested in participating in a virtual signing? It seems that the foundering economy has deterred authors from touring, but bookstores want signed stock, so Mystery Lovers offered to send me books to sign that I could send back to them and they could sell.
How could I say no? I think this is a great idea, and more bookstores should jump on this bandwagon. It's a win-win for everyone involved. I signed the books in the comfort of my living room, repacked them in the box, and went down the road less than a mile to our local UPS service center. They are winging their way back to Mystery Lovers as I write this.
What do you think of this idea? Would you like to be able to pick up a signed copy of a book by one of your favorite authors at your local bookstore, even though you know that author is far away? Is this something that appeals to you?
Karen
And if you're interested in a signed copy of THE MISSING INK, click on this link:
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