Edgars Weekend

Okay, so I'm really bad at this "recording things as they happen" thing with the blog. Lot of exciting stuff over the past few days, but not a hint of it has shown up here. What can I say? Sometimes, you've got to live life instead of writing about it.

Let me give you some highlights of the Edgars Banquet, the Friday After, and the Weekend With Mr. and Mrs. Sunshine in that oh-so-popular bullet format:

* Sunshine picked the hotel, which was The Wolcott. Over 100 years old. Buddy Holly stayed there once. (While he was alive, I believe.) Right in the middle of Koreatown, just a few blocks from the Empire State building. Decent rooom. Two twin beds, though. Felt like the Bride and I were rooming in college.

* I told Mr. and Mrs. Sunshine (a.k.a., the uber-talented Allan Guthrie and his lovely wife Donna) they should just hop a cab to the Grand Hyatt. Leave at 5, be there in plenty of time for the 5:30 nominees' reception. What I didn't know is that some jackass had smuggled base-jumping gear beneath a fat suit into the Empire State Building. A retired cop grabbed his legs just before he was able to jump. The building was partially evacuated, snarling traffic all the hell over. No cabs. The Sunshines were forced to walk. Mr. Sunshine in uncomfortable tux shoes, Mrs. Sunshine in heels. Meanwhile, I enjoyed a lesiurely stroll to the 6 train, which I rode for one stop before it delived me to the Grand Hyatt's basement level. An elevator and escalator later, I was there, cool and calm and ready for Edgar goodness. Sometimes, my advice really sucks. You should know this before taking advice from me.

* The Edgar Ceremony... um, good, in the sense that I was able to see a bunch of my favorite writers (and people) all dressed up 'n purty. I sat at the Hard Case table, along with Charles Ardia, his wife Naomi, Anthony Rainone, the Sunshines, as well as the Schwegels -- parents of the super-cool Edgar WINNER Theresa Schwegel. But I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't it? Talk about a suspense killer.

* Our table was near a wall. Two tables over was Otto Penzler. At one point, Otto passed behind me, and I had to scootch my chair in so that the edge of the table was pressed up against the outer lining of my spleen. "You picked the wrong chair, big guy," Otto said as he passed by, patting me on the shoulders. Upon his return, Otto again patted me on the shoulders and said, "Suck it up, big guy." These are words I didn't think I'd ever hear from Otto Penzler.

* The Edgars were kind of slow. I decided not to drink any alcohol. This was probably a tactical error.

* After approximately 4.7 years, they finally got to the Big Three: Paperback Original, Best First Novel, Best Novel.

* Sunshine lost, which sucked. I would have suggested we kick the crap out of winner Jeffrey Ford, but we met him before the awards, and he's a really nice guy. And lives near Philly. So that was out.

* Still, would have liked to have kicked SOMEBODY'S ass. I mean, Sunshine's my boy. Ah, hell.

* Best First Novel, however, went to the very cool and mega-talented Theresa "T" Schwegel, another member of the David Hale Smith Galaxy of Stars. You should have seen the smiles on her mom and dad. That made the evening worth it.

* Best Novel went to Jess Walter, and Sunshine nodded and pointed out that Citizen Vince had made his personal "Top 5 of 2005" list. So did The Wheelman, for that matter. So, in a fit of ridiculous association, I tell myself that my book made the same shortlist as an Edgar winner. And then I think: Yeah, I really should have had something to drink tonight.

* Afterward, saw Jeffery Deaver. Was too nervous to say hi.

* Earlier, saw George Pelecanos walk by. Again, too nervous to say hi. (Again, should have had something to drink.)

* Then again, Otto Penzler did tell me to "suck it," or something like that. So there's that.

* In the hotel bar, Ken Bruen gave me a Heineken. It was appreciated, but far too little, far too late. Also, I learned that Wallace Stroby (later dubbed "America's answer to Allan Guthrie") bought a suit specifically for the Edgars. So did I. Before last week, neither of us owned one.

* Sunshine and I hit a cafe at midnight for eggs and coffee and some shop talk. I heard a small bit of his next novel, untitled at the moment, and already I'm jonesin' to read the whole thing. Such a tease, that Sunshine.

* The next day (never thought I'd get there, did you?) I had breakfast with the Sunshines at a joint called "Pax" near 23rd and Madison. Afterward, I stopped by the St. Martin's Press offices to bug my editor, "Marquis" Marc Resnick. Saw the layout of The Blonde, which was cool. Received the fall Minotaur catalog, which was also cool. Then I glommed some free books (Patrick Quinlan's Smoked, which looks terrific, along with a copy of Ryan Nerz's Eat This Book and The Best of the Best: 20 Years of the World's Best Science Fiction, edited by Philly's own Gardner Dozois.) This is one of the best perks of being a St. Martin's author.

* Over lunch, I pitched an idea for my fourth St. Martin's Minotaur novel. I'm happy to report that Marc really loved the idea, despite the fact that while I was pitching it, I was sipping a girly drink called a "shark bite." I mean... the fucking thing came in a champagne glass. Nice move, Swierczy.

* I'm surprised Marc didn't beat me up on general principle.

* Later that afternoon, I hit the Strand at 12th and Broadway. Oh, how I love this store. Hadn't been here in years, despite popping into New York on a regular basis. Had many Details magazine flashbacks. (Our office was nearby, close to Bleecker Street.) Picked up a reviewer's copy of Robert Ferrigno's The Horse Latitudes, one of my all-time favorite crime novels. Also, Ferrigno's Dead Man's Dance, in hardcover. And a copy of Simon Kernick's Die Twice, an omnibus edition of his first two novels, even though I own both in hardcover. (I'm a sucker for omnibuses. Or is it omnibi?) And finally, a copy of H.R.F. Keating's Crime & Mystery: The 100 Best Books. All for under $20. Sometimes, I really fucking miss New York.

* Met the Bride at the train station. She's not so much a fan of New York. She tolerates it, because I love it. To appease her, we hit a Starbucks. Iced coffee helps her cope with the city.

* That evening, we had dinner with the Sunshines, Charles and Naomi, the supercool Megan Abbott (author of the Edgar-nominated Die A Little), Pat Lambe, Dave White, and my new favorite person, Stona Fitch, author of Senseless. I could dedicate an entire blog post to Mr. Fitch, but let this suffice for now: the man is a former crime reporter, member of a country punk band, and currently runs a farm that feeds the poor. And... if that's not enough... his novel Senseless is being made into a movie as we speak. All other resumes shrivel by comparison.

* Dave White will want me to mention that he wore a lime green sweater that made him look a lot like Kermit the Frog... so much so that I couldn't get the melody of "The Rainbow Connection" out of my head... but I won't.

* We all hit the bar at the Mansfield Hotel at 9 p.m., with the promise of a possible Bruen sighting, but alas, no Ken. We drank in his honor. Mary Reagan joined us. As did Wallace "The American Al Guthrie" Stroby.

* I spied a copy of a Jason Starr novel on the bookshelves at the Mansfield. "Oooh, look," I said. "A Jason Starr novel in Italian." Sunshine took a look at the book, and said: "Strange that it's printed in German." This became a running joke for the rest of the weekend.

* Much later, the Bride and I had a couple of Papaya hot dogs. Not recommended.

* Saturday morning: the Sunshines and the Swierczynskis had breakfast, then packed up and drove down to Philadelphia. Thanks to construction on the NJ Turnpike, what should have been a two-hour pleasure cruise through scenic Central Jersey turned into a four hour annoyance.

* Mrs. Sunshine finally met Parker and Sarah, and the three of them hit it off famously. Meanwhile, "Uncle Al" was cool, but clearly old hat. Mrs. Sunshine was where it's at.

* I won't bore you with the domestic details of the Sunshines' stay in Philadelphia... other than it was fantastic, and my kids desperately miss them already. (So do we.) It's a cruel joke to have your closest friends live an ocean away. But of course, this just means we'll have to invade Edinburgh sooner than later.

* Sunday evening, I drove the Sunshines from Philly to JFK. What should have been a two-hour pleasure cruise through scenic Central Jersey turned into a seven hour nightmare, round trip. If there was a traffic jam, we were in the middle of it. I mean, we were in Staten Island long enough for it to qualify as a stay. When we finally arrived at Terminal 8, my knee was like, Fuck you. Get some other body part to push the gas and brake pedals. I'm done. On the plus side, I was able to enjoy Sunshine's company for a few hours' longer, so it was worth every minute of bumper-to-bumper stop-and-start highway hell.

* Not to completely wuss out here... but I do miss my friends desperately.

So that was the weekend. Like all great weekends, it was gone in the blink of an eye. All I have to show for it is this blog entry, a pile of really cool books, and the memory of it all.

Which is all we ever really have, anyway, right?