Shameless LCC Photos Pt 1

by Pari Noskin Taichert  (J.T. took my Monday this week. I'm returning the favor now.)

Mystery conventions are always exhausting.

Even more so when you get food poisoning.

Almost my entire experience of this year's LCC had a flattening haze born of tainted hotel Cioppino. I don't know if the scallops or the fish got to me, but something sure did. Though I recovered enough to function, the edge of exhaustion and dis-ease never completely lifted.

Of course, everyone knows that alcohol will kill any nasty microorganisms and I made sure to assist the process by parking myself in the hotel bar most evenings. Hence the pix below will not be the most flattering of my subjects -- but they convey a bit of the joy of seeing old friends, making new acquaintances, and reveling in the conviviality of our mystery community.

A few seminal moments weren't digitized: meeting Barry Eisler (and having him mispronounce my name), getting to really know my 'rati pals much better, eating breakfast with a wonderful group of women called the Mystery Babes, hanging out with the incomparable Craig Johnson and his wife, the magnificent signing at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop . . .  Meeting Gabriella Herkert -- her book will be available from NAL this fall.

A couple things DIDN'T happen -- I didn't get to see half of the people I intended to see, didn't get to meet half of the people I'd hoped to meet, didn't get to go to an eighth of the panels I'd hoped to attend . . .

My gratitude to the convention organizers, volunteers and attendees who gave this LCC its distinctive flavor and character. I just wish I'd followed Naomi Hirahara's lead and not finished my damn bowl of tepid soup that first night.

Ohhhhhhh, it's sooooooo dark. See what I mean about lousy photos? Well, if you look very hard, you'll find Phil Hawley and the gorgeous Alex Sokoloff. Of course this photo does neither one of them justice.

While praying to the porcelain gods after this dinner, I consoled myself with the knowledge that Dr. Hawley could probably help me if the food poisoning progressed much further.

Could Simon Wood be any cuter? Yeah, I know he doesn't have red eyes . . . but they're kind of becoming. No?

The lovely, Edgar-nominated Naomi Hirahara and her quiet, magnificent hubby Wes.

In the forefront is Sam Reaves, an unassuming novelist of many accomplishments. In the background is Keith Raffel. I met Keith in Austin at Con Misterio and have followed his writing career with much admiration. He's another extremely smart guy who has achieved astounding success in one career and plans to translate it to another. He brought his daughter to LCC and she's obviously going to continue to make both of her parents very proud. 

Why does Troy Cook always take such good photos? Damn him.

From l to r
The marvelous Mary Saums, miracle worker Margery Flax from MWA, and Sheila Lowe. I adore each of these women in different ways. Mary is a fine writer and staunch defender of cozies. Margery is an incredible mystery enthusiast who now brings such class and order to our professional organization. I met Sheila years ago when she dreamed of being a published novelist. Now, it's happened. How cool is that? (Sorry about the layout of the text here . . . I still am flummoxed by Typepad's "text wrap" at times.)

Okay, I lied. I spent some time out of the bar. Among the happy eating experiences in Seattle was one at Jasmine. Here, the lighting was better, too.

l -- Deborah Donnelly, great author and even better friend.

r -- Carola Dunn, great author and witty lunch companion.

Several more photos await this blog, but I'll hold off on them until Monday when I begin posting at my regular time.

See you then . . .

Holes

Julie said we should go to Hotel Mac for dinner.  Now, I've heard of Hotel Mac, but I couldn't tell you what the place looks like, even though I've been there and eaten there.

"Have we really eaten there before?" I asked.

"Yes.  You said you liked it."

"I did?"

She sighed and said, "Not again."

Here’s the problem—I have holes in my memory.  Not selective ones that all spouses develop over the length of a marriage, but real holes in my memory where past experiences have been torn out.

I actually have a good memory.  Usually, I remember everything in the finest detail, including dates, places, the meals I ate and the clothes I wore, but I have these holes.  They stem from a single incident.  A car struck me when I was riding my bicycle a few years back.  I had my helmet on (which I hate), but I still hit my head hard enough to get a concussion.  The concussion left me with the usual results, like the inability to modulate the volume of my voice and forgetting I was wearing a bike helmet long after I should have taken it off.  The most amusing side effect was that the concussion knocked me back to 1997.  My brain was in English mode.  I got into the wrong sides of cars to drive and had the urge to drive on the left.  Julie took my keys away after that.  The most troubling side effect was severe short-term memory loss to the extent that I couldn't remember a conversation I'd just finished.  The most frustrating incident involved Julie waiting for me outside with Royston to go on a walk while I sat indoors with the leash in my hand watching TV wondering why I had a leash in my hand.  But things sorted themselves out after a couple of weeks. 

Then a few months later, I noticed new problems.  I remember the hospital and I remember laughing and joking with the nurses who took me for a CT scan, but I don't remember the scan itself.  As hard as I try, I can't visualize the scan.  I lost other memories to the extent I could admit no knowledge and pass a polygraph.  The things I have no memory of are close to the time of the accident, but occasionally new memories fall into holes.  People I've met, for example.  Author, Douglas Clegg had to remind me that we'd met when I told him it was a pleasure meeting him for the first time.  I have no idea where we originally met.  I get to visit places again that I don't remember visiting in the past.  Even when I revisit, it doesn’t spark some recognition. 

Once a hole, always a hole, I guess.

I wish I could say I find this funny, but at times, I don't.  It pisses me off.  I hate to think I have experiences, thoughts, and ideas that slip through voids that I can never recover and like wet soap, no matter much I try to hold onto them, they slither out of my grasp.

Bugger!

I've noticed a little OCD creeping in, because I can't remember if I've just locked doors or where I put my wallet.  I've instituted a series of safe places where I make a conscious effort to store things.  Now, I'm not sure if that’s absent-mindedness because I'm always so busy or the enlarging of my memory hole.  Only time will tell.

Julie decided to test me.  The Hotel Mac is one of my holes, so Julie took me to see if I would remember it.

I didn't—but I did. 

Confused?  You should be.  I know I was.

I didn't remember the building at all.   I thought I would and when I did, everything would come flooding back, especially as it’s a historic and distinctive building, but I didn't.  Julie pointed it out, but dislocated memories failed to snap back into place. 

We parked up and went inside.  The interior, the décor, the menu, none of it stirred up any recollection.  But the host’s podium did.  It stuck with me because it was so weird.  The bar is downstairs with the restaurant above.  You have to climb the stairs and at the top of the stairs is a little nook where the host sits.  I remembered that, but still drew a blank about everything else about the hotel.

Julie walked me through our previous visit.  She told me where we sat and what we ate.  It was all news to me.

Nothing else came to light until we left and walked up the sloping sidewalk back to the car.  I remembered the same trek from our previous visit.

As much as I should find this escapade scary (with the memory void and all) I didn't.  I was compelled to put my damaged memory to the test, even though it failed.

I'm sure there's a story in this.  I just need to come up with it before I lose it in one of those damn holes. 

Simon Wood

ON THE BUBBLE - BUT NOT TODAY

Alas, my interview with Phil Hawley will have to be postponed today.  I'm down with a flu bug I caught at Left Coast Crime.  It would be terribly ungracious of me to not be able to thank those who comment - or chit-chat with all of you - and Phil wouldn't be able to be here either - he's got tons of kids that need his attention.  That's what happens when you're a dedicated busy doctor first, and thriller writer second.

PHIL HAWLEY, JR.    http://www.philiphawley.com

BUT - that doesn't mean I can't tell you what a terrific book Phil's debut is!  STIGMA is one fast ride that will keep you - as they say - glued to the edge of your seat.

STIGMA will be out in March and believe me when I say it is one of the best debut's ever.  I mean, have I ever led you astray?  So get your order in (favorite indie naturally) and be prepared to sit in awe that this is a first book.  We'll catch up with Phil soon and it goes without saying that all of us here at Murderati wish him great success.

But please do stop back next Wednesday and have a few laughs with Jim Born and Evil E.

Lansdale Florist

I don't know who the hell Donna Moore's muse is - but I want her!

Ken Bruen has called her 'The Dorothy Parker of Scotland'! Who's gonna argue with him? Charlie Stella said - 'It's like having Groucho Marx feeding you one-liners over your shoulder the entire trip.' I ain't gonna argue with Charlie either. GO TO HELENA HANDBASKET is one of the funniest books to come out in a long time. And I especially loved Reed Farrel Coleman's - 'Sam Spade in a skirt on acid.'

While a string of top-notch writers are obviously enthralled with Donna's wit, I would be remiss in not reminding all of you that Donna has been regaling '4MysteryAddicts' for some months prior to publication with her hilarious bus trip stories - and I think the members of that august on-line mystery group would be the first to take pride in saying how much they'd encouraged her to write a book! And aren't we glad that she did! And - aren't we glad that THEY did!

So, come along with me - and meet Donna Moore.

EE: At what point in your exciting life did you decide to get off the bus?

DM: I'm never getting off the bus - that's where my most exciting things happen. Blimey, is there any way I can make that sentence sound any weider? I'm sure people think that my tales of the number 62 bus are made up or exggerated. Well, the numbe 9 can be just as bad. My most recent experience was sitting on the bus on the way to work, and this woman sitting ten seats behind me with her two male companions - all of them dressed in identical flammable shell suits and Burbery baseball caps and dripping enough gold to melt down to make a life size statue of the Empire State Building. This woman had a voice like a foghorn and proceeded to relate to the patrons on the bus the most intimate details of her life. When we were all agog, she dealt the killer blow. "Ma man came oot the jail early last week, 'an when he got tae the door he didnae huv his key, so he jist booted the door in." Apparently, his first words to his lovely lady were "Surprise! I'm hame!" I felt like turning around and saying "Could he not just have brought you flowers?" The the thing that really galled her about the whole episode was not the fact that her door was now hanging off, nor that it had a whopping dirty great boot dent in it, nor the fact that she'd got a bit of a shock as she was watching Eastenders. No, it was the fact that the electricity man was now able to get in and sort out the electricty meter that she had fraudulently fixed so that she could get free electricity. She was even thinking of calling Scottish Power to complain. I would love to have heard THAT conversation!

Uh, Donna? I think maybe you need to try another bus line.

EE: Isn't it true, Donna - that you're madly in love with Bob Hoskins, and patterned Robin Banks after him? Well, okay - so you made him a bit taller, but still?

DM: Isn't EVERYONE taller than Bob Hoskins? We have the same test for telling a good book me and Bob. Apparently when he gets a new script he takes it to the loo and if he's sitting there and his bum goes cold and numb then he knows the script is a good one and he accepts the role. I'm the same. The number of times I've fallen off the loo reading a Ken Bruen...

Charming. Thank you for sharing that with us. I'm sure Ken is delighted to know he is found in all the better places...

EE: Rumors abound that now that Helen Mirren has let Jane Tennison retire, she's interested in playing Helena, but you're trying to convince her to play Heidi instead. So, what's the scoop on that? Think Helen can handle that role?

DM: Well, having seen the last episode of Prime Suspect, I'm beginning to think it was the cocktails that were the attraction, rather than the role of Helena. And let's face it, Elaine, ANYONE can handle the role of Helena. She's so dim. For some reason my family think she is based on me. I have no idea why.

Surely you jest! You're not at all like Helena. Well...maybe a little bit...uh, now that I think about it, there is a similarity. I mean, not physically,of course. Maybe they mean your great sense of adventure? Actually, you're...well, nevermind. Oh, wait! I know! It's the shoes. That's it, the shoes.

EE: And speaking of shoes (!) - I understand Imelda Marcos is angling for a spot in the Guinness Book of Records for having the most shoes - and she's challenged you to surpass her. Is it true you've enlisted David Corbett to go under cover and get Imelda's shoe count before you embark on your shopping spree?

DM: When they raided her wardrobes they also found some bulletproof bras. I asked David to sneak out a couple of those for me. You can never have too much bulletproof lingerie can you? Apparently she was most annoyed when it was reported that she had over 3,000 pairs of shoes and was reported to have said, "I did not have three thousand pairs of shoes, I had one thousand and sixty." Yeah, like that makes a difference Imelda. For the record, I only have 100 or so pairs (do you like the 'or so' by the way?)

Like it? I love it. Never, ever, cop to the number of ANYTHING you have. Keep 'em guessing, chickie. That's my motto.

EE: Whispers are rampant that you tried to drink John Rickards under the table at Harrowgate, but Steve Booth talked you out of it. Care to comment?

DM: Since I was not at Harrowgate this year, I believe that must have been my body double Angelina Jolie. Oh, wait, I keep forgetting she turned down the role and it ended up going to Jabba The Hutt.

Sure. Okay. I'll print that answer - but Donna - ain't nobody - especially Evil E - is gonna buy it.

EE: Now that you've finally buckled down and written your first book (after dozens of us have badgered you for months and months), could you possibly have a Walter Mitty dream left? If yes, spill it, doll face.

DM: Yes. Being a rock chick. I want to be a drummer with a rock band. Firstly because I have always loved the drums and used to practice on anything handy - pans, arms of chairs, my little brother's head. Secondly becasue I have always loved reading about those outrageous riders the big stars ask for when they go on tour - you know - they want a bowl of M&Ms in the dressing room but with all the brown ones removed, or they want tea made from leaves grown on the eastern slopes of Mount Fuji and picked at dawn by naked castratos playing the Alpenhorn. Iggy Pop apparently once asked for seven dwarves and some broccoli. He was asked why he wanted the broccoli since he doesn't eat it and he said he just wanted to throw it away. Why did no one think to ask him what he wanted the dwarves for? What was the question? Oh yes...well, I wrote to Green Day and asked them to bear me in mind when they were next on the lookout for a new drummer. They were VERY interested...until I told them my drum teacher had sacked me after three lessons. Actually, he didn't so much as sack me as retire from teaching the drums. He was only 35 too. I sent him a postcard to the Happyvale Sanitorium for Traumatised Musicians, but never head back. Strange.

How about sending him a copy of GO TO HELENA HANDBASKET? Hell, it might cheer the poor sod up.

EE: You're having six guests for dinner (Yes, Donna - you are! Why? Because I am Evil E and I get to call the shots). Who would they be, and what will you serve?

DM: Gawd, I KNEW you were going to ask this question, Elaine - and I still never thought about it. It's a tough one. There are so many people I would love to invite to dinner. If I'm cooking then first and foremost a doctor would be imperative. But assuming I'm getting it catered (by far the best option) then I think it have to be Mae West and W.C. Fields (because I think they would both be great fun), Cary Grant (because he was so charming and sophisticated and a wonderful comic actor), Caligula (because he wa so completely bonkers and a fascinating character), Lola Montez (a really bad exotic dancer from the Victorian era knows as 'La Grande Horizontale'. She was the mistress of people such as Franz Liszt, Alexander Dumas and King Ludwig of Bavaria. She had a horrendously bad temper and carried a whip which she used on lovers, unappreciative audience members and newspaper reviewers and she once shot at a presumably disappointing lover as he ran down the street with his trowsers around his ankles), Oscar Wilde and Johnny Depp. And-Johnny Depp is staying to help with the washing up, no matter how hard he struggles to get away. There, I did it (desperately hoping Elaine doesn't notice that I picked 7).

Tell you what - after Mae takes off with W.C. for a private show, and Oscar & Caligula leave to compare lovers, you keep Depp in the kitchen, and I'll sit with Cary & Lola and take notes. Cary could give me a few pointers on timing, and Lola...well, hell, I'll think of something.

EE: The word around Mysteryville is that you agreed to be photographed reading Ken Bruen's book if he'd stop teasing you about your shoe problem. Huh? I mean, it's not like he needs the exposure. So, Donna - what's the real story here?

DM: With the photo you mean? Well, my enormously talented photographer friend, Stuart McAllister (several of my friends want to hire him because, as they put it, "he makes even YOU look reasonably good, Donna") told me that he wanted to take a picture of me reading a book that meant something to me. Ken's books were an obvious choice. I hope it doesn't detrimentally affect his sales. Sort of like a Pavlovian reaction on behalf of the book buying public - "No, Ethel, I can't buy The Guards - for some reason it has an association that makes me shake and sob with fear."

Oh. Yes, I can see your point. Maybe you two better forget that promo idea of Ken being photographed reading your book? I mean, why tempt fate, huh?

EE: Oh, this just in - Mark Billingham is on the line and wants to know if Helena will do a club act with him next week in Leeds. What should I tell him?

DM: Having seen Mark do stand up, I think she'd much prefer to be in the audience - he's hilarious. But could it not be Leeds? The only time I was in Leeds - I was...errr...fortunate enough to stay in a hotel slap bang in the middle of the red light district. I could tell the prostitutes because they were the ones wearing short denim skirts, turquoise leg warmers and white high-heeled boots in November. It was like The Hookers From Fame. The alleyway right outside my window was a hive of activity all night. I couldn't eat sausage for a month.

Well, hell, Donna - that's what you get for insisting on five star hotels. But listen, try Jimmy Dean brand. It comes plain, or spicy. Your choice.

EE: Okay, let's get serious (?) here - which writer would you love to have all to yourself in a cozy corner of the bar at the next con?

DM: The choices are endless, but sadly no one is queueing up for that rather dubious pleasure. Present company excepted, I think it would be Barbara Seranella. She is great fun and I always love spending time with her, but feel as though it's always too short. Or Tony Broadbent becasue he does the most amazing Cary Grant impersonation and is just as charming. Or Joe Lansdale. I met him briefly recently and was in awe.

Well, that's kind of you to include me, but hey - Barbara Seranella is one hell of a great broad - and I'd move over for her any time. So - Tony Broadbent does Cary Grant, huh? Hmmm. I'll have to remember that. You WILL introduce me, won't you?

EE: You're moderating a panel - and you get to choose six panelists. What is the theme, and who are they?

DM: Ken Bruen, Eddie Muller, Bill Fitzhugh, Steve Brewer, Victor Gischler, Jim Born, David Corbett and Gary Phillips (obviously, math is NOT my strong point). No theme - I would just let them chat for several hours. They are all funny with great stories. Or, I would reprise the one and only panel I have ever done with Al Guthrie, Charlie Willimas, Ray Banks and Jason Starr - brilliant panelists and great sports who made a very nervous first time moderator almost enjoy the experience.

That will be me in the green visor outside the panel room selling tickets. As soon as you firm up the deal, I'll get set up with eBay too, okay? Sixty-forty sound okay to you?

EE: Who would be your two idea book tour mates?

DM: Good grief, Elaine! Your questions are so tough! Twist Phelan and Meg Chittenden. I love them both to bits. They would be wonderful traveling companions and it would be a hoot. If they are not free, then Reed Farrel Coleman and Simon Wood who both have knack for making me laugh.

Stick to cabs with Twist. She has a knack for hiring deranged drivers. And Meg is fun. The three of you, however, could be dangerous. Maybe you ought to go with the guys?

EE: My number one spy tells me that the UK's M16 brought you in and has demanded that you abandon your plans for a Helena Handbasket sequel. I understand you've come too close to describing one of their top operatives and they fear you may have blown her cover. This is serious, Donna! How are you handling this?

DM: They tried to poison my margarita with thalium, but I have a cast iron constitution and just asked for another jug.

Spoken like a true Scottish lass! I'm so damn proud of you! But maybe you should find another favorite drink and throw them off?

EE: So, Donna - word on the street is that Virgil is really a dog. This is outrageous! Cat lovers are up in arms, committees are being formed, banners are being printed as we speak. Please, please tell us this isn't so!

DM: I asked Virgil for a comment on this. He glowered at me with his one eye and held up the middle claw of one paw. He then used his cat litter tray and, strangely enough, the results seemed to spell out the message, "Swivel, lady." Take from that what you will.

Uh, I think we got the message loud and clear. But, hey - can I borrow Virgil for a week or two? I'd love to teach my cat that middle claw trick.

Well, what can I say to Donna Moore - other than thank you? I guess I could tell her what a joy she is, how much fun this was, how much I loved GO TO HELENA HANDBASKET - but then - she already knows all of that - so I think I'll just wish her the very best of luck - a zillions book sales - and, oh yes - get off the phone and get cracking on Helena's next adventure.
I hope you'll all come back next week - I have a special treat for you. December will be a pastiche of interviews - some of the funniest - and some of my favorites.

Wit of the week: Alfred Hitchcock's description of drama: Life with the dull bits cut out.

Angus of Dog

By Louise

I still have a Left Coast Crime hangover. It was a grand weekend, especially because I got to spend so much time getting to know my fellow Rati face-to-face instead of screen-to-screen. But  I'm all done twinkling and grinning and talking about crime fiction for a while.

So let me tell you what's really on my mind right now. Angus of Dog.

Angus is my husband’s dog. If that was ever unclear to me, it has become obvious this week while my husband is out of town.

You need a little background here.

We got Angus four years ago from Northern California’s Golden Retriever Rescue group. (Who’d a thunk Golden Retrievers needed rescuing anyway? That’s like saying Lollipop Rescue Group.) They’re a terrific organization, with caring, loving people who go out of their way to find good homes for these sweet animals.

They said Angus was eight years old. And he was, for a couple of days. Then he was nine, putting him squarely in the “Senior Dogs who are harder to place” category.

That’s okay with me. I like a dog I can keep up with. And my husband has always felt that older dogs, like older women, are the finest companions to have around.

Angus comes from hard-scrabble Oakland, from a fenced-in house on a tiny triangle of space between two busy streets. The couple who raised him loved him and coddled him. Except that they never took him out of the yard.

For eight years, his only exposure to the outside world was through the diamond-shaped window of a chain link fence. 


Then the wife died unexpectedly during knee replacement surgery and the husband spiraled down into despair. The husband and dog both lost the will to live. But the resources were there for the man. He decided to move to Hawaii and live with his daughter, and not take Angus with him.

We picked Angus up on Valentine’s Day, 2003. He had fleas, an ear infection, knew no commands, and had grown to 120 pounds in his misery.

“He’s not a perfect dog, but he’s a good dog, and he deserves another chance,” I said. 

That was the Pollyanna in me talking. I didn’t know then that he wanted Bichon Frisé for lunch. That he would attack babies in carriages if their rattles sounded like dog tags. That joggers in sunglasses would become terrorists in his eyes.

We tried everything that Golden Retriever Rescue recommended. We had him neutered – somewhat belatedly – but discovered that nine years of learned behavior trumps testosterone every time.

And we had great hope for improvement with the recommended dog behaviorist, a stern Germanic woman who could threaten with a single syllable or a crooked finger. Gus did improve. We actually got him within thirty feet of another dog before he lunged.

He was The Only Mean-Spirited Golden Retriever In The World.

Our neighbors have learned to cross the street when they see us coming.

I’ve grown to love Angus over the last four years. We overlook each other’s shortcomings. And he’s a real pussycat (if you’ll forgive the term) when he’s indoors. But out on the street he still goes Baskerville on us.

Which brings me to the topic at the head of this column. He’s Bruce’s dog. And Bruce is in Korea. So Angus has come up with a new trick.

He waits until we get halfway across the street, then splays himself across the double yellow lines. “Going Ghandi,” as Cornelia Read puts it.

Have I mentioned that he’s a hundred and twenty pounds? Fat, yes, but also big boned and tall for a Golden Retriever. We’ve had people come up to us on the street – from a safe distance, of course – and ask if he’s some new kind of giant dog breed. Maybe a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog with lowlands instead of Alps in his family. More like Lower Seacliff Condo Dog.

A hundred and twenty pounds of immovable canine. A walrus with red fur. And no matter what I do, I’m going to look either inept or cruel to the motorists trying to get past us.

So I cajole. I coo four letter words in an uber-soprano range that only dogs can hear. I drop pieces of fresh venison just beyond his outstretched paws. I pretend that this is a joyful game we play and I bellylaugh with the motorists who point and guffaw at us.

Margaret Maron calls this "the things we do for love." Things like cleaning up bathroom messes for senile parents. Sitting through tedious dinners with rude people because your sister asked you to. Loving an unlovable dog because you know how important it is to your spouse.

Maybe Bruce should take Angus with him on his next trip. But they eat dogs in Korea, don’t they? Hmmmmm.

So tell me, what are those things you do for love? Or do you have an Angus of Dog in your life?