California Wrap (Up)

I was much too jet-lagged to post last night. The Bride and Brood picked me up from the airport, and then I readjusted to Philly time, namely by eating a cheesesteak. (I'm not making that up.)

But that doesn't mean I didn't have a bright, hot, sunny blast at the L.A. Times Festival of Books. Saturday morning started at Rite-Aid. Gischler bought a fetching little striped pen; Doolittle bought sunscreen, as well as a horror double feature DVD for $3.99 that included two movies nobody ever heard of. (For barely two bucks a movie, how can you go wrong?) Soon, we had parked and started the long march to Dickson Plaza at UCLA, the heart of the action.

To reach Dickson Plaza, however, one must ascend the "Janss Steps." Calling these steps, however, is misleading, for they seem to extend right up to where Earth's atmosphere begins to thin. These are not steps; this is a motherfucking ziggurat. And it was hot. Did I mention how hot it was? Seriously hot. I can still feel the cells on my cheeks transmogrifying into skin cancer.

Once I started breathing normally again, it was time to enjoy the festivities. It didn't take long to start seeing familiar faces, which I will namedrop here, in no particular order: Christa Faust, Robert Gregory Brown, Brett Battles, Laura Lippman, Jason Starr, Reed Coleman, Jim Fusilli, Peter Spiegelman, Nathan Walpow (who, I learned, once had a bit part on Sledge Hammer), Daniel Woodrell, Megan Abbott, Robert Crais, Robert Ward, Aldo Calcagno, Don Winslow, Michael Connelly, Tod Goldberg, Will Beall, John Shannon, Jerry Stahl, Craig Johnson, Anthony Rainone, Ben LeRoy, Michael Connelly... and I'm probably forgetting a half dozen people.

Most surreal moment (honorable mention): Standing near a burger tent riffing on anal-themed crime novels with Faust, Browne, Battles, Gischler and Doolittle (e.g., Kiss Anal Goodbye.) Faust started it. I swear.

Most surreal moment (first place): Toward the end of the signing session at the Mystery Bookstore booth--and this was around 5:45 p.m., so everyone's a little punchy--I spy this gaggle of blonde California teenaged girls. In front of me is my book, The Blonde. How can I resist?

"Hey, girls," I said. "I named this book after you."

One girl approached the table. I half-expected her to say: Shut! Up!

Instead, she said:

"I don't read."

Naturally. Which was why she was hanging out at a book festival.

Meanwhile, one of her friends stared at my name on the book. "How do you pronounce that?"

I pronounced it.

"What?" she said.

I pronounced it again.

"Huh?"

I smiled. "It's Polish for Smith."

Then she looked at me, then looked at her friends, and said:

"I'm going to marry him just so that I can have a cool name like that."

Then my would-be underaged California trophy wife walked away from the table... without purchasing a book. Hell of a way to start a romance, sweetheart. Hell of a way.