BEAing and Nothingness

Diet Coke Plus works wonders. I left at 7 a.m. scooped up McGoran, then Pettit, and more or less rocketed up the NJ Turnpike. I hit the Lincoln Tunnel (a.k.a., the Mouth of Hell) by something like 8:40 a.m. Parking was a little tough, though. We found a cheap place at 35th and 9th Avenue that featured huge metal frames to stack cars. But it was a bit of walk to the Javits Center. Poor McGoran had to carry a box of Body Traces. Pettit would have offered to help, but instead he chose to power-smoke eighteen cigarettes in a row. And I was busy, like... checking out the city, or something. (Sorry, Jon!)

My 10:30 signing at the MWA booth was fantastic. There was a steady stream of people eager to pick up their Severance Package; next to me, Megan Abbott was signing a serious number of Queenpins. Thanks to everyone who stopped by, but especially Regina Barnes at The Toadstool Bookshop in New Hampshire (who totally made my day), Paul Lutz at Dead End Books in Long Island, Charles Spataro at Nothing Like a Good Book, Bobby McCue from the Mystery Bookstore in L.A., and Greg Gillespie from Port Richmond Books in good ol' Philly.

Afterward I hit the floor a bit with David Hale Smith, headmaster of the DHS Galaxy of Stars. Wait. That makes it sound like we danced. We totally didn't dance. However, as I walked DHS to his taxi, we did discuss Brazilian waxing techniques. Make of that what you will.

I also stopped by the Quirk Books booth, where they had a nice display of The Crimes of Dr. Watson. No, the book isn't published yet; on display were something called "blads" that contained a few sample pages within the real covers. And let me tell you, the cover is pretty damn wild. Just wait until you run your fingers over one.

My only complaint about BEA: the heat. Goddamn was it H-O-T-T in there. At times, it felt like I was wandering a sandy beach, looking for a place to drop my gear and collapse. The only guaranteed cool spot was in the men's room, where the AC was blasting, for some odd reason. However, if you hang in the men's room too long, they usually call security.

Before I knew it, I had lost six pounds of water and it was time to drive back to Philly. The walk back to the parking lot was long. And uphill. Oh, and it was 95 degrees and humid. We still didn't offer to help McGoran carry anything. Oh, how we suck.