Live from the LAT Festival of Books

It's about 7:20 a.m., California time, but because my Polish ass is still on Philly time, I'm wide awake. (Was wide awake, actualy at 3:30 and 5:37, too.)

I'm typing this at from the lobby at the Westwood on Wilshire. Gischler and Doolittle are presumably still crashed out upstairs. We had a blast last night--first, at the Mystery Bookstore's booze-soaked shindig, followed by dinner in a fancy joint a few blocks away where a literal gang of us (including Jason Starr, Jim Pascoe, Aldo Calcagno, Robert Gregory Brown, Brett Battles, Mark Haskell Smith, Stephen Blackmoore) dined in a private room that sort of looked like a cage. I am sure this was no accident. You get a bunch of crime writers in your fine eating establishment, you take every precaution.

Unwilling to call it a night, Gischler and Doolittle managed to break into the locked pool area of the Westwood, where they smoked cigars and I kind of stared off into the distance, still in shock that I'd been up so damn long. Good times.

Anyway, not sure how much I'm going to be able to update, but I will when I can. Got a bunch of signings today--at 11 a.m., 3 p.m. and 5 p.m. (California time). If I'm not asleep by 7 it will be a miracle.