The three days of events surrounding the LA Times Festival of Books concluded for me in the way all good things do: an odd conversation in the bathroom with a Pulitzer Prize winner. It was a few moments before I was to go on stage with Sarah Vowell & David Rakoff, so I slipped away for a brief respite in which to contemplate my bowels for the purposes of just knowing, for sure, that I wasn't going to suddenly have searing abdominal cramping in front of a few thousand close friends in Royce Hall. Along the way to the bathroom, I encountered Barry Siegal, the Pulitzer winner in this equation, and we had a brief conversation that went like this:
Me: Hey, Barry, nice to see you again.
Barry: Great to see you too [a brief pause as we entered the restroom wherein we both mumbled things about the festival being great, and then, presumably, Barry remembered that last time he saw me, I'd just finished puking my brains out before a panel at the same book festival some 3 years previous, an inglorious moment made worse by Thai food, beer and little sleep]...you're not going to be sick again, are you?
Me: No, no, of course not. Of course not. No. Certainly not. Nope.
It's never nice to be remembered for your most godawful moment, but at that very moment it occurred to me that, for Barry at least, I could erase that moment by doing something even worse -- puking on David Rakoff and Sarah Vowell, for instance -- and it would probably be a great weight lifted off both of us. But alas, I felt...good. I'd spent three days in the service of books and that my friends, is a pretty sweet deal, particularly when you factor in the free food, too. So, herewith, a breakdown of the weekend that was:
Friday Night:
Lee and I attended the Book Prize ceremony and party together, which was great fun. The Book Prize ceremony wasn't exactly a laugh-a-moment-fest-of-carnal delights, but it had it's moments, namely when from out of the shadows prior to the giving of each award, a shapely (and by shapely, I mean she looked like she'd just graduated from the Muy Thai School Of Boxing and Modeling...the woman had some muscle definition!) vixen came strolling out with the secret name of the award winner on a platter. Every time she came out, the presenters seemed slightly surprised to see her, as if they couldn't quantify the existence of said hottie amongst the literary giants (and Adam Gopnik, who when I read him the New Yorker I always imagine a man of about, I dunno, 5'9...but Gopnik is positively elvish). At any rate, the highlight of the ceremony for me was the woman who accepted the prize for her friend Robert Littel who mentioned, just in passing and with all the gravitas of someone who'd also been pleased with the service at Krispy Kreme (during the 29 minutes she rambled on about Paris and various cheeses and wines) that she'd been blacklisted (!) and Joan Didion's very brief, yet very eloquent, acceptance speech for her lifetime achievement award.
The nonhighlight was the woman with terrible perfume (it smelled like RAID as imagined by Nazis) sitting behind me who kept saying things like, "That book was marvelous." Or, "I heard that book was marvelous." And of one award winner, "I don't know why everyone thinks that book is so marvelous." I kept waiting for Marvin Hagler to show up.
The party was great fun and filled with odd moments, including the sight of Stephen J. Cannell chatting with Joan Didion, the sight of Steve Wasserman not punching me in the nuts when I went up to say hello (I have to say: I like the guy. He's interesting in a way I find oddly compelling...like it's apparent he just might hate me, but doesn't mind talking to me despite the fact) and learning, apropos of nothing imaginable in this world, that Lisa Glatt and her husband David Hernandez often discuss (hopefully clothed and not during actual child-making) that if they had a child, it would be me. I'm not sure if I'm flattered, mortified, of deeply, deeply aroused. Other highlights of the night included hugging James Crumley (look, how many chances in this life does one get to hug James Crumley?) and seeing Mark Sarvas' man purse, which happened within mere moments of each other.
Saturday
The coolest thing about LA Times Festival Of Books is the author green room. It's like walking into the back room of a Borders and finding all the authors of the books on the shelves sitting around eating lunch, drinking coffee and talking shop. It's also a little weird to realize we all apparently shop for clothes at the same store -- Black V-Neck Sweaters And Tan Pants Or Blue Jeans Are Us -- and that we all wish we got more publicity.
My panel that afternoon was the Art of the Short Story along with Bret Anthony 
Johnston and A.M. Homes. We had a good audience and it felt like people enjoyed themselves, or at least enjoyed themselves more than our moderator Thane Rosenbaum probably did when he kept calling A.M. Homes "Amy" and she kept saying, "Call me A.M." 
until, finally, I said, "I think she actually wants you to call her A.M." and then I think he just called her "Ms. Homes" from there on out because, well, it was a thing now. But A.M and Bret and I had good panel chemistry together and, for me at least, it's always interesting to hear about other writers' processes. Afterward, two teenage girls took my picture and I'm pretty sure it's being used on MySpace to lure teens to porn.
After that, things really took a turn for the weird. I signed next to fetish model (and wife of Marilyn Manson) Dita Von Teese. Normally at these things, the people signing next 
to you say something like, you know, "Hi." Or, they say, "Hello, I'm fetish model Dita Von Teese." Or they at least make passing reference to your shared piece of Terra Firma by nodding, smiling, and rolling their tongue at your suggestively. Well, Dita was too busy for any of that because she was surrounded by about 50 people that were one of three groups:
1. Other like minded fetish people, which meant lots of ambiguously sexual humans (Man? Woman? Trannie? He-she? Hot!) that were unfailingly polite.
2. People from the Philippines with cameras. It was weird. There were about 20 Filipinos huddling around Dita snapping photos and just sort of...gawking. Not moving. Not speaking. Just standing about slack jawed.
3. Scary homeless-looking men who wanted Dita to do weird shit, but none weirder than the exchange I witnessed that went something like:
Man: Will you say my name into my cell phone?
Dita: What's your name?
Man: Jeff.
Dita. Okay.
Man: Go ahead.
Dita: Jeff.
Man: One more time.
Dita: Jeff.
Man: Once more, please.
Dita: Jeff.
Now I know she must get asked to do lots of weird stuff by scuzzy men all the time, but I couldn't help but wonder at what point you just stand up and shout, "Look, you've got plenty to jerk off with now, okay? Okay? I said good day!"
Oddest personal encounter: I had to pee, as humans are apt to do, and so I followed a man of about 25 into a bathroom and waited while he took his turn at the urinal. And waited. And waited. I thought I heard a squirt, but that could have been time dripping by. Finally, the man turned to me and said, "Could you leave the bathroom? I can't go with someone else in the room."
Sunday
Here's the thing: if the one thing your city has going for it is the amount of brutal murders you can recall in the near vicinity of your home and you're angry that not enough crime novels recognize that, I'm afraid you're beyond my reach. I realized this during the panel I moderated on the LA influence on crime writing, which featured T. Jefferson Parker, Denise Hamilton and Gary Phillips, after a man became noticeably angry that we'd collectively dismissed North Hollywood and, apparently, the whole of the San Fernando Valley, while discussing our topic. He also didn't seem all that pleased when I announced that the great San Dimas crime novel was still left to be written.
The panel itself was lively, funny and informative. It probably helped that all 4 of us know one another which invariably means the conversation sort of sounds like four people sitting around telling lies for fun. In attendance were a slew of interesting people as well, including the lovely lit blogger Booksquare, and one bald African American dominatrix who'd just finished her first novel and wanted to know if America was ready for, uh, a bald, African American Dom who ostensibly solves crimes. I say: fuck yeah.
Later, Wendy, Ms. Square and I joined my seesters and agent Ken Sherman for lunch in the green room. This event was notable for the amount of time spent discussing the author who velvet roped Wendy and Ms. Square in the bathroom, flashing her author badge and saying, "I need to cut in line. I'm late for an event," which, while rude, is kind of understandable. Sadly, the event in question appeared to be a second helping of carrot cake and leisurely conversation with a woman dressed like a Dalmatian. There was also at least one author wearing a cape in the green room.
After a few hours spent wondering about the campus, I headed off to my event with David Rakoff and Sarah Vowell. David and Sarah were both extremely entertaining and, in front of a packed house at Royce, gave the audience exactly what they came for -- which was 45 minutes of good stories. The audience laughed in all the right places and heeded my call on questions from the audience: If you're insane, please do not ask any questions. And if you're not sure whether you're insane or not, don't chance it. There was the notable appearance of a man in a sweatsuit -- always a concern -- but the fucktards were kept largely at bay, which is a true oddity at things like this.
Most uncomfortable (vicarious) moment of the day: When the man who didn't believe I wasn't Lee kept trying to convince Denise Hamilton to write a book based on one of his ideas. She kept saying no, he kept persisting, and the finally Denise said the one thing sure to stop the conflagration: "Well, I'd be happy to talk to you about this online." My understanding is that as soon as this is offered, the 10 page single spaced email will arrive shortly thereafter, which you can then share with friends and family when they feel like their lives are worse than yours.
Coolest moment: Seeing my former student Lorna Freeman signing books and then witnessing a woman completely lose her shit over meeting Lorna in person.
Coolest moment #2: Sitting in the green room with all of my siblings and realizing how absolutely amazing it is that we've all managed to become published authors.
It was a weekend mostly free of fucktards, I'm happy to report. But next Sunday, I assure they will return...
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