Sunday is always my favorite day at B-Con. Lazy, low-key, more intimate. Time to catch up with friends and trade war stories. The highlight of my Sunday this year was getting a chance to hang with my pulp hero Bill Crider. I tried (and probably failed) not to act like some gushing fangirl, but seriously kids, have you seen this video?
But I also had to bid a way-too-soon goodbye to Martyn Waites, my beloved B-Con husband, who needed to split early in order to usher his exhausted family through a 12 hour purgatory of airports and timezones and tiny seats. Muskego just isn’t gonna be the same without you, English.
Once Martyn was gone, we started to notice a disturbingly subtle Body Snatchers style takeover in the hotel bar. One by one, the crime writers were disappearing, being stealthily replaced by corporate drones from some kind of personal improvement seminar. “They’re here already! You’re next!!” Clearly, it was time to get the hell out of there.
So Russel and I beat a hasty retreat and took off on a long, rambling, rainy day adventure through the city, ostensibly to locate a new charger for my cell phone. Which never happened, but I couldn’t have cared less. Good food, better conversation and no fucking schedule. Perfect ending to a fantastic weekend.
After I dropped the Scotsman off at his dodgy airport motel, I headed out to the Motel Muller, where I’d be spending the night. Since I didn’t have Donna and Ewan to share the drive back to L.A, my chewtoy made arrangements to fly up and chauffer me home. Because he’s good like that. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to get away until the next day and so the Czar of Noir and his lovely Czarina kindly offered to put me up at their place. That’s how I found myself reading pulp in bed with a strange pussy under my covers. Eddie’s cat Tizzy had officially claimed me as her own, burrowing under the blankets with me and making biscuits on my belly. Sadly, this was the most action I got all weekend.