Destination: Indy

My bags for Bouchercon are packed... okay, that's a lie. I'm still packing.

Clothes aren't the hard part; it's the books.

I've got Charlie Huston's My Dead Body set aside for the plane, as well as the latest Kevin Smith collection (Shootin' the S**t With Kevin Smith); Criminal: The Sinners #1, by Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips; and the latest issue of Crimespree. Then of course, there's my Kindle, loaded with at least 100 books and six months' worth of New Yorker back issues. Also bringing my iPod, loaded with not only Sam Raimi's Drag Me to Hell, but 35 episodes of three different podcasts: Creative Screenwriting, CrimeWAV and Out of the Past: Investigating Film Noir. Oh, and probably a week's worth of music. Maybe two weeks, come to think of it. Straight. Without ever repeating a single song.

Still, I worry about not having enough entertainment... for my one hour, 52 minute flight from Philadelphia to Indianapolis.

This my sickness. My disease.

I need to be surrounded by a ridiculous amount of entertainment at all times. Otherwise, I feel cranky.

This is a relatively new thing. I remember taking a flight to L.A. back in 1998, armed with a single trade paperback. As I remember, it kept me quite entertained the whole way. (Also entertaining was the end of the flight, when I was overwhelmed with nausea and tried to make my way to the bathroom in the back of the plane, only to freak out the flight attendants because, well, see, we were kind of starting to land at the time, and the flight attendants had to summon an air marshal to have me escorted back to my seat, and... well, you can guess the rest. This was pre-9/11, so I wasn't shot on sight. But it was a really weird way to enter the City of Angels for the very first time.)

Back in the early 1990s, I traveled all over Philly on a bus, with nothing more than a beatup used paperback to keep me company.

Now, I find myself embarrassed by the array of entertainment options at my disposal... and the nagging idea that maybe I'm not bringing enough.

Those folks in that vintage photo of Indianapolis (above) didn't have these worries. Hell, they could roll up into any bus station, flip the counterman a quarter, and walk away with a Gold Medal paperback... then throw it away by journey's end and snap up another one.

(Me? I spend hundreds of dollars every year tracking down copies of those paperbacks that people didn't throw away, and sealed up in little plastic bags.)

Part of me wants to say fuck it. Leave all of the books and devices home. Reach out and grab a single random paperback from my shelves of Gold Medals and Lions and Bantams and Signets... and then throw it in my backpack and be done with it. Savor that one book on the flight. Get lost in it. Don't worry, because duh, you're going to a mystery convention, there will be plenty of books to pick up while you're there. You won't die from lack of entertainment...

But I'm not sure I'm strong enough to obey this part of me. The spirit is willing, but the pulpy, noodle-like flesh under my skull is weak...

What if the book I pick up at random sucks?

What if I want to watch a movie?

What if, mid-air, I'm suddenly overcome with the urgent need to hear a cheesy 1970s power pop hit?

So... I'm going to keep packing.

If any of you faithful Secret Dead Blog readers will be attending Bouchercon this weekend, don't be shy! Step up and say "yo." Chances are, I'll buy you a drink. I may look like a college linebacker gone to seed, but I'm a perfectly nice guy.

And if you can't make it, keep an eye on this blog, as well as my Twitter feed (www.twitter.com/swierczy) for random updates, embarrassing photos, and other weird dispatches that will make it will feel like you're there. Only... sober.