What I Believe

The Book of Lies

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Mon, 12 May 2008 19:37:00 +0000

Here it is, what the book is really about. Can’t WAIT to talk more about this.

BRAD MELTZER ON THE BOOK OF LIES & THE SIEGEL HERITAGE (Newsarama)

Fans of Brad Meltzer’s work have gotten used to the cycle - he’ll work on a novel for a year or two, and then come back to comics for a project, then another novel, and then some more comics. With his new novel, The Book of Lies, coming out in September, Meltzer is getting the chance to merge his two worlds.

Lies will focus on two murders - that of Abel in Chapter 4 of the Book of Genesis, and also on the murder of Mitchell Siegel, father of the young Jerry Siegel - one of the two boys who created Superman.

"The pitch goes like this," Meltzer says. "In chapter 4 of Genesis, Cain kills Abel. It is arguably the world’s most famous murder, but the Bible is silent about one key detail - the weapon which Cain used to kill his brother. And that weapon is lost to this day.

"In 1932, a man named Mitchell Siegel is shot in the chest and killed. While mourning the death of his father, his young son comes up with the idea for a bulletproof man that he nicknames Superman. The murder weapon from that murder is also lost to this day. So the question is, what do these two murders, thousands of years apart possibly have to do with each other? The answer you will see is in The Book of Lies, which comes out in September."

The roots of the new novel’s story obviously reach into Meltzer’s lifetime love of comics, but they took on new life relatively recently, thanks to a Sarasota, FL book signing.

"I was at a signing in the middle of Florida, and, as I do at every signing, I was waxing on about my love of comics, and this sweet old woman raises her hand and says, "I know Jerry Siegel," and I think to myself when you’re sitting in hot, Sarasota, Florida, there is no way that any woman who is at a bookstore and raises her hand and says that is going to tell me more about Jerry Siegel than I know about him myself."

Meltzer was surprised to find out he was wrong. Very wrong.

"The lovely woman tells me that Jerry was her first cousin, she knows the whole family, she grew up in the house with the family, and my mouth dropped open. I cornered her after that, got her phone number, and everything started. I always wear my love for them on my sleeve, and will talk about them to anyone who will listen, and just happened to be in front of the right person. So for the past two years, I’ve been researching the murder of Mitchell Siegel and I won’t say much more about it, but needless to say, it has become an obsession for me."

As a result of his work, Metlzer’s come to a conclusion about the murder of Jerry Siegel’s father: "People don’t know the story," the writer says. "They really don’t. That’s the most amazing part - here’s arguably one of the greatest heroes ever created, and we don’t know why we got him."

Of course, the research included several trips to Cleveland, where Mitchell and his family lived. Actually, some of Meltzer’s trips made news as Newsarama’s Mike San Giacomo dropped his name here and there as one of the many comic folk he’d taken on the tour of "Jerry Siegel’s Cleveland," which includes the house in which Jerry grew up.

As regular Newsarama readers know, Cleveland will be holding a "Summer of Superman" this year, in honor of the 70th Anniversary of Superman’s creation. Again, San Giacomo named-dropped Meltzer, this time as someone who would be helping in the restoration and preservation efforts of the house.

"I knew what I was doing when I went into the house, and I knew what role the attic was going to play when we went there," Meltzer recalls of a research trip to the house, "But when I saw the shape that it was in - new wheels started spinning in my head. So one of the things that we’re going to do is try and save this house. This is an American landmark. It deserves better than what its received. This is something that I take very seriously - they went in and saved the house where the founders of Google came up with it. That pales in comparison to this."

Coming Home To Comics

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Fri, 09 May 2008 12:57:00 +0000

For those who didn’t see it, here’s the news about the new comic, DC Universe 1: Last Will and Testament. It’s been in the works for a while now, and I'm so excited to see the news out there. Feels like coming home for sure. And even including a few new characters I’ve never played with before. Sorry to be cryptic over the past few weeks, but that’s modern comics. As for Adam Kubert, the man is just incredible. Wait till you see the magic. Anyway, the comic will be out the week before the new novel, The Book of Lies. And for more on that...we are days away.

Thanks to all who made me miss it so much.

MELTZER RETURNS TO THE DCU FOR LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT (Newsarama)

Brad's Eulogy

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Fri, 02 May 2008 16:55:00 +0000

To all who have asked, here's the eulogy Brad wrote for his Mom, Teri Meltzer, who passed away this past weekend after a tough battle with breast cancer. The words are about one mother, but they're also for everyone. And of course feel free to send this along to whoever you love like this...

- Cori

What My Mother Gave Me Before She Died
By Brad Meltzer

She’s the kind of woman who would say, "Ucch, what a depressing funeral." And so the obvious thing to say is that I want to celebrate my Mom. But what I really want to do is share my Mom. Not the person who was here the past few months. But the woman who was here the past 63 years.

In my case, my mother fought to have me. She tried for three years to get pregnant. And I think that struggle always left her feeling thankful for what she had. It is, to this moment, the only rational way to explain the neverending love she gave to me.

My very first interaction with my mother came before I was born - and as she used to relay the story - when I was in her stomach, she would put an ashtray on her belly, take a great drag on her cigarette, and then cheer me on as my sudden in utero kicks sent the cigarette ashes bouncing on her belly. Now think on this a moment: she’s smoking - while pregnant - and then relishing the moment as her tiny fetus - me - kicks wildly for his life. But when I look back on this, it’s blatantly clear just how differently the world looked through my Mom’s eyes. You should’ve heard the joy - true insane joy - in my mother’s voice as she proudly recounted how amazing it was to see me kick that ashtray on her belly. I always took away the lesson that we shouldn’t asphyxiate our unborn, but Teri Meltzer had a far different lesson - a maternal lesson - and all she could see in that dancing ashtray was that her child must be special.

Of course, my Mom quickly took a more protective stance when it came to my well being. And by that I don’t just mean that she stopped trying to inadvertently kill me. As I entered grade school, my father, who breathes baseball, signed me up for Little League. I lasted one year. But it wasn’t until a few months ago - as we were looking back on her life - that I finally found out just who saved me from year two. Stewie, don’t make him play if he doesn’t want to play. That was my Mom’s threat. Even back then, she knew me. And for all of childhood, she nurtured me, growing my little artsy side and always making sure that I could find my own adventure. And she fed it with one of the greatest seeds of imagination: television.

This will sound silly and trite, but in my mother’s honor, I’m not apologizing for it. One of my clearest memories of childhood is sitting at the side of my Mom’s bed - the side that faced the TV - and watching show after show with her. To be clear, TV wasn’t something that watched me - she didn’t put it on just so she could go do something else. My mother watched with me. Or rather, I watched with her. Old movies like Auntie Mame. And modern classics like Taxi, Soap, MASH and of course, our favorite for every Wednesday night, Dynasty. (Please, what else are you gonna do with a son who doesn’t play baseball?) Some mothers and sons never find anything they can truly share. But my Mon always treated me like an adult, always let me stay up late to watch the good stuff, and in those moments, she did one of the best things any parent can do: she shared what she loved with me. Of course, she also shared far too many copies of the Star and the Enquirer (which she would swear, always had the real news first).

When I was thirteen, my Mom faced the worst tragedy of her life. The death of her father - Jonas Benjamin’s namesake - Ben Rubin. My Poppy. My Poppy would do anything for my mother - come over the house at any hour for whatever it was we needed. That’s where my Mom got it from - but when he died - I remember at his funeral, my Mom screaming and yelling wildly because the funeral home had neglected to shave my grandfather, and my Mom wanted him to look just right. It was a fierceness and ferocity I never saw before - or again. It was a fierceness that my Mom saved for when someone messed with her family. And I know she put that one in me too.

But when I think of my Mom - more than anything else...more than anything - I think of the pure, immeasurable, almost crazy love she had for me. I remember the first time I gave her The Tenth Justice. It’s my first published novel. My first time ever putting real work out for anyone to see. I was terrified when she said she’d finished it. And then she looked right at me and said, "Bradley, I know I’m your mother, but I have to be honest with you. This book...is the greatest book of all time!"

When someone was recounting the story to me a few days ago, he called my mother the queen of hyperbole. But as I think about it, he had it wrong. Hyperbole is a deliberate exaggeration. My mother never used hyperbole. My mother actually believed it. In her eyes, I really did write the greatest book of all time.

And in that book, I also wrote my mother - the mother in Tenth Justice was based on my Mom. But when my first editor was reading it, he sent back the comment that he didn’t think the mother and father in the book were realistic. He said they were too crazy. So I brought my parents to meet my editor. They came up to the editor’s office, and for the half hour or forty-five minutes, I sat there, silently, smiling, as my Mom and Dad talked this poor man’s face off. When they were done and had finally left the office, my editor turned to me and said, "Leave the parent scenes exactly as they are."

A few years ago, I went to the headquarters of Borders Books up in Ann Arbor. And when I was there the main buyer for Borders said to me, "Guess where your books sell more than anywhere else? Straight sales, not even per capita." So of course I said, "New York" - 8 million New Yorkers in one city.

"No."

"Washington, DC? I write about DC."

"No."

"Chicago, the flagship superstore?"

"No."

The number one place my books sell was the Boca Raton Borders, two miles from the furniture store where my mother worked. That means my mother single-handedly beat 8 million New Yorkers. Messing with the power of a Jewish mother is one thing, but never ever mess with the power that was Teri Meltzer.

Of course, what made my Mom my Mom was the fact that that love - that love that burned in her brighter than fifty suns - was there even when times were bad. When The First Counsel was published, USA Today gave me a ruthless review. It was the kind of review that just felt like a public humiliation. The headline was: Make First Your Last. But when my mother saw it, she said to me, "Don’t worry. No one reads that paper anyway." It’s the number one paper in the entire county! It’s the one paper everyone reads.

And when my publisher shut down and we went to find a new one, I was faced with one of the scariest moments of my career. My second novel had bombed and sold so much less than the first one, so if we wanted to move forward, we had to leave a guaranteed contract behind and hope that another publisher would take over the contract. This was terrifying to me, and I was wracked with fear, feeling like I was watching it all deteriorate. And I’ll never forget my Mom on the phone - she said to me, "I’d love you if you were a garbage man." It wasn’t anything she practiced...it was just her exact honest feelings at that moment. And to this day, EVERY day that I sit down to write these books, I say those words to myself - "I’d love you if you were a garbage man" - soaking in the purity and selflessness of that love, and the knowledge that - and I don’t care where she is - my mother is always there for me.

Let me be clear: all our strength, confidence, any success my sister and I have been blessed enough to receive, those were all watered and nurtured by the strength of the love that my mother showered on us. There is no coincidence that my sister and I both work for ourselves. From when I was born, my mother worked for herself, decorating and being creative. Now there’s a certain confidence - and an underlying insecurity - that goes along with being creative. Your job lives and dies on your taste...and on people believing in it. In every decision, you leap from that trapeze...you give your opinion...and you try to never think twice about if someone will catch you. To me, watching my Mom - you should’ve seen her decorating: That color? Gorgeous. That pillow? Awful. That couch? Horrible. Ucch. Terrible. Un-believable. Feh. Bleh. That looks like pulverized shit. I’d rather drink poison. When she came to Washington and I took her to the White House, she looked around at the décor. Unga Patchke. Overdone. It’s the White House! In everything she did, she rattled off her opinions as if they were absolute truths. In fact, a few months back, my Mom and I were arguing over some decorating detail in our new house. Now my mother is sick at this point. The cancer in her brain made it incredibly hard for her to speak, so most of the argument is her shaking her head and rolling her eyes. But as we’re going back and forth, I finally lose it and ask her if it just might be possible that I might have my own taste. And my mother, who hasn’t said much of anything in awhile, shouts: No. You. Can’t!

Maybe it was taste, maybe it was stubbornness, but I’ll always be thankful to my Mom for teaching me that you can believe in yourself like that.

For that reason, when I found out the last book had hit the top spot on the bestseller list, Cori already knew, so the first person I called was my mother. And of course my Mom starts hysterically crying. She’s so proud. And when I hear her crying, I of course start crying. And in the midst of this tear-fest, I say to her, where are you now? And through her sobs, she says to me, "I’m at Marshall’s."

Of course she’s at Marshall’s, still trying to buy irregular socks for two dollars. It was my mother’s greatest lesson: never ever ever ever change for anyone. And her second greatest lesson: that Marshall’s just may be the greatest store on earth.

And that leads me to the other great loves of my mother’s life. First, a word about her grandchildren, one of whom is sitting right here, making his Nana so proud. When my first child - my son Jonas - was born, my mother said to me, "Now you’ll understand how I love you."

She was right. And it was the first time I got to see life through my Mom’s eyes.

Now I know every grandparent loves their grandchildren. But not like my Mom loved mine. Of course she spoiled them, and let them eat bags of jelly beans, and watch endless TV. Of course she bought toy after toy - I opened her truck once and it was filled TO THE TOP with piles of Hot Wheels cars and toys and whatever she could find in the dollar store. Just in case. You never know. You never know what, Ma? If an orphanage is gonna show up? But my Mom would offer over and over to come babysit. We didn’t ask her. She’d call up and tell us we should go out to dinner. I said to her, "We just want to go for Chinese food." She said to me, "You can go to China for all I care." She just wanted to be there for her grandkids. For Jonas and Lila and of course Theo.

You see, my Mom knew how sick she was. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she plummeted so soon after Theo was born. In truth, I think my mother was supposed to die eight months ago, when she had that stroke. But she fought back. And learned how to walk and talk again. And started yet another chemo regimen that the doctor never really thought would work. It wasn’t the first time. When my mother was born, she had a disorder in her hips that was so bad, the doctors said she wouldn’t ever walk. But she walked.

She was far tougher than anyone ever expected. And so, after the experimental chemo, my mother got a near perfect four months of borrowed time, where she finally found her way to Paris and saw her namesake, Theo, be born. She fought for that moment. Even in her final days, when she showed barely any recognition, she would light up when Theo, Lila and Jonas entered that room.

And that leaves me with her truest love. The one I don’t think I ever fully appreciated. But when my Mom was at her lowest - when the September stroke had kicked her brain and we didn’t know if she’d ever come back to us - there was one thing she reacted to as she laid there in the hospital bed. Stewie. My father would enter the room and her eyes would open. She knew that voice. And not just because it’s such a ridiculous voice. My mother didn’t get to pick me and my sister. She was stuck with us. But she picked him. She picked my father. And for all the ups and downs they took, make no mistake, they loved each other with a fire and passion that every set of spouses should aspire to. You should always take pride, Dad, in the happiness you brought her.

In the end, my mother died the same way she lived. She laughed and smiled and enjoyed everything she could get from life. She belly-laughed when her brother and chief sidekick Uncle Richie entertained and distracted her from the sadness (which we all needed). And when she lay there, two days before her death, when her mother, Dottie, my Nanny, came in, she was basically motionless. But when my Nanny started singing some old kooky 1920s song, my mother, who barely could move, raised her hand high and rolled her eyes and gave that look of "Mom, what the hell’re you doin’?"

And in that moment, as we all laughed, my Mom, Teri Meltzer, was back:

- The woman who loved Marshall’s and the Enquirer as much as she loved the Louvre and the Musee D’Orsay.

- The woman who, even at 63, has friends who are in their thirties and forties.

- Who used to hate every piece of modern art, because she would say, "I could do that."

- Who never grew up or grew old - never wished for "how things used to be" and instead always searched for the new style, the new thing (y’know how much Project Runway this woman watched? Even before it was popular). She had the mindset and taste of a thirty year old gay man who lives in the East Village, and just like him, she didn’t give a shit what you thought about her.

- She hated snobs, she hated phonies, she hated rich obnoxious asses who can only talk about what kind of car they drove, or jewelry they bought, or what big trip they recently took. And over the past year, as we’ve been calling doctors and nurses and secretaries, even the valets who park the cars, when I say my name, all they say is, "Oh, how’s your mother? She’s such a nice/funny/sweet/great-spirited lady." And as one receptionist reminded me, "Not everyone is nice like that." The truth about you is what people say behind your back. And I love my mother so much for that: From the Queen of England to the janitor in the bathroom, she’d treat you the same.

Over the past few months, as my mother was dying, she never complained. Truly. Never. Not to us. She was protective to the final moments. I’d ask if she was in pain, and she’d insist, "No." And when that lie was clearly a lie, this was just days ago, I looked at her in the bed and said, "How you doing?" She opened her eyes at my voice and smiled that Teri Meltzer smile and said, on her deathbed, "Fantastic."

And there we were. For the past six months, me and Bari and Cori and Will - all her children - were once again at her house, where the TV was once again on her side of the bed, and we were all once again watching her favorite shows. They weren’t sad nights. In fact, they were some of my favorite nights with my Mom - not because I love Dancing with the Stars or Top Chef or every other show Bravo TV has to offer - but because, when I sat there, I was nine years old again, safe and comforted by that neverending well of love I could feel from my Mom.

On that note, I want to thank all the people who have been there for her - this year, or any other. All the family and friends who laughed with her and shared stories with her...who sent cards and notes and flowers and sub sandwiches, who left messages and emails, and especially those who sent photos of your kids (I’m sure she’s bought presents for all of them)...and especially to those who drove and made their way to see her, then and now. All the doctors who were friends first and who got info and test results and whatever else she needed. And all the nurses and chemo ladies and strangers who spoke to her and made her feel like a person instead of a patient.

I don’t miss particular moments with my mother. I can always remember those moments. What I miss is my mother, and her reactions, and how she never hesitated to tell you who she hated or what she thought (even if it was a quick judgment), and most of all, how she loved me and my family with more love than one person should be able to muster.

She once said to me, "I’d saw off my own arm for you." Again, not an exaggeration. Just Teri Meltzer being Teri Meltzer.

That love my Mom gave me is my strength. It never. Ever. Wavered. It’s like the hum on an airplane, of the engine - it’s there and it never lets up and it never stops - and you get so used to it, it just becomes part of the ride. But you’d know the second it was gone. My mother’s love for us never stopped.

It was a constant.

A foundation.

A law.

It is the pillar that has carried me everywhere and holds me up right now. Her love is a gift that she gave me. And it is the part of her that I hope I, and my children, and all of you carry with you every time your child or grandchild shows you a picture they colored, every time you say thank you to the valet who parks your car, and damn well every time you drive past Marshall’s.

I miss you Mom. And I thank you. I thank you for teaching me how a parent is supposed to love their child. And I hope you know that, in that and so much else, you live on forever.

Mom News

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 17:01:00 +0000

The first few days after my Mom passed were tough, but the funeral (which I must admit I was terrified of) was just an incredible (overused word coming) celebration of who she was. We laughed and cried and tried to keep laughing in her honor. Best moment was when my Dad said goodbye to her -- it's this private moment with me and him and her brother and my Dad's brother and the coffin.

My father pours his heart out in a way he never does and then leans down and kisses the coffin, which is when my uncle reminds him that her head is: up here (as he points to the other end of the coffin). So my father blurts, "Y'mean I just kissed her ass?" And we all shoot back: It's about time.

So pathetic. But such a needed laugh. My Mom would've loved us piling on him.

But I must also say that seeing all the responses you left to the announcement in the last blog...What a moment you gave me. I treasure that one. The best moments come when you realize you're not as alone as you thought.

My Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 14:46:00 +0000

My Mom, Teri Meltzer, passed away this weekend after an incredible two year battle with breast cancer. Needless to say, we've kept it pretty private throughout the time she was sick. But the only reason my Mom first got diagnosed was because another of her firend's was diagnosed, so she decided to do a self exam. So for that, please, for yourself, your girlfriends, and especially your Moms, go encourage them to do one.

Over here, the loss is still hitting us. I've always been a momma's boy. And in my Mom's honor, I'm not apologizing for it.

Here's the obituary:

MELTZER, TERI,

Precious daughter, sister, wife, mother, and Nana was born in 1944 in Brooklyn, NY, which gave her a loving childhood, a true sense of humor, and an unmistakable accent. With an unrelenting and meticulous sense of style, she was an interior designer who decorated homes for family, friends, and hundreds of clients, eventually moving to Florida in 1983 and settling in Aventura.

Her true love, however, was saved for her family. It was this love of family that she learned from her father, Ben Rubin, who predeceased her, but whose influence she proudly carried everywhere. For the past two years, she fought an incredible battle with breast cancer, never once complaining, forever trying to spare her children any pain, even as the battle was lost on April 26. Her legacy lives on in: her ninety year-old mother, Dottie Rubin; her brother and sidekick, Richie Rubin; her husband, Stew Meltzer, whom she adored and protected during their 43 years of marriage; her children, Brad & Cori Meltzer and Bari & Will Norman; her grandchildren, Jonas, Lila and Theo Meltzer, and the rest of her family and friends, all of whom now carry her influence with them everywhere. No one loved her children more.

Teri’s funeral is scheduled for 1:00 p.m., Monday, April 28th at Temple Sinai of Hollywood, 1400 North 46th Ave, Hollywood, FL 33021.

Instead of flowers, please consider a donation to Sharsheret, which helps young (and young at heart) women battling breast cancer. 1086 Teaneck Road, Suite 3A, Teaneck, NJ 07666. www.sharsheret.org.

To visit this Guest Book Online, go to www.MiamiHerald.com/Obituaries

Paul Pope

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 18:48:00 +0000

This is why being an artist is cooler than being a writer. For your nephews.

Source: PULPHOLE

BRACES

Tablecloth drawings with my nephew, waiting on spagetti. "Do a cartoon animal we haven't seen before," he says.

"Like what?"

He thinks a minute. "Bugs Bunny as a squirrel teenager who comes from the world of Fat Albert."

"With braces?" I ask.

"With braces."

Posted by pulphope at 4/17/2008 10:48:00 AM

Broken email

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 14:48:00 +0000

Just an apology to all those who have tried emailing me through the site (bradmeltzer.com). We know, we've had a major breakdown in email there, so if you sent me something and you're like, "what a pud -- didn't even reply," bear with us and please resend in a week or so when we finally get our pants back on.

Also, thanks for all those sending love for the Eisner nomination. Neither Gene Ha nor myself had any idea until someone else emailed us and said, "Schmucks, you're nominated." Needless to say, JLA 11 is one of the stories I'm most proud of. But the real love needs to go to Gene (and colorist Art Lyon!), who really are the ones who pulled it off and made a hack like me look far better than I am. If I had enough, I'd love to give that issue away during the book tour to anyone who's never read a comic.

Enjoy the weekend and don't do drugs.

Coming To Scranton And McArthur, Ohio!

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 12:20:00 +0000

For those in Scranton, PA and McArthur, OH, I'm coming this week.

If you're around, come say hey. And of course, I'll sign whatever you want including all body parts (though that still has never been offered to me).

This Thursday, April 17
Bestselling author Brad Meltzer will give the first talk of the 2008 Library Lecture Series at the Scranton Cultural Center at 7 p.m. The lecture is open to the public and is free with a library card. An autograph session will follow the lecture, and book club participants will have an opportunity to meet the author at a pre-lecture reception.

This Saturday, April 19
The Herbert Wescoat Memorial Library presents Brad Meltzer, delivering the keynote presentation at Vinton County Middle School. The event is free and open to the public.
For more info, see: http://www.vintoncountypublic.lib.oh.us/Spring%20Arts%20Festival.htm

Audio Man

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 16:44:00 +0000

Have I mentioned how much I love Scott Brick, the dear friend and deep baritone who is the voice of all our audio books? And now, it truly is all, since he's now re-recording The Tenth Justice and Dead Even (giving us full unabridged versions for the first time) just in time for when The Book of Lies is launched in September.

So here's his recent blog post acknowledging what a pain in the ass I am.

BTW, the website itself is scottbrickpresents.com.

EW's First Comics

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 13:34:00 +0000

This is fun.

Especially seeing how much that first comic so so effected the craft that each person puts out. Read into it all you want. It's true.

BTW, Kirkman's first comic was an Erik Larsen Spider-Man. F***. WE ARE OLD!!!

Comic Books: The One That Hooked Me! (Entertainment Weekly)

Book of Lies. Copyedits done.

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 16:50:00 +0000

Copyedits are officially done and off and in the mail. Managed to sneak in a really good comic reference. Gotta make these things harder than just the Watchmen names in Tenth Justice. So today working on two new projects. One comics, one TV.

Also, see below from today's Washington Post. And people say it was all fiction.

The Washington Post

April 9, 2008 Wednesday
Regional Edition

A Capital City With The Devil in the Details?; These Roads Aren't Paved With Good Intentions

BYLINE: Dan Morse; Washington Post Staff Writer

SECTION: STYLE; Pg. C01

LENGTH: 981 words

Presidential candidate John McCain keeps calling Washington the city of Satan. Turns out he's not alone.

"McCain was right," said David Bay, speaking by phone from Lexington, S.C., where as director of Cutting Edge Ministries he has long asserted that Washington's streets are positioned to usher in Lucifer as "the ultimate master of Government Center."

"You will need to have your maps of Washington, D.C., opened in front of you as we proceed," reads a treatise on the subject posted on Bay's Internet site.

Using Dupont and Logan circles as northern points, Bay instructs, you can trace various interlocking streets to form a demonic pentagram, one that bores directly into 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

"It must be true, it's on the Internet," Larraine Wolman, a British tourist, said in perfect deadpan while gazing at the White House just before midnight recently.

She agreed to review Bay's map. Could she feel Satan?

No.

Wolman and her three British companions turned to walk back to their quarters at the Mayflower Hotel. This reporter followed, determining what they knew about the place. They knew that former New York governor Eliot Spitzer had stayed there, reportedly with a high-priced call girl. They didn't know how near the hotel is to the center of Bay's pentagram.

"He didn't get in trouble with Satan," Wolman said of Spitzer, as she stood in the Mayflower's lobby. "He got in trouble with his wife."

McCain, a Republican senator from Arizona, has regularly called Washington Satan's City over the past 10 years. He did so twice last month, including during a visit to the Atlanta headquarters of Chick-fil-A, the fast-food chain whose founder is such a devoted Baptist he keeps the eateries closed on Sundays.

"It's harder and harder trying to do the Lord's work in the city of Satan," McCain said, according to an Associated Press account.

Brian Rogers, a spokesman for the McCain campaign, said the Satan comments are obviously jokes. Indeed, on the stump, McCain doesn't refer to the District per se, but to the culture of special interests and ethical lapses in Congress he has long railed against.

Satan and Washington go back. After John Wilkes Booth murdered Abraham Lincoln, printers rushed out images of a horned and clawed devil whispering into Booth's ear at Ford's Theatre, according to "Manhunt," a book about the search for Booth.

On Aug. 20, 1949, The Washington Post weighed in, greeting readers with a headline atop the front page: "Priest Frees Mt. Rainier Boy Reported Held in Devil's Grip."

The story told of a 14-year-old Prince George's County boy who underwent "between 20 and 30" exorcisms, most of which had him breaking into violent, cursing tantrums and bouts of Latin, a language he had never studied. The article quoted unnamed "Catholic sources."

The case inspired a book that became the 1973 movie "The Exorcist," set in Georgetown, which scared the wits out large swaths of America. The Archdiocese of Washington knows of no officially sanctioned exorcisms since the 1949 Mount Rainier case, said Susan Gibbs, a spokeswoman for the archdiocese.

The most persistent rumblings about Washington as the devil's workshop seem bound up in history about the city's design and the role of Freemasons in building it. It's a connection explored in the three-hour DVD "Riddles in Stone: The Secret Architecture of Washington, D.C.," which notched a respectable 90th out of 1,363 titles recently in Amazon's general history documentary category.

Among the film's highlights is 1993 footage of Mason Strom Thurmond, then a U.S. senator from South Carolina, cement trowel in hand, marking the 200th anniversary of the U.S. Capitol in a Masonic ceremony. And while Masons served as architects to the White House, Capitol, Supreme Court and Washington Monument, the suggestion their leaders worked with Satan is "absolute nonsense," said Akram Elias, Grand Master of the Masons of D.C.

"It's an old story," Elias added. "They don't come out with anything new."

In the 2007 New York Times bestseller "The Book of Fate," a central character named Nico Hadrian advances the demonic pentagram theory of Washington's street layout and describes the White House as the doorway to Hell itself. Author Brad Meltzer said he designed Hadrian, a crazed killer who shoots his way out of a mental hospital, to be a "walking Internet" of various beliefs about Freemasons, among the "great bogeymen of history." And "The Da Vinci Code" author Dan Brown, according to his Web site, is at work on a novel that "explores the hidden history of our nation's capital," as "set deep within . . . the enigmatic brotherhood of the Masons."

Other satanic hot spots cited by believers include the U.S. Capitol and the Washington Monument. The latter was described by Bay, the South Carolina author, as a filthy, phallic and satanic homage to the god Baal.

Unlikely, said an avowed Satanist from Laurel.

He agreed to meet at the Washington Monument recently, strolling up the Mall in a long black robe and passing through a throng of sun-drenched tourists. A government contracting employee, the 37-year-old spoke on the condition that he be identified only by his satanic name (Gwydion Tiamat). Friends' houses have been firebombed, he said, and they're just pagans.

A husband and father and the director of the East Coast office of the Brotherhood of Satan, he said "a couple of thousand" Satanists live in the Washington area. This is a group that is widely misunderstood, he said: Members don't sacrifice cats; they're not out to hurt people; they simply acknowledge that humans are carnal animals and enjoy the freedoms and indulgences that flow from that understanding. "Having a whole Sara Lee strawberry cheesecake, for example," he said.

And in one sense, he mused, while looking toward the Lincoln Memorial and the infinite regions beyond, McCain is right.

"Satan," said Tiamat, "is everywhere."

Last Lecture

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 02:32:00 +0000

Yes, you've probably heard the story. And yes, it's everywhere. But that doesn't mean it's not still a great story.

Randy Pausch's "The Last Lecture" was put together and chronicled in book form by my pal Jeff Zaslow, who is a true nice guy. And on those days when you start stressing over the crap stuff of life, this is the thing that reminds you what really matters.

So take a look at www.TheLastLecture.com and enjoy the message. It's a vital one.

DB BS

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 18:35:00 +0000

It wasn't DB Cooper's parachute. Thanks to Jessica for keeping us honest.

FBI: Parachute isn't D.B. Cooper's (CNN)

My Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 15:16:00 +0000

Yes, it's not an April Fool's joke. Today really is my birthday. Really. Now I know most people tend to either: 1) love and cheer themselves on their birthday, or 2) mope and be sad. I'm certainly not 1. And though I tend toward the melancholy, I just want to refuse that for the moment. At this time, on this day, I'm thankful. I'm thankful for my family. For my friends. And I'm thankful for those of you who read this blog, and in doing so, have become part of the family as well. Over the past two weeks, I've had two different people from college email me out of the blue and tell me that even though we weren't close at school, they've bought every book from the start and have beeen pulling for me from day one. In response, my father said that I can't possibly know every person who buys my books. But he's wrong. I do know you. Just like you know me. That's why we are a couple.

Is that weird?

Maybe.

But it's true.

For the most part (and yes, I'm overgeneralizing, but not by much), nearly every single person I've met at a signing or book event over the years seems like, well, "one of us." They're nice and thoughtful and kind. How do I know? When you meet anyone, you shake their hand and look them in the eye and you know. Indeed, I once had a signing with a fellow author who writes more macho-y books. And his readers were all, well, macho-ier. Mine were softer and nicer. The other author's readers asked questions about guns (and trust me, nothing against guns). My readers asked questions about character and comics and the beauty of writing Batman. I know the other readers kinda thought we were a bit mushy. But I am a bit mushy. I've been like that since birth. That was my high school experience. And that's how I was for the four years I scooped ice cream at Haagen Dazs in the Aventura Mall. I know who I am. And I'm okay with it. In fact, I'm thankful for it. Because after ten years of doing this, I've gotten to meet thousands of people just like me -- thousands just like you -- who are shy and outgoing and quiet and hysterically loud. But who are never dicks. And who would never laugh at the quiet kid in the corner (because we've all been that kid for a bit). And who never ever ever forget who they are.

So there's my birthday rant. And the best present I have for you: I was in the men's room the other day and there was a guy mopping the floor and cleaning up, and some older man washes his hands and goes to leave, and then looks at the janitor-guy and says, "Thanks for keeping it clean."

My hero.

I did it yesterday at a baseball game. Felt amazing.

Siegel and Action Comics

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 15:02:00 +0000

Forget all those Supreme Court cases, this is the most fascinating case around right now -- especially in light of the new novel. More news to follow soon on this.

Also, picking a new author photo. Will post the 3 worst soon. So many to choose from. Hope you had a great weekend. And sorry I've been away for a bit. Just the crunch of trying to finish the book in time for Book Expo.

DB Cooper!

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 20:35:00 +0000

Have to say, I've always been fascinated with this -- just jumping from the plane with the load of cash. How could I not be obsessed?

Plane hijacker D.B. Cooper's parachute found

via Boing Boing by Mark Frauenfelder on 3/26/08

36 years after he jumped from a hijacked plane with a bag containing $200,000 in ransom, D.B. Cooper's whereabouts remain unknown. But his parachute was discovered yesterday.

If it is Cooper's parachute, that will solve one mystery -- where he apparently landed -- but it will raise another, Carr said.

In 1980, a family on a picnic found $5,880 of Cooper's money in a bag on a Columbia River beach, near Vancouver. Some investigators believed it might have been washed down to the beach by the Washougal River. But if Cooper landed near Amboy and stashed the money bag there, there's no way it could have naturally reached the Washougal.

"If this is D.B. Cooper's parachute, the money could not have arrived at its discovery location by natural means," Carr said. "That whole theory is out the window."

Link (Via Reason)

Analyzing White People And Books

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 16:02:00 +0000

Damn inllectuals ruin the f'ing joke by overanalyzing the damn thing.

Why White People Like 'Stuff White People Like' (The New Republic)

And here's booklamp (LifeHacker), which helps you find books you like by measuring style, length, density and all the other reasons that reduce 400 pages of goodness to a lifeless bunch of words from a keyboard. Of course, I'm such a pig, I wanna know what they say about me.

Best Buy Knows Who You Are

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 16:36:00 +0000

I have to say, I'm so fascinated by what Best Buy thinks of me. Becasue much as I hate to admit it, I know they're right.

Read below (from The Consumerist). They're watching you now. They see you rolling your eyes at this...

LEAKS: Best Buy's Internal Customer Profiling Document [Insiders]

via Consumerist by Meg Marco on 3/18/08

Attention Profiled Shoppers: Consumerist is now in possession of an internal training document that teaches Best Buy blue shirts how to stereotype customers. While Best Buy's use of personas has been known for several years, our exclusively obtained document contains several brand-new Best Buy personas, including "Maria Middle America" and "Empty Nesters" Helen and Charlie.

Why do customers need to be stereotyped, you ask? Because some customers are good, and others are bad, and Best Buy employees need to know which ones are which.

Back in 2004, the Wall Street Journal announced that Best Buy had a new customer service strategy. The meat and potatoes of the new strategy was this: Best Buy would concentrate on outwitting pesky bargain-hunters (now known as "demons")and cater only to its most profitable customers, or "angels." This new philosophy was based on the work of Larry Selden, a professor at Columbia University's Graduate School of Business, and consultant to Best Buy.

Larry is all about the customer. He hates products, "...the obsessive focus on products needs to be replaced by an even more obsessive focus on the customer," he says.

One might assume that with this customer-obsessed guy directing Best Buy's strategy, there'd be an emphasis on customer service. Not so.

In fact, the first thing Best Buy did after adopting Selden's method was amend their return policy to include a 15% restocking fee. Too many "demon" customers were returning things.

The most important part this new world order is the "persona." Personas are essentially stereotypes that Best Buy's salespeople study in order to sell their most profitable services to different "types" of customers. Young urban males are called "Buzz." Upper middle class women are known as "Jill."

Each persona comes with a customized sales approach. Jill wants Best Buy to "help me find and fuel my new passions so I can remain true to myself," whereas upscale suburban Barry wants "premium brands presented as a total solution."

And what happens to those bargain-hunting demons? Best Buy CEO Brad Anderson told the Wall Street Journal in 2004 "that Best Buy will first try to turn its bad customers into profitable ones by inducing them to buy warranties or more profitable services."

"In most cases, customers wouldn't recognize the options we've tried so far," he said. Maybe this new document (which adds several new categories to the known Best Buy persona universe) can help.

NEW PERSONAS:

Meet Carrie (Young Urban Female), Maria (Middle American Female), and (Empty Nesters) Helen and Charlie!

Click on the pictures below to bring up the slides. navigate using arrows that appear (when moused over) at the left, top and right of the slide, or using the "previous" "next" and "gallery" links at the bottom.

PREVIOUSLY: Best Buy Profiles Customers

The Book of...

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 19:45:00 +0000

Lies.

The Book of Lies.

That's the official title of the new novel.

Coming out this September.

I must admit, I'm surprised by the vote. I thought it'd be so much closer. It wasn't at all. Which means something incredibly profound about our culture, but if I stated it, I'd be the kind of intellectual blowhard I so stand again. And for all the people who wrote in and asked: Why're you asking me? Well, let me say it like this: I know I'm not the smartest guy in the room, or the most handsome. I don't care where you work or what your job is, or how much money you make, or what style of shirt/jeans/anything you're wearing. That's just not important, and I'm tired of all the things in this world that make us believe that it is. We are all pathetically ordinary and spectacularly special. All of us. And I ask you because you're far more real that some marketing consultant that studies this crap so much they rob it of all its fun.

And so, The Book of Lies.

A huge thank you for helping me pick another title.

As for what it's about, that's coming soon. And so is comic news. Don't mean to tease, but I promise, real soon. And I'm excited about this one.

Thanks for playing -- and for all the kind notes so many of you wrote.

Mamet Gets Older

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 16:39:00 +0000

I'm passing no judgment on this. But that sound you just heard was a cultural icon admitting he's getting older. It's easy to ride him for it, whatever your politics are. When babyboomers whine, I just can't wait to take potshots. But I admire David Mamet. I admire his self-exploration. And I just love love love the idea that at base, he thinks everything in this world is always wrong. He's wrong (taste the irony there?). But absolutes are wrong. And can't wait to see how this affects his writing.

David Mamet: Why I Am No Longer a 'Brain-Dead Liberal' (Village Voice)

Best Readers Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 01:36:00 +0000

This was the nicest letter I got this week from reader Deni. I liked it so much, I needed to share (and recommend a book in the process).

Considering the familiarity of your blogs, your writing, your seemingly-approachable self, I just finished reading The Airman by Eoin Colfer. Always nice to refer good read to others who may appreciate.

You may already know Eoin Colfer. His Artemis Fowl series is very well known (love it).

But his break from Artemis to The Airman is what great classics are made of. Like a Marvel hero in the swashbuckling 1800s.

Shilling For A Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 03:29:00 +0000

When my first novel came out, I was sent to Houston, Texas (a city I love), but which still retains the title for my worst signing ever. For the first hour, no one came. NO. ONE. Not one. I felt so bad for the bookstore manager, who is still one of the nicest around. Then, in hour two, my friend showed up. With her mother. We had a total of two. I apologized over and over for not being able to draw more people. But it really was a great time. And some truly healthy humility. But the other highlight of the trip was the one radio station that had me on. It was a show hosted by Danya Steele, who, merely by agreeing to interview an unknown author for his first book, became a lifelong friend.

And so...since she supported me when, well, only two people did (hi, Marla and Mom!), I'm shilling for Dayna, who just released her first book: Rock to the Top -- What I Learned About Success From the World's Greatest Rock Stars. It's fun. She's fun. And it's got a foreword by Gene Simmons (who we love just for reading JLA on his show), so I'm sure it's got great stories.

Anyway, please support it and read a free excerpt at: www.rocktothetopbook.com

And to Houston, Texas, maybe this is the year to finally come back.

Moms And Dads

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 17:10:00 +0000

Would love some help with this one. What're some things your Mom or Dad does to try and "connect" with you? Like saying: 'Look, we both wear calculator watches,' or 'You sing like me.'

Please lemme know. Don't hold back. We all know we're insane. Good ones go in the book.

Happy healthy weekend to all.

Star Wars From A 3 Year-Old

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 15:52:00 +0000

Obie-Kenobi is right. Having a crap day? Watch this and at least get a grin.

Thanks to Marcelo for passing it on.

Stuff White People Like

noreply@blogger.com (Brad) — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 21:40:00 +0000

I take such joy in this site. Good stuff.