Dave's Fiction Warehouse

No disrespect for Wichita, Kansas, but there are better places to be at the end of July. Surely the best of them would be here on the west shore of Flathead Lake, watching the placid water under a dome of pale blue sky, the mountains a somewhat darker blue in the distance. The morning air is as smooth as a silken pillow, cool as the underside of it. This is why those lucky enough to own a piece of the Flathead shore are mostly millionaires now. When I was a kid, we'd come to the lake all the time in summer, splashing around a place we called Sandy Beach in Somers. It's where I taught myself to swim. Now Sandy Beach is someone's private paradise and my rare visits to the lake depend on the hospitality of friends. That's fine. If you lived here, you'd probably take it for granted. Or you might begin suspect ulterior motives when friends and family started dropping by in the summer months. Some things it's better not to own: this view, these friends, this fine mor

Today I drove through Kansas and Colorado and much of Wyoming. Nothing like a road trip, even with gas north of $4 and the knowledge that each dollar I spend is not being replenished by a regular paycheck. Hey, this is why we save our money in the good times: so that in the bad times we can still brave through a thunderstorm outside Douglas, Wyo., sheets of hail horizontal across the pavement and visibility limited to the erratic taillights on that 18-wheeler just ahead. Brief weather tantrums like that can kill you if you're driving I-95 from Philly to New York, or I-76 from Philly to Harrisburg. Back East, there are just too many drivers on the road, and they all become aware of peril at precisely the same moment, so that even minor problems reach critical mass in nanoseconds. One minute you're shouting your exact location into your iPhone and the next you're skidding sideways into a dozen jerks in Volvo SUVs who braked abruptly to ogle somebody changing a flat. Western

Here are the photos of Angelina Jolie's new twins. I could have sold them for millions, but money means nothing to me and information should be free. That's Billy Bob at the upper left, Jennifer at bottom right. I know, it's been reported elsewhere that the babies were named Knox Leon and Vivienne Marcheline, but Mr. and Mrs. Jolie are not idiots and they only put that out there so they'd know who the mole was. I guarantee you that as we speak, some staffer at Nice Matin is having his chestnuts roasted over an open fire. And look: if you were doing a search using the terms "Jolie Pitt twins and their stupid names" don't blame me if it brought you to this blog. I can use the hits, sure, but the last t hing I want to do is waste your precious time when you're mining the Web for the latest celebrity news. For the record, the only star I care about is Chuck Connors. And I'm pretty sure he's dead.

As a writer, my problem is this: When I have a good story, I can never come up with a good title. And when I have a good title, it always seems to arrive without the story. Well, that's one of my problems. The others include writing at about the same pace as the Ice Age and producing prose that is frequently less lively. But we must all do the best we can with the tools we have. I love good titles, so much that I've bought many books just on the strength of them. The latest of these is This Night's Foul Work , by Fred Vargas. I assume it's a line from Shakespeare, just as her earlier Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand , but if there was ever a title to grab a mystery reader by the throat, this is it. You've got to love the Bard, and you've got to love Fred Vargas. I'll post a small review after I've read it. This Night's Foul Work , by the way, is the first of hers that Random House has published in hardcover. Maybe we'll start seeing some of her

Tess likes to observe that the bigger the room rate, the fewer things you get for free. Which is one reason we ended up at the The Latham Hotel in Philadelphia's Center City. We got a great rate (about $130 a night), free Internet and every amenity that matters. Also, the maid service was the best I've seen anywhere. We'd leave the room at 8 or 9 each morning, and it was invariably made up by the time we'd wander back around lunchtime. I hate coming back to an unmade bed, because you just know that the maids will come knocking soon -- but there's no telling when. This is a boutique hotel, with a small lobby and small staff who do not hover around smirking at your shoes and waiting for tips. It's clean, it's quiet and it's tastefully appointed. It's also within walking distance of all the city's sights. No need to pay for a cab. Comparing it to similar places I've stayed in New York, it's definitely a bargain. Highly recommended. Not re

It's futile and tiresome to complain about the wretched state of air travel in America. You might as well complain about the law of gravity. But since our flight out of Philadelphia appears to be canceled, and wireless Internet access is free here on the weekends, allow me to hold forth for a few paragraphs. When you drive around a big city, nothing inspires sorrow and rage quite so much as the sight of all the taillights in front of you suddenly lighting up. It means that traffic will soon slow to a full stop, and that whatever plans you had at the moment must now be reconsidered. You get a similar feeling in an airport, when you arrive three hours early for your flight, and clear security without difficulty, and enjoy a nice lunch in a far concourse, and at last wander down to your departure gate to find a long line has formed. The line keeps getting longer because it's not moving. It's not moving because the two women at the gate are powerless to do anything but tap at t

Happy Independence weekend from Philadelphia, the cradle of liberty, the City of Brotherly Love, the City That Loves You Back, and shoves you back if you walk around with a chip on your shoulder. I'm at the Latham Hotel, at 17th and Walnut, a short walk from the place where a bunch of guys got together 232 years ago and hammered out the foundation of the nation we enjoy today. Tomorrow the city will mark that day with the solemn rites the founders doubtless intended: a raucous parade, and many thousands of dollars worth of fireworks, and quite a few drunken fat guys running around shirtless. Center City hasn't changed much in the last two and a half years. The traffic is as dense as ever, the sidewalks are still crowded with slim hipsters in black and denim, conversing on cell phones with identical people a few blocks away. With the exception of one new skyscraper, the skyline remains quite familiar. It's not like Montana, where every time you go back there are new mansion