March of the penguins

Okay, this has nothing to do with writing, or crime novels, but it is about men and that is close enough. I have been thinking about this since I got back from the Edgars, thinking about how lovely all the women looked -- Twist Phelan in her pale satin, Janet Evanovich in her emerald brocade, Tess Gerritsen in her silver sheath, SJ Rozan in serious black bangles...and so many other beauties.

But the men? Ah, the heart skips a beat. Because I am a sucker for a man in a tuxedo. And there were plenty of fellows in formal wear this year, which makes me think that the decline of western civilization as we know it not as imminent as I thought.

There is something so sweetly charming, nay, sexy, about a man in a tux. Maybe it is the pure effort it epitomizes. I mean, come on, we women know about effort. We truss ourselves up in stilettos and body stockings and who is it all for? You, dear fellows. So when I see a man in a tux, I think about the intent behind it all. It takes effort to button those studs, tie that tie (okay, to strap on that fake), and find the perfect spot between ribs and gut where the cumberbund can settle.

Too many men at the Edgars just gave up, appearing in drab suits or -- in one awful display -- chinos and sports shirt. But the men in tuxes were a chiaroschuro buffet. So Astaire, so Gregory Peck, so James Bond, so...negative to our positive femininity. Just a few I noticed: Don Bruns (shown above with my friend Sharon Potts and my agent Maria Carvainis), Reed Farrel Coleman, Mike Connelly and Jerry Healy (with a wine stain on his white shirt that looked like a bloody stab from a vindicative wife).

So a belated salute to our men in black and white. You give new meaning to neo-noir.