Leaving the horrifying news from Iraq aside for later consideration, I wanted to fill you in on my weekend. I was in DC for Malice Domestic, a convention I don't usually attend because it's too soft-boiled for my taste. It concentrates on what in the crime-writing world are called "cosy" books, which I once heard characterized as books where someone gets killed but no one gets hurt. I had a Sisters in Crime board meeting down there, though, so I went. (And had a lovely lunch with Justine, who posts here, and whom I hadn't seen in 25 years! Hi, Justine.) The convention was, as one might expect, civilized, friendly, and perhaps a little odd, given the hat contest and the use of teapots as the Agatha Awards, and such things. The really odd part, though, was that at our same hotel the Nation of Islam had ensconced the Minister, Louis Farrakhan. He had a speaking engagement in DC, and the hotel we were at lends itself easily to bodyguarding, difficult as it is to sneak up on or loiter around. On Friday night a bride and groom showed up with their wedding party for a reception in one of the ballrooms. So think of it: There you are, disoriented enough by the mere fact of having just gotten married, and you walk into your reception through a lobby crowded with ladies with big hats and bags full of books, who are being strenously surveyed by scores of extremely well-dressed, frowning young black men searching for a threat to the Minister, who's on his way downstairs in a commandeered elevator.