The Anecdotes of J. Brooks Dann

Sundancing with the Stars

I just got back from my first trip to Sundance.  What an amazing event.  Of course, I didn’t have that much time to enjoy it—what with producers, agents, directors and the Olsen Twins stalking me about the screen rights to Anecdotal.  “All in good time, my friends,” I told them, “I’m just here to soak in the atmosphere."

I hear from the film-savvy veterans who have attended Sundance for a decade or more that the festival has changed in recent years.  What started out as a venue for unknown writers, nobody directors and obscure actors to pump up their artistic and commercial cred has evolved in the new millennium.  Recently, the biggest names, richest moneymen and top helmers (I love that word…helmers…helmers…) package their potential megahits in the figurative brown paper wrapper to lend them an aura of indie-ness.  I mean, how “indie” are Greg Kinnear, Josh Hartnett, Robert Deniro and the Ashley Olsen?

But I dug it nonetheless.

The movies I saw might even portend a further evolution of Sundance.  Who knows if it will affect the festival’s credibility going forward.  I really enjoyed In Bruges starring Mike Farrell and Jim J. Bullock as two hitmen who hide out in the Belgian city.  Bullock’s menacing portrayal left me with chills.  Rodney Allen Rippey and Latoya Jackson reprised their off-Broadway roles in an incredibly stirring version of Langston Hughes’ classic African American drama, A Raisin in the Sun.  Joey Lawrence was incredibly compelling as a driven but ultimately doomed Internet entrepreneur in August, a film with a notable supporting appearance by Danny Pintauro.

But a certain sadness also permeated Sundance as news spread of the passing of Health Ledger and Suzanne Pleshette.  Pleshette’s performance in Half Life was a fitting cinematic memorial.  Her role as the matriarch of a family whose problems mirror the chaos in the geopolitical headlines of a dystopian near future society revealed the untold breadth of her dramatic range.

The pic to the left is from the hottest party in town: the Producer's Guild fete (I didn't think the producers needed a guild...aren't they the ones exploiting the downtrodden Hollywood laborers in all of the other guilds?).  And when I say hot, I mean HOT!  Literally.  They had the best blast furnace in all of Utah heating up their tent in otherwise frigid Park City.  But they shouldn't discount the OTHER kind of hot: next time, Producers, invite some indie ingenues to your gathering.

I’ll definitely be back for the flicks, the deal-making and the $14 spicy tuna rolls.  Special thanks to my friends Dan, Natela and Jennifer for heaping on healthy doses of fun and to Ben for putting me up in his palatial pad.  Until next year, sayonara Sundance!

Becks Appeal

So, the funniest story.  There I was just getting some sushi and a churro and a Bud Light at the Los Angeles Galaxy game a couple of weekends ago.  And then I felt this hand in the small of my back.  Big hand.  Strong hand.  Lots of pressure.  I think it’s some soccer hooligan trying to smash his way through the crowd.  I’m about to smack that hand off my back when I turn around and see that it’s attached to a 350-pound mound of a man.

And behind him is Posh Spice, a.k.a. Victoria Beckham.

So, I say, “You better get this gorilla off of me!”

And she’s like, “J. Brooks [‘cause that’s what she calls me]! Oh my God, what’s up!?!”
And I’m like, “V. Becks [‘cause that’s what I call her], I’m just trying to get a churro and a Bud Light.”
And she’s like, “Can I have a bite of your churro?”
And I’m like, “Don’t you get all the churros you want in your box?” 
I probably should have said “suite” instead of “box,” because I don’t think she understood what I meant.  Brits and Americans: two peoples separated by a common language and all that shit.
And that’s when we had our first fight.
So, she’s like, “Piss off, you wanker!”
And I’m like, “Go ahead, be that way.”
And she’s like, “Well forget the invitation to Tom Cruise’s party downtown.”
And I’m like, “I wasn’t coming anyway.  I’m just grabbing some Pabst Blue Ribbons at a dive bar tonight.  I wouldn’t be caught dead with all of your new poseur friends.”
But I didn’t really mean it.  I was just trying to hurt her.
So, she stormed off and, the next day, removed herself as a friend on my Myspace page.  I can’t even get in touch with her to return the Pet Shop Boys CDs I borrowed.

Becks and Books: David's Grand Debut in America

The events of the past couple of weeks have made me more convinced than ever of the power of art to influence all aspects of society, even the sports world.  Even as headlines of game fixing in the NBA, dog-fighting in the NFL and steroid abuse in baseball rocked the nation, one positive story emerged from the muck.

David Beckham, the international soccer superstar and metrosexual icon, made his debut for the Los Angeles Galaxy last Saturday.  I was at that game, soaking in the carnival-like atmosphere, partying amongst the soccer-heads and the starlets.

It provided a sense of closure for me, in a way.  You see, David Beckham was in so small measure responsible for my writing my novel Anecdotal.  And I, likewise, was in large part responsible for his rise to fame in this country and for the very move that had captivated soccer and futbol fans the world around.

Anecdotal was the first American-slice-of-life-thirty-something-urban-tale-rife-with- biting-wit-and-sharp-doses-of-reality novel to feature the now famous footballer.  The passage below is, indeed, David Beckham’s American-slice-of-life-thirty-something-urban-tale-rife- with-biting-wit-and-sharp-doses-of-reality literary debut:

[A leering Argentinean has been disrupting the liaison between our narrator Jake and his paramour at a Paris nightclub during the World Cup.  Jake has attempted to shoo away the Latin Lothario, but the hombre sweeps in again.]

We danced for about 90 seconds more, our sweaty, shiny foreheads imitating in miniature the light show in the steamy club.  I slowed down our dancing pace by a beat, and then by another beat; we were nearly slow dancing in spite of the fast, grinding tempo.  I looked deeply into her eyes and touched her cheek as our dance continued decelerating.  I leaned my head down and she angled her mouth, awaiting our first kiss.  But her eyes stared off twenty feet into the distance.

“Eeeeww.  He’s still watching us,” she winced, jutting her chin to point back in the direction of our amigo. 

I walked back over to the bar, shaking my head and doing the international sign for “tssk, tssk, tssk” with my fingers.  “Friend, I have danced with you and bought you dos drinkos,” I explained as I put my arm around the Argie’s shoulders.  “If you stop watching us, I promise you: I will cheer for Argentina if you play England in this World Cup.”

“Yes!  Beckham sucks!” he responded.

“Si!  Beckham sucks!” I agreed, ten days before I found out who Beckham was.  “So, we’re agreed.”  The Argentinean took his two drinks and found another nice couple to stalk.

So, Becks, my friend, welcome to America.  It’s only fitting we both moved to Los Angeles at practically the same moment, since our lives have been so intertwined lo these many years.  I will see you at the Urth Café next Tuesday at 5:30.  Cheers.

Wine. Chocolate Sauce. Moist. Me. Overcompensating. Meeeee! Naked. Notes from a Book Club.

My meetings with book clubs have been, almost without exception, truly stellar evenings.  It’s activity that just scores amazingly well on so many levels. 
I mean, what’s not to like?

Social, intelligent women?  Check.
Social, intelligent women who have access to gallons of wine?  Check…make that a check plus.
Free food?  Check.
Multiple book sales in one fell swoop?  Check.
Stimulating conversation?  Check.
Great socializing opportunity? Check.
Ample ego-stroking?  Check.

And, hey, don’t we all need a good stroking every once in a while?  Of course we do.
The standard schedule for the book clubs I’ve attended usually goes something like this:

First 20 minutes: help hostess set up, since every member is invariably 20 minutes late.
Next 10 minutes: everyone prepares a plate of wonderful home-cooked delicacies and/or assorted Whole Foods pasta salad variations the ladies each pitch in.
Final 90 minutes: it’s all about me.  Me.  Meeeeee!  This is where the whole ego-stroking thing comes in.

But at a (semi-) recent book club confab, our whole schedule went terribly awry.  At first, things looked like they were going to plan.  Per usual, everyone was twenty minutes late.  Then we all grabbed some food.  Then came the first question.
“So how are things going with that guy you’ve been dating?”
I almost responded, “You must have me confused with someone else.”  But then I realized this question wasn’t directed at me at all.
“I need to spruce up my condo.  Where did you get those drapes?”  Well, they weren’t my drapes, so once again I had nothing to say.
This was a terrible broach of accepted book club practices.  You gotta focus on the delicate artist with the fragile ego.

Hello, ladies!?!?  Time to expand our minds and talk about some enriching literature, no?  How about a little attention over here?  Hello?  Anybody out there?

         *            *          *
Now, here’s where I let my readers down.  I have a bit of a blog backlog (otherwise known as a “bloglog”), so I haven’t been writing my recent blog entries quickly enough after the events I recount.  I’m letting too many storytelling gems leak out of my head in the intervening weeks.

Case in point: this book club conversation.  Once I got over the fact that it wasn’t all about me, I realized that I could mine this non-literary discussion for some pretty damn good material.  The problem is: I can barely remember what any of my notes mean (please see the above reference to “gallons of wine”).

Violent friends.  Throwing pots and pans at each other.
Ferrari.  Overcompensating.  Then I saw it.
When he’s Naked.
Baller.
Strawberries and chocolate sauce.

I have no idea what any of those scrawls mean?  What’s wrong with me?  Have my writer’s senses been dulled?  The one exchange I definitely recall from my notes is recounted in the most random collection of words on the page.

Loins.  Moist.  Sepulveda.  Panties.  Belly.

No, it’s actually not a reminiscence of hot teenage sex-capades on the Westside of LA…oh, that it were.  It was actually everyone in the group going ‘round the table listing their least favorite words.

*            *          *
And I was very grateful and flattered when the conversation eventually worked its way to Anecdotal.  We had a wonderful discussion about the story and the many bars, restaurants, landmarks and neighborhoods in San Francisco I used as the backdrop for the book.  I wanted to thank Heather Carter and Nicole Weinberg for inviting me into the inner sanctum of their book group (I hope I didn’t reveal too many club secrets).  And Heather, the drapes were amazing…could you let me know where you got them?

Let's Hear it from the Boys: Finally some male book clubbers

As noted in the last installment of this blog-ography. I’ve been on a quest to find a few intelligent, sensitive men of the new millennium.

I finally found them.  In West Hollywood.

I’ve wondered often during the last year plus of meeting with book clubs why more men don’t join these literary love-fests.  The gals in many book clubs have told me that they would love to incorporate a couple of dudes, even if they were just token representatives who could chime in with the mysterious “male perspective” every once in awhile. 

Gents, I have to tell you: that would be a pretty good gig, if you could get it.  True, you would have to read fem-favorites like The Other Boleyn Sister and The Red Tent, but the rewards would be formidable, indeed.  The literary discussion is invariably witty and piquant.  The food is in copious supply and delectable beyond words.  And when these chicks get hammered, they swear like sailors and reveal the true nature of the she-animals hidden within. 

Which brings me to me to my most recent literary confab in the LA area.  For the first time, I got to wax philosophical about my novel with lasses and lads.  Our host for the night—Andrew Arnold—must have designed his house expressly to host book club discussions.  The mood lighting, crackling fire, uber-plush couches and the overall décor seemed optimized for the major activities of a book group:
1.    drinking wine
2.    dishing on the latest romances, liaisons and general hook-ups
3.    busting out overly intellectual literary analyses you’ve been meaning to say for years
4.    making fun of people for employing overly intellectual literary analyses
5.    drinking wine

A big time thank you to the whole group, but especially to my host Andy and to Amy Byer, the coolest chiquita in West Hollywood and the woman who lobbied for Anecdotal’s selection.  You guys set a new standard for ambience, cuisine, embarrassing discussion and hangover level.  Until next time, cheers.

Say anything

I wanted to thank the folks who recently hosted a book club discussion for my novel Anecdotal in their home.  Tracy and Paul Sternhell truly put on an amazing show in their home in the uber-fashionable neighborhood “Beverly Hills-Adjacent-Contiguous-Adjoining.”

Breaking from the traditional wine, cheese and foie gras the book club usually consumes, “guy food” was fare for the evening.  Mounds of buffalo wings, piles of sausages and stacks of burgers graced the table.  My meal of choice was of course the buffalo wing sausage burger. 

As usual—or I should say, as always—the book club was composed entirely of women.  Guys just don’t do the book club thing.  A lot of dudes read, and a fair number of guys have read my book, but they just don’t band together around a twelve pack of Pinot Grigio and chat about books for hours at a time.  The men are off hunting, gathering and checking their fantasy sports stats.

But on this night, a man other than myself was a part of the literary sanctum that is book club.  After his hunting, gathering, marinating and grilling duties were complete, Paul Sternhell took off his man-apron and plopped down in the midst of the book clubbers.

My God, I’m about to get my first book club comments from a dude.  What the hell is that going to be like?

As the conversation progressed, we got quite a few nods out of Paul, a few laughs, a few coughs and even a couple of cough/laughs, but no incisive comments or cutting questions.

C’mon, man, bring it.  Hit me.  I’m ready for it.

I threw Paul a couple of softballs, steering the conversation to chapters dealing with bachelor parties, ESPN, sports superstitions and business school bacchanalia.  Nothing.  I even made up a couple of chapters on the spot dealing with strippers and amateur lesbianism.  Still nothing.  I just couldn’t crack the guy!

So ounce all of the delicious meats and bottles of Pinot were exhausted, it was time to adjourn our gathering in the heart of Almost Beverly Hills.  I thanked the book club for their support and my hosts for all the booze.

“You’re welcome.  It was a lot of fun,” said Paul.

Man!  Where was that eloquence a half hour ago?

I left dejected that still not a single hombre had unleashed his praise or scorn on my novel in a book club, the forum of choice for honest and intelligent literary repartee.  Bucking up my chin and battling the melancholia, I decided to look toward the future—it might all change soon.

Choosing the Write Profession: Career Day at Beverly Hills High

Today I had the opportunity to speak at the Career Day at Beverly Hills High School, opening up young minds and potentially warping them beyond recognition.  But I hope I did an adequate job of laying out the highs and lows of my chosen profession (or at least one of them): “Novelist.”

Sure, I’ve been asked to do career days before, but I’ve just never found the right project for me.  At times the date just doesn’t fit with demands of my schedule, particularly when I’m off writing in remote locations.  Sometimes, the guidance counselors demand too much creative control, not allowing me to push my boundaries or to grow in the role.  And at other times, I just haven’t liked the other names associated with the project.  But with this particular Career Day, all the stars aligned and it came together in just the right way. 

And, before the event, there was just a great vibe between all the speakers in the green room…or the cafeteria…whatever you want to call it.  I mean sometimes you feel the pressure to network with all of the high-powered agents, actors, local TV anchors and veterinarians.  People are hopping all over the room to exchange business cards and talk about their latest projects.  But with this career day, everyone was really chill.  I just let them do their own thing, and they did the same with me.

But, as everyone on the Career Day circuit knows, one of the best things about “The Day” is the gift bag.  Some people think the Oscar gift bag is pretty killer, while others prefer the one presenters receive at the Grammies.  These people just haven’t done it BHHS style.  You obviously get the dopest refrigerator magnets from all of the local real estate moguls.  Commemorative Career Day mug?  It’s in the bag.  Handy BHHS pocket calendar, office supplies company mousepad and complimentary Career Day binder?  Check, check and check.  And, of course, the customary $26,000 Bvlgari timepiece.

I wa nt to thank my fellow Career Day megastar/interior designer Tara Riceberg for getting me involved in the Career Day "scene", organizer Robert Hayne for inviting me and Mimi Nguyen for hosting my presentation in the student newspaper headquarters (it took me back to the late 80s, when Macs were less ubiquitous but we got it done old school with our chemical type-setting machines).  And to all the students: study hard, experience life, and never trust the spell checker.

Until next year.

Start me up: My random ramblings on the beginnings of books

Recently, I had the opportunity to meet with a star-studded group of book lovers in the heart of “Beverly Hills Adjacent,” a lovely little village that takes up most of Los Angeles according to the MLS.

Near the beginning of our gathering, we talked about…well…beginnings.

“I got a few chapters into the beginning of the novel and I said to myself, “I can’t do this.  Where is this thing going?’” said Shana.  “But then I was talking with someone else from book club who liked it so much and she said, ‘You gotta stick with it.’  I’m glad I did.”

One thing you quickly discover as an author is how difficult it is to come up with the perfect beginning to a book.  Nay, not difficult, impossible.  On behalf of my fellow novelists, here is my explanation (or rationalization, take your pick).  Please indulge me as I make a little comparison between the beginnings of films and novels, since so many readers compare the openings of movies they’ve seen to the starts of novels they’ve read.  Filmmakers have so much more to work with when crafting the opening sequence of their oeuvres, many more tools than at the disposal of us novelists.  They have famous people spouting their first few lines—often very beautiful famous people who moviegoers want to stare at.  They have pictures, which I hear can be worth as much as a thousand words; directors and cinematographers can set up a beautiful scene in seconds that would take a novelist pages to explain.  They have music, timeless classics or original scores crafted to put the viewer in just the mood the director desires.  Plus, they have all those special effects at their disposal.  And movies even have an opening act for Chrissake—all those previews!

Novelists have ink on page.  Words.  Punctuation.  Maybe the occasional ampersand to really rev things up.

Filmmakers know where, when and how their products will be consumed.  For sixty years, flicks were viewed in theatres, with nothing to distract the customer.  With the rise of VCRs and DVD players, more movies were enjoyed in the home, where there were a few more distractions and slightly fewer snack choices.  But viewers almost always consumed the film in one sitting.

Novels are enjoyed in a variety of settings.  Crowded subway trains.  Empty dorm rooms.  Loud cafés.  Silent libraries.  Packed jetliners.  Idyllic parks.  Readers find snippets of time as they can.  2 minutes.  20 minutes.  2 hours.  Whatever.  Their moods change from sitting to sitting.  Their levels of energy, sobriety, awareness and wakefulness change, as well. 

And, of course, that’s precisely the challenge we all sign up for when we sit down to write a novel.  And the challenge of making the work relevant and entertaining for readers is what makes it fun.  Otherwise, it’s little different than writing a freaking journal.

During my many meetings with book clubs, I’ve heard readers express a preference for just about every type of beginning to a novel you can imagine.  Some love the action to start right away, while others prefer to become immersed in the setting.  Some like a heavy dose of dialogue, while a few take a shine to detailed, florid and descriptive prose.  Some yearn for a data dump about the lead characters early on, while another faction enjoys uncovering elements of the characters’ personalities and backgrounds throughout the book.

There’s no perfect beginning, perfect ending or perfect book.  You write the story that comes to you, that means something to you, that got you to drop everything and spend most of your waking hours in front of the computer.  And then, when you’re done, you hope the beauty a reader finds in the novel gets them through the parts they will inevitably view as warts and blemishes. 

        *        *        *
More from my meeting with these wonderful ladies—and one guy—soon.

Ironing out the problems: La Quintastic customer service

I recently trekked to Marshall, Texas for “Girlfriend Weekend,” the mega-event of the Pulpwood Queens, probably the largest book club in the country not run by someone named Oprah.  During my stay in Marshall, I domiciled myself at the world renowned La Quinta Inn.  Well, even if it wasn’t world renowned, at least it was the closest to the interstate.

My stay at the LaQuinta featured some highs—such as a Texas-shaped waffle iron—and some lows—like cigarette holes in my bedding and a rogue roll of masking tape in my shower.  As is my way, I blogged about it.

The very next day, I received a message on my voicemail.  “This is the general manager of the La Quinta Inn in Marshall, Texas.  I’ve been informed that you were unsatisfied with your stay at our hotel.  Please call me at your convenience so we can find a way to make this right.  Thank you.”

I hadn’t the faintest idea how this particular hotelier would have come across my blog.  When I called, it was the first thing I asked him.  “Our PR department monitors all blogs on the Internet for mentions of La Qunita so we can make sure all of our customers are satisfied,” the manager told me.  “And my total focus today is to make sure that you are a satisfied customer.  Now tell me: what can La Quinta do to make that happen?”

“Well, thank you.  Maybe you can tell me: what can La Quinta do to make that happen?”

“Well, sir, this works best if you can tell me the kind of thing that would make you the most satisfied with your La Quinta experience.”

Of course, I couldn’t answer with the kind of in-room experience which would have been most satisfying.  “Maybe you can tell me the kind of standard things you do…”

“Sir, every situation is different and every customer is different, so just tell me: what’s going to satisfy you?”

I was impressed that La Quinta appeared to be the type of organization that wanted to proactively take care of its mistakes.  All companies make errors on their frontlines, but it is a sign of managerial excellence to acknowledge this fact and embrace a system of processes and controls to rectify blunders quickly.  I felt that La Quinta was this kind of company.

I also felt this manager was a like mob informant wearing a wire trying to get his boss to cop to various double- and triple-homicides.  “So remember that one guy we had to take out because of the thing at that place?  What was that guy’s name again and where did we plant him?”

“So, tell me, Mr. Dann,” the manager inquired again, “what are some of the things we can do to make this right by you?”

I decided to bite.  “Well, you can knock two nights’ charges off my bill…”

“Done,” he replied.

Damn, I should have asked for four room nights…even though I only stayed three.  I gotta regroup and NEGOTIATE.

“Well, you mentioned that this is a top flight hotel…and I’d like to experience the level of service you mentioned…so maybe you could send me a couple of room vouchers, or something.”

“Sure, we can do that, Mr. Dann.”

Damn, I’m leaving too much on the table here!  Power of the press!  Power of the press!

“Oh, and…uh…maybe a…”  What to say?  What to say?  Oh…oh…of course!  “And maybe one of those Texas waffle irons.”

“Um…well, sir…I’ll, uh, see what I can do.”

Check and Mate, La Quinta.  Check and Mate.

        *            *            *

I do want to thank the folks at La Quinta for making the extra effort to please its customers.  As a close observer of many topflight business organizations, I must say, “well done.”  Actually, “La Quintastic.”

And since I’m sure the La Quinta blog patrol will be checking this little missive out, I also wanted to say: I still haven’t received those room certificates…not that I want to be a pain or anything…

Oh, and also, how about that waffle iron, guys?

LA LA Land Literature

The TMZ crowd was out in force last Monday for the latest Anecdotal event.  About 80 people gathered in West Hollywood’s swank Monroe’s Bar for a couple of cocktails and bit of lit. 

On this special occasion, I busted out a chapter I hadn’t read from publicly before, one which features San Franciscans verbally ripping Los Angeles and its residents to shreds.  As a recent transplant from San Francisco to Los Angeles, I must say that the chapter in question was in fact meant to parody the jealous San Franciscans, who believe well-stocked wine racks to be the only form of cultural sophistication and sometimes actually stoop to taking various forms of mass transit.  Please!  “THE City,” indeed.

 

I wanted to thank Courtney Fine, Beth Lemberger, Craig Phillips, Burton Roberts and Levi Shapiro for hosting the event and bringing such a stellar group of people to Monroe’s.  Also, thanks to Tyler Cormney, who sold tons of books, Sharon Feder, who took tons of pictures and Warren Lam, who shot miles of footage.  Ryan Bailey and the folks at Monroe’s provided the perfect venue.

      *          *          *
Monday’s event featured a huge and most welcome surprise.

 

 

Many people have asked about the model for Michael Walsh’s original oil painting that graces the cover of Anecdotal.  Well, on Monday night, the fellow who had to pose in the near-buff for six painting sessions totaling 18 hours joined us for the festivities.  Marco von Hapsburg Riviera-Cortez, the renowned Austrian-Venezuelan male supermodel and mixed martial arts champion, was able to jet in after his photo shoot and title bout in Dar es Salaam.  Even though he told me he might be coming, I didn’t get my hopes up.  Marco had planned on coming to previous events for Anecdotal, but his commitments in Davos and a longer-than-expected stint on Brazil’s version of “Dancing with the Stars” interfered with his schedule. 

Marco, it was wonderful to see you.  Good luck at the upcoming events in Pnom Penh and Fort Wayne!