The Anecdotes of J. Brooks Dann

My Pulpwood Queen Odyssey, Part VI: The Return of the King

When the Pulpwood Queens gather each year for their “Girlfriend Weekend,” the crowning of the “Timber King” is one of the signature events.  The assembled Queens grant the prestigious title to one of the men in their midst; the men are mostly authors there for the event, but also notable politicians, male supermodels, billionaire entrepreneurs, accomplished scientists, renowned theologians and local sheriff’s deputies.

When the music died down and Pulpwood Empress Kathy Patrick sauntered to the front of the ballroom, all of us men in the hall knew we were about to be put on display like so many porterhouses in a butcher’s window.  I had heard about this Timber King tradition, but thought it was a contest of ideas and eloquence.  A competition of character and accomplishment.  But no, this was a parade of prime steers, a real meat market, deep in the heart of Texas.

The first phase of the competition held a few surprises.  Here, at a literary conference, the prospective Timber Kings were required to bust out their top dance moves.  I believe this eliminated a couple of the favorites, including Al Gore, Wolf Blitzer, Pat Conroy, Robert Jaarvik and Floyd, the night security guard at Nehls Chevrolet (he got this night off because he got his brother-in-law Darryl to cover for him).

Moving into the second round, the definite leader in the hearts and minds of the Queens must have been Gabriel Garcia Marquez, author of One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera.  He’s pretty refined and sophisticated in his writing, but the guy really appeals to the lowest common denominator when he’s going for a major literary award.  Gabriel doffed his shirt and blasted his Latin machismo all over the room as he performed his solo version of the lambada for the screaming crowd.  Check this guy out.  I even found myself screaming a little bit, I’m not afraid to admit.

But I advanced.  Now, Gabriel, fellow scribe Michael Morris and I were the sole remaining contenders for the Timber Kingship.  We all wanted that crown so badly, we could taste it…but then we realized that someone had forgotten to bring the crown.  Still, the tension was palpable.  Gabriel sneered at me with a supreme sense of confidence, as if to say, “I have won the Nobel Prize for literature.  You cannot hope to stand in my way when I see something I desire.”  But I knew that his half-naked Hasslehoff maneuver was all the game this dude could muster.  This was my time.

Kathy announced that in order to gain the “crown,” we competitors would need to serenade the throng.  Gabriel went first.  I could tell he was flustered.  He busted out some Colombian folksong about falling in love with a goat herder’s daughter.  The golf clap ovation he received let me know I had an opening.  Michael Morris, the prominent southern novelist, seemed to have a chance to strike a chord with these Belles of Dixie, but his acoustic rendition of “Achy Breaky Heart” was just off the mark.

As Kathy approached me, I was still rifling through the file cabinet in my mind for the perfect song for these ladies.  Lyrics from Duran Duran, Metallica, Celine Dion and Rick James all ricocheted through my brain.  I experienced the same sort of confusion the Blue Brothers must have felt when went through their entire rock and roll repertoire in front of a bunch of particularly violent honky-tonk patrons before landing on the theme to Rawhide.  What to sing?  What to sing? What to…ah, there it is.

Lady, I’m your knight in shining armor, and I love you…

I could tell immediately from the chorus of screams and the fainting Queens that I had indeed chosen well.  Note to self: Kenny Rogers will never let you down in Texas.  I touched Kathy’s well-rouged cheek and a second round of screams exploded from the crowd, which was lucky for me, since I didn’t know the lyrics after the first couple of lines.

Kathy proclaimed me the “Timber King.”  Then she started calling me the “Timber Wolf,” “Timber Stud,” “Timber Guy,” and “Timber Dude,” so I’m not exactly sure what my title is, but I promise to use all of these titles only to do good in the world.  I’m proud to be joining former Timber Kings Phillip Roth, John Updike and William Faulkner; I pledge to uphold the honor of the position.

As the new King, I ordered a night of revelry to commence.  Actually, I think it would have commenced without my dictum.  It was great fun to mix among all of the ladies of my new realm.  They are beautiful, intelligent and quite handsy.

And thus ends my Pulpwood Odyssey, unless I can’t think of new blog topics over the next few weeks, in which case I got a sequel, prequel and all kinds of additional episodes lined up in my head. 

But, until then, I bestow upon you my blessings.  May peace be with you, my subjects.  And please buy a copy of Anecdotal on Amazon.com.  And remember I’m available to do book clubs, in person or over the phone.  But most of all, may peace be with you.

For more on the Pulpwood Queens' Girfriend Weekend, check out Kathy Patrick's blog and the Beauty and the Book website.

My Pulpwood Queen Odyssey, Part V: Revelry and Royalty

That particular Saturday had up ‘til that point been a good one, a fine one, one which certainly inspired in me a sense of well-being and comfort but not a feeling of elation, euphoria or utter fulfillment.  I had sold a few dozen books to the fine ladies of the Pulpwood Queens book club.  I had held my own on a particularly entertaining author panel.  And I had enjoyed a singularly delicious turkey, brie and spinach sandwich for lunch.

But, the passage of this most prosaic of afternoons gave little portent of what fate the night held for me.

Probably the most notable event of the annual gathering of the Pulpwood Queens—a book club of hundreds of women in Texas and the Southeast—is the “Hair Ball.”  Hair is as much a part of the Pulpwood experience as fine literature and $7.99 bottles of rosé…the whole operation started in the world’s only beauty salon/bookstore, after all.  The Queens top off their weekend by topping off their heads with elaborate hair styles, creatively architected and skillfully erected.  In other words: big hair rules.

Fully aware of the Texas-sized helping of glitz and glam which would surround me on that evening, I knew I had to step up my game.  I donned my Joseph Abboud tuxedo, my Salvatore Ferragamo shoes and a $19.99 ruffled powder blue tux shirt I had bought at a second hand store on Hollywood Boulevard a few weeks before.  I headed out into the Marshall, Texas night, pummeled by gale force winds and rain “drops” the size of hush puppies.  Unable to get into the Subway sandwich location across from the La Quinta Inn because rising flood waters around the restaurant would have caked the Ferragamos with all kinds of gunk, I enjoyed a fine evening meal in a nearby Wendy’s, which was located above the flood plain.

My rented PT Cruiser held up admirably amidst the deluge as I navigated it to the Marshall Visual Arts Center, site of the Hair Ball.  The “Beginning Pottery,” “Intermediate Bedazzling” and “Advanced Armadillo Taxidermy” classes were just leaving the combo art school/social hall as our bash was ramping up.  The various Pulpwood Queen chapters from Houston, Shreveport, Arkadelphia, Texarkana and all points in between paraded by in their coordinated costumes.  Even if the monsoon matted down quite a few of the exotic hairstyles, all the Queens showed great school spirit by embracing the theme of the evening. “Pulpwood Queens Go Hollywood.”

About an hour into the BYOB-fueled merriment, Queen of the Queens Kathy Patrick quieted the fusion zydeco-punk-blues-metal-swing band in order to preside over one of the two main events of the evening: the selection of the most bad ass Pulpwood Queen chapter.  Kathy had enticed me to come to Marshall Texas by telling me that one chapter used to rise to the top during a roller derby meets Braveheart knockout, drag down cat fight.  But, alas, these are tamer times at Girlfriend Weekend; now the ladies just strut their stuff in their coordinated costumes in front of a panel of esteemed and easily bribed judges. 

At the conclusion of all the prancing and preening, a platoon of platinum blonde Marilyns had edged out the dark horse second place team of female authors and the defending champions from Houston, who masqueraded as assorted historical Hollywood megastars.  The third place Houstonians took some consolation from winning the talent portion of the competition.

Once the Marilyns had been crowned, only one question remained: who would be selected as “Timber King,” the man anointed to rule over the Pulpwood nation with a firm hand, yet a tender heart?  Who would wield the scepter of literary power and be adorned by robes of nylon-polyester blend faux leopard skin?

To be continued…

My Pulpwood Queen Odyssey, Part IV: J. Brooks Dann unleashes a love storm the likes of which has never been witnessed before during any author panel discussion in history

Saturday afternoon I participated in a panel entitled “Authors Who Should Be New York Times Bestsellers or ARE!” [the capitalization and exclamation point are from the program, not my choice].  Given that I haven’t quite cracked the Times’ list, I guess I was one of the “Should Bes.” 

The irrepressible Kathy Patrick, Queen Bee of the Pulpwood Queens, moderated the panel, which also included Michael Morris, Jason Headley, Charles Martin and Bill Cobb.  It was really an amazing panel.  I was fascinated practically the whole time.  Headley, in particular, seemed to thrive in the Girlfriend Weekend setting.  When one Pulpwood Queen asked him if he’d ever consider comedy as a career, he answered, “Yeah, I realized awhile ago that I do seem to have this uncanny ability to think of the perfect smart ass comment for any particular moment or occasion.”

The questions were pretty much your standard fare: how we started writing, what our books are about, our main inspirations, etc.  But then, Kathy decided to kick it up a notch—actually about 10 notches—when she came around to me again.

“Now, J. Brooks has a couple of really hot and steamy scenes in his book, including one particularly sexy passage right at the beginning,” said Kathy.  “So tell us…everyone wants to know…are those hot scenes really true?”

“Well, you know, Kathy, I think it’s a great testament to my magnificent writing ability that I was able to capture even a portion of my pure animalistic heat on the printed page.  True, there is passion in my writing that veritably explodes from of the book and catches most readers quite by surprise.  But mere words are poor instruments to convey the shear power of the love storm I often unleash, not in the world of fiction, but in this real world we all share, one which our minds, souls and bodies explore together, experiencing all of the sensations our creator intended for us to enjoy,” I replied.

But unfortunately, that reply came days later.  In my head.  Just now as I was typing.

On stage, though I am rarely at a loss for words, I didn’t quite know how to approach the answer.  More to the point, I had no freaking idea how to answer that question for the good, God-fearing women of the Texarkla region.  So, my response came out something like this:

“Well, you know, things like that can be fun.  Ummm…it’s different from…when you get a chance to think about the perfect thing to say and like the perfect ‘move’…ummm…you know, you actually get a chance to revise things in a book if they don’t sound good…or if they didn’t really work well in real life, even…not that things don’t work well in real life.  Ha ha…ummm…I mean, I guess you try to make things ‘hot’ but the guys have to want to read it too…ummmm.”

That was when my head detached from my body and floated to the vaulted ceiling of the ballroom we were all sitting in.  Eventually, it descended and resituated itself back upon my shoulders.

“Man, you blew that one.  These ladies wanted to hear about the heat,” said Kathy before she moved on to the next novelist.

Luckily, my wit and pithiness returned in adequate measure once I wasn’t being grilled about my love storms and such.  Participating on the panel with such a great collection of writers and in front of a tremendous crowd was an incredible experience.  I look forward to the next time…because I’ll definitely be primed and ready to bring sexy back.

My Pulpwood Queen Odyssey, Part III: A "La Quinta-rrific" Experience

From what I was able to learn about the area, Marshall, Texas and its environs boast a number of outstanding bed and breakfasts and quaint, charming inns.  I, however, found a different sort of lodging for my stay in the Texarkla region; I chose the La Quinta Inn.

I arrived at the La Quinta just before midnight, after a three-hour drive across scenic Texas.  As I checked in, I noticed the “Free Internet in every room sign” and was glad because I needed to check e-mail and wanted to see if I could find a good Burmese restaurant in the area.  “Wow, that’s great…you have free Internet in the rooms,” I remarked to the desk clerk, mostly to break the awkward silence which had plagued our relationship for almost thirty seconds.

“Oh, we usually do, but it’s down.”

“That’s too bad.  Will it be fixed tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” she responded.  “It’s been down for two weeks because we’ve had some pretty bad weather, so it’s perfectly understandable.”

An interesting line.  I found it not so much shocking but just plain strange that she virtually insisted that I would find a two-week internet outage “perfectly understandable.”  I mean, this whole Internet thing was designed to survive a nuclear war, but their La Quinteractive technology was down for the count at this location, and this I did not understand.

Neither did I understand the huge roll of masking tape in my shower.  There it was, just resting on the wall-mounted soap dish.  Nothing remarkable, just an industrial strength roll of masking tape in my hotel bathroom.  A week earlier, I had been in Las Vegas, where I had a TV, a phone and a loofah in the bathroom.  At the La Quinta, I had masking tape.

Then I saw my bedspread, and I thought I knew why the masking tape might have been there.  Is it common to have cigarette burn holes in one’s blanket at a La Quinta Inn?  I didn’t ponder too long; I just patched up the singed areas with the tape and went to bed.

The next morning, I moseyed (I found myself moseying more during my visit to Texas) to the La Quinta’s lobby for the complimentary breakfast.  The fare was your pretty standard hotel vittles, but there was one notable dish.  The Texas-shaped waffles will make sure you never forget the La Quinta Inn—or the Alamo, for that matter.

My Pulpwood Queen Odyssey, Part II: The Entertainers

When you run with the literary crowd at various book events, you’re used to getting all of the finest things in life…things like free promotional book marks, heaping helpings of Chex Mix and multitudes of name tags with your name proudly emblazoned upon them.

But these Pulpwood Queens are a demanding lot.  They actually make you work when you appear at their festival, held this year in Marshall, Texas.  They gather together in an ornate ballroom, tiaras blazing like supernovas under the Texas-sized chandeliers, and demand to be entertained.

Pulpwood Empress Kathy Patrick was at the center of the night’s entertainment; she played a book-club-loving daytime talk show host named “Okra” that I think was patterned after Sally Jessie Raphael.  I was recruited to be a part of a skit portraying a dysfunctional book club.  “Piece of cake,” I thought, since I had introduced dysfunction into so many book clubs.

River Jordan (yes, her real name and possibly the coolest one in the world this side of Boutros Boutros-Ghali and Dikembe Mutombo, my two all-time favorites) played Kathy, infusing the appropriate mega-wattage into her portrayal.  Ronlyn Domingue, Jason Headley, Sam Barry and Kathi Kamen Goldmark rounded out our hopeless book club. 

Some of our author compatriots had to work overtime to entertain the Queens.  Goldmark and Barry are core members of the Rock Bottom Remainders, a thrash metal/ska/polka/blues/Brit Pop fusion band that also includes the likes Stephen King and Amy Tan (seriously).  They were joined by Jason Headley who, before writing Small Town Odds, had founded a post-grunge rock band in San Francisco.  The trio kicked major musical ass, both during our command performance for the Pulpwood Queens and even during an after hours jam at Marshall’s late night gin joint, OS2.  Barry’s harmonica skills gained him instant cred with OS2’s grizzled one-man-bar-band.  They were so good, chicks even started dancing on tables.  I was inspired; I think I might even take a harmonica course over the internet. 

I can’t remember anything after that.  I think I got thrown into the back of a pickup truck and driven back to the La Quinta Inn.  Ah, the magical, magical La Quinta Inn...but that is a story for another day.