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.