The Anecdotes of J. Brooks Dann

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.

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!

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 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.