The Anecdotes of J. Brooks Dann

I'm so out of practice I can't even think of a pithy blog entry title except "Thanks"

I did something a few years ago that I was very proud of.  I wrote the book that this blog is devoted to.  Given that I just ended two sentences in a row with a prepositions, it must be pretty obvious that I’m a little out of practice with this whole “writing thing.”

I created this blog to be a chronicle of the experiences of a first-time novelist.  It featured entries about triumphant meetings with book clubs filled with hotties and the sinking feeling one you get when you receive your first (and only...luckily) bad Amazon review.  The blog attracted quite a bit of attention and tens of thousands of readers…back in the day.  But once one is a few years removed from penning and promoting one’s first novel, writing more blog entries about the “experiences of a first-time novelist” would be kind of like being a college junior and coming back to the high school homecoming dance.

This blog used to get regular updates from me and from readers of my novel, but some of the latest comments from my literary fans include:

“I live here Topless Lolitas 100”…and…

“Порно анальные дырки [url=http://myintimx.info/traxnul-na-polu.html]смотреть лучшее порно[/url]. Журнал секс шоу. Любительсое деревенское порно фото зрелых баб. Секс магазины санкт петербурга.”

Obviously, the dialogue with fans of my work…is sort of non-existent now.

My writing experience is something I talk about when I’m asked about it, an occasion is rarer and rarer.  There are no more events (boy, did I milk that “book launch party” thing!).   “Novelist” doesn’t appear on my resume.  I only have a handful of copies of my book in my home, where five years ago I had scores…boxes…ready to be distributed to book clubs, book stores and book lovers of all types.

So, on this Sunday, six-plus years after my book was published, I didn’t expect to have such a seminal literary experience.  I just happened to take my computer to a sports bar today, intent on doing some productive multi-tasking: following my two fantasy football teams, planning a December trip to Argentina, purchasing some MLS tickets, and getting at least fifteen billable minutes in on a consulting project.

Then, in the midst of my work on all of these high value-added and extraordinarily consequential activities, I got a surprise e-mail:

J-

I just finished reading your novel. I found it in the $1 section of a used book store in Manhattan on 45th between 5th and 6th yesterday and I hadn't put I down until now.

I hope this email address is still active because I loved your novel. I love love love it, mostly because the characters became felt like real people. I'm not quite sure if they are in fact real and if everything in this book actually did happened. I hope it did because then maybe I can find out what happened to everybody next.

Thank you for writing book, and I hope everything is well. Including your knee.

-Zoë

Zoe is obviously very out of touch—my injury du jour is not a torn ACL (that is soooooo 2003), but rather a torn Achilles tendon.  Who knows?  Maybe this injury and surgery can be the starting point of a sequel or a three-quel in same the way a knee surgery spawned ANECDOTAL.  I’m more proud of this novel that anything I’ve ever done in my life.  Thank you, Zoe, for letting me revisit that experience today.

Now, I just hope I can remember the password to my blog so I can post this shit!

 

Some new anecdotes, perchance?

Wow.  This week marked the fifth anniversary of the release of my novel ANECDOTAL.  I was pondering re-engaging the ol' blog a bit.  Pondering.  Pondering.  Mediating.  Repondering.  Yet, no typing.

Well, this morning, I was smacked in the face with a sign that maybe I should do a little new blogging. 

Novelist River Jordan contacted me this morning to inform me that she would be re-airing our 2007 discussion, originally aired in Nashville, TN (and around the world, via the wonder of the Internets).  So, at the very least, I had to write about this...and maybe get to some of the other entries that have been bubbling in my mind.  OK, damnit, fate, you twisted my arm.

I just hope I can remember how to work this blogging site.  It seems like they've installed some new buttons.  What does this one do? 

This morning, River referenced a classic moment during my time traveling to promote Anecdotal, when I was crowned "Pulpwood King."  Winning this title required prodigious literary talents, flexible, emotive hips and a solid knowledge of Kenny Rogers lyrics.  Check it out!

River Jordan is on the left.  Thanks, River, for the fun blast from the past!

J. Brooks Dann is...compiling the ultimate guide to Facebook Status Updates!

Facebook Status Updates have become the most important form of writing...in the WORLD.  They now represent 12.2% of all media consumption and account for an astonishing 18.7% of all the words American adults between 18 and 45 read.  The incredible rise of Status Updates as the prime forum for literary expression in America can be explained by the confluence of powerful technological, societal, economic, demographic and psycho-sexual trends impacting the nation (not really on the last one…I've just always really admired the term "psycho-sexual").

 

A prestigious panel of literary scholars and social critics is compiling the ultimate guide to Facebook Status Updates...Humor, Style, Etiquette, Impact, etc.  Please send along your thoughts on the BEST and WORST…when have you been inspired and amused…when repulsed and annoyed.  We want to analyze this important emerging form of literature.  Contact us as [email protected] with your opinions.
But first, to make sure we judged this variety of literature from the appropriate perspective, here's a short chronicle of the other types of short form American literature and how they were impacted by sweeping historical and psycho-sexual trends.
        *        *        *
In the early part of the last century, the limerick was the most important variety of short form literature in the country.  Developed as a method to recount the adventures and traveling of compelling characters from different quarters of our fair nation, the limerick found widespread popularity among roustabouts, drunkards and ne'er-do-wells.  The art form emerged in certain regions of the continent, in particular Nantucket, Massachusetts; Regina, Saskatchewan; Planus, Mississippi; and North Ruttpuck, Montana.

In the 1960s, the protest march song emerged as the most critical type of diminutive literature.  Some of the greatest artists of the 20th century, including Bob Dylan, Neil Young and Janis Joplin, cut their teeth in this form of writing.  However, this form of literature died out quickly when the "Hey, hey!  Ho, ho!  [Insert subject of protest] has got to go!" emerged as the dominant form of protest chanting and stifled all other innovation within the art form.

By the 1980s, high school yearbook missive became a dominant variety of literary expression.  Youthful writers concocted concise nuggets of wit and emotion that had to withstand the test of time.  However, this school of literature began an inexorable decline when authors became overly reliant on music lyrics as the fodder for their scrawls.  The art form completed its decline when young Texan Ty Cormney penned in his annual: "I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride.  Once upon a time, I was falling in love, but now I'm only falling apart.  Don't save a prayer for me now, save it 'til the morning after.  Every rose has its thorns."

In the early part of this millennium, it appeared as if pithy Evite digital RSVPs might take the title as the essential modern form of 100 words or less literature.  Cleverness virtually dripped from the pages of Evites and skilled writers were able to both celebrate the bacchanal and insert some witty social commentary.  Spot-on RSVPs even became the topic of conversation at some of the hottest events around town.  "Darling, I was absolutely awestruck by the way you wove in a Moliere quote and a terse critique of the Administration's human rights record into your RSVP for Tad's barbecue.  Fabulous!"  However, RSVPs as art quickly began to decline as its purveyors sunk into the morass of formula and repetition.  Super Bowl Bash?  "FAN-tastic!  Who could PASS this up?!?"  Final Four Fete?  "FAN-tastic!  I'm looking FOUR-ward to it!"  NBA Finals Gathering?  "FAN-tastic!  I'll Ko-BE there!"

Now, would-be pundits are concentrating on transforming the minutiae of everyday life into a running commentary that can inform, inspire and sometimes nauseate (you've probably received a gastrointestinal health update from a "friend" at some point…more on this later…).  This literary form came into its own during the 2008 presidential election season and particularly on Election Day itself.  "Trang is…voting and eagerly awaiting for America to redeem and redefine the promise of our Nation, affirming the dream of our forbears."  The next installment?  "Trang is…eating Pinkberry!  Vanilla with Cocoa Pebble mix in!  Yuuuummmmmmy!!!"

*        *        *
Will the Facebook Status Update be relegated to the dusty page-view logs of history, or will they flourish as tiny literary jewels, a form of digital age Haiku?  We want your opinions on the Humor, Style, Etiquette and Impact of these updates.  E-mail us at [email protected].

Literary Style: The Stories Behind a Brand

Chris Lindland has built his company on a foundation of lies.  Prevarications.  Total fabrications.
Far out stories have become the centerpiece of the quirky San Francisco fashion brand.
Lindland has created an internet fashion empire—one populated by a menagerie of characters whose virtues and exploits are embodied in the Cordarounds brand. Since the founding of the company, brand devotees and bemused neophytes alike have visited Cordarounds.com after receiving viral e-mails alerting them to new installments in the adventures of these charismatic characters.
Among the most intriguing characters Lindland has unleashed is the enigmatic, charismatic and undeniably deadly Lazenby.  In one memorable tale, Lazenby fights Santa Claus to the death, curls the toes of Mrs. Claus in a night of lustful rapture and then spirits himself away to step in for the recently departed Kris Kringle and deliver presents to all the good boys and girls—at least the ones who had requested Cordarounds for Christmas.
Then we have Lindland’s coterie of Southern Gentlemen, who themselves are partial to Cordarounds more tropical corporate cousins, the horizontal seersucker Summerounds.   Beauregard Delacroix, a riverboat gambler who found his Poker strategies stifled by his overheating “unmentionables” until he discovered the cooling effects of Summerounds.  Austindale Crockett, gentleman monster hunter.  O. Rutherford Pickling III, gadfly, historian and Civil War reactor.  Worthington P. Chesterfield, porch sitter, bourbon sipper and snuff snuffler extraordinaire.  Sylvester Boggs-Cockrell, gentleman astronaut, aeronautical engineer and moonshine distiller.  They all proudly endorse the cool comfort, understated style and virility boost you get with each pair of Lindland’s pants.
Don’t quite get it?  Read the originals.  The wacky world Lindland has created has proven so compelling that he has to fight off press coverage lest his clippings collapse his ramshackle dwelling.  Chalk up one for the Gentleman Storyteller and Corduroy Monopolist!
        *              *              *
I recently had the great privilege of participating in Lindland’s “Single and Certifiably Straight Fashion Show.”  Scores of screaming San Franciscanettes virtually mobbed us models as we strutted, sauntered and otherwise gallivanted down the runway wrapped in Lindland’s latest creations.  The night was virtually dripping with surrealism, capped off by the scene of scads of Yuppie male models peeling off their Cordarounds in the middle of a bunch of Russian Mafiosos and their Gorky Park Goomas doing vodka shots in our backstage dressing room.  Priceless.

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.