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WANK: A Novel

Below is a synopsis of my forthcoming comedic novel, WANK. Any of you publishing-types who wish to see the complete synopsis, please email AlanWrites@cs.com.

In late 2006, Alan Goldsher’s A Pretty Good Read, his acclaimed unauthorized biography of platinum-selling indie rockers Modest Mouse, hit the bookstores.

In an early 2007 interview in Rolling Stone magazine, Isaac Brock, Modest Mouse’s unhinged leader, called Alan, “…a fuckin’ ass and an asshole.”

Later that year, in the indie rock rag Under the Radar, Brock got even more graphic, saying, “I can say this in print, and I’m willing to do jail time: If I ever see that guy, I’m going to beat his ass into a bloody pulp. I will do everything short of killing him.”

Now that whole incident might not seem like the basis for a broad comedy. But Alan, well, his perspective on life is a bit skewed, thus he presents WANK, the story of an intrepid journalist, a veteran arena rocker, secrets, lies, and oboes.

It’s 1999. New York City. Sebastian Temple, the 38-year-old substance-abusing leader of the hugely popular grunge-cum-punk-cum-pop band Wank, is hiding something, and 38-year-old journalist Nick Long is determined to find out what. Did Sebastian kill one of his drug dealers? Is the macho guitar hero really a post-op transsexual? Is he a closet Kenny G fanatic?

None of the above. Turns out that Sebastian Temple – who’s allegedly overdosed 18 times – is actually Doug Grinberg, tea-totaling, oboe-toting dweeb from Long Island. After almost seven years on the top of the rock ‘n’ roll heap – and ten years of pretending to be a jerk-off – Grinberg dreams to again be nice: he wants a nice girl, a nice house in a nice suburb, and a nice soundproof room where he can wail on his oboe anytime he damn well pleases.

But Nick has some dreams, too. Born with a guitar in his hand, the well-respected, high-profile scribe longs to toss aside his laptop become a Wank-like mega-star. One problem: he sucks. Can’t sing, can’t strum, can do nothin’. So he asks Grinberg to help him learn guitar and realize his rock fantasy, and Grinberg agrees…so long as Nick tosses his journalistic principles aside and keeps that whole Temple thing under wraps. Nick agrees…kind of.

Enter the beguiling Erika Edgecombe, Wank’s producer and the new apple of Nick’s eye; unfortunately for the writer, Erika only has eyes for Grinberg. A bit of sabotage, a whole lot of subterfuge, and several dozen lies later, Sebastian Temple and Nick Long both overdose, only to be reborn with their dreams fulfilled and their future happiness assured.

Hilarious and surprisingly touching, WANK explores the symbiotic relationships between an artist and the press, between the cool dude and the nerd, and between the girl, and the guy…and the other guy.

BECOME A FACEBOOK FAN OF "PAUL IS UNDEAD: THE BRITISH ZOMBIE INVASION"!!!

Alan Goldsher's "PAUL IS UNDEAD: THE BRITISH ZOMBIE INVASION" on Facebook

"PAUL IS UNDEAD" is taking the U.K. by storm. Sort of...

England's The Guardian banged out a little piece about Paul is Undead. They pre-pub buzz is getting, um, loud-ish.

NEW YORK OBSERVER on "PAUL IS UNDEAD"

The fine folks at the New York Observer saw fit to write a nice little feature on "Paul is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion." Spread the word, and get out your barf bags...

ALAN'S STORY IN "I LOVE YOU, BETH COOPER"

My true-ish story of shame I Wanna Hold Your Hand appears in the movie tie-in version of my pal Larry Doyle's frickin' hilarious novel, I Love You, Beth Cooper. Despite many, many entreaties from the film's director Chris Columbus, I do not appear in the flick.

THE BEATLES TAKE OVER THE WORLD…LITERALLY: Alan Goldsher’s "Paul is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion" Invades Stores June, 2010

In a feeble attempt to stave off the end of the world, Pocket Books has procured the rights to Paul is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion. My raucous music/horror mash-up will be available in June of 2010…assuming that the zombified Fab Four don’t destroy mankind first.

Our story begins on October 9, 1840, in the Liverpool, England. An African nzambi hides in the town’s newly-built sewer system, only to reemerge exactly one century later at the Liverpool Maternity Hospital, in the room of Julia Lennon. The hungry nzambi takes a chomp from Julia’s newborn’s neck, and John Lennon is undead, a zombie with otherworldly powers, who will roam the Earth for eternity.

In 1957, John, now a burgeoning singer and guitarist, meets Paul McCartney, a Liverpudlian with musical dreams of his own. Sensing a kindred spirit, John bites off Paul’s ear and sucks out his mate’s grey matter, after which he spits a healthy amount of his own brain into Paul’s carotid artery—and thus is born the greatest songwriting team in rock history. John and Paul zombify local guitarist George Harrison, then welcome seventh level Ninja Lord Ringo Starr into the fold.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet the Beatles.

The lovable moptops murder then reanimate thousands of fans at the Cavern Club, simultaneously enslaving hundreds of lusty teenage girls. They invade the United States, mind-melding millions during an appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show. They engage in an epic battle with rival band and notorious zombie hunters the Rolling Stones. They release album after album with hidden messages: Please please me by biting your young…Dear sir or madam, won’t you eat your neighbor…All you need is eternal life…

And before you know it, zombies are fookin’ everywhere.

Come 1968, the Beatles world begins to crumble. Experiments with illegal drugs melt the boys’ brains. John begins dating an eighth-level Ninja Lord named Yoko Ono, who imagines all the people dying for today. And worst of all, a band called the Zombies—whose members are not actually zombies—seeks revenge on the Fab Four. All of which begs the question, can the three undead lads and the one Ninja stay unified and conquer the world?

Nah. They break up, make a bunch of crappy solo albums, and fade into oblivion. But come 2010, with John, Paul, George, and Ringo all impoverished and bored silly, we hear whispers of a reunion. Sure, George’s fingers keep falling off, but that won’t stop the Beatles from following their dreams of death and destruction.

For more information, write ZombieBeatles@cs.com

ATTN: KINDLE USERS - My Novel "The Record Haus" is available as an ebook for $1.99! Click here for details...

AWESOME NEW PROJECTS

Plenty of awesome new projects on the docket:

-I'm collaborating on a novel with Tobe Hooper, he of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre fame. It's called Midnight Movie, and it's fucking creepy.

-I'm ghosting memoirs for two way cool former NBA players, John Salley and Henry Bibby.

-Still hard at work on my chicklit tome Superheroine, which'll be published by the ever-cool Little Black Dress Books in the U.K.

-And there're a couple of other things on the docket that I'll give the 411 on when they become more official.

Good thing I actually enjoy writing, eh?

NEW CHICKLIT BOOK IN 2010

I just signed a deal for my fourth novel with Little Black Dress Books in the U.K. It's called Superheroine, and it's about a sweet paralegal trying to balance her live, her loves, and her ability to stop a train with her pinky. World rights outside of the U.K. are available; if interested, please write amgoldsher@cs.com. More details and an official release date as they become available.

I Was Bernie Mac's Ghost.

In the summer of 2000, I got a call from Richard Abate, a literary agent then at ICM. He asked, "Do you know who Bernie Mac is?"

Of course I did. Original Kings of Comedy was due in theaters any day, and since Spike Lee had directed is, you couldn't walk down a single street in Brooklyn without running into an OKOC poster. Plus, like me, he was from Chicago. I don't know, Richard probably thought that since I was a white dude, I might not be hip to the guy.

He said, "He wants to write a book. Wanna ghost it?"

Of course I did. At that point, I'd only dabbled in ghostwriting, but it was something I'd been wanting to get into for a while, and what better way to start, with a truly hilarious, profane, chatterbox of a comedian on the rise. I knew all I'd have to do is let the tape roll, and Bernie would bring the funny, then I'd bring the organization, and we'd have ourselves a book. So I told Richard, in true Mac-ian spirit, "Fuck yeah."

"Good," he said. "You're meeting with him and an editor on Friday."

That was two days from then, so I figured I'd do some prepping, which in this case meant procuring a bootlegged VHS version of OKOC. The picture was a disaster -- everybody looked like Stretch Armstrong, post stretching -- but the soundtrack was loud and clear, and that shit was funny.

So Friday rolled around, and I went to Hoboken, where I hooked Manie Baron, then an editor at HarperCollins. The plan was for Bernie to pick us up in his limo, then we'd drive around and have a mobile meeting.

The limo driver pulled up right on time -- not always a guarantee with those celeb-types -- then Manie and I hopped into the car, and there he was, all smiling, charismatic, and welcoming. Bernie then proceeded to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk...and he wasn't the least bit funny. He discussed old-school comics, everybody from Redd Foxx, to Groucho Marx, to Lucille Ball, and how each of them influenced his own work. He told us about honing his stand-up on the Chicago subways. He didn't ask Manie or me a single question; I guess he figured that if ICM gave us the thumbs-up, we were okay.

Forty-five minutes later, we pulled up in front of some random Manhattan building. Bernie gave us each a hug, said, "We'll be in touch," and then he disappeared, Batman-style.

Richard called two days later. "Bernie liked you. Get on a plane to Chicago. His people aren't paying for the ticket. You'll have to go out of pocket on it. Your parents are in Chicago, right?"

"Yeah."

"Great. So you won't have to pay for a hotel. It won't be that bad."

"You don't know my parents."

"Whatever. Think of it as an investment."

I was broke, but I didn't hesitate. Three days later, I was chilling in Bernie's office in the South Loop, making small talk with his sweet, round-faced assistant, waithing for the man. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Finally, 90 minutes after our meeting was supposed to start, Bernie breezed in with three huge bags of fried shrimp, and three huger bags of French fries. "Sorry I'm late. Here's lunch. Let's get to work on this proposal."

I fired up my Dictaphone, and off he went. He waxed poetic about how pissed off he was at Stevie Wonder for making Hotter Than July, and how much he was frightened by Tiger Woods's teeth, and the history of the world "muthufucka." He polished off his then-cold shrimp, said, "Leave your address with my assistant. My driver's coming to pick you up at 5:00, then we're going out to dinner, then we're going to the White Sox game. Later." Then he disappeared, Batman-style.

At 5:00 on the nose, a big-ass limo pulled up in front of my parents' house in the lily-white suburb of Wilmette. I jumped into the car, and asked the driver, "Where's Bernie?"

The driver, whose name was Bill, said, "Just me and you. We're going to Buddy Guy's restaurant. Bernie says order as much as you want."

I was still full (and, frankly, a little queased) from the shrimp, so I ordered only an appetizer. Bill said, "Boy, eat something. Bernie'll be pissed if I turn in a receipt for less than $40.00." It was impossible to refuse that kind of encouragement, so I ate something.

A couple hours later, we drove over to U.S. Cellular field, and there was Bernie, his wife Rhonda, and his best friend who's name I've since forgotten, so we'll call him John, all decked out in White Sox gear. He gave me a big hug, introduced me around, then asked, "How was dinner? Did you get enough food?"

We made our way into the stadium, and to our seats, which were three rows behind the Sox dugout. (Bernie was a first-class guy, no doubt.) Bernie spent the entire game yelling -- at players, at fans, at his wife, at me -- and after 20 years of doing stand-up, he knew how to make his voice carry. I wish I'd taken notes, because whatever he was saying had us all peeing our collective pants.

I asked Rhonda, "Is he always like this?"

She rolled her eyes and said, "Always. All he wants to do is make people laugh."

After the game, we all piled into the limo, and Bernie offered around what had to be some super-expensive cigars. Despite the fact that I hate smoking in general, and especially cigars, I almost took one, because I thought it would make for a cool story.

Bernie was a bit mellower, but still as funny, throwing gentle insults at everybody in the car, myself included. But he was so fucking hilarious, that I was honored to have him ragging on me.

When we got to my parents' place, he insisted on coming in and meeting them. "You're going to be family, Alan." He schmoozed with Mom and Dad for about 30 minutes, and then split.

I never saw or spoke to him again. Not even after I wrote a book proposal that helped get him a six-figure deal with MTV Books.

I'm not sure exactly why his people went with another ghostwriter. I always theorized that they thought seeing the phrase "Bernie Mac with Alan Goldsher" on the cover might have alienated his core audience -- there probably weren't too many people with Jewy-Jew surnames at his concerts -- and that massively bummed me out, but in hindsight, I can't be too mad. I can look at the book and be proud that I came up with the title (I Ain't Scared of You: Bernie Mac on How Life Is), and that maybe 10 pages of my work made it into the final draft. It's a small thing...but it's a big thing.

Bernie passed away today, and even though I only met him for a grand total of eight hours over two days, I'm thrilled that I even got that much time with the guy, because Bernie Mac's personality was so big that eight hours with him was as much fun as eight weeks with anybody else.

BONJOUR, NAOMI

Here's the cover of the French translation of The True Naomi Story:


Tres bien, oui?

NICK HORNBY INTERVIEW

Here's a little interview I did with the ever-awesome Mr. Nick Hornby about his ever-awesome new book:

In his new novel Slam, Nick Hornby (High Fidelity, About a Boy) tells the story of 15-year-old skateboard-toting Sam, who is coping with his girlfriend’s pregnancy with the help of his best friend and primary male role model: a poster of Tony Hawk.

ALAN: Why did you choose Tony Hawk to be Sam’s guardian angel?

NICK: A few years ago, Tony did a poster campaign for the American Library Association, and in his poster, he was holding a copy of his favorite book, which was High Fidelity. I didn’t know much about skateboarding, and that was the first time he’d ever come into my orbit. When I started Slam, I knew I wanted Sam to have some kind of passion. At first I thought about soccer, because that was my sport, but I decided I wanted it to be a more private thing for him.

ALAN: Have you spoken with Tony about the book?

NICK: We’ve been emailing, and he’s been fantastic, very supportive. He read a manuscript before I turned in the book, and I don’t think he quite realized the extent to which he’d be featured. It must’ve been a bit strange for him.

ESPN: Do you skate yourself?

NICK: I was given a skateboard for my 50th birthday, and I’d say within about three minutes of opening the package, my son and I both had ice packs on our legs. I think that was my final day as a participant.