Sunday, May 30, 2010

LCN-TV Summer Line Up

I work in Louisiana producing television shows for LCN-TV, “The Louisiana Superstation,” a network that airs on cable systems throughout the state. Our niche is Louisiana’s music, cuisine, politics, outdoors, sports, documentaries, entertainment, etc. You can catch us worldwide, at Here’s our new summer programs.

“Barataria” Bay Watch - The opening has extremely beautiful women in bikinis, running in slow motion, on the beaches of Louisiana. I know it’s been done, but our cast will be covered in baby oil. This is television, and the sludge that is now on our coastline wouldn’t look good, but the metaphor might hit home. Since no one is on the beach because of the crude oil, for one hour, each week, the characters will just keep applying baby oil.

American Idle- This would be a political show with BP executives and the federal government, sitting at a table, discussing feverously, about what Louisiana is facing. The conflict would be exceptional, finger pointing, pundits from both sides, democrats, republicans, all fighting, talking at the same time, no one will hear a thing, and nothing gets resolved. It could be a great cliffhanger for the next episode. Again, where nothing gets done.

Dancing in the Bars, “Not”- This is a music/dance show featuring Louisiana musicians in the nightclubs along the Gulf Coast. The bands play a great show, each week, but the club owners can’t pay them because “not” one person is dancing. We’ll eliminate a bar each week when they go out of business.

Buffy the Oil Industry Slayer
- A young environmentalist named Buffy, along with her BFF tree hugger named Muffy, and their male friend, hot, young, withdrawn, and disheveled, Scruffy, takes on the oil industry and it’s plot to take over America. As added conflict, Scruffy has carnal thoughts of Buffy, but Buffy is to driven to notice. Scruffy, confides in Muffy, who is secretly in love with Scruffy, but her dog is also named Scruffy and she can’t get past that.

Cooking with Earl- This is a cooking show out of New Orleans and a take on how my father, a New Orleanian, would say the word “oil.” When used in a sentence, he would say, “For Christ’s sake, Larry, you didn’t buy any cooking “earl” to fry the fish.” With that said. The host of the show, a guy named Earl, (for the people who don’t get the joke) will go to the Gulf of Mexico, skim the surface of the water, heat it, and cook the food in the oil and residue. He’ll give you tips such as, “for added flavor, “burr-al” the crabs along with a brick,” and basic tips on how not to kill yourself or at least, how not to get the runs.

The Deadliest Catch- This is a fishing show. That one’s self-explanatory.

Cost- This is a drama that follows a three-generation, Louisiana fishing family on welfare. The older generation will reminisce about the good ole’ days and the middle aged will talk about the present hardships while trying to keep the family together. The younger generation will want to give up, sell the business, and move way up north, to Shreveport.

This is a political show where the residence of Louisiana, get to voice their opinion on how the spill is being handled. It will be produced at different location in the state and as the show progresses everyone becomes hoarse from constantly screaming. Then in the last five seconds of each episode, when everyone can’t speak a word, we’ll show a clip of an official saying. “We’re doing all we can.”

ESPN-BP- This will be a sports show where BP keeps the ball rolling back and forth from taking the blame and blaming it on everybody else. In an “I’m gonna sue you and be a millionaire” segment, you’ll have a chance to call a friend and ask, WTF.

And finally,

A Charlie Brown/Melancon Christmas- This is an animated cartoon, holiday special for the end of the year, a tearjerker that will make everyone cry for our coastline, just like State Representative Charlie Melancon did on national television, and captured everyone in the state of Louisiana’s feelings.

God bless the families of those lost in the explosion.

Monday, May 24, 2010

A Man With "Rep"

Growing up a short, funny, redhead dude, in desegregated schools, I now and then got my butt kicked. It taught me how not to treat people. It molded me into a mild mannered adult who is a bit cautious. So, as an adult, when only for two weeks, being known as a bad ass was a cool feeling. All the less empowered should have it, at least once.
I was working in a night club as an MC/Entertainer, when the owner and one a the bouncers, who everyone said was a “real bad-ass,” came into the office while I was filling out winner’s sheets for a Hawaiian Tropic Beauty Contest. When I heard them enter, I was standing by the desk. (Steve is the owner, Joe, the bad ass and it’s not their real names.)
“Look, Joe. I don’t care. It’s no ones fault.”
“But Steve, It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. I was just trying to help.”
“It doesn’t matter, Joe. Things like that happen, but your job is fine."
“But Steve, I didn’t do anything. I was trying to help.”
“It’s OK, Joe.”
It was getting heated and making me uncomfortable. I was now pretending to ignore the commotion, looking down at the desk and writing.
“Steve, I didn’t do it!”
“It’s OK. Joe. I have too much to do right now and it doesn’t really matter.”
“I didn’t do anything, that’s bullshit, Steve!”
The next thing I know, Steve and Joe have each other by the throat, pushing each other around the room and into walls. Things in the office are being knocked around and falling to the floor, so I drop my pen and try to calm the situation. Before I could, Steve punches Joe in the face, and Joe storms out with a big whelp on his eye.
Steve and I, who are very good friends, start to wonder, “how the hell did that just that happen.” I finish the winner’s sheets, take the stage, announce the winners, and a lovely lady in a bikini gets a trip to Hawaii to be a beauty queen.
When I left the stage, this is the story that got back to me.
Joe, after being punched in the face, went toward the front door and ran into another bouncer. He said, “Steve and Larry are assholes, they just jumped me in the office.”
“Yea, Steve and Larry.”
“Larry Hyatt?”
“Yea, Larry Hyatt.”
“No shit? Larry Hyatt?"
Joe then went to the doorman. “Steve and Larry just jumped me in the office.”
“No shit, Larry?”
“Larry Hyatt?”
Joe then went to the parking lot and told the head valet, “Steve just jumped me in the office,” that, the valet believed.
I was now a bad ass in the eyes of my peers, but wait there’s more. The next weekend I was off of work and a bunch of the employees went to another club in the next town. It was the first time I didn’t have a show in months, so I was having a great time watching other people on stage.
I was standing in the audience listening to the live music when Steve leans over and asks if I have a problem with the Thibodaux Police. Screaming over the music I say, “Not in Thibodaux, but I am wanted in ten states for unnatural sex acts.” Steve laughs and says, “OK, but there’s a cop staring at you.” I turn around and the police officer leans into me and says. “Excuse me, can you please step outside a moment?” I was confused.
I follow the cop toward the door, checking my pockets for something illegal someone might have put in there, and my friends all go along, wondering what the hell did Larry do now. Outside, the cop says, “I’m really sorry, but we’ve been told you people from “Illusions” are known to carry guns. Do you have a weapon on you?” My jaw drops and the group cracks up laughing. The cop, thinks me, the actor/entertainer, who couldn’t beat himself out of a wet paper bag, carries a gun. I said, “No man, I don’t have a gun,” and I went back inside, a few inches taller, being one badass mother. For two weeks after that, I brandished a banana that I carried in my sport coat. I had a “rep” and it felt good.
Until you’ve been beat, bad, because of the color of your skin or the way you talk, you cooked dinner with too much salt, you found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, you’re a child, or any number of reasons people get hit, you might not understand the allure of being a bad ass. For the real bad asses in the world, be careful, you may run into a guy who’ll brandish his banana.

Sunday, May 16, 2010


I recently did a play where a cast member gave me, Where The Red Fern Grows. This week, “Apalachicola”

With a loud crack, all the students but one, jumped, when they heard the 5th grade teacher slam the ruler on her desk.
“Now that I have your attention, let’s begin. Good morning class. Today we’re going to study Florida, the 27th state. Can anyone tell me where Florida is?” The class sprung to life.
The smart kids in front, stiff and rigid, heads held high, politely raised their hands, a bit smug from the years of self-reliance. The unprepared ones, knowing such an easy question and wanting to be called upon, waved wildly, and in the room you could hear, “Pick me! Pick me! Miss Renfro, pick me!” Yet Brian, still staring out the window, didn’t raise his hand, fixed on what was going on just yards away.
Noticing, the teacher wanted to engage the lackadaisical student.
“Brian... Brian!”
“Yes, Miss Renfro.”
“Young man, will you please tell the class what you find so interesting, outside of that window?”
Staring out again, he said, “Um, It’s the clouds, Miss Renfro. That’s what it is. I’m, uh, looking at the clouds.”
“Well, you do seem to have your head in them. Tell me, Mr. Wilkins, where is the city of Apalachicola?”
Brian turns to her, his mind still not all there says, “I think it’s next to, um, half-a-glass-a-cola?”
The classroom erupts in laughter.
“He’s so stupid.”
“Brian is whack.”
“That boy, he crazy.”
“You know he ain’t going to be smarter than a 5th grader.”
Brian’s attention, now back to where it belonged, closed his eyes and starts to feel the flush of embarrassment on his face. “I’m such an idiot,” he says to himself, and sinks down into the desk.

Walking home, books in hand, and a map of Florida folded in his back pocket, he got from the school library, he tries to forget homeroom and what the 27th state did to him. He sees the only person his age he cares about, Sophie, a neighbor from across the street of his Shreveport, Louisiana home.
“Not a good day today, huh Brian?”
“No, it sure wasn’t. But now I do know, Apalachicola is 80 miles southwest of Tallahassee, and has over 2000 people living in it, and is named after Indians, American Indians, not the ones from Turkey.
“Well, I thought it was funny, what you said today.”
‘Thanks, but I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“It was funny, anyways.”
“Yea, I guess it was; Half-a-glass-a cola.”
They walked down the suburban line of houses, upper-middle class, most with two stories, but Sophia lived in an odd dilapidated place, no curtains or things that said a lady lives there. She asked, “Brian, what was it that had you so fixed on outside?”
Brian got excited.
“You’re not going to believe this. Principle Young was talking to Mayor Roy and they were really going at it. They were moving their arms around and pointing to each other’s face. I heard Principle Young say, "You know those cemetaries are not to be distributed.”
Mayor Roy then said, “I don’t care if a thousand ghosts are going to get in my way, that land is mine.” The mayor pushed Principle Young and stormed off in my direction. When the mayor passed the window, he saw me lookin’ and it gave me a scare. That’s when Miss Renfro asked me the question about Florida.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I couldn’t. My mind was racin’. All I heard was Apalachicola, and then I thought, Coke-a-cola, then I thought, half-a-glass-a-cola. It just came out, Sophia.”
“Yea, I say dumb stuff like that when I get nervous. One time, in church, I was supposed to say “Jesus Saves” and it came out, “Jesus shaves.” My daddy laughs about it all the time. In the morning, I can hear him in the bathroom.
Brian asked, “Do you think he’s alright, Principle Young?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we should just see what happens,” and both were now in front of their houses.
“Well, I’ll see you later Brian.”
“See you later, too, and don’t tell anybody what I said. OK.”
“No, I won’t.”
Brian walked into his house feeling much better and felt relieved that the Apalachicola incident was behind him. His mother, always happy to see her only son was waiting in the kitchen and asked how his day went. He gave the always “fine,” threw his books on the table and went into the living room, turned on the TV and started to play some video games. Just as he grabbed the joysticks, he heard a knock on the door and wondered what Sophia wanted. He got up, opened the door, and it was Mayor Roy.
“Hello, Brian. Is your mother home?”

Monday, May 10, 2010

Cat, Dog, Rat.

My wife had four children when I married her, which I knew would make me fifth in line, a place I accepted because my wife is worth standing in a long line for. (I’m glad they didn’t have a dog or I would have been sixth.)
Lately, I’ve been going home and finding people in my house that I don’t know. They’re the teenage friends of my wife’s daughter, who moved into the house. What I don’t understand is why, when I walk into my home, these friends don’t acknowledge me?
I open the door and see four young adults. I say cheerily, “Hello everybody. How ya’ll doin’?” No one says a word. One is texting, the others are watching television, and the smart one, uses her feet to kick crap out of the middle of the floor so I can pass.
“What are you people up to?” I’m trying to get a reaction.
“Oh, nothin’.”
That’s when I think, “Then do nothin’ somewhere else and get out my living room. Your parents didn’t teach you manners for Christ’s sake?” For those, whose parents didn’t teach them manners, they get one pass, and for those that I intimidate, too bad, it’s my house.
Actually, I would love everyone, young and old, to throw their hands in the air and run like little children to the door when I come home. “Oh, Larry! Larry!” is what I want to hear, but it isn’t going to happen. I’m at the point, where I’ll settle for, “Oh, you’re home. Did you bring food?”
“Word” to the idiots, acknowledge people when they walk into their home.
“Cat. Dog. Rat.” That’s what my mother used to say to me. “Your friends don’t know how to speak, when I walk in, for Christ’s sake? Cat. Dog. Rat. Say something,” which is where I get this. I’m passing it on to future generations.
Here’s another one. My mother used to always want to know the last name of my friends. Go figure. Often, I didn’t get that far before I went to their house, and not knowing the last names ticked her off.
“I’m going to Joe’s house.”
“Joe who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“It’s Joe.”
“He doesn’t have a last name, for Christ’s sake?” It would infuriate my mother.
I didn’t get his last name, not because I was hiding something, I just didn’t ask before I went over to be intimidated by his dad.
My sister once said, “Larry, make up a last name, just to keep mom quiet. Go ahead and lie.”
Each last name after that was Lie-la, an Italian friend, Lie-o-so, and my favorite, a Polish guy, Lie-in-ski. My mother bought it; my sister laughed.
My point is: Understand age, acknowledge authority, respect your elders, and instill it in your family. I don’t want you to think I’m old and cranky or that I’m being difficult, but I guess I am. Then again, it’s being difficult in my own home.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

This week, I'm taking verse more seriously.
I work above a museum, downtown, and it can see all kinds of things.

Evening at the Museum
Larry Hyatt

Two women, sit comfortably, legs crossed,
On a bench in the park,
Waiting to start.
The night shadow poking its head,
A stench, knowing the queue will get their fate when dark.

Scantly clad, even obscene,
Smoking, trails, rising to the street light,
Trying to get away, like so many young girls,
Childhoods stained by awkward moves,
But remembered through opened arm twirls.

Small talk, girl talk, boy talk, sex talk,
They’ll whisper, then holler,
All for the dollar,
Metered time for only the boy.
“Stay and play. I’ll blow your mind.
Whatever. I won’t decline.”
They’ll hear it again, and again, in the night,
The low guttural sounds, of his unspoken joy.

One of two women,
Comfortably, standing on a street corner,
The park bench taken,
The love there bending forward,
Hands griping her waist.
She waits for another self,
To hear that sound that lets her go.

But, no.
The night is long,
Then comes desperation,
And to run, futile.

They need each other.
Two women,
Comfortably, sitting on a bench in the park,
Smoking, coughing, trying to hide,
Lighting a pipe, no desperation now.

But the museum can see them.

Two women,
Comfortably, sitting on a bench, in the park,
One waves her hand and runs for cars,
The other works the bars.
The bench, now not taken;
The park, alone and dark.

The museum’s eyes close.
It condones.
While two women,
Finally, go to their homes.