A Few Questions for the New Year

Should the Doomsayers from the Mayan Apocalypse get to celebrate on New Year’s Eve?
Could Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez actually tie the knot in 2013, and will she help him pass Algebra?
Will all the band members of One Direction get a crack at Taylor Swift?
When The Duchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton’s kid is potty trained will it be making a Royal Flush?
What would people think if the producers of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo,” created a spin off called “Here Comes Momma June’s Chin Chins?”
Might the commercialism of Fifty Shades of Grey make my wife finally put down the whip and get back to basics?
Will the television show Game of Thrones insert even more gratuitous nudity?
When Catching Fire matches Hunger Games will you finally give it a rest?
Would it be rude if New Orleans Saints head coach Sean Payton did a commercial for Bounty Paper Towels?
Should Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps move to Colorado and just smoke pot legally?
What on earth could Felix Baumgartner, the Stratosphere Jumper, possibly do for a second act?
Can Gangnam Style, once and for all, please fall of the fiscal cliff?
And finally,
“Why you asking all them questions?”
I’m sorry, just one more.
Was that one too, vague?

Elf on a Shelf Union Averts Strike

North Pole:  In a bid to insure better working conditions in 2013, Sparky Sparkle, Union President of The American Elf on a Shelf Union, pulled a daring and unprecedented move yesterday and threatened to not inform Santa about the millions of children who were naughty or nice this year.
Mr. Sparkle, making his comments known to Santa moments before his ride, caught the usually jolly ole’ St. Nick completely off guard thinking a new contract was in the works.
Sparkle was quoted as saying, “My people are small but mighty and the hazards of falling off shelves, ceiling fans, and the like, not to mention falling off the fiscal cliff, added unexpected occurrences such as children’s Mayan Apocalypse fears, and the continuing use of our members in embarrassing, risqué, and some downright vulgar situations compel me to take this action.”
Santa was rumored as confused by such a dramatic move from such a happy go lucky creature and possibly felt it was the opening of the Hobbit movie that sparked Sparkle to take drastic action.
Santa explained, “When all was said and done, I was extremely happy I got the list in time for all the children of the United States to experience the Christmas they deserve. I also hope Mr. Sparkle and Barbie enjoy their time together.”
This and more later today…

Christmas 2012

Last night I had a crazy dream.

It was cold and dark and as I walked through my neighborhood I was scared, the weather whipping against my body felt old and familiar but not comforting, it was the pressures of life and no one was around to help me. My coat was tattered, hanging, and with my arms folded in front of me, my head was down to keep winter off my face. Pushing, I seemed to be searching for something but didn’t know what or why.
Suddenly, a gust of wind lifted my head and stopped me in my tracks. There, standing next to me was a snowman, a pleasant Christmas decoration with a happy smile, but it upset me.
“What? You’re mocking me?” I yelled. “You think everyone is happy at Christmas? Wipe that stupid smile off your face!”
I reached back and as I went to slap that carrot nose he came to life. I was taken aback. My eyes widened, frighten I stood still.
The snowman then removed his scarf and sticking out his hands presented it for me to take. I backed up instead. He then raised it, slightly, as if to say, “Here, it’s yours.”
Cautiously, I took the steps toward him and reached out, took the scarf and as I quickly proceeded to wrap it around my neck his arm moved and pointed down the street. I didn’t know what to do so I dipped my head in gratitude and walked on following his direction, noticing the cracks on the sidewalk.
The wind was still blowing and I felt better but it was still bitter cold. Onward I trekked, once again keeping my head down to spare my face, when another gust of wind blew, pushing my head again. There, next to me were more decorations; these of a Children’s choir with hymnals in hand, singing, dressed in their Christmas clothes, bundled and warm. The choir came alive and I jumped back as it began the song “Joy to The World,” the loud boisterous rendition startling me. I smiled in amusement and as the choir sang, I watched as a little girl removed her earmuffs and handed them to a little boy. The little boy then removed his gloves and handed the articles to me. Politely, he said “Merry Christmas, sir,” and pointed down the street.
Again, I dipped my head in appreciation and moved on till I came to a house with decorations in the yard depicting presents under a Christmas tree. One of the presents was lit brighter than the others and I noticed it was set apart. I walked toward it and written on the box was my name. I was shocked. I thought, “This can’t be. This must be a coincidence. I don’t know these people.”
Suddenly, the box started moving and I retreated. It shook, violently, as if ready to erupt and with a loud pop a “Jack in the Box,” popped out with an overcoat in his out stretched arms. I fell backwards to the ground. It scared the living daylights out of me.
I took a moment and on all fours I slowly crept to the Jack in the Box. I grabbed the coat but this time started running, putting the coat on as I went. When I got far enough away I slowed down, now nice and warm with my new scarf, gloves, earmuffs and coat. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was ready to find more. What more could I get? Maybe I can find that snowman and get his hat.
Walking again, now with my head up, in the distance I saw a house with what looked like more decorations. This time I ran to it, elated that I would find more. As I got closer, comprehending what was coming into view, I slowed my pace. I was humbled when I realized it was a life-sized nativity scene with a manger, Mary and Joseph beside it, the animals, wise men, all real, all alive and to my astonishment the baby Jesus lying in a manger, the light upon him blinding. I shielded my eyes and now felt not worthy to receive him.
Staring, I felt others, and upon looking behind me saw a sea of people, all nationalities, admiring the beauty of the light, the power of it, reminding me my gifts were his gifts to me. I reached my hand out slowly, wanting to touch the brightness. I was just about to put my hand in the light when I felt my shoulders shake, and heard…
“Larry, Larry, wake up, you’re having a dream.”
Noticing I was in my room I realized it was my wife.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “You were dreaming.”
“Yeah, Yeah, I’m OK… Man that was weird. I was… talking to decorations… they were coming to life. Oh man, that was strange.”
“You scared me, Larry. You kept screaming, “I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Wow… Well… I’m Ok now… Go back to sleep, Honey.”
“Don’t do that again,” she said looking into my eyes.
I smiled and trying to comfort said, “I’m alright. I’m fine. I’m OK.”
I turned to the wall and shut my eyes and while remembering the dream I thought about my life. My eyes opened again and I asked the wall, “Am I worthy?”

Traffic

I hate traffic. Luckily, I don’t see it on the way to work. If I get to the radio station at 4:30am I consider myself late. When I head up West Park, from downtown Houma, there are stop lights still blinking yellow and I get to cruise right through them. I do go the speed limit because I often see police and don’t want them to think I’m going home after drinking. I approach major intersections and if those lights are green I get to buzz through them, too. Ah...life is good… at 4am.

When I get off of work, early afternoon, it’s a different story. Through the years Houma has grown around me. We have traffic, not enough to induce road rage, but if you’re late for something or trying to get something done in a hurry it will aggravate and get you thinking.

“Look at this idiot, slowing down for a green light,” “Turn damn it; you’ve had your blinker on for the last three miles.” And, if you live in our town, “Oh great, the tunnel’s closed now everybody is going to use the twin span. Traffics gonna back up, I’ll be late…Damn it!”

This mild rant changed on Friday.

“Oh crap, a freakin’ school bus. This thing is going to stop at every dang corner and I can’t get around it... Oh, jeez, come on kid… get to the house… Oh look, his book bag is heavier than he is… Why do schools do that?…He is cute, lugging those books…That’s funny…That must be his sister…Oh cool, she’s helping him, that’s sweet… He’s lucky to have a big sister… I got a big sister…Oh, come on kids, hurry up… Your parents are right there... Yeah, yeah, yeah, they love you. Kissy, kissy, huggy, huggy. I got things to do… Finally, y’all made it… Good deal. Everybody’s safe…Now hurry, wave to the other kids…You’ll see them tomorrow…Flaps move back…Bus starts rollin’…and I'm oughta here.

Twenty less children will not return from school today.

How dare I be so selfish?

In the beginning

The world is such a funny place,
Our lives we hold so dear,
It doesn’t matter we’re all screwed,
It’s going to end this year.

The Mayans said it wouldn’t last,

So many years ago,
So now let’s max our credit cards,
And run to Mexico.

For what we care?
We’ll be dead,
And leave this oh great land.
With my luck I’d be last on earth,
Along with Lindsey Lohan.

To be honest

I’m quite flattered,
The end I will receive.
The start it would have been fun too,
 Imagine “Larry and Eve.”

Slaying a Nemesis

People don’t mature with time. It takes incidences in one’s life, events, or lack of them that creates maturity, defining moments that slap up-side the head, realizations that can break a heart or finding a foe, a nemesis that makes one aware that this world is not all “shits and giggles.” My constant enemy appeared when I was 12 years old.

My father loved sports and everybody loved him, a star athlete, semi-pro football player, NCAA umpire, football referee, all around sports guy, and supervisor of our neighborhood playground which made him my Little League coach. I, being an adolescent singer/tap dancing, musical theatre freak didn’t always play well with dad.  Add to that fact…I was fat and couldn’t keep up. Luckily, I didn’t know it, yet.

It was the opening of football season and at that time Little League Football had weight limits. Each kid had to weigh in before the games. The kids from both teams would suit up and with coaches and teammates file into a looker room at the stadium. The official would set the poundage on the doctor’s scale, stand importantly behind it and watch to see if the arrow moved to the top. After each player got on the scale the official would say out loud “under” and his assistant would mark it on the roster. That player would be good to go.

Each year I knew I was close to the limit, dreading the arrow, stepping slowly, praying it wouldn’t move. Sometimes it moved slightly, others, slowly moving up and down, teetering, as if knowing it was my judge and jury, trying to decide if I deserved it enough. Eventually, it always came to rest on the bottom allowing me the joy of playing for my father, but that day it shot to the top. The metal to the metal made a strong “clink.” All the men looked at my dad. It was awkward to say the least and the look on my dad’s face made me uneasy but it wasn’t nearly as uneasy as when I heard, “We can remove his pads.” 

I did of course because nothing could stop my desire to play and with my helmet and shoulder pads removed I again got on the scale. It tipped a bit, slowly, but again telling my peers, “He can’t play. Everybody, look at the fat boy,” and once more all the men’s eyes landed on my father and watched as he lifted his hand to his face and rubbed his chin. But this time he showed confusion.  After a few anxious moments I heard, “Jimmy, we can strip him down.”

My eyes got big and I quickly turned to my right. My father, returning the glance, tightened his lips then let his face tilt to the floor. Seconds later he lifted his head, stared back at me and bashfully conveyed, without words, just his eyes and a slight shrug, “It’s up to you son, whatever you want to do.”

Now, you might think this is a bit melodramatic bit I shit you not, while running my first half marathon last weekend, something happened during mile twelve.  I passed a football field in front of the Bayouland YMCA and looking to my right, knowing I’m going to complete that thing, I thought of that maturing incident from so many years ago. My father would have been proud.

My father instilled, “Don’t give up”, “Finish the job”, and “Never say can’t.” I pass them on to you.

 

Shades of Black Friday

She was late to the bargains, of all nights for her young child to climb into bed and turn off the alarm. She knew the best deals were on the “front line,” that’s where it happens, the push/pull, the get out of my face. The "head bob" or the "snap and extend" would be passé on a day like this. Today you don’t flinch or its coal in a stocking, at least for “The Brain Dead Demons-350,” that not only annihilates zombies, but can kill at a rate of fifty per second, collect their brains and transform them back to their living state.

She hurried to the cue and took her place at the end; behind a guy she thought shouldn’t be there. He was alone and she thought, “This is woman’s work, beating the hell out of someone for toy. What the hell is this guy looking for?”

He was dashing in his uniform, the military look, fatigues that made her think he just came back from the war.  Standing in the garden section he could blend right in. Then she overheard him mention to the couple in front that he was just back from fighting in Afghanistan. Tilting her ear she caught it was brutal, lots of anxiety, and he had lost three very close friends.

A bit cold, moments later, hands in his pockets, he nonchalantly turned to her and asked, “You’re alone today, too?”

“Yeah, I would have gotten here sooner but my alarm didn’t ring, long story.”

"What are you here for?”  

“Brain Dead.”

“No kidding, the 350?”

“Oh Yea,” She smiled. “The 350… gotta have it… transforms them zom-bos back to themselves and all.”

“Must have a son, huh?”

“No. It’s a little girl. Believe it or not she loves pink, Barbie and decapitated zombies… all nice… sugar and spice.”

“You’re funny.” He said and extended his hand “My name is Cahjay… I know it’s weird.”

“My name is Laverne. And don’t even go there.”
He chuckled and asked, “So, a little girl who likes to fight, huh?”

“Yeah… go “action” figure.”

With the smiles now lingering, the seconds felt extended waiting for someone to say the next words, but just then, the doors opened and the line erupted into mayhem, the people making a mad dash for all the things that make Christmas special, the hustle, the bustle, the “gettin’ while the gettin’s good”, the gifts from Santa, the reason, the rhyme, the want of everything, if only we could.

Oddly, the young soldier took a small step toward the wall and it puzzled her, just as the crowd behind them started forcing their way past, bumping her, pushing her aside. He grabbed her arm and pulled her close just before the exhilarated mob would have knocked her down.

“My goodness,” She said, looking into his eyes, “Thank you… They could have hurt me.”

“Well you got to get that 350.”
Upon realizing she didn’t know why he was there, she asked, “Are you getting a present for a girlfriend?”
“I wish. I’m here for the quiet!”

Too many, so I picked one.

I’m truly thankful for my mother. From an early age I wanted to entertain. My mother must have noticed because she started a progression. First it was “movement classes” and dance lessons, then taking me to auditions. Guitar and piano lessons followed, along came voice lessons, and at thirteen I discovered, “The Opera.”

At that age I was also into 70’s rock and at night, along with my friends, we shouted “Disco sucks,” “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, Boston, and ZZ Top!”

But by day, what a wonderful thing, to sing, beautiful classical music in a grand auditorium along with a cast who understood our type, notes written perfectly by meticulous composers, played by tuxedoed musicians with poignant librettos that spoke of lost love and heartache, torment, or the undying passion never fulfilled by not finding the one our hearts could adore. I close my eyes today and see the costumed courts and feel movement surrounding me, hear once again our voices in unison, the harmonies, acoustics bouncing from the interior walls, glorious tones that reached far into the rafters and back to the ears that loved each and every pitch, and the reaction from the darkness, the audience that would stir my soul.

Thanks mom, acting and singing together was the shit.

Actually, I think I did do that, in my pants, when I heard Queen’s, “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

The Twinkie Lost Its Twinkle

By: Larry Hyatt

Oh No!
The Ho Ho
Is lost to those who care.
At least you get a Ho Ho
For a fifty in the Court Square.

What now?

What to do?
My cupboard will be bear.
My Twinkie lost its twinkle
And the union doesn’t care.

Fight back I say!

And fight back hard!
It’s not the way to treat us.
But maybe I could lose some weight
And fight my Diabetes.

But screw that,

We love these cakes,
I think I’ll go insane.
And what about the Wonder Bread,
They say I need whole grain.

Oh hell!

I’m confused!
I got to do some chillin’
Americans just won’t be right,
God bless the gooey fillin’.

 

Excuse me, I floated.

By: Larry Hyatt

 When people on “Facebook” gloat they should call it “floating.” If you’ve never heard that before, that’s good. I came up with it this morning during my morning run and possibly invented another meaning of the word.

I told myself that it I reach the mileage I wanted to do today I would have to brag on Facebook. Here goes.

I reached the 13 mile mark and now I’m ready for the Heart & Soles Half Marathon,
December 1^st, in Houma. It was bitter/sweet.

Can someone please come get me? I’m 13 miles from home.

 

 

 

Two days in the system

by: Larry Hyatt
Yesterday I spent a couple of hours, bored, at the DMV. It was related to an incident that had me in court today. You see, I had been the victim of two hit-and-runs in a year’s time.

I got the license plate number in the first incident but the first driver’s address was an empty lot, forcing me to buy another car. He totaled the car with which I didn’t have a note. It was my father’s car that I had received when he died. It was dear to me. When in it, my father seemed to be near.

My dad was still my co-pilot in the next car but was too dead to pay the note.

Enter hit and run #2.   

That had me in court today because I had parked that car downtown. Someone missed the curve in front of Smoky Row, slammed into my car and took off. They found that driver. Someone following got the license plate. Her insurance bought the car I drive now.

Interestingly enough, we’ll be back again in court on Valentine’s Day. The same day all the domestic disputes that pleaded not guilty at their arraignment return for their trial.

Naughty Soldier

 By: Larry Hyatt

The General has been a naughty soldier,
He’ll now testify for having done rolled her,
He will catch all hell,
For doing Broadwell,
Bill Clinton says, “Got to be bolder.”

“Just deny it, you gave into lust,

The balloon will get big and just bust,

Stomp you feet and just cuss,

You lost all their trust,

You’re screwed ole’ General Petraeus.

Justin and Selena try again.

By: Larry Hyatt

Hollywood: Justin Beiber and Selena Gomez, who called it quits recently, has decided to defy music odds and let love bring them back together. Justin told Hy Hatt News, “Selena knows the math. When three out of two celebrities never give love a try you gotta be one on one. It now takes two publicists to schedule the break-ups and two to do back togethers. Relationships are complicated, man.”

This and more later today.

 

Gop Turns to Taco Bell

Washington, DC: The Republican Party, in a sudden shift to a more moderate policy, has turned to the mass appeal of Taco Bell to help with their new stance on immigration.

Former Republican nominee Mitt Romney issued a statement.

 “My fellow Americans, in the wake of our devastating loss of the Hispanic vote, I’m shorting the collection plate this week and buying the franchise. You want all inclusive. I’ll give you all inclusive. You want stuff. I’ll give you stuff…tacos, enchiladas… more margarita nights, not just on Thursday, all the days that ends in “Y”.

Democratic strategist Manuel Labor refuted the comment saying, “This is just another lame attempt by the Republican Party to try and politicize a menu item, far reaching its gastronomical effect on the American people. Good God, is one’s digestive system now a political issue?”

Mr. Labor, after making that statement, was caught turning to his assistant and saying in a whisper, “Romney, what an idiot. He should have offered the chimichanga.”

This and more later today.

 

Veterans Day 2012

 

            The Germans could never see us, crouched low, eyes just above the grass. They were looking, too, scanning the French countryside for the inferior Americans they would kill if had a chance. Oh, we were scared, petrified. If the Germans didn’t kill us my mother would have if we destroyed her award winning azaleas.

            That was the extent of my combat experience, child’s play, picking who would be a sergeant, corporal, or general. Born in 1960 I had the luxury of not being thrusted into the fighting. I did reach eighteen in 1978, the first year the government reinstated signing up for the draft. I remember going to the post office with high school buddies to sign the card. I certainly wasn’t worried about paying the ultimate price for my country. I was going to be an opera singer.

            Today, I do understand the ultimate price, dying, never to see your wife, your children grow up, your brother who protected you, the sister who gave you the girls point of view, the grandparents who spoiled you, the uncle who took you fishing, the aunt who when getting off the bus you ran to, anticipating the present, the father who instilled “never say can’t”, “never quit”, “suck it up”, “shake it off”, or the mother who’s azaleas did get "me" in a heap of trouble.

            Today, let’s thank those who are serving, Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, Coast Guard, and The National Guard.

Hell, if you use Right Guard, today,  I’m thanking you.

 

Good Luck on Tuesday

by: Larry Hyatt

The grand election is Tuesday,

I hope it’s not a booze day.
To each his own,
Who’ll gain the throne?
Well, both sides say it's doomsday.

I can’t remember a day,

When the election went away,
They don’t anymore,
And in four score,
They’ll all be back to say,

“It’s change we need,”
“For it I’ll bleed,”
“We’ve had enough,”
“The times are tough.”
“Lean forward,” 
“Backward,”
“Wait a minute. We’re in the wrong direction.”

They’ve said this crap since I’ve been born,
I’m told was with a C-section.

“It’s the election of our lifetime,”
This time it could be true.
But I am old and what of the young?
And to whom they’re talking to?

Barack, Romney, Romney, Barack,
It’s your decision to make.
Who will be our commander- in- chief?
Our lives will be at stake.

Do pull the lever on Tuesday,
Or push the computer screen,
Your vote will count,
Whichever way,
Someone is going to scream.

Selling Yourself

The bio on this blog says I suck as a businessman but the gentleman, who recently had me look again into the pain, doesn’t read my blog.
He’s a fellow media person, a sports writer with a sports related magazine. I met him when I hosted a sports related television show:

“Larry, I have a great business opportunity for you. Just give me twelve minutes of your time.”

“It’s just that I’m not a good sales person,” I stressed. “I’ve tried it over and over again. I just don’t like it.”

“Hey, I don’t like selling either. That’s why I do this. Let me drop off a DVD at the station.”

“OK, I’ll take a look.”

And I did, because every time I left the media, entertainment, or creative part of my life, it was to make plenty of money. That’s what I’ve never had in my life. (Luckily, my wife doesn’t spend money. She’s tighter than two coats of paint.)

My friend had a great product, a new one, which makes me mad at myself for not taking him up on the offer but I’ve come to the conclusion, I’m tired of trying to convince people to do something. I’m a buyer’s sales person. Everyone should get a deal and forget about haggling. I’d cave and give you money to take it off my hands.

Believe me, I wasn’t this way as a kid. I sold flower seeds to save enough money to buy a bb gun. After that I baked cakes and went door to door in the neighborhood to raffle it off, had the usual passé lemonade stand, and sold cup cakes out of the back door of my house. Little kids would come knocking at the door, look from side to side, and ask my mother, “Larry got any cup cake?” It was like a drug deal that ended with a sugar high. What the hell happen to me? That kid is long gone.

Could it be somewhere between wanting money to be happy and needing money to be happy, I lost my drive to go for the money? I can’t be alone?

Good Lord, how can a person who sucks at selling, sell themselves?

Open Letter to The Tri-parish

By: Larry Hyatt.


Recently I celebrated the 31st anniversary of me leaving my boyhood home to “try” and find my fortune. I remember thinking I was moving to the "Try-Parish,” to give it a whirl, and like many my stay was not to be extended. My stint was going to be nine short months.

In my New Orleans’ suburban driveway I said, “I’m going to be OK mom, I’m only going down there to learn the radio business. I’m coming back, I swear. I’m going to be the next Walton and Johnson.”

Not knowing who they were and a bit confused, she put her hand on my shoulder and asked, “Is that two people, son? There’s only one of you.” Then, she rolled her eyes.

That didn’t stop me.

I jumped into a just bought, beat up Chevy Impala with a side swipe so bad you couldn’t open either door on the passenger side. I kid you not. The entire right side was crushed shut. It was $500.00 and it leaked like a sieve. When it rained the windshield wipers pushed the water up to the crease where the glass meets the metal. With each swipe water would fall on my lap. Friends would eventually ride in the back seat with an open umbrella.

That night I started on KJIN-1490AM, when a show called the “Swap Shop” was the number one rated show. Back then each small town had its own radio station and disc jockeys were always in the building. The music couldn’t play on its own.

Driving down to Houma I had it all planned, every step, every move, learn the business, go back home, get a radio job and be a radio star. But Tri-Parish, you ruined it. You ruined everything.

From the very beginning, that very first night, you opened your arms and rapped them around me hugging so tight I just couldn’t shake you. With each passing month your grip got stronger. I tried to stay my distance, keep my head down, lifting it only to push you away, but over and over again you kept telling me of your history, showing your love of family, and laughing out loud. My god, the laughter was deafening. Never before had I laughed so hard. And the clincher, you weren’t afraid to be seen having a good time. You always acted as if no one’s looking. I heard, “If deh gonna talk, deh gonna talk. What I’m gonna do, me.”

How dare you change the lives of those just passing through?

Through the years I’ve known many you’ve changed or perhaps enlightened. We’ve come from all across the country, oilfield men and their families, teachers, students, transplants and their spouses, all not knowing that here in Cajun Country is where one might find room and once rooted, could get caught up in what I now know, is heritage.

Or possibly you’re a conspirator. You’ve learned that if we, “TRY-Parish” we will linger longer, be loved, and learn how life can be led in a place that knows what it is like to live life to the fullest. Your ancestors were driven out of their home. Maybe it’s hardwired. You don’t want others to feel unloved.

It’s quite remarkable how life works out, or doesn’t, taking us on a path with the family we’re born into, people we’re lucky enough to meet, decisions we make, or indecisions we’re fortunate enough to have.

“Damn it! This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m going to leave you, I swear, tomorrow.”

Dueling Divas

By Larry Hyatt


London, England: In an unprecedented attempt to seem once again relevant and garner more publicity after exposing her nipple and baring her butt on stage, Madonna has agreed to let bygones be by gone… days gone by, and embrace Lady Gaga as the superstar talent she is. The Madonna/Gaga tour is in now the works.

Breast falls to the floor.

After putting her breast rightfully back in her bra following an exposure incident at a concert in Istanbul, Madonna damaged more concert goers’ eyes by exposing her bare buttocks to the concert crowd in London. In an English accent, not understandable to English born citizens, Madonna praised Lady Gaga but stated she will not go so far as to wear a meat dress at the upcoming America shows as Gaga did. Rumors are swirling that Madonna has indeed tapped Chef Rachel Ray to design a rip off of a Versace design involving soup and salad.

Lady Gaga-just gaga.

Upon hearing the Material Girls’ kudos, Lady Gaga was quoted as saying, “To be accused of stealing someone’s shtick, then having them verify my place in pop culture is enough to make me want to steal more. Besides, she stole too. There are only eight notes in a musical scale and she’s used them all as well.”

The butler really did it this time.

“Good God almighty” and “For Christ’s sake” are words I remember from my childhood. My Irish/Catholic mother used them quite often to express shock and delirium. So, when she heard the Pope’s butler recently started exposing Vatican secrets she went into Novena mode. She would have done a “Way of the Cross” but she was saving that till she knew what the butler said.


What we know so far.

When you go to kiss the Pope’s ring he can make it squirt water.

When the Pope flys from country to country his hat can be used as a flotation device.

The Pope Mobile has a smoking section.

St. Peter’s Square was originally designed as parallelogram.

The Pope's staff really belonged to Claude.

When the Pope kisses the ground he’s showing reverence to that country and its people, while spitting out the in flight food.

I can hear my mom already.

Space Shuttle Enterprise Found on Blocks

By: Larry Hyatt

NEW YORK, NY- “Enterprise” the space shuttle that is to become a museum exhibit was discovered on concrete blocks this morning outside its resting place in New York City, stripped like a automobile, presumably by teens caught up in the excitement of having a piece of Americana. Gone were the wheels, seventy-five percent of the heat panels, and most of the experiments. One teen, who wishes to remain anonymous said, “You think it wooed the crowd when it flew over the city, you should have heard ‘em when we stripped that Mo-Fo in fifteen minutes. It was a work of art, man…so was the shuttle…that sucka was big.”

Kareem Ali-Ja-Wawa, the man placed in charge of watching the spacecraft said,

“I only turned my attention away for a second. I got hungry. Even in prison we got lunch.”

NASA officials have stated that they will rebuild Enterprise with parts from the shuttle Discovery and the larger pieces recovered at the scene. One NYPD spokesman said they are in control, “We are on top of it. That stolen nuclear experiment that explores Black Holes, we found that in a Starbucks.”

OBAMA TO TAP BAPTIST FOR SECRET SERVICE

By Larry Hyatt

WASHINGTON. With the President’s Secret Service now having stricter guidelines amidst the Cartagena incident, President Obama’s team has wrapped its arms around the Hooker-Gate scandal and will now use Baptist to fill the holes left by resigning Secrets Service members.

President Obama, in his enthusiasm was quoted as saying, “We need men to fill openings who won’t try to fill an opening, men in positions who are not prone to get in positions, men who get their groove on without getting a groove on. You know what I mean? ”

Aguilera “Boom Boom” Martini, spokesperson for the Cartagena council, welcomes the new regulations. “People don’t realize how hard it gets, working with government officials. Hopefully, now, I won’t have to pretend I’m not dancing.”

The Obama administration does expect only a few to apply and one unnamed official stated, “When given a chance to serve our country, our fellow men and women, and the world population as a whole, its change we can believe in.”

Say it isn't so

It’s Sunday, 11:30am and I’m compelled to make a confession. I never watch Reality TV so if you tell anyone- I kill you. I will go to your house and beat you senseless, cut off your head then kill you. I’m going to be bold, like wearing white after Labor Day or wearing socks with sandals, declaring only to followers because I think you know the true me.
I watch “Say Yes to the Dress.”
It hooked me from the first credits. The beauty of that special day along with romance and fashion, yet reeking of family conflict, shaken not stirred, friends, in-laws, loved and hated, combined with a huge monetary component, often someone else’s money, for something some of the brides have yearned years, even decades to have, some spiteful, willing to sell out a friend in a heartbeat in the name of love makes me want to grab a beer and kick back in my Lazy-Boy. Throw in the editing and production staff that are willing to manipulate people’s emotions for their own gain and it is reality television at its best.
I await, ready to answer out loud for the bride when they’re asked the big question, as if asked to marry all over again, “So, tell me, what will it be? Are you saying yes to the dress?” “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
 OMG, I got to go. It’s coming on again. It’s an episode with a drag queen bridesmaid.
I may never watch the NFL Pre-game again.

You Never Know

The sun was peaking over the line of trees and behind her left shoulder. We were in a restaurant, a morning first date, after the sex, discussing the neighbors’ kid’s playhouse. The place wasn’t much, a Waffle House. The sex and the playhouse- cool, very cool.
We were laughing about how the hell our drunken selves could get to the second floor of something out of Sesame Street. It didn’t have stairs. We had to climb up a ladder through a hole in the floor. I remember her saying something about firemen. I remember thinking, “This woman is going to get hosed.”
“So Jaycee, what do you like to do? What are you into?” I asked.
“I mostly go to work and raise my kids. It keeps me pretty busy, how about you?”
“Hmmm, let’s see, what am I into?” I contemplated. “I like current events. I do like to know what’s going on around me. I’m fairly political.”
“Oh, I never watch news.”
“Well, I also like history. If walls could talk I say. I like to imagine living in the past and seeing antiques and wonder who used them, or try to figure out how this world got to this point.”
“Good Lord, History was my worst subject in school. I hated it. I never could see having to know all that stuff.”
“I’m a Star Wars person. Not a freak about it but it did get me to start sitting in the front at the movie theatre. I thought it was cool to watch those space ships travel all the way across the screen and explode really big, right in front of me.”
“Science Fiction, no, that’s not my thing either.”
I thought, good God, this woman doesn’t care about the past, the present or the future. So, I married her.

What not to wear.

I’m perplexed.

I’ve been lucky enough to lose a bunch of weight and now I have clothes that don’t fit and would like to give to friends. The clothes are nice, clothes that cost, but my dilemma? How do I give fat clothes without letting my friend know he's a fat guy?

They’re sitting on the passenger side of my car, reminding me to not eat.

Time waits for no one.

If you’re reading this I’m already there.

It’s Sunday morning, 2am, day light savings time began and I set my clock forward 24 hours. I know it was foolish trying to malign time quantization but I felt that if I could capture and extend just a miniscule unit of life, stretch it into Monday, bypassing the Sabbath, I wouldn’t have to help my wife clean the house. I want to go fishing. I want to go fishing. I want to go fishing.

Bless me father for I have sinned.

My friend, wish me luck for with Gods speed I will return with a glorious bounty from the sea, but if not I’m sure I’ll receive a serious ass whippin’ and buy a ten pound special on crawfish.

Weird Men Walking

Isn’t it a bummer when you’re talking to someone and while they’re looking in your eyes, they suddenly make a strange face and drop dead? Don’t you hate when that happens?
I had a friend, Mr. Fred, an older guy I met while in the musical South Pacific. I played Billis, the coconut bra wearing schemer who gets people things and Fred had a small role as a Naval Officer. We had a scene together and I learned he was a really cool guy and ended up meeting Fred Jr. through doing business with the radio station.
Years later Fred had a heart attack. It rattled him mentally as well, and he started “race walking” to get back into shape, rewind his ticker, and in time really could rock around the clock. He then got me involved and we both did that race walking thing. We had our waddle on, hips shaking from side to side, arms moving back and forth, two weird men walking, and one behind the other. For inspiration I channeled John Wayne.
I got fast, could beat most, and looked like a boneless chicken. It would embarrass my wife when she saw me race and I could never beat 80 year old Fred but I trained, early in the morning darkness when radio listeners couldn’t recognize me. I looked like the Village Idiot but I liked winning the medals. Fred made me a contender.
Well, a colleague from the radio station was running at the track one evening and saw Fred walking, doing his thing, in his groove, and then come to a stop before he hit the first mile marker. When my radio mate jogged to him he said hello and mentioned that he knew me.
“Yea,” Fred said, “I know Larry? How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him out here lately.”
“Oh, he’s doing good. We spoke about you at lunch today and he told me he’d see you at the 5K Run for Excellence.”
“Yea, that’s the next big race…He knows my son, too… I’ve known Larry for years. We did a play together over at the theater, tell Larry…” Fred then grabbed his chest and down he went.
My friend immediately dialed 911 but the people who gathered couldn’t revive him. He died that evening, our group of walkers quite shocked. At the 5k Run for Excellence, BRASS, the Bayou Runners Association displayed a picture of Fred over our heads and as over a thousand people crossed that finish line he looked down on us all.
Fred didn’t collapse in front of me but it was I who he was thinking about when his heart gave out. Everyone dies, but while doing it, I’ve never heard of anyone thinking of me.
Should I hate when that happens?

Being Irish/Catholic

Dang, it’s St Patrick’s Day already. Hell, I just sobered up from Mardi gras. Being Irish/Catholic is gonna’ kill me.

Family History

My mother’s maiden name is McCleland. She was Mary Katherine McCleland, a family name spelled with one “l”. Her mother, who was a Cochran, another very Irish name, would let you have it with a shillelagh if you spelled McCleland with a double “l.” She lived to be 95, whittled to nub but her dying words were, “One L! One L! One L! Get it right!” She loved my Grandpa something fierce.
My grandmother, like my mother, had red hair to boot. Everyone in my family had red hair, I, being the only one who kept it, thus the jokes about being crimson.
“Hey, Rusty! Ya’ momma left you out in the rain?” or “I’d rather be dead than red on the head like the…” And the one that hit home, “At least a blond can get laid.” A girl’s favorite was not red headed.

It Does Set You Apart

Being a red head is rather special. Ask any of the “true”, or any woman who has ever changed their hair color three times. There is blond, brunette and redhead. Oh, it’s usually the last color they choose but eventually they’ll get there and some even stay. Introduce me to a bona fide red head and you can have first born. I’m pretty sure I can sell them.

The Big Parade

My mother’s brother, a McCleland, who has pilgrimages to Ireland to find our roots, lives on the route of a St. Patrick’s Day Parade and every year throws a one hell of a party. (I wanted him to rent a midget dressed as a leprechaun and have the little guy stand still on the lawn as a live lawn ornament. In mixed company, he did not think that was a good idea.)
This spectacular parade, made up of floats and marching groups throw green beads and trinkets, leprechaun dolls, and plenty of vegetables. Yes, at our St Patrick’s Day Parades we throw cabbage, potatoes, and carrots, everything you need for an Irish stew. People even hold out pots and anticipate the dinner that will bring them all the luck of the Irish. (In today’s economy I guess we’ll catch a lot of Brussels sprouts.)
It wouldn't matter because on this day everywhere you look you’ll see shades of green, shamrocks, men in marching groups saying, “Kiss me I’m Irish,” and hand women on the parade route a green paper carnation, or rose, or perhaps a beautiful long bead for the traditional kiss. Some are quite competitive. The women, that is.
St Patrick’s Day is always the 17th of March and always on the heels of Mardi gras. Damn, it’ fun being Irish/Catholic on a day I really enjoy having red hair.

Mardi gras

It’s said in New Orleans that Mardi gras is French for throw up in the street but for my family it was our livelihood.
We made costumes for the wealthy elite who came to our house for “fittings” to try on the elaborate costumes that tourist from all over the world would travel to see. I learned never to park in someone’s driveway because the rich thought they owned mine. I had to take three planes, a taxi and rickshaw to get home for supper but “Hey, they pay our bills.” That’s what my mother said. Actually, it was “Larry, for Christ’s sake, they pay our bills. Damn it!”
They not only paid ours they paid others in the neighborhood as well. When I came home from school ladies from the area were in the back of my house cutting large bolts of velvet, piecing together costumes, gluing rhinestones, and decorating what the riders of parades would be wearing.
I remember them being beautiful. Purple, green, and gold satins, lame’, sequin braid in different widths, all busily finding their way into something as wonderful as tradition.
Today, I love to see those costumes, vivid bursts of color, knowing what went into my sister designing them, my mother executing them, and being part of the pageantry of what we call Fat Tuesday.
All hail the wealthy elite under the starry night, or on a beautiful sunlit afternoon, for he is king, or queen, for a day.

I'm Driving Your Life Away

What really ticks me off is when a person crossing a street walks right up to your car, inches away, trying to get to the other side, as if they know by some sensory perception exactly the path my car will take as it approaches.
“You, ignorant bastard, I am only supposed to stay straight so I don’t hit your stupid ass. Wait, let me put down my beer so I can get a better grip on the steering wheel. I ought to just chuck it at you to teach you a lesson.”
People do this all the time where I live. When it’s a double lane, bigger idiots will cross into the middle of the road when I’m on the left side of the street.
“You moron, a maroon, God love you, you complete trusting son-of-a bitch.”
To put complete faith into something as dangerous as a vehicle coming down the street at 35 mph or more is unfathomable to me, and these aren’t people texting. These are people looking my way, the walking dead, looking straight at the car.
I can see their faces, sometimes groups, all smart enough to look my way but not to realize I could be yelling at my kids in the back seat, dialing a cell phone, have the sun in my eyes, or God forbid, really drinking. Then if I hit your ass at the very least I would get the blame. No questions asked.

It makes me ask the question, has anybody ever asked a chicken what is so important on the other side of a road?

Happy Valentines Day 2012

Love is in the air. I should know. They call me cupid, which rhymes with stupid, and is why we have a love/hate relationship.
It isn’t easy being me, sharpening arrows to just right thickness then firing them delicately through people’s hearts? They go astray from time to time and guess who gets the blame? You got it, Cupid here, the one you asked, sometimes prayed, to strike while the irons hot.
Let me tell you, I’ve heard them all. “Please, let him be the one,” and “Please, don’t let her leave me,” and when things don’t go your way, I take a hit. “I’ll never fall in love again,” is what you resort to. You forget that Love is grand. Love is what makes the world go round, and Love is a bottle of tequila and the hot person you just downed it with but I don’t hear you asking me for any salt and lime. Sometimes, I get no respect.
Here’s something else, Valentine’s Day is entirely too close to January 1st. The powers that be have me working overtime in winter with nothing on but a sash. It’s freezing out here and where the hell, I’m sorry, heck, am I suppose to carry a cell phone? Hey! Higher power! “Give a cherub some knickers for God’s… well, your sake.”
And, another thing, people sit there in the dark blaming me for their problems after only a few rounds at this thing called romance. Look, I’m part of something bigger, what I do is just the first step. Somewhere, somehow, I get nudged to the side. Lust creeps in and he doesn’t even wear a sash. You’d think him, you could recognize. Go figure.
Anyhoo, I know when I take aim you’re not always with the “one and only.” What you would call… I hate to say it, “soul mate.” Who the heck is? Believe me, there are many soul mates for each of you, some of you, too many. That alone should make you not take me for granted but you do, ignoring what’s right in your face, her special friend on Facebook, his co-worker, and by all means, watch out for the person listening more intently than you are. I know love can go wrong. Hello? Does a “May-December relationship” ever sound like a smart thing?
My point, never take me for granted.
Let’s be honest. For me, piercing you with the arrow is the easy part. What I long for comes when commitment takes hold. That’s when the magic starts, when that yearning inside starts to build, to consume, the desire deepening, heating to a boil, and miraculously you want to elevate yourself, give and not demand, go beyond what you thought was humanly possible, emerge empowered and try to find something in my world. I don’t blame you. From up here it’s pretty sweet.
And when everything works out, two minds, two bodies, and yes, two souls latch together, two of you become one. Then, my friend, my work is done. That’s what I seek. That is what makes me reality.
Dad gum it, I love this job.