Saturday, December 28, 2013

2013 (A short) Year in Review

By: Larry Hyatt

Obamacare was #1.
Republicans cried, “Ain’t working.”
My doctor said,
“Now, touch your toes,”
And hope we're only twerking.”

Pope Benedict resigned,
He wanted out
Said, “That is that.”
Pope Francis who’s a modern man,
Put Wi-Fi in the hat.

The Royal Family had a child,
Its gender kept hush-hush.
The potty is now regal, too.
And makes a royal flush.

The China Rover, it reached Mars,
They claim was for a stake out.
With all the great buffets down here
Seems far to go for take-out.

We lost a bunch,
Thatcher, Cory, Mandela, Gandolfini,
He’d shoot you right between the eyes
Then claim I’m not meanie.

Archie’s wife, Mr. Winters,
George Jones hung up his boots.
Ester Williams, too.
Men loved the way,
She filled those bathing suits.

The break-ups they came, many
Hollywood loose as a goose.
Chloe, Sister Kim
Their momma
Left her stretched out husband, Bruce.

Perry and the Mayer,
Mike and Catherine Zeta Jones,
But she knew he was a play-a.

Taylor Swift and Harry Stiles
Could not make amends
David and now Courtney Cox,
Officially are friends.

The world moves on
2013 is history that we’re sure.
The next year will bring crazy times,
Of that we must endure.

Our third rock it keeps spinning,
Farther into space,
May in the year 2014
You finally win the race.

May you have a wonderful and Happy New Year!

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Author Interview with Larry Hyatt

Stacie Theis@beachboundbooks 24 Dec
~Larry Hyatt~ How to Reach for the American Dream..(And Not Get It!)

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Last Night I had a Crazy Dream

I friend said they really enjoyed this last year. I thought I would repost it.
          It was cold and dark and as I walked through my neighborhood I was scared. The weather was whipping against my body.  It was the pressures of life and no one was around to help. My clothes were 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, to my left was a snowman, a pleasant Christmas decoration with a happy smile, but it upset me.
         “What? You’re mocking me, too?” I yelled. You think everyone is happy at Christmas? Wipe that stupid smile off your face!”
         I reached back, to slap that carrot nose and he came to life. I was taken aback. My eyes widened, frighten, I stood still.
         The snowman 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, accepted the scarf, and quickly proceeded to wrap it around my neck. His arm then 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, once again, noticing the cracks on the broken sidewalk.
         Onward I trekked, again keeping my head down to spare my face, when another gust of wind lifted it. There, next to me were more decorations, these of a children’s choir with hymnals in hand, dressed in early 20th century Christmas clothes, bundled and warm.
         This time 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 as the choir sang and watched as a little girl removed her earmuffs and hand them to a little boy. The little boy then removed his gloves and handed all 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 until 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 so I walked toward it, and written on the box was my name. I was shocked. I thought, “This can’t be. This isn’t real. I’ve never cared about these neighbors.”
         Suddenly, the box started moving and I retreated. It shook, violently, as if ready to erupt and with a loud pop a large “Jack in the Box,” popped out with a heavy 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, 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 was 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. I wanted more. What more can I get? Maybe, I can find that snowman again, and get his hat, too.
         Walking again with my head held high, in the distant down the street, 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 complete 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 that manger. The light upon him blinded my eyes. I shielded them, now, feeling 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 walked toward it. I reached my hand out slowly, wanting to touch the brightness, wanting to feel it's warmth, wanting to know if that light was my light. I was just about to touch it 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 Christmas 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.”
         “Wow… Well… I’m okay 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. Go back to sleep.”
         I rolled over, shut my eyes, and tried to go back to sleep, but while remembering the dream, I thought about all the wonderful things that I have in my life.
        My eyes opened again. I asked the wall, “Am I worthy?”

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Jon Claude “Bill” Dufrene Dead at age 70

Montegut, LA- World renowned, South Louisiana duck carver Jon Claude “Bill” Dufrene was found dead in his Montegut, La. work shop early Saturday morning. No foul play is expected but oddly noted was his prize carvings strategically displayed in order by the years in which he achieved his premiere successes.

His wife of 51 years, Madeleine, said, “He had been feeling under the weather but when he got up Saturday, everything seemed okay. I mean, he first was his ornery self but then I served him his Captain Crunch. Oh, he loved Captain Crunch, being a Navy man for all them years. I went check on him ‘bout 11:30 in the shed, for his lunch, and that’s when I found him dead. I called the 911 but I think he was gone because he always quickly turned off the TV when I came in. That and he had a sly, wicked smile on his face.”

Jon Claude first received recognition as a duck caller in West Monroe, Louisiana. He was a young friend with the now famous Phillip Robertson of the Duck Commander Duck Calls and reality television show Duck Dynasty. Rumor has it that at the state duck calling competition as boys, Jon Claude was a clear winner, but Phillip got the first prize. When the two young men were on stage to receive the blue and red ribbons a fight ensued, Jon Claude taking an extreme shot to the mouth. Jon Claude’s lip was split and required stitches. After removing those stitches, Jon Claude had a massive scar and because of that injury he couldn’t achieve the sound he needed to call ducks. Jon Claude bitterly quit the sport. Some say he would never be the same.

But, the love of water fowl hunting consumed him. He picked up a knife and paint brush and started to carve while watching the PBS painter Bob Ross on TV, learning the strokes needed to be “happy, happy, happy.” Something he coined on the microphone that night at that fateful competition as a boy.  

He started winning numerous local, state, and national duck carving contests and in 1995 voted top five in the world, his forte being the bill, thus, the nickname. His peers would say that he always achieved the perfect duck bill.  He was quoted after a long night of drinking at BJ’s Lounge, “Man, it’s the part the duck talks with, damn it. The curves, the seamless line into the face, you gotta get that right. Let’s say the duck wanted to call people. He’d use a people call, right? But if his bill ain't right, if he can't communicate, he can't speak to his people friends, his buddies as a boy. Look, I love making all my special little birds but I can’t talk to them, not the right way. Damn it, you don’t understand. I can’t use that telepathy.”

The locals loved him, too, always going to shows and giving pointers, never too tired to speak to the young people to inspire and keep the art of duck carving alive, and never too afraid to take his prize carvings out in the field.

Jon Claude once said, “At dawn, with the sun coming up, I like to look at my art work out on the pond. I imagine they could fly, take off with the others that came in. Well, the one’s that didn’t get shot. They would fly, high and away, and come back next year, my friends that I created, with their perfect little bills. They’ll speak to me, tell me of their adventures, and I’ll understand. Sometimes I cry at night because I can’t answer their questions.”

Services will be Tuesday.


Sunday, December 1, 2013

Cyber Monday

By: Larry Hyatt

(Sung to the tune: Monday, Monday
By: The Mamas and the Papas)

Cyber Monday (Ba-da ba-da-da-da)
Don’t need a tree (Ba-da ba-da-da)
Computer all day, (Ba-da ba-da-da)
At work I’ll be. (Ba-da da-da)

Oh, Cyber Monday,
I’ll be joining, millions, clicking with glee…..
I’ll be on line; I’ll save the time,
But I’ll pay the fee (Ba-da ba-da-da-da)

Every other day (every other day)
Every other way in the week is fine… yeah.
But when Cyber Monday comes (but cyber Monday comes)
I won’t be standing
In some freakin’ line.

Cyber Monday (Ba-da ba-da-da)
Won’t spend on gas (Ba-da ba-da-da)
Cyber Monday (Ba-da da-da-da)
Kids, no pain in the ass. (Ba-da da-da-da)

Cyber Monday (Ba-da da-da-da)
Just love that day (Ba-da da-da-da
Cyber Monday (Ba-da da-da-da)
Is Christmas in decay? (Ba-da da-da-da)

Oh, Cyber Monday,
No work done fun day,
Oh, Cyber Monday.

Saturday, November 30, 2013

Black Friday

She was late to the bargains. Last night was the worst 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 can't flinch or it's 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 a 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.  Of course, standing in the garden section he could have blended right in. 

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 Yeah,” she smiled. “The 350… gotta have it… transforms them zom-bo's 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.”

“Hi, 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. Then 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 closely into his eyes, “Thank you… They could have hurt me.”

Lips, inches apart, he told her, “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!”

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Thanks for the Wishes

Thank you for the birthday wishes but instead of gifts this year, please donate a goat, sheep, or bison, in my name, to a third world country through the Heifer Foundation.

Or, give the perfect gift and buy “How to Reach for the American Dream… (and not get it.) By: Larry Hyatt .

Available on, Barnes and Nobles, or Muddy Bayou Press.
Click on picture to left.
Now please disregard this shameless promotion.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

60 Seconds Inside a Bimbo's head-Thanksgiving

Oh hell, my boyfriend wants me to go to his family’s house for Thanksgiving…My sugar daddy is going to be pissed…I could say I’m not hungry, but I used that last year…I know, I could say I don’t want to gain weight… No, he already knows I’m on Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, and Nutrisystem… Nutrisystem, I like that one...Marie Osmond is much prettier, now...She really should have won on Dancing with the Stars…Shit, What do I do? I don’t want to lose my boyfriend. He’s young. He’s hot. He’s really good in bed… I don’t want to lose my sugar daddy either. He’s umm…umm…umm…he’s, rich….It’s like that that Chinese phrase…One’s my bling and the other’s my bang…Oh, geez, what am I to do? Piss off my boyfriend or piss off my sugar daddy?…Either way, someone is going to be really mad…I know, I'll flip a coin and do heads or tails...One in the afternoon the other at night...Someone gets head and someone gets tail…I sure have a lot to be thankful for.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Saints Cheerleader Bullies Uncovered in NFL Football Scandal

NEW OREANS, LA- Recent reports of the NFL bullying scandal has prompted us to look further into the NFL Football League and have uncovered, with hidden cameras, a bigger bullying scandal inside the Saintsation locker room, exposing a mean girl environment deeply hidden inside their sisterhood.

The video recordings of these professional NFL Cheerleaders engaging in misconduct, has created a firestorm in such places as Hooters, Twin Peaks, and the new “Thanks for the Mammary” restaurant in Houma, causing wait staff to pick sides.

Upon seeing the grainy recording, Lotta Upfront, Regional Manager of the “Thanks For,” in Houma, and former Saintsation, said, “Oh, please. Girls will be girls and if the rookies can’t take a little prodding from the veterans they should get out of the kitchen. Or, maybe they should find a man, a kitchen, and stay in it.”

Teal Green, a Hooter Girl, who recently quit the squad, said, “The trash talk was very detrimental. I can dance. I’m pretty. I’m special. I like myself, and I will find someone who can love me for me….That’s all I have to say… Excuse me… I feel a good cry coming on.”

When confronted with the report, an official from the Saints organization replied, “We are looking into the matter, but we really don’t concern ourselves with what happens with the Saintsations, unless of course it involves a paternity suit. But, we would like to know how the hell you got that tape. Officer, over here, please.”

This and more later today…


Sunday, November 3, 2013

Her Candy is Gone

Her candy is gone
Now I am screwed.
The Snickers,
Those 3 guys
And the nougat, too.

I did probe.
I did squander.
Her bag I did launder.
My granddaughters pissed
I thought I was stronger.

What was I thinking?
She knew what she had
She counted each morsel
As Paw Paw I’m bad.

The wrappings what got me
Deep in the trash.
She noticed,
She yelled,
“Who took my stash?”

The screams,
The horror,
The pint sized
Was deafening.
Help me,
I'll run for the border.

But wait, she says, “Paw Paw
I think I now could.
You missed one, a Hershey’s,
It tastes, oh so good.”

“I forgive you my Paw Paw,
But don’t be a repeater,
Cause I’ll cut off your hands
If you do it on Easter.”

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Oh Crap.

            Today I’ll have a book signing. Well, somewhat. All the Muddy Bayou Press authors will be at Southdown Market Place with their books and latest releases. The event is rather large and close friends, people I haven’t seen in quite some time, and listeners who didn’t know I wrote a book might attend. I’m excited. I’ll have a pen. (Last night I kept dreaming I was late. Obstacles kept keeping me from my destination. You with me here?)

            I’ve made personal appearances thousands of times. Yes, I said that correctly, thousands of times, yet I couldn’t sleep last night because of today. Working in radio puts egos in check. Well, most. I’ve learned this through the years. You make plenty of friends in radio. It won’t make you a star.

            When I go to a grand opening of the new floral department in the latest grocery, no one will attend to see if my petunia is in bloom. They might run into me and find out how the red fern grows, but the rose one seeks will be because of its charm, its grace, its personality.

            A star is a person who attracts people just by being there. Of course, if no one shows, I can blame it on the other authors.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Big and Tall

            The other day I was shopping at Houma’s Big and Tall Men’s Store. I tried on one of their suits. I liked the way it fit but the clerk said, “You’re not tall enough to wear that suit.” I thought, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            It was way too long in the sleeves, and the pants had an extra two inches, but that’s how I roll. That’s how I make my statement. You heard of “Pants on the ground.” I go after “Hems, on the floor.” I also call my look, “Hands up the sleeve.” So I’m suing.

            That clerk had no right to tell me that I can’t buy his merchandise. This is America, last time I checked, a free country. I’m being denied my right as a short person to purchase what that store has to offer.

            That clerk accused me of, “SWTS- Shopping while too, short.” I plan on owning that entire store when I’m done, and my lawyer, he’s a big ass Mo-Fo, and he’s going to be the best dressed fat lawyer in Houma, I mean, round lawyer. Take that, suckers. You pissed off the wrong guy.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

60 Seconds Inside a Blonde's Head-Halloween

By:  Larry Hyatt

Wow, it’s Halloween, already? What will I do this year? I already did the sexy policeman, the sexy fireman, and the sexy construction worker…  Maybe, this year I can actually dress up like one of those people… No, none of those guys even called me back… The jerks… I thought they liked my Lady Ga Ga costume…I know, I can go as Miley Cyrus…no, that wouldn’t work…all the sluts will have their tongues hanging out this year…I could go as a pretty princess, that would be different…It could be like when I was a little girl…I loved those days…Trick or treating in the neighborhood with my mom and dad...Dad would hug me, calling me his little princess, mom, smiling really bright…We held hands and walked from house to house…I miss those days…That’s what I’m going to be. I’m going to be a princess…a pretty princess…with a long beautiful flowing dress… cut short to show my thighs…but not too high, because I’ll be a princess…and a top that’s cut low, but not to low, so people won’t think I’m a sleaze…and I’ll wear my thigh high boots, because everybody knows I can rock a sexy pair of thigh high boots…and if I sleep with  a sexy policeman, or fireman, or construction worker…he’ll know I’m a lady…because I’m a princess, and he’ll call. Yes, he will. He’ll call.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

I Was a Bad Ass for a Week

         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, for two weeks, being known as a bad ass was a very cool feeling.

          I was working in a night club as an MC/Entertainer, when the owner, and one of the bouncers who everyone said was a “real bad-ass,” came into the office. When they entered, I was standing by the desk, filling out winner's sheets for a Hawaiian Tropic Beauty Contest. (Steve is the owner, Joe is the bad ass, and it’s not their real names.)

          “Look, Joe. I don’t care. It’s no one’s fault.”

          “But, Steve, I didn’t hit the customer. 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, okay, Joe. Just leave it alone.”

          Things were getting heated and making me uncomfortable. I pretended to ignore the commotion, looking down at the desk and writing.

          Joe went on, “Steve, I didn’t do it!”

          “It’s, okay Joe. I have too much to do right now and it doesn’t really matter!”

          “Well, I didn’t do anything! That’s bullshit, Steve!”

          “Damn it, Joe!”

          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 tried to calm the situation.  
          Before I could, Steve punches the tough guy Joe in the face, and Joe storms out with a big whelp on his eye. Steve and I, who are very good friends, started to wonder, “How the hell did that just happen?”

          I finish the winner’s sheets, announce the winners, and a lovely lady in a bikini got 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.”


          “Yeah, Steve and Larry.”

          “Larry Hyatt?”

          “Yeah, Steve and Larry.”

          “No shit? Really, Larry Hyatt?"


          Joe then went further on to the doorman and told him, “Steve and Larry just jumped me in the office.”

          “No shit, Larry?”


          “Larry Hyatt?”


          “Wow, Larry Hyatt.”

          Joe then went to the parking lot and told the head valet, with a slight twist in the story. “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, “I figured that, 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 followed the cop toward the door and with all of my friends following, wondered, “What the hell did I 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 bad ass mother.

          For two weeks after that, I brandished a banana that I carried in my sport coat. For the first time I had a “rep” and it felt good.

          Until, you’ve been beaten really bad for the color of your skin, or the way you talk, or maybe you cooked dinner with too much salt, or you found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or you’re a defenseless 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.

Now available in paperback or download on

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Thanks for Inspiration.

Since the age of five I've been a performer. I've written radio comedy, sketch comedy and plays, produced television and radio, worked as a creative director for an arts and entertainment magazine, and published numerous humorous articles and essays. Add appearing in operas, musicals, and a movie, and one would wonder how someone who has entertained so much, has so little. Well, I'll tell you...but wait, that would be stupid, because I wrote the book on having what it takes, and now want you to buy my book on knowing what it doesn't.
I didn't want to write the worn out story of a drug induced rise and fall. This is a comedic "never risen," written to inspire, teach, and explain that the paths of dreamers make many turns, go winding through many roads, but then ultimately detour, to the highway of your heart.
Thank you followers. Thank you very, very, much.
download or paperback.


Sunday, September 22, 2013

Sunday, September 15, 2013

I've Been Out-ed

 Busy, Busy. The book comes out October 1st. This is a repost.

           I received in the mail recently a letter asking if I wanted to buy a subscription to Out magazine, a magazine highlighting the gay and lesbian lifestyle. I thought WTF.

          The second thing that came to mind was, “Why the hell would I get this? Did someone do this as a joke?” That led to, “My God, how many women does a guy have to sleep with to prove he’s not gay?” And, finally, “I’m married, for Christ’s sake.”

          I walked into the kitchen and said with a chuckle, “Hey, Honey, look at this. It’s a notice to buy a subscription to Out. What’s that supposed to mean?”

          “Well, let’s see Larry. You get Men’s Health, Men’s Fitness, Men’s Journal, and GQ.”

          I thought for a moment and said, “Wow, if I was looking to sell gay magazines, I guess I would have sent this, too.” Actually, I think it was the Details magazine that put the publisher over the edge but my wife wouldn’t have thought of that.

          I follow current events. Thus, I have an enormous array of “infomo” periodicals; ever letting my goss-sip-o, know what’s going on in my Shangri-La. (Did that sound gay? If it didn’t, throw three snaps back.)

          It comes from doing radio. I have to know when a celebrity, politician, or everyday knucklehead gets his ass in a crack, so I can belittle them the next morning. Plus, I like to be in the know.

          The Details and Men’s Journal is only 10 dollars a year, and if I can get one joke every 30 days for less than buck, I’m good.

          Men’s Heath is my favorite, tons of useful stuff, fitness, relationships, cuisine, two or three photos of sexy women, the picture in the educational sex video ad in the back, all done with humorous and thoughtful headlines and stories I can read in the bathroom. Men’s Fitness was because I like Men’s Heath so much I get through it in less than a month, and it was added inspiration to keep me exercising.

          I like to read, or is it the knowledge I crave? If words are close I’ll glance at them. I’ll tilt my head and be nosey.

          Are we what we read?

          I’ve been reading Men’s Health for so long, I should be fit enough to be on the cover. I guess I’m I not reading hard enough?

          I read newspapers to get the news, billboards to see manipulation, plays to study dialogue, shampoo bottles when nothing else is there, and street signs from far away to see if my eyes are going bad. I’m a junky.

          I did a running comedy bit on TV where I get footage of light up signs with the letters missing, signs that end up spelling something unintended. When the “S” is out on a Shoney’s sign, it could be a strip club called “honey’s.” When the “Ch” is out on Chick-fil-a, it’s “ick-fil-a.” When the “C” is out at Tony’s Canal Gas, it’s…you get the picture.

           Through theatre and radio, I’ve become in tuned with the spoken word. I studied accents, fluctuation, and the obligatory emphatic pause. Now, it’s the language as written. Are two of my worlds colliding? I hope, coming together.


Sunday, September 8, 2013

I've been enjoyably busy. My book comes out October 1st. Please look for it.

This was something I thought was fun awhile back.

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, quickly raised their hands, a bit smug from the years of self-reliance. The less prepared ones, unsure of such a question and not wanting to be called upon, waved timidly.

“Pick me! Pick me! Miss Renfro, pick me!”

      But, Brian, staring out the window, didn’t raise his hand, fixed on what was going on just yards away.

      Noticing, Miss Renfro 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?”

      “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.”

       “He ain’t going to be smarter than a 5th grader.”

        Brian's attention was now back to where it belonged. He closed his eyes and started to feel the flush of embarrassment. “I’m such an idiot,” he thought to himself and sunk down into his desk.

       Walking home, books in hand, and a map of Florida folded in his back pocket, 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, she lived in an odd dilapidated place, no curtains or things that said a lady lives here. She asked Brian, “What was it that had you so fixed on outside of the classroom?”

       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 cemeteries are not to be distributed. I will make sure you don’t do it.”

       Mayor Roy then said, “I don’t care if a thousand ghosts are going to get in my way, that land is mine.” Then 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 a flutter. 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.”

      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 told her 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?”

Saturday, August 17, 2013


           I’m Curiosity. I killed the cat. I didn’t mean to. I swerved to miss a dog.

            There I was, driving at the bottom of the tunnel in Kat-mandu with my girlfriend Apathy, and oh boy what fun that was.

            I remember asking, “What the hell is a dog doing down here?” She said, “I don’t give a shit,” and I swerved into the other lane but a cat was there and I nailed it. I freaked out. She, of course didn’t. 

            The sound was deafening, a cat squeal, and being me I was curious so I stopped for a cats scan.

            I got out of the car and walked back to the catastrophe and as I was looking over the mangled cat, the guy who was in the car behind me thought that I had crushed the cat on purpose, which is how I ended up with the rap. He told somebody, who told somebody, and now I can’t go anywhere. Well, anywhere you find cats.

            It wasn’t a good day. There, on the ground was a dead cat and when people started to gather I asked Apathy to go get something to discard the carcass. What the hell does she come back with? It was a freakin’ shopping bag.

            Look, I got a lot of stuff to be curious of and killing a cat is way down at the bottom of the page, but in no way, am I going to be seen putting a cat, “In the bag.” I’m not smitten for a kitten, so I got out of there.

            Driving away I thought Inquisitiveness should have been behind the wheel.  Maybe he would have just leaned forward into the dashboard, trying to figure out what to do, and now the catch phrase would be “Inquisitiveness killed the dog.” But, that wouldn’t have worked. Dog gone it. Oh, wait.

            I wish I didn’t kill something, especially something so mysterious, something so like me. I’ve always wanted to know what makes a cat misunderstood. What is it that makes a cat climb a tree and laugh when humans call the fire department and I’d really love to know what happen to all the old cats, the ones in those pictures playing with yarn, or the ones at my girlfriend’s house looking from across the room thinking, “You’re curious but I’m staying here with Apathy.”

            Garfield, Felix, Wilshire, and especially that black cat with the wide eyes that go back and forth, the one with the clock in its belly, what is it that makes you tick?
            We may never know. I’m sorry, but then again,  It’s a dog eat dog world.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

60 Seconds Inside a Blonde's Head

I can’t believe I’m at baseball game…Baseball’s OK but it’s too damn hot… At least my date is hot…and so are the players… Athletes are hot... I must admit though, I am a little confused about the spitting. I guess all that running makes you want to spit…The scratching of their crotch is a bit weird, too... but then again it’s not really a scratch. It’s more like a push… to the side…a fix…it could be a grab… I guess them things get in the way a lot…Some more than others… but you can’t leave home without it…Sort of like a purse… Where is my purse? There it is, by my feet …I should have worn sneakers. These stilettos are tough to get around in but then again, they do make my legs look long…and hot…Damn, it sure is hot. ..This guy I'm with should go get me a daiquiri… I can’t believe I’m at a baseball game.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Detroit Rock City

Detroit Rock City is a Kiss song,
And now they should kiss
The city,
It’s gone.

The haves, the have-nots
They all had their way.
No sand in the sand box
Now no one can play.

No money.
No fame.
Who is to blame?
It’s always the same
Shame. Shame. Shame.

They better think twice
Nothings for free.
Gomer Pyle would say

Saturday, July 13, 2013

The Running of the Gay Bulls

It’s morning, the first day of the famed Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain. The city is ecstatic but Norman, the legendary lead bull from America is not in the mood. Miguel, his friend, standing next to the bed is ready for the day’s events.

Miguel: Rise and shine, you big burly bully beast! I made breakfast!
Norman: Good God, give it a rest, Miguel. I’m not ready for this.
Miguel: Now, don’t be a Grumpy Gus. Not today. Today is a big day and you always amaze the crowd on your first day.
Norman: Yea, yea. So, I’ll get to stick a horn up a Spaniards ass.
Miguel: But you love that, Norman. You’re the best. People from all over the world love you. Bulls, young and old, love, admire, and respect the great “Gore-Man Norman.”
Norman: I’m tired Miguel. I don’t want to do it anymore.
Miguel: Are you crazy? Yoo hoo, world! Miguel calling! He goin’ crazy, again! Now, you get up and get that big beautiful hind quarter out of that bed.

Miguel grabs the covers and throws them off Norman.

Miguel: Whoa. Well hello, there. What do we have here? You better hide that thing and save it for the runners. You don’t want to scare them away before they blow the whistle.
Norman: Leave me alone.
Miguel: Oh no, not this again.
Norman: I’m tired of living a lie, Miguel. Look, I know who I am. I’m the biggest, the baddest bull at the premier bull event in the world.  I’ve bucked every cowboy in every rodeo back home. I’ve been a stud for every cow who works for Chick-fil-A. Miguel, I’ve never told you this, but humans once made me do things with that cow who jumped over the moon that no bull should have ever had to do, but still, after all I’ve done for them, I can’t be with the one I want and tell the world who I am.
Miguel: I know Norman. I want people to know us for who we are too. But you’ll get your chance if that’s what you want. Times are changing. You’ll see. Now please, go ahead, eat your breakfast. You’ll need your strength. We can talk later.

(Miguel walks to door, stops, and turns to Norman.)

Miguel: You know Normy. This is the world we live in, for you to not gore the silly humans, who spend good money to be gored by the best there is, would be, how do they say, inhuman. You go and gore today my friend. You are… my exquisite beast.

(Miguel leaves and Norman says to the empty room)

Norman: I am a beast, a beast of burden.

 To be continued…

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Francois Ferinand "Fuzzy" Foret- Dead at age 104

Montegut, LA - Fuzzy Foret, the legendary trapper from Montegut, La., known by admirers for his bare hands wrangling of everything from marsh hens to the mystical Nutria-Man, has died at 104.

Survived by his wife, children, illegitimate offspring, grandchildren, great-grand children (with too many baby-daddies to list here) we acknowledge the passing of a man larger than the trapping lifestyle itself.

Fuzzy, also known for his animal trapping radio show on KJIN-AM is said to have laid the ground work for sports shows such as American Sportsman, American Gladiator, and the reality show Swamp People.

Not much of a family man but certainly a lady’s man, Fuzzy often got drunk after a long day at work, or night if he was poaching, spending many hours in Dupree’s Bar. (I met Fuzzy there as a young reporter. He had a wad of hundreds and three women on each arm that had all their teeth. Fuzzy had lost all but two of his in a string of bar fights but the residents loved him. He was very charismatic.)

Local legend has it that Fuzzy once trapped the mystical Nutria-Man, the story brought to life in the acclaimed motion picture Terror in the Swamp.

The story passed down for generations states that Fuzzy was out early or up late, one of the two. But, he does remember while checking his lines seeing the beast walking in a clearing of cypress. Fuzzy was so excited; he gave chase leaving his gun in the pirogue. Nutria-Man, alarmed, got snared in one of the lines. Not wanting the beast to get away Fuzzy jumped on the giant rodent and wrestled him to the murky water but didn’t realize Nutria-Man would over power him, take all his clothes, and leave him for dead. Well, that’s what he said when the game wardens found him naked by his boat.

It’s not to say that Fuzzy didn’t have his problems. His love for the water sparked him to join the navy but his career was cut short when on the way to Houma,  the city close to his home, he stopped to help a sugar cane farmer whose wagon was broken down on the side the road. Unbeknownst to him, Fuzzy had had a liaison with the farmer’s daughter. A fight ensued and Fuzzy was beat almost to death. He recovered, but from then on he didn’t seem to think straight, thus the nickname Fuzzy.

Yes my friend, gone is a legend, François Ferdinand “Fuzzy” Foret. On his passing, Troy Landry from the hit television show Swamp People said, “It’s a sad day. The marsh will never smell the same.”