Where is the 409?

I’m not obsessive about cleaning. If its true we come from dust under my bed alone would be mankind’s new beginning. I wouldn’t even want God to take it on. He would have to rest on the eight-day and throw the workweek completely out of whack.
My wife on the other hand likes to keep the place presentable, more so when I tick her off. But you see I’ve changed and the house is a freaking wreck. To get things back to normal I have to man up or start to piss her off again.
Before we were married I’d make her so mad she would clean the tops of the cans in the pantry. She’d take them out, one by one, wipe them down and put them back with labels facing the front. The molding on the ceiling shined, fans, windowsills, cabinets, all where spotless. When the dog saw her open a roll of paper towels he would run to the corner of the room, fall to his stomach and put both paws over his eyes. And, it was her dog.
I did look into her actions and friends said it’s a way a gaining control over ones surroundings, to focus and possibly get passed it while not beating the hell out me, which she wanted to do but would have gotten her arrested.
“Let’s see, beat the hell out of my boyfriend and get arrested or have a fragrant smelling house? Hmmm. I really, really, do want to beat the hell out of my boyfriend.”
She went with the smell of spring.
I once thought a great joke would be to clean the entire house from top to bottom then go fishing or play golf when her family had a birthday, let her come home and have nothing to do but think of me but realized that’s what cleaning the house was about in the first place. It was, to not think of me.
Well, what’s a man to do now that he’s changed?
I am no longer a work in progress and have the perfect relationship. She does her thing… and I do hers. The dishes are washed, crumbs aren’t in the sofa and the Campbell Soup labels stare me in the face. But now I’m not doing it fast enough. My change has come with consequences.
I just might have to go fishing this week. Her cousin that I don’t like is having a birthday.

Vote!

I haven’t written about politics because I figured you didn’t want to hear more mundane views, but with the economy, the banking disaster, the bail outs, the threat of Iran, Health Care and climate change, I feel compelled to jump on the soap box and take sides on something so vital to our health and well being and say, “Damn! They have some hot chicks in politics these days.”
Today we have female politicians that look like Sarah Palin, Barbara Bachman, and Michelle Obama, ladies who take care of themselves and know looking good is important. I have to admit, I wouldn’t run from Mary Landrieu at a crawfish boil if she sucked the heads and pinched my tail.
Well now that they’re in, the first thing the good-looking politicians should do, is to get rid of the ugly people. The homeless will always be here. They need to get rid of the homely. Actually, they’re starting with themselves.
Scott Brown the senator from Massachusetts posed semi-nude for Cosmopolitan in 1982. That, I am certain got him more votes then not and when the girls talked about it on “The View” and conveyed how hot they thought he was, I’m sure millions of women goggled the image and saw for themselves he would be an upstanding senator.
Posing for cheesecake photos wouldn’t work for female politicians. It’s a double standard.
I wonder what would happen if Sarah Palin asked an up and coming female republican to run along with her for president. A fiery redhead would be ideal. I would call it, “The Mary Ann-Ginger Ticket.”
Hillary Clinton should run and choose a hot blond, female democrat to run along with her. Hell, the whole staff could be blond and we can call them Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends.
I like my politicians to be attractive. They don’t have to be but it’s a plus and with television it’s almost certain that they look good. Not necessary “hot” but good.
Look at the work done on older politicians. I can’t blame them and if they go under the knife, especially while they’re young, we won’t notice the difference, because the trick to plastic surgery is to start young and hope you don’t live long enough to look like you’re stretched tighter then a dollar in today’s economy.
I hope I live long enough to see Sarah Palin at eighty and the on going tweaks to her face she would have had done. I guess I could compare it to Joan Rivers. You see I’ve never seen an old looking Joan Rivers. I know Joan should look much older but without seeing a transformation backward I have nothing to go with.
Hot politicians are here to stay and maybe those young ladies, in the “Girl’s Gone Wild” video will not he hampered by the decision to enter politics and continue to raise there top and yell very enthusiastically, “Woo! Woo! Par-ta! Woo! Woo! Girl’s Gone Wild.”
May it never come between them, their hotness, and being a pillar of their community. This is Louisiana; if it doesn’t, the dead guys would give 'em the vote.

My one act play is a finalist in a competition.
If you would like to read it, I'll send it to you.

Maybe it's a higher power.

In the last three weeks I could have given Austin Powers a run for his line, “Hey baby.” Lately, my mojo has been kickin’ ass.
Three weeks ago I wrote about radio and someone noticed. Two week ago my doctor told me my colon was cleaner then a saint’s before they enter politics.
Then last week, after gloating about the blog awards, I was called and offered a job in broadcasting that I couldn't refuse.
Now this week, Point of View published one of my articles, and the piece about the movie, “Eat, Pray Love.”
Dang, I’m having a good week, to the 2nd power.
Now I’m scared.

Radio takes focus. To have a good joke pop in the brain, travel to your tongue and complete the process, understandably, is exhilarating. It’s to throw a strike or find the perfect word that puts the period at the end of a great sentence, to lean back from the keyboard, fold your arms and smile. It’s to reach over, grab the glass and take a sip.
It’s that sentence I want to find. It’s that story I what to tell. Does my brevity have a place along side fiction? We'll see.


Seven things about myself was something I had to get to, since Donna Hole http://donnahole.blogspot.com/ passed it to me.


1. I’ll list the arts together, go a step further and say I like a good show. Being in one is even better. I once played the lead in a musical and the character; “The Mute,” won the “People’s Choice Award.” (True story)
2. I like history, reminiscing with family, and get a kick out of learning things about the past that I didn’t get the first time. “Really? No kidding? No wonder that happen.”
3. I’m a morning person. I like to get after it, and can get an edge on my fellowman without screwing him over. “A new day and what it may bring,” I find that kind’a cool.
4. I like hamburgers, with cheese, no tomato, but add ketchup.
5. I had to take remedial English in college and later owned a magazine.
6. I regret not learning about computers.
7. I fall asleep on my back with my hands folded on my chest. People will look at me when I’m dead and say he looks like he’s sleeping.

The POV stories.

http://www.povhouma.com/Articles/2010/10_October/ov_04_1010.html
http://www.povhouma.com/Articles/2010/10_October/lv_11_1010.html


For those interested go to http://www.c1075.com/ and listen M-F, from 9am- 3pm. Click on "listen here" and it plays the audio. I will not sound like you would think and will never look like people think I sound.
People never hear red hair.

I had a dang good week.

I was quite flattered recently to receive an award that considered me versatile. I only thought I was funny. Donna felt differently and now my posture is better while writing.
I was then presently surprised to be given a star, because in Kittie’s eyes, I deserved it. Well Kitty, I’m going to honor you in the next metaphor blogfest and say, “I wish I could travel like Kittie Howard on a bad day.” I’m putting that star on my monitor, top, right corner.
For past weeks I’ve been perplexed trying to figure out what to do about the Simplistic Award from Summer. Getting the Simplistic Award and then putting those squares on the blog could go against simplicity. Summer’s Blog has a great name but I could never call my blog, “My Inner Fairy.”
Wait a second. I have a gold star on my monitor.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I’ve read blogs where support doesn’t come from those close, and look to other blogs for reassurances. I’m one of those. I’ve seen the eyes roll, heard “whatever” and wonder why the hell do I even tell them, yet still continue. I’ve also seen stated that writers are fearless. I now feel emboldened knowing I’m a versatile star that keeps it simple.

This week I’m going to figure out how to get URL’s and badges on Hy Hatt.

I might even throw something in that moves. Naa.

Colon-o

In the last two weeks I have spent more days in doctor’s offices then I’ve spent in the last twenty years. I never get sick. I have a two thousand dollar deductible.
You see, I fractured my foot twenty years ago and it recently started to screw with me. I wanted to find out why but the doctor would have given me a blood thinner. Being 49, I was scheduled to have a Colon-o-stick it up the what’s it… and I wouldn’t have been able take the medicine for my foot.
With my family history of colon cancer, mother, father, and “prodding” by my siblings to have the procedure, I hobbled to the hospital on a broken foot.
While lyin in the bed, turned to the left, it came to me.
“I could save two grand by sticking my foot up my ass.”


PS.

The bad news is I have 30 to 40 more years to live.

Was I a writer then?

That morning I wrote one-liners, a time when my story arcs went from the first word to about the fifteenth, unless I could say it quicker. Brevity is what I lived for.
The morning was routine. I pushed the buttons and played the hits, cranked the volume, sang along, talked time and temperature, and remember saying the days would be getting cooler. The fall festivals were coming up and that Labor Day I had visited The Shrimp and Petroleum Festival, even commented, it was that weekend’s crustacean station.
About 7:45, anticipating the 7:50 break, Dr. Don Thomas from C-107 FM, opened the door and said, “Larry, a plane just hit one of the twin towers.”
I was puzzled and sure I had that expression on my face, when I said, “How the hell could someone hit that thing?”
He said, “Really. I don’t know,” and went back into the other room, separated by a big window that allows us to see each other. Dr. Don now had the television turned to the news. There was the tower, burning.
At the 7:50 break I mentioned the incident to the listeners and said we’ll have more news as it develops. I knew the AP wire would have the information any second and I went back to playing the hits with my eyes glued on the television through the glass.
A few minutes after 8 o’clock in between two songs, I had to give the ID, “The New 96.7 THE BUZZ, KBZZ, Morgan City, Houma, Thibodaux, and when I turned off the microphone Dr. Don opened the door and said, “Larry, Another plane just hit the other tower.”
“What? My god. That’s not an accident.”
He said, “I know. We’re being attacked.”
My colleagues were now getting to work, filled with anxiety from hearing it on the way. Everyone was congregating on our side of the building, perplexed, amazed and bit scared. There were now close to ten people in Dr. Don’s control room watching the footage on TV.
When the initial shock wore off even sales people pulled together to get the disc jockeys in the building the information to inform listeners. All the announcers were called to come to work. It reminded me of what we do when a hurricane hits but this was different. This wasn’t an act of God, something crazy Cajuns laugh at.
After each song I gave another report trying not to be an alarmist. Then, about 8:40, the plane hits the Pentagon. That rattled everyone. South Louisiana could be a target for terrorism. Much of the oil in America comes from our area. Hit us, you hit the energy supply.
The music stopped completely and as the information kept rolling in I’m sure more televisions than radios were on that day, but radio played its part, maybe just to get away from the horrible pictures.
Fun had no place. For days information came to us but how could I talk of the lives lost then say, “If you’d like to go to the movies this weekend be my 6th caller.” The whole nation was in shock.
I got off the air at 3pm and had a weird idea. I rolled up all the AP wire paper, its long and short lengths, ripped off the printer, with my notes on the edges, edit marks and things to say, put a rubber band around it, and told myself, I’m going to keep this and in ten years I’ll look at it again. When I got home I threw it in my box of memories. It’s still there, with an at least nine-year-old rubber band. I saw it when I moved four weeks ago.
I have a MS that I’m 99.9999% ready to query, a WIP with two chapters completed, and I want to read my 9/11 notes and maybe find something in there.
One-liners were much easier.

You're just not good enough. (repost)

Busy this weekend. Good busy.


I recently took part in my community’s Big Read and read the book “The Great Gatsby.” A week later in a book discussion we talked about the themes of betrayal, infidelity, excess, the roaring 20’s, how the rich behave, escaping the past, and other literary staples that have made the book stand the test of time but what caught my attention was the theme, “I’m sorry, you’re not good enough.”
The fact that “rich girls don’t marry poor boys” is a hard lesson learned by a poor boy in love but is there a harder lesson learned by a rich girl who marries for love and lives poor?
I wasn’t good enough for someone when I started my career. She was beautiful, funny and charming and I’d like to think I was at least one of those since she did date me. I wanted to take her for a ride, to the top, then the bottom, over and over again.
She didn’t say to me I wasn’t good enough but I knew deep down she was waiting for something better. She wasn’t going to wait for me to “make it.” She went on to marry the son of one of the biggest grocery chains in the south, a move well played. I wonder if she stays up at night thinking of me? Just kidding.
I’ve also been on the other side. Since my early 20’s crush I’ve run across women who thought the world of me but didn’t think they were what I wanted. In one scenario, it was her mother. I thought her family was freaking crazy and I didn’t want to get involved with a bunch of nut cases that scared the hell out of me, even though this time she thought I was the person who was handsome, funny and charming. Here’s the bitch, I was unaware of the fact that with her I wouldn’t have had to make it to the top. I could have been me, mediocre.
She ended up leaving her crazy-ass family, knowing they weren’t good enough either. She also believed in the next guy, his ability, and started a business with the gentleman who really loved her and is now rich. For me, another lesson learned. I’m still working on my career.
I have a friend who is good looking, funny and charming, who, years ago, was crazy about a woman, willing to do anything for her. She kept telling him she didn’t want to have a boyfriend, just a friend, a close companion, a guy to do things with, and he hung in there and gave no pressure. He was madly in love and just willing to be by her side. She must have known and had one of the best excuses that keeps us men at bay, “I’ve just gotten out of a relationship.”
“Hey! Honey! You’ve been my friend for six months. We’re technically dating, throw the dog a bone or better yet, let me throw you one and get this over with.”
But he didn’t. He kept on until he realized he wasn’t good enough.
All people want to be held close. I don’t believe people when they keep dating you, then talk about just wanting a friend. Was she getting over on him? Was he not rich enough?
But love conquers all, right? Tell that to the woman who married for love and is dreaming of the life she could have had, had she held out, went with her brain instead of her heart and got the house, the clothes, the trips, or even the feeling of showing one’s entire family they’re not good enough.
I can only speculate on women holding out for love or marrying for money. I would think it‘s the way the girl was raised. I would bet the farm that if a woman loved me and another man the same, the brightness of gold would diminish the glare from my red hair. I don’t blame them.
Love and money, or lack of it, plays into such an interesting way man and woman form a relationship. Throw youth into the mix and holy Christ, innocence and lack of intelligence rears its ugly head.
I once saw a young couple in the French Quarter begging for money. I was sitting across the street by the Joan of Ark Statue. They couldn’t have been more then teenagers, dirty clothed, street urchins, and I was amazed at the fact that as they begged they would hold hands in-between accepting change from passers-by.
For a long time I wondered if they were in in love or just in poverty. I couldn’t tell.