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.

 

       
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?”

Curiosity

           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.

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.

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
Gah-ah-ah-ly.

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…

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.”