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.”

          “Larry?”

          “Yeah, Steve and Larry.”

          “Larry Hyatt?”

          “Yeah, Steve and Larry.”

          “No shit? Really, Larry Hyatt?"

          “Yeah”

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

          “No shit, Larry?”

          “Yeah.”

          “Larry Hyatt?”

          “Yeah.”

          “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 Amazon.com

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.

 

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October 1st.

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.