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I’ve officially been inducted into the hallowed halls of “Hey, Your Least-Favorite Beatles Song Now Is All About You. Whatcha gonna do, boy? Huh?”

Said least-favorite song being, of course, “When I’m Sixty-Four,” from one of my most-favorite albums, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”

I never liked the song because it was about — eww — old people.

And now I “r” one.

I realize that irony is in, but does the universe really have nothing better to do than get all ironic about me?

So there I was, just a few short weeks ago, face to face with my entrance into the “Do you still need me?” generation. And what did I do?

I celebrated!

Gwen the Beautiful and I spent a night out on the town in the closest city with a good restaurant, a motel room with a hot tub and the least stressful driving time of anyplace we otherwise might’ve gone.

Mountain Home, Arkansas.

Where we end up several times a week anyway because Mountain Home is the home of The Baxter Bulletin, the first newspaper to make room for this space (and even pay me a couple of dollars for it!), XL7-TV, the first TV station to give me my own talk show to write, produce, and — gulp — star in (now long gone), and the men, women and children of Mountain Home, the first human beings to accept me for who and what I am after only a minimum of arm-twisting.

We had dinner at my favorite steak house, where I had beef for the first time in six months. Not that I’ve been deliberately not eating beef. It’s just that Gwen’s been on this diet where the big evening meal often turns out to be “dahl,” a healthy, nutritious lentil dish made bearable by being served with heaps of yogurt, instead of New York steak.

Then we went back to our Hot Tub Room, where we turned on the jets and poured ourselves some champagne …

And I realized that even at the age of 64 I still don’t get the whole hot tub thing. Sitting in steaming hot, whirling and gurgling water is romantic? Or even relaxing?

How?

Back when I lived the life of live-in housekeepers and back-yard swimming pools Gwen was able to talk me into dunking myself into our hot tub exactly once. It was an experience from which I barely escaped with my steaming skin.

I steamed and barely staggered out on my birthday night in Mountain Home, too. And found myself wonderfully comforted by the mental refrain, “It didn’t work for you when you were young, either. It didn’t work for you when you were young.”

When I was young?

Caramba!

Still, a quick inventory shows that I’m not doing as badly as some.

Physically, I’m pretty much the same as I ever was. The only signs of advancing years are that I miss some high-frequency sounds (usually when Gwen’s talking to me), and I and others around me would be a lot safer if I wore my glasses more than I do.

Mentally, I’m still pretty rational and remember most of what I used to remember. (I think. How would I know?) I also find myself continually planning for the future. Filled with ambitions for projects that could take 20 years to come to fruition. When this happens, I catch myself with a “Wait! Why am I bothering?” and immediately remember, “This is who I am. I plan. I hope. I dream.”

I’ll always plan, hope, dream.

Or so I’m planning, hoping and dreaming.

Spiritually, I’m both more centered and more adrift than ever before. I hear the universe less than I used to, but my loved ones in the world around me come in loud and clear.

Gwen and the kids consider it well worth the trade. And I agree.

As my 65th year gets into gear, I find myself keenly aware of how grateful I am for everything that’s come my way. The good. The indifferent. Even the bad. It’s all been an amazing adventure. Everything that happens around and to me fills me with a sense of awe and inspires me to stronger and, I hope, higher plans, hopes and dreams.

And so, universe, on this the first day of a New Year, I salute you, and send you, and everyone within you, my heartfelt thanks.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published January 1, 2009

Back at the dawn of civilization, when I first began writing in this space, an irritated reader accused me of being “barely tethered to reality.” This made me pretty irritated myself, but she was right. Larry B and the practical business of everyday life have never been a good match.

Yours Truly handle money wisely? Ha! Over the course of my television career I made millions of dollars and spent or gave away every one. Not deliberately — that would’ve taken some skill. Instead — well, the word “obliviously” comes to mind. As in, “Geeze, I dunno what happened. It’s just … gone.”

Then there’s cooking. Ha! Not Yours Truly. The only thing I know how to make is a tuna sandwich, and although I’ve pretty much got the opening-the-can thing down I’m still more likely to spoon in way too much or too little mayo than to get it just right.

And when it comes to household repairs, well, I think it’s fair to say that I’m a handyman’s delight. The rocking chair’s wobbling? Might as well take it to the dump now because that’s where it’ll end up even after I apply myself to its repair. And not trying to fix it will save not only time and effort but also sanity. My wife’s as well as mine. Because if I go nuts with frustration I’ll take Gwen the Beautiful around that same bend with me. That’s what happens when you’re such a close team.

How did I get this way? As a true child of the ’60s, a rebel with way too much knowledge of psychology, philosophy and The Who, I can tell you straight out that it’s not my fault. It’s because of my parents, of course.

OK, that’s an exaggeration. I know enough about life and myself and my family to take full responsibility for my ignorance. For the most part, I learned what interested me and blew off the rest. Most of us do that.

But here’s the self-serving “but”:

Most of the men I know, the money-investing, self-sufficient, building-their-own-furniture type Very Good Ole Boys, learned this particular approach to life from their fathers or mothers or brothers or sisters or uncles or aunts or grandparents. They lived in families that knew how important it was to work together and teach each other how to survive.

My family was different.

No, this isn’t going to be a rant about being abused or endangered or ignored. I didn’t suffer from any of those things. Instead, I suffered by being pampered.

Treated like a prince.

The Chosen Child, Perfect In Every Way.

“Larry doesn’t have to make his own snacks. That’s what I’m here for,” my proud and giving Mom would say. Ditto managing my own money. “Why would you need a part-time job, or even an allowance?” she’d ask. “Just tell me what you need.”

When it came to fixing things, my father would step up to the plate, but not the way other dads did. Silently (he seldom if ever spoke to anyone, especially us kids), he’d toss away whatever was broken and the next day a new version would appear. The new thing, whatever it was, wouldn’t work very well because we didn’t have enough money for him to buy the top grade, but it would be close enough so that sometimes I could hear him mutter, “It’ll do.”

Now I live in the country, where doing things for yourself is the First Law and becoming practical has taken on new importance. Replacements aren’t always available, and more often than not General Knowledge and Common Sense are the only help close at hand.

So slowly but surely I’ve been learning some skills:

How to remove a camper shell from my truck even after the nuts have frozen into place.

How to operate a chainsaw so it cuts through a tree’s limb and not mine.

How to get a bead on, shoot and field-dress a deer.

My teacher for all this and much more has been Doug the Dog Breeder. Ex-lawman with a keen sense of what’s right, who, luckily for me, has decided that it’s right that I be able to survive in this world and not only in the one in my head.

My biggest thanks for everything, Doug Dude. With your help I’m sure I’ll succeed and grow — at last — from Pampered Prince to Reasonably Good Ole Boy.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published December 18, 2008

Recently, I asked readers of this space the not-so-musical question, “What do you want?”

No sooner had that question appeared than I got my first answer, from Norma, the young woman I wrote about last summer who was so disillusioned by her first semester of college that she dropped out, but then decided to return to school this fall:

“I’m sorry to bother you, Larry, but I’m reading Famous Deceased Political Philosopher for a class and want to know if he’s onto something. I’m not sure how I’d like you to answer, but my mind is swirling with despair and I absolutely must share this with someone.”

When I first got this e-mail, I was both flattered and puzzled. Flattered because Norma was turning to me at an obvious time of crisis. Puzzled because I’d never heard of FDPP. Google saved the day, and I learned that the work of FDPP claims that contemporary society is built on a foundation of false beliefs and the truths, values and ideals most people hold dear are a deliberate sham created by a ruling elite to keep the masses in line. For FDPP, honor, justice and God are false idols, pacifying the population so we don’t rebel.

I thought about this for quite awhile so I could come up with as coherent an answer as possible to the question my mind rephrased as:

“Was Famous Deceased Political Philosopher correct when he wrote that everything positive we’ve been taught is a lie told by bad guys who want to keep us hopeful enough to not throw them out of office, take away the money they’ve been stealing from us for centuries, and otherwise kick their butts?”

I know the smart way to respond to a query like this is to not respond at all. Let it sit. Hope Norma will move on to something a little lighter like, “Why did Britney Spears win three MTV awards for her work last year?”

But Norma answered my question and told me what she wanted. What kind of guy would I be if I didn’t do the same?

So, Norma, and anyone else worried about political conspiracies using us as pawns, here’s my reply:

“I’m thrilled to see that you’re looking into the state of our culture. This kind of investigation seems to me to be an important part of the human condition. One way or another, we all examine ourselves and our place in society.

“We do this, I think, because we hope that if we understand things we can control them. Maybe give ourselves some power over our lives. This FDPP guy, however, has come up with an explanation that gives power to no one but a few hotshots. Is he right? I don’t know.

“I do know many people who believe what he says in varying degrees. Some feel they’re part of the oppressed masses and give up trying to accomplish anything because, ‘What’s the use?’ Others who also see themselves as oppressed try to fight back. Still others identify with the elite. They see themselves as special and work like demons to be accepted by those they believe are ‘really’ in charge.

“I feel sorry for those who give up. I admire those who fight the fight. I disdain those who want to rule.

“But I also see another class of society. Those who, like Buddha, or Jesus, or other less influential but determined men and women, know who they are, what they want and need, and live accordingly, adhering to their ideals regardless of outside influence or pressure.

“Men and women who lead authentic lives regardless of what those in charge want them to believe.

“Or be.

“Norma, I think the truth boils down to this. The behavior of any ruling class only affects those who allow it to affect them. It means nothing to those with enough strength of character to believe in themselves.

“Bad guys could very well be lying to us for their own purposes. But honor, justice and God are only shams if you let someone else’s need for aggrandizement overwhelm your innate sense of honesty, fairness, and the divine.

“Not only do I not know whether or not this particular Famous Dead Political Philosopher is right, I don’t think it matters. What matters is you, and how bravely and truly you live your life.

“And that idea doesn’t depress me at all.

“I think it’s pretty damn cool.”

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published December 11, 2008

In addition to Tropical Storm Ike, fall of 2008 brought another life-changing event.

Betty Barker Smith, the publisher of my home paper, The Baxter Bulletin, stepped down.

She waved good-bye to Gannett Newspapers — blew kisses, actually — and set forth on a new adventure.

Newspaperwoman emeritus.

Open to everything and anything new.

It’s Betty who gave me the newspaper space in which to tell my tales of life in Paradise. And who encouraged me to make my writing as personal as possible. Who helped me feel free to discuss the illuminated ordinary that is my life in such a way that all those who read my words would understand that it was their lives as well. Who acted as the head cheerleader for the Brody Brigade by filling my inbox with e-mails scented like roses, and knowing about a million and a half ways to say, “Hooray!”

I first met Betty in 2002, at a luncheon given by the Arkansas Office for Economic Development. I was new to the state, but that hadn’t kept me from being the featured speaker.

I still remember the first words I said after being introduced by Joe Glass, then the head honcho of the state film office. The first season of “The Simple Life” TV series was being shot in Arkansas, and Joe extolled the virtues of its star, Paris Hilton, and then gave me the floor.

“I know I’m supposed to be a big Hollywood professional,” I told the crowd, “but I’ve got a confession to make. I’ve never heard of Paris Hilton. Don’t have a clue who she is.”

Immediately, a radiantly smiling woman who resembled Barbara Bush (if Mrs. Bush had been 25 years younger and, well, radiantly smiling) began applauding at one of the tables. And, after I was finished with my talk about how showbiz needed Arkansas (or any place real) a lot more than Arkansas needed showbiz (sorry, Joe), that same radiantly smiling woman came up to the dais, shook my hand and handed me her card:

Betty Barker Smith, Publisher, Gannett Newspapers.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t know who Paris Hilton is, either. Welcome to Arkansas. If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

A couple of years later, I did just that.

“I want to write about what it’s like to be an ignorant city boy here in a very smart countryside,” I called Betty and said. “Oh, and also about the magic that fills this countryside and makes it the most powerful place I’ve ever been.”

She didn’t hesitate for a minute. “Promise you’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” she said.

“That’s a tall order,” I said. “The whole truth is a lot to ask of a guy who’s spent most of his life writing the lies we call TV.”

“You can do it,” said Betty. “I know you can.”

And now, almost two hundred weeks later, I’m telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about Miz Betty, my former boss.

(Did I mention any of her flaws? She’s … hmm … let me think a minute. Oh, sure, right. She’s too smart for most rooms she’s in. And too independent. And that smile — c’mon, can anyone really be that much at peace with herself?)

How much do I admire Betty Smith?

Let me put it this way: She came up through the ranks as a single mother at a time when women, single or not, mothers or not, were more often than not the victims of — at best — patronizing smiles and — at worst — the kind of overt discrimination and harassment that leaves us with our mouths agape in a still-imperfect today.

How much do I love her?

I’ll put it like this: If by the most catastrophic stroke of misfortune I could ever imagine Gwen the Beautiful hadn’t come into my life all those wonderful years ago, I’d be devoting all the wit, charm, whatever-it-is in my masculine arsenal to sweeping Betty Smith off her feet.

At the end of September, my friend Betty Smith left the gig she’d loved for about a thousand ageless years and, openly and freely, moved on to her new semi-retired life. For me, the best thing about this is that I don’t have to say good-bye. Instead, as one semi-retiree to another, I say, “Welcome! If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published December 4, 2008

This afternoon, while enjoying a plate of ribs at KT’s Barbecue with a visiting friend (Dan Davison, a terrific novelist — if he can ever finish his brilliant book!), I noticed a man and woman at another table kind of, well, kind of eyeing me.

Dan noticed it, too. Looked from them back to me. “What’s that all about?” he said.

Before I could answer, the woman got up and came over to us. “You’re — him, aren’t you?” she said. “The fellow who writes that column.”

Dan laughed. “You bet he is. Absolutely. This is Larry B!”

The woman looked back at her husband. He smiled the smile of a man who’d rather be anyplace but where he was at that moment.

I knew the feeling.

Three-plus years ago, when I first started writing in this space, I would’ve shared it at a time like this. But I’ve gotten used to being a local (very) mini-celebrity now, and being recognized and approached every once in awhile suits me just fine. Makes me feel much more appreciated than writing television did.

(No one ever recognizes television writers because unlike newspaper columnists or bloggers, TV writers never get their pictures anywhere near the result of what they’ve written. And if someone does figure out what TV writers do for a living all she or he ever wants to talk about is, “Why is TV so bad?”)

The woman turned back to me. “I have to ask you something,” she said.

“It’s not about television, is it?” I said.

She frowned. “No, no, it’s about our son. He’s 22 years old and wants to be a writer. He sits at his computer all day and night and writes and writes and writes. Poems. Short stories. Scripts for things he thinks should be on YouTube.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Dan said. “Good for him!”

“Well,” said the woman, “that’s what I’m wondering. What, exactly, is best for him?”

This wasn’t a new question for me. Or a new subject. I didn’t even have to think about my reply. It came rushing out before I could stop it.

“I was a kid like that. From the time I was 13 years old I spent every spare minute writing. My family thought I was crazy.

“‘Why can’t you put all that time and energy into your schoolwork?’ my father demanded.

“‘Why can’t you put all that time and energy into making friends and doing the things kids your age do?’ my mother wanted to know.

“I didn’t know how to answer them because what I was doing wasn’t a conscious choice. It was like I was being pursued by big, winged writing demons. They didn’t just prod me, they shoved me to my mother’s old IBM. I was driven to write.”

“But how could that be?” the woman said. “Where did the demons come from?”

“Not ‘did,’ ‘do.’ They’re still with me. I don’t know why. Just lucky, I guess. ‘Chosen,’ is how I’ve always felt. I wake up every morning filled with ideas. Questions, mostly, about life. I go out and live a little, while those questions percolate. Then I go to my computer and more questions — sometimes even answers — come shooting into the back of my head.

“I feel them entering my mind and moving forward, to where I can visualize them right above my eyes. It’s like reading something already written. All I’ve got to do is filter it a little, change a word here and there, and then let the result fly out onto the monitor.

“I never feel like I’m the writer but like I’m the pipeline, bringing my readers what’s been put into my head.”

“By demons?” said the woman. “That doesn’t sound too savory.” She looked upset.

“I think of them as demons doing good work.”

“Angels in disguise,” Dan said.

The woman thought about this. She no longer looked upset. Just unsettled.

“Oh … well, thank you. Thank you very much.” She went back to her table.

Dan leaned forward. “You did a good thing, dude,” he said. “Poor woman’s trying to understand something that her limited life just hasn’t prepared her for. Artistic creativity in somebody she loves.”

His words faded as I concentrated on what was happening at the other table.

“Told you he couldn’t help,” said her husband.

The woman sighed. “And all I wanted to know was whether we should get Nick a PC or a Mac.”

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 27, 2008

There I was, standing in line at the Paradise Post Office, waiting to mail a package to Youngest Daughter Amber and minding my beeswax when, suddenly, I heard the age-old question: “What do you want?”

It was more than a simple query. It was an exasperated growl, from a young man to the young woman who was entering the lobby with him. One simple sentence, filled with pain and anger and genuine puzzlement. “What do you want?”

The young woman’s answer was equally filled with feeling, none of it the kind that makes you smile. “More than you can give me,” she said. “I’m so gone.”

She pushed past the young man and went back outside. He stared after her, then realized everyone else in the place was watching, and rushed to catch up.

I was next in line. “How can I help you?” Erica the Postal Clerk said.

“Shouldn’t that be, ‘What do you want?’” I said.

Erica shrugged. “That’s just Tommy and Joanne. They’re at it like that all the time. He’s always trying to figure her out, and she’s always saying she’s leaving. But he never understands her. And she never leaves.”

“I know some people like that,” I said.

Another shrug. “Don’t we all?”

As she spoke, I knew I was at a fork in the road, a place where something important, both to those involved and those interested in the whys and wherefores of human nature, branched off in at least two different directions.

If I chose to, I could follow the closer road and try to learn more about Tommy and Joanne and their relationship. I could delve into the mystery of human romance and the pain that comes when romance starts to collapse. I could turn it into a poignant piece of writing that would disguise the fact that I wasn’t able to help them overcome their limitations and remain lovers forever.

Or I could follow another road and try to understand something that wouldn’t get me screamed at as a busybody and maybe even punched in the jaw. I could investigate the mystery of human desire and try to get to the bottom of the age-old philosophical question, “What do people want?”

I could turn that into a light, fluffy little work that would disguise the fact that I wasn’t able to overcome my own limitations and report on some agonizing truths.

If I took the first road, I’d have to hurry after these two, interrupt their ritual, break the pattern that helped define their life together.

If I took the second one, I could be much cooler about the whole thing. All I’d have to do was take a little stroll through the town square, and whenever anyone said, “Hey, Larry B,” I could respond like a roving news reporter, or a census taker, and say, “Brannigan” — or “Jane” or “Jimmy Blue” or whomever — “what do you want?”

And I could laugh knowingly as each answered.

“I want a million dollars, Larry B.”

“I want to get married.”

“I want Uncle Ernie to be alive again and sittin’ on that bench yonder.”

Eventually I’d do what I always do in this space. I’d turn that question on myself.

“What do you want, Larry B?”

“Why, nothing, my friend. I’ve got everything already. Love. Life. Liberty. And the ability to enjoy those things. There’s nothing I want. Except —”

“Except what, Larry B?”

“I want — well, I want to be ‘better.’ A better person in all those ways our parents tell us to be. More caring. More giving. More honest. See what I mean?”

“But, Larry B, what makes you think you need to be better? What makes you think you’re not already the best you can be?”

“Because if I was, I wouldn’t be hesitating. I’d be leaning close to Tommy and Joanne right now, trying to help. I’d be doing everything I could for them regardless of what risk it might bring.”

“You look sad, Larry B. Like you just figured out that no matter what way you go you’re going to learn something you’d rather not know. About others. About yourself.”

And, as I heard those words I realized it was really the Universe talking to me. Telling me neither road was safe because none ever is.

So I’m copping out completely. And not taking another step.

Except to turn to those who read this and ask, “What do you want?”

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 20, 2008

Time now for the second Almost Annual Update on Paradise Happenings I’ll Probably Never Report About Otherwise.

This is the one where “Live! From Paradise!” brings everyone up to date on people and places readers of this space have been asking about. And gets me out of dutch with all those who’ve been crabbing that I’ve left ‘em in the dark.

So:

The Old Billionaire’s Marriage. The O.B. may well have had the kind of relationship with his secretary every wife dreads, but he can’t be certain because he’s having another dreaded experience: coming face to face with the possibility of dementia. For all his fortune, he may not be able to get out of this jam. Like all the rest of us, the O.B.’s going to need wisdom and courage.

Youngest Daughter Amber. Amber and her twin flame, The Adventurer, are still together, but their ’round the world sailboat cruise failed to launch. They’re in Seattle now, deeply in love, saving the environment and co-writing songs. For me this is a happy ending. ‘Cept I know it’s not the ending at all. If there’s one thing my life has taught me so far it’s this: Everything stops, but nothing really ends.

My Lawn Tractor. That fool machine was on the fritz all summer. Refuses to shift gears. In June, I bought an inexpensive little power mower (the kind you — gasp! — walk behind), and I’ve been using it ever since. The clearing gets cut just as short, and I get a little cardio exercise for not one penny more.

Bob the Very Careful Cat. Bob’s become a real cat. He spends every moment he can sitting on Gwen the Beautiful’s lap and purring, and even nuzzles me for some petting action when I come by. Trouble is, when I oblige I very quickly end up with wet, watery, itchy eyes. Turns out I’m allergic to the little guy. (Tip: Buy stock in whatever company makes Benadryl. I’m about to make y’all rich.)

Norma, Daughter of Delly the Interstate Trucker. Norma dropped out of college her first semester, but even though she said she thought my advice was hooey she’s back at school working toward a better future after all.

The Cloud Creek Ranch Sweat Lodge. The sweat lodge is history now, gone like so many things out in these woods. And with it Maya the Good and all she brought with her. Another thing my life has taught me: One person’s destiny may be another’s dark fate. Or, to put it another way: No matter how much you want certain things, they may not be yours to get.

Rosie the Sweet Arabian. With the healing help of J.L. the Horse Vet and her own inner strength, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa’s lady love has recovered completely from last spring’s injury to her leg. The entire process took almost five months, and for three of them it could’ve gone either way. But the great news — no thanks to Huck’s continuing to chase her around the corral every night —is that Rosie’s alive, well, and frisking again.

Gwen the Beautiful. The Mistress of The Mountain remains healthy, brilliant, and filled with love. She and I spent much of the summer traveling, both together and — due to unavoidable circumstances — separately, and both of us learned quickly that together was better. Way more fun.

Whither the magic? Reports of the death of magic in our life here in Paradise have proven to be highly exaggerated. Since I wrote about my worry that the wonders I’ve seen and reported on were the product not of supernatural wahoo but bad vision, Gwen and I together have experienced things like seeing the brown purse she bought last month turn black, Emmy the Bold go in and out of the house without ever having to open a door, and — hooray! — more dancing stars zigzagging all over the sky.

And, for good measure, after years of suffering from ticks, chiggers, and their icky ilk I’ve suddenly become immune to the effects of any biting or burrowing into my skin.

That’s right. Not a spot, bump, or speck. Nothing to make me rend my flesh.

“Consider it your reward,” the Universe said when I asked, “Why?”

And when I said, “For what?” I felt the whole planet sigh.

“You know I never explain the punchline,” the Universe said.

Mysteries! Got to love ‘em.

After all, it’s not like they’ll ever go away.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 13, 2008

People often ask about the special bond Gwen the Beautiful and I have. What is it? Where did it come from? How did we know?

All I can say is that for my part I’ve felt linked to my wife from the moment I saw her. But I didn’t realize she felt the same way until our first home-seeking expedition to the Ozarks, years ago. We’d been driving all day and, exhausted, we stopped at a Fayetteville motel shortly before sundown.

Just as we collapsed onto one of the queen-size beds in our room I remembered that I’d left my laptop in the truck. I forced myself up and out, and as I trudged to our parking space I noticed that the building next door was only half built. Just a skeleton surrounded by supplies and garbage, with a couple of porta-potties close by.

The only people in sight were two workmen. One glanced my way and then pointed me out to his buddy, saying something I couldn’t hear.

The buddy looked over at me. “Looks like a player,” he said. “He’s a jerk.”

“How do you know?” said the first workman.

“All the players are jerks.” The second workman started around to the other side of the building, motioning for the first one to follow. “Don’t pay any attention to him. You’ll just get screwed up.”

When I got back into our room I told Gwen what’d happened.

“If I’m a player, then what’s the game?” I said. “Is it this trip?” I got another idea: “Or this life?”

Gwen’s eyes sparkled. “Of course! Wouldn’t it be terrific if all those people who write about ‘The Game of Life’ were writing about something real, even though they didn’t know it?”

She was getting right into it and taking me further along. “I’m looking at things from a different angle,” I said. “The construction worker said I was a player. Like he and his partner weren’t. If they’re not players, then what are they? And what about you? Are you a player too?”

“I’d better be,” Gwen said. “Anything you’re in, I’m in. We’re a team.”

The next morning, when we went out to the parking lot to continue our quest, I pointed to the building under construction …

And realized it wasn’t under construction at all.

It was finished.

A big chain restaurant, with a “Grand Opening” banner over the entrance.

Gwen didn’t bat an eye. “Looks like the game advanced a bit in the night.”

“Like a computer game,” I said. “Fast-forwarding to get to — what? A part with more action?”

Gwen slid up against the door. “This better not mean a car’s going to come speeding around the motel and crash into us!” Her voice sounded shaky.

“If you’re not a player you might be safe. Just a bystander,” I said. “But if you are …”

“Players die,” said Gwen.

“No! I won’t let that happen.”

Quickly, I opened the door and practically shoved her into the cab. I tossed our suitcase into the back of the truck and took my place at the wheel. Squealed away before any other vehicle could appear and hit us.

I drove into the parking lot of the new restaurant. Circled around it.

“Definitely finished and open for business,” I said.

“Normally, I love when we’re right,” said Gwen. But now …”

My body felt all shaky. “What do you think?” I asked her.

“I think we should get out of here,” said Gwen. “But I also think we shouldn’t. Like we lose something if we do.”

“Points?” I said. “Or maybe we lose a turn. And you know how I hate to lose anything.”

Gwen thought. “Want to make our move and have breakfast here?”

Someone was coming out the door. The second workman from last night. I turned to Gwen. “Not the right strategy.”

“Then let’s hit the road. First one to spot our dream house gets a kiss!”

I still don’t know what really happened that night and day. Or if my wife believed me. Was she just playing along?

For that matter, I’m not even sure she’s believed in the reality of any of the weirdness we’ve encountered since that time.

But I do know one thing for certain. Regardless of whether or not life’s a game and the two of us are players, every passing day has been proof of what Gwen showed me back in Fayetteville.

We’re a team.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published November 6, 2008

I could’ve sworn that D.W., owner of Paradise Music, was the most peaceful individual on the planet.

Talk about equanimity! In the time we’d known each other, I’d never heard D.W. utter a cross word nor seen him frown.

Nothing seemed to get to him. Not rude customers. Not lawsuit-crazy ex-wives. Not even a world situation that put two of his sons in uniform and propelled them directly into harm’s way.

But yesterday, while I was hanging out at the store, I saw a whole ‘nuther guy.

Donny Zee the Storyteller brought out D.W.’s Mr. Hyde when he came in shortly before closing time.

“Hey, D.W.,” Donny called out. “Got any rock guitar strings?”

“I didn’t know you played guitar, Donny,” I said.

“Why, sure I do. Been at it since sixth grade. Lead guitar with the best hair band in Morning Star.”

“I didn’t know you lived in Morning Star.”

“Sure did. If you consider that unincorporated strip of land just north of Dooley Road to be Morning Star.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen a Dooley Road,” I said.

Donny opened his mouth to reply, stopped as D.W. pulled several packages of strings from the main display case.

“Just happen to have these nickel-wound pure-power groove strings,” D.W. said. “Light, medium, or heavy?”

“Light heavy,” Donny said.

“That’s the one weight I don’t have,” said D.W..

“But it’s the one I need. I’m going up to Branson this weekend. Chuck Berry’s playing and asked me to sit in with the band.”

“Chuck Berry’s playing in Branson?” D.W. said. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”

“It’s a secret. A surprise for the fans,” said Donny.

“There’re Chuck Berry fans in Branson?” I asked. “Thought country music reigned supreme.”

“Chuck’s gonna change that,” Donny said. “That’s why he wants me. Man’s getting old. He’ll be hollering about ‘School Days’ and his ‘ding-a-ling, goin’ round and round,’ and while he’s prancing all over the stage pretending to play I’ll be ghosting those great riffs.”

Donny made a run down the neck of an invisible guitar. “The C-Man and I go way back. We met when his car broke down in Big Flat. I was working at the gas station, and he heard me picking at my box and —”

Donny broke off. A look of terror filled his face.

With good reason. D.W. was coming toward him, swinging a metal snare drum stand in each hand.

“Get out of here, you lying faker!” D.W. roared. “Out! Out! Or I’ll make you into a lifetime supply of medium heavy strings!”

The stand in D.W.’s left hand missed Donny’s head by half an inch. The one in D.W.’s right hand started its arc — and Donny bolted for the door. Kept on running, right past his own car.

D.W. stood in the doorway. It looked to me like he was going to give chase, so I reached out to stop him. “D.W.! Calm down!”

D.W. shook himself. Dropped the two drum stands. “Sorry, Larry B,” he said. “I know every word out of Donny’s mouth is as far from true as a compass in a magnetic storm, but I just couldn’t help myself.

“I try real hard to keep cool,” continued D.W. “After my time in the Gulf War I swore nothing would ever get to me unless there were bullets flying. A counselor I had at the VA gave me a tip. He said, ‘Your feelings are a guide, but they’re not meant to control you. You’ve got to take charge of them.’

“So, I came up with a way to take charge. I’d be in a situation where I felt my chest tightening with anger, and I’d talk out loud so God and the universe could hear.

“I’d say, ‘No, this is wrong. I’m not really mad at this insignificant garbage that’s going down. I’m just peeved. A little irked. Irritated is all.’

“And for years it’s done the trick. By telling myself what I should really be feeling, I start feeling it. And instead of getting worked up, I calm down.

“But when Donny came in and badmouthed the master, the man who created Johnny B. Goode — well, sorry, but I just saw red.”

I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant. Some names are sacred, no matter what. As a writer, I’d feel the same way about anyone who took the name of Shakespeare or Dante or Stan Lee in vain.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published October 30, 2008

Last week I wrote about how not only I, but a great many others, have a certain memory problem: We remember things that may not have happened.

Now, as promised, here’s one more reader’s story, from a man I greatly respect. Namely, the Old Billionaire.

Our conversation took place where so many of them have, at the Mexican restaurant in Paradise. I had my usual three enchiladas with rice and beans. He chomped his way through two plates of taquitos and spoke with a confident look I hadn’t seen for quite awhile.

“My boardroom battles are over,” the Old Billionaire told me. “My son’s officially in charge of what he likes to call ‘The Empire,’ so whatever I say shouldn’t bottom out the business like it could’ve before.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to talk about what did or didn’t go on between you and your secretary?” I said. “Because of business?”

The O.B. swallowed a forkful of beans.

“Direct, as always,” he said. “Yep, business was one of the reasons I couldn’t be direct right back. But there was also another.”

“You’ve got my attention,” I said.

He pointed to his watch. “See this? My wife, Nettie, bought it for me a dozen years ago. She was all excited about gettin’ me Seiko’s first automatic, glow-in-the-dark wristwatch.

“I wore it everyday till it stopped running. Then we took it into the jeweler in Harrison, and I opined as to how I hoped it wasn’t gone forever because the newfangled mechanism was shot.

“The jeweler looked at me like I was nuts,” the O.B. went on. “‘Nothing fancy going on here,’ he said. ‘All it needs is a new battery.’

“‘That’s impossible,’ Nettie said. ‘I paid almost $300 because it didn’t have a battery.’

“The jeweler just opened up the case and popped one of those little batteries in. Presto! The watch was running like a top. Threw me for a big, wide loop, seein’ as I remembered how when I first got it I’d followed the directions about shaking my arm to get the thing going and how I wore it to bed to keep it from losing time. Now I was seeing — what? How all that’d been unnecessary?

“Nettie and I stared at the watch, and then a whole new set of memories entered my mind. Including her apologizing the night she gave me the watch because the place she went to was out of the self-winding model I wanted.

“By the time we got home, the new memories had all kinds of details filled in, and I was almost believing ‘em. But Nettie still had just the original memory. She knew what she knew, and that what’d happened at the jewelry store plain didn’t make sense.”

The Old Billionaire stopped. “I know. You don’t get why I’m telling you this. So here it is. Months ago, when Nettie asked me point-blank if I’d been having an affair with my secretary, I started to answer and then stopped.

“Because, all of a sudden, I had two sets of memories again. One saying I hadn’t. Another saying I had. And I didn’t know which memory was right.

“I started reading up on dementia and Alzheimer’s, looking for the answer and fearing the worst. I was scared, Larry B. Of losing not only my wife but also my mind.

“Then I read your column, and the big, heavy load I was carrying got a little lighter. I didn’t have to be afraid about being crazy anymore. I could go back to my old way of looking at things and be philosophical about the universe’s weirdness. You know.

“And I could let myself open up to my wife. Tell her everything and hope that we could do what we’ve always done in our marriage — sort everything out together.

“So we talked. And talked. And we’re still talking. And whatever really happened between me and that other woman, it means nothing compared to what’s happening between me and the woman I love.

“We’re feeling things about each other we haven’t felt in years. We’re looking deep into ourselves the way we should’ve during that time. It may turn out that I really am crazy, but as long as Nettie faces that with me, even losing my mind’ll be just fine.”

The O.B. finished his last taquito. Licked his lips. “So, how’re things with you?” he said. “How’s life on the ranch?”

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published October 23, 2008