Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

Last night I had a strange and marvelous dream.

In the dream, I was back in Los Angeles, in show business again.

The Vice President of some TV network was taking me on a tour of the studio that housed my new office as head writer of what the V.P. said was, “Our longest running show. It’s been on so long it might as well be forever.”

The show was a soap opera. In my dream, I was very taken with the idea that I was now in charge of such a venerable, and intense operation.

Soap operas run every day, five days a week, and the pressure is on because you can’t stop or falter in any way. You’ve got to have a new episode ready, no matter what.

The Larry B. I was in this dream welcomed the pressure and the challenge. I couldn’t wait to get started, even after the V.P. told me the extra added obstacle I would face.

“As you know,” she said, “we’ve recently been through a long, debilitating writers’ strike. Our usual writers weren’t allowed to work on the show so we replaced them with writers who had no experience and, frankly, didn’t know what they were doing.

“Those writers,” she went on, “changed the storylines so that things that were supposed to happen didn’t. And things that weren’t supposed to happen did. Many of our most important and interesting characters were relegated to minor plots or written out altogether. Weak and inappropriate characters became the leads.

“The changes hurt the show creatively and financially. They drove much of our audience away,” the V.P. said. “Everything is topsy-turvy, and ratings are way down. And you know what that means.”

“You’re losing sponsors,” I said.

“And that means our very survival is at stake. This whole enterprise, with all its history, its glorious past and its wondrous potential is about to to pffft!”

The Vice President took me into the biggest office in the place. It stretched to the horizon and beyond. She pointed to a mahogany desk covered with mile-high stacks of papers. Scripts, they were. The entire continuity of the show, dating all the way back to — to whenever it had begun.

“The first thing I need you to do is restructure the storylines and characters,” the V.P. said. “Give us something worthwhile. Something the audience can relate to. Bring back the people they want to see. The heroes and heroines who understand truth and beauty and justice and hard work and love. Put them in the spotlight.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

She smiled. “We’re counting on you to save us. Now go. Go. Go!”

Then she was gone, and I was alone in the infinite room. The stacks of scripts swayed above me. It seemed as though they would fall any second and bury me alive.

“Wait!” I cried out at the closed door. “You never told me what this show is! I don’t know what’s happened already! I’m not even sure I’d know the good from the bad! Wait!”

I grabbed the doorknob to yank the door open and run after the V.P. But the knob wouldn’t turn. It wouldn’t even rattle. I was locked in. It was time to sit down at that desk and get to work.

First, though, I needed a script. Any script. Just to see what everything was all about. No way could I reach the top of any of those stacks, and trying to pull one out from the bottom would be suicide. So I clambered up onto the desk and walked around it carefully, looking for the shortest pile.

I found one a little shorter than the others. Bent my knees. Pushed up.

And made the kind of leap you can only make in a dream. Higher, higher — a mile-high jump that felt like flying. My extended arm reached the top of the stack. I snatched the topmost script and fell back down to the burnished wood.

I looked at the cover page.

There it was, the title of this long-running, beautiful but heart-breakingly messed up story:

“The History and Culture of the Planet Earth.”

The story of our world. Gone terribly wrong and entrusted to me for fixing.

I woke up in a heart-pounding sweat. My chest ached as though weighed down by an elephant of responsibility.

“Earth: The Rewrite” awaits.

What should I do?

What should we do?

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 May 29, 2008

Time now for a major confession.

I, Good Ol’ Larry B., am an addict.

No, it’s not drugs. Nor booze. We’re not even talking work, fame, good times, bad times, or money.

I’m addicted to a television show by the name of “Doctor Who.”

It’s a British series that runs in the U.S. on BBC America and the Sci-Fi Channel. The current version of the show is in its fourth season. Previous iterations appeared from the early ’60s to 1996.

I knew about The Doctor, as the hero is called, but didn’t become a fan until a couple of years ago. One night, Gwen the Beautiful was flipping through channels and there it was — The Doctor’s vehicle, an old British police phone booth, soaring and spinning through space and time, controlled by … well, by a madman, you could say.

I mean, here’s a dude over 900 years old, saving civilizations and getting into trouble wherever and whenever in the universe he goes and loving every single minute of it.

Laughing in delight at the fact that whatever is happening is, in fact, happening.

Eagerly throwing himself into all he does, whether it’s the best of possible activities or the worst.

Celebrating the defeats as well as the victories.

And doing everything his own strange way because he’s the sole living representative of the smartest and wisest alien species in the universe.

Intelligence, wisdom and experience are The Doctor’s primary weapons. Supplemented by a little gizmo called the “sonic screwdriver” which the writers have cleverly made into the ultimate tool and weapon, capable of getting my hero out of any jam the rest of his attributes can’t handle.

There, I said it: “My hero.”

He became my hero that night Gwen made the mistake of stopping too long on BBC America. Since then I’ve watched every episode that’s aired, and not just once or twice.

Searching for insider knowledge, I’ve been a regular visitor to the various Doctor Who web sites.

Pursuing episodes I’ve heard about but missed, I’ve investigated the gray-area sites where you can watch or download any number of films and TV shows.

Giving in to my pack rat tendencies, I’ve even bought all the DVD collections of the series, even those going all the way back to the ’60s.

And last week, my addiction caused me to go full-scale insane and buy a big-screen, high-definition, projection TV.

It didn’t hurt as much as it could have. I found a slightly used one for sale for about one-third of the retail price. But still, I didn’t care this much about the quality of the picture I was watching when I was a television producer.

Kinda scary, that fact.

So scary that I sat down and thought very hard about why I love the show as I do, more even than my former Most-Loved-TV-Series, the classic Bob Culp/Bill Cosby “I Spy.”

And the answer came to me. Not from the Wind. Not in a dream. Not courtesy of a ghostly presence. Instead, I used my own knowledge and wisdom and experience.

And realized that I identified with this alien superbeing. Completely.

Not just because of the qualities I’ve already mentioned, but because of something The Doctor and I share that I don’t share with most human beings.

Unlike most humans, The Doctor can’t possibly be subject to peer pressure. Because he has no peers.

Also unlike most humans, the fact that he’s a perpetual outsider doesn’t bother him. Oh, he’s got his lonely moments, sure, but they don’t last all that long. Because The Doctor can’t even imagine what being one of the gang would be like.

You can’t miss something when you don’t know what it is.

The Doctor, as I see him, is the perfect example of someone with a condition doctors call Asperger’s syndrome. It’s a mild form of autism.

People with Asperger’s can think and feel and communicate, often at a very high level, but when it comes to social interactions, they — we — just don’t get it.

We’re clueless about what other people need from one another because we don’t need it. Parties? Confidants? Hangin’ out? Alien concepts. For the most part, Asperger’s people need someone else for only two things:

To tell us what other people need so we can give all we can.

And to love.

There, Gwen, I confessed! Now can I watch the new “Doctor Who” DVD?

Now can I — please — have that hug?

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 May 22, 2008

Life hasn’t been the same since Gwen the Beautiful and I returned from our trip to China.

For one thing, everything that can go wrong has gone from the moment we arrived back on the Mountain.

First came the Attack of the Major Storms. More rain (and thunder and lightning) than even the oldest of Paradise old-timers had ever seen in their lives.

Cloud Creek flooded and took out the road at the bottom of the hill behind our ranch.

The pond at the front of the property flooded also. The water was so high it completely destroyed the road leading from our place to our nearest neighbors, Buck the Ex-Navy Seal and Delly the Interstate Trucker.

An electrical surge fried my computer. (Which, of course, I didn’t know till our power came back on … which didn’t exactly occur in record time.)

When that was over, I went into town to stock up on supplies, and a couple of inebriated fishermen backed into our truck. On the way home, the truck cracked a wheel bearing. And I got a traffic ticket!

Then came the Attack of the Neighbors:

“What’s this you’re writing about how wonderful China is?” Uncle Ernie called me to demand. “You some kind of a Communist or something!?”

Jimmy Blue was on that same wavelength when I saw him at the gas station. “If you like it so much over there,” he said, “maybe you shoulda stayed!”

If this wasn’t enough, we’ve also had to deal with, of all things, Animal Hissy Fits:

“Nobody gave us any bread while you were away,” cackled McNugget the Banty Rooster and his fine hens.

“Don’t you touch me!” hissed Bob the Very Careful Cat. “You left just when I was starting to relax around you. Don’t even look my way!”

And the dogs!

Emmy the Bold was hyper. So busy running around that she refused to acknowledge our return.

Decker the Giant-Hearted had gotten so fat that all he could do was lie on his back and refuse to even face our way.

Belle the Wary was … wary. Ears flattened. Tail down. “What’re you up to?” she said. “Whatever it is, don’t do it around me.”

Only Dixie the New Puppy was welcoming.

If you consider having a 35-pound, 4-month-old Labrador chomping on your fingers as though they were pine cones a sign that could mean, “Welcome Home.”

And the horses —

They were a tragedy waiting to unfold.

At first, all was well. The moment they saw us, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa and Rosie the Sweet Arabian kicked up their heels joyfully.

“You’re home!” they whinnied and raced from one end of the corral to the other. All was right with their world — until Emmy and Decker decided to join in the action.

She was caught up in the excitement, but the horses didn’t understand her game.

They panicked.

Ran harder.

Twenty minutes later, order was restored. Emmy and Decker were in the main house with Belle and Dixie. Huck was standing calmly, nuzzling me.

And Rosie stood in the new run-through barn Brannigan the Contractor had finished while we were gone. Bleeding from a gash in the foreleg she’d caught on the ragged edge of a stump.

Gwen held Rosie’s halter, and I wrapped a clean T-shirt tightly around the wound to stop the bleeding and taped it in place. Then I called J.L. the Horse Vet. And then …

Let’s put it this way. As I write this, three weeks after the accident, Rosie’s cut still is badly infected. J.L., Gwen, Maya the Good (our friend and hired hand) and I have spent much of our waking time administering antibiotics and pain relievers to a horse who, like all horses, doesn’t understand that her life is on the line. She shies away. Refuses to take the meds. And once we trick them into her, she does her best to spit them out.

Over the years I’ve been writing, some people have been kind enough to call me a philosopher. Right now, however, I don’t feel philosophical at all.

I feel anxious.

And responsible.

Last week Maya and I refenced the corral so that nothing that doesn’t have hands to open the gate can get inside. Since then, all I’ve been able to think is, “Why didn’t I do this sooner? Why did I wait?”

Rosie’s already told me she forgives me.

But I may never forgive myself.

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 May 15, 2008

The Good Ol’ Boy Network is alive and well.

Not only in Paradise, but also in China.

On Gwen the Beautiful and my recent trip there, I took part in more business meetings than I have in the last half-dozen years. They were part of my job as a consultant to my old friend, Frank Lee, who was trying to put together a deal to make a documentary film.

I met with Hong Kong and Beijing businessmen. Potential investors in the film. And the Chinese way of doing business was a thing of beauty.

And familiarity.

Old pals getting together, each ol’ boy helping the other so that when he needed it he’d get helped in return.

We’re talking sit-downs with wealthy, powerful men. Fine food. Fine wine. And, in one case, foot massages and even earwax cleaning at a mainland China spa.

The meetings all began with inquiries into the health of the participants and their families, followed by lots of reminiscing about “back in the day” and the shaking of heads about how time slips by. Then Frank would get to work.

“I have a project,” he would say to the potential investor. “I’m putting in $100K U.S. dollars, and I’m looking for nine partners.”

“How many partners do you have so far?” the potential investor would ask.

“Right now it is only me.”

“I’m happy to join you,” the potential investor would say. “And if you find yourself not fully subscribed at the time you need to be, please come back, and I’ll take whatever shares remain.”

I’m not kidding. We talked to half a dozen people, and every one of them had the same response.

Without knowing what the project was. (Frank’s project was a documentary film about The Quintessenso Children’s Choir, composed of 30-plus Mongolian children, singing and dancing their way through traditional Mongolian folk songs.)

When Frank told them the details, they became even more into it, with ideas about directions Frank could go in. Directions they could go in with him.

They signed on without blinking. Because they knew that within months they’d be looking for partners in a deal of their own and would be having this same meeting — but with themselves in the visitors’ chair making the proposal.

As I watched all this I thought of the conversations I’d seen in Paradise between Uncle Ernie and Jimmy Blue and just about anyone else. The camaraderie and good humor. And the agreements that were made, the business that got done because of the history and trust that surrounds those two good ol’ boys and their friends.

I remembered when I was a kid and my father told me that the secret of business success lay in understanding the concept of what he called “due bills” (or were they “do bills?”), which boiled down to men who worked with and trusted each other engaging in the fine art of trading favors.

Sitting there in Hong Kong, Beijing and a brand new city called Shenzhee, I had the feeling that I was watching capitalism at its finest.

In the world’s most successful communist country.

The Chinese may have some problems with the free expression and acquisition of information, but as I frantically tried to manipulate my chopsticks around delicious dim sum and exquisite Beijing duck, it came to me that what I was witnessing was something that should make even the fiercest old Cold Warrior rejoice.

The ideological war is over.

Not just with Russia, but with China, too.

And we won.

Further proof of the victory of capitalism was everywhere. Beijing is an ancient city, and although we saw drably dressed farmers driving donkey carts through its center, like Hong Kong, in its newer areas Beijing is all skyscrapers and department stores and high-fashion boutiques. (We also saw The Forbidden City! And the Great Wall! They’re real!)

Its theaters and flat-screen TVs and freeways and boulevards jammed with BMWs, Mercedes, and Jags.

For a week in Beijing, Gwen and I had the unlimited use of a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. A new Rolls owned by one of Frank’s friends. The friend was no government guy or Communist Party official. He was an industrialist who apologized for the “glares you might get as you drive along,” but was proud as he could be of the fact that, “You’ll get some wide smiles and thumbs-ups as well.”

See what I mean about winning?

No way we could lose.

Because it turns out that the ancient Chinese attitude toward business and profit is, when you get down to it, just like ours.

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 May 8, 2008

Gwen the Beautiful and I have just returned from an unexpected trip. We went about as far from home as it’s possible to go.

All the way to China.

It was an amazing experience, courtesy of Frank Lee, a Hong Kong songwriter and entrepreneur.

Frank and I have known each other for years and have been trying to find a reason to work together. Well, that’s not completely true. Frank’s been gnawing on the work thing, but Larry B.’s mostly been sitting back and hoping for a free trip to parts unknown.

A couple of weeks ago, Frank finally put it together. “I need your help on a project,” he said over the phone. “Can you and Gwen be here in three days?”

“What?” I said. “Get ready for a trip like that in only three days? That’s —”

I was going to say “impossible,” but Gwen heard the conversation and rushed across the room to me. “Tell him it’s perfect,” she whispered to me.

“But he wants us to be in China by Monday,” I said.

“And I’ve wanted to be in China for 20 years! We can make it happen. You know we can.”

At the other end of the line, Frank heard the conversation. And I heard him chuckle.

“I’ll wire you the money for your airfare right away,” he said.

And he did.

The following Monday, after a full day of travel — exactly 24 hours from the time we entered the first of several airports (in Little Rock) to the time we walked out of the last (in Hong Kong) — Gwen and I were met at the airport by Frank and whisked off to a five-star hotel in the busiest, most crowded city I’ve ever seen.

Seven million people packed onto one small island, hurrying, hurrying, hurrying through vast interconnected networks of crowded skyscrapers, skyways and streets. The dense throng of humans moved forward, backward, up, down. Its members dodged and weaved and slid past one another. Anticipated traffic signals, whether they were driving or on foot.

Our hotel was located smack in the heart of the Red Light District. “You’ll love this place,” Frank said. “It was the inspiration for the movie, ‘The World of Suzie Wong.’ The movie was shot right here, too.”

“Um, Frank, that movie was about a house of ill repute.”

Frank chuckled, just as he had over the phone. “I told you, you would love it!”

Gwen and I did love the hotel, but not because of its past. With the exception of the signs proudly proclaiming its heritage, nothing was left of the Suzie Wong days. We were installed in a room on the twentysomething floor of a building so modern that we felt like we’d been propelled into one of George Lucas’ most intense dreams.

We hadn’t expected such technology. Who could’ve known we’d be spending so much time in a place so eerily resembling the original Disneyland’s Tomorrowland?

Impressive as the technology is, though, what Hong Kong really is all about is commerce. And before we moved on to the Mainland, I got a taste of how business is done there.

Frank’s project was a documentary film about a singing group that’s become one of the hottest tickets in Asia. Although it’s very popular, it’s not a pop group. The Quintessenso Children’s Choir (which is how the Chinese name translates into English) is composed of 30-plus Mongolian children, singing and dancing their way through traditional Mongolian folk songs.

The songs sound much like those of various American Indian tribes, but the instrumentation is different. More than flutes and drums are in play here. The choir’s band makes heavy use of cellos and string basses carved in the shape of horse heads, and there’s even what seems like a Cajun touch: A crazy, zany little accordion.

My job was to advise Frank on how to make his film more interesting and help him through the maze that is the business side of film making. I think I did a good job on the creative side, but although I brought him as up-to-date as I could about working with Hollywood film companies, all I could do when we met with potential Chinese investors was sit back and marvel.

At how much it was like doing business in Paradise.

Does the phrase, “Good Ol’ Boy Network,” ring a bell?

More on this next time, including an astounded visitor’s look at Beijing.

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 May 1, 2008