Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

First, the good news:

Burl Jr. is back in Paradise.

Now the not-so-good news:

He comes not as a conquering hero but to help his father.

Our messy economy has taken its toll, and even Burl Sr., Paradise County’s perpetual Farmer of the Year, is feeling the pinch.

“My dad’s going under,” Burl Jr. said to me as we kicked back in the great room of the main house of Cloud Creek Ranch.

Not that we could do all that much relaxing. Gwen the Beautiful and Tera, Burl Jr.’s wife, were dancing around just a few feet away, trying to calm 6-month-old Burl III, who’d worked himself into one of those baby snits parents know all too well.

Burl Jr. and Tera had left this neck of the woods while Tera was pregnant, going on the road to what we all hoped was fame and fortune for Paradise’s favorite young bluesman.

Their plan was to crisscross the country while Burl Jr. got discovered, but, life being life and plans being the part of life that the Universe so often seems to hold least sacred, they’d spent most of their time in a little rented house in Memphis.

Until the baby they call Strummer emerged, swinging his wrist and wailing, Tera had worked as a pre-school teacher while Burl Jr. gigged in the downtown clubs, endearing himself to fans with his raucous version of “Boom Boom Boom Boom,” and gaining a rep as “the blue-eyed John Lee Hooker.”

After the birth of their fair-haired boy, Tera took time off to do the full-time mother thing while Burl Jr. got a job at an electronics store, confining his music to weekends at a Beale Street lunch room, where he sang the sweetest, most sensitive version of “Sweet Child of Mine” ever heard.

“Things weren’t how I wanted them to be,” said Burl Jr. “But they had potential. We were working toward something, and with the baby here, that something had a whole new meaning. It wasn’t about just me.

“And then, two weeks ago, my mom called and said Dad needed help on the farm. That he couldn’t afford to pay any hands, and he sure couldn’t handle the place alone.

“I felt like I was standing with my foot caught in some railroad tracks with this big old Midnight Flyer bearing down on me. All the time, all the effort I put in, making a place for myself in the Memphis scene, and it was about to get crushed …”

Burl Jr. trailed off. Over on the recliner chair, Strummer’s voice had gone from a howl to a coo as Gwen played a tune I almost recognized on a set of baby chimes.

“How’d you know he loves ‘CC Rider’?” Burl said.

“Is that what I’m playing? All I know are these color-coded notes on the chart Tera gave me.”

“Burl made that,” Tera said. “I keep telling him he should cut a CD. ‘Baby Rockin’ the Blues.’ ”

Strummer sighed contentedly. “This baby’s not exactly rocking right now,” I said. His eyes started to close. Finished the job. He fell into a deep sleep.

“Got the idea from my dad,” Burl Jr. said. “He used to play these weird old mountain songs for me on a toy xylophone when I was a kid. Wrote ‘em all out for Mom so she could play, too, while he was out in the field.”

“Burl Sr. was a good father,” Tera said. “He told Burl’s mother not to call. But she did what she felt she had to. We were so mad for awhile —”

“And now you’re not?” I said.

“How can I be?” said Burl Jr. “More I thought about it, more I saw that wasn’t me stuck on the tracks. That was the man who gave both me and my son our name. My daddy, being barreled down at, with everything he’d ever worked for in danger of being taken away. I’m not going to pull him out? I’m not going to do everything single thing I can to help?”

“Welcome back to Paradise,” Gwen said, and somehow, even though she’s not all that big, she wrapped her arms around Burl Jr., Tera and Strummer in one big hug, and even included me.

Tera was right. Burl Sr. was a good father. And Burl Jr. is both a good father and a fine son.

If that’s not a conquering hero, what is?

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 22, 2009

The minute I said “Yes,” I knew I shouldn’t have.

That agreeing was a mistake.

But Harold the Strip Mall Heir had a project, a novel he wanted someone to adapt into a screenplay, and he offered me a staggering amount of money to take on the task.

“It’s a terrific story,” he said over the phone. “Timely. Important. It’ll make a great film.”

“It’s set in 18th century France,” I said. “How timely is that?”

“‘Those who don’t learn from history are fated to relive it,’” Harold intoned. “Even old news can be relevant.”

And then he told me how much he was prepared to pay a lucky writer to do the job for him. And how much he wanted the lucky writer to be Larry B.

Let’s face it. Financially, last year wasn’t exactly a great one around Paradise. The price of feed went up almost 30 percent. Gas — well, everyone knows how its heavenward spike turned driving into hell. And the largest local business, a maker of recreational vehicles, laid off a huge percentage of its work force because even though they’re not exactly high-ticket, the cost of admission still had risen beyond most people’s means.

Cloud Creek Ranch took a hit, too. I had to raid my personal savings just to keep the business afloat.

So even though I’d told myself years ago that I’d never write for television or films again, I heard myself saying, “How much did you say you were willing to pay up front?”

And, after I heard the number, a very quick “Yes!”

I hung up with a deal.

And a responsibility that already felt like it was strangling me.

Most people don’t understand how writing can be work. Writers sometimes have a problem with that, too. For years I kept a sticky note on my computer monitor that said, on its front side, “Beats working.” And, when you flipped it up: “Beats not working, too.”

But writing is work. Not back-breaking but mind-busting. It’s all about taking your daydreams, which come so easily at all the wrong times, and putting them into words that create images and information and, if you’re doing the job well, emotions and involvement and, if you’re doing the job not only well but right, insight and fulfillment in the minds, hearts — the very beings — of your readers.

And, if you’re writing a screenplay, doing it on a schedule and in a way that absolutely satisfies whoever is paying for the final result.

Because if he, she, or they aren’t satisfied, they’re going to let you know what a miserable failure you are, and you’re going to have a very tough time getting ‘em to fork over the check.

The problem, I think, is that the thing that makes daydreaming so much fun is how it comes naturally. But when you’re being paid to daydream it’s all about forcing your imagination into a place it’s got no intention of going.

Cramming it into the buyer’s box.

No matter how bad the fit.

I’d left Hollywood because I’d grown way too weary of reshaping my daydreams on demand and promised myself I’d never do it again. Now I’d broken the promise, and for three months I tried.

But I couldn’t write a word about the oh-so-timely, important and relevant French Revolution.

Because it just plain wasn’t any of that to me.

Talk about guilt.

I wore it like a shroud. Even felt guilty in my sleeping dreams. Night after night, there I was standing before a judge and jury, reading from the screenplay I hadn’t written and trying to explain the meaning of, and the reason behind, every non-line.

In the dreams, I was trying to make them understand why this tale had to be told.

And in my waking hours, I was trying to make myself understand the same thing.

This week I gave up. Told Harold that the screenplay wasn’t going to happen. Did the credit card, cash advance thing to repay the money he’d already sent.

I feel like a miserable failure.

And yet relieved — so very relieved! — at having taken off the shroud.

Let the daydreaming begin!

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 15, 2009

Traditionally, New Year’s is a time when pundits look back at how the old year shaped up and, simultaneously, crystal-gaze forward, anticipating what’s to come.

For years I’ve resisted the temptation to join in. What’s done is done, and what’s going to come is going to come, whether we predict it correctly or not.

This year, Good Ole Larry B feels like putting in his 2 cents worth. But, being slightly askew, I’m going to resist fortune-telling and confine my observations to the past.

Truth to tell, as my old writer friend from Missouri, Roy Thomas (creator of the comics version of Conan the Barbarian, always says, today’s observations are about a specific past event. And another old friend and writer, this one from Arkansas.

I’m talking about journalist, poet and screenwriter Si Dunn.

As a result of his literary achievements, Si literally is an Arkansas State Treasure. He’s on the books as such. Has an official certificate and everything.

He’s also on my books as One of the Bravest Men I Know, and 2008 was the year he proved it.

By getting himself a whole new life.

At the age of 64.

It started with marriage, just a couple of months ago, in Denton, Texas, when he tied the knot with his radiant bride, Carmen the College Professor, before almost a hundred well-wishers, inlcuding Gwen the Beautiful and myself.

Most of those in attendance just went with it, but I was filled with admiration. As I watched Si and Carmen exchange vows, all I could think of was the confidence it took to take such a big step at a time many people regard as the last phase of life.

There they were, not merely turning a new page but starting a whole new book. The Adventures of Si and Carmen. At a time when most people are tidying up to write “The End.”

Si, of course, waved my admiration aside. “Marrying someone you love is no biggie,” he said. “Especially when it makes life so much easier for the grandchildren. Now when they ask, ‘Who’s that old boy at Grandma’s computer?’ Carmen can say, ‘He’s your grandfather,’ instead of, ‘Oh, that’s just the I.T. Guy.’ ”

Methinks Si was just being modest, but I’ll give it to him because getting married isn’t what earns him my One of the Bravest Men I Know Award for 2008.

What earns him that accolade is what he did next.

Si and Carmen bought a new house. In a new place. So they could start that new book of life in a challenging new setting and take it in a direction where neither previously had been.

A new setting that — I admit it! — scares me half to death.

They got themselves a beautiful spread in the sprawling city of Austin, Texas, the third-fastest growing city in the United States, with a metropolitan area population of just about one million men and women, boys and girls, health-food fanatics, rock, blues and country singers, hard-scrabble farmers, and big-time technology workers.

A city where the new meets the old and both come out swinging, challenging each other to adapt, adopt and take plenty of allergy meds ‘cuz, man, that pollen is fierce.

Where Whole Foods and Dell Computers rassle for the souls of hippies, cowboys and 21st Century foxes.

How much does Austin scare Ole Larry B?

Put it this way: Not long ago, Gwen the Beautiful and I drove down Austin way to visit friends. When we got within 20 minutes of the city, Sunday traffic was so dense it terrified this ex-Los Angeleno. Cars, trucks and motorcycles wove in and out of their lanes at high speed, and I was absolutely sure any moment could be my last.

For the first time in my life I pulled off a freeway before I got where I was going. Gwen and I checked into a hotel and took a time-out while I psyched up to move on into the labyrinth.

That’s right. I was so nervous I actually paid for a room instead of continuing to the friend who was putting us up for free.

And for that reason, I salute Si, and Carmen, too, for moving forward into 2009 and beyond, with determination and strength.

Here’s hoping the rest of us also will find what it takes to seize our futures every bit as bravely and truly.

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 8, 2009

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