Archive for October, 2009

Live! From Paradise! #234

Friday, October 30th, 2009

Hard as it may be to believe (unless, of course, you know me), there was a time when I was consumed by ambition.

My thoughts focused on the future. On what I would create. What I would become.

Who I would be.

And what it would take to win the prize and get from where I was — another aspiring writer — to the top of the word-slinging trade.

No matter my whereabouts, I wasn’t really in that place or time at all.

Sure, my body might have been eating dinner in my San Fernando Valley apartment. But my mind was envisioning a dinner down the line. A banquet, maybe, where I sat at the head table while other writers honored me. Or maybe another kind of meal, more intimate. Lit only by candles, at a small but breathtakingly beautiful place in Rome, where I’d never been.

Even when I was being practical I still was well outside the “now,” hearing the words I was going to write as soon as I had the chance race into my brain and scatter any conversation around me to hills beyond my awareness.

There were, in fact, times when the next words of my characters, and my own hopes and ambitions that fueled them, spiraled so far out of my control that I thought I’d never find my way back to the table.

Who says being a dreamer is easy?

But as I got older and achieved pretty much everything I’d wanted to, I realized that constantly thinking about tomorrow was destroying my today. How could I enjoy anything as it happened when I already was anticipating what was going to occur next?

I felt empty.

Hollow.

Like a fake human being so lost that every night I found myself immersed in nightmares in which, no matter what I did, how hard I tried, it was impossible for me to find my way.

Luckily, it was at this time in my life that I discovered the Wind of Mystery. I found that if I talked, out loud, to the Wind and the universe behind it, I would get answers to the questions I asked. As soon as I recognized that the now was all I really had — all anyone really has because if you’re not fully aware of and deeply embedded in each moment as you live it you might as well not be living at all — wham! — everything changed.

I was whole.

Full.

And fascinated.

Since the time I first heard the Wind I’ve approached my life with a sense of wonder that boils down to, “Whatever happens now is golden because it’s unique. Each moment can only be experienced once and then it’s gone forever. The good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly … it’s all special, and it all ends, so I’ve got to enjoy it while I can.”

It’s relatively easy to get into totally experiencing moments that obviously are special. Births. Deaths. Job promotions. Firings. Victories and defeats of all kinds.

But I like a challenge, which is why, in both my life and this very space where I write each week, I make sure I immerse myself in the “illuminated ordinary.” In other words, the little things.

One of the little things that means so much to me is the moment when I wake up each morning. I become aware of the physical sensations in my body. The sheets against my back, blankets on my chest. The pillow behind my head. The temperature and scent in the room.

And the wonderful warmth of my wife, Gwen the Beautiful, lying sleeping beside me.

This morning I got lucky. I got to see and hear and smell and feel more than usual.

This morning I turned to look at Gwen, as I always do, and I was flooded with the sensation of every other time I’ve gazed at her in bed. I reached out and caught memory after memory of all we’ve done together. All we’ve been through for better and for worse. In sickness and in health.

I grabbed every one of those past moments and held them close in the present. I saw her perfect, sleeping face 15 years ago. Ten. Five. Today.

And I thought of the future we’d set out to achieve on that first morning, and how that morning had led to this one.

We’re getting old together, I thought. Just as we hoped.

Gwen awoke, looked at me, puzzled. “What …?” she said.

“We win,” I replied.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . 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, 2009

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Live! From Paradise! #233

Saturday, October 24th, 2009

Aargh! I’m under attack.

As the superheroes in Marvel Comics put it when the forces of evil close in:

“… Mind reeling … can hardly function … must find a way to break free …”

I’m not talking about a physical threat. No one’s got The Mountain surrounded. Not a super villain in sight.

Instead, it’s even worse.

This attack is in cyberspace. The attacker is a computer virus, the victim my beloved new Dell XPS quadcore super-fast, super-cool, red-and-brushed-aluminum-cased baby, which until now was as healthy and powerful as only a top-of-the-line computer can be.

Two days ago, all was well. When I pushed the power button my XPS hummed to life, blue LEDs flashing around its fascia, Windows Vista booting up as quickly as Vista can boot.

All my start-up applications came on in the order in which they always came on. All my desktop icons appeared where they were supposed to. When I clicked on my browser it opened and took me to my start page. Clicking on my bookmarks took me where I wanted to go. My to-do list appeared at Google Office.

All was right with the world.

After all, how could anything be wrong as long as my Big Mean Gaming and Word Processing and Gossip Hunting Machine was racing like a finely tuned sports car?

Back when I cared about finely tuned sports cars and even could afford one (with some help from the bank), my emotional well-being in many ways was tied to my car. It was a macho thing, pure and simple, a man and his vehicle, masculinity overflowing within me as long as the spark plugs sparked and the 5-speed gearshift moved smoothly, and the engine growled and howled like a mountain lion crossed with a banshee.

And, back then, my well-being would be crushed, ground into the dirt, as soon as the spark plugs clogged or the shifter started grinding or the engine began gasping and skipping like a sick prairie dog.

When the day came that I no longer could indulge my obsessive love and compulsive need for a Porsche or an Alfa Romeo or a Corvette, I knew what I should do. I knew it was time to stop hiding from reality by throwing my soul into mechanisms that were nothing more than conveyances. People movers. Transporters.

Did I rise to the occasion? Did I embrace my newfound awareness? Throw myself metaphorically naked and unprotected into the world as I knew I should?

Of course not.

I’m a guy.

And macho is as macho does.

Or, more specifically, as macho owns.

I looked around, and there it was. The perfect sports car substitute. Not only for me but for hundreds of thousand, maybe millions of other men.

The computer.

Why do PCs outsell Macs by 9 to 1 even though Macs are more efficient and reliable machines?

Because Macs come fully set up as they’re supposed to be and then stay that way.

But PCs! Ah, PCs are infinitely configurable. You can change the case. You can change the innards. You can soup up the ram and the video card. Add monitors. (I use two.) Fancy sound systems. (I’ve got five speakers. Front. Rear. Middle.)

A man can make his PC into just about anything he has the time and patience and funds to create, and even the most extreme and expensive computer costs a mere fraction of the price of an average, totally unexceptional car.

Once upon a time, for most men in this country, our cars were representations of ourselves. They proclaimed who we were or wanted to be. They lived.

Now computers accomplish the same thing.

Larry B. is Dell XPS.

Together, we roll.

More than that, we rock.

Except right now we’re tumbling and bumping instead. Half my applications won’t apply themselves. My hard drive creeps. My icons keep vanishing. My browser opens at random intervals and shows me Web sites that would make Larry Flynt blush, while refusing to budge when I type in my own home page.

Even my anti-virus and malware detectors have succumbed, refusing to open. I’ve spent 10 hours trying to get everything back to normal, but the virus dodges and weaves and just when I think I’ve won it sticks out its tongue and goes, “Pfft.”

“…Must disconnect…take PC to Don the Computer Repair Genius…admit I’m not the man I thought I was….”

Aargh!

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. 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, 2009

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Live! From Paradise! #232

Friday, October 16th, 2009

As Neil Sedaka once sang, “Breaking up is hard to do.”

Even when it doesn’t involve a loving partner or significant-other sort of relationship.

I don’t know what happens with other people, but Gwen the Beautiful and I share a common characteristic when it comes to keeping friendships. We’re pretty much able to go along with anything as long as we know the friend truly cares for us and shares our basic desire to help human beings to become the best they can be.

But once a friend crosses the line it’s as though a switch has gone off in our heads and it’s all over.

I’ve only seen this happen with Gwen a couple of times. In both cases her reaction was immediate and powerful.

The first time, she discovered that her best friend, Paula, had been stealing from our house. Clothes. Children’s toys. Small items of décor.

Did Gwen march over to Paula’s place and demand everything back? Call her and scream? Fire off a furious note?

Nope. It was too late for that. With the switch in the off position, the friendship was over. And with the friendship over there was no need or responsibility to talk anything through.

Never again did Gwen talk to Paula. Not a word. Nothing. No matter what.

Harsh? Sure.

But necessary because some betrayals cut so deeply that discussing them can itself cause a fatal wound. To the soul.

The second time Gwen “paula-ed” someone was when another longtime friend decided that instead of hiding the racism we hadn’t known she felt she was going to be “open and honest” about it.

Oh, and “cute and funny” too.

Her jokes about Hispanics didn’t find the acceptance she sought.

Gwen got out of the car the woman was driving at the time, carefully shut the door … and never spoke to her again either.

I first met my (former) friend Joe when we were in college. He was the world’s greatest wingman, a charming guy who could start a conversation with anyone and always, unfailingly, keep whomever he was talking to at ease.

When you’re a shy youth, having a friend who’s ready and willing to walk up to any young woman you think is cute and pave the way for you is worth just about anything. And when a friend like that sticks by you, no matter what, the “just about anything” becomes everything.

We were buds for life.

Except that life changes people. Over the years, Joe has become more and more difficult for me to be around, even electronically. He teaches college but hates college students. “They’re idiots,” he says. “I hate them so much I even hate college towns.”

He’s become a hard-liner about all aspects of human conduct, constantly measuring people against his idea of intelligence.

“My next door neighbor not only can’t dress a deer, he’s never even shot one. How stupid can you get?”

“That idiot doesn’t even have an M.A., let alone a Ph.D. Can’t believe a thing he says.”

“I don’t see Doris anymore. When we were in Taos she drank straight from the untreated spring. What a moron!”

During the past six months, Joe has e-mailed me articles and reflections on “the stupid side of life,” some serious and some intended to be funny, at least twice a day. I asked him to stop several times, but the e-mails kept coming. Along with Joe’s assurances that, “Larry B., don’t worry. You’re the smartest guy I know. We’re BFFs.”

When we were in college I would’ve been happy to pass muster like that. But now? I couldn’t take his attitude toward others anymore. I didn’t want to hear about “idiots.” And even though I was exempt, I knew I couldn’t survive any more encounters with Joe’s hatred.

I’ve been paula-ing him for five days.

Gwen made it look easy, but now I know how much it hurt her.

Because I ache.

How I ache!

Joe’s on the phone now. Leaving a message. All I’ve got to do is pick up and tell him what’s going on. Do the manly thing and talk it through.

But Joe’s a charmer. If we talk, he’ll own me the way he used to.

I’ll apologize, and after we hang up I’ll feel miserable. And angry at myself.

Sorry, Joe, but I can’t risk it. I can’t let myself inflict my own fatal wound.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. 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 16, 2009

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Live! From Paradise! #231

Friday, October 9th, 2009

“What do you think, Larry B.? Mighty fine location, wouldn’t you say?”

The Old Billionaire and I were at a cemetery just outside Fayetteville, looking at his family crypt. He’s been thinking a lot about death lately, he told me, “because I don’t seem to be much good at thinking about life anymore. Sometimes I feel like I’m remembering everything backwards.”

His memory on this sunny day was right on target, as far as I could tell.

“I was never a big fan of mausoleums,” the O.B. said. “Remind me too much of those old horror movies. Thunder! Lightning! And Vincent Price!

“But about 20 years ago,” he went on, “Nettie got on me about how we were well-to-do people and had an image to maintain, so I moved our folks, mine and hers, into this concrete monstrosity, and when I shuffle off I’ll be in there too. First drawer on the left. When it’s her time, Nettie’ll lie beside me.”

“Nettie really said you had an image to uphold even after you were dead?” I said.

“Well, I think it was Nettie. Might’ve been my son the Harvard Genius. Sounds more like him, doesn’t it?”

“Sounds more like Hollywood than the Ozarks, when you get down to it,” I said.

“Ah, but when you get farther down to it, Hollywood, the Ozarks, Harvard — what’s the difference? People everyplace think the same way, don’t they? They’re absolutely sure what they’re doing is more important than anything else anybody else is doing as long as they’re spending more money doing it than anybody else can.”

My mind reeled, trying to follow the logic. “Let me get back to you on that,” I said.

“On what?” said the O.B. He read my face. “I’m joking,” he said. “I can remember from moment to moment. It’s the overall moments that sometimes slip away. I never knew I had so much of myself to lose.”

We walked back into the sunlight. Together, we gazed at the big, brass guardian angel that hovered over the roof of the building. It gleamed so brightly that all I could think of were Biblical references to graven images.

It was as though the Old Billionaire read my mind. “Like the Golden Calf, isn’t it? Except the Golden Calf didn’t cost anywhere near what this did. That European sculptor took our little Billionaire Family Trust for an arm, a leg, half a ribcage, and both lungs.”

“You really thinking you’re going to die soon?” I said. “You look full of life to me.”

“Full of something anyway,” he said. “Don’t know when I’m going to die. Just hoping.”

“It’s come to that?”

“It’s come to that.” The O.B. shook his head, forced a smile. “What about you? Got a place where you want to be laid to rest?”

“I’m looking forward to a tidy cremation,” I said. “But I’ve never thought about where the ashes would go from there.”

“Think about it now, will you?”

“I don’t have any special place. And I don’t think I’ll be where my ashes are anyway. I’ll be with the Wind. So it doesn’t matter.”

The Old Billionaire shook his head. His look showed how important this was. “Think anyway,” he said. “For me?”

And, as he asked, I realized there was a place that would be perfect for both my spirit and any physical remains. The cemetery in Mannsville, Oklahoma, where Gwen the Beautiful’s father is buried. It’s the epitome of the country graveyard. Green. Blue-skyed. Lined with shady trees.

A feeling of perfect harmony lies over the Mannsville cemetery. It’s the most peaceful spot I’ve ever been. I opened my mouth to explain it to the O.B., but his eyes, looking back at his mausoleum, stopped me.

“I’d like an urn,” I said. “With a gleaming brass angel etched into it. And a crypt with a drawer where the urn could go. With Gwen’s ashes in another angel urn beside mine, sharing that drawer when the time comes.

“I’ve always liked Fayetteville,” I added. “A man could be comfortable sleeping forever here.”

The Old Billionaire smiled. “Yep,” he said. “I think so too. But not yet. Oh, no, no, no. Not for you, or Nettie, or Gwen. Not yet.”

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

“If I were a drinking man, I’d drink to that,” said the Old Billionaire. “Hmm, maybe just for today, I am.”

We walked back to the O.B.’s SUV, and Bubba the Driver whisked us into town.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . 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 9, 2009

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Live! From Paradise! #230

Friday, October 2nd, 2009

Back in the early ’80s, I was the supervising producer of an ABC series called “The Fall Guy.”

It was a big hit, and I ran it for three years.

We had our crises, but “The Fall Guy” was filled with action and humor, and for the most part it was so much fun to work on that I couldn’t wait to get to the studio everyday.

There was, however, one problem.

The star, Lee Majors, hated me.

In all my time on the show, he only spoke to me twice.

Once, when I came to see him during the shooting of the first episode, he said, “Get out of my trailer.”

The second time, at a party at another producer’s house, he crooked a finger and beckoned me over to a corner of the dining room. “Know why I hate you?” Lee said.

“Um … no.”

“Think back to when we first met. To the first words out of your mouth.”

I thought about our meeting. The show was three weeks away from production, and our little building at Fox Studios had been buzzing all day with the news that Lee was back from a vacation and coming over to say hi.

I was as buzzed as everyone else. I wasn’t a big fan of his work on previous series, but I’d enjoyed my experience as a freelance writer on “The Six Million Dollar Man.” Everyone on the show had talked about what a great guy Lee was, and friends of mine who also knew him agreed.

“Down to earth.”

“Fun to hang with.”

“Wait till he takes you duck hunting!”

So when Lee drove up in his red Ferrari and strode into the office, I was eager and prepared to make a friend for life. I thrust out my hand to welcome him and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, loud and strong, for everyone in the office to hear:

“Here he is, everybody! Here’s the hero!”

Lee’s forehead wrinkled. He frowned. Did an about-face.

Went back out the door and into the Ferrari.

Roared away.

“You mocked me,” Lee said as we stood in the corner of the dining room. “You made fun of me in front of the entire staff.”

“But I meant it. You were a hero to me.”

Lee’s brows knitted, just as they had that day years ago. Frowning, he left me standing there alone.

The reason all this comes to mind is that last Saturday night Gwen the Beautiful and I went to Donny the Storyteller’s house to meet an old high school friend of his who he’d described as, “Larry B.’s biggest fan.

“Gil reads you first thing every Friday. Then he e-mails me to discuss what you’ve written. You should see his file on the Old Billionaire.”

According to Donny, Gil was planning on making the five-hour drive all the way from Oklahoma City to show me his appreciation, soon as I gave the nod.

How could I not want to meet someone like that? I nodded. Twice.

Which brings us to Saturday night.

There we were. Donny, Gwen, Gil, and me.

Gil thrust out his hand. “I think I’m pleased to meet you,” he said. “But I’m not sure. This is Donny’s idea, you know. From what I’ve read of your columns you’re kind of iffy to me.

“Your early stuff about life in Paradise was interesting, but after the first year you jumped the shark,” Gil went on. “All that drivel about spirits and mounds and dreams! If I’ve got to read one more conversation with the universe, or the wind, or your horse, I’m going to throw up!”

My brows knitted. I frowned. I turned away. I took Gwen’s hand in mine, and out we went, taking off for home in our pickup.

Later that night, Donny called, talking very, very fast. “Larry B., it’s not what you think. Gil’s the funniest guy I know, in a sarcastic kind of way. He can’t help himself. He was excited, and trying to talk like you write and — ”

And I get it now, at last. After all this time I understand what I did to upset Lee Majors. And I’m sorry, Lee. I’m saying it here in public, as loudly as I can.

I hope you’ll forgive me. And prove yourself the better man.

Better, because I’m admitting here in public, also as loudly as I can, that I’ll never forgive Gil.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . 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 2, 2009

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