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Live! From Paradise! #257

Monday, May 3rd, 2010

Dwayne the Earth Mover called the other day, and he sounded even more surprised than I did.

“Larry B! How you doing? Why didn’t you say good-bye?”

It’s been almost a year since I saw Dwayne last, so it took me a moment to recognize the voice. That seemed to be fine with him because he plunged right on:

“Here I am, figuring life’s like always and you and Gwen the Beautiful are dancing and loving and living the dream, and then I hear from Brannigan that you’ve gone and departed your Mountain for some flatland that’ll be on the ocean floor any day!”

“It’s just for awhile,” I said. “Gwen told Elizabeth what was happening when we saw her at the bank.”

At the mention of his wife, Dwayne was silent for so long I thought his cell had dropped the connection. Then, with his usual fast-talking effervescence: “So what’s it like, starting over in a new place?”

“Tougher than I thought, that’s for sure. Been here a month and still haven’t found the TV remote. The dogs can’t get it into their heads that they don’t have to announce every visitor anymore. Met the neighbor across the street when she came outside to yell at me for yelling in the neighborhood because I was calling out to another neighbor —”

I stopped myself. Because I realized I was running on about…well, about the same kinds of things every move to a new home has brought to my life.

I remembered when I went off to grad school at the University of Iowa and was stopped for speeding just as I crossed the state line. State Trooper got out of his car and came over to my window with a big smile on his face. “Welcome to Iowa, sir!” he said. “Drivers license, please….”

Then there was the time I whisked Gwen to Santa Fe. We’d just gotten married in Vegas, where an Elvis impersonator walked us down the aisle at the Graceland Wedding Chapel and were about to settle down in a house I’d rented on the Santa Clara Pueblo just north of town.

We were treating the drive like a honeymoon. Until we got to Kingman, Arizona, where my hot new truck got so hot it caught fire on I-40. While a local dealer waited for the new driveshaft the truck needed, Gwen and I drove on in a rental car and got home just in time to learn that, as beautiful and modern as the house was, the builders had neglected to install one necessary ingredient.

A heating system that worked.

And how could I forget the first time I wrote anything in this space? It was about an event our first week in Arkansas. When the horse transporters pulled onto the Cloud Creek Ranch driveway with Huck the Spotless Appaloosa and Elaine the Not So Wild Mustang. And promptly got stuck in the mud. For a good long time there it seemed as though the wranglers were going to be permanent residents of The Mountain with us.

None of these things compare, though with the Biggest Move I Ever Made. The one to L.A.

It was over 40 years ago, but I still can picture every detail of the night I arrived at LAX. I was heading for the baggage carousel when a white-haired old lady collapsed to the floor in front of the chute.

Immediately, her companion, an only slightly less white-haired woman, bent down to help, wailing, “Somebody get a doctor! My friend is dying! Get a doctor, please!”

That’s when the baggage started coming down. As I stood there, not able to make myself move, I saw all the other passengers surge forward, stepping over the two women without the slightest visible hesitation, and getting their bags.

Another passenger from the flight turned to me. “Hey, kid,” he said. “Welcome to L.A….”

Dwayne didn’t say much as I told him all this. When I finished, he laughed but didn’t sound amused. “The reason Elizabeth didn’t tell me you were going was that we don’t talk much anymore. Me working in Little Rock, her in Paradise, we kinda came to a parting of the ways.”

“I’m sorry, Dwayne,” I said.

“Thanks,” Dwayne said. “And for the stories too. But I hope you understand, bud. Way things are, I’d rather be stuck in the worst beginning ever than the ending I’m in now.”

I didn’t disagree.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between the Ozark Mountains and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #256

Friday, April 23rd, 2010

A new environment means adjustment.

Unfortunately, adjustment doesn’t come easily for yours truly, Larry B,

Back in 3rd grade, my teacher, Miss Hinsberger, clued the class in on what separates humans from other animals.

“Animals,” she said, “have to adjust to their environment in order to survive. Humans make their environment adjust to them, and thrive.”

Being young and smart and “maladjusted” (people weren’t throwing around diagnoses like “autism” and “Asperger’s Syndrome” back in that day), and totally crushing on Miss Hinsberger, I took this wisdom straight into my heart, and worked desperately to make my environment adjust to me so I could indeed thrive.

It didn’t work.

You can’t change people, especially if you fear them, and I feared everyone because, in keeping with my Asperger’s, every moment with other people caused me literal, physical pain.

Being with ten thousand people at a baseball game, or a dozen people at a family gathering, or even one person at home, made me feel the way a claustrophobic man or woman would feel trapped in a windowless room.

Absolute terror, distinguished by:

Shortness of breath.

A nose either stuffed fuller than a Thanksgiving turkey or flooding like New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina.

Complete loss of the ability to focus on anything, including relief from the fear.

School was a nightmare. The only positive moments I had during elementary school were when Miss Hinsberger gave me what I saw as a very special smile and said, “Good work.”

No way could I adjust the situation, nor could I adjust myself to it.

Finally, in high school, I found the “cure.”

And taught myself to dance the dance that would let me be like everyone else.

Okay, not everyone. The guy I faked being was James Dean.

James Dean the actor was dead by then, thanks to having crashed his Porsche. But his screen persona lived.

Quiet. Brooding. Untouchable by anything outside himself. Flashing that little smile at a joke only he understood.

On film, James Dean was the coolest guy who ever lived.

In real life, I pushed myself to become as close to that as anyone ever could.

I worked on my new personality for years. Added layers so I could interact with others more comfortably. Became a James Dean who told stories in life and on paper. Who talked quickly and cleverly and shared that little smile with people so realistically they all believed that I, the coolest guy who ever lived, truly was sharing myself with them.

This flattered the hell out of most people, and they became my friends.

The more friends I made, the more successful I became, professionally as well as personally.

The more successful I became, the less painful life seemed. And the more real my grafted-on personality felt to me. The false confidence and ease became genuine. So did the friendships. And loves as well. I continued growing outward, and a terrific thing happened.

I became the person I’d pretended to be. One step beyond Pinocchio, I was a real live man.

As a by-all-available-standards successful man, I was able to design my life to be as nonthreatening to myself as possible.

I was the boss, and what does the boss have to be afraid of? I worked exactly the way I wanted to work, on only the projects that appealed to me, and with only the people I wanted to work with.

I lived exactly the way I wanted as well. In the country — ranches in the L.A. and Santa Fe areas, even the Ozarks. Surrounded by beauty both natural and man-made. With people who loved me. I even had just the right pinch of “celebrity” and so was treated with what to me was the perfect amount of respect.

Then, to make things even more awesome for my family and myself, off I went to a totally new kind of environment. A small town. A street with neighbors who knew nothing about me, and whom I also knew nothing about.

Yikes!

Here I am, on serene Friendly Street, where everyone else knows everyone and says, “Hi!” and hangs together and —

And it terrifies me. The old familiar feeling of being totally out of it, not getting anyone, feeling invaded every time another set of eyes meet mine is back, full throttle.

So here I sit, back in elementary school, completely freaked.

Time to come up with another dance. One that’ll work where I am.

Watch me now.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between the Ozark Mountains and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #248

Friday, February 26th, 2010

I’m feeling very “Larry” today.

I know that sounds strange. I am Larry, after all, so how else could I feel?

Well, for four weeks, “weak,” “tired,” and “anxious” in various combinations with “in pain” pretty much described my postheart-attack-and-bypass-surgery condition. But last night, at about 2 a.m., I realized that no longer was the case.

I woke up as I have every post-op night, pulled myself up and out of bed using only my stomach and thigh muscles (no hands or arms allowed!), hied myself to the bathroom to perform the necessary ablutions …

And realized that something was different.

Amazingly so.

Wonderfully so.

My pain level was the same as it’s been for the past several days, but it didn’t bother me anymore. My breastbone ached, but instead of dominating my being it was just a background effect. Like a mild headache. Or muscle stiffness after a workout.

Instead of overwhelming me, the pain in my chest simply felt — familiar. Almost comfortable, in a strange way, as though my chest was saying, “Yo, Larry B., I’m still here, still part of you. I’ve got your heart here in my hands and am taking the best care of it I can.”

“Thanks, chest,” I whispered, keeping my voice as low as possible so Gwen the Beautiful wouldn’t hear me.

I had two reasons for that. Firstly, I didn’t want to disturb her sleep. Secondly, I didn’t want her to think I was crazy. (Ain’t a lot of sane guys I know who’ll cop to talking to their chests while listening to the toilet flush.)

But I meant what I was saying, and it seemed perfectly reasonable for my chest to be able to hear and understand my appreciation. I’d heard and understood it, hadn’t I?

“No problem,” my chest replied. “Just doing my job.”

And then it said to me what everything says to me when we talk. My body. The house. The trees. The Wind. And the Universe itself.

“I love you,” it said.

“And I love you, dude,” I whispered back with what I knew was a great big smile.

I took a pain med and went back to bed. In the morning, I woke up to the sound of Ditsy Dixie whining and barking. Beside me, Gwen stirred, but I told her to go back to sleep and went down the stairs to let all the dogs out.

Although I wasn’t rushing, I saw that I was taking the steps one at a time, which was a change from the way I’d been descending since returning from the hospital. Until this morning my M.O. had been to do the one step with one foot — then catch up with the other foot — then repeat on the next step semi-crab-walk.

I’d thought of that as “The Invalid Walk” and been kind of ashamed of it. But now the need for it was gone. I felt confident. Secure.

As the morning progressed I found myself falling into my old, pre-heart-out-to-get-me routine. I made coffee, checked my e-mail, then made toast. Oh, and I stretched, reaching high overhead and out to the side with my arms, then stretching my legs and arching my back as well.

This was a Big Deal because until that moment I’d been afraid to arch my back, thinking somehow that would … well, make my chest explode. I’d had a lot of illogical exploding chest thoughts. But this morning they were gone. Gone so far that I had to work at recalling how they felt, and not for the life of me could I imagine why I’d let them have such a big influence on my recent life.

All day it’s been like that — normal shower, normal getting dressed, normal swearing at the Japanese Beetles cum Ladybugs crawling inside the windows, normal food taste, normal energy level (mentally anyway).

“Thank you, Universe,” I’ve said more than once, but upon reflection I understand that this miracle isn’t really that at all. Last week, Debra, my surgeon’s nurse (who looks like a better-looking Kate Hudson), explained that because of the surgery my hormone balance had shifted but that I shouldn’t worry because it would shift back.

I didn’t understand until today … specifically until I looked at Gwen and felt the kind of stirring I hadn’t experienced since before I went into the hospital.

“I love you, hormones,” I said.

And not only did I not try to keep Gwen from hearing, I wanted her to know.

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 February 26, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #247

Friday, February 19th, 2010

It’s been four weeks since my quintuple heart bypass surgery, and the most difficult aspect of the situation to deal with has been just that — the four weeks.

Time.

Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint, and I’ve always been a sprinter. An instant-gratification kind of guy.

“I want —”

“I need —”

And zap, I go out there on the hunt and I get.

I know I’m not the most virtuous man on the planet, but as the days of discomfort have crawled by it’s become increasingly clear that the virtue I most lack is patience.

I can’t go out and hunt for health. I can’t force my new arteries to mesh smoothly and perfectly with my heart. Can’t grab my incisions by their scruff and holler, “Heal, damn you!”

All I can do is take my meds and eat my veggies and rest in the new recliner and engage in the kind of exercise I would’ve mocked just a month ago (“Oh, boy, I’m walking around the house for six and a half minutes. S-l-o-w-l-y. Oh wow.”), and wait.

And, man, do I ever stink at waiting.

All together now. Let’s hear it for Larry B.:

“Sigh …”

I’m furious at myself for handling things as I’ve been. For trying to get way too much work done. For cursing at every twinge. For constantly telling my body, “You can do this. You can step over the doggy gate. You can stretch way up there to the back of the closet shelf and take down that old pair of shoes. You can toss that garbage can around like a popcorn-stuffed stocking, no problem.”

Because I can’t.

Stepping over the doggy gate or stretching my arms to the back of the closet or schlepping the garbage means losing my balance. Means catching myself by pushing against the wall. Means flexing stiff chest muscles and making myself wonder for a terrifying second if I’ve totally undone a month of breastbone healing.

“Ouch!”

That’s me.

“Take it easy, sweetie. I’ll get it for you.”

That’s Gwen the Beautiful.

“I don’t want to take it easy. I don’t want you to get it for me.”

Me again, of course.

“I know that, honey. I understand.”

Gwen again, naturally. “But I want to be there for you. The way you’ve always been there for me.”

I always thought it would be easy — more than easy, it would be wonderful — to be taken care of. To let others attend to my needs. Used to joke about how I’d married a woman substantially younger than I was “so she can push my wheelchair when the time comes.”

I was wrong.

Being a caregiver when Gwen had her “early” stroke was a walk in the park, psychologically, compared to being taken care of by her now. Helping someone I loved was the most natural thing in the world to me. But being helped, ah, it’s alien, icky, wrong.

A voice inside my head keeps crying out. “I can do it. I can do it. I’m really okay!”

A voice created by pride.

By habit.

By fear.

Fear of revealing weakness.

Fear of revealing fear itself.

Fear of becoming too demanding, too difficult to deal with. And, because of that, of pushing away my Team Brody partner.

Of losing her love.

Physically, I’m so much better than I was a week ago that I can barely remember what that old feeling was. I’m out. I’m about. In fact, at fifteen pounds lighter than before the heart attack, I’m most amazingly fit. Most of the time, my body feels like me again, only even better.

Actively good.

Hearty.

Sound.

Psychologically, though, I’ve become my own whipping boy. Talk about a self-defeating state of mind!

My doctors, my friends and family who’ve been through this same surgery, and Web site after Web site tell me that what I’m experiencing is normal. “They’ve got meds just for this,” they say. “Take ‘em.”

I dunno about that. For most of my life, my way of controlling my emotions, of handling the blues, has been to move into the moment and appreciate the highs and the lows as the transient miracles they are.

And to write about them. Share ‘em. Own them by giving ‘em away.

Hey, what do you know? In the words of that immortal songstress, Britney Spears, “Oops, I did it again.”

Thanks for listening.

Couldn’t carry it off without you, y’know.

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 February 19, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #246

Friday, February 12th, 2010

And now it’s time for a little self-aggrandizement.

I mean, if a 65-year-old man who’s just had a heart attack and bypass surgery can’t show off a little of what’s helped him feel better and stronger everyday, who can?

Here, then, is a brief sampling of the astounding number of e-mails, letters, and even postcards I’ve gotten since first revealing what happened:

From Aebeth, here in Paradise:
“I for one hope you’re around to report on Paradise for a long time to come. I am truly sorry for what you have gone through; but I feel quite confident you will only allow the slowdown to help you ponder life and share your thoughts with the wind, and the rest of your loyal listeners. Get strong, Larry!! And get well soon!!”

R.D. in Arkansas:
“My prayers and best wishes for a quick, strong, high-energy level to come to (Larry B) … very quickly. He still has some things to do that call for passion. So recover quickly, kind man.”

D.Q., in Australia:
“I just wanted to say I am sorry to hear about your health and wish you a speedy and full recovery. I am sure all out there wish you the same and all understand that you need to heal. Having given so much of yourself to us, it is now time to give to yourself and grow stronger again. All the very best, mate, and positive vibes coming at you from down here.

J.T., in Wisconsin:
“Take good care and glad you are still with us … Thank you for being you, giving back, and sharing your journey with the rest of us. Best to you … in the next stage of your many-faceted wanderings …”

C.C., somewhere on the web:
“I was very saddened to hear of your recent heart attack. But I’m glad you’ll be surrounded by friends and family during your recovery. I’ll send a wish out to the universe for your continued and rapid recovery. (That’s as close as an on-the-fence agnostic like me can get to saying a prayer.)”

Loyal Reader D.C. Rowlett:
“Dad was 59 years old when his heart attack came … It was late October 1966 and bypass surgery had not been thought of … so recovery was a very slow process. Dad spent the greater part of the upcoming winter in the house, pacing the floor and looking out the screen door across the Ashley farm just to the north of us.

“As soon as the grass began to turn green in the early spring his demeanor changed. ‘Gotta get my boat out and see if it still floats.’ ‘Gotta get my shotgun and rifle cleaned up. I ain’t sitting in this house anymore.’

“He didn’t either. He stayed active till he was almost 80 years old . Hang in there, Larry B.; this is just a bump in the road.”

Of course, not all has been sweetness and light. A lawyer-reader had this interesting take:

“Do you know whose dog went through your trash? A case could be made that its owner is responsible for your heart attack…and liable for considerable damages …”

I do know whose dog it was. But to me this hardly seems the time for mean-spiritedness. I doubt that the Universe has hit me with what another reader called “this wake-up call” for reasons other than to urge me to be more generous than I’ve been. More open. More giving.

After all, what does the planet need me around for if I can’t help make it a better place?

Speaking of generosity, I have a favor to ask.

My heart’s misadventure has opened new doors for me but, sadly, also is closing old ones. No longer am I capable of caring for my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa.

Everyone who comes to this space knows about our relationship. A dozen years of sibling-style love and sibling-style rivalry as well. (“Why couldn’t I be the human and you the horse?” Huck once complained. “I guarantee you I wouldn’t waste one single moment of being two-legged and alive!”)

The time has come for me to entrust Huck to the care of someone else. So I’m putting out this call to my Paradise readers. If you’d like to hang with the wildest, woolliest, funniest, absolutely best equine pard ever, and have the wherewithal to do it, please, drop me an email and, sad as it may make me, we’ll talk.

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 February 12, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #245

Friday, February 5th, 2010

One of the most reassuring aspects of life is its regularity. Regularly recurring events like the phases of the moon, the seasons, and, in Paradise, the cresting of the Buffalo National River give me feelings of dependability and reliability. Kind of a, “Hey! The chiggers are back! All’s right with the world!”

Turns out that my life also has its recurring events. In fact, one of them raised its not-insignificant head just three weeks ago.

Not, however, in what I think of as a reassuring way.

Thirty-two and a half years ago, when I was just a lad, I had the massive heart attack I’ve written about in this space before.

And in mid-January of this year I had another one.

Thirty-two and a half years after the first, give or take a few weeks.

On one hand, this is horrifying. On the other it’s just plain cool. If not for the pain and other consequences I’d be spending delightful hour upon hour analyzing and puzzling and trying every which way to figure out why I’m getting these regularly scheduled wake-up calls.

Who or what has set up the timer?

Why?

When?

That kind of thing.

All right, I admit it. I am putting in those hours. Can’t help myself. It’s how I’m wired. I’ve gotten some answers to my questions too. Mostly in dream time, where I’ve found myself confronting my past, present, and future, my dead parents and former friends and lovers, my enemies too.

The result of all this introspection is that I have a whole new outlook on life and reality … and what may be a genuine inkling of the true nature of the Secret of the Universe itself.

Or not.

Doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that I’m alive to throw myself into the search.

My heart attack occurred over a period of four days. Started when I was picking up trash some not-so-friendly neighborhood dog or coyote or bear or whatever had strewn all over the Cloud Creek driveway. Chest pain for 20 minutes, then the all-clear. Then pain again, until at last I wised up and told Gwen the Beautiful what was going on.

Gwen made the right call, and soon I was in an ambulance, heading for the emergency room, receiving a life-saving supply of oxygen and morphine and nitro pills. Two days after this particular race for life, I underwent quintuple bypass surgery.

Four days after that I was home.

Two days later, I was in front of the computer, trying — and failing — to work.

The aftermath of the surgery has been “interesting,” à la the ancient curse, “May you live in interesting times.”

Some of the time has been horrific, infused not only with pain but also with a sense of helplessness that has left me afraid to take the next breath.

But some of the time has been wonderful too. Peaceful. Filled with powerful emotions … and with a true awareness of the old saw about wherever there’s life there’s hope. I find myself more hopeful than ever, and filled with excitement about facing the challenge of recovery and the re-assumption of the mantle of ambition/aspiration that has always been my defining characteristic.

This time around, I find my surgery more meaningful than the heart attack itself. My moment-to-moment activity is, for all practical purposes, a response to having been cut open, messed around with, and then closed up again.

For example, I’m now terrified of lying on my back. Because it’s unsafe to use my hands to pull or push myself up (might strain my carved-up breastbone and keep it from healing properly, as well as hurt like hell), I’ve got to struggle into the next position using only my abs.

And you’re not going to catch me using a knife for awhile. Because I keep thinking I won’t be able to control it and, snick!, it’ll end up in my chest.

I’m not too keen on showering or bathing either. Because, “Aargh! The water, it’s beating on my chest wounds! And on my torn-up left leg, where they took out veins to make into arteries replacing those that were blocked!”

But this will pass. Each day gets exponentially better. Today, so far, has been pain-free. And Gwen and Burl Jr. are taking good care of me and the ranch.

Even as I get better I ponder about the future and what’s in store 32 1/2 years from now.

Wonder if I’ll be able to report on it here.

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 February 5, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #243

Friday, January 8th, 2010

Like most people, I live a life where if anything can go wrong, it does.

Several months ago, though, the Universe took pity on this obscure inhabitant of the Milky Way, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around what happened.

Gwen the Beautiful and I were in China when creation itself seemed to reach out and touch me and say, “This is your moment, Larry B.!”

What a moment it was! Far from cosmic. Not especially significant in any broad sense. But oh — so satisfying.

Gwen and I were at a showbiz party. Surrounded by stars of the Chinese stage and screen. Our Generous Hostess asked if I played any musical instrument, and I’d had just enough wine to say, “I play the drums.”

At that, our Hostess grinned and clapped her hands together. Immediately, her Major Domo rushed to my side.

“You will like this,” he said and ushered me into the next room, which was set up like a bandstand, complete with instruments. Behind a line-up of guitars and keyboards was the drum kit of any drummer’s dreams. Drums, drums, and more drums. Big cymbals. Little cymbals. Everything and anything that went crash, bam, or boom.

“Music is Madame’s passion,” the Major Domo said. He pulled the drum “throne” out for me. “Please — rock on.”

I’ve played the drums for over 50 years. Started in the Junior High band. My parents got me my own drum kit, a Ludwig Buddy Rich Super Classic in “black diamond pearl” in 1958.

My high school buddy, tenor sax man Ron Tiersky (now an eminent political scientist teaching at Amherst), and I started a band that played at all the school events and gigged around locally as well.

For awhile I thought I’d make drumming my life’s work. Except that I wasn’t quite good enough for that. Had one tiny little weakness — keeping a steady beat.

I turned to the typewriter, and later the computer, for my livelihood. Still, over the years I’ve played with a great many musicians, both minor and major. I love doing it, but every session has been stressful at best … and a few have been outright terrifying.

For some reason, however, that night in China I wasn’t at all frightened or even tense.

I sat down, picked up the sticks, and started wailing.

And as I played, party guests who were musicians made their way into the room, grabbed guitars, began playing. Guests who were singers joined in. We played together in various combinations, and as though we’d known each other for years, traveling a rocking road from ’50s rockabilly through ’70s psychedelia to 21st century pop.

We jammed for hours, and everything I did sounded … well, to my ear I sounded the way I’d always wanted to, for the first time in my drumming life. I was wild, but my beat was steady. I hit the heights I’d always aimed for but never came even close to before.

When it was over, and we’d all crashed from exhaustion, I looked around at the happy faces of my One Night Band Mates, and then I looked up at the ceiling, trying to see beyond it, to the stars.

Two thoughts leapt into my mind.

The first one was, “Thanks.”

The second was, “Why?”

Since that night, I’ve often relived the exhilaration I felt when, for a few hours, I got a taste of being someone I’d so much wanted to be when I was young.

And, each time, my gratitude immediately is followed by a search for the cause. Finally, I decided it had to be the drum kit. The quality of its components. The way they were set up.

If those drums were mine …

I checked out the price online and found that it was way out of my reach. But I saw another kit, similar but more affordable. And so, after 50-plus years with my original Ludwigs, I finally bought new drums.

They arrived a few days ago, and I spent the next several hours setting them up, tuning the heads, doing the things drummers do. I’ve been playing constantly ever since.

Do I sound the way I did that night in China?

Gwen says, “Of course you do.”

But my ear tells me something different.

I need to make sure.

To know, absolutely, whether the Universe handed me a one-nighter or intends for Larry B. to rock on.

Anyone out there have a band that needs a drummer? Or want to jam?

Give me a call.

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 January 8, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #242

Friday, January 1st, 2010

Every night for the last three weeks I’ve had the same dream.

More than every night, in fact, because it comes back to me any time I relax or close my eyes.

For someone like me, who’s been trying to figure out the meaning of life ever since I can remember, this is a wonderful dream. A dream that comes thisclose to answering my questions.

And then — but of course — turns around and gives me about 50,000 new questions to ask. In the dream, I live in a small town. Like Paradise, it has two main streets. Unlike Paradise, the architecture of all the buildings is Victorian. Also unlike Paradise, the town is along a sea coast. What sea, I don’t know. What coast — east, west, north, south — I don’t know either.

I do know that it’s a beautiful place. One where, along with a Partner I can’t see and don’t really know, I run a business out of one of the buildings closest to the sea. I don’t know the name of the business, but its purpose is crystal clear. I — make that “we” — teach people of all ages how to live.

Specifically, we teach them how to live proudly and openly and with as much style and excitement as they can. In this dream, Shakespeare was dead right when he said in “As You Like It,” “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.” (Except I’d drop the “merely” because I don’t see anything “mere” about this.)

That’s right. Everything we do is part of a show, designed for the entertainment and enlightenment of both an unseen audience of who knows who or what and also one consisting of ourselves. The school I share with my unknown Partner teaches everything you need to put on a show to everyone else in the world.

Now that’s cool.

In the dream, I divide my time between sitting in an office and working with other writers to write scenes for the actors to play as part of their lives (including scenes about writing scenes) and stalking through the halls helping younger students — children — and their parents grasp the general point of everything.

The writing part is a snap. I do it well and love every instant. But helping the kids and their folks grasp the general point is tough. Because I don’t know the general point. I’m clueless as to why everyone in the world is living this show business life. And totally in the dark about who the unseen audience is.

Because of my ignorance, I find myself turning more and more to the unknown Partner for help. Which isn’t so easy when you don’t know what he looks like, or even where she is.

It takes work, but I always manage to find him when I need to. Sometimes she’s able to help me. Most of the time, though, he’s as bewildered as I and the two of us just mush on as best we can.

But every time we “mush” we succeed.

When I was writing and producing television I learned that both jobs were about making decisions. It didn’t matter what you decided, just that you decided something. Making a decision, even the wrong one, meant the show could go on. Not making one brought things to a shuddering halt.

The dream reaffirms that. The dream tells me that it’s the mushing — the trying — that counts, and not whether what we try is right or wrong.

For three weeks now, I’ve been trying to dig down to a deeper interpretation of this dream. One of the main ways I interpret thoughts and feelings and dreams and events is to write them down and see what the act of writing turns them into, which is why I’m writing this.

And in the course of this writing I’m starting to understand that one of the points of the dream is that we’re not going to get any grand meaning out of life as a concept … because the meaning is in the actual living of the life. It’s in going onstage and doing our best. Getting totally involved in putting on that great, big, wonderful show.

I could’ve written this just for myself and then put it away. Instead I’m throwing it out to everyone who comes to this space. To do otherwise would be to betray my part of the Partnership. To abdicate the teaching thing.

So that’s it, today’s class. The last class of 2009.

On to 2010 and the next awesomely mystifying Dream.

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.

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Live! From Paradise! #237

Friday, November 20th, 2009

The way I look at life and the work we do in it boils down to this:

The reward for doing a good job is you get to do it again.

Whether you want to or not.

A couple of years ago, I went to China as a consultant to a Hong Kong production company. I must have done a good job because they asked me back, as a writer and producer this time. The company supplied the concept and source material—the true World War II story of the sinking, in the East China Sea, of a Japanese ship loaded with Allied prisoners who had to fight against desperate odds to survive. Once I agreed to take this on it was up to me to build the premise into a film.

The first step was for Gwen the Beautiful and myself to return to the exotic East so I could talk to survivors and visit the places where the events occurred.

I figured this would take about a week. The Boss of the company disagreed.

“We need you here for at least a month,” he said over the phone.

“A month? I’d love to stay a month, but I’ve got a zillion responsibilities at home. No way I can be gone that long.”

Beside me, Gwen was listening closely. She whispered, “A month in China and you’re saying no? Remember what a great time we had there before?”

“It won’t be the same,” I said. “Consulting is…consulting. Writing is work.”

The Boss laughed from 9,000 miles away. “I understand marital compromise. I’ll set the trip up for three weeks.”

A month later, after a travel time of 27 hours, from our front door to Hong Kong Airport, Gwen and I arrived and learned why The Boss needed us to be there for so long.

Turns out that in China, just as in Hollywood, socializing is a major part of the job. And the socializing began the first night, when Gwen, The Boss, and I attended a charity show at the largest venue I’ve ever seen, a live theater-music multiplex in one of the smaller buildings on the formerly pastoral island of Kowloon.

By which I mean it was “only” 50 stories high.

After two hours of professional entertainers from all over the world doing Broadway song and dance, we went back to our hotel and collapsed.

The Boss roused us the next day. Lunch at the Hong Kong Jockey Club, where they had a buffet spread in a room so vast it looked as though the entire racetrack would fit inside it. And after that we were off to see the last day of shooting of The Boss’s current film, the project on which I’d been consulting two years before.

That night The Boss, The Boss’s Assistant (who also happens to be one of the major directors of TV commercials in that part of the world), The Coordinator Who Got Her Start On Enter The Dragon, The Cute Accounting Intern About To Leave To Study For Her Ph.D. In Urban Planning At Cambridge, and I went to a party given by Hong Kong’s Most Important Entertainment Attorney In A Restaurant He Owns.

To her disappointment, Gwen couldn’t make it. She fought bravely but couldn’t fend off her body’s need for more sleep. The only reason I can give for my ability to stay awake is my insatiable curiosity. Was this really going to be just like the L.A. Scene I’d so happily left behind years ago? I had to see.

And what I saw was about 40 people sitting at three large tables in a private room. At the head table were HK’s Most Important Attorney, his Fifth Wife, his three unmarried sisters, and half a dozen suitors for the sisters (and, I’m pretty sure, the Fifth Wife as well. At the other tables were various Hong Kong film luminaries, including a Lovely Hong Kong Oscar-Winning Actress, and, of course, us—The Boss and his entourage.

Wine flowed. Spirits splashed. And as the 14 course meal progressed The Lovely Hong Kong Oscar-Winning Actress explained its Prime Directive to me:

“If you raise your glass you must down it in one sip. And you must raise it every time someone makes a toast.”

Over 14 courses, that’s a lot of toasts.

Ah, Hong Kong, you are indeed Hollywood East!

I’d salute you, but after that night I don’t think I’ll ever dare to raise my glass again.

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 November 20, 2009

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Live! From Paradise! #236

Friday, November 13th, 2009

Huck is crying.

He hides it with a stallion’s squeal.

Last week in this space I wrote about the death of Rosie the Romantic Arabian while Gwen the Beautiful and I were out of the country.

Mostly, I quoted the e-mails about her illness, because I was too stunned to find my own words. It’s still difficult for me to separate my sadness at the loss of this fine young woman (who also just happened to be a horse) from my shock at it having occurred so suddenly.

Huck the Spotless Appaloosa, however, has no such problem.

He feels miserable, and he knows it.

And he’s angry. Testosterone-fueled sadness flaring as fury.

Although Huck officially is a gelding, he’s what horse people call a “proud cut,” filled with as much spice as many stallions.

“I couldn’t escape from the knife,” he once said to me. “But I’ve beaten it.”

And now, only a few weeks since his mare died of colic, he’s beating me.

“You weren’t here, Larry,” he whinnied this morning. “Rosie and I needed your help. But my two-legged brother who swore to keep us safe was gone!”

“I had work to do,” I said. “I’m writing a movie about something that happened far away. Gwen and I had to check it out.”

“How far?” Huck said.

“On the other side of the globe.”

“Is that as far as across the road? Or down the other side of The Mountain?” He regarded me accusingly. “Were you where those mares I smell are? The ones I call to but never get to see?”

“Farther than that, Huck. Much farther.”

He snorted. “You expect me to believe you could go way off like that with only two legs? And no hooves! How far can you get with no hooves?”

“You’re the one complaining that I wasn’t here. So it must seem to you like I got pretty far.”

Huck kicked out with his hind legs. Whirled as though trying to catch the kick in his own chest. “Seems to me you must’ve been hiding in a shed, or in some trees. Hiding from Rosie’s sickness and my pain. Doing whatever you could to not have to deal with that bellyache that killed her.”

“I wanted to be here, My Brother. I wish I’d been able to do something for her —”

“You and me both, Brother,” he said, making the word sound like a curse. He tossed his head, mane flying. Looked at me more closely. “I wonder … what you could’ve done.”

“No more than Billy did,” I said. “Maybe less.”

“Billy took her away,” said Huck. “He’s the reason I’m alone.”

“He took her to the vet. So you wouldn’t be alone. Brought her home, too. And buried her.”

“I smelled that,” Huck said. “I smelled it, and I heard it. But I didn’t see it.”

“Want to?”

Huck nodded. Hard. I went to the hay shed and got a lead rope. Came back and put it around his neck like a lasso. I took him out the far gate of the corral, and together we walked down the unpaved driveway to the pond, then up to the little meadow where Billy Morningstar and Delly the Interstate Trucker, with the help of a backhoe, had buried Rosie.

Huck and I stopped at the marker Billy had built. A round-capped fencepost with a crossbeam across which Rosie’s halter and lead rope hung. In the center of the crossbeam was a little metal sculpture — a horse’s head within a horseshoe. Everything was in the colors of Cloud Creek Ranch. Barn red with white trim.

“I still don’t see her,” Huck said. “But I feel her.”

“Is that better for you?”

“She feels beautiful.”

“How do you feel?”

Huck hesitated. Then:

“Empty,” he said.

He took a couple of steps away from the bare earth that covered his lost love. Lowered his head. Munched on the auburn Autumn grass. “This ought to fill me up fine.”

As I watched him I thought about other deaths of beloved ones Gwen and I have experienced here in the wilds of the Ozarks.

Dogs.

Cats.

Horses.

Chickens.

Humans too.

All these creatures are people to me, whether they were human or not.

Oh! So many people!

Here and then gone. And what do I do?

I write about them.

It’s what I’m best at.

My way, I tell you, Huck — and all my other Brothers and Sisters — of trying to help.

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 November 13, 2009

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