Let's Set The Record Straight.

And don't make eye contact.

I am an introvert. I didn't always know that about myself, because for most of my life I was told (by other people) that I was something else. It took me a stupidly long time to stop letting other people tell me what I was, or what I was supposed to be. If you are funny, or have a natural tendency towards performance - whether it's acting, music, comedy, dance, etc. - the general consensus is that you are an extrovert. You are a person who likes an audience; who loves being the center of attention. After all, why else did you get on that stage, right? You are always on.

I should now like to state, forever and always, that this assumption is uninformed, unenlightened, ignorant bullshit. 

An introvert is, at heart, a person who enjoys being alone. And who, in truth, actually needs to be alone, and fairly regularly, in order to continue functioning as a member of society. An extrovert is simply a person who enjoys being around other people, and actually gets energized by all that interaction. My wife is that kind of person; I am decidedly not. I can kill whole evenings on the patio with a little whiskey (or a lot, if I'm being honest), some music, and nobody else at all. I don't just enjoy doing this; I need to do this. When I have gone too long being around lots of people, whether professionally or socially, and I don't get the chance to sneak off by myself and just be alone for a while, I will become an absolute bastard. Ask literally ANYBODY who knows me well. If you and I are ever at a gathering and it's been a couple of hours, and for whatever reason I simply cannot get away, or there is no place for me to slink off to and recharge, then in that situation there's no need for you to scan the room looking for the biggest asshole. It will always be me.

Now that I actually understand this about myself, I'm much less of an asshole these days. (There are some, no doubt, who will violently disagree with the previous statement.) If I am on a television or commercial set and we're at lunch, I don't bother trying to explain to anyone why I prefer to eat alone.  If you understand it, then we have something in common. If you don't, what you think about me is no longer my fucking problem. (And what kind of self-centeredness must you possess to think that my not wanting to sit next to you at lunch has anything at all to do with you?) 

Though some creatives are natural extroverts (and a good deal more are just straight-up attention whores), I'd be willing to wager that there are more of them like me than of the other stripe. They, too, need to occasionally be alone, and they will get cranky (or, in my case, at least theoretically homicidal) if anyone tries to intrude on that aloneness. This may be one reason I have, in my Middle Years, become fonder of writing as a means of creative expression. Most of my career has been about collaboration, and to a person like me collaboration is wonderful AND goddam exhausting at the same time. When I write, though, it's just my thoughts and me. (Don't get me wrong. That can also be goddam exhausting. And more than a little frightening.) I find I enjoy creative solitude more and more.

Or maybe I'm just turning into Groucho Marx: Don't look now, but there's one man too many in this room - and I think it's you."

Goodbye.

Brenda Patrick Cook. Mom. 1941-2019

Those of you who follow me on social media will already know that my mother passed away almost two weeks ago. This past Sunday we held a memorial service. Several of Mom’s old friends or relatives (they’re all old now, truth be told) turned up at a tiny church in New Waverly, Texas, run by a pastor whose attitudes toward modernity clearly have not changed since the Civil War. I confess that, while many of these kindly folks walked up and embraced me, telling me that I had not changed in looks since I was a boy (I thought religious people frowned upon falsehood?), I recognized almost none of them. I would invariably have to wait for them to give me some sort of contextual foothold (“I worked with your Momma at the Sheriff’s Office;” “I’m your Momma’s third cousin on the Patrick side.”), after which I would employ my skills as an actor of some minor repute, feigning shock and delight at our reunion, albeit under such sad circumstances. The truth is, almost all of them were strangers to me. The other truth is, I adored every single one of them for their willingness to grieve with me at the loss of my mom.

I was – no great surprise here – asked by my siblings and my step-father to deliver the eulogy. I wrote a first draft, in which I said some things that, while honest, upon reflection had no place in a eulogy. And I did manage to refrain from my customary saltiness with the language – which is to say I refrained from uttering the word “fuck” at my mom’s memorial service. But the real surprise was my sister, Larenda. At the last minute she decided that she also needed to say some things about Mom. She was moving, and funny, and sweet, and I daresay she could make a go of it as a public speaker, if her current career suddenly went away. And had that been the end of it – had we been allowed to deliver our heartfelt words about our mother to an audience of people who knew her well, and loved her – I think it would have been about as honorable and genuine a send-off as one could hope to give.

But the other fucking shoe had to drop.

Remember that pastor I mentioned? This pompous old geezer was as easy to read as a Stephen King novel, and far less interesting. When he finally began his remarks, two things became immediately apparent, hopefully not just to me: 1) he didn’t know my mom at all, and 2) he spent twenty minutes trying to out-speak my sister and me. As if we were at an oratory competition, instead of grieving my dead mother. Whereas Larenda and I had spent a little time telling stories about Mom, stories that give her life still, this obtuse windbag launched immediately into a theme that could be best summed up by an illiterate three year-old: heaven is good. Hell is bad. As he wandered back and forth across the tiny platform, making the most puerile arguments in defense of his beliefs, mentioning my mother (when he remembered to do it at all) as though she were a concept instead of a loved one, my daughter had to literally tighten her grip on my arm, believing, probably not without justification, that I was either about to rise up and forcefully remind him to leave the fucking sermon at home, we’re here to talk about Mom, or just thump him. 

Eventually his barking ended, heads were bowed, a prayer was offered, and we were dismissed. I found I didn’t want to run straight out of the place, as I thought I might, but really wanted to have just a few moments with each of those strangers, those well-wishers and Mom’s fellow travelers. I wanted their stories about Mom. I would have preferred an old-fashioned Irish wake, where everyone present told their stories about Mom in turn, we all drank and sang songs for three days straight, and there would have been at least one fist fight. But those were my desires, not Mom’s, and Mom was nothing if not proper. Right up until the end, when she was bed-ridden, barley able to move or speak, she still insisted that her hair dresser of over twenty years come out to the house and perform her monthly artistry on Mom’s head. Bedridden and dying, yes. But she was damned if she was going to walk out of this life without a proper coif. A lady must have standards.

I did not get to see the final results of her hairdresser’s talent, because Mom was ever practical. Before she lost most of her mental faculties, she had requested, upon her death, to be cremated. She knew she was wasting away, and she didn’t want that emaciated carapace on display at her service. She wanted her friends and family to remember her in her prime, the woman who was unceasingly smiling (even in her most painful moments, a trait it took me decades to appreciate), with the easy laugh and the eye-twinkle; the woman who never met a stranger, the country girl who never tried to rid herself of her Texas twang. My sisters collected a mountain of photographs to display at her memorial, images I hadn’t seen in 30 years or longer. 

And there was mom. In those pictures, those little captured moments, were the stories that made the life that was Brenda Patrick Cook. I hadn’t planned on it, but it seems appropriate to close this one off with the last paragraph of the eulogy I wrote for her:

“You see? Stories. These are the things a life is made of. And this is why Mom is only gone in the most immediate, most inconsequential sense. Everyone here has stories about Mom. And as long as you have them, you have HER. Remember that. As long as you have them, you have HER.”

A Survival Guide For People Who Dislike Cruises, But Find Themselves On One, Anyway.

My actual face when I was told we were going on a cruise.

So. You're going on your first cruise. Almost everyone you have ever known has been on a cruise, and they have all told you how much you will love it! This proves one thing above all else: your friends don't really know you. AT ALL.

I found myself in this very same position last month. And I will tell you, dear reader, I was less than enthused. Still, my wife's sister was celebrating her 50th birthday, and the way she wanted to celebrate was to take a cruise with as many family members as could make the trip. My wife's family is very close, and they hold grudges longer than a Sicilian mobster, so I knew there was no getting out of this. And so I went on a cruise.

I will not lie and tell you that all of my fears and anxieties were unfounded. (Some of them turned out to be VERY founded.) But I can say that, while I will almost certainly not repeat the experience of my own free will, it was not the worst thing I have ever done. It turns out that even introverts like me can have enjoyable moments at sea - especially if the introvert in question likes to drink a lot. What follows is (I hope) a helpful guide to getting the most out of your hostage situation - sorry, your "cruise experience" - if you ever find yourself in a similar circumstance.

1. Buy The Fucking Drink Package. Every cruise line in the world gives you the option of buying a drink package, that will basically allow you to remain slightly buzzed or knee-walking drunk for the duration of the cruise - depending on your tolerance levels. (I mean tolerance for humanity. Not booze.) My wife bought this for me, not because she thought I would enjoy four days of debauched stumbling at sea, but because she loves me, and she knows me. I could be tempted into a goddam Balkan mine field if you told me there was a 25 year old bottle of single malt in the middle of it. Now: for those of you who are introverts and dislike crowds but cannot drink, all I have to say is...stop reading this. I can't help you. 

2. Take The Fucking Stairs. Most cruise ships have staircases fore and aft (that's the front and back of the ship respectively, you land-locked heathens), and you should use these as often as possible, for two reasons. The first is practical; taking the stairs is a good way to get in a little exercise, and staircases come with handy bannisters on either side for those of you who have committed to the drink package. The second reason is pure survival; taking the stairs will keep you from waiting for the elevators, of which there are too few, along with all the unwashed masses, of which there are far too many. I can be three Rum Runners deep and STILL take the stairs, just to not have to cram into an elevator with that family of five, all of whom are sucking down sodas like it's the apocalypse and they all really want to get diabetes before The End, and smelling of sunscreen and SPAM (swear to God), while the kids bicker and fight over whether to join in the belly-flop competition on Deck 11, or hit the cafe for their THIRD round of desserts (it's not yet lunchtime). Trust me on this. Take the fucking stairs.

3. Make Friends With The Fucking Crew. Here's an observation I made as a virgin cruiser. On the first day, everybody who clambers aboard that big ol' floating amusement park is just as happy and nice as they can be. It's the start of VACATION. Tensions are melting away with every mile that they get out to sea. People are polite. They say "please" and "thank you." They will make way for one another. 

I have observed that this phenomenon lasts exactly 24 hours. The next morning - the very next morning - many passengers (not all, but a shit-lot of them) have transitioned from "polite" to "ENTITLED." "Please" and "thank you" have been replaced with "Where's my fucking Bloody Mary?" "What do you mean you don't serve cheeseburgers at breakfast? What am I paying for?" I saw two very large women nearly come to blows over a cake doughnut. I'm not kidding. And don't get me started on the kiddies. Watching how a lot of children behave on a cruise ship (or rather, how their parents let them behave) may be a very viable form of birth control. And Conservatives wouldn't have shit to say about it, because you're supporting tourism and, therefore, the economy. 

And ALL of this is why I implore you: make friends with the fucking crew. Here's an easy way to do it. Every ship employee has a name badge, and beneath their name is their country of origin. I noticed that a few of the bartenders on the ship were from Ukraine, and I know exactly three or four words in Russian. But they're good words to know, especially when talking to a bartender: hello, please, thank you,  and another (which is usually followed by please).  Making an attempt to speak in anybody's native tongue is an excellent way to get them to remember you. I also noticed that, when I made return trips to these couple of bartenders, that my drinks got a little more generous. I confirmed this when later I met a bartender from Romania. I don't know a fucking thing about Romania except that's where Nadia Comaneci, the famous Olympic gymnast, comes from. And I think they executed a dictator and his wife in 1989. I'm getting distracted. What I'm trying to say is, I pulled out my phone and opened Google Translate, learned how to say "thank you" in Romanian, and BOOM. New bartender friend with a generous pour.

Plus, it's just fucking NICE to get to know the people who are looking after you. 

4. Avoid The Fucking Onboard Pools. I am not a germ-a-phobe. I WILL ignore the 5 Second Rule if I have inadvertently dropped something yummy and there is any chance at all that it can be salvaged. I am not afraid of double-dippers, as long as I know them personally, and can be assured they have no open sores. BUT: having spoken to a few of the crew members (see Survival Tip #3), I can tell you, without fear of contradiction, that the only way you would ever get me in a cruise ship's pool would be to murder me in a violent fashion, murder me again just to make absolutely certain, then throw my rigid corpse into that pool. Every gross and disgusting and abhorrent thing that a human being can do - from toddlers to the elderly, and all ages in between - is done AT LEAST once in that pool, on every single cruise. No exceptions. This is not coming from me, but from long-time employees on that boat. They are the kind of stories that keep me awake at night, and I laughed during The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Get out on that deck and sun yourself to your heart's content. Because believe me when I tell you that skin cancer is preferable to what might await you in that fucking pool. 

5. Be On The Lookout For Cool Fucking Moments. They can happen on a cruise, if you're open to them. Example: on the second night, my step-son basically wheedled me into joining him down at a place called the "Schooner Bar" (looks as schmaltzy as it sounds, I promise) to see live piano music. Since the word "bar" was mentioned, I agreed. The guy at the piano that night was a fellow named Andy, and he turned out to be about the coolest bastard I have ever personally met. At one point he even invited me to sing with him, because he wanted to play anything by The Commodores, but you just can't do that without a decent harmony.

Pictographic proof. The suave black guy with dreads is not me.

After his set we chatted a bit, and my step-son developed a hard bro-crush on Andy. Fine. We BOTH did. Meeting him and hanging out made our lives a little richer for the experience, and provided a very important life lesson for my step-son: learn to play piano well, and you can sleep with any woman you want. (My wife will likely take umbrage with that, but life chooses which lessons to give. I'm just the guy who points them out.)

I hope this Survival Guide has been of use to you. It would certainly have been helpful to me if I'd written it before the cruise. 

The Problem.

This is not the problem. This is a desk.

No. The problem, if I'm being completely honest, is that I seem to be unable to write on a daily (or even weekly) basis unless at least one part of my life is crashing into ruin. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: no part of my life, that I am aware of, is currently crashing into ruin. I'm merely making a point here. Not a confession.) 

I'm reminded of something I heard from a lovely singer/songwriter once, Carsie Blanton. As she was winding up her next song, she said (paraphrasing), "This next tune is a bit of a departure for me. I wrote it while in the middle of a real creative dry spell. And I was in that dry spell because, at the time, I happened to be in a healthy relationship." Thank you, Carsie, for hitting the nail on the head. Or, more precisely, for hitting my thumb, which was conveniently located on top of that nail. Look, I am not suggesting that being in a healthy relationship kills creativity. I am saying it DIRECTLY and OUT LOUD. Of course being emotionally happy kills creativity. No less an authority than Mark Twain put it out there when he said, "The secret source of humor itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven." This isn't just me talking. Or even Twain. There's fucking science to back this up now. I am in a loving, emotionally stable (mostly) relationship. I enjoy my children. I have a small but robust circle of friends. And I am less prolific on the page than I have been since I got all those things. And I am far less funny.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. No worries, Lar. It's YOU. Pretty soon you'll fuck it all up, your life will go back to the shit heap, and then you'll be hitting the keys every day, dumping out your purse for the world to see, and it'll be hysterical, and we'll all laugh and be grateful we're not you. Except the thing is: I kind of LIKE the way my life is, now. I don't like it every day, to be sure. But I can say unequivocally that it's waaaayyy better than it was when I first began writing in this space, or even when I was writing the book. The idea of having to torpedo my life just to get back to that wellspring of creative misery... that choice doesn't appeal to me.

I don't know what the solution is, and I would be highly suspicious (or homicidally envious) of anyone who claims to know. I suppose, for a while at least, that writing will be a slog. For the three or four of you who will read this, fair warning: my next few posts are liable to be exceptionally ordinary.  I am in the process of getting back into a habit, and that process is often ugly. Like, getting-back-into-the-gym-and-those-sweatpants-should-be-in-a-larger-size ugly. I believe, at an intellectual level, that I can be a prolific writer AND be reasonably happy. Well, maybe not prolific. I'm in no danger of becoming the next Stephen King (mostly because I'm pretty sure ALL that guy does is write. Has he even stopped to take a dump since 1974?). Maybe it's enough to say that I believe I can be creative on the page at least fairly regularly, and that posting on this space is my weekly dose of fiber to keep things moving. (Man, I really went too far with the whole poop analogy. Apologies to Stephen King.)

So, here's to the Slog. And whatever your Slog is, just keep at it. Day drinking helps. Talk soon.

Lar

Chapter Thirty-Six. The End.

     “The opposite of the happy ending is not actually the sad ending--the sad ending is sometimes the happy ending. The opposite of the happy ending is actually the unsatisfying ending.” ― Orson Scott Card

     I hope I'm leaving it the right way. I really do. Tomorrow I celebrate (really? Celebrate?) 50 years of life. (Technically, my birthday falls on Sunday. But who the shit parties on Sunday?) I said I was going to finish putting the book online before my birthday, and I will at least have accomplished that. For those of you who have stuck with me from Chapter One, my appreciation and outright love for you knows no boundaries. And thank you to everyone who contributed financially, or simply by telling a friend or two about the blog, and passing these chapters along. If I ever get to see any of you face-to-face, I will hug the shit out of you. (That sounded way better in my head.)

     And so, here is the final chapter of Making Sh*t Up: An Improvised Life, which is a book I wrote. And lived. And a book you read all the way to the end. Thanks for that.

Chapter Thirty-Six

When Shit Comes Around

One last Wishbone story for the road. Whatever religion or belief system you happen to be a part of, I’ll bet there’s a bit in there somewhere that says, essentially, “It all comes back around.” What you put out in the world is almost always what you’ll get back. What follows is the best example of that from my professional life, and one that still chokes me the fuck up, even as I’m writing about it. Bear with me, kids.

     The year was 1997. We were in pre-production on the second season of Wishbone. I’ve already made it evident how I was feeling about the corporate types at Lyrick Studios during those days, so I was none too happy when I got a call from one of them, a woman from the Public Relations Department. She explained to me that she’d gotten a call from the director of Parkland Hospital in Dallas. The story went like this:

      There was a family of missionaries, deep in the African bush, bringing much-needed medical attention to some very remote villages. One night, while the entire village was gathered around a huge bonfire, one of the children of the missionary family, a boy of about eight years, tripped and fell head first into the fire. The boy’s father reached into the conflagration and pulled his son out, severely injuring himself in the process. But it was evident to all that the boy’s injuries were life-threatening. The family piled into an old Land Rover, and drove four hours across rutted dirt tracks to the nearest town that had an actual hospital.

     No doctor in residence at that clinic could have saved that boy’s life. But it just so happened that another group of American doctors was at that particular clinic, at that particular time. And one of them just happened to be the head physician of the Burn Unit at Parkland Hospital, in Dallas. The doctor immediately commandeered a private jet, and flew the boy and his family back to Dallas that night. The trip was excruciating for all, but particularly the boy, who had suffered second and third-degree burns over 50 percent of his body.

     After days of treatment, and taking great care to avoid infections, the boy was finally able to communicate with his family. They were looking for anything to take his mind off the pain, and they asked him if he’d like to watch TV. And he said he’d like to watch Wishbone. Evidently he was a huge fan of the show. So much so that the friends of this family would tape episodes in the states, then mail them to the missionaries in Africa. But they had literally left all their belongings on another continent, flying home with their injured son with only the clothes on their backs. The director of Parkland Hospital heard about it, and he made a call to Lyrick Studios, and they made a call to me.

     The folks at Lyrick, to their everlasting credit and compassion, had created a gigantic gift basket for the boy. It contained every episode of the show that was currently available on video, several plush toys, custom book markers, advance copies of several of the new Adventures of Wishbone books for young readers, and various other little Wishbone toys and keepsakes. They wanted me to deliver the basket.

     I wish I could tell you I jumped at the opportunity. The truth is, I balked. I was scared shitless, actually. How would I react when I saw this kid? What if I freaked out? What if I did what I very often do in weird or awkward or tragic situations, and said or did something incredibly stupid or insensitive, and made it worse? Truth to tell, folks, I almost said no.

     But then the little voice started talking, the one that usually talks to me after I’ve fucked something completely up. This isn’t about you, asshole. Here’s a thought: why don’t you grow a pair of balls, and take a gift basket to a kid who could really use a pick-me-up right about now? You don’t have to be “on,” and you don’t even have to be comfortable. You’re not going to save his life, but you might just make him forget for a few minutes how much his life sucks right now. So man up, funny boy. (And yes. That’s how the little voice talks to me. Not like Yoda, or Mister Miyagi, or any wise old sage. Just a slightly smart-assier version of me.)

     If you’ve never been to Parkland Hospital, it’s easy to get lost. And I did. Twice. Fortunately a very nice receptionist walked me up to the Burn Unit, through a maze of corridors so bewildering, I was already planning on living at Parkland, seeing as how I’d never find my way out. We arrived at the proper room, and I guess I thought there’d be a suit or two from the Lyrick PR department to greet me. But there wasn’t. I knocked, and a very petite, weary-looking woman opened the door.

     “Hello. I’m Larry Brantley. I work on the television show Wishbone, and I was wondering if I could say hi to Marcus.” (Not his real name.) The weary-looking woman (Marcus’ mom) smiled. They were expecting me. Everybody, that is, except Marcus. His mom walked ahead of me, towards the bed in the center of the room. Marcus was awake, and she quietly informed him he had a visitor. Then she stepped to the side. Seeing that kid for the first time and not losing my shit right there and then was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’m fucking crying right now at the memory of it.

     His face was, miraculously, unharmed. But from the throat down he was completely covered in bandages. And he was in such obvious pain. My heart broke -  fucking shattered - for this kid. In that moment, all I wanted was to punch the throat of God himself, so great was my sense of injustice for this little boy. Instead, I said, “Hey, Marcus. I’m Larry. I brought something for you.” I held up the basket so he could see it. I won’t tell you that his eyes lit up like it was Christmas, and he’d just gotten that Red Ryder BB Gun he’d been begging Santa for. The truth is, Marcus was heavily sedated to ward off the unimaginable pain that accompanies severe burns. But he recognized it as a gift, and what I saw in his eyes was gratitude.

     My plan had been to simply drop off the basket, tell Marcus I hoped he’d start to feel better, and make a hasty exit. But then his mom pulled up a chair for me, so I sat down beside him. And that was when I realized that the TV was on in his room. And he was watching my show. I can’t remember exactly which episode it was (it might have been Robin Hood, possibly Ivanhoe), and it occurred to me that Marcus had no idea who I was. He only knew I was some guy who worked on his favorite show, who had brought him a gift basket. The remote was on his bed, so I picked it up and muted the volume. Without looking at Marcus – and while he was still looking at the screen – I Flipped The Switch in my head, and began doing a running commentary on the episode – as Wishbone.

     Until that moment, I don’t think most of the people in his room knew who I was. The looks of utter shock were priceless. But the coolest part of all of it was that, the whole time I was talking about the show in Wishbone’s voice, Marcus never looked at me. He continued to watch the screen, and a big, goofy smile started to walk across his face. When that happened, I saw his mom put her face in her hands. I knew she was crying. Turns out that had been the first smile Marcus could muster since the terrible events of days before. It was so cool, the way you could tell that he didn’t want to break the spell by looking at me. So we both watched the TV, and I continued Wishbone’s live commentary, talking about how we pulled off a certain shot, or how many times that particular take got busted because somebody laughed, or farted, and other behind-the-scenes nuggets – all in the voice of his favorite TV character.

     When the episode ended, I finally looked back around at him. In my own voice I said, “Pretty cool, huh?” He nodded, but even as he did I could see the smile leaving him. The illusion was gone; the reality of his situation was crawling back over him. And in that moment I remembered Tony Fucking Vilardi, the one kid in junior high school who hadn’t been afraid to say the honest thing to me, when he’d heard my dad had killed himself.

     I looked Marcus square in the eye and, with tears in my own, said, “I know, man. It sucks. It really sucks. Keep fighting though, okay? Keep fighting even though it sucks, because eventually it won’t suck anymore.” That was it. That was all I had. It had sounded lame as shit to my ears, but it was the most honest thing I could say. The last thing that happened that afternoon was that his family requested some photo-ops. I had to be very careful leaning into the shot with him, because protocol dictated that I couldn’t breathe on this kid, let alone touch him. But we got some satisfactory pictures, and I bid Marcus and his family goodbye, making promises to stay in touch, which of course I never did. I held it together long enough to make a dignified exit from his room, and then I hauled ass out of the Burn Unit, out of Parkland Hospital, where I jumped in my car and fell the fuck apart for the better part of an hour. When I finally decided I was okay enough to drive, I made the 45 minute commute back to my house, totally ignored my wife’s questions about how it went, and proceeded to get knee-walking drunk. The last coherent thought I had that day was really just a dirty, selfish little prayer: Please, God. Please don’t ever make me have to do that again.

     But it all comes around, remember?

     Flash forward ten years. 2007. I was in my “Jesus Is My Homeboy” phase, and my family and I were part of a very large church in North Texas, where I was known, not as the Wishbone guy, but rather as the guy who appeared on stage in any humorous sketch that was a part of that week’s sermon. One Sunday after the last service, while everybody was milling around in the “worship center” (when you’re non-denominational and hip, you have a worship center, not a chapel), my friend Scott, the Worship Arts Pastor (aka the guy who chose the songs each week) came up to me, and began to tell me a story about going to a “Meet The Teacher” night at his daughter’s elementary school the previous week. In the classroom of his daughter’s reading teacher, he noticed something of a relic on top of the bookshelves: an old Wishbone plush doll, in his Romeo and Juliet costume. Scott, clearly in an effort to look like a badass in front of his kid, remarked to the teacher that he just so happened to be friends with the guy who provided the voice of Wishbone on the television series. And that was when, according to Scott, the teacher got very still, and very quiet, and he saw tears welling up in her eyes. And she proceeded to tell him a story: that ten years ago, she and her family had been missionaries in Africa. That her son had been terribly burned in an accident. And, while lying in the Burn Unit at Parkland, awaiting what would be a series of painful reconstructive surgeries, he had been paid a visit by a guy in a flannel shirt and a baseball cap, with a giant gift basket and a familiar voice.

     As Scott was recounting this tale, he reached in his jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope with my name on it. The envelope contained a letter, written by Marcus’s mom (the teacher), and two photographs. I will not reprint that letter here. Those words of appreciation are between me, and the family of a boy I was fortunate enough to make smile, during the worst moments of his young life. The first photograph I remembered well: a slightly askew picture of Marcus and me, I with my perpetual dopey grin, him with just a slight smile only around the eyes. But it was the second photograph that drove me to my knees. It was a picture of a seventeen year-old Marcus, in full marching band regalia, blowing on a trumpet like he was Dizzy Fuckin’ Gillespie. He had the special gloves on to protect his still-growing new skin. But he was in the fucking marching band, man. And he was killing it. It had sucked, and he had kept fighting. There were words written on the back of the pic that said, simply, “Thank you, Mr. Brantley!”

     And with that, it came back around.

Here Endith The Shit

The author, and the young lady to whom this book is dedicated. Love you, Boo Bear.

Chapter Thirty-Five.

     So. This is the penultimate chapter of Making Sh*t Up: An Improvised Life. "Penultimate" is a very fancy word for "second-to-last," and I'm only using it here because I've never had cause to use that word in my entire life before today. And since it's the second-to-last chapter of a book about my life (so far, anyway), it's about damn time to give some credit where credit is due. This chapter is dedicated to the man who -  in his own tragic, insane, fucked-up way - made me, in large part, the man I am today.

     This one's for John Larry Brantley:

Chapter Thirty-Five

Thanks, Dad. For real.

  

 Since we’re nearing the end of my twisted tale (TV nerd alert: the third episode of Wishbone to ever air was titled “Twisted Tail,” our take on Oliver Twist), I suppose it’s only fitting that I give props to another family member, who I have painted in these pages in a less than flattering light. In fact, earlier in this book I called my dead father an asshole. I stand by that statement. Some folks miss their shot at redemption, either because they never see their chance when it comes, or they check out of this life too soon. I don’t think my father put a bullet in his mouth solely to fuck the rest of my mom’s life (though, based on his last words to her, that clearly was a part of it). The simple truth is that John Larry Brantley was psychologically unhinged at the end of his short and tragic life. He suffered from a severe mental illness at a time (1980) and in a place (small-town Texas) where that kind of shit never even got mentioned, let alone talked about in the open. The legacy he left my sister and me was one of sadness, anger and confusion. But I do have to give him credit for one good thing.

     My dad was a reader of the voracious variety. He was the kind of man who never went anywhere without a book, usually a very dog-eared paperback, sticking out of his back pocket. If dad was in the bathroom longer than five minutes, it was a good bet that he’d long since finished his business, and was simply trying finish a chapter. There were literally stacks of books piled up in his bedroom, his bathroom (which he referred to as “The Library”), underneath the end tables next to the sofa. Oddly enough, I can’t remember any house or apartment we ever lived in having actual bookshelves. The books I remember the most were these serialized action novels by author Don Pendleton, about a character named Mack Bolan, aka The Executioner. Mack Bolan made John Rambo look like a mincing little pussy. Bolan fought the entire Mafia, and kicked its ass. Then he took on global terrorists, and kicked their asses. He hand picked two counter-terrorist teams (which each got their own spinoff series), Able Team and Phoenix Force, and all those guys did was fly around the world and punch evil dudes in the nuts, before utterly destroying them with their superior military tactics and firepower.

     They were pulp novels, to be sure, mostly devoid of anything approaching literary merit. The point is, I saw my dad reading a lot. When you’re a little kid, no matter how many times you’ve been emotionally scarred by your old man, you still look up to him. You tend to believe that whatever he is doing, is a good thing for you to do, also. If I’d seen my old man smoking cigarettes, I likely would have swiped a few when he wasn’t looking, and given it a shot. If I’d seen him shooting craps or throwing back Scotch, I probably would have given those things a try years earlier than I actually did. Dad does it; it must be a good thing to do. But what I saw my dad do most of the time – when he wasn’t watching television, or going off for long walks by himself – was read. Everywhere.

     So I started reading Dad’s books. And I started looking for books on my own. I read the Encyclopedia Brown series, the Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators series, and everything by Arthur Conan Doyle. Then I stumbled on a book called The Hobbit, and that changed everything. Tolkien fired my imagination as nobody else had before, not even Stan Lee and his universe of Marvel Comics superheroes. In fact, there comes to my mind, finally, here near the end, one good memory between my dad and me. I think I was nine or ten when I first started reading The Hobbit. It was during the summer, I remember because I would spend hours and hours with my nose buried in those pages of Middle Earth. My dad must have seen something in that obsessive reading that he recognized in himself, because one evening, as we were eating dinner in front of the television, I was reading instead of watching The Carol Burnett Show – and everybody in the house knew that I adored Carol Burnett. (Red headed women that can make me laugh are still sexy as hell to me.)

     “Whatcha readin’, Bub?” I can still remember him asking.

     “A book called The Hobbit,” I answered.

     “What’s it about?”

     “It’s about a place called Middle Earth, and this guy named Bilbo, well, he’s not really a guy, he’s a hobbit, like a midget, but he’s friends with a wizard, and he has to travel to a place called Lonely Mountain and steal something from a dragon.”

     “Is it any good?”

     “Yeah. It’s really good.”

     “Hmm. Maybe I’ll read it when you’re finished,” he said.

      And he did. And then he burned straight through the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, and then – so help me God – he even read The Silmarillion, which even a lot of hardcore Tolkien fans are afraid to tackle, because it’s basically the Scriptures of Middle Earth. It was the first – and last – time in my life that my father tried something because I said that I liked it. For one all-too-brief moment we shared a connection – even if it only existed in a mythical land created by the mind of a brilliant English author. But it’s also why I’m a Tolkien fan to this day.

     The one habit that has contributed to my imagination more than any other – the fuel that has fired my Making Shit Up Engine – has been a lifelong love of reading. And I owe that to John Larry Brantley. So I say, without irony, or cynicism, or any other kind of –ism: Thanks, Dad.

John Larry Brantley.