Xanax, Jameson, and Interesting.

Just like high school. Minus the pretty girls.

     I got my first rejection letter today. Nothing spectacular, just a three-sentence email that read as follows:

     Dear Larry Brantley,

Thank you for your email regarding your manuscript. I have considered your query, and unfortunately I do not believe I am the right agent for the work you describe.

I wish you much success in your publishing endeavors.

     Short, sweet, to the point: your book ain't the book for us. Now, I've been a working actor for 23 years; I'm used to rejection. Or, at least I thought I was. Because when I opened up that email first thing this morning and read it, it was a little like a boot to the nuts. I probably shouldn't have started my day reading emails. (If I get a few more rejection letters, I'll probably start my days with Xanax and Jameson. Which sounds like a terrific idea, even on days when I'm not getting rejection letters.)

     Rejection is such a weird word. I'd have almost preferred if this literary agent had found my work so offensive and immature that he crafted a letter in which he practically spit at me, while telling me that my words in print were as disgusting to him as baby killing-Nazis. With herpes. Instead, he just very politely told me that my ideas were not his cup of tea. Or coffee. Or vodka. Whatever the hell literary agents drink (pretty sure vodka). He didn't hate it; he just wasn't interested. 

     Maybe that's worse for me. I'm self-aware enough about my personality to recognize that few, if any, people are middle-of-the-road about me. They either really like me - or they really don't. You can find someone interesting and still dislike them. Everybody has their own custom-made vanity. Mine is that I really don't give a fuck whether you like me or not - but I do want you to find me interesting. My joke about that word used to be: "Interesting" is what you say about a guy you're not going on a second date with. And, in this case, I suppose that's true. I hiked up my skirt ever so slightly for this agent, and he decided that my goodies weren't worth pursuing. And because I spent the last two years pouring my guts out in a manuscript he wasn't even interested in (he didn't read the manuscript, he only read my query letter, which tells me that I should probably remove the word"fuck" from future query letters), yeah, it stung a bit.

     But only a bit. It just took one person to believe in me enough to give me my first shot at being a for-real, professional actor. And I know for a fact that the chance she took on me (my first tv agent) paid her some decent dividends over the course of the years we were together. This is no different. I lack confidence about a great many things, but creative skill and storytelling are not among them. I'll land a literary agent, and I'll land a publishing deal, and then I'll write to every single one of the agents that rejected me, deeming my story not interesting enough. I'll remind them of the words of indie-film mogul Harvey Weinstein, as related by indie director Kevin Smith. Weinstein made movies in the day when big-budget studios were looking only to make sure things. Weinstein's response?

     "There is NO such thing as a sure thing. So make the interesting thing instead."

     I raise my glass (at two 'o clock in the afternoon) to all of you interesting people. You may be adored; you may be despised. But - if you're truly interesting - you'll never be fucking forgotten. Cheers to that.

Hello, I'm Irony. And I'm Here To Punch You In The Ding-Dong.

     So, I'm having one of those days that's, you know... okay. No big highs, no valley-esque lows; just rolling through the shit I need to do, and trying to keep from getting distracted by shiny things, and Pandora, and thoughts about possibly being a Jason Bourne-like spy but not knowing it, because my training hasn't kicked in. Yet.

     Then I notice an email from my daughter's English and Language Arts teacher. Boo is in 6th grade, and her ELAR teacher just went on maternity leave. So the email wasn't from her, but her temporary replacement, a guy named Mr. Notusinghisrealname. It's an introductory correspondence; he's letting us know who he is, and how excited he is to be teaching our wonderful children. And then, just three sentences into his email, he writes the following:

     "This is my fourteen years of experience as a Middle School teacher."

     Look at it again. That is the kind of sentence that grinds your brain to a screeching halt. My head literally loaded up with so many questions, it shut down completely; I had to take a nap. What? What exactly is your fourteen years of experience as a Middle School teacher? You didn't talk about any of your experience before you wrote that sentence, so it's not tied to any idea. If you had placed a colon after the word "teacher," and then proceeded to document your fourteen years of experience, that would have made sense. But you didn't do that, either. So what the fuck are you talking about?

     And then it hit me: did he actually mean to write, "This is my fourteenth year of experience as a Middle School teacher." ? Because if that's what he actually meant to write, then I am now in fear for my daughter's Language Arts education for the rest of this year. Dude, seriously. How could you ass-jack one sentence so awfully? Presuming you actually intended to write, "This is my fourteenth year of experience as a Middle School teacher," that sentence would STILL be fucked up.  Why in the hell did you include the phrase "of experience?" Did you think we would believe that you were still a STUDENT in middle school, after fourteen years? And why did you capitalize "Middle School?" It's not a country, or a city. It's goddam middle school. Look, this is all you needed to say:

     "This is my fourteenth year as a middle school teacher." Do you see how easy that is? Know where I learned that? Elementary school. My guess is, you could have let any one of your students proof that email before you sent it out to all of their parents, and they could have saved you some embarrassment. Were you in a hurry? Were you typing on your phone while taking a dump? Please stop rushing; you're there to educate, not race through class like you're Keanu Reeves on a city bus that Dennis Hopper wired to explode if Sandra Bullock takes her foot off the gas. And why the fuck are you taking a dump during class? Pinch it off for 50 minutes, focus, and teach my daughter!

     Probably he wasn't typing that email while taking a dump. But that sentence is out there, now. And I can't stop thinking about it. I am so very pro-educator. You know Will Ferrell's character on SNL, Craig, the Spartan Cheerleader? I'm that guy for teachers. So, Mr. Notusinghisrealname, I'm all about giving you the benefit of the doubt, okay? Everybody makes mistakes. I make em all the time, mostly in the form of garbled lyrics, or poor food choices that make me a hostage to the water closet. I know I'm going to get another email from you soon, and the next one is the pudding in which I will be looking for the proof. Will I read the next one (I really hope) and go, See? That first one was just a gaffe!

     Or will I read the next one and go:

Please don't make me go D'OH.

      

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Motherfu*kers.

Damn straight.

     Today, everybody is a little bit Irish. Unless you're like me - a lot of Irish, every day. Today we celebrate Saint Patrick of Ireland, the motherland's most revered religious figure. We honor our saint by dressing in green, and getting shit-faced drunk. This might seem a strange way to celebrate such an esteemed figure in the Catholic church - until you look at the origins of the day itself.

      St. Patrick's Day has been a feast day in Christianity since the 17th century. The problem was, St. Patrick had the poor timing to die on March 17 - smack dab in the middle of Lent, when a whole lot of people had given up booze for forty days. So what did Mother Church do? They declared a Free Day! St. Patrick's Day is the one day it is officially okay to jump all over that thing you gave up for Lent. And since a lot of Irish folk gave up "the drink" - and since it's still more than two weeks until Easter - you now understand why, today outside of any given bar, you will likely see a group of people dressed in ridiculous over-sized leprechaun hats, sporting shamrocks, and loudly singing "Danny Boy" while puking violently into the gutter. 

     Because it's a religious tradition. We have to.

     So put on some green. Have a beer, or a whiskey. (Unless you're a recovering alcoholic. In that case, just drink some Mountain Dew.) Put on your favorite U2 album, watch that old VHS recording of Riverdance, and marvel at the sheer size and volume of Liam Neeson's cock. It's all about the Irish today, so get after it.

     And Happy St. Patrick's Day, motherfuckers!

Finally. Fu*king. Finished.

What say, old boy? Job done. Let's get fucking hammered.

     Okay. I know. I've been absent to the point of non-existence on this space. You're upset. I get it. But I do have a really, really good reason for not hanging out here lately:

     I finished the fucking book.
     
     No shit. It's done. I'm mean, done done. In case you're new to this site (meaning the three of you who read this thing told somebody, and they finally clicked over), I first mentioned that I was writing a book way back here. And I've even put up some excerpts from the book, here, and here. I'm not going to put up any more excerpts of the book, because it's a book and I want to get it published, and I want you to buy the fucking thing. That would be super-awesome, and I'd so appreciate it.

     IF the thing ever gets a publisher, there will be many people to thank. But there's one person who gets a truckload of thanks right now, because if it wasn't for her I'd still be thinking about how great it would be to finish writing a book, instead of actually finishing writing a book. Paulina Simons has been my friend, my literary mentor, and the boot planted firmly up my ass for the last two months, as I finished something I first said I was going to do (write a book) at midnight on January 1, 1998, in her home, in front of her and her husband, after a vodka-fueled evening of laughter and resolutions. Even after I got divorced, even after I collapsed in a depressive pile on the ruins of my former life, Plink wouldn't quit on me. Thanks, Plink. Once this shit makes it to print, first round's on me. (Which will be a very inexpensive celebration, as Paullina is singly the least alcohol-tolerant Russian I have ever met. If she were Irish, we'd have kicked her out of the club a long time ago.)

     Anyway: it's done. I wrote a motherfucking book, and at least one international best-selling author thinks it's funny, and tragic, and outrageous, and sad, and wrong in all the right ways. But I'm not about to sit on my ass and relax. (Technically, I DO sit on my ass when I write. It's a metaphor. And now I've spent too much time talking about my ass.) No, I'm going to be hitting the blog much more regularly. I'm going to be as regular as a dietary fiber drink. In fact, you should think of me as your weekly dose of literary fiber.

     No. Wait. Never mind. That's just fuckin' gross.

Ridden a llama: check

Cowboy underpants: check

Ate cake as a baby: check

Motocross fashion disaster: check

Bobble head in my image: check

Voice of famous TV dog: check

Wrote a motherfuckin' book: hell yes.

People Who Are Definitely NOT Me.

Neither of these dudes is me. Including The Dude.

     I just Googled myself. For only the second time, ever. (The first time was after someone said they had Googled me, and I was offended and slightly alarmed, because I had obviously slept right through it, and it had certainly NOT been consensual, until it was explained to me that's not what "Googling" actually means, and then I was all, like, "Sorry, Uncle Bud. My misunderstanding.") I don't even like to look at myself in a mirror, let alone through the Matrix. But my self-esteem has been hovering around "Normal," so I thought I'd better do something quick to knock it down a few pegs, lest I get all full of myself and start to believe I'm as popular as THIS GUY:

Brantley Gilbert. Who is either a popular country music singer, or an extra in every episode of Sons of Anarchy. And who thinks shoulder spikes are awesome.

     And so here's what happens when you Google "Larry Brantley." I shall now clear up forever and all time which of these images are actually me, and which are not:

Yes. This is me. Why I'm dressed like I have an actual job is a mystery.

This is also me, looking pensive. (And yes, I had to look that word up. Don't judge me.)

Wrong, Google. Not me. 

Close enough! 

Um, no. I'm flattered that you think I'm a beautiful black woman, Google. But the beautiful black woman is probably crying. Right now. 

What the shit? Are you punking me, Google?

Now you're just being mean. Fuck you, Google.

Oh. Um, yes. This actually IS a photo of me. Not my best pic, since I haven't shaved, and I'm wearing a hat. And I'm in Victorian London. But that's definitely me.

Also yes. Definitely me. 

     So there you have it. Evidently Google does know who I am, while also simultaneously believing that I'm an aging sheriff, a beautiful black-woman, a mullet-headed, beer swilling trucker, a ballerina, and the illegitimate love-child of Hugh Jackman and Robert Downey Jr. 

     Happy Friday, y'all. If you're going to Google yourself, please use protection. 

     

Dear Colon: I'm Sorry.

Yes. That is totally happening.

     Dear Colon:

     Hey. It's Larry. I think this is the first time I've ever written you, which is weird, considering we've been together for forty-eight years. Hell, our relationship outlasted my marriage. Which is a good thing, I guess. Divorce was bad, but I'm pretty sure I literally can't live without you. All that to say, I probably should have corresponded with you a lot sooner. Or maybe the truly weird thing is writing a blog entry to one's colon. That might be the kind of thing that gets you an invitation to a softly padded room, and a sports coat that ties in the back. (I literally just Googled the following question: Has anyone ever written a letter to their colon?, and the top five hits were all on the subject of the grammatical colon. Evidently Google has forgotten that a colon is also a pretty important piece of the human anatomy. Or maybe it was just Google's way of saying to me, Really, asshat? You have NOTHING better to do than ask me if anybody has ever written a letter to their own lower intestine? Fuck you.)

     Fuck YOU, Google. 

     Sorry, I got sidetracked. Colon, I'm writing to say I'm sorry. Every year, about this time, I get into that whole "new year, new you" mode, which is a horrible generalization on its best day, but which always seems to translate for me thusly: In order to start the new year off right, feel better, and be one with the universe, I am going to do a CLEANSE. Please don't ask me to explain the thought process that brings me to that conclusion EVERY SINGLE TIME, because I don't know. Some people resolve to do their taxes early, or drop refined sugar from their diet, or rescue a dog from a shelter. I start the year by resolving to take a bunch of caplets and drink what is essentially lemon-flavored spackle every day for seven days, the net effect of which is to scrub my innards, and turn my ass into a Gustav Rail Cannon. (Look it up. You'll understand.) There is stuff coming out of me right now that I'm sure I ate in 1987. I know I saw some Jujyfruits, and I haven't eaten any of those since I saw Lethal Weapon at Greenspoint Mall. In 1987. 

     You have to understand that my intentions are good (you know, those things the road to Hell is paved with). We are firmly in Middle Age, you and I, and we need to do things that will not necessarily halt the decline, but maybe ease us on down the hill, instead of careening down the freeway like Sandra Bullock in Speed, which was a pretty kick-ass movie except for those parts where Keanu Reeves was existing. I'm told that a CLEANSE is ultimately good for us, and that the camping out in the bathroom and unholy noises and crying are all a normal part of the process. I've been told these things by people I trust. But they are also people whose home addresses are known to me, and if this doesn't stop soon we're going to their house, to use their fucking bathroom, before we murder them with their own toilet plungers. 

     Hang in there, Colon. We've been a good team, and we're going to get through this together. The battery on the iPhone is fully charged, and I even made you a playlist for the tough work ahead:

     Colon's Playlist

Drop It Like It's Hot (Snoop Dog)

Let It Go ("Frozen" Soundtrack)

Push It (Salt-N-Pepa)

Can't Hold Back (Survivor)

Ring Of Fire (Johnny Cash)

Smells Like Teen Spirit (Nirvana)

In The Air Tonight (Phil Collins)

Under Pressure (Queen, w/ David Bowie)

Taking Care Of Business (Bachman Turner Overdrive)

Toxic (Britney Spears)

I heart you, Colon. (Not the teeth, though. Colon teeth are creepy.)

     

This One's For Handsome Bobby.

This is Handsome Bobby.

I have this friend. This really awesome, been-through-the-shit-with-me-and-still-thinks-I'm-basically-a-good-guy friend. He gets easily embarrassed, so let's just call him DAVID UNDERWOOD. Anyway, a few years ago my friend - the one with the totally fictitious name of DAVID UNDERWOOD - jumped on the whole Elf on the Shelf craze, because he has three wonderful kids, and he loves all things Christmas, and why the hell not? But my pal DAVID UNDERWOOD is utterly incapable of taking some popular thing, and just doing what everybody else is doing with it. First, he named his Elf on the Shelf "Handsome Bobby," which was genius, because I have a shit-ton of friends who all have Elves on the Shelf, and I couldn't tell you what they called them. At all. Handsome Bobby is a name you'll never forget, because with that name he has to be someone special. Like an Elf on the Shelf. Or a professional wrestler. Or a porn star. 

Now, I've seen how creative some people can be with their Elves. But there is a level of creativity and originality that exists above and beyond you mere mortals, and that stratum is reserved exclusively for DAVID UNDERWOOD and Handsome Bobby. I'm serious. Every time Handsome Bobby shows up in a Facebook post, it's a three-act story laid out in one picture. It's original, and funny, and sentimental, and wrong, all at the same time. Just like life. Handsome Bobby gets away with shit that, had I tried it as a child, would have gotten me beaten. Or deported. 

I look forward to Handsome Bobby. And while I was impatiently waiting for that first appearance, it occurred to me that I hadn't posted anything on this blog in a long-ass time. And what did not occur to me at all - what, in fact, somebody had to point out to me - was that there are people who look forward to me posting shit on this space, in much the same way that I look forward to Handsome Bobby. And I haven't been doing it. Not because shit hasn't been happening to me. All kinds of shit has been happening to me, good and bad. I don't have a good reason. But this morning, when I saw Handsome Bobby for the first time this season, he looked right at me with that sideways, creepy half-smile, as if to say: "Write something. Or I'll show up while you're sleeping. And you do NOT want that." 

So I decided to post a second excerpt from my upcoming memoir, Making Sh*t Up: An Improvised Life. It's a story about the unintended consequences of an active imagination, and is dedicated with all love and respect to DAVID UNDERWOOD. And Handsome Bobby...

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     I did some growing up on a farm. Not a lot, but it’s where my mom’s parents lived in Jollyville, Texas. (I’m not making that up. Google it.) Arrell Kelly and Essie Patrick were my maternal grandparents, and they looked like grandparents. My Paw Paw proudly wore his pants hiked well above the navel, had thinning hair and spectacles. Mee Maw Essie was portly in a pleasant way, with cottage cheese arms and her ever-present house slippers. (She wore these everywhere, including the grocery store. Way before you ever thought about going out in public in your Crocs.) They had a garden, an orchard of pecan trees, and some livestock (which, back then, we referred to as “cows” and “chickens”). I learned many things on that farm. I learned, for example, how to shuck corn and snap green beans, how to (swear to God) churn butter, and how to drive a tractor. I also learned that, if you had a farming question, that it was wisest to wait until your Mee Maw came out of the bathroom to ask that question, instead of barging in on her while she was taking a dump. This, I learned, was improper.

     The coolest thing about being a kid on a farm is that it’s basically a big playground for your imagination. I made up a lot of shit in those days, usually involving some sort of trek through the jungle (the corn rows), trying to get the serum to the village or rescue the lost travelers before it was too late. One summer I found a machete in Paw Paw’s garage, and as I had just watched an old black-and-white film that had a scene of some dudes slashing their way through the jungle with a machete, I thought this would be a fine thing to do in my own little private jungle. I marched out back to the garden and proceeded to hack my way through the thicket of corn. When I successfully made it to the other end of the garden, rather than retrace my steps, I decided to blaze a new trail down another row. I can vaguely remember my grandmother shouting a person’s name I did not know: Jaysus. Jaysus! As I knew she was not calling for me, I kept on hacking.

     This episode inevitably brings us to the subject of The Switch. In this case, The Switch is not a verb, whereby one object is replaced, or “switched,” with another object. No, dear reader, in this instance The Switch is a noun, and is the name of an object used by many a Texas grandparent in my day to whip the shit out of a grandchild. The Switch was a small, thin, green limb off of a sapling tree, solid yet very flexible, that cut through the air with a shrieking whistle – like a squadron of Japanese kamikaze fighters – on it’s way to the strike zone. Which, in this case, is your bare naked ass.

     Now, taking a beating across your backside with a thin, green piece of tree was bad enough. But it was the psychological torture which preceded this event that raised this particular disciplinary action to an entirely, frightening new level. For I was required – as many Texas children were in those days – to go and fetch the instrument of my destruction. If there is anything worse for a little kid than the long walk to pick out the switch your grandmother is going to beat you with, I haven’t heard of it.

     I refer to this as psychological torture because it presented a unique and terrifying dilemma. On the one hand, you know you are about to get a beating. Self-preservation demands that you look for a switch that will do the least possible damage to your tender southern hemisphere. Preferably a switch not too green, not too long, that might even snap after a couple of good whacks. On the other hand, you are very aware that, if you come back with an unacceptable rod of justice, your grandmother will then go out and supervise the next selection. She will make the choice, and you will still have to do the work of procuring it, knowing all the while where its destiny lies. You will have time to ponder how many bright red streaks are about to be semi-permanently etched across your behind, because you had the audacity to come back the first time with what amounted to a piece of driftwood.

     The worst was the time I was told to go get a switch, and I came back with a huge limb of scrub oak. It was heavy and I had to drag it, though it was so dry I had to be careful not to crack it in two. I guess I thought I was making a statement of some kind: you want to beat me so bad, do it right! Use a whole tree! Maybe I was thinking something like that. Mee Maw looked at what I had brought to her feet, then very calmly stepped off the front porch and walked out to the driveway, in her house shoes that she never seemed to take off. She approached her car – an old Buick, I think – and seemed to inspect it for a minute. Then she walked around the back of the car, moving along the passenger side as though she were searching for something. When she got to the passenger side of the hood she stopped, then very slowly, very methodically, began to unscrew the radio antennae from the hood of the car. When she took a few swings with it, and I heard that awful whipping sound, I paid full heed to my inner voice of self-preservation and ran like hell.

     Well played, Mee Maw. Well played.