#wordfail

Fuck.

     I kept trying to tell myself I was just busy. New gig, single dad, awesome girlfriend, and just a whole shit-ton of life going on. That's what I was saying. But I'm told the first step in defeating a problem is admitting you have one. And the problem I'm having is that I can't find my fucking words.

     It's not like I don't have anything to write about. I think of seven different things to write about every goddamn day, and that's just when my brain is in Neutral. I've written most of these things down as Subjects To Write Shit About. And then they just sit there, staring at me like those creepy pictures in Disney's Haunted Mansion - the ones that seem to follow you whichever way you walk, except that in this case there's no fun ride to look forward to. (Note: I was about to compare my Subjects To Write Shit About to stillborn children, as opposed to the creepy pictures in the Haunted Mansion, but then I was all like, Dude, that's fucking dark, even for you. Plus, now I just told you what I was originally going to write, which sort of defeats the whole purpose of editing myself and going a different direction, and now for all I know some of you are having images of  creepy pictures of stillborn children at Disney's Haunted Mansion, that follow you everywhere you turn, and that is just ten kinds of fucked up, but I won't apologize for it because that's what's in my head right now, and the whole point of this blog was to get the shit in my head out in the open, and also I'm not going to apologize for what has basically become a gigantic parenthetical run-on sentence, because Cormac McCarthy does that shit all the time, and people think he's brilliant.)

     What was I talking bout?

     Oh, yeah. Writer's block.

     So, I'm googling some of my favorite writers, to see what kind of advice they can give me about this. (Most of my favorite writers are dead, by the way. I'm not sure why I felt compelled to share that bit of information with you, but there you go.) Here's what one of my heroes, Ernest Fucking Hemingway, had to say about overcoming writer's block:

"All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."

     The truest sentence I know? That's kind of overwhelming. I mean, like, was he asking for a universal truth (The earth rotates around the sun.), or was he suggesting a more personal truth (I discovered masturbation at age 12, and have rarely missed a day since 1979.)? 

     Next up is James Thurber:

"Don't get it right; just get it written."

     Now that's a practical piece of advice, and one that I suppose I'm putting into practice right now. I think my biggest, nastiest issue as a writer has always been fear: fear that what I'm writing is pure shit; fear that I'll be exposed as a charlatan and a hack, with nothing new or original to say, and no distinctive way to say it. Often I am reminded that I need to tell the little nay-sayer who lives inside my head to go take a flying fuck. Because I'm a writer. It can be made right later, but not if it's never written in the first place. 

   And what does Mr. William Faulkner have to say on the subject?

"I only write when I am inspired. Fortunately, I am inspired at 9 o'clock every morning."

     Fuck you, Faulkner. Show off.

     And with that, I suppose I have - for the time being - slain the dragon that periodically swoops in to steal my words. I wish I could tell you that I'll be much more active on this space now - but if you've read me for any length of time, you know that's bullshit. I can only tell you that I'll try. My 30 year high school reunion is coming up, and if I can't find some things to write about after that experience, then I'm probably actually brain dead. Just like Keith Richards, except less wrinkly. 

     Cheers, you guys.

Teaching My Daughter To Be A Man

Quite possibly the manliest motherfucker in history.

     Yeah. I know. I haven't posted in a while. Well, between the commercials, and the photo shoots, and the suiting up in armor and riding horses for a living (saving that for my next post), and the awesome daughter, and the girlfriend (also very awesome), I haven't had just a shit-ton of time to sit down and collect my thoughts in words. But last night I remembered an article I'd submitted to The Mid (an online magazine that sometimes buys my words, and pays me with actual money), that they rejected, on account of it didn't exactly gel with their whole "we're-all-about-middle-agers-but-mostly-female-and-mostly-feminist-and-also-men-shouldn't-be-too-manly" vibe. And then I remembered that I have a space where I literally do not have to give a fuck about what anybody thinks of me, or my words, or how I use them.

     So I'm reprinting that piece, unedited, here. You don't have to agree with everything (or anything) I'm saying. But I promise you: if you have a man in your life old enough to be introspective, he is thinking about this shit:

Teaching My Daughter How To Be A Man

By

Larry Brantley

Alright. Calm the fuck down. The title was provocative on purpose; I’m not actually teaching my 12-year-old daughter how to be a man. She is as girlie as a girl can be, and that’s her choice, and I’m all for it. But this morning I got to thinking about the very broad subject of manhood, and what it means to be a man, and in particular what it means to be a man in the 21^st century.

I did a Google search that went like this: How do I teach my daughter about being a man? The results were edifying – and aggravating – for two reasons: 1) of the top ten results, seven of them were fucking lists, the form of writing that has become so very popular in digital media, because it’s easily digestible, and implies you can learn every damn thing you need to on any given subject in just a few numbers (full disclosure; I recently wrote a piece for The Mid that had the Ten Commandments To Not Being A Douchebag listed in it. Hello, pot. It’s me, kettle.); and 2) of the top ten results, nine of them were written by women.

All of these results had the same basic theme: this is what you need to teach your daughter in life. Very little of it had anything to do with boys or men, except for things like Don’t ever let any man convince you he has power over you. (Couldn’t you just as easily say the same thing about any woman?) Other “lessons” were along the lines of empowerment, self-sufficiency, speaking her mind, etc. But what was missing from all of these articles – every one of them – was any counsel on how to teach my daughter about how fucking confusing it can be to be a man in the 21^st century, and how the very concept of manhood has been upended, and pilloried, and denounced as outdated, and sexist, and wrong. And no, that’s not everybody’s view of manhood, but if you disagree with me, then you live on a parallel earth where things are way goddam better, and you should stay there.

We live in the most resource-rich culture in the world. Our society is more gender-equal than at any time in human history. (I'm not saying we're finished with that fight; but do you really want to tell me that shit was better in Susan B. Anthony's day?) These are awesome things, and it’s a good idea to occasionally remind ourselves that one of the really big reasons we got to this point is that, way back in our collective story, there was a time when we didn’t have enough resources, and there were dangers on all sides, from the ravages of nature, to wild beasts, to other tribes who wanted to take our shit and kill us off. And it fell almost exclusively to the men to protect and provide: we evolved expressly to handle those kinds of things. Plus, we were expendable; we couldn’t (and still can’t) make babies, so we would cheerfully die in order that the life-givers could survive and procreate, and carry on the tribe. There was a time in our collective story – not too far gone, if you really think about it – when a man had to be good at being a man. The lives of his family and his people literally depended on it.

We live in a different age now. The Huns are no longer at the gates. Hunting and foraging are conducted in air-conditioned, well-lit buildings, with Kenny G playing softly in the background. The danger and dire need has passed, and now we hear a new message: you no longer need to be good at being a man; now you need to be a good man. And I will tell you honestly that we are struggling – mightily – to figure out just what the hell that means. For my part, I’m still working it out. I’ve certainly become more empathetic. I’m a better communicator than any previous man in my family line. I’m a good listener, and I understand the concept of emotional needs, and how to meet them in a society that now has the luxury of self-actualization, as opposed to self-preservation. But I’ve never gotten in touch with my “feminine side,” and for a very simple reason: I don’t fucking have a feminine side. I’m a man.

The other night my girlfriend said something to me that, for all of our gender-equality and self-actualization and modernity, blew me away in its honesty. This is a woman who is a vice president at a very up-and-coming company. She is capable, confident, and highly successful. Talk with her five minutes and you know she has her shit together. But as I held her on the sofa while we were watching TV, she said, simply, “I feel safe when I’m with you.”

The subject of masculinity can’t be condensed to a list. Boo and I are going to have very long, thoughtful, and fraught discussions in the coming years. But I think I’ve found a good starting point – a question I can pose of any future suitor, who would win my daughter’s heart away from me:

Does he make you feel safe?

     

Forsooth, Motherfu*kers!

     Abridged List of Shit I've Done In My Professional Life:

     Grocery Sacker; Skating Rink DJ; AM Radio DJ; Martial Arts Instructor; Infantryman; Bouncer; Insurance Salesman; Bodyguard; Standup Comic; Professional Actor; Musician; Writer...

And Now, Add:

Badass Medieval Chancellor On Horseback!

     My whole life, I've loved make-believe and horses. The first time I ever sat in the saddle was thanks to my friend Paul V. and his family, who owned some land and a few horses out in Montgomery. Her name was Snow, and she was a beautifully dappled Appaloosa. Two things stand out most from that first ride: 1) I experienced a kind of natural joy I'd never known before, the kind that exists only between horse and rider; and 2) my balls had never known such agony. (At least not until I had my first real make-out session, which is a very different kind of ball-agony.) 

     I always wanted to eventually have some land and horses of my own, but make-believe won the day, and I chased my whimsy of being an honest-to-goodness actor. I got in the saddle whenever I could, which wasn't nearly enough. But every so often, your worlds collide in a good way (and I am no-shit overdue for a good kind of collision). About a month ago a friend of mine asked if I would think about auditioning for a little place called...

     And today I was given my official title: Lord Chancellor of the Tournament. Now, before you start thinking that I'm about to go jousting, and fighting with swords, and maces, and other crazy-ass Game of Thrones kind of shit, calm down. The Lord Chancellor is the Master of Ceremonies. Basically, I'm the medieval version of Johnny Carson. But on a horse. I now get to feed my twin monkeys of entertaining crowds AND riding horses. And I get a paycheck for it. Are you fucking kidding me?

     Oh, I'm still going to work in front of a camera. And behind a microphone. And I'm definitely going to keep writing. In fact, you'll likely be reading here about my adventures in the castle. And hopefully not too many of those stories will be about how badly my balls hurt.

   

The Greatest App In The History Of Awesomeness.

   

No. Absolutely fuck no.

I'm talking about this shit, right here:

Life just got awesomer.

     Anybody who's known me for, like, more than three minutes, knows that a huge part of my lexicon is movie/TV quotes, and song lyrics. And now I can take the original quote and/or song lyric, and make it my own through the voodoo that is my smart phone! 

     I owe the discovery of this priceless technology to Boo, who threw down the gauntlet earlier this week in what I am now calling the First Dubsmash War. The idea is simply to out-dub your opponent with theatricality and awesomeness. Here was Boo's opening volley, with a special cameo from her friend, H:

     I think we can all agree on one thing: my kid is the shit. But her old man has a few moves up his sleeve, and literally decades of experience in making an ass of himself. Here was my return shot:

     I declare this round a draw. My point is, I'm busy as shit with writing, and acting, and generally trying to avoid criminality. But now I'll have less time, because Dubsmash is my new crack. (I mean, not that I ever did the other kind. Because I didn't. I'm not judging you if you use crack. But smoke weed. It's way easier on your teeth. What the fuck was I talking about?)

     Oh yeah. DUBSMASH!

The Force, Nostalgia, And Boners.

     So, Thursday, the Internets exploded in a great big ball of awesomeness:

Because this shit, right here.

     I was actually on set shooting a series of videos when the teaser dropped. And the entire production came to a screeching halt, while we all gathered around a laptop to watch. Everybody turned into a kid for two minutes. And, just like my younger self, when it was over I immediately began to wonder if anybody was going to notice my boner.

     In the spring/summer of 1977, I was ten. My folks were still married, my dad was still alive, and my cousin Steve and I hatched a brilliant scheme. We told our folks that we wanted to go to Greenspoint Mall, and catch the matinee of For The Love of Benji at the General Cinema. Since it was a kiddie film, and since it was Saturday, and since it was not at all unusual to set loose two ten year-old boys in a mall unsupervised in 1977, we were each given a little cash, my mom drove us, dropped us, and off we went.

     But here's the thing: Steve and I had no fucking intention - whatsoever - of seeing For The Love of Benji. That was just a ruse to get us to the theater, where we were actually planning to sneak into a movie called The Deep. It was rated R, and a friend of ours had snuck into it the weekend before. We had been told, from his firsthand account, that not only did they swear in this movie, but that Jaqueline Bisset wore a bikini for pretty much the entire film, AND that in one scene her white t-shirt got all wet, and you could see her boobies. 

     I never made it to that screen. Because, as Steve and I were sneaking down the hall, I heard something... loud. And... futuristic. I looked into a different theater, and saw on its screen a vast expanse of open space, that was quickly filled by a spaceship, that was being pursued by another, way-fucking-bigger spaceship. Without quite realizing it, I walked into that theater, took one of the only available seats near the front, and quickly forgot about my cousin, and rated R, and boobies.

     I sat through two more showings of Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, and when I walked out of the theater, my cousin, his mom, and MY mom were none too pleased to see me. When I got ungrounded from that adventure, I went back and saw it again. Three more times. I went back the next weekend, too. Ditto for The Empire Strikes Back, and The Return of the Jedi.

     As for the prequel movies, if you really want to know how I feel about them, check out this bit from Patton Oswalt. 'Nuff said.

     So now it's 30 years later, the new Star Wars trailer just dropped, I got a huge boner, and just like the beginning of baseball season, hope springs eternal. I will be on the line for the premiere. No, not dressed as my favorite character. I'll be taking Boo, as she has developed her father's love for superheroes and space opera. And I will hope that the last three films do for my middle aged self what the first three did for the young dreamer. Because I still haven't completely given up on my dream of Jedi Knight as a career choice.

     Don't judge me.

     

Reunions and Musicals and Books. Oh My.

Bad idea. Bad, bad idea.

     You know how 80s parties are the shit right now? You know who hates 80s parties? People who lived through the 80s. 

     This is on my mind because I just today remembered that I was invited to attend my thirty-year (holy shit, did I just write that out?) high school reunion. And I said yes. So now I have three months to dwell on that.

     Oh, and I was asked to be in a full-on staged production of this musical:

Not as one of the girls, though. I play a guy. With a penis.

     I get to play the love interest, which is kind of cool, and ironic, since my character is coming back to his hometown thirty years after he left his true love. I don't think there's any actual kissing in the show, but I do get to sing and play my guitar. And be funny. And hopefully sexy. A little.

     And I submitted another query to yet another literary agent, in the hopes that I can find some representation for the book I wrote. So, in your face, Monday. Today was a day to get shit done.

     By the way, if you're coming to the reunion, and you regularly read the blog, I'm probably going to hug you. Don't fight it. 

New Look and Sh*t.

No. Not the glasses. I mean the blog. Though I do think the glasses make me look worldly. Or something. Whatever. My daughter is cute.

     So, it's Friday, and I already submitted my latest article to The Mid (spoiler alert: it's not a feel-good piece), and I had nothing better to do than fuck around with the blog. I've changed the look and layout a little, in an effort to make it more... I don't know, me. So leave me some feedback here, or on Facebook, and let me know what you think. 

     And thanks, you guys. Thanks for stopping by when you do. I appreciate you.