Why We Suck_ A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid - Denis Leary [48]
Wow.
Adam and I smiled beaming broad smiles as the editor and his posse of publishing elites led me upstairs where we shared flutes full of champagne and plans for my first book.
One month later "Onomatopoem" and "Fuck" made their debut in the magazine and three weeks after that I signed the deal to publish my first book of poetry with Harper Collins. It was called Slap and was nominated for Best New Book by The American Poetry Bank.
Which doesn't exist.
Because I just made up that happy ending to this little story of how I became a published poet.
What really happened was:
As I tugged on my shirt the day after we planted my poems, Sully entered the locker room for our daily dose of spills, blotches, wet patches and stains to clean up. The first words out of his mouth were "Who's the genius who left the crazy poems on the editor in chief's desk?" He looked around for half a second before spotting my upraised arm, which had been eagerly in the air since he had uttered the word "genius." I was more than ready for my moment in the spotlight. "Okay, asshole-turn in yer shirt. Yer officially shitcanned." Then he immediately continued reading off various dirty locations that needed special attention from the rest of the crew that night.
The dream was over so quickly I didn't even have a chance to ask a follow-up question. Sully headed out the back door and the guys all said how sucky my situation was and then they went off in search of dust and filth.
Within a few days I was working the switchboard of a swanky downtown hotel on the night shift and furiously spending the overnight hours writing more poetry. Why? So I could get better at it.
I was always one of those people who never took no for an answer. Whether it was girls or work or sports or acting, when someone told me I wasn't good enough I found another way to prove them wrong.
About three months after Sully made me turn in my bowling shirt, two things happened-out of pure spite I'd become a much better poet and ended up getting two poems published in another, more cutting-edge poetry magazine called Ploughshares. I was the youngest writer in that particular issue and one of the youngest they ever featured.
The other thing that happened was Adam, Chris and Reagan got shitcanned after Sully caught them trying to smuggle a whole desk out a brownstone side door.
I never tried to get my poems published again after that-I'd proven I could pull it off. I still write them for my wife and most of the time just for my private files and I love doing so, but in my heart of hearts I know the only reason I can claim to be a published poet today is because of Sully With The Bushmill's Bottle Nose. And the reason I became a successful comic is because of all the club owners who told me I was too edgy and the reason I became a working actor is due to all the acting teachers who said I didn't do what they told me to do and all of the casting directors who wouldn't cast me.
Every time I hear the word "no" I think "yes."
Every time someone says it's against the rules I wonder why the rules exist.
I don't run home with my tail between my legs-I bang down the door to find out what's on the other side.
And that comes from growing up with parents who made it clear that-within reason-you can be whatever you want to be in America but no one is just going to hand you anything, you have to go out and get it.
The harder you work, the luckier you get-that's one of the things my dad taught me.
You learn more with your mouth shut and your ears open than you do the other way around-he said that too.
Most people who are older than you are also a helluva lot smarter. That was another one of his faves.
No one owes you anything and being born into a free society means you get to say whatever the hell you want but it doesn't mean anyone has to listen.
Which is why I walk around now just wishing I could grab every other mouthy, misbehaved, spoiled and rotten little