Opa!!! (I think that's Greek for Merry Christmas.)

In which I instruct my young nieces on how to make flaming cheese

(Or more importantly, instill fear of explosion into everyone around me.)

So far today I've spent half the morning on the computer (researching a new car), had a few drinks at a dive bar in a small town in Indiana, listened to "Christmas Wrapping" by The Waitresses half a dozen times, and almost set my sister's house on fire.

Now I'm talking to Linus, who's in Dublin, wishing me a Merry Christmas.

Life is almost perfect. Just wish I was sharing this good life with someone. At least I have you, dear readers.

A Movable Christmas

I'm in central Indiana, which means that it's a holiday. The holiday, I suppose.

Indiana is where my sister and her family live, and Christmas, for the past several years, has meant being in some faraway place, celebrating the holidays with family.

In the past ten years, I've spent Christmas in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania; Dallas, Texas; Tampa, Florida; and Indianapolis, Indiana.

This is the second in Indiana, so that must be some kind of record. The Wandering Family seem to be staying put in one place, which is a good thing.

I find it ironic that it's my sister, with the large family, that is the one that travels all over the place, while I, with no strings and the wanderlust and all that, seem to be unable ever to leave.

Lots of interesting toys floating around the house, and yet no presents have been opened (except for the "just because" presents, which would take too long to explain.) So far there has been a mechanical parrot, tweeting bird ornaments, and a coffee mug that sings while you guzzle down your coffee. There is a lot of noise around here right now.

It's fun, of course, but I'm taking a moment to get some peace and quiet, before the day's craziness starts. Time to go get a few things for the big Christmas Eve meal. I have promised to make saganaki, and I have also promised not to set my sister's kitchen on fire.

So whoever reads this today, I wish you a hearty Merry Christmas. I haven't had much time to write on here lately, but all of the requests for more posts certainly haven't gone unnoticed, and I hope to do better as we enter the new year.

Whatever you are doing, I hope you are with people who love you, as I am, and I hope your holiday dreams and wishes include lots and lots of flaming Greek cheese.

Peace.

Falling Dollar, Falling Hopes

This is a graph showing the value of the U.S. dollar in relation to the Euro.

You may think, "Oh, it's only a few cents." But think of it this way:

When I traveled to Ireland for the first time in 2002, I could get 100 Euros for about 100 dollars.

This summer it took me about 136 U.S. dollars. Or something like that.

Now it would almost cost me $150 dollars if I drew out 100 Euros from an ATM off Grafton Street.

Goddammit. This really messes everything up. I mean everything.

Can I blame George Bush for this as well?

Little White Dogs

Thanksgiving approaches, and that means only one thing for me: a few days off.

Obviously I'm looking forward to family and food; these things are important to me, and will always be important to me. But I'll get a few days off from work, and that will indeed be something to give thanks for, because there's a lot I have to get done.

Those stupid online grad classes I signed up for back in April? Yeah, I didn't get to those this summer, and time is running out, so I need to finally buckle down and get them finished.

The remount of the radio production of It's a Wonderful Life is going on right now, quite swimmingly, but it takes up a bit of the ole free time as well. (November 29th and 30th, folks, if you have a hankering to see the show. I even get to be Uncle Billy this year, because seriously, is there a better part for me than the lovable alcoholic uncle?


And then there's Heroes and Villains. I think I may have found a writing partner, which should be quite interesting and enjoyable. Plus a collaborator on some short films that I want to create for the show, which should add an additional layer of awesomeness to the show. More on that as it develops.

Instead of just writing about why I have no time to do things such as blogging, and commenting on other peoples' blogs (Bicyclemark! I miss you, man!), I should give you a story. So here goes:

Last Saturday I woke up with a horrible fever. 101 degrees, couldn't even get out of bed. Called around, trying to find someone who could bring me some necessary items for my sick bed (7-Up, French bread, Simpsons DVDs, etc.), and eventually made it downstairs to the couch. I probably should have gone to the doctor right then and there, as it turned out to be strep throat, but I didn't even have the energy for the short drive to the doctor's office up the road from my house.

So I was sitting on the couch, watching one of the several episodes of The War that I had recorded, when I hear a knock at my door. Now, I don't normally get many unannounced visitors at my place, but this was the third knock at my door that day. (One other being two very nice middle-aged women who undoubtedly wanted to save me from the horrors of the Planned Parenthood clinic recently opened up the road.)

There was a Chinese woman at my door, cradling a small, white dog in her arms. She is my neighbor. She doesn't speak much English, but tried as best as she could to explain that her dog was sick and that she needed to go to the hospital, and since she didn't have a car, could I drive her and her sick dog to the animal hospital?

Now, I would love to say that this story ends with me driving a scared Chinese woman to the nearest veterinary office, where I heroically sit with her in the outer office while her little white dog is examined. That would be a good ending to the story, and had situations been a bit different, maybe that's how it would have happened.

But I'm standing at the front door, unwashed, unshaved, in an old bathrobe and my head dizzy with fever, and all I can get out is, "I don't know.....I......I don't know if I can help. I'm sick, too."

She apologizes for bothering me and goes to another neighbor's house for help.

I stand there for a minute, trying to process what had happened. I feel horrible, not just from the fact that I'm sick with the strep, but that I wasn't able to help this woman. It had happened all so sudden, I didn't know what to do.

After a minute or so I come to my senses, and decide that I'll get dressed and drive her to the vet despite my ill health. I throw on some clothes, flipping through the yellow pages as I pull my coat on, and walk out the door, looking for the scared Chinese woman with her little white dog.

I knock, and ring the doorbell, and hear the other 3-4 little white dogs she owns, barking and yipping on the other side of the door. No answer. I look up the road, wondering if she's going door-to-door, like the middle-aged women from this morning, but I don't see her anywhere.

Eventually I go back inside and collapse on the couch, where I resume my combination of sleeping and watching of WW2 documentaries.

Later that night there is another knock at my door, and it is my Chinese neighbor, letting me know that she made it to the vet's office, and that her dog was being taken care of. She apologizes again for bothering me, and I try my best to apologize as well, all the while wishing that I could have helped her, or else that the whole thing had just never happened.

As I close the door and return, once again, to the sick bed that is my living room couch, I think about my inability to help the Chinese woman. How much of my reluctance had to do with the fact that I was, truthfully, very ill, and how much did it have to do with the fact that those goddamn dogs always crap on my lawn.

I guess I'll never know.

The Life of Brian

THE LIFE OF BRIAN

(AN UPDATE)

A week or so ago I was in the city and got the chance to see The Darjeeling Limited, followed by a Q & A with Wes Anderson and Jason Schwartzman afterwards.

Got a chance to meet up with The Griffin after a long separation, and that was probably the highlight of the night. Yeah, I loves me some Anderson films, and I enjoyed Darjeeling immensely, but I've known Joe for a long time, and it was really great to spend a few hours with him, catching up.

He was part of my acting company for a long time, and helped define what Limelight was to be when we were first starting out. Not many guys get to play John Proctor, Professor Bhaer, Thorin Oakenshield, Michael Corleone, and Lysander from A Midsummer Night's Dream by the time they're 15 years old.

Joe's back living in Illinois after a couple of years in Ohio. He's living in the city and going to film school, and I'm pretty much in high-jealousy mode for his lifestyle. Perhaps I shall live through him vicariously.

Meanwhile, all is quiet on the western suburban front. I work, trying to stop my students from growing up to be assholes. It seems like that's my mission these days: to make sure at least a few kids don't grow up to be ignorant Americans.

If that offends a few people, I don't mind. There is something seriously wrong with the way things have gone 'round here, and I genuinely fear for the future of this nation.

Aside from my alarmist fears, I'm enjoying my new surroundings. We have the dedication ceremony this weekend for the new school, and I even get to make a short speech. Tabula rasa seems to be the overriding theme of my brief remarks.

I've thought about signing up for NaNoWriMo, and just writing a play in a month instead of a novel. But then I realized that I have to direct a play, do report cards, conduct parent-teacher conferences, and celebrate Thanksgiving during November.

The play is going well, though, at least in my head. I tend to pull over to the side of the road a lot lately, as ideas pop into my head. Because I am old, and have much to ponder in this life of mine, I have to write everything down now, lest I forget it.


So while things are fine here in Brian-land, I desperately need some kind of getaway. A week or so where I can clear my head and just do some proper writing. And since my free time is so limited, I've thought about using some of my holiday time to travel somewhere. Find a quiet place, bring the laptop, a decent bottle of whiskey (shout-out to Donal there), maybe a pack of smokes for the hell of it, and nothing else.

Anyone got a quiet cabin in the woods for rent?

Team Zissou

I promise to not dress up as any character from a Wes Anderson film this year.

More on the actual Wes Anderson and his new film later. I only have time for quick, self-deprecating posts right now. Or Elimare-deprecating posts.

UK LTC DIY Mashup

Elimare gives a shout-out to Limelight while visiting Wales.

You just earned yourself a lifetime supply of free tickets to all our shows.

Kristine in L.A. or the Magnificent House Theatre?

Well, I've had quite the little day.

After several weeks of waking up way too damn early (because my head seems to want to wake up around 5 and just stew about the day), I slept blissfully late into the day. The house was cold, due to autumn finally arriving, and I slipped on a pair of woolen socks, put on my bathrobe, made a pot of coffee, and dug out something decent to read. (The Rebels of Ireland, finally.)

After a quick breakfast of egg and muffin (the English variety), I packed a bag and headed to my nearby sanctuary of trees and trails, and wandered for a while, letting ideas flow through my head, and occasionally stopping to write down the occasional brilliant idea for The Play.

All the while I pondered two possibilities: shall I head out to Los Angeles to hang out with the divine Kristine, on extended sabbatical from The Philippines? We have an eerily similar sense of taste, and could probably hang out for hours talking about Jeff Tweedy and Neil Gaiman. Perhaps at The Viper Room. It is Los Angeles, after all.

I wonder what Tony's doing?

My other possibility was attending a special screening of The Darjeeling Limited, where I'd get the chance to Q&A Wes Anderson and Jason Schwartzman. I knew I sill read that damn AintitCoolNews for a reason.



I won two tickets for the screening, by the way. Anyone want to go?

After searching ticket prices for CHI to LAX, I realized that I already had tickets for closing night of The Magnificents that weekend, which is kind of a big deal. Last House show at The Viaduct, you know.

So now I'm kind of fucked. For once in my life I have too much going on.

Perhaps I could go the previous weekend. It would involve blowing off two events, though: the dedication ceremony for my newly-built school, and my mother's birthday.

More on all of these events as they happen.

Oh, by the way: the Duders, Eric and Erica, had a beautiful baby girl last week. Life is wonderful.

City or Country?

Question:

City, or country this weekend?

A Happy Man

This is a picture of me.

It's a picture of me, in Dublin, at a Japanese restaurant.

That's Elimare next to me. She takes good pictures, by the way.

This is a picture of me quite happy, as you can see.

(It's probably because we were on our 5th or 6th beer by that point.)

It's my first night in Dublin, and I should be quite jet-lagged. But I look pretty good in this photo.

I like this photo of me. I think if I wanted a photo to be able to capture what I want to be in one image, this would be it.

It was taken by Isobel, and English girl who likes to knit. I found this picture on her Facebook site. So I stole it. Because it makes me happy to look at it.

Thanks for sending this out into the world, Issy.

Murray

If you're a fan of Bill Murray (and if you're not then you just need to stop reading this blog right now), then read this interview Bill gave with a reporter about the Cubs. It's pretty good.

As far as Chicagoans go, Bill Murray is the King, the Emperor, and the Grand Marshall all wrapped up together.

Go Cubs. (Although I'm not optimistic...)

$2 Guinness

Pulled some ham steaks out of the freezer that had been in there far too long, and after perusing through the cupboards, found nothing interesting to eat. Hadn't I just gone to the new fresh market store with all the produce and vegetables and tasty red wine?

Man cannot live on pears and mushrooms and vino alone, so I decided to head down to the pub and drink $2 Guinness and watch the Cub game for a bit.

I have a local pub. It's the only decent bar within my corner of the suburban retail sprawl I dwell in, unless you like to hang out in the bar area of TGI Friday's or enjoy spending your Friday evenings in the mega-bars that surround me.

Okay, that's what I actually did Friday, but I prefer the smaller, independent places. Like Paulie's up the road. Decent place. Good burgers.

That story doesn't really go anywhere, so let's move on.

I'm busy right now. New job's going well, but man there's a lot of paperwork. You know how police detectives always talk about how most of the job is sitting at the desk filling out forms? That seems to be a lot of what I do now, when I'm not teaching. Lots and lots of forms.

Also trying to put some different things together for Limelight, in my spare time. A few decent things lined up, if I can convince the kids that a collaborative workshop with The House Theatre is something they need to do.

Lots going on, not much time to write, or read other blogs properly. And no time for outside, or trees, or quiet forest paths. Or a long car trip. I could really use some of that right now.

So. Right. Much to do. Back when I'm able.

Talkin' Trash at the Plowing Match

The Plough and the Stars

Nahh...

Talkin' Trash at the Plowing Match

That's better.

A couple of years ago I wrote a fairly-definitive account of the Big Rock Plowing Match. If you need a refresher, feel free to click here, otherwise proceed to pictures from this year's event.

Congrats to Uncle Bobby Bandito, who came in second. Best effort by a member of my family for many years, I believe.

A few more pictures up at Flickr.

September 11th Revisited

I don't think I've ever reprinted a post before, but I felt like running this again.

I had a strange experience today: I had to talk to students and tell them what happened on September 11th. Most of them were four when it happened. They have no real memory of the event, and a few even asked, "What happened that day?"

So I told them a quick story, which I talk about in the post below. I still think about looking in the eyes of my friend Ben, who I used to teach with. That look he gave me, a mixture of strength and fear. I don't think I'll ever forget that.

I think this day brings about a wide range of feelings in people. Patriotism, resolve, anger and frustration, bitterness even. To me it just brings an overwhelming feeling of love for everyone I know, and the desire to fix what was broken.

The following was written on September 11th, 2006.

I haven't been able to come up with the proper words to describe what goes through my head when I consider the events of September 11th.

They weigh heavy on me. I woke up a few times last night, and my first thoughts were always, "today will be September 11th."

It's been five years since they brought the kids in early to school, when I ran down the hall, watching my students file into the room, sooner than usual. News on the radio and pictures coming through slowly on my computer, a horrible helpless feeling as I taught through the morning not really knowing what was going on. The face of a fellow teacher as he met my eyes as we sat down at lunch to watch what was happening.

The material of my couch at home, that's what I remember for some reason. I sat there for hours after school and just watched it all happen, just like everyone else did. The soft, corduroy-like feel of that blue couch.

Weird, almost enjoyable sensation of being really alive. That's the only good thing I remember about those first hours and days. This wonderful and horrible feeling of being very, very alive. Everything crystal-clear and sharp.

Nothing has really been that clear ever since. It's been a long five years, watching and wondering where this country is going, where it's being led, where its citizens are letting it be taken. Hoped there would be this renaissance of thought and concern and greater understanding of what was important in life. And maybe that's happened to some people, but not enough, I fear. Not enough.

The national nervous breakdown is what Hunter Thompson called it, I think. In the years following everyone found their own hole to stick their head in, to protect themselves against a lurking dread. Reality television or booze or unquestioning patriotism. Some stood tall and knew the right things to do and the right words to say from the very beginning, while others stumbled and lost their way.

And for all its missteps and misdeeds, despite the fact that I strongly disagree with the direction it has been taken by our current leadership, I still love this country.

I believe that there is an America out there that is smart and compassionate and wants nothing more than to be a force for good in this world. There is an America out there that raises good kids who know right from wrong and will grow up to do wonderful things. There is an America out there that is filled with bold leaders, talented musicians and writers, and people who know how to make a great cheeseburger.

There is an America to be proud of out there, but it's been hidden behind the curtain of dust and haze of September 11th.

It is up to us, its citizens, to remind everyone of America's proud past and its limitless potential. It's up to us to stand together and not let this great country stumble and fail. It's up to us to pick it up again.

No sense in running away and hiding from the bad stuff, no sense in running away when things get dark. Like it was said once before, when you can't run anymore, you crawl, and when you can't do that, you find someone to carry you.

To all of you out there, family and friends, I wish you peace on this day of remembrance. May we all live to see happier times together

The Gurrier and his Tales

Two links for you today...

One: Donal, your man from Dublin, has composed a rare auld treat for us all to share. The untold tale of what I was really doing in Ireland this summer. Read it, but be warned: them Irish have a way with words.

(You should also read his thoughts on D-Day after visiting Normandy last month. Quite good, quite good.)

Two: As revenge for putting me into one of The Gurrier's tales of lechery and buggery, I give you this video, taken after a few drinks, after a rainy hike around Wicklow.

Click To Play

Friday Night Lights

I think, if any of my friends from overseas were to come to visit, I would want them to see the Sandwich Fair.

Chicago and all its qualities would be the primary focus of the visit, just as most big cities are for foriegners traveling abroad. And of course I would show them shiny Naperville in all its newness and suburbanness.

But if I wanted something that would sum up what the Midwest is to me, or at least my impression of it, you could do worse than submit a county or state fair for consideration.

You have your carnival rides and deep-fried food, of course, along with the other fair, the one people forget about sometimes. The one with show animals and horses and dairy farmers from downstate, and who are usually the nicest guys in the world to talk to, the downstate farmers.

I imagine that Ireland and the U.K. and other parts of the world have their equivalent carnival or festival, where everyone gathers to eat bad food and fight the crowds and see the same booths advertising space-age cleansers and graveyard headstones, while the classic-rock shout of the midway echoes through the grounds.

At the Sandwich Fair, though, I could point out the exhibit hall where my grandmother enters cross-stitching works for judgment (Issy would like that, perhaps.) We could wander past the small stage where a band is playing, and point out that the two guys onstage who are dressed as the Blues Brothers used to be my managers at the local grocery store I worked at a long time ago.

That guy I just said hello to? Taught elementary school for 35 years in the next town over. The Sandwich Sports Boosters booth, with its microwaved pizza logs? Ground Zero for kids from my old high school, same as it was 20 years ago. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting someone in orange and black.


That's the Lions Club booth, where I used to always see Jim and Walt from Salem Lutheran Church; here's where kids from the high school band serve food to raise money for uniforms and field trips; here's where the crusty carny told Chad the joke with the punchline, "No, but the last guy was!"

And even though I haven't lived in Sandwich for a long time, and don't really consider myself a small-town kid anymore, it's still the place that my friend Jeff and I (and various other members of his family or our friends) come every year, to have a Pronto Pup from the same exact spot it was last year, and to stroll around and say hello to people and have a good time.

It would be the best possible place to tell a part of the story of who I am and where I come from.

It's been rainy here lately, and for the past couple of nights we've had some good drenches, and it was looking like we weren't going to make it to the fair this year. But Friday evening the clouds rolled away and the late sun came out and we packed everyone in the car and headed west to the fair.

And everyone there seemed so happy, so cheerful. The crowds were light and there weren't any lines for the rides, which made young Ben so happy. And I even went on a ride with him, for the first time in probably 15 years. Some big metal contraption that sling-shot you in a wide arc over the grounds, and a few times you feel like you're going to just break away and sail out over the people.

But of course you don't, and you come back down, and go up again, and as you got up to the highest point, where the ride stopped for a moment so you could look out at the entirety of the thing as the evening faded away, everywhere you looked, you saw people happy to be out of the house, happy to be enjoying such a lovely evening, and happy to be amongst the people at the fair.

I Like Black and White

That's the extremely short version of my Labor Day weekend. More pictures on Flickr.

I would love to write more, but there' s no time right now. Head's in the game of teaching right now, even though there's so much more to do.

Later.

Tweedy in your House

This is for all you Wilco/Jeff Tweedy fans:

Jeff Tweedy Swings By Your Living Room

Kristine, Duder, Watts, Diana, etc. This would be a good link to click on. All the songs are downloadable.

Anyone got $17,500 to lend me? Because having Jeff Tweedy play in my living room would be pretty fucking awesome.

Popp, did Bill Mallonee charge this much?

I was looking at my Flickr page, seeing how many people had looked at my latest batch of vacation photos, and I noticed something:

pictures with people get more visits than pictures of beautiful landscapes. Fair enough--the picture never quite captures the majesty.

But pictures of hot women always, always, always get more hits. Case in point: the blown-up picture of the supremely hot flight attendants from my flight to Dublin a couple of weeks ago.

God I love Ireland.

Okay, so someone from Ireland called my cell phone yesterday. (or as you from the Emerald Isle would say, my "mobile.")

Phone isn't doing so well at keeping voice mail messages, so I don't know who it was. Which really drives me crazy, because seriously, how many people get a call from overseas on their phone? That's like ordering a hamburger and getting steak to a guy like me!

Got back into town Monday afternoon, after a long but smooth flight home. Thanks to Doug and Donna for picking me up at O'Hare and taking me out for an early (or was it late?) dinner. Fought to stay awake but crashed around 9:30 pm. Good thing about this trip was that it helped me get back into a normal sleep mode.

It's been a busy rest-of-the-week: mostly at work, getting the classroom ready, and trying to recall stuff that's been archived in the back of my head for three years.

Lots more to say about the trip, and hopefully I'll get the chance to write a proper closing, but if I don't write anything else, the largest and warmest of thanks need to go out to The Dubliners (Donal, Isobel, Linus and Elimare) and the Glaswegian (Colin) for everything they did, from hitting the pubs on a Monday night, to touring around the Wicklow Mountains, to putting me up for a couple of nights and driving me through southern Scotland, and for fighting through severe back pain for one final night of drinks and conversation.

It summed up everything I believe in when it comes to blogging and travel and the role technology can play in bringing people together from far-flung places.

Now, off to work for a while, and then a farewell to Ben, my cousin, who will be having his own Awfully Big Adventure in Japan this fall.

Click the picture below to go to the now-complete Flickr slideshow of the trip.

Midnight, Ireland

Last night in Dublin, after a semi-drunken night out with Linus. Sitting in my hotel room, listening to the drunken Dubliners slowly make their way out of the pubs. Waiting for it to quiet down, so I can fall asleep. Sitting on the bed, typing away.

This makes the seventh night in a row that I've had free internet usage. In the past week I've spent several nights with people I met on the internet, received calls from my cell from several thousand miles away, uploaded vacation photos to a shared website moments after I took them, and stayed at hotels booked entirely online. And despite a looming Aer Lingus strike, I was able to take care of everything through email and websites and the dilligent work of my dear mother.

And now I'm sitting in bed, typing on the laptop, chatting with Jane from Seattle (who used to be Jane from work, but had the courage to move someplace New), and I'm so far from home, and yet home is right here. If I wanted to, I could grab my iPod and listen to any song I've ever purchased.

As Jasper once said: it's a time to be alive.

Sunday Morning, Glasgow

Sunday morning, Glasgow

Woke early and spent some time updating my Flickr page--the trip now has a proper Set, but will still need some work and adding to before it's finished.

Yesterday was a mixed bag of good and wet. Rained all day all over Scotland, and the traffic getting out of Glasgow was just horrendous. By the time we made it to St. Andrews, The Wolves in the Walls was more than half over, and so I never made it to the show.

The drive itself was great, however. Colin rented a very comfortable Jetta for the day, and I was able to sit back and watch the Scottish countryside roll by while he careened around sharp corners and flew through various towns and cities.

Wandered around St. Andrews a bit, had fish and chips in Anstruther, then headed down to Glasgow. Got to see the famous cantilevered Forth bridge while driving over the also-famous Forth Road Bridge (sorry, the weather was too mucky to take pics. Wikipedia will have to do instead.)

Caught the closing night of The Bacchae, which was one of the big draws at the Edinburgh International Festival, the largest arts festival in Europe. It featured the return to the Scottish stage of hometown boy Alan Cumming. It also featured a lot of lazy hamming and mincing around by Mr. Cumming. The play had some flaws, but still a great experience nonetheless.

And that's been Scotland, more or less. There was a lot of conversation, and pub-hopping Friday night, and more of that excellent bacon they have over here. But mostly just the deep getting-to-know a place, and people, that my traveling has become. I don't think I've seen one historial site or stepped foot into a single museum. I like doing those things, mind you, but I haven't really done any of that lately.

Time to pack up, hop back over to Dublin, and then home tomorrow. And then back to the great work ahead of me.

Yesterday was one of those days where I do nothing but sit on a train or wait for a plane to be boarded. The train part is kind of fun; you can read and listen to music and look out the window. Waiting for the plane is always a bitch, though. And I had to kill a good two hours at Dublin airport waiting for the plane to Glasgow.

Ok, so theAer Lingus thing: apparently the pilots are getting screwed over by the company; something about switching a hub to Belfast and pulling foreign pilots instead of Irish pilots. I could go into more detail, but just click here if you want to read more.

Donal figured it would blow over, but it looks like he might have misjudged that one. The strike is scheduled for next Tuesday, which was coincidentally the day I was flying home on Aer Lingus. Had to spend a bunch of time (and a bit of money, which I plan on collecting from Aer Lingus at a later date) rearranging my travel schedule, and now I'm coming home a day early.

I'm in Glasgow now, staying at Colin's flat, and we're about to leave for St. Andrews and Edinburgh, to catch a couple of NTS shows. Tomorrow it's back to Dublin, then, for a final night before heading home.

More to come--just giving everying a quick update.

Let Me Tell You About My Hotel

It's called The Glasshouse, and it's new, although it looks like what people thought the future would look like back in 1968. Lots of orange and interesting patterns on the carpet.

It sits on the west side of the River Garavogue, a shallow, fast-moving thing that dumps into Sligo Bay, on the northwest coast of Ireland.

I like it, even though I don't usually go for something so intentionally artsy. It sits as a sharp contrast to what Sligo is considered to be (i.e. forgotten and dumpy) and boldly tries to be different. So that's kind of cool.

Sligo has a sort of Continental feel to it, possibly due to the large number of Poles who work in the city. Walked through a bookstore with its own Polish section today; lots of Grabowskis coming to Ireland for work.

There's all the Yeats stuff, of course, and it's pretty decent. But Sligo seems to be on the knife's edge of something. Some of the Dubliners joked that going to Sligo was similar to heading off to some backwater town in Kentucky, but I have to say they were wrong. Sligo's something, but I don't quite know what that is yet, and I don't think the city does either. Lots of older pubs are closed, lots of shuttered doors, and yet there's a lot of guys in neon construction vests walking around the city.

Long riverwalk takes you out of the city to a wooded trail that goes and goes, with the mountains on your left and the sharp Atlantic wind catching you when the treeline opens up.

After a late breakfast I was walking near the weir when the sun disappeared and a short rain shower flew in. I ducked into the nearest doorway, and it was this little basement cafe, serving coffee and snacks, run by a French woman. I pulled out a notebook and ordered a cup of coffee, and thought about the play that I wanted to write.

And with my mind sufficiently separated from everying else in the world, and just a blank page in front of me, everything became crystal-clear, and the whole play just kind of spilled out. Spent about two hours scribbling down ideas on character and scenes and music and set pieces, until the lunch crowd came in and I figured it was time to give up my seat.

Grabbing an early train tomorrow, back to Dublin, to the airport, then to Scotland. I've been pretty wired during this trip, but after tonight I may not be able to get online as much, so if anyone really needs to get in touch with me, I have my cell phone with me. (The roaming charges are a bitch, though, so only call me if you really need to.)

Oh--that reminds me. The Aer Lingus pilots are going on strike next Tuesday, which happens to be the day I'm coming home. And the airline I was to fly home on. So I had to adjust my travel plans a bit, and I'll be home on Monday instead. 2:00 pm, in case anyone can pick me up. Duder, or Uncle Doug, I'm looking at you...

Photos, Dublin and Wicklow:

Dublin, Ireland
9:08 am

Gonna keep this short--need to get a few things done before catching the Sligo train. Wi-fi is a bit slow today, Flickr uploader's taking forever. So pics to come soon if they don't make it right now.

Lots of pints, lots of conversation, and finally the Wicklow Mountains. The Garden of Ireland or something like that. Hour south of Dublin, green and brown hills and quiet valleys and an old monestary and a fat monk shilling ice cream. Talk of mundane subjects like insurance and mortgages, the epilogue of The Deathly Hallows and late-night philosophizing by me regarding this damn country and its draw on me.

A hard goodbye and an egg sandwich before bed, and the last 20 pages of The Amber Spyglass, which pulled at my heart like no book had for a long, long time. Still no real sleep--woke at 5 am again today after a brief five-hour rest. Finished breakfast and now it's time for a brief walk before heading out to a new city.

Dublin, 11:40 am

Earl of Kildare Hotel

Just south of Trinity College

My hotel has a bar. Err, pub, I mean.

My hotel also has free wi-fi. In the bar. Pub, I mean. Free wi-fi in the pub.

My flight was on time, and only half-full. I had the seat next to me empty for the entire way. No crying babies, and no coughing fits from me. My chest infection is disappearing quickly.

Spent the hours deep in the middle of The Amber Spyglass. My dinner was actually tasty, the flight attendants were lovely (they always are on Aer Lingus), and the passengers gave light applause when we touched down in Ireland.

Grabbed the usual cheap bus into the Dublin city centre, got out at the main bus station and walked the rest of the way to the hotel, my legs eager to stretch out after doing nothing but sitting for hours, and days, really.

And now it's time for a bit of rest, and then a night out with some friends.

Life is grand.

A Few Thoughts Regarding Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Taken from a previous posting on a family blog, in response to an uncle's request for a review of the book:

To sum it up: it was simply excellent. Keeping in mind that it is a genre book, and #7 in a series, and living with the biggest buildup since anything I can remember, it blew me away. I started reading it shortly after midnight Friday, and finished it 5:30 Sunday morning. Couldn't put it down.

No point in discussing plot, or who lives and who dies, because that's not the point of the books, and I don't understand why that has become the focus of the media's attention. Let's just say that Harry dies a very existential death (and I cribbed that from Rowling, I think.) And that the last book, and really many of the books, are about understanding death. But they're really about so much more. They're about friendship, and loyalty, and a mother's love, and good teaching, and about a community that stands together in the face of unspeakable evil.

In some ways the Potter books aren't very original, as they follow very tried and true archetypes of fantasy and heroic storytelling. But let's be honest: Tolkien and Lucas were stealing from old stories as well, and that's kind of the point of this type of tale: the latest incarnation of the heroic epic, from ancient myth to Beowulf to Robin Hood to Disney and Star Wars.

I read the first book to my students when they were ten years old, which is about how old Harry is when the first book starts. At the end of the book, he's about to turn 18, which is how old those same students are now. They grew up with these books, aging with the characters, and it is their story, the defining moment of their generation (aside from 9-11 and other worldly events.)

It is the Beatles of their generation, if I can make so bold a claim. Nothing else has stretched across ages and cultures and given so many different people something to talk about and experience together. My buddy Eric came over Saturday night and we drank some beer and talked about the book and at one point just sat quietly and read a few pages by ourselves. (Oh, in fact, after I bought my copy at midnight he came over and had me read the first chapter aloud, because his wasn't arriving from Amazon until the next day.)

Going back to its originality: it's got your basic Joseph Campbell heroic archetypes, with the orphan hero and the big destiny, and allies and villains and the basic trappings of most myth and fantasy. But what makes the books revolutionary (and I choose that word purposefully), is the little things, the side things that makes the stories into something greater. Hermione's quest for House-Elf liberation; Ron's inferiority complex; Dumbledore's sly sense of humour (and his complex faults); the quiet commentary on what makes a good teacher; the warm chaos of the Weasley home; Tonk's pink hair.

All those things that make a "fairy story" feel like something those students of mine could relate to, could connect with. A universal story, and yet of its time.

There's an epilogue, where Harry is an older man; 36 years old, and he's taking his kids to Kings Cross Station in London to see them off to their next year at Hogwarts. And I don't know if people like that bit, seeing what happened to people After, but for me it was very significant, for obvious reasons. For seven books Harry suffered a great deal, after spending the first eleven years of his life in utter misery. For seven books he found a home, and a community, and a group of devoted and loyal friends that became his family. And it was such a beautiful moment to see that Harry's reward, his boon, was to have a family of his own, and to enjoy the simple pleasures of being a father, and to experience that little bereavement (again, Jo's words, not mine) of watching his children go off into the wide world on their own.

I felt a little bereavement of my own, finishing the book, knowing that there probably won't be another Big Story that I'll sink into like this one. Star Wars is done, The Lord of the Rings has been read and re-read by me, and I've finished the Potter series in my mid-thirties. I don't know if I'm really of the age to fall into another tale like this. That's why that epilogue was so significant for me: time passes, we get older, and we let the younger ones tell the stories for a while. Jo Rowling is only six-seven years older than me, and pretty soon there will be a new person, younger than me, that will tell a new story for a new generation, and that will be their story.

Uncle Dave

I honestly don't want to dwell on such things, but yet they've become so much a part of this ongoing story of mine, so I feel like they need to progress towards their natural conclusion. So here goes:

Uncle Dave passed away Saturday morning, surrounded by his immediate family. My cousin Andy called me an hour or so later and let me know. Andy's about my age, and we spent a lot of time together in our youth, despite the fact that we're not all that similar.

Well, that's not true. When I was younger, and didn't know who the hell I was, I used to dwell on the differences between my cousins and I, but as I spent time with them over the past few days, I started noticing and loving the similarities. The common history, the shared jokes, the same faces, and the similar inability to have a flat stomach.

Saturday night I went over to the house and we had a great time. Ate bad food and drank beer and Mike and I tried to one-up each other on our Johnny Carson impressions. Tried our best to make up for too many missed years.

This is all part of the Grand Tale, the part of my life that got all fucked up and led me in directions I didn't expect, and wish I could redo, but of course you can't do that. So you just put it back together as best as you can, and you move forward.

For those interested, here's Uncle Dave's obituary. When you drink Old Style beer, or eat Que Bueno nacho cheese, or ride a snowmobile in northern Wisconsin, or laugh at a really dirty joke, think of him. There are uncles in my life that have played a much larger part in my life, and they mean the world to me, but it's important to honor Uncle Dave at this time.

There is still business to be done, and some tears to be shed, and some very difficult moments still lie ahead. But I've got my sister by my side, and I think I know how the tale has to end.

Duff Beer for Me

Because I'm sure everyone else has done one...

I present myself, Simpsonized:

This Charming Man

My day started with a sigh and a groan. I had spent the previous evening drinking it up with The Fathers on a Four-Hour Pass. All my friends with kids and the rare moment away from the house, drinking Blue Moon and catching up on each other's shit.

I get to sleep in during the summer, but this morning I was awake at six am, out of bed at seven, at work at eight. Gathered together some of my new team, went in to the new school to volunteer and unload the new inventory and begin the setup of the new school. Sweated and strained and pushed wagons full of new books to the new rooms with the new carpet and the quiet possibility of the blank slate.

Got a call mid-morning, about my uncle. The uncle with the cancer, and it was the call. The Call. Called others, called my sister, left the new school.

Then I played out the moment I imagined in my head for eight years. That moment when I see my dad for the first time in eight years. Would I panic, would I cry, would I throw things at him?

While I hugged my cousins and said goodbye to Uncle Dave and laughed at the old jokes we remembered, I just ignored him. A sad little man stuck in the corner. In the end, I just ignored him. I just ignored him.

Made the best out of an impossible moment, and then made my way out to the family compound in the quiet country. Hugged my nieces to pieces (heh) and laughed at my nephew's newfound sense of humor. Hunkered down at the table and ate takeout pizza and drank red wine and commiserated with my sister and my mom. Love everywhere.

Left the house, but couldn't go home. Always drawn to those late-night moments at the local pub, and my pal Jeremy was there. Drank Bud Light and had a few smokes and tried to figure out how a redneck bar suddenly caught the Goth. Tried to convince the black-clad kids that the song they were playing on the jukebox was just a ripoff of an old Smiths song, and modern technology proved it for me.

Astral Weeks played me home. Late at night now, and it's been a long, long day. But I'm going back the the hospital tomorrow, and I'll be there as much as I can, and I'll watch all these people come through and visit and try and say goodbye to a good man, a better man than many.

Darjeeling Trailer

The Darjeeling Limited: trailer now online

Awesome. Awesome. Awesome.

When the wolves come out of the walls...it's all over.

So I was planning this (sort-of) cheap trip to Ireland, and then I was watching one of the Harry Potter movies tonight (Azkaban, the best one), and thinking about Scotland, and that gorgeous landscape, and how I'd like to go there again. But it's Britain, and the pound is really a bitch right now when it comes to the exchange rate.

I know a blogger over there, in Glasgow, works for the NTS. Extended the invite to me a few times. Just found out that The Wolves in the Walls is being performed again.

Very tempting. It's Gaiman, of course. And he's been on the mind for a while now, so it would be fitting and proper to go to Scotland right now.


I have two plans for the trip. Okay, three. And maybe more, but three is where I'm at right now.

1. Visit. See friends in Dublin. I like these people, and I like visiting them. That's the number one reason for going. They always take me to the best pubs, and the conversation is second-to-none. Only this time I'm not getting the Large pizza, Linus.

2. Write. I want to spend several hours sitting in a pub, or a coffee shop on a cool Sligo morning, or late at night in a hotel room when I can't sleep, and I want to start putting some ideas together for a new play. And I want to sit on a train and listen to music and read books and be by myself for a while.

3. Learn. Lots of excellent writers came out of Ireland, especially playwrights, especially lately. Hope to catch some shows while I'm there. Figure out how they tell their stories, take a few notes. I'm obviously attracted to Irish storytelling, so I figure I'd better start soaking some of it up while I'm there.

There is a 4th, which relates to Scotland, and that's due to the fact that my ancestry is Scottish, and I would love to spend a few days there again, get up into the Highlands, that sort of thing. I love Ireland, but the landscape of the UK always seems to pull me more than Ireland's does. Not sure why that is.

I could blame the Irish rail system, which seems ill-equipped to get people to the remoter places. I've been to Ireland 4 times in 5 years, and have barely seen proper countryside or landscape. This needs to change, and I suppose the answer involves renting a car, something I've successfully avoided since 2001.

But my point is this: I seem to go to Ireland for the people, and the conversation, and the atmosphere. But Britain for the land, for the hiking, for the outdoors. So maybe Scotland needs to fit in somewhere.

So it's 3 Am now, and I really should get to bed. I'm training my body to stay up late so I can dig in to The Deathly Hallows tomorrow night, but I'm starting to fade.

Cheers, everyone.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation (Part One)

The first week of June was spent saying goodbye to students. It was very sad, very emotional, and a lot harder than I imagined.

June 7th was the last day of school. Finished packing up one office sometime around noon.

First rehearsal was that night.

From June 7th until July 16th I didn't have a day off. I worked 12-15 hours every day, for the most part. (Sometimes I was lucky and only had to work 5-7 hours.)

Directed one play, produced another, shepherded a third (from my original from 5 years ago), and more or less watched the fourth. (Although I did get to finally be a filmmaker and direct some film sequences for Singin' in the Rain. I'll post some video later.)

Ate a lot of Caesar salads (not for the irony--there's an excellent Italian restaurant just up the road from the stage), shed some teacher weight, avoided graduate school responsibilities once again, said no to friends over and over (regrettably), and finally made vacation plans (Ireland, of course.)

And I started working on a new play. Heroes and Villains. It's about college.

This is, of course, the short version. I felt a post was needed, though, since I have been horribly neglectful towards this blog for some time now. Thank you, readers, for being patient with me as I direct my creative energies elsewhere for a while. It was very necessary that I get this blog out of my head for a while, so as to focus my attention elsewhere.

More to come soon. The hour is late, and I need some sleep.

The Tragedy of Julius Caesar

Regular writing should resume shortly. For now, a few more pictures from the performance:


Lots more pictures here.

Such a kick-ass show. Charmed from the start. Great cast, great ideas, great assistance from everyone. I shall speak more of it later. We still have two more different shows to get through before we're done.

And Ireland awaits!

JC 2007

Two more days, two more performances. We sweated it a bit the last few days, but it's turning into an outstanding show. Catch it while you can, people...

And Happy 30th Birthday to The Duder, to Eric, to a good friend. My sincere apologies for not being able to spend it with you properly. We shall raise a glass to it soon, though.