It's quiet out there today.

Too quiet...


No emails, no mountain of work pressing down upon me.

Dreary weather.

Wait. Did Clint Eastwood bring Flat Stanley to the Oscars?

I have to admit, I just can't get cynical about the Oscars. I just love movies too much for that. There was a time in the mid-90s that I didn't like the movies being honored (I'm not a Braveheart fan; Heat should have won that year), but for the most part the "best" movies get their due. To an extent.

I wouldn't have expected Before Sunset to get any recognition, but it received a Screenplay nomination, and that's saying something.

Brad Bird got an Oscar for The Incredibles. And Charlie Kaufmann got one for Eternal Sunshine.

and Cate Blanchett looked faaaaabulous.



Hilary Swank won for playing white trash yet again, but I should feel happy that a girl from a trailer park has made good. I just don't want to have to look at Chad Lowe's wistful, damp eyes for quite a while. She should be required to bring brother-in-law Rob to the next awards show. Chad's just too...milquetoasty.

I had plans to write a big long post about how much I hope The Aviator wins tonight.



But I never got around to it. And no one comments on my movie writing anyway.

Duder and the Missus and Prince Fan are on their way over. I'm sure most everyone is watching the Oscars as well. For what they're worth.

Go Marty...

I would like to introduce you to the world's worst comic strip.

Perhaps you've stumbled upon it in your local paper, nestled somewhere in between Broom Hilda and The Lockhorns.

The horrificness of it extends beyond the 3rd-grade quality artwork or the watered-down Sealab 2021/Zap Brannigan-style humor.

Click the strip and judge for yourself.

And look carefully at the winner of the "Draw the Monster" contest. It's a guy I used to work with on a small newspaper that never went anywhere.

I hope he sent that drawing in as a joke, because if a guy my age is submitting monster cartoons to third-rate comic strips, then my life is looking so much better in comparison. (All apologies to Mr. Adrian...)

Things are happening. Yes indeed they are.

The Way to the Future is beginning to be laid out before me.

Many decisions to make over the next few months.

The referendum passed, which raises taxes, but allows for my department to continue its existence. Now we are about to overhaul the program, of which I may play a central, guiding role for the foreseeable future.

Limelight approaches its Fifth Anniversary. A huge summer program dominates my thoughts, including the burning question: where will we be performing all these show?

Meteorological Winter ends this weekend. Soon warm winds will blow through the Midwest, and everything will begin again.

Money is finally being tucked away, but for what purpose?

A home needs to be bought.

Another graduate degree is to be pursued.

I need new socks.

A relationship that feels horrifically real hangs upon the edge of a knife. Some days I'm out of the game, other times I'm back in it with a stack of aces up my sleeve.

But the wanderlust stirs deep within the Tookish part of me, while maturity and the middle thirties and settling down and finally getting Serious looms ever closer.

Many, many decisions to make.

A customer drinks a beer at a pub. Regulars at a 15th century British pub said they had bought their drinking hole to save it from being converted into houses(AFP/File/Nicolas Asfouri)

That's the most beautiful story I've heard all week...

I'm in one of those moods lately where all I want to do is disappear and go back to the pubs and damp streets of Galway. Wander around the Quay and the River Corrib. Maybe rent a car and visit someplace new.

God I fucking hate this time of year. Wet and brown and miserable weather and no sun and absolutely nothing green or alive wherever you look.

Bleh. Too much work and theatre and not enough play for poor whiny Brian. I'm just a cranky little shit these days. And you, dear readers, have to put up with it because that's what this blog is here for: to get it out of the system.

There. It's out. All is right with the world again.

I still would rather be in Galway...

From Texas Biscuit by way of Bella by Barlight:


1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.

This is what I found:

"Terrified, I put my feet against the rocks to pull away. The pain was severe. Whatever had my wrist had the strength of Timothy's arms." - The Cay

It's a novel that my students are reading right now. Ok, back to work I go..

As long as I'm going against the popular opinion this week, I might as well say that I saw Million Dollar Baby this weekend.

And I didn't think it was all that great.

I know it's supposed to be Eastwood's best movie, his masterpiece, his crowning achievement, but I disagree. I still can recall sitting in the theatre, watching Unforgiven, and there was this moment (probably when English Bob is getting his ass kicked by Gene Hackman) where Bobby Bandito and I turned to each other and said, "Man, this is a good movie."

That doesn't happen very often, and it didn't happen with Baby.

It was very, very good, don't get me wrong. But as a fan of many of Eastwood's later films, I have to say I prefer Unforgiven, A Perfect World, and maybe even The Bridges of Madison County to Million Dollar Baby.

(I know I'm going to catch hell for that last one, but I'm feeling dangerous tonight. I couldn't believe it myself, but it's a really good movie.)

Baby just seemed too recycled for me. Underdog makes good + tragedy. Eastwood playing a character haunted by estranged relationship with daughter (done many times by him.) Morgan Freeman's wise narration.

A wonderful film, Clint. But Marty has you beat with The Aviator. That's got my vote as Best Picture this year. If you don't count The Incredibles.

More on The Aviator tomorrow...

Lots of talk about Hunter, obviously. Here's a good quote that balances my rant out nicely:

I think it is improper and disrespectful to whine about this suicide. Thompson was in the game for a very, very long time, and I think it is a safe bet that he was never comfortable. This was a profoundly tortured guy, the smoke from whose ears always made a whole lot of exciting colors that we all enjoyed. It was a great brain to watch but you wouldn't want to live in it, I'd aver. He was a butch motherfucker and I'd bet cash he stuck it out significantly longer than he really wanted to. Let's face it, HST was not one for the nursing home -- he'd have just stolen everyone else's barbiturates and hurt people trying to arm-wrestle.

From Salon.com.

You'll have to forgive my calling Hunter S. Thompson a pussy because he committed suicide, but it was the topper to a tough week for me. If you read back through my entries, I wasn't all that chipper of a person these past several days, due to many things, but all related.

I could get all theraputic on you and detail it, but I'm not that personal. But my reaction to Hunter's suicide was directly linked to the conversation my students had last week about their increasing frustration with the dark side of reality. And it unleased this terrifying fear in me that I may never actually be a happy person!

But that's bollocks, to use an English phrase. Happiness comes and goes in the best and worst of us.

If you could combine the Four Noble Truths, the Serenity Prayer, and the films of Wim Wenders, you could come up with my basic philosophy on life.

1. Recognize that there is suffering in the world.

2. Realize that you can't cure all of it, jackass. Do what you can in your own part of the world.

3. Recognize your own suffering.

4. Do something about it.

5. Discover what is beautiful in life, at least to you, and embrace it fully and completely.

6. To hell with everything else.

Just call me Existential Bri. I am sitting under the goddamn lotus tree right now, people!

I'm not going to write some big long thing about Hunter S. Thompson. Other people who read more of his work can do that.

I didn't read him much because he scared me. He didn't scare me like Ann Coulter scares me; he scares me in a "There-but-for-the-grace-of-God" kind of way. I always figure Hunter had figured out the dark side of America pretty well, and that's what made him kind of crazy.

And now look at him. Look what the bastard did to himself.

Did the world do this to him? Could he not take seeing Bush and the neocons for four more years, or the possibility of John Ashcroft becoming a Supreme Court justice, or more war in Iran or Syria or North Korea?

How close are the rest of us to this fate? I hate the world sometimes, but I've never wanted to take a gun to my head over it.

But why do it now, at 67? What did he know now that he didn't back then? What made him give up?

How the fuck do you do that to yourself? And how do you keep others from doing it, from giving up?

Last week I listened to 10-year olds having existential freak-outs, and I can't get it out of my head. How do I tell them that everything's going to be ok? Everything's gonna be alright? You can't tell a ten-year old that the world's a horrible place. They can't handle it.

And it wouldn't be the truth, either. I think.

But what the fuck, man. What the fuck is the matter with this world? Didn't Hunter say that after 9/11 America had a "national nervous breakdown"?

"It's fuck your buddy, cheat on your wife, call your mother-on Mother's Day."

Bombs for Democracy, pop songs for tsunamis, and a a nation more concerned about getting the bling and being a "rich girl" than helping the poor right here on our streets.

Fathers and friends walk out on your life, and the best girls are always taken.

Sorry, Hunter, but you took the pussy way out. The world is a shitty place sometimes, but that's the coward's way out. There is always something worth getting up for the next day.

If you're looking for some new Wallpaper for your computer, I suggest going here:

Sounds like my webmaster was a little bored and decided to make a retrospective.

Matt, thank you so much. You don't know how much I needed that right now.

Jesus. Look at that kid.

Sad little face. Cool '70s tee.

What the hell was I being all mopey about in Kindergarten? I should have been playing with my Star Wars toys and praying for a Big Wheel for my birthday.

Maybe I was all-too aware that my parents were headed for their first divorce. Maybe I was unhappy with the Carter administration. Maybe I had a crush on a girl in my class and I was sad she had rejected me for some fat kid who brought his own Play-Doh to school.

I haven't changed. I'm still that sad sensitive little kid that worries too much and desperately wants everyone to like him.

There's plenty of things about me that have changed, especially lately. Mostly the stuff that I purposefully changed to avoid being myself. (i.e. "I think I'll be a sarcastic asshole for the next ten years!") But it's amazing when you realize how much of Who We Are is hard-wired into us before we even turn five.

I used to get these massive stomach cramps when I was in high school and college. I would be doubled up with so much pain that I couldn't get out of bed for an entire day. I remember one time I called my grandma just to talk to her, hoping that it might take my mind off the pain.

That might have been caused by Divorce #2. Parents remarried each other, and decided to try it again. Unfortunately...

My dad was a real shit. Never was a good father his whole life. Then one day the roof caved in and he was out of the house for good.

Went through a rough period that I call The College Years, where I traded one hell for another, but eventually Dad was just Gone.

And it actually felt great to finally have him out of my life.

But it never goes away. You never forget. Things like last night's Lost and holidays and old neighborhoods bring it back when you don't want it back.

But you deal with things, you commiserate with your sister, and talk about the goddamn dreams, you talk to the right people, you sometimes take the right pills or drink the wrong stuff, and you sometimes stop and look around and see where you're at in your life. Sometimes, it's not a good place. So you figure out the good decisions from the bad ones, and move forward.

I don't blame everything bad in my life on my failed father figure, but he did mess me up pretty good. The level of anger and sadness that has resided in me because of him is legendary. There are those out there that have understood, and I thank them for being there, all those years, good and bad.

And a hearty Piss Off to those who never did get it.

Did anyone notice how often I used the word "man" in yesterday's post?

I need a stronger vocabulary...

In the wire reports today...

In his first public appearance as U.S. spymaster, CIA (news - web sites) Director Porter Goss told the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence there was an emerging terrorist threat from experienced fighters now battling U.S.-led forces in Iraq later joining international militants.


"Those jihadists who survive will leave Iraq experienced in and focused on acts of urban terrorism. They represent a potential pool of contacts to build transnational terrorist cells, groups and networks," Goss said. (Full story here.)

So that's what the Iraq war was. A Masters Degree in Terrororism against America.

Oh what a world, what a world...

Man, today is just a heavy day. Hard to get out of bed, hard to face the cold, dreary sky, hard to go to meetings with head bowed low, weighted by furious thoughts racing round my brain.

Some 5th graders today, in class, launched into a side discussion about the world, and its cruelties, and how helpless and frustrated they feel about the unfairness of it all. Even though I can be a bit cynical and jaded at times, I'm actually quite positive when it comes to teaching and the things I say to my students. But these guys were pretty deep today, trying to understand why bad things happen to good people, frustrated that they know about all this suffering in the world, and that they can't do anything about it.

Man, these kids are too young to be having an existential crisis. But that's what comes with the territory of being "gifted" I guess; sometimes you're able to figure things out a bit faster than everyone else.

Hard for me to know what to say back to them, either. I can't smile and say, "Oh, don't be so silly! The world is a perfect, wonderful place kiddies!" They're too smart for that. But you have to be so precise with what you say to students. My response is some watered-down version of the Four Noble Truths (but you know, without it being all "religiousy",) and I tell them we can pick up the discussion over lunch. I think some of them just need to talk it out, and they don't get that opportunity to do that in their regular classroom as much.

Man. Too heavy of a conversation to have on an already heavy day.

Mr. and Mrs. Duder came over and we ate and drank and lounged around. I made a chicken and The Duder and I smoked our pipes while we watched the Grammys.

It's almost like they're forcing us to like popular, corporate music. Here's Tim McGraw and Usher and Bono and Alicia Keyes and Gwen and every other crap band like Hoobastank and Maroon 5!!!! Love them! You'll never hear from Los Lonely Boys after tonight but they're the greatest band ever! Buy! Buy! Buy! Forget about all those other small bands out there that make so much better music than the shit we're peddling tonight! The future is John Mayer, not Badly Drawn Boy!

Okay, thank you for letting me rant. I've been keeping that inside for quite a while now.

At least Loretta Lynn won for the great Van Lear Rose. Some justice in the world. And U2 wisely didn't sing "Vertigo." And Kanye West was pretty fucking cool, I gotta say, even though I've never heard a single thing he's done.

Should I be happy that Wilco won for best Alternative Album? Yes and no. A Ghost is Born isn't their best album by a long shot. They should have racked 'em up years ago with Being There and Summerteeth. But don't get me started. (But did they show this award? Did I miss my chance to see Jeff and Co. onstage? Must have been one of the many that were given "earlier," in order to let fucking Black Eyed Peas play yet again.)

When it comes to the Grammys, all you need to know is this: Elvis Costello lost the Best New Artist Award to the Starland Vocal Band.

'Nuff Said.

One of the more cliche parts of blogging is that when someone famous dies, many of us feel compelled to write up our own obituaries and remembrances. I'm certainly guilty of it from time to time, but I try to only do it with people who really meant something to me.

The playwright Arthur Miller died, and while I certainly can't claim him to be one of my favorites (I've really only seen or read one or two plays by him), I did have the good fortune to be able to direct one of his plays a few years ago for my fledgling theatre group.

In the summer of 2002 I chose to do The Crucible for two reasons. One, because I wanted to push Limelight forward into more mature storylines, lest we get pidgeonholed as "kiddie" theatre. I wanted to prove we could tell the Big Stories, along with the family fare of Stuart Little and The Hobbit.

I also chose to do The Crucible because of the direction I saw America turning in the months after September 11th. Fear and suspicion laced our shattered emotions, as potential and real terrorists were rooted out of caves and airliners alike. America dug in and got ready for war. And a play, originally an allegory about the Communist witch-hunts of the 1950s, spoke to a different witch-hunt, and it's meaning could be found in a single line of Judge Danforth's:

"You are either with this court or you are against it."

I certainly wasn't going to shake the White House back into reality, or cause a stampede of protest against various human-rights violations being occurred in the name of "justice." But in my own small little corner of the globe, I had to say something, had to give people something to think about.

Such a dark play for such young actors, many of them barely into their teens. Yet many of them remember this as their favorite play, the first time they were able to dig into something real and solid. (I still find it funny that in a play about adultery and government-sponsored execution, no one said a word about it being too much for the actors. But the next year, if you let a 14-year old kid say the word "fag" in a play about catty junior high kids, people freaked out!)

Limelight came into its own that summer, and we proved exactly what we had set out to do: we weren't just for kids. The following plays would see older and more experienced actors joining the ranks, and we topped ourselves the following summer with A Midsummer Night's Dream. But that's another tale for another time.

You'll have to forgive me if I tell a theatre tale or two over the next few months. The Limelight Theatre Company is celebrating its Five-Year Anniversary this summer, and so I want to take a moment or two to look back and put some of the shows into proper perspective.

And I'm telling you now...wait until you see what we have going on this summer. Sure, it's not Broadway, or Steppenwolf, but it means a great deal to many high schoolers and collegiates, and parents, and that is all that really matters.

K talked me into watching Chocolat this week. She thought I might like it. And I did, actually. Very chick-flick-ish, but a good story nonetheless. Free spirit blows into conservative town and wakes up everyone's life a bit with her chocolately confections.

Got me thinking about Lent, though. You see, in the movie, everyone in town is basically forced into attending Mass every Sunday, and living this dour, excitement-free life, especially during Lent. Binoche's character doesn't attend Mass and doesn't give up anything for Lent, because she simply does not subscribe to that philosophy.

And you know what? Neither do I. I don't attend church any more, not out of laziness, but because it's just not for me. I have other things in my life that bring me spiritual joy, and I "sacrifice" other aspects of my life and "give up" certain things from time to time, and this causes self-reflection and pontificating on the Big Issues, just like Lent does. (And believe me, if I do much more analysis of my life right now I'm liable to turn myself completely inside-out.)

There's no reason for me to just decide to give up something for Lent. And it would be a disrespect to the faith of many for me to hand-pick parts of a religion just for the hell of it. For me, you're either In or Out when it comes to Christianity. No half-assing it.

So I'm not giving anything up for Lent, because it's not necessary. I've already sworn off of plenty of delicious vices in my life. The daily pleasures of hot coffee in the morning and a couple of glasses of red wine with dinner are nothing to give up for six weeks. They are to be embraced and savoured. They are part of who I am. You might as well ask me to give up showering for six weeks, or worse, stop reading the Tribune every day.

Fat Tuesday is over and the season of Lent begins.

I think I know what all of that means. I was a good Lutheran church goer for many years. But giving up something for Lent was never something that was all-important in my house, most likely because we weren't Catholic. But I also don't think my dad was ever very good at "giving up" things, and so I figure that must have been the general tone of the house.

I don't think I've ever given anything up for Lent, now that I think about it. I've quit things over the years (I've been trying for a long time now to not be such a jackass), but never really set anything aside as some sort of offering, or sacrifice, to God. "Here, Lord, is two months' worth of frozen pizza that I have boldly chosen not to eat, but instead offer up to you as some sort of penance/reflection tool/something or other about sacrifice and fasting."

I'm not mocking Lent, so don't start firing off the angry comments. I'm just trying to wrap my head around the reason for it. I know most religions involve fasting in their practices, and I can understand why it gives people a reason to reflect on their lives and God and whatnot. It's just something that I've never done before, and hence, have never really understood.

So maybe I need to give up something for Lent. Since we're already halfway into the day, there are certain things that are already out: eggs, coffee, and there's no way I'm throwing out the leftover pizza in my lunch bag that's calling my name as I speak.

Cigarettes? Already quit those a long time ago. Alcohol? As part of the "Don't be such a fucknut, Brian plan," I don't drink much of it anymore, but I admit I do enjoy the relaxing glass of wine I have after a long day of teaching and play rehearsal. It's like my little treat.

I have wanted to try weaning myself off caffeine, so maybe I could grandfather coffee out of this little experiment. Would it be okay if I gave up coffee and stuck to tea?

I don't know... coffee. That's a tough one. Maybe even tougher than booze.

How about Whining and Pining for impossible love? Can you give something like that up for Lent? No, I'd be out by dinnertime.

Chips? I do love salty snacks. But they would be easy enough to give up, and wouldn't turn me into a raving caffeine-starved lunatic. But I've mostly given those up anyway, for dieting purposes.

I'm going to think about this a bit. Feel free to comment and let me know if any of you gave up anything. (And you can avoid the obvious jokes about porn and self-pleasure; let's be grown-up here!) Maybe I'll try giving up something for a day or two, and see if that works.

Coffee. Chips. Pizza. Allkeehall. It should be something important, that by giving it up, gives me greater insight into my life. Or God, or however it works.

(Reading this over for grammatical errors, I notice I sound a bit shallow regarding fasting and God and self-examination. Trust me, I'm not. I take all such things quite seriously. I just didn't feel like writing an Important Entry about the Need to Improve Myself. Better to just take it light-heartedly.)

Happy Chinese New Year, by the way. It's the Year of the Cock! Which must mean wonderful things are in store for yours truly.

It's late on a Saturday night and I'm about to go to bed. I'm trying to post comments on Blogger but I'm having no luck. So here's what I would have said:

Bella: Great post on Friday. "Everyone's shit is brown." If only more people were like your Sylvia.

Kristine, from Maimed by Rock and Roll: You love Wilco and Neil Gaiman? if you weren't living in the Phillipines I'd marry you.

And while I'm at it, I'll just send out messages to other bloggers that have wised up and committed to HalsoScan (sorry, Pops--you know it's inevitable!)

Tony: We disagree on the whole Sosa thing, but sorry to see you've been inflicted with an anonymous blog-stalker as well. At least I know I'm not alone.

Sylkk: So glad to see you'e putting up pictures of yourself--you are a beautiful person, even in pink!