An Unfinished Conversation

I remember.

2012-02-12T04:12:00.000-06:00

Dear Mom:

I STILL can't get the chocolate chip cookies right. But I'll keep trying.

And I'll see you when I get there.

Love,
Your middle son; the mercurial one.

It begins again, y'all.

2012-02-09T12:24:00.000-06:00

A friendly FedEx guy appeared on my front porch this morning, with an envelope in his hand and a need for my signature on his electronic pad.

Within the large envelope were three small pieces of printed cardboard.

March 8.
Tampa Bay Rays vs. Detroit Tigers.

Spring baseball, Baby!

Laughing out loud.

2012-02-08T08:50:00.000-06:00

I have been watching the DVD collection of NEWSRADIO lately.

For those of you who don't know it, it was a sitcom set in a NYC radio station; it starred Stephen Root, Andy Dick, Maura Tierney, Dave Foley and Phil Hartman. It bounced around the schedule from 1995 until 1999, and it was, in my opinion, one of the best written ensemble pieces I've ever watched; up there with CHEERS and FRASIER and THE MARY TYLER MOORE SHOW.

It got me thinking about Phil Hartman; and I wonder why nobody has written a biography about him.

We've gotten various biographies over the years of the lives of some of the SNL alumni whose lives ended far too soon: Belushi, Radner, Farley......and yet, not a word written about Hartman.

He was called, "the glue" in his tenure at NBC; he was the one that held the show together. By all accounts, there wasn't a person who didn't like him, or didn't enjoy working with him, or who didn't cry when they heard of his murder.

I was saddened by the loss of such a talent; more sorry for the way in which the end came. Certainly, there is a special sense of tragedy, being murdered by a loved one...even a loved one who was fighting demons of her own.

Perhaps nobody writes about him because the only truly salacious thing that ever happened to him were in the last moments of his life. And he was asleep at the time.

No booze; no drugs; no spousal abuse. Just oodles and oodles of talent; a vast collection of television character studies; and accolades from everybody he ever worked with.

My favorite was always Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer.

But I really liked NEWSRADIO.

Thanks, Phil.

I believe.....

2012-02-02T13:26:00.000-06:00

I believe that there is nothing that cannot be overcome by positive thinking and a croquet mallet.

I believe that the words, "chocolate flavored" should be replaced by "no fucking chocolate."

I believe that the Republican Party can make this country what it once was: A frozen wasteland covered with ice.

I believe that there are good movies released BEFORE the first of August. Academy opinion notwithstanding.

I believe that you can love some people forever, and not like them all of the time.

I believe that STUDIO SIXTY ON THE SUNSET STRIP got hosed.

I believe that THE PLAYBOY CLUB did not.

I believe that if ten thousand people a stupid thing, it is STILL a stupid thing.

I believe that TWILIGHT is a stupid thing.

I believe, against all logic, that the addition of air into chocolate makes it tastier.

I believe that Cadbury FLAKE is the best chocolate bar I've ever tasted.

I believe I'm finished.

Legoman Lives.

2012-01-31T05:14:00.000-06:00

Every March, my Father invites me down to the Gulf Coast, to spend a week basking in the Florida sun. We fill the days with Grapefruit League baseball (although it's usually the first week of the spring training season, so the baseball is good but not great), and the nights with food and drink that I will eventually pay for in spades. It more than offsets the embarrassing stories my Father will eventually tell. In my defense, he often exaggerates them to make me look especially silly, and to tell the truth, the truly embarrassing stories are deserved. I was an idiot in my youth, and have not much improved in the ensuing thirty-plus years.

I like the mornings on Siesta Key the best. The beach is white sand that never gets too hot, and in the cool of the Spring morning, the breeze has a scent, and the people are few.

However....

Back in October, this fellow washed up on the white sand beach of Siesta Key....

I don't think that it was ever truly decided where he came from or what he was trying to actually say...there have been many theories, but none more accepted than others. I do know one thing for certain, though...

Had I met him on my morning walk, he would never have made the newspaper. I would have packed his ass up and shipped him back to the Northern State.

He would make a lovely addition to my collection of oddities.

In lieu of forward, backward.

2012-01-26T12:43:00.000-06:00

The first day of what is my 'weekend' is basically a wind-down. My days are usually high energy things, multi-tasking, answering questions quickly and getting information from faraway places on sometimes stubborn computer networks.

Decompression is mandatory; and you have to do it slowly, or you get the bends. And that's not pleasant. Unless you're Gumby.

Sometimes, friends and neighbors, I wish I could drink. I always seemed to decompress easier and faster with a bourbon and branch in my hand. And a cheeseburger.

But, instead, I find that simple chores tend to allow for the kind of decompression I desire. Laundry, dishes, getting a haircut.....just walking around in a Best Buy, creatively avoiding the Blue Shirts that want to know if they can help me when all I want to is to look a the electronics and DVDs.

Found the John Adams series on DVD for twenty bucks. Score.

Today, I went wading back through this very long conversation, looking back at what I was writing about at this time.

A year ago, I was writing about my experiences in preparing for a production at the local community theatre. One of the great things about my life thus far is that I have never stopped learning new things. And acknowledging that I don't know everything.

Two years ago, I was writing about an old tavern I used to inhabit; warm, happy conversations, and bread sticks. And a dash of cocoa and schnapps.

Three years ago, I was writing about The Inauguration; standing on the threshold of Hope.

Four years ago, I was writing about a Christian bumper sticker on a very un-Christian car.

Five years ago, I was doing very little writing.

Now, I have clean laundry, a cleared kitchen, and a nice haircut.

And I still have hope.

And a love of bread sticks.

And another thing.....

2012-01-24T10:09:00.000-06:00

I'm sure I'm not the first to look at this, but.....

Of the nine films nominated by the Academy, EIGHT of them were released after the 1st of August, 2011.

ONE of them, technically, was released last week.

Are all the best movies released at the end of the year?

Or is the combined memory of the Academy realllllly short?

One ring to rule them all.....

2012-01-23T10:41:00.000-06:00

I recently saw a theatrical production that got me thinking, and not in a good way.

(Before I continue, I should state for the record, and for anybody local to the Capital City of the Northern State that I am not referring to any local production.)

I traveled many miles, and paid hard-earned money. I wish I could describe it to you in terms objective, but I cannot; it made me angry. It made me very angry.

I enjoy watching live theatre for the same reason I like DOING live theatre; there's that sense of immediacy; there is the idea that no audience is going to react the same way, so you have to work to get where you need to go. You have to listen and respond to the audience the same way they are listening and responding to you.

You have to be sincere. You have to be truthful; or, you have to be truthful to whatever truth the play is projecting. You need to suspend your disbelief so the audience can feel comfortable doing the same.

I also like the idea of working with a group of people for a common goal. Listening and responding to the people around you. Being in that moment. Working together to turn this mass of words placed onto a page by a lonely writer into living, breathing, real people.....even the people that lived long ago, or far into the future.

Honesty.

What I saw was a group of actors who didn't seem to care about working together; although they DID seem to care about getting their laughs; even if they had to go over the top for it. And that laughter was more in abject embarrassment for the performer than it was actual good humor. It felt like ninety minutes of a kind of strange roller derby of performers attempting to elbow each other out of the spotlight to take their moments. And any relating they were doing to each other was based upon some invisible, earlier performance; certainly not the performance I was watching.

This is a special art form, born of the caveman acting out the hunt around the campfire; tempered by the Greek and Roman, fine tuned though several millennium of additions, subtractions, theories, methods and whatnot.

It's more than a pretty face.

Through all of that performance that will long linger in my memory, I was visited by the voice of one of my first instructors who boiled it down to the only bumper sticker philosophy I could ever truly get behind:

"Love the Art in Yourself; and Not Yourself in the Art."

I shall go now, and do likewise.

Go thou, and do the same.

Thus endeth the messin'.

"O kind missionary, O compassionate missionary, leave China! Come home and convert these Christians!"*

2012-01-12T15:14:00.002-06:00

Professor Jamie Raskin said it best: "When you took your office, you put your hand on the Bible and swore to uphold the Constitution; you did NOT put your hand on the Constitution and swear to uphold the Bible."

And George Washington said: "The Government of the United States is not in any sense founded on the Christian religion."

And of course, Article VI of The Constitution states that “no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust in the United States.” And everybody remembers the First Amendment: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof …"

All of this stuff comes up as I read a headline about the Republican front-runner THIS WEEK is trying desperately to convince people he's a "Pro Life" candidate.

As if, "Pro Choice" means, "Anti-Life."

In Luke, Chapter 18, it is written that Jesus spoke this parable to certain people who were convinced of their own righteousness, and who despised all others.

"Two men went up into the temple to pray; one was a Pharisee, and the other was a tax collector. The Pharisee stood and prayed to himself like this: ‘God, I thank you, that I am not like the rest of men, extortioners, unrighteous, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week. I give tithes of all that I get.’

But the tax collector, standing far away, wouldn’t even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying,: ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other; for everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but he who humbles himself will be exalted.

May God Bless you, Tim Tebow. But I hope that the Patriots drive you into the ground like a Lawn Dart.

I have money on New England, and need to render unto Ceasar....

Forgive this poor free-thinking sinner, using the brain God gave him. I'll be back soon with more TALES OF INTEREST!** *A quote from Mark Twain, in an essay titled, "The United States of Lyncherdom

**If you use an echo effect on this, it sounds really....well...less lame.

In other dreams, I'm a VIKING.

2012-01-05T12:00:00.000-06:00

It was an odd dream, really.

A combination of multiple places from my present and past, and friends and influences both here and gone.

The gist of it was that I was attending a concert, and was stunned to learn that it was a Harry Chapin concert. And Harry left us in July of 1981.

Apparently (you know how dreams are, sometimes....you suspend disbelief and learn as you go) Harry didn't die on the Long Island Expressway, but had been hiding out for thirty years, biding his time until his comeback.

He hadn't aged a day since I first saw him in person in the Fall of 1980.

He did a concert in the lounge called The Cat's Pause in the basement of the Student Union of Culver-Stockton College. He played all my favorite songs, just him and his Six String Orchestra. It was good to hear that voice again.

Afterwards, he was the host of a sort of get-together....he was simultaneously giving away gifts to the underprivileged, and accepting donations to World Hunger Year.

And in my dream, he said this to me....."In order to do good things in this world, it's important to be alive."

The last I saw of him before I woke up, he was passing out gifts and working the crowd that had gathered.

I woke up with music in my head, and a strange longing in my soul.

I played a few albums in the early morning hours of work, singing along to the Ipod, and Harry, laughing and crying as I remembered the first time I heard each song.

And yes, I wrote a check. You can too, if you want.

Thanks, Harry.

Random information contrived to astound.....or......at least waste your time.

2012-01-03T04:42:00.000-06:00

If you watched every episode of Law and Order back to back, you would be sitting in front of your television for 19 straight days.

If you watched every episode of The Playboy Club back to back, you'd be sitting in front of your television for either six hours, or until you required hospitalization to repair the eyes you attempted to rip out of your head.

If you watched every episode of Emily's Reasons Why Not, you would have wasted thirty minutes of your life.

If you bet $100 on Mine That Bird in the Kentucky Derby in 2009, you would have won $10,300.

If you bet $100 on Secretariat in the Belmont in 1973, you would have won $120 dollars.

Mine That Bird was 50-1. Secretariat was 1-5.

One of my favorites: If I had bet $1000 in July of 2007 that the Detroit Tigers would lose the Division Title on the day after the season ended, I would have $100,000. But I would STILL be pissed about it.

And the odds of me hitting my head repeatedly against something solid and wooden is 1:1.

Yup.

Must be Tuesday.

I Resolve to Hope. Or Something Similar.

2012-01-02T10:05:00.000-06:00

Okay, aside from the Ken Burns documentary on BASEBALL that I got for Christmas (and by the way, I do look most handsome in my Toledo Mud Hens jersey, thankyouverymuch), and my recent purchases of the first three seasons of THE MUPPET SHOW, I really should come up with some kind of game plan for the year.

I have a lot of friends that do this; and I admire them for it. And, this year I go past a decade milestone (and you either know it or you don't...I won't mention it again until it passes....and I'll pass it cursing) I need to think about what I want out of this coming year.

Besides, the Incas or the Mayans or the weirdo in California that continues to throw darts at the calendar in order to Rapturate us have decided that this is it....2012 is the end of days. So, gotta make 'em count.

I would like to travel to several theatres of my past. I'm looking at a ten day trip that will take me to Clinton, IA, Evansville IN, Lexington, KY and Chillicothe, OH.
If I can't do that, I would like to go to Stratford, Ontario for a few days of Shakespeare.
I would like to do a play or two this year; there is one at the community theatre that sounds intriguing, but I would like to finish one of my own.
There is a new restaurant in OK that has promised me a sandwich. It's enough to fly a reunion of old friends, and finally meet some people I've been conversing with for many years.
Two words: Spring Training. I would like to see the Tigers play in Florida this year. I will settle for the Orioles.
Vegas at Thanksgiving.
Christmas with the family in Michigan. I have a hankering for my Sister's shortbread.

Aside from the selfish desires, I would also like health and happiness for those I hold dear in my heart and memory; and also for those that seem to limp around me.

That's an inside joke.

So. Here it is, the SECOND of January.

Off I go.

There was more said in the silence than in any dialogue.

2012-01-01T05:57:00.000-06:00

Within the Ipod of my mind, there plays a song by Jim Croce.

"Don't you know I had a dream last night;
You were here with me......"

And, if you've been a regular reader, you know that some of my best stories come with holidays and other milestones.

There was this girl.

Well, that's an understatement. She was a force of nature. She probably still is.

Somewhere down her particular road, she had stumbled on the secret to life that worked for her, and I believe it kept her warm and happy and filled with the idea that there was always, ALWAYS, adventure in the world. And you were always invited to the banquet.

All you had to do is step up.

And you know something? That was a very attractive thing for a boy who never really took a chance.

But there was an intensity of the flame that she followed and basked in that I couldn't match; and even though I wanted to, REALLY wanted to.......I was afraid that the flame that sustained and supported and fueled her life would simply burn me to ashes.

But I'm an addict. You know that. And an addict can learn not to indulge, ignore the siren call of the all the things enjoyed but destructive to himself.....but the siren song is strong. And lovely. And desired.

I really wanted to trail along. I wanted to be there with her. So very much.

But it became clear to me that while she LIKED me, she LOVED the adventure, and eventually I would become passe', and I would be alone, as she walked into the sun. The secret to life that she had discovered was hers alone, and even if I could share it, it would only be temporary; she seemed to make it clear that what we had was a sprint, and not a marathon.

So, it was not a question of missing her; it was a question as to WHEN to begin missing her.

I simply stopped seeing her. Stopped calling. Stopped leaving little notes where she could find them. Stopped going to the places she would go.

And I escaped the fire.

But I was colder for it.

Of course, time has passed. The sun has waxed and waned and the leaves have changed and fallen and the snow flies and melts and the rivers rise and fall and life moves forward as memory moves backward.

And the little red haired girl is missed.

Untitled New Year's Eve Reflection.....

2011-12-29T11:42:00.000-06:00

I get to work on New Year's Eve (well, technically, it'll be New Year's Day when I start, but I'll be sleeping though much of the pre-fab hub-bub that the television will serve up), and as such, my mind serves as host to The Ghost of Parties Past.

First of all, and I believe I've said this before, New Year's Eve is what my brethren refer to as "Amateur Night." It's a night for people to go out and try to throw as much living into the few hours left in the previous year, so that they can spend the first few hours of the next year throwing up.

I've never bought into the idea that a tuxedo was necessary for a New Year's Eve Soiree, although I have been to several of those kinds of parties. And still, a few people maintained the idea that they needed to get obnoxiously drunk and hit generally make an ass of themselves.

At this point, I'm reminded of a Dorothy Parker quote: "You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."

I've spent New Year's Eves in Tuxedos, in Grand Ballrooms with live orchestras; and I've spent them with a trash can filled with a toxic type of fruit punch dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. I've danced waltzes just after the countdown with a woman in a lovely red dress; and I've spent it sitting on a couch watching THE ADVENTURES OF BARON MUNCHHAUSEN after the traditional midnight make-out session with a girl in black jeans and a white t-shirt.

I've spent them drunk; and I've spent them sober. And yes, on one New Year's Day I woke up with the feeling that I just couldn't do it anymore.

This year, I'll sleep through it, and work through it, and eat leftovers and drink a toast from the top of the building, and I'll thank the Universal Truth for the good of the past year, and request even more good for the next.

And you all will be in my thoughts and attached to the blessing for which I ask.

And hopefully, somewhere out there, there might be a few people who think kindly of me, as well.

Random things....

2011-12-26T05:40:00.000-06:00

The Detroit Lions made the playoffs for the first time in 12 years. That, along with earthquakes in Oklahoma and a Hurricane on the East Coast, means that we are not IN an apocalypse, but you can see one from here.....

Christmas was a delight. The food was delicious, the conversation sparkling, and I received this really cool walking stick with a Raven head. I also was given a Toledo Mud Hens jersey. It was way cool in the prezzie department.

We sent various lovely things to the folks back home, but my particular contribution were some things I picked up when I was over the sea in that far off and well-remembered country; so, each of my family members received the official flag of Cornwall.

My Father was appreciative, but was worried that it would misinterpreted if flown. I say, fly it proudly, for we are Sons of Cornwall.

Speaking of flags....has anybody else noticed that when you watch A CHRISTMAS STORY on TBS over and over, you notice little things....for example, the American flag up the flagpole at the school has fifty stars....and this takes place in 1940....oh, and the plastic caps on the wagons should be metal. Oh, and one of the kids is wearing a Davy Crockett hat that didn't come out until like a decade later.....

And then I went to sleep.

And I wish I was still there.

And how was YOUR day?

And on Earth, Peace.

2011-12-25T05:46:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, it's the destination, and NOT the journey.

2011-12-22T13:01:00.000-06:00

The re-build continues at a less-than-breakneck speed. The walls were painted yesterday, and in that regard, we can call it an epic fail. Upstairs in the hallway, the color was correct, but the underlying texture was wrong. They are correcting that today. Around the corner in the living room, where I had hoped they wouldn't foray, the color is wrong; it seems the original owner did a strange, three color texture painting which is virtually impossible to copy. So, that's so wrong, it would have to come up in my estimation just to be simply wrong. Hopefully, they are fixing that on Monday, and in the meantime, I'll hide the offending repair with furniture.

Downstairs....the main room color is wrong. And for some reason, they painted the hall with the same color. They will fix that on Monday. The office is fine, actually...they managed to match the ceiling texture very well.

There is a carpet guy supposed to come today. I will not turn blue with the waiting.

I suppose this doesn't bother me all that much; aside from the deductible, my insurance is covering all of this, and any mistake made doesn't cost me a dime. But the thing is, I'm expecting about sixteen to eighteen people on Christmas Day (have I told the story of the incredible expanding Christmas Dinner? If I haven't, I will at a later date), and I would prefer not to have the house looking a trifle beaten up.

The presents are wrapped. And tonight, after the necessary delay, the tree will go up. We thought about foregoing, but we did that one year early in our marriage, and it was miserable. Christmas needs a tree. So, it will go up next to the fireplace on the lower level. And the presents will be placed underneath. And all will be well.

I'm looking forward to coming home from work at noon on Christmas Day, cooking some food, eating some food, and going back to bed to be ready for the next shift.

I'll tell you later about how close I came to quitting my job on another day.

Another Tribute

2011-12-20T08:11:00.000-06:00

As I think I've said before, during the course of my week, I peruse several newspapers. One of them is the San Luis Obispo Tribune.

I still have friends out there on the Central Coast, and I follow as best I can the comings and goings. It takes me back.

When I had just started my tenure out there in Arroyo Grande, I had a series of financial setbacks that caused me to re-arrange my life a little; tighten the belt, and give up some of the those creature comforts that I had come to rely upon in favor of other, cost efficient comforts.

One of them was my car.

Yeah, to tell the whole truth, it wasn't my idea to give it up. A couple of strapping fellow came in the dark of the night while I was working and towed it right out of the parking lot. And I had not the ransom to free it from its prison, so I bid it goodbye.

Now, as some of you know, I'm a walker. I am not adverse to walking long distances, and often, in my tenure at the Melodrama Theatre in California, I would walk the three or four miles from our home to the theatre...but the loss of my car pre-dates my dating, engagement and marriage.

And I lived further out of town.
About six more miles out of town.
So, I procured a bike.

It was an old ten speed bicycle, with no bells or whistles...and although I didn't know it at the time, it was in need of some maintenance. A LOT of maintenance. The gears needed to be looked at, the brakes, and the tires. The only thing really working on the thing was the seat.

And that's when I met Ira Hughes. He owned the bike shop in Arroyo Grande. It was a little cabin-like thing, stuffed full of new bikes in the front, and repairs in the back. He was a nice fellow with an easy going manner and a disarming smile. He didn't seem the least put off by my long hair and beard; I think it actually encouraged the warm manner and disarming smile.

I told him what I needed. I told him I needed a new bike, but I had to make due with the POS I currently had. He looked at it, told me what I needed and told me to come back two days following. He asked for my name (but only the first name, strangely), and didn't ask for money, and then, to my surprise, asked me if I needed a loaner.

I looked over at the Penny-Farthing he had sitting out front, and inquired about it. He told me he only rode that in parades. And he DID. With the Straw Boater on his head and a garters on his arms...

Two days later, I showed up; he had cleaned it up, adjusted the brakes, replaced both tires and fixed the gear shifter. And he charged me fifteen dollars.

It was like he took the thorn out of my paw; we were friends for life.

I eventually got back on financial track (although it was five years before I actually owned a car again), but I saw him frequently about town...he'd occasionally come into the ice cream shop (which was right across the street, more or less), and of course, I'd see him at parades. When I moved away from the coast to join the land of the Northern State, I gave the bicycle to one of the actors that replaced me at the Melodrama Theatre, and I hope it served him well...and if he needed anything, to go see Ira.

Well, I was reading the Tribune this morning, and Ira got sick about seven months ago; what seemed like the flu was something far worse, and that good guy faded away with family and friends all around at his home last week.

Yes, you could say that I barely knew him; but a good man deserves to be eulogized. So, thanks for the helping hand when I needed it, Ira.

I payed it forward.

The smile defies description......

2011-12-18T08:23:00.000-06:00

At this time of year, with the snow, falling at infrequent intervals casting a lovely icing upon the Capital City of the Northern State, and the well-placed lights of red and blue are placed upon green trees and wreaths making the evening constitutional a triptych of neighbors' personal stories....and the fragrance of pine and sugar cookies blending into a single aroma that defines the holiday season, my thoughts turn to the idea that Colonel Mustard did with the Wrench in the Library.

Yup. CLUE.

Not the movie, mind you, although I find the movie a laugh riot; I prefer the THIRD ending, by the way. But my thoughts always turn to CLUE at this time of the year.

Because it was the only game my Brothers and I could agree on. And it was a game that everybody would get involved in. And it was a game even we could win.

Yeah, we played MONOPOLY from time to time, but truly, those games could go for hours, and in some cases, days. It was always fun to start, but invariably it would lead to acrimony, and on one occasion, near fisticuffs. But CLUE.....it was a game that went as long as it needed to, and there was a decided winner, and almost nobody (except Mr. Boddy) died.

The image that stays forever in my head is sitting on the floor in the living room, the Christmas tree lit behind us, rolling the dice and showing the cards, trying to beat my two brothers to the solution. The snow was falling; school was out until after the first of the year; and my Uncle from New York was soon to join us, and he always brought a little fun to the holidays.

The family tradition was always that somebody would bring a game, and that would be the thing we did after breakfast and before dinner. Through the years, there were a ton of them; some of them good (who can forget Trivial Pursuit? It's a cliche now, but in its infancy it was the game for 'smart people") and some were bad (there was this one game where you had to finish a lyric of a song from a random decade, and I always wound up doing Buddy Holly or Little Richard), but through it all, CLUE always seemed to make an appearance.

Yup. The cherished books of my younger days have been translated to a small, portable pad; the music has gone from LPs to CDs to ITunes; and the candles are now electric and the tree lights are LED.

But I would give a ton of whatever is valuable these days to travel over the lake, light a candle or two, pour a glass of whatever is desired, and set up the board with my Brothers again.

Sigh.

Maybe next year.

The time my head should have exploded, but didn't.

2011-12-13T09:04:00.000-06:00

I was recently asked if I would have any interest in doing MAN OF LA MANCHA.

Guess what my answer was?

It started with a Hell and ended with a Yes. And a little tiny exclamation point at the end.

Now, nothing will ever come of this. But it was nice to be asked, truly nice to be remembered after all of these years out of the profession, and it would have been nice to clear a blot that's been like a finger in my eye since I first did a production of that play back in 199-something.

I have long since forgotten the director's name. Short of killing him (and it was a very near thing), that's the best and only thing I could do; ERASE that sad sack of s**t from my memory. But the scars remain.

Among his sins:

Directing the show from the book of a previous production, i.e, directing actors he wished he had rather than the actors he had. Directing like a Mother-In-Law drives from the back seat.....allowing for absolutely no creative input.

At one point, I moved a little farther right than he had directed. A step or two. Still in the light, but allowing for some space between myself and the primary action. He stopped the rehearsal and literally spoke to me as if I were a child. And you all KNOW how I respond to such things.

Badly.

I did it again a few days later, by instinct rather than malice. Again, he stopped and this time he screamed at me. And you all KNOW how I respond to that.

VERY badly.

This was a two week rehearsal period, and quite possibly the worst I've ever been through. If it was possible for a director to completely separate the cast from the production, he did it. And it seemed as if he was doing it intentionally.

On the day we were to open, he called a full dress rehearsal for the afternoon. This is the kind of guy who would probably jack off before heading out to the orgy. Forgive the visual.

The stage manager talked him out of it, and he said, "okay, I'll just give some notes." And he did.

He gave notes from 9:00 AM until Noon. And then we broke for lunch. And then we came back and he continued until 4:00 PM. Six hours of notes for a two hour show. He literally had everybody believing that we would have to bring our A game to merely SUCK.

I, of course, was furious. And, at 3:55, with the possibility of escaping this odious man's presence minutes away, I moved to the back of the house.

"Don't go anywhere, John." he says for everybody to hear.

"Oh, I'm not going anywhere.....sir." was my response.

Afterward, a fellow in the cast who currently does those United States Postal Service commercials said to me, "I've never heard anybody say 'sir', and make it sound like, 'ASSHOLE!' before."

So, we opened the show, and it went pretty well. There were some glitches, but we covered them. The audience was very appreciative. And just like that, it was over, it was open, and I was pretty sure I wouldn't have to deal with that idiot again.

Oh, but I was so wrong....in a show of pure, unadulterated narcissism, he makes an appearance in the dressing room!

His profuse praise to his cast? "Well, that was okay, all things considered."

Our eyes met in the makeup mirror that I was staring into, in the hopes that I would not leap across the room and throttle the sonofabitch. Pop his head off like a champagne cork. Nut-punch the smug bastard. He could not help but see the look of pure malevolence on my face.

He left town the next morning, and I have not seen him from that day to this. And I can only hope that he took a job as a butcher, because he had some talent in that regard. To his only credit, he left me with a great story about the worst director I've ever worked with.

Then again, the world is wide, and life is long, so I probably shouldn't put that trophy away so quickly.

Well. That was cathartic.

So, to sum up. I would do MAN OF LA MANCHA again.

Frivolity! Jocularity!

2011-12-12T10:15:00.000-06:00

I've been thinking upon the purchase of a truly frivolous item.

Okay, I'll admit it, and if I could get into my office, I would prove it to you; I have several tons of truly frivolous purchases. I'm the kind of fellow that never grew out of toys and such.

I have a Mr. Potatohead dressed as Darth Vader. That's right; Darth Tater.
I have bendible Mr. Bill. And a Gumby. AND a Popeye.
I have a wind up Bender from Futurama.
I have several autographed photos, procured for various fees: Monty Python; Abbott And Costello; and Jeremy Brett.
A framed Rolling Stone cover of John Belushi.
A complete collection of THE FAR SIDE, CALVIN AND HOBBES, BLOOM COUNTY, and of course, E.C. Segar's orginal run of POPEYE.
A piece of the Berlin Wall.
A small sandbag from the Mississippi Flood of 1993.

Yup. Tons of weird stuff.

So, what could possibly be making me itch to possess? What could possibly top a DARTH TATER?

One share of stock in the Green Bay Packers.

Yeah.

Mile posts.

2011-12-11T09:12:00.000-06:00

Around this time in the year of some Lord 1985, I was just finishing the first leg of a brutal National tour of three shows in a very small outfit out of Texas. We drew straws in Cocoa Beach, FL to see who would hump the van back to Corpus Christi, and since I was going that direction anyway, as my CAR was in Corpus Christi, I intentionally drew the short straw.

I set off the following morning, heading north and catching the I-10, and then zipping along on that until I reached the promised land of Houston, and then took a light left hand turn and followed the Gulf coast to paydirt. I can remember seeing at least one other sunrise. I also remember sleeping in the back seat for a spell. But mostly, I can remember the ridiculously cliched country radio stations. It's a twangy sound that's never left my head.

Did a quick turnaround in Corpus Christi, got the car, gassed her, and headed North toward home. I had two stops to make; one, in Marquette MI, to see some old friends.

I've written about that one before. You can read about it, if you want.

But before I got there, I needed to stop at a little town in the middle of nowhere, Illinois, called Macomb.

See, before I embarked upon the grueling tour, I had an offer to begin Graduate Studies at Western Illinois University. They offered about halfway through my last semester of Undergraduate Studies, and I was about as through with classwork as I could possibly be; like the iconic Tom Wingfield, I was tired of the movies and was ready to move.

What a difference a day makes. Or, to be precise, what a difference 244 days of loading in/loading out, cheap motels and cheaper food, and living out of one suitcase.

So, I made contact and was invited to come up on this day to re-audition, and interview, and all that jazz. It was almost nightfall when I arrived; but they put me up in a dorm room for the night, gave me tickets to see a production of THE LION IN WINTER, and introduced me to several people that I would eventually work with in the future.

The show was good; the sleep was deep. And the next day, with a handful of professors in attendance, I went into my song-and-dance (metaphoric) and to make a long story short, they let me in, gave me money to come in, and shook my hand with a hearty, "what took you so long? we really wanted you last year, and are awfully glad to have you this year!"

There's not much to that particular story, except as aftermath. I spent two years doing a three year program, fought with and loved dearly the people I came in with, have most if not all of their names on a friends list, and met two instructors that became role models for pretty much everything I did in a classroom for the next fifteen years.

I am in touch with most of them still; some, more than others. And always, always grateful for the time.

So, in essence, I have always thought that my life turned on the events of later that same December; and yes, that's certainly true.

But the first turn came on a small dimly lit stage in Western Illinois a few weeks before.

Huh. Go figure.

Between the nightmares of daytime, and the work of the nighttime....

2011-12-07T04:30:00.000-06:00

It was the spring of 1980 when I remember thinking it for the first time.

"My generation will make it right."

As you might remember (if you're old enough or if you study all of American History, and not just the part where we came off smellin' like a rose), in November of 1979, our Embassy in a certain Middle Eastern country was overrun by a bunch of people with guns and masks and Anti-American slogans. They quickly subdued the brave Marines tasked with guarding the place (largely because they were specifically ordered not to fire their weapons) and took 52 Americans hostage on what, technically, was American soil and consequently, an act of war.

Those people with the guns and the masks, one of which looked suspiciously like the current leader of that Middle Eastern country, held those 52 American for well over a year, effectively holding the entire country hostage. The President, hog-tied by his love of public opinion and one disastrous rescue attempt, was eventually defeated by a former actor and former Governor of California; and shortly after the great man's inauguration, those brave souls were released.

In the midst of it, there were vigils and semi-patriotic gatherings around flag poles, praying for the safety of those brave souls, and hoping that perhaps that semi-patriotic gesture would not look as hollow as it felt.

And in July of 1980, they reinstated the Selective Service System, and my generation quaked at the idea of mandatory service, with the images of Vietnam still fresh in our heads.

It turned out for the best, I suppose; if by 'best' you mean that we have been enemies with that country and fighting a cold war with them since that time. They are the North Korea of my generation, I suppose....a no-win. They made us look cowardly and impotent, and even though the former actor and Governor of California took us to the gym and pumped us up during the 80's.....we still have the scar.

So, in the spring of 1980, shortly before my high school graduation and my soon-to-be sodden attempt at college, I stood with a hundred of my peers around a flagpole and raised a flag and prayed fervently that I wouldn't be wearing green and carrying an M-16 by Christmas. And that aforementioned thought ran through my head:

"My generation will make it right."

And, in some cases, we tried. Some of those people that stood with me that day became soldiers; some laid down their lives. One became a minister, and through these years continues to be an inspiration. A few became Doctors. Most others became, through the natural order of things, Mothers and Fathers, and I hope they raised their children to listen, think and respond, and not the other way around.

But. I guess it didn't turn out quite the way we hoped back in the days when we were green. Every opportunity to unite the world, in triumph or tragedy, was squandered, and rather than evolve, we de-volved into the fourth grade playground we now occupy.

I am so disappointed.

But not dead, yet.

So, as feeble as it may be.....the fire still burns.

Hope.

Niagra looks nice, but you DON'T want it in your basement.

2011-12-01T12:20:00.000-06:00

Let me just catch you up on some things.....

It's snowing again; a lovely, slow falling snow that looks like something out of a Charlie Brown Christmas Special (and yes, even now I'm humming the Vince Guaraldi Trio music). Everything outside seems chilly and peaceful.....

And inside, it's a freakin' disaster area.

Last Sunday, I was awakened by my Favorite Wife, who gently whispered into my ear at 4 PM (which, as you well know, translates into about 1 AM on my schedule) that there seemed to be something wrong downstairs. Sometimes, my wife is a little vague on the specifics of the concept of 'something wrong'; it could be that the computer is frozen, or it could be that one of the cats needs a trip to the vet; or it could mean that water seems to be leaking out of the ceiling, walls, and floor.

Yes. That last one is the big winner of the day.

I shut down the water, called the plumber, cleaned up a little as best we could, and went back to bed, which I will call a major victory on my road to person-hood: in the past, I would yell and kick and whine and moan and think what an awful tragedy, but instead, I made sure that the library was intact, that no lifeboats were required, that no electronics were injured during the filming of this part of my life, and I went back to bed.

There is a reason, after all, why we have plumbers, and homeowners insurance.

For the last couple of days, there have BEEN plumbers, and insurance people and people who address themselves as 'Disaster Cleanup Services' that have been traipsing around my basement, looking, photographing, writing, and systematically ripping up carpet and drywall and setting up industrial sized blow dryers and asking me about how it all started.

Apparently, inside the wall, a leeeeetle pipe leading to the shower in the Master Bathroom broke, and while it wasn't a problem when running a tub, when the shower was begun, the water pressure was pushing some of the water back into the wall. Invisible to the human eye.

So....my house looks like Swiss Cheese. There are industrial sized blow dryers humming away in the basement. My library looks like a scene from OUTBREAK, and people keep knocking on my door.

How's your day going?

A Tribute to the American Storyteller on his 176th Birthday.....

2011-11-30T10:36:00.000-06:00

I encourage you to watch the whole thing. It's a bit long, but what lovely words. Even in the midst of the trial and tragedies of the last years of his life; even as he fought the cynicism that comes with what we would now diagnose as clinical depression; he could sum up the whole of a life with a TWO YEARS BEFORE THE MAST reference.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Clemens! Genius lives forever.

Take these chances......

2011-11-28T04:51:00.000-06:00

This song always reminds me of a smoky bar in the middle of the mitten, and a very long cross-country drive from Michigan to California done in two and half days......

And now, it's a celebration of the new venture of a friend who promised me a corned beef sandwich.

Happy Holidays, Oceano!

2011-11-27T05:41:00.000-06:00

In the magic days between Thanksgiving and Christmas (and right up until the stroke of the New Year), were the hardest working days I ever had as an actor.

Yeah, I know; it you've ever toured in a Children's Theatre van with a load of scenery and a two-show-a-day in who-knows-where, usually starting that first show before most people actually had their second cup of coffee....well.....yeah, that's pretty harrowing as far as work schedules go.....but......

Okay, maybe it's not so bad, after all.

The Great American Melodrama in Oceano CA does a Holiday show every year; it opens just before Thanksgiving, and runs six days a week for awhile, and then runs two shows a day six days a week, and then sometimes seven.....and you're also working the bar and the crowd.....and there are children in the cast, lovingly referred to as 'human petri dishes', and it's not a question of 'what will you catch?', but 'when?'

Three acts: The first act, an adaptation of Christmas Carol (where I played Scrooge from 1999-2002), a half act 'opera', which was just a very funny fractured fairy tale set to music (my favorite continues to be The Three Pigs Opera....always laughed out loud, even after seeing it sixty or so times) and a Vaudeville Review. Two and a half hours of constant movement, thirty minutes of turnaround, and do it again.

It was sometimes painful, most times tiring, one or two times damned near impossible, and all the time memorable.

Painful: The first year I did Scrooge, the director wanted an effect where the ghost of Jacob Marley would levitate Scrooge. They built this contraption hidden behind a curtain that I could back into; it would create a kind of saddle between my legs and two burly guys would haul on block and tackle and slowly raise me off of my feet. It got a heckuva reaction from the audience.

And I felt like I was getting a twice-a-day 2x4 enema. and yes, they dropped me once, and it felt like they drove my tailbone into my throat.

Painful: The Ghost of Christmas Past jumping the gun on a cue, and pulling me off of my feet so I could faceplant center stage.

Almost Impossible: Caught a bug from one of the kids one year, and it hit fully on the 22nd of December. Two shows with a fever of 101 and unable to really project without attempting to eject a lung. I can recall standing on stage left, watching Young Scrooge get dumped by his Young Fiancee, and bursting into tears...and then realizing that I couldn't.....stop.....weeping. Felt like it went on forever. Then, once I got it reasonably in control, and managed to justify this overblown emotional display within the characterization, I turned to the Ghost of Christmas Past, and she was crying, too.

'Twas an interesting night.

But something amazing happened through all of that. The laughter in the dressing room was easier; the smiles infectious; the work at the bar became less stressful and more festive. The lights on the decorations made life a bit brighter. The spirit really came alive during those stressful halcyon days.......

Yeah.

I miss it. I miss the piano, and the people. I miss the smell of the air coming off of the Pacific and the smell of the cramped backstage; I miss the people, every single one.

Another memory, trapped in amber.

And I say Thank God.

The lull between leftovers and napping....

2011-11-25T12:24:00.000-06:00

As I wrote on my Facebook page yesterday, it IS nice when family holidays only have intermittent David Lynch moments. I will not go into detail (modesty and a court order prevents elaboration) but suffice it to say that there is nothing quite like a Thanksgiving. I wouldn't trade it for ALL the ones I spent by myself.

Turkey and stuffing and all the other fixin's are infinitely better in the middle of a friendly crowd of people.

I made two cheesecakes for the occasion; a pumpkin cheesecake and a chocolate/peanut butter cheesecake. Both received good reviews, and I was a little leery going in; I made my own crusts this year. But I was particularly fond of the pumpkin; it had just the right spice.

The football games were all disappointing. I had hoped the Lions would look better, and in fact, they did; through most of the game, they were leading in every stat but the score. The first quarter looked very good, but Stafford (Bless his heart) couldn't find a receiver with both hands and a flashlight. And don't get me started on SUH.

Memo to NFL football players: if you team is firmly in the playoff hunt, then it would be wise to put your testosterone-fueled ego in your pocket, turn around and run to the sidelines, you f***ing moron.

Sorry; that last part was aimed at SUH.

I just finished my Christmas shopping. The interhighway has Black Friday deals, too.

Love to all.....30 days until Christmas.

Random Thoughts. Twelve of 'em. You don't have to count; I numbered 'em for ya.....

2011-11-21T15:17:00.000-06:00

1. You can Boo the President of the United States all you want. But Booing his wife is just plain tacky. Take that, NASCAR fans. You're tacky.

2. Yeah, that's a revelation.

3. After hearing the umpteenth story about a child or a woman or a tourist or an elderly dementia patient going missing in Florida, I've decided that it is, in fact, the worst place to raise a child, have a vagina, visit, or get old in.

4. And yes, Florida DOES make it look like the United States is pissing on Cuba.

5. My congratulations to the NYPD for their grab of another monster-in-waiting in this never ending war on my right to sleep peacefully at night. It proves a number of things: first off, the NYPD is an excellent investigative body; secondly, those that seek to do us harm are American, too; and thirdly, the FBI, who refused to get involved in the investigation, can kiss my DHASS.

6. Doesn't let the NYPD off the hook for the whole OWS f**kup, though.

7. I just made a Pumpkin Cheesecake that looks and smells like what Thanksgiving in HEAVEN should be like.

8. Once again, as I walked out of my house to go to work this morning at 2 AM, I shook my head at my willingness, back in '06, to move to a state that had the word NORTH in it's name.

9. Yesterday was eleven years. We've been together twelve. I went over to her house for a pizza and a movie one night in August of 1999, and never left. Longest first date in history.

10. Justin Verlander is the AL Cy Young Award Winner, and apparently the AL MVP. And rightly so; he tore it up this season.

11. The Lions actually came from behind AGAIN yesterday. But it was against a non-contender. Green Bay on Thanksgiving. Can you smell UPSET?

12. No, I can't either.

Thanks for reading.

The Reason Why.

2011-11-15T05:46:00.000-06:00

Over the past few years, since I began writing, I've had a few people ask about the Genesis of the title.

Well....the fact of the matter is, I began this under the premise that I would be telling stories to my Mother, who was, at the time of the beginning, in the mid-stages of Alzheimer's Disease. When she and I were both well and hearty, we would talk once a week by telephone. When it became too difficult to do that, I began writing things down. And here we are.

For those of you that don't follow regularly, I lost my Mother back in February of 2010. I used one of my entries in this blog as a part of her eulogy. I haven't been back to re-read that part since.

But there is a further, underlying story of the title, and that comes from a song by Stan Rogers.

I've written about Stan before, of course; he is one of my favorite Folk artists, and one of the greatest tragedies of my life is that I never got to see him live; he lost his life in an airline fire in Cincinnati back in the 1990's. I have every recording he made, and he's gotten me through some tough times, and some good times, as well. One day, I will attend the Stan Rogers Music Festival in Nova Scotia, which was one of his favorite venues to play.

The song was called, It All Fades Away, and it was finally released back in 2000, on what was supposed to be final release of Stan's unreleased material. The song spoke to me the first time I heard it.

And that's why this is named as it is named.

IT ALL FADES AWAY by Stan Rogers
An Unfinished Conversation
And a picture of the past,
Like the one that I just found of you,
Among many that I had.
I remember I saw you laughing
With my camera close at hand;
We were minutes from a quarrel,
And forever from understanding.
You were just a bit excited
and a little more displeased,
How you hated candid pictures
When I took them just to tease.
Then you told me I was crazy,
I said I was born that way,
And we must have said those same two lines
Twenty times a day.

Now, I'd swear you don't remember why we parted,
Just like I cannot remember why we loved.
Ain't it funny how the past
Makes the better memories last
'Cause the pain fades away, it all fades away.

An Unfinished Conversation
That I'd somehow like to end,
If I just knew where to find you
Or where a letter could be sent.
But I know I'd not be welcome,
I know you'd nearly die;
All conversations fade away
When the love-light leaves the eye.

Now, I'd swear you don't remember why we parted,
Just like I cannot remember why we loved.
Ain't it funny how the past
Makes the better memories last
'Cause the pain fades away, it all fades away.

It's a Chronilogic Illusion. Like an Optical Illusion, but with Time.

2011-11-13T10:17:00.000-06:00

I'm not quite certain that I can justify this logically....but this schedule is killing me.

Prior to my brief vacation a few weeks ago, I worked in this tiny office on the Sixth Floor in the building that looks like a stack of pancakes from 0000 until 1000. Now, I work from 0200 until 1200. It's the same amount of time....but starting two hours later and going two hours longer is driving me to distraction.

There seems to be some kind of stigma to waking up at midnight to get to work at 2 AM. This morning, as I was walking up the stairs (for the exercise), I ran into another intrepid explorer who works on the fourth floor who has the same Godawful schedule as I.

Scared the crap out of us both.

My stomach is all messed up; my arthritis is flaring; and my mood is as sour as Grandma's Rhubarb Pie.

Is it too early to take another vacation? And, say...one right after that?

Thank GOD these windows don't open.

I miss him.

2011-11-10T11:19:00.000-06:00

All morning long, I have felt the need for a good, old fashioned Belushi RANT.

The kind he used to do on Weekend Update, back when Saturday Night Live was cool. He did one about voting on Election Day that made me laugh out loud.....but, I couldn't find it anywhere online.

So, I have to settle for his most famous rant, from ANIMAL HOUSE.

Enjoy the fun; and say a little prayer of thanks for the talents of John Belushi, and Doug Kenney, and his famous, "what the hell we supposed to do, ya moron?"

May they both rest peacefully......

Wow. I think I can see Montana from here.

2011-11-07T10:06:00.000-06:00

Harry Truman was once quoted as saying to the press, "Remember, boys...always do the right thing. It'll gratify some people, and astonish the rest."

Harry never really said, specifically, what the 'right thing' is, or was, or can, or will be. It's probably not a concrete thing.

For example....shaving bananas could be 'the right thing.' but I'm doubting it.

I think, at this point in our continuing evolution as a society, we should concentrate on civil discourse. Talking, AND listening. Finding common ground. And within the common ground, finding out 'the right thing.'

I do have some suggestions. And if you're a regular reader, that should come as no surprise.

To start with, don't shave bananas.

But more importantly, let's all just stop watching anything put before us that rewards uncivilized behavior. I'm not suggesting that every ending be a happy one, and I'm pretty sure that there will always be a fictional character that has bad behavior to emulate, but can we eliminate it from our 'reality?' Can we please stop rewarding questionable behavior by giving people television programs because we confuse 'contemptable' with 'colorful?'

Can we possibly be happy with the direction of our own lives without indulging in schadenfreude?

And if we thank The Almighty for the Blessings, then we should also thank him/her/it for the Challenges?

F**k blame; let's find the 'right thing'.

Finally, if one more person comes to me and tells me it takes 16 muscles to smile and 22 to frown, I'm going to tell them it only takes 14 to ball up my fist and punch them in the crotch.

Yeah, I know. I'm still looking for the right thing.

We either need more drugs, or less.*

2011-11-04T12:30:00.000-05:00

About forty years ago, a fellow who gave his name as Cooper hijacked an airplane, and escaped with two hundred thousand dollars by parachuting out the back of the plane. He has not been seen from that day to this, although lately, there have been more than a couple of people stepping forward to claim that their dead husband, or their crazy cousin, or even their transgender best friend did the deed.

There's a kind of romantic quality to the crime, of course; a mystery for the ages, even though the sure bet is on this Cooper person going into the ground like a tent peg following his night jump into the wilds of Washington State, and two hundred thousand smackers nothing more now than wet pulp.

Crazy.

Since then, of course, 'crazy' has become something more foul. Crazy has gone from extorting money from corporations to shooting each other for athletic shoes. Or knifing each other because the voices said they were evil. Or, simply killing somebody in the aisle of a Walmart with an aluminum bat because they were....well..in the aisle of the Walmart.

As far as hijacking goes...well, we've seen how bad it can turn out....airplanes make dandy weapons when all you want is to make a misguided point. But I don't believe I have stepped onto an airplane in the years since that fateful morning thinking that this was going to be my last day on earth.

But I'm beginning to wonder about walking into a Walmart.

*For the word 'drugs', you may substitute 'hope.'

It's a long walk.....

2011-10-25T04:59:00.000-05:00

There is a place on the Lake Michigan shoreline, in the Northwestern part of the lower Mitten State, called The Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes.

It's a very large pile of sand. Very large. As I recall from my last trip there, going up the dune is like climbing a mountain; it's a sharply vertical trip.

Coming down is easier. And faster. And occasionally painful.

But the view from the top, when the sun is shining and the sky is blue, is breathtaking.

But there is always a caveat. Lake Michigan is a very large lake. It is quite a bit like a small sea, actually. And from the top of a sand dune, it looks inviting. "Come on down, and take a dip!" it seems to say.

Like a siren's song.

But don't you listen. That lake is TEN MILES AWAY.

Through BEAR COUNTRY.

And yes, there is a life lesson there.

But the thing with that particular lesson is, it's a tough one to learn, but the view is still breathtaking.

So.

There's that.

Portrait of the Artist as an Alchemist.

2011-10-24T04:13:00.000-05:00

And just like that, a brief run of four nights and an afternoon, it's over. It was a good run; and more than made up for the sleep deprivation of the past few weeks. It's a great thing to be able to flex those muscles again; and there's a kind of melancholy that comes with the idea that I may not get another chance for awhile.

And it gets me to thinkin'......

At the Midwestern College I used to work at, way back in the 80-90's which seems less ago than it actually is, I would direct two shows a year; usually, one in the Fall, and one in the Spring. I never had the opportunity to direct the Guest Artist Show, though....that one was reserved for the Department Chair. And hey, it's his money and his baby, so I didn't kick. And he did give me Carte Blanche to choose what material I wanted to play with.

There are a few plays I wanted to do but never got a chance; but the ones I GOT to do were each fun in their own way. And in each, I swear to St. Genesius, there came a transmogrification that never ceased to astound and delight me.

I would get all manner of folks to audition for the plays; theatre students, music students, and in some delightful occasions even some student athletes would come and try their hands. And my reputation (I believe) was that I never preconceived anything. Everybody had a shot at anything at all. I can remember one kid, I hadn't seen him before, but he came in to read...and I put him together with somebody that had some experience...and this kid held his own. He finished, and the people in the room politely applauded.

"Very nice," I replied. And there was some good natured rumblings. And then, one voice spoke up.

"That was his first time."

I stood up from my table, walked around, and embraced the kid, and quietly said, "Excellent. You've taken your first steps. If I don't use you, you must promise me that you'll come back."

Oh, I used him. And he fit in well.

In the last show I directed, I had almost 100 students audition. That's ten percent of the campus population. I hope it was a testament to the respect they had for me, and not some prerequisite for passing a class.

But the true joy was sitting and watching a show in front of an audience for the first time. Watching them work the audience, find the seams, the places to hold for a response, the places to glide through ahead of the audience, and the places to wait for them to catch up.....and realize that the production is a far better piece than the one you actually directed.

Lead into Gold.

Yup.

2011-10-23T04:30:00.000-05:00

One of the best compliments ever aimed in my direction:

"You are really very good when you're having an off night."

The sigh of relief heard 'round the world.

2011-10-20T11:16:00.000-05:00

There is something special about an opening night.

Some people get that surge of adrenalin you usually pay good money to feel; you can feel it coming off of them like shock waves. They are figuratively (and in some cases, literally) bouncing off the walls, talking a blue streak. Usually, loudly.

And there are other people who can be heard making deep, exhaling noises, shaking themselves to remove the tension, running tongue twisters to loosen the tongue; ticking off scenes in their head. Making one last look at the script.

And others, hoping to keep their dinners on the inside. The actors with Olivier's Stomach.

I fall into the last two categories, of course. Openings are nerve wracking. It's not Christmas Day for me; it's more like the Cask of Amontillado.

And like the proverb that speaks of the darkness before the dawn, it gets worse just before the lights come up.

The first lines are the hardest, but once they are out and you hear a reaction, then the muscles relax, the focus becomes lasered, and it's "lead, follow or get the f*** out of the way."

THAT'S the moment I look forward to.

It's a good solid show; it gets subtle but telling reactions from the audience. The pace is solid, if occasionally breakneck, and as the old saying goes, "ten thirty always comes."

It's a good group of kids, who came to work every day and put in the extra time to build the set and hang the lights and all the stuff college theatre students do. They are, at this point, pristine; they are doing it not for a paycheck, but strictly for the love of it. For the fun of being part of a group; for the fun of playing make-believe for a few hours a night, for a few days a month.

I met Dan Rogers, the director and Sherpa of all theatre travelers, two years or so ago, while doing THE TAMING OF THE SHREW for Capitol Shakespeare. There are a lot of reasons to immediately like somebody; usually, it's because you think alike. Dan reminds me a lot of another one of my major influences, the Great Sonny Bell. Dan, like Sonny, and by extension, like ME, looks at the play, and the character, as living breathing things....with stories from the past, untold things of influence to them. As an actor, he LISTENS. As a director, he allows for a great deal of collaboration; he allows for experimentation; and he admires creativity.

And he tends to forgive exhaustion; which was fortunate for me.

We do this for another couple of nights; if you are in the Bismarck area, come see it. It's on the campus of Bismarck State College, the evening start is 7:30, the Sunday matinee is 2:30.

Hey. You don't get a chance to see me on stage that much anymore.

The art of finding quiet in the cacophony.

2011-10-17T02:46:00.000-05:00

There are times when you need to just....stop.

The trick is to easily identify those times, and take advantage of them.

The busy is going to continue for at least two more days, and then there will be a respite, followed by several more days of busy. You know I'm busy when I look thinner and the shock of hair that began to grey in my thirties turns white. It's by "busy" barometer.

So, I'm ten pounds lighter and I look like a skunk.

But I was talking about stopping, not how busy I am presently.

There was a little place on London Street, just up from Sussex Gardens near Paddington Station. I stumbled upon it by accident, of course, but necessity is the Mother of Exploration as well as Invention. I was hungry, and I didn't want to rely upon the stand-bys I could get in the States; even though KFC and Burger King and McDonald's were everywhere.

Can't even remember what the place was called, but it was on the corner of London Street and an alleyway that would have made The Ripper feel at home. There were several tables by the windows, and several more outside, and that's what I chose. I felt the need to eat, of course, but I didn't want anything as mundane as eating interfere with my seeing.

An English Breakfast, with White Coffee. And listening to the sounds of a metropolis walking past you; the sounds of strange and melodic dialect, the sounds of the tiny cars driving in jarring configurations, and a charming lady asking me if I wanted more coffee and how brilliant the day was and how smashing my accent was......

I loved that; no matter what pub I was in, no matter what I ordered, it was the same reaction:

"I'm going to have a small puppy, boiled in peanut oil and stuffed with several fluffy bunnies."
"Brilliant! We'll have that right up!"

The English Breakfast: eggs, back bacon, potatoes (hashed), half a grilled tomato, baked beans, and toast. I was soooooo tempted to ask for Spam as well, but I was afraid I would either be serenaded by a chorus of vikings, or brained by a skillet.

But the thing of it was this: I had no other place to be. At all. In the middle of a sunny morning, in the middle of this strange and wonder-inspiring city, in the middle of my first trip, I had no other thing to do at that moment but listen to the city and drink my coffee and think about how fortunate I have been.

So, I did.

So, in honor of that treasured moment, let us take the time to treasure this moment.

And now, THIS moment.

And now, let's treasure the memory of those three moments.

You can't really appreciate rational thought until you've been sleep deprived.

2011-10-16T03:28:00.000-05:00

Okay, so it went like this:

On Friday night, after an afternoon rehearsal, I managed to take a two hour nap. Up at 8:00 pm, showered, shaved, and to work at midnight. Worked until 10:30 am, and then off to a tech rehearsal which started at 9:00 am. Gave it my all until about 2:00 pm, where the hours began to take their toll; a quick calculation had me awake for all but two of the past 31 hours. Took a quick nap while the others took a quick lunch, and finished up around 4:30 pm. Went home and fell into unconsciousness until about 10:30, showered, shaved and OH MY GOD WHEN DOES THIS TREADMILL END?

I would like to say at this point that it may not look like it (for zombies always look pretty much the same way, regardless of their emotional changes), but I am having a pretty good time with this play. Aside from the fact that I've always enjoyed a good rehearsal process (it's the inner detective in me; I enjoy figuring out the whys and wherefores of the character, and how other people's processes affect my own), I've gotten a chance to get to know these people a little better.

They make me laugh.
They make me think.
They give very interesting stuff at every rehearsal, which is so very cool to play with, and off of.
And when I come into a rehearsal looking like I got run over by the steroid-using older brother of a Mac Truck, they laugh at the fact that my mind starts going into all directions, and the filter in my head that usually prevents it spilling out malfunctions. A little.

This thing opens on Wednesday, so I've got a couple of extra tries to fine tune it; and costumes to wear. And stuff. I'm looking forward to it.

And to paraphrase: A bad day on the stage is far better than a good day doing anything else.

And I know you agree.

Rainy night in a tired town.

2011-10-14T04:23:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I'm tired. And against my better judgment, I'm having some health issues. Nothing serious, mind you....the kind of health that are more of annoyance than an actual threat. The show opens in a few days, and I'm finally beginning to THINK, rather than attempt to stare at the mental image of the page in which the lines are printed. So, even if I hit a snag at this point, I can fumble around it, and fake it 'til I make it.

But that's not what I want to talk about.

My brain is adjusting to the huge ball of crap in the middle, by rolling around the ends; and these are places where I have not been for awhile. Here there be tygers.

There's a life lesson is the smallest things, you know.

Years ago, when I was young and full of more, I came around the corner and saw the last person I expected. She was standing in a small group, and as I came around the corner like a magic rabbit in a lame magic show, every eye turned in my direction. Hers, as well.

Our eyes met for just a second; and even that second was more than I could bear. I looked away. I looked for an exit. But it's never that easy. I was slowly sucked into this small knot of people, not farther away from this person, but closer.

I was treated like a long lost friend, questions asked and answered, snarky comments made, and laughter earned. When I looked up, she was gone. Around the corner and through the looking glass.

And I made my excuses and went away as well, for I was late for something. I was always late for something. But what I really wanted to do is to give chase.

Smile at me again, as you did before.

But it was far too late for that. Door closed and bolted; bridge burned.

But the glowing ember remains.

And I wish I didn't say what I said. And I wish I could say what I wanted to say.

And there's my life lesson. Sometimes you need to think before speaking; and sometimes you need to speak without thinking.

Click.

2011-10-07T11:06:00.000-05:00

I'm getting there.

There are more lines in my head at this point than not. Yes, some of them are paraphrased, and I'm working on it. And as things become ingrained, then Doctor Austin Sloper begins to come into focus. Connections are attempted; listening comes more easily.

It's always easier to see and hear what's going on around you when you're not in your own head, struggling to find the words.

I'm waiting for the click, of course. Have I ever described the 'click?'

It's actually not an original thought; it's based upon something I read once upon a time. When I was a drinker, I was always waiting for the click. The click in my head that indicated that I had had enough to ride the wave. And once the click occurred, I could concentrate less upon getting TO the click, and more upon what was actually going on around me.

Weird, but true. And for me, the progress of the development of the character is somewhat the same.

Get the blocking; get the lines, put them into your head, and wait (patiently works best, but...heh...have we met?) for the moment when you get the click; when the words and the movement and the brain and the heart all moving in the same direction at the same time. All of a sudden, the inflections are working, the connections are made, you can react off of the other people on the stage rather than reacting off of what you THINK they're giving you, and you know what to do with your hands.

Almost there.

I'm a little sad, though; apparently I intimidate. It's not a new thing; I've been told that before. I am intense; another positive trait disguised as a flaw in my character. And that sometimes puts people off, puts them on the defensive, or drives them to a hasty retreat. And the connections I thought I was making on a personal level disappear in a puff of self-delusion.

The click of everything working on a stage is just as addictive as Comrade Vodka was.

Maybe just a tad healthier.

I hope.

Hit a round ball with a round bat, and hit is square.

2011-10-04T03:31:00.000-05:00

As I walked across the college campus just before the weekend, I dotted and dashed upon my Ipod, looking for one particular track. It's kind of a tradition for me to listen to this particular track, in fact the whole soundtrack, as September becomes October, and the remnants of the Boys of Summer line up to grab the Brass Ring.

I still get goosebumps, every time I hear it.

At around 10:30 last night, it was the top of the ninth, two men on and two men out and Jeter was at the plate. The crowd in Detroit was working on two levels; one level was the whooping, towel swinging, vocal intensity that you could hear all the way to Winsor; the other was a quiet intensity, a laser intensity, leveled at that square area between the knees and the letters, as wide a the plate.

Valverde wheels and deals. And the evening's air is shattered by the force of Jeter's blow.

And there's joy in Motown; Mighty Jeter has struck out.

Is there anything like Baseball in October?

Drowning my sorrows in a bag of caramels.

2011-10-01T08:19:00.000-05:00

All of us that ever trod about the stage with varying degrees of success have had....that dream.

You know the one I'm talking about; Christopher Durang captured it quite nicely, back in the early eighties. You're on a stage, but you can't remember the play; OR, you are stunned that the lines you know are NOT from the play currently being done; OR they are speaking a strange kind of foreign language.

At yesterday's rehearsal, it was that kind of nightmare; and there was no waking up, shaking the head, and letting out a relieved 'whew!" It was just a nightmare.

I will freely admit that my skills have rusted a bit; in the days of two week, one week, or nine day rehearsal periods, you get in the habit of making the choices at home, and bringing them to work with you. You get into the habit of learning quickly, so that the actual work can begin. But if you don't use the skills, they atrophy.

Oh, and I'm older now, so the synapses are not firing quite as well as they used to.

So, there I am, with fourteen pages of dialogue in front of me, and none of them sounding the LEAST bit familiar.

To my credit, I toughed it out for the first hour and fifteen minutes; but my calls for line became more frequent, and more frantic, until finally I had to put my head on the desk and wonder what the hell I was doing there.

A voice came from the edge of the stage.

"Would you like to pick it up?" The kindly director, indicating the book.

"I think it would be better for everybody else if I did," I admitted. I mean, you can learn a lot when you're standing in the fire, but there are other people who actually DID their jobs, and they shouldn't be punished so that I can bang some lines into my head.

Thankfully, as the old adage goes, no matter how badly the thing goes, it always ends, and I quickly left the theatre hoping that nobody would see the truly pensive look upon my face. And I went home, curled up in a ball, and slept for five hours until it was time to earn my wages.

I hope that the sleep comes easy this morning.
I hope that the lines come easy after that.

And of course, I hear the voice of Benjamin Franklin quoting himself: "He who lives on hope, dies farting."

So, work it, old man, for the winter is coming.

A short conversation indicative of the way the day has progressed....

2011-09-28T13:43:00.000-05:00

'Hello.'
'Hello!'
'How are you?'
'I'm well....and you?'
'I'm well as well....how long has it been?'
'How long HAS it been? Well, I haven't seen you since...'
'I haven't seen you...'
'We haven't seen each other...'.
'Yes, we haven't seen each other......before. Have we?'
'No. We've never seen each other before.'
'Well. What a small world!'

Thoughts like skyrockets, soaring and exploding.

2011-09-25T08:57:00.000-05:00

Random things:

I REALLY hate commercials where people eat; in particular, if I can HEAR people eating. Seriously, which advertising agency thought that the sound of people chewing was good for sales?

I wish good luck for all the new series' that are debuting, or have debuted recently. I won't watch them, of course, but I wish them good luck.

It took me several years to even watch THE BIG BANG THEORY and HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER. And I began watching them after watching just about everything else on the menu on my flight to London.

Learning lines was easier when I was 30.

It was harder before, because I was Drunky McLushface a lot.

It's Fall. Upper Michigan is beautiful at this time of year.

If you watched every episode of LAW AND ORDER back to back, you'd be sitting in front of your television for 19 days. But I never get tired of Lenny Briscoe.

Justin Verlander won 24 games this year; just missing out on 25. He is singularly responsible for the Tigers making the playoffs. In the first round, I suggest letting him pitch three games out of five, and hoping for a ton of rain-outs. Or, since it's October in Michigan, snow-outs.

I can't remember the last time the Tigers were in the playoffs, and both the Wolverines and the Lions were undefeated. At the same time. I'm not sure it's EVER happened. Along with the Tsunami, the Hurricane, the Earthquake on the East Coast, and Steve Carell NOT winning an Emmy, it's a sure sign of the Apocalypse.

You really need to see the view from the sixth floor of the big round building in the Capital City of the Northern State. You can see to Montana from here.

That means it's flat.

I can see Medora from here. You should see Medora. It's North Dakota's number one tourist attraction. It's at the beginnings of the Badlands, which are beautiful; even IF a certain civil war general referred to the area as 'Hell with the fires put out.' They have a great golf course, and several tourist-y things about the founding of the town and it's connection with Teddy Roosevelt. And there's the Medora Musical.....

The Musical is a huge deal; they have an amphitheatre specifically built for this entertainment. But the term 'musical' is a bit misleading. It's got music, certainly....mostly country music. Everything from the hits of last year to way back into Patsy Cline. And there are horses, and soldiers and Teddy Roosevelt and flags and occasionally circus performers.....but not much on plot. But good family entertainment.

We stayed at the big hotel....very nice. Library of local history in the lobby. Expensive restaurant attached. It was a good weekend. And I wound up with a Teddy Bear.

Seriously. It's a Bear that looks like Teddy.

Okay....enough random. I must be going. It's early and I'm late.

The need for certainty trumps our need for revenge.

2011-09-21T12:34:00.000-05:00

In 1997, I spent a brief but lovely time with a girl from Chicago. Had I been braver, it might have lasted longer. But that's not the story I want to tell.

She introduced me to the story of Alan Beaman, who was convicted in 1993 of a murder in Illinois. He was a college student at the time, a theatre student, and he spent some of his time in a haze of suspect smoke, skipped some classes, and would occasionally be snarky to his fellows. He said things in jest that could be taken seriously. And he had a tumultuous relationship with the victim.

Yes, they had fingerprints in her apartment. They were lovers. And there were witnesses, included family, that saw him in Rockford, Illinois, about 140 miles away, at the time of the murder.

But he was a long haired stoner college student; it was a small town and a small town police force; and he was cocky and arrogant. And he was found guilty and sentenced to 50 years in Joliet.

In 2009, the Supreme Court of Illinois perused the case, realized that there was no actual physical evidence, that the prosecution fudged a little on their evidence, and they threw out the case. After 16 years, he was free.

The Innocence Project is a worthwhile endeavor.

I am not certain of the death penalty. I've often said that I would be comfortable applying such a permanent sentence when the suspect is caught, standing over the dead body, holding the smoking pistol and yelling, "I got you, I got you, you son of a bitch, and I'd kill you again with this gun in my hand if I had the chance!" But things aren't ever that simple.

Now, Troy Davis is going to be executed tonight in the State of Georgia for a crime he might not have committed. You've probably heard the news stories, and you've perused the various online databases. In this case, it's tough to know the truth.

Troy Davis was not an exemplary citizen when the crime was committed.
The victim was an off-duty police officer.
There was no physical evidence linking Davis to the crime.
And there were LOTS of witnesses; most have since recanted or changed their testimony.

So. You'd think that the powers-that-be would like to take a second look, juuuuust to be sure.
But no.

The cynic in me states that He's a black man in Georgia convicted of killing a white cop. He's got no chance. Georgia isn't Alabama, certainly....but it's still Georgia. Still the South. And it's an election cycle; it always seems to be an election cycle.

But the law is created by man, for man to obey in the hopes that these laws create an environment where civility thrives. The people, in the end, should have the final say. If the people have doubts, the government MUST step in to slow the process...so that justice can be served.

William Blackstone stated, "Better that ten guilty men escape than that one innocent suffer."

Let us put aside our need for revenge just long enough to be certain.

In development.

2011-09-17T04:42:00.000-05:00

Some stories stick with you, they surely do; even if you don't remember the source of the story.

Theatre stories stick with me the most; yes, I have a few of my own, but it's the stories the I've read over the course of my life, the ones that always seem to apply not only in the development of a character, but in the living of an artistic lifestyle.

Everybody's heard the apocryphal story about a very drunk Peter O'Toole (or sometimes, Richard Burton) who takes an old friend out to dinner before doing a play in the West End, getting wildly drunk, and winding up in a private box of the theatre. The show begins, and at a certain point in the show, things come to a grinding halt.

"You'll love this part," says the drunken O'Toole (or Burton). "This is where I come on."

I love that story.

But tonight, as I'm working a script in the wee hours of the night, another story comes to mind.

The famous actor was doing a choice role in a play in London back in early days of his career, and even though it seemed to be working, there was something not...quite....right. He had tried everything to smooth over the bumps; he tried changing the pace, the volume...all the mechanical things an actor tries first. Failing that, he went back into the text to try and find the solution, but nothing came. So, despairing, he decided to broach the subject with another actor, who diligently saw a performance of the production and offered his critique.

"You're playing the hell out it," he said to start, "but let me ask you...do you like him?"

The famous actor was slightly dumbfounded by the question. But, when he came to think about it, he told the truth. "No....I don't like him. He's reprehensible. I would cross the street to avoid meeting him."

The other actor smiled knowingly. "That's what's not working. You are standing in judgment of the character, rather than committing to thinking the way he thinks. I sincerely doubt that he finds himself reprehensible. He's got his justifiable reasons for doing what he does. In order for you to work here, you have to like him."

I love that story. I think it comes from ON ACTING, by Laurence Olivier. There's also a story in there that states that he based his Richard II on a director named Jed Harris, who was also the inspiration (or so the legend goes) for the Big Bad Wolf.

I'm in the middle of such a dilemma right now, in my rehearsal process. Intellectually, I understand the character, but truly I find some of his tactics hateful and cruel. I've developed a bad habit of exiting the stage muttering, "What a DICK!" under my breath. I really need to stop doing that. I need to give him the life he wants, not the life I want for him.

Villains never see themselves as such.

I must give in to the dark side.

Bwahhahahahah!

The unbearable heaviness of nothing.

2011-09-16T03:22:00.000-05:00

When I was in college, I lived with several guys in a dorm that will soon be a parking lot. I've told that story; you can look it up if'n you don't believe me.

Go on. I'll wait.

Got it? Good, I'll go on....

We had this theory, first brought forth by a particular night of debauchery, that inside each of our heads was a Fraggle-like fellow, sitting at a command console and pulling levers to create behavior. This Fraggle-like fellow was unchangeable; he was well when we were ill, sober when drunk, nice when nasty, etc. And, we could hear this Fraggle's voice in our heads when we were well on our way to doing something....inappropriate.

Which was often.

At present, my Fraggle is screaming. I think he's afraid that I'm going to bore him to death. Which is a possibility.

We can do the Innuendo, we can dance and sing...but when it's said and done, we haven't told you a thing....

2011-09-13T01:44:00.000-05:00

I like the Eagles. And I like Joe Walsh, because he makes me laugh. And somewhere in my collection, I have a Glenn Frey solo album that doesn't include, "The Heat Is On."

But I own more Don Henley than all of those others, combined.

Who woulda thought that when this song came out in 1982, that it would be, in fact, prophetic?

Oh, and the girls in the first row of that concert are not old enough to remember the original release of the song.

Sigh.

Me feeling old.

May the morning rise quietly.

2011-09-11T04:12:00.000-05:00

It's quiet here now.

It won't stay that way of course; not today. But right now, where the silence has lease, my thoughts spin through a familiar, yet unrecognizable dance.

Random, but structured.

There are songs, of course; there is always music in this gentle, vicious cabaret.

Here's my favorite. I'll dedicate it to a friend of mine whom I've not seen in awhile. With love and apologies.

While you were sleeping.....

2011-09-07T16:21:00.001-05:00

"Good morning, John....are you ready for a shit storm?"

These were the first words that came out of the phone at me on Tuesday morning, at approximately 0430. And no, I was not ready for a shit storm.

We had already had ONE shit storm in the previous 24 hours. Some royal jagoff with a voice modulator and a cell phone decided to see if he how fast he could evacuate an airport.

The answer to that question is, in fact, "lickety-split." The next obvious answer is, in fact, inconvenient and dangerous and he should be strung up by his genitals.

I call him a jagoff because while he DID disguise his voice, he did NOT shut off his phone's ID. Yup...the evil genius was tripped up by Caller ID.

So, right after calming the nerves of everybody in the state and testing the effectiveness of our own strategies, one phone call shut everything down for several hours, delayed several flights, and had several stranded passengers blaming...you got it....the law enforcement officials who were trying to make sure they weren't going to blown to Hell....all they saw was a bunch of uniformed guys keeping them out of the airport.

Anyway.....six hours later, I get the phone call.

Do you remember when you used to fly, the airline would ask you questions about packing your bag, and has the bag been out of your possession, and has anybody asked you to carry anything for them?
These are questions you are supposed to answer in the negative.

Until somebody gets off the plane and takes a laptop computer bag to the airline saying that 'some guy' asked them to 'take this bag with them' and 'deliver it'.

It's like the person who got off the plane with this bag recently fell off a F***ING TURNIP TRUCK.

And, this potentially dangerous situation is compounded by the airline ACCEPTING THE BAG, and locking it in a FILING CABINET for six hours before calling anybody.

"Yes, Ken....we see that there is a low pressure system heading for the Northern State, and it's bringing a 90% chance of evening shit storm..."

Three hours later, it was all settled down, with only minor inconvenience to the passengers, the organizational bomb guy, the local police department, and everybody I had to call at 0430 on a Tuesday morning. It turned out to be nothing. The story at 0430 became a completely different and benign by 0600.

This is what we do.

And if that doesn't make you feel better, I can tell you that over the weekend, 25 people were stopped at checkpoints around the country for having a loaded firearm in their carry-on bag. Each one of them stated, with a straight face, apparently, that they had 'forgotten that the gun was in my bag.'

I much prefer theatre.

If I drop a line, nobody dies.

Scattered thoughts on a previous lifetime....

2011-09-06T02:53:00.000-05:00

Many years ago, when I was young and just down from the trees, I decided to add to my already copious amount of education by attending graduate school in a small town in Central Illinois. It was a nice place with theatre spaces and instructors and other students, so I fit in much like a square peg goes into a round hole.

It wasn't the institutions fault; it was mine. I spent a year on the road with four other people, so essentially alone, I was fighting to a stalemate with the bottle of vodka, and I had just enough money to pay for two years of education, even with the scholarship. I have always leaned to the loner side of the equation, and I was slightly older than your average Grad Student.

Oh, and by the way, I was as rusty as hell. Doing three shows for a year in country clubs and military bases can take your edge off in no time at all.

I survived the experience, of course, and the education has served me well, but I didn't want to talk about that.

I wanted to talk about Becks.

Okay, I called her Becks. Her name was Becky, or Rebecca, but one reminded me too much of Becky Thatcher and the other smacked too much of SunnyBrook Farm; although I preferred the latter to the former. So, I just called her Becks.

It was my second year of the program; it was a time for Master's Theses, a loathsome Children's Theatre Tour, and a couple of really intricate theory-based classes. I had a roommate in the summer, but he was booted before the Fall, the house we had chosen was too rich for my blood; I tried another house, but soon abandoned the idea, and finally wound up living in the Infamous Tree House, a second floor apartment that contained oodles of Monty Python, every Metal Band that ever existed, my roommate Steve who kept me sane, and everything but rubber swords to play with.....everything a good Tree House should have.

Yes, Vodka and Rum included.

I met Becks during a Fire Drill. We were standing out in the quad as the siren wailed, and the Costume Shop Guru called me over to introduce me to her.....apparently, she thought we'd hit it off.

Strangely enough, we did. We started in simple conversation, which of course probably included me making jokes and her rolling her eyes. We went from that to making a pact that every time we saw each other in the hallway, we would kiss. That went very well. And then, conversations in stairwells and finally, a loose kind of dating.

She got me to wear a suit to a party. Those that know me will understand the relevance of such a thing. I wore a tie.

Here's where the demon rises up to erase my memory. Some things I remember, some things I cannot trust to be true. I can say this: I was an idiot.

I missed signs. I was selfish. I was insecure. I was burned out.

I was drunk. Most of the time. Functional, but whacked out.

And it faded. We went our separate ways. I went to Missouri. Becks joined the circus.

Years passed. We couldn't stop them.

Years later, we met again. The first conversations were awkward, of course. Part of the whole recovery process is taking responsibility, and that tripped me up for awhile. We danced around topics. We joked about the things that hurt. But slowly, things smoothed out.

The girl I knew had become a woman who had seen the world; who had made her mark; who married and had two children; and, as she told me later, kept a piece of me with her.

But no photos; it was something she subtly cursed me for in later life. I was camera shy in my drunken days. Another regret.

One day in those years, we met at a reunion of a kind at the sight of our original relationship. We had dinner with Steve (the Tree House roommate) and his wife Michelle, who saved my life one night by driving me to the emergency room when my head was in danger of exploding. But that's another story.

We met in front of the theatre building, just steps from where that Fire Alarm years before had placed us. We walked about the campus, seeing places we didn't even know existed back in the day; we walked around the town, looking at the places we stayed, and the conversations had there. The buildings had different tenants, but everything looked the same. And slowly, the years melted away, and it became what it was supposed to be, back then. It became easy, and comfortable, and warm.

Age brings wisdom, sometimes.

Between us, I was the only one that aged. She was still the same girl, with the backward laugh and the smile that relaxed you. Oh, and the cutting wit. She had it back in the day, but she used it sparingly. Not so much with the sparingly anymore....but I'm a big boy.

Friends a neighbors, I've said it before and I'll say it again. Love is an energy, and as such, can be created but never ever destroyed. It hangs around the universe, it permeates your idle thoughts, and if you're lucky....very VERY lucky.....you can relive it again, for just a minute or an hour or a day.

My zeal to seek their understanding caused instead a poke in the eye.

2011-09-04T09:19:00.000-05:00

One week from today, the organization for whom I work will pay tribute to "The Event." They do this every year.

Some of the tributes are, to those with souls, perverse. One year, the powers-that-be placed posters of the wreckage in New York City in every airport in the Northern State. To my credit, I objected, strenuously. I suggested, in no uncertain terms, that the average American does not want to be subjected to such images just before they board an aircraft. But I was outvoted. In fact, I was shouted down. Literally.

It was at that point that I began to give up. That slow trickling away of my 'give a shit' continues to this day.

In the last couple of years, I have played my variations on a theme: If, as some members of Congress would like to proclaim, we are a Christian nation, they we should damned sure start acting like it.....but I don't want to do that this year....

I want to say something else.

One of the elders of the city said, "Speak to us of Good and Evil."
And he answered:
Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil.
For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst?
Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts, it drinks even of dead waters.
You are good when you are one with yourself.
Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil.
For a divided house is not a den of thieves; it is only a divided house.
And a ship without rudder may wander aimlessly among perilous isles yet sink not to the bottom.
You are good when you strive to give of yourself.
Yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself.
For when you strive for gain you are but a root that clings to the earth and sucks at her breast.
Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, "Be like me, ripe and full and ever giving of your abundance."
For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root.
You are good when you are fully awake in your speech,
Yet you are not evil when you sleep while your tongue staggers without purpose.
And even stumbling speech may strengthen a weak tongue.
You are good when you walk to your goal firmly and with bold steps.
Yet you are not evil when you go thither limping.
Even those who limp go not backward.
But you who are strong and swift, see that you do not limp before the lame, deeming it kindness.
You are good in countless ways, and you are not evil when you are not good,
You are only loitering and sluggard.
Pity that the stags cannot teach swiftness to the turtles.
In your longing for your giant self lies your goodness: and that longing is in all of you.
But in some of you that longing is a torrent rushing with might to the sea, carrying the secrets of the hillsides and the songs of the forest.
And in others it is a flat stream that loses itself in angles and bends and lingers before it reaches the shore.
But let not him who longs much say to him who longs little, "Wherefore are you slow and halting?"
For the truly good ask not the naked, "Where is your garment?" nor the houseless, "What has befallen your house?"

So there.

I window who mini off ewe rollease that lets of popple air inuble to pronince the onglish linguage?

2011-09-01T09:00:00.000-05:00

I am attempting to break myself out of a funk by watching several episodes of A BIT OF FRY AND LAURIE. It's working, up to a point. But the sun is not shining and the birds are not singing and it's the traditional day the the Northern State reminds us all that Fall begins on September 1.

Cloudy, raining and a high of 64, thus far.

I auditioned for a play on Tuesday....I think it was Tuesday. Is today Wednesday or Thursday? Okay, if today is Thursday, then it was Tuesday that I auditioned for a play.

The plays produced by the College 'Round the Corner are open to community members, but of course, as an institution of higher learning, they give priority (and rightly so) to the students. But, they need a Father figure, and since I'm at least as old as a Father....and I would like to work with the director....and I would like something to occupy my time for awhile....I thought I'd throw in.

Callbacks tonight. Then, we'll see.

It's THE HEIRESS. They made a movie. Olivia de Haviland and Monty Clift.

Other than that, I'm quite under it.

But Fry and Laurie are helping.

Hugh Laurie is quite good at playing a git.

If it's Tuesday, I must be soul sick.

2011-08-30T05:27:00.000-05:00

Introspection should always begin with a soul-shaking sigh. And, Goo Goo Dolls lyrics.

And I don't want the world to see me;
'Cuz I don't think that they'd understand....
When everything's made to be broken,
I just want you to know who I am.

I suppose the best way to describe what's going on is by analogy, or allegory, or some other such bullshit that scholars and saviors use to mask a personal truth with a universal one.

I went through a period of time when I had to contort this sorry excuse for a body into the fictional proportions of John Merrick. I would warm up, of course, get the muscles all pliable and stretchy, and slowly work my way into the posture. And then, I'd walk. And talk. Sometimes, a lovely but sadistic director would dress me in hat and cloak and send me on a forced march, to experience being shunned by normals.

As if I needed any help with that. Have we met?

And after a while, this posture became, in my mind and in the muscle memory of the aforementioned 'poor excuse for a body', normal. And proper posture became abnormal.

I can remember the first time I pulled up to my full height, and felt every...single...muscle in my back to *pop!*

And then, in adjusting to that mess, it became a different kind of thing, and pretty soon, every picture I have had my head doing some weird ducking thing. And I became old before I was supposed to.

Are you ahead of me now? Do you see where I'm heading?

In truth, my soul is suffering from the same thing as my body did; it's been twisted up for so long, it now longer recognizes 'True North."

So, exercise is in order. Introspection necessary.

Maybe not so much with The Goo Goo Dolls, though.

Perhaps Wang Chung instead.

Hail and Farewell to a Legend.

2011-08-29T05:41:00.000-05:00

In the summer of 1980, I was a young alcoholic-to-be artist just about to start the adventure of a lifetime.....University education in the Great White North of the Mitten.

I have a few distinct memories of the summer's introduction to the campus of the Northern University; I can remember it was damned hot that July; I can remember some instant friendships formed, some that exist to this day; I can remember a fairly good 50's band playing in the parking lot, and a girl in a poodle skirt that haunted my dreams for several years.

And I remember Daddy Bear.

My first introduction to the Great Man was sitting in his office as he gave me the spiel about the theatre program and which classes I should take my first semester. I can say that the man wasn't intimidating, but he could fill a room. But, he had this way about him.....you only needed to be in his presence for a minute or two, and you wanted to be his friend. You wanted to know him.

He directed me in several things, as I recall; a very memorable production of TAMING OF THE SHREW where I first discovered that I could be creative if I just stopped thinking. And I also learned that directing sometimes means sitting back and letting the actors do the thing they do. He cast me as Applegate in DAMN YANKEES, even though the day of my audition, I could hardly speak due to a throat infection.

When he taught Intro to Theatre, he convinced generation after generation that ROMEO AND JULIET is a comedy. And yes, if you look at it in its entirety, it IS. Cuz he said so.

But the thing I remember most is after a production of a student-directed one act called LOU GEHRIG DID NOT DIE OF CANCER. He took me aside for a moment, after I was cleaned of make up and running around to catch the next production in this evening of one acts.

He took me outside the room, and looked me in the eye. If you knew the man, you knew that when he looked you in the eye, he LOOKED you in the EYE.

"You're a hell of an actor."

He went on for a few minutes, supporting his thesis, but I didn't really hear it. All I heard was his confident assessment in my abilities. The rest was a warning about not f***ing it up with da booze. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and we went back in. He probably never knew that I was six inches off of the ground.

And after I graduated, when I came through the Northern Town, I always had a table to sit at and a bed to lie on.

And a man to admire.

James Rapport, known forever to all that knew him as Daddy Bear, exited this stage on August 28, after what seemed to be a very short illness. I will cry for a short time today, and smile for awhile after that. And I hope to see him again when the time is right.

Come in, she said........

2011-08-28T03:52:00.000-05:00

It's been awhile, I know. And it will be awhile longer, I'm afraid. But in the meantime, in honor of those hunkered down on the East Coast for the rarity of Irene, I give you one of my favorite Dylan tunes, appropriate to the occasion.

Carnival ramblings.

2011-08-18T01:11:00.000-05:00

I remember fondly the novel, SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES, by Ray Bradbury.

My uncle, highly adored but somewhat estranged due to a strange family dynamic, sent me a few Bradbury titles during one of the periods of my early high school days when I suffered from something that could have led to a failed convalescence; it was the days before cable, of course, so the pickins were slim on the television after the Today Show went away....so, I fell back on what Peter Falk in THE PRINCESS BRIDE called, "In my day, Television was called Books!"

It was the beginning of a love affair with the imagery of Bradbury that lives on today. I ate his work up with a spoon.

THE ILLUSTRATED MAN.
THE HALLOWEEN TREE.
FAHRENHEIT 451.
THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES. (I wept when they made an abysmal mini-series based upon this book. Wept.)

But the story of two friends at odds with the owners of Cooger and Dark's Pandemonium Shadow Show, the last, late carnival of the year lives on and on. (And yes, they made a movie of this, as well, back in the 80's, and I dragged some poor date to see it with me, and it was good, but not great. Date ended with a whimper and not a bang, as I remember....but I was a notorious failure at such things.)

I've never been able to go to a Carnival or a State Fair since then without needing to see it at nightfall, with the lights and the colors and the sounds.

I even worked at a theme park in the late 90's, and really enjoyed the nights.....the lights and the sounds of the rollercoaster riders, a wave of screaming people, the nearly invisible coaster streaking by above your head.....but also the look of the people as they carried their prizes and their balloons and their funnel cakes and their memories off to their homes.

I never did see a Bearded Lady, or the Rubber Man, or the Strong Man. I dated a clown, once upon a time. And a girl who made a living in a dinosaur suit.

But the clown wasn't really funny after awhile (not that I blame her; it was the late nineties and I was hip deep in sobriety and sorely in need of anti-depressants), and as far as the girl in the dinosaur suit...it would have been easier and quicker just to be consumed by at T-Rex. My luck. Sheesh.

I still like the Carnivals, when I can get them; and I dream of the Carnival that comes into town in the Fall of the year, bringing secrets and dreams and yes, even the occasional nightmare.

Even the sound of the Calliope on the foredeck of the steamboat as it travelled up and down the river would bring me to the shore.

And I dreamed of running away.

Still do.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, I dream of doing BARNUM, too.

Or writing like Bradbury.

But that's juuuuuust crazy talk.

The mind is a terrible thing to treat as a pinball machine.

2011-08-10T15:24:00.001-05:00

If you haven't been following the winding road with the surprising lack of scenery that is my life, I now work four days a week, ten hours a day. From 0000 until 1000. I haven't seen a weekend off since...uh...2008. But having three days off in a row almost makes up for the fact that most of my very important work is mind-numbing.

Believe me; for somebody who has striven, for most of his adult life, towards mostly cerebral endeavors, 'mind-numbing' is like the kiss of death.

(Temporary change of subject, on the subject of Death: I do not care for the Final Destination film franchise. First of all, to have six of these films produced makes the term 'Final' somewhat silly...and I don't think that we should ever consider Death to be vindictive or egocentric. Death is Death. It simply exists.)

I've mowed the lawn, done some laundry, and now I'm settled upon the couch and watching a Syfi* Channel marathon of the hour-long episodes of The Twilight Zone. They are wonderfully elongated half-hour episodes. Yeah, it was a bad choice to go from a half-hour to an hour, but I love Rod Serling.

(Temporary shift in subject, on the subject of the Anthology Series on Television: I miss them. They were classics; The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents.....I even liked the crazy ones like Love, American Style. I don't know how we can get into endless patterns of Doctor shows, Lawyer shows, Cop shows, etc....but the Anthology series has gone the way of the Dodo.)

It's August in the Northern State; summer nearly gone now. The river has slowly receded, but is still above flood stage, but we are assured by the Corps of Engineers that it will be down below flood stage just in time for the whole thing to start again in the Spring. Let us hope that whatever missed signals went into this near-calamity will be sorted out and we can avoid such things in the future.

Football is just around the corner. The Lions look like they'll field a team this year.
The Tigers are currently 3 games up, but they lost in 14 innings last night against second place Cleveland. I am reminded constantly that the only consistent sound that comes out of Comerica Park in August and September is usually the sound of choking.
What if the NBA had a lockout and nobody gave a crap?

I've rambled enough for one day. Perhaps even two.

*Two further observations: First of all....how stupid is it to change the name of the SCIFI Channel to SYFI? Remember when Science Fiction was considered cerebral? And remember when you could go to the Science Fiction section of the Barnes and Noble and NOT see freakin' VAMPIRE s**t?

Junk Food Junkie

2011-08-08T03:00:00.000-05:00

In lieu of any actual information, I present a little song and dance..... Preach on, Larry Groce!

I'm sad as hell, and I'm not gonna take it... until next Thursday.....

2011-08-01T08:41:00.000-05:00

Good morning.

I spent my weekend playing a game of "Much Ado About Nothing"; we in this particular branch tend to make mountains out of molehills, treat everybody as a suspect, and generally turn a small thing into a big thing at the drop of a hat, just to show off our little bit of power.

I work in a kind of evil Twilight Zone. And those that know me have often commented on the fact that it's tainted me on a basic level.

But it's all about the mountain and the molehill, isn't it?

Case in point: This country has been in debt, more or less, since 1791. The only President that DIDN'T raise the debt ceiling was Harry Truman. The people screaming about debt now are the same ones who were shouting DOWN the people screaming about the debt when the Republican was in office, spending billions of dollars of day fighting his Daddy's war.

Yes, I'm being superficial. The specifics of things make my head ache.

I wonder, though, from a strictly fantastical point of view.....if the Tea Party Conservatives are sure in their belief that we are a Christian Nation, and at the same time are willing to sacrifice the poor and elderly in this country by cutting funding to welfare, and medicaid, and are willing to risk the health of women everywhere by cutting funding to Planned Parenthood....then they need to either re-think their label, or they need to re-read the NEW TESTAMENT, and leave the OLD TESTAMENT alone for awhile.

Four hundred years ago, a playwright wrote, "he jests at scars that never felt a wound." How true, and how sadly consistent is the human race. Those that are well fed and well housed and healthy seem to hate those that truly need assistance. And those that truly need assistance are often lumped in with those liars and thieves that are twice damned for their machinations, taking the bread from those that truly need it.

And the government seems to be capable of nothing more than 'dumb show and noise.'

Watching CNN is liking taking a knife in the heart.
Watching FOX is like a sledgehammer to the head.

Watching PBS is like sitting a tasteless banquet.

I've managed to depress myself.

Which isn't hard these days.

Did I start this with, "Good Morning?"

I meant to say, "At least the sun came up. THIS time."

One of the Seven.

2011-07-31T03:21:00.001-05:00

I can recall sitting in an Elks Club somewhere in Tennessee in the Fall of 1985. I had been riding around the Eastern United States since late summer, carrying several shows in the back of the van, and there were four of us altogether, from various backgrounds and such, and bound together by that test of endurance known as touring.

We didn't know very much about each other; the truth is, I didn't really know much about myself; but in that year's time, I learned.

Tennessee. Elks club. Conservative Bible Belt Elks meet long haired college graduate theatre-type. Judged by a group of strangers simply by the way I looked. Wasn't the first time; wouldn't be the last time. But this was a defining moment...otherwise, I wouldn't remember it......

After the show and the strike, a group of them invited us to join them. Elks are traditionally friendly folk, but I never met an Elks Lodge that didn't have a bar. And beneath the bar, of course, was where they kept the stuff that separated the men from the boys.

Shine on, Shine on Harvest Moon. The homemade stuff. When done right, it simply burns a little; when done badly, it's like drinking a cup of cold poison. Liquid fire. Death in a shotglass.

I can still hear the condescending voice of the 'tender: "Awww, son, you don't want any of that." And in the meantime, pouring shots for the ladies.

Slow burn. Silent. Set up the shotglasses in front of me....one, two, three, four, five. Even stare at the 'tender.....a simple hand gesture, full of meaning: "Rack 'em up." He poured with a secret smile. I smiled back. He thought I was a soft Northern boy.

Five shots. One after the other. Straight face. Boom Boom Boom. Staring at the 'tender. No expression. The liquid is warm and taste slightly like sharp knives, but I've had worse. Spilled not a drop. Turned them over as I finished them. Until there were five spent soldiers on the wooden table; and when it was done, I smiled slightly......

Pride is a funny thing, but youthful pride even more so. There would be several more shots before the night was over, but there were no more condescending comments, or smiles. I had proven myself worthy of their respect.

Back then, it mattered.

But today, I wonder why it was so important to impress several small minded idiots in a small Tennessee town who's name has been permanently deleted from my memory. And, I wonder why my relationship with alcohol became so cavalier so soon. And I wonder, given the recklessness of my pride, how I managed to live so long.

The sun rises in the North and I get to see it. Again.

2011-07-24T06:33:00.000-05:00

I was recently going through old files with the laughable intention of deleting some things. I say laughable because, as you well know, I am a creature of sentiment and I am loathe to throw away anything that has the smallest significance to my past, present, or probable future. So, basically, it becomes me either turning something digital into something paper, or turning something paper into something digital...all done with a soundtrack from the late 70's-early 80's....right now, it's a combination of Chapin, Taylor, The Band, and the soundtrack from BARNUM.

I'm not one to keep photos, really; I've recently began to have an appreciation of the art, and the attempt to capture the fleeting moments for all time, but I do tend to keep the written word.

And don't tell anybody, but I do keep letters.

I ran across one just a few minutes ago.

It was like it was written to some other me.

A younger me, certainly. A less wise me, undoubtedly. Even a somewhat happier me.

The guy I don't see in the mirror anymore.

It's a million miles to where I would like to be; I have a full tank of gas, a half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and I'm wearing sunglasses.

I need a road map back to that guy.

Portrait of the actor as a waterfall.

2011-07-19T16:46:00.000-05:00

Dress rehearsal number three.

Temperature 98 degrees.

Heat index 120 degrees.

"Hey, Mother Nature! You think you're so HOT? I still got SWEAT GLANDS! I'm still SWEATIN'! BRING IT ON, BITCH! I've worked in the DESERT! I"ve worked in GALEVESTON! I've seen HUMIDITY that would send a CROCODILE cryin' home to his MAMA!"

Talking trash to Mother Nature in a blog entry is far more socially acceptable than doing it from my front porch. Just ask my neighbor. He'll agree with me.

Not that I did that.

Not on my front porch.

It was actually on my back deck.

And I wasn't in costume.

As far as you know.

BWAH HAHAHAHAHAHAH!

Just a quick one....

2011-07-18T03:40:00.000-05:00

A dress rehearsal that will live in infamy.....

Temperature on-stage at beginning of run (6:15 pm CDT): 96 degrees.
Humidity: 75%.
No breeze. No movement of any kind.

I spent my down-time backstage passing out bottles of cold water, and showing people where to apply the ice to get the most out of the experience. (It's the pulse points on the neck and the wrists.....you can also get some relief by applying ice to the pulse points in the inner thighs, but that requires a special relationship with modesty.)

It's now about 3:40 AM and I'm suffering the effects of high temperatures and no sleep.

I-Yi-Yi.

Running from the Sandmen again.....*

2011-07-17T05:58:00.000-05:00

Lately, my life has felt like the last fifteen minutes of TRUE ROMANCE; with everybody yelling at each other to put down the guns and get down on the floor, and one guy in the bathroom talking to the ghost of Elvis.

Yup; lots of noise, and a little bit of insanity.

I won't be getting much sleep in the next week; the show opens on Wednesday, and with the extra work shifts I've had to take up, very little down-time. Oh, and the dreaded 49th rears it's ugly head this week, so I have that trip down memory lane to deal with, as well. The voices have gotten less pronounced as the years have passed, but the memory lends me a smile rather than a tear these days.

Perhaps it's that road that I travel once a year (a road that's branched into several as the time has flown) that has made me think of the far-away friends. Of quiet and shy Kristi Ann, her of the long fingers and freckles, but a laugh like the sound of crystal; of handsome Ed, mortal and immortal and greatly missed; of Kevin, who in the short time I knew him made me laugh without trying, and listened without laughing; of Morgan, like the invisible LeFay of old, who for a time created worlds of delight out of spider's silk.....

I think about how far I've come; from sanity to crazy and there and back again.....how many places I've seen and the list grows longer. The roles I've played, both in real life and in fiction as well.

A life wrapped in love.

Well.

Love is the smooth nougat; and it's surrounded by the crunchy peanut shell of experience.

Hand in hand to create a pretty tasty treat.

Wow. One metaphor too many, I think.

That's what 5 AM will do to ya.

*If you understand the reference, give yourself several hundred points; if not, please see LOGAN'S RUN.

The height of Summer, the depth of Memory. Go figure.

2011-07-16T03:27:00.000-05:00

I often wonder why I don't have any recent, specific memories of Summer's past.

Of course, I have some romantic memories of distant Summers.....back when the days all started cool, and the endless games of baseball started early enough that the dew made the baseball and the tops of your tennies damp; the sounds of the Meadow Brook Music Festival wafting over the early evenings, and you could sit on your front porch as the lights came on and get yourself a free concert; and of course, that bumpy cake my Mother always got me for my Birthday.

But the Summers of my adulthood always seemed to include the theatre.

I could tell you that I could name every single play I've ever done during the thirty years of Summers since I first walked on a Summer Stage.....but I remember, most of all, the people.

I am not, by definition, a joiner. I don't introduce myself well. I spend a lot of time in the backs of rooms, hoping that somebody will stick out as somebody who could make heads or tails of my public flailing. I hide my vulnerability behind sarcasm and wit. I'd do my job, and that would be enough. But every now and then, I'd find a person or two who's company I enjoyed immensely, and they would stay with me throughout the decades; either in person, or in my memory.

In 1990, I met a group of people that made me laugh louder and longer than I had in a long time; and that laughter usually was around a table in which a furious game of Spades was going on, often all night.

In 1988, it was a hot summer, a drought that turned the Mississippi to a trickle, but there was another group of people that would light a fire on the shore, bring a couple of guitars and some liquid courage, and we'd sing and laugh and look at the stars.

Several times, I would be blessed with the kind of companionship that keeps the darkness at bay for awhile; and even though I broke my heart upon the rocks a couple of times, and broke one once, I am warmed by the memory of them.

One of my best friends became one of my best friends when he laughed out loud at a reference I made to a Kurt Vonnegut novel. I held out my hands and said, "See the Cat? See the Cradle?", and he responded, "Why don't you take a flying f**k at a rolling doughnut? What don't you take a flying f**k at the mooooon?"

And he actually drew out the word, "mooooon." Which made us friends for life.

Summers were always filled with that new frontier of people, stages, audiences and scripts; the new experience, the new space....and one more opportunity to make life-long connections. And even in those long summer runs, I never got bored. Not once.

I find, as I approach an age that I never expected to get to, that I miss the audiences, and the stage beneath my feet. There was never a place where I felt more in control, more at home. But more than that, I miss those specific people; and I long to set eyes upon them again, and hear them laugh and see them smile and sing and listen to the crickets as the sun goes down.

If Heaven is what we make of it, let it be filled with those moments.

Y'know?

Oh, HELL no.

2011-07-12T01:54:00.000-05:00

I was watching The Suze Orman Show over the weekend.

I am sure that she is a wiz when it comes to money matters; I have occasionally watched when people call in and ask her permission to buy something, and after getting all sorts of information from these people (and probably secretly selling that information to News of the World...oh, wait...never mind) she stands as the last Court of Appeals of the Financially Challenged...and if you're really cockeyed, she'll make fun of you before she says "No."

But she says it in such a way that instead of wanting to burn her studio to the ground because she's denied you your right to buy a fancy car when you're already $80,000 in debt, you actually THANK her.

The other day, she was talking about how much money you'll have if you work to a certain retirement age. And, with a big smile and a tone of voice that exuded the feeling that, "What I'm saying is a GREAT idea!", she suggested that I would have far more money if I worked until age 70.

SEVENTY.

My first thought: "Well, F**K that."

In fact, that was my second thought, and my fourth.

My third thought was to look in the Yellow Pages to find the address of her studio, and if I could find my gas can and matches.

Sure, Suze...I'd have all that extra money, and absolutely no energy to spend it.

Seventy, my ass.

Wandering Mind.

2011-07-10T03:33:00.000-05:00

And I was getting sooooo used to NOT working.

Back in the saddle, as they say, and I have the saddle sores to prove it. My trip the the imaginary land did not really destroy my sleep habits; being six hours ahead of the Central time zone, when I was rising at 6 AM, it was like Midnight, and I was used to living in those hours. But when I got home, and acclimated...well....last night's shift was pretty close to unbearable without actually BEING unbearable.

Friday night was almost a disaster. Had a whole night for working the stage fights from Romeo and Juliet, and everything was going swimmingly, until one of the actors took a sword in the face. Yup. My worst nightmare, made real. The actor in question is okay; he was thoroughly checked out and there is no lasting damage outside of a bruise; but he won't be fighting for a couple of days. I've rethought the fights over and over and have decided that I'm not changing that moment. It was a legitimate accident, folks. On Friday, they had done the same bit a half a dozen times with no problems and this one time things got weak and an accident happened. I do not see any reason to change the fight. Every single moment of each fight has the possibility of just such an accident, and I cannot second guess every choice I've made in the choreography of these fights. So, they stay as is.

This does not alter my feelings of regret at the accident, however. I hope never to feel that feeling again as I ran to the stage, fearing the worst. I am glad it wasn't worse.

My performance, at this point, is a little one-dimensional. I do a lot of chastising, and I find myself raging far too much, and thinking far too little. I need to unclench my fist a little and look beyond, but I'm about five rehearsals behind due to my travels, so the book is still in my head. But it will come. I don't know how. It's a mystery.

One of the sad truths of my adulthood is that I've completely forgotten the joy of Summer. Work schedules, obligations, and a newly discovered allergy to the sun has taken all the fun out of summertime.

Yes, you read that right. I have developed an allergy to the sun. Too much sun, even with the sun block, has me breaking out in a painful rash. As of now, it's usually limited to my hands and arms, but it's ugly and painful.

There are some delightful snippets of Summertime, though. Corn on the Cob, for example. Chicken grilled on the fire. Homemade ice cream.

And the Tigers are playing pretty well.

So.....

You probably figured I would have an opinion on this, so here goes....

2011-07-07T13:55:00.000-05:00

I don't know.

A group of people are chosen for a jury; it can't be easy in this case, because it's a very high profile case, involving the disappearance and death of a child, and had become the chief ratings-grabber for a certain perpetually incensed former prosecutor on a certain three-lettered news network.

The defense was very good; but in America, the burden of proof of guilt is on the prosecution. And, I believe, the prosecution was rushed into action by the media, and was unprepared. The jury, after rendering the verdict, admitted to being sickened by the verdict, but there was nothing they could do; there wasn't enough solid evidence to prove the cause of death, let alone the people responsible for it.

Recently, I read of a case from the 1950's, where a child disappeared in a small town, and was found some miles away. Horrible. No suspects. No real clues. Two months ago, a clue showed up; an unused train ticket in the belongings of a former member of the law enforcement community, and a 71 year old suspect was taken into custody.

There should never be a rush to judgement. And you should never trust the information you get from the television.

The Mother in this case is a reprehensible individual, and I can think of a lot of punishments that would suit my sense of justice. But she may be a drug abusing, alcoholic, narcissistic slut who danced and drank and sang and f**ked her way through life while her child's disappearance went unreported. We have evidence that she is, in fact, completely unfit for anything resembling parenthood, but self-love and self-delusion are not punishable offenses under the law.

There are, at present, 276 missing children in the state of Florida alone.

St. Jude, pray for us.

I will often dream of returning......

2011-07-05T12:39:00.000-05:00

Yes, I'm home.
I have supped full of images and ideas, sights and sounds of the various parts of England, and yes, if I have an opportunity, I'll return again. And I encourage you all to go; or to return to it.

I don't think, even after a few days of sorting through the pictures and mementos of the trip, that I can even begin to put it into words, except to say this: if you've ever been in a place you've never been, and felt comfortable....well, that's pretty much it.

What can I show you?

After exiting Paddington Station, I walked a block in one direction (my hotel was only three blocks from the station) and came across this sign on the side of St. Mary's Hospital. My response was, "that's fortunate, for syphilis was invented on the floor below."

Iconic images abound.

Everywhere you look.

And Legends, as well, as I discovered as I stepped out of the Baker Street Underground Station.

And just so you know, I purchased a Deerstalker Cap at the Sherlock Holmes Museum. And I sat in the great man's chair.

And I saw a show at the Globe Theatre on the Thames. Dr. Faustus. Pretty amazing.

I wish I could show you some of the sites from the road to Cornwall, but the roads and the tracks of the train are sided by large rock walls, or tall plant life, or both. It kind of looks like this.....

There were a couple of times that I feared for my life. But only a couple.

There were two surprises along the way: The first was that around St. Austell in Cornwall, there is a walking path called, 'Clemo's Way.' I believe it is named after a Cornish poet by the name of Reginald John Clemo, called Jack Clemo. There was no sign indicating the path itself, but it did start here:

Every small and large town in Cornwall has a church as a centerpiece. Truro's was especially beautiful.

But this is the image I enjoy the best; the one that just screams quaint and Cornish and country and city all wrapped up into one.

My poor photography skills belie the images in my head, of course, but I've done what I could. And towards the end, the camera was not behaving, and I was forced to use my phone, and I haven't transferred those yet.

So, a few more days of rest, and back to work. But boy, oh boy....I wouldn't have missed this trip for the wide world.

Saturday.

2011-06-25T16:23:00.000-05:00

I was walking through Hyde Park, not far from the Marble Arch, and I saw this.

The first thing that I thought was, "Crikey! Someone made this park an offer it couldn't refuse!"

Yes, I actually thought the work "Crikey."

I blame Danger Mouse.

Greetings.

2011-06-24T15:52:00.000-05:00

Your intrepid explorer has arrived at the crossroads of civilization; the heart of the Empire, where once the sun never set, but today it sets at around 2130.

London. City of my imagination, brought into reality by this plane ticket, opened up by the use of this really cool looking money.

Those that know me, my good friends and comrades from days and wars gone by, know that I present a jaded facade to the world; but that false face crumbles when presented by the world made real.

My first vocal expression upon seeing this city for the first time from the air: "Wow."

Even from high above, the dichotomy is evident, and almost heartwarming to know that the old can exist within, beside, and despite the desire for the new. The streets keep their cramped quaint quality, while housing KFC and Burger King. The Tower looms high over the river, and yet not far from there is the Eye, that strange and popular version of Ferris' Wheel.

If you'll indulge my giddiness, and my occasional lapse into the small-town boy I've been and hope to be again, I'll randomize some thoughts....

I haven't seen anything yet of the city; that comes tomorrow, of course. But the hotel is charming and small; my room is, in fact, a hallway with a closet, a WC, and a bed. Thank God for Wifi, because my Blackberry has NOT lived up to it's promises.

I stood in line with a couple of men, waiting to board the plane in Minneapolis, and they were returning to this country....I was allowing the ladies to step ahead of me in line, and all of a sudden, I was doing ten minutes of Music Hall banter with these two Goons. We got laughs. I was tired. And they were clearly better at it than I was, but I held my own for a good three minutes before they took off the kid gloves. I really enjoyed that.

The flight was, by any standard used to measure, abysmal. A note to Delta: you take an awful lot of my money...you charge me for bags, your markup for drinks is obscene, and you regularly overbook flights....could you perhaps take a few seats out and give some leg room to a fella?

Got a chance to watch some things on a little television in the seat in front of me. I watched a couple of episodes of Nurse Jackie, starring Edie Falco. I have a long standing crush on Edie Falco. Long standing. So, it more than makes up for the fact that the writing is okay, but take away the gratuitous cursing and the equally gratuitous sex, and it's another very special episode of ER. But I'll need to watch more. Y'know...for Edie.

Watched The Green Hornet. I've been a fan of the Green Hornet since I was a kid. The Green Hornet was created at WXYZ (I believe) in Detroit. I resented the fact that they turned Britt Reed into a well-meaning idiot. I liked the fact that Kato was more than a 'houseboy'. I thought the villain was cleverly created. But I really want to punch Seth Rogen in the nads.

Turned some dollars into pounds at the bank; I compared it to Las Vegas....I give you money, and as a reward, you give me less money in return...which is pretty much the story of my life in Vegas. But it's pretty money. And the coins make a very satisfying jingle jangle in me pocket.

The idea of seeing my old friend has gone by the wayside, sad to say. After our initial connection, I reached out and did not receive a reply. He's busy, being a composer of a hit show. Still.

I'll go see his show, anyway.

I am here, by the way, with my two Brothers and my Father, and the various Sisters-In-Law and the Niece and the Nephew will arrive on Sunday. I'm still on track for the Globe, the Tower, the Holmes Museum....and anything else I can get from the Red Bus Tour.

The summer rain is lovely and cold.

Monday morning is a train ride to Cornwall, where we'll go to Truro and rent a car. In the event I have to drive, please somebody tell my wife that I love her......

More as it happens.....

Deep breath, and jump.

2011-06-22T18:43:00.000-05:00

There is a certain kind of uncertainty travelling into the unknown.

Yeah, England is not Terra Incognita, but it's only a place of which I've dreamed. I'm not even sure I can point to something I've read that doesn't paint that far-away city as the Land of Victoria. In my dreams there are horse-drawn lorrys and flickering street lamps and Bobbys in funny hats.

When the reality meets my dreams, there will be a moment of "eep."

I'm reasonably prepared. Today was a lot of housework, mowing the lawn, preparing the laundry, going to the store to buy a few things, and closely monitoring my health. Tomorrow, I'll get up early and pack and by 5 pm, the adventure will have begun in earnest. And by earnest, I mean I'll be sitting in a small airplane seat, looking forward to the 3 hour layover in Minneapolis.

I have a friend, whom I will refer to at the Amazing Becks, who plans EVERYTHING. And she's just a little bit appalled that I'm planning almost nothing. I'm pretty much playing it by ear. The only thing that is really planned is that on Monday, I board a plane to go from London to Truro in Cornwall, and then the following Saturday, I get on a train to go back to London. And then, of course, I'll get on a plane and come back here, hoping that the cities of Bismarck, Mandan and Minot are still reasonably above water.

Minot is in a bad way; the river jumped several feet, thanks to lots of rain in Canada. If you got a minute or two, send some good thoughts their way. It's may get worse before it gets better.

And I've warned family and friends; if I like it, if it sings to me like a siren without the rocky shoal, I'll send word...pack the cats, sell the house, come on down.

If that does NOT occur, you'll hear from me. Transmission might be hazy; my hotel in London has
wi-fi of course, but I cannot be sure of the country manor. I'll take pictures.

Talk to you soon.

Random thoughts, and a tribute.....

2011-06-19T07:42:00.000-05:00

I watched a tornado begin to form over my house late yesterday afternoon. It was simultaneously an exciting and terrifying sight. It spun itself up, and then dissipated. All I kept thinking was, "well, this is going to ruin my day."

Discovered that I DO NOT have tickets to see MUCH ADO with Tennant/Tate. I am more than unusually unhappy about that. I will attempt to avoid crushing disappointment by seeing LEND ME A TENOR, the Musical (music composed by my old friend Brad Carroll) and perhaps something at the Globe...they're doing Marlowe's Faustus. I'd like to see the RSC, but it's a two hour train ride, and my time is limited in London to a Friday (as long as I can stay awake) a Two Saturdays and a Sunday.

If this goes well...I may have to do it regularly.

I have my twenty four lines memorized for ROMEO AND JULIET. All the fights are choreographed, and I would be literally going down for the third time if not for my fight captain, Austin Flemmer, and the fighters. They've allowed me to tinker and toy and I think they look quite nice. And the really great part is, we don't open until the middle of July.

THE UNTOUCHABLES is currently playing on the television. I can remember seeing this with my Uncle during a Christmas break....I can recall it being a little melodramatic, but it had a really cool soundtrack....oh, and Sean Connery. My feelings haven't changed: melodramatic. Sean Connery. Good soundtrack.

Here's an open question....if you had a small amount of money to do something theatrical, what play would you do?

It's Father's Day. In all the random thoughts, I'd like to take the time to speak of my Father. He gave me my first Trumpet, which was his. He gave my second car, and forever reminds me that I've pretty much destroyed every car I ever owned, or borrowed. He tells the story of when my parents brought me back from the hospital, he somehow managed to destroy the paint on his car by scraping it along a snow fence. He swears that the Car Gods were not after him...they were after me. He attended all my early attempts at acting; and a few after I learned what I was doing.....He saved me from a swarm of bees when I was a kid; he taught me to relish the simple quiet that the cabin could provide. He took me to baseball games, and bought the pizza during Superbowls. He made the best chili I ever ate. He grounded me when I was a rotten kid; he gave me a work ethic I carry to this day; he put three kids through college; and he's, bar none, the strongest man I've ever known.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Books for Schooks.

2011-06-14T06:15:00.000-05:00

Well, it's that time of year again, where I take a book off the shelf that I've tried on several occasions to get through, to no avail. This year, it's SHAKESPEARE'S DOG by Leon Rooke. I saw an adaptation of this book in play form in Chicago many years ago; I was dating a woman who was the stage manager for the production. I liked the woman more than I liked the play. The play was okay. The woman was like finding a lee in a storm.

The book is like wading through cement.

I've been through this before, though. I'll read a review of a book, and think that in order to justify my reputation as an erudite fellow, I need to read that book....and then I pick it up, and after a few pages here or there, I realize that being thought of as erudite is vastly overrated if I have to admit to liking this steaming pile of cr*p.

I'm not going to mention any titles.
A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES.

Oops.

Now, it took me several years to get through that book; and several more to learn enough about life to begin to understand it. And six months after that to understand why the author only wrote the one book.

So.

Here I go.

Chapter one.

ZZZZZZZ.

Mr. Northrup's in the Field of Dreams, hittin' 'em where they ain't.

2011-06-13T02:36:00.000-05:00

Jim Northrup, a hero of my youth, passed away a few days ago, at the age of 71.

He was a ball player. I was seven years old when he hit the ball over Curt Flood's head for a triple, scoring Horton and Cash, breaking a scoreless tie in game 7 of the '68 world series. The guy could put a hurtin' on the ball; I think he hit more grand slams than anybody I knew. He always came to play.

Quite a eulogy for a ball player.

It got me thinking about the nature of the games. In light of Dallas' victory over the highly touted and apparently overpaid Miami team in the NBA Finals, I begin to wonder if the quest for a championship begins to overwhelm the simple idea of playing the game. Enjoying the game.

There is a legitimate argument that if the ring is all you want, then you tend NOT to play the game at the highest level all the time, as you would if you simply LOVE playing the game; when a championship is on the line, you play hard, but if you're behind in the game and the game doesn't matter in your quest for a ring, then all of a sudden you're not running out the grounders or moving quickly back onto defense.

Which means, you're really only playing hard when the spotlight is hard upon you.

What a sorry state that would be.

I can remember when I played the game as a boy. We'd play all day, often until it was far too dark to see the ball. Every pitch was an opportunity; there was joy with every crack of the bat.

I can remember a quote which I will attribute to Leroy "Satchel" Paige, quite possibly the greatest pitcher who ever took a mound on a summer's day. "I feel so good," he'd often say, "I think we should play two."

Oh, Satch. The Spirit is willin' but the knees are weak.

Give me no awards or accolades, my friends; give me no rings to wear or trophies to put on a mantle to gather attention and dust.

Give me a sun-filled Saturday on a green, green diamond, with real wooden bats and leather gloves. And a gleaming white ball.

And when the sun goes down, let me dream of the glory of those times.

Meandering Thought.

2011-06-12T02:30:00.001-05:00

When I was younger, during a period of...shall we say.....career success, I was asked to join a union.

Now, you all know where I'm from; I'm from the land of Unions. So, you'd think I would have a soft spot for an organization that would be looking out for my best interests, while taking just a small portion of my hard earned wages.

I didn't join the union; largely because I had found in that period of...shall we say....career success, that by taking the Union card, I would for all intents and purposes be cutting myself off of about two-thirds of the work I had just finished.....and I'd be paying for that right.

It seemed.....shall we say....suicidal.

And, knowing myself as I do, I knew that I was not a unique entity. There were a hundred or more in the Union just like me. It didn't make sense to limit my job opportunities, and give myself extra competition, and pay for that opportunity.

After a while, I realized what the point of Unions were: the object of a Union is to keep people OUT of the Union.

And then, I began to see that some of the people around me began to see the Union as some kind of Holy Grail. And they thought I was crazy for NOT wanting to be in the Union. And that, somehow, not being in the Union was like walking down LaFayette Blvd after dark with several thousand dollars taped to your clothing, singing, "I cannot run very fast, and I don't see no cops around, do dah, do dah".

Union=Happiness. No Union=Death and Despair.

It's that attitude that keeps me from Organized Religion, as well. When the billboards go up, stating that I'm going to Hell without some Church's blessing...well.

I carry my adornments 'pon my soul. My Faith is not a flag to be flown, a statue on a mantelpiece to be cooed over and envied. And RELIGION.....

in the words of Bertram Cates*: "Religion is supposed to comfort people, not scare them to death."

Did you ever notice that I start out with one topic, and end with another?

Can you imagine what it's like to LIVE in this SKULL?

*Bertram Cates is a fictional character, and the focus of the trail in INHERIT THE WIND.

Random thoughts in a really quiet office.

2011-06-11T02:45:00.002-05:00

I understand that Leonard Stern, the creator of MAD LIBS, has passed away at the age of 88.
This makes me very (Adjective).

To the producers of HOUSE: Two words to solve your problem at the exit of Lisa Edelstein: JENNIFER MORRISON.

While a lot of the country is scorching, we didn't actually break 65 degrees yesterday. This is not to be envied. Remember, we had snow in May.

The Missouri River is not rising as quickly, or as far, as they anticipated. Instead of rising to 21.6 feet (which would be around 6.5 feet over its usual level...and yes, that's about eight inches over my head) it's only going to rise to about 19.5 feet. The dikes are in place and being monitored, but several hundred houses are already lost to it....and this is supposed to go on until July or August. But they tell me that the snow melt in the Montana Rockies is almost halfway done.

Can you still use the word Dike to describe a levee? Or, in the words of Robin Williams in GOOD MORNING, VIETNAM, "The river broke through a protective dike yesterday......what is a protective dike, anyway? Is it a butch woman in flannel standing nearby, saying, "don't go near the river...stay away from there!"

Forgive the previous, if it offends. Remember the words of Will Rogers: "If there's no malice in your heart, there can be none in your jokes."

Has anybody, besides me, ever heard the soundtrack from a review called, UPSTAIRS AT ONEALS? Apparently, it was Bebe Neuwirth's big break. Some clever music. For a four stool review.

Every job I've had in the last twenty years has provoked, at one time or another, the following phrase: "This really is a stupid f***ing way to make a living."

For the actors in the house: How many of you have left a theatre after a performance and said to yourself, "you know something? I really am good at this."? I think I've done it twice. Since 1980. Once in the fall of 1984. And once in summer of 1999. Every other time, I thought to myself, "Huh. They bought it."

One of my favorite bits from Mitch Hedberg is about him ordering a sandwich:
"I'd like a pastrami sandwich."
"What kind of bread?"
"Rye...no wait, banana...you got any banana bread?"
"No....what kind of cheese do you want on that?"
"Cottage."
"Get the f**k out! I'm not making you a pastrami sandwich and cottage cheese sandwich on banana bread!"

He goes on to say that he always orders the club sandwich, and he isn't even a member.

Goodnight, y'all.

The Hobby continues.

2011-06-10T00:14:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year again; time for your humble scribe to get involved with the Capitol Shakespeare again.

Last year was the first year I tried it; I had wanted to before that, but could never make the schedule work for me. Last year was SHREW, and it was a lot of fun; it was the first time I had stepped onto the stage here in the Northern State, and the first time since my artistic sabbatical began in 2003. There were a lot of people who had been there before, and for the most part, they made me most welcome.

The nights were fair and cool for July, and the audiences were generous in their laughter. Then again, if you cannot get a laugh doing SHREW, then it's time to consider another hobby.

This year, it's ROMEO AND JULIET; a bit of a departure, for the first three 'seasons' were comedies. For those of you familiar with the play OUTSIDE of the many motion picture interpretations, you know that right up until the first scene in the third act, it's a bright, shiny and funny play.

Side note: The trick to playing it is to a) allow for the suddenness of love and b) always remember that Romeo is sure he's going to live. You have to play the positive, otherwise it's a play that makes you want to tear your own eyes out, and then turn to the person to your left and tear their eyes out as well.

The director (a fine lady named Erin, who is probably the hardest working person I've met in the Northern State, and who seems to run the thing single-handedly) has given me a ton of leeway. She took into consideration that I would be missing some rehearsals as I venture out of the country to assist my Father in seeing with his own eyes the very birthplace of the family name, and cast me anyway. A small part; I come in from time to time to threaten people with death and occasionally banish somebody. Lots of meat on that bone. And she's letting me choreograph the various fights.

Tonight, we choreographed the first fight of the night; one guy bites his thumb, another guy takes exception, and suddenly we've got one guy wearing a basket for a hat, one guy getting clubbed with a log of wood, and one poor sap screaming as he's helicoptered around the stage on another guys shoulders....and Benvolio manages to not die when faced with Tybalt The Terminator.

Choreography is time consuming; and tiring. You know everybody's moves, and are constantly demonstrating....you have to keep your energy up, so everybody else matches that energy. And I'm almost 50, so I don't have the get-up-and-go that I used to. But when it comes together......it just makes me smile.

Ear to ear.

I have an assist; the most generous and talented Austin, who will watch and fix and tinker and such in my absence.

It's going to be fun.

And that has made all the difference.....

2011-06-09T11:25:00.000-05:00

There once was a girl, a long time ago.

And no, this doesn't end tragically.

I won't use her real name; the name is a common one, and I don't want somebody reading this thinking that this song is about them.

We went to high school together; actually, we went to elementary school through high school together. She lived in roughly the same neighborhood together, but we didn't really associate on a personal level.....

Except this one time. I don't really know how it happened. We were in this place, and sitting next to each other, talking. The music changed, and then we were dancing. The lights went low, and when two high school students are holding each other and the lights go down and the music is just right.....memorable things happen.

Apparently.

From that day to this, the Bob Seger song, TURN THE PAGE, reminds me of her.

So, we liked each other well enough to connect at the lips.....but that's not what I'm thinking about today.

It was one winter night, sometime after that dance. I was leaving the house to attend a gathering; it was a weekend, and that's what we did on weekends.....and headed up the road. I can dimly recall a figure walking through the snow in the opposite direction I was going. I didn't really notice other than a person in coat and a hat.

It was her. She'd had a tough day, and she was heading to my house, seeking my company.

Two ships passing in the night.

I occasionally wonder, when I'm sitting in an office in the middle of the night, about the crossroads, and the mystery of the road flirted with, but not taken.

Maybe I would have been more confident; maybe less lonely; maybe more social.

The illusion of those other roads can occasionally be comforting.

I should really plan these things beforehand.

2011-06-06T04:21:00.000-05:00

When I was a younger man (but older than a young man), and was a junior professor at a college in Missouri, one of my constant friends was a fellow who served as a self-professed, 'lion tamer' in the elementary school in town.

The elementary school itself was on the east end of the small town, and if the levee didn't hinder the view, the students in his particular classroom would have a lovely look-see of the Mississippi River.

If your view of the Mississippi is limited to the views seen from St. Louis or Nawleans, then you're missing out; I have fond memories of the summers of the late eighties and early nineties, when we could finish a show at the local dinner theatre and make our way out to the other side of the levee to light a fire, have a tasty beverage or two, and pick at the guitars and sing old songs and laugh like no one was listening. The river was fickle thing; it could be so shallow you could walk across it (such as the drought of '88, one of the hottest summers of my recollection) or high and huge (the summer of '93, where the bravery and tenacity of several thousand townsfolk kept the aforementioned levee from being overcome), but there was nothing so comfortable as sitting in the sand along the shore and listening to it simply slide by.....and wishing, just for a minute, you could be Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn.

That is not my point, alas. It's merely a digression that my reading public has come to expect from the humble scribe.

My friend, Scott, the elementary school teacher, once asked his students a routine geography question: "What river is that on the other side of the levee?"

They spoke as one. "The Missouri!"

Scott had to explain that it was the Mississippi River, one of the longest rivers in the country. They scoffed at him and his lack of knowledge. How could THAT be the Mississippi River, if they lived in MISSOURI? If they are, in fact, in MISSOURI, then that river must be the MISSOURI RIVER.

A lack of knowledge can always be supported by geographic pride, it seems.

I can remember Scott being somewhat tired after that incident; largely, because even though he won the argument (no matter how what you do, you cannot change the fact that that river was the Mississippi and NOT the Missouri), he knew, in his heart, that he didn't really change their minds, and that they left the classroom thinking he was a big fat liar.

That story came to mind this morning (and please remember that my morning begins at just about the time you're calling it a day) as I did a quick scan of the news websites, making sure my life was complicated by something that somebody did when I was sleeping, and I came across a story about a certain once and future politician who suggested that Paul Revere was warning the British by ringing bells and shouting that they weren't going to take our guns or our freedom.

Eventually, I'm going to get to the point when I'm not surprised anymore. I had hoped it would have come by now.

Now, a while back, when this once and future politician claimed that the Health Care bill contained something called , "Death Panels"....I thought that surely a thinking person would never believe that kind of hokum and humbug.

Yup. Surprise, surprise.

When asked a simple question about what kind of newspapers, magazines or websites she reads to keep up on current events, she couldn't name....a single one. And she blamed the interviewer for throwing her a trick question.

Surely, nobody would buy that....oh, wait. Head-shaking-inducing Surprise.

Combine this whole story with the recent studies that a large portion of the population of the United States feels that a college education is useless, and overpriced, and you'll see that we're on that path that Herbert George Wells wrote about back near the turn of the last century......the Eloi who caper and cavort with no cares, and the Morlock that eat them.

However, I do sleep well enough with the knowledge that my kind will be the first ones up against the wall when the revolution comes.

So, I got that going for me.

Even the Four Horsemen need a guy with a shovel....

2011-06-03T02:25:00.005-05:00

My office has had a catastrophic failure of the satellite dish.

I hate satellite television, by the way; it works fine when the sun is out, but God help you if it rains, sleets, or there is a wind of any kind. Or, if some idiot wants to repair the roof on which your satellite sits.

So, in order to stay connected, I am forced to listen to the radio.

AM radio.

I've been listening to a call-in show; and I'm scared.

There seem to be many, many people out there that are thinking, and in some cases, HOPING that these are the endtimes.

I have faith, friends and neighbors, even as I lack religion. I pray that there is something after this; for if I cannot see again all those that have gone before me, I am going to be very disappointed.

But I am a patient man. I can wait to see them.

And I don't think (read: I really hope) that they are in no hurry to see ME.

Sometimes, I feel that these people are not all that interested in being witness to the end of all things; they just want to be RIGHT. They want to stand on the precipice of paradise and be able to yell, "SEE? I TOLD YOU SO!!!"

My secret desire is that St. Peter punches them in the crotch. It they are right, and they have the nerve to rub it in my face at they enter the kingdom of Heaven as I attempt to make all nice-nice with the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse, then I want them entering the kingdom of Heaven doubled over, groaning, with tears streaming from their eyes....

Yeah. I know.

I'm screwed.

Giddyup.

My Side of the Story

2011-06-01T10:44:00.003-05:00

I have a lot of things running through the little grey cells this morning; and in the attempt to create some order out of the chaos that is the average day in the Historicranium has been.....futile.

So, as you well know, when words do not come, I go to song.

Lest We Forget......

2011-05-30T02:10:00.004-05:00

Lawrence Joel

Rank and organization: Specialist Sixth Class (then Sp5c), U.S. Army, Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 1st Battalion (Airborne), 503d Infantry, 173d Airborne Brigade.

Place and date: Republic of Vietnam, 8 November 1965,

Entered service at: New York City, N.Y. G.O. No.: 15, 5 April 1946.

Born: 22 February 1928, Winston-Salem, N.C.

Medal of Honor Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty. Sp6c. Joel demonstrated indomitable courage, determination, and professional skill when a numerically superior and well-concealed Viet Cong element launched a vicious attack which wounded or killed nearly every man in the lead squad of the company. After treating the men wounded by the initial burst of gunfire, he bravely moved forward to assist others who were wounded while proceeding to their objective. While moving from man to man, he was struck in the right leg by machine gun fire. Although painfully wounded his desire to aid his fellow soldiers transcended all personal feeling. He bandaged his own wound and self-administered morphine to deaden the pain enabling him to continue his dangerous undertaking. Through this period of time, he constantly shouted words of encouragement to all around him. Then, completely ignoring the warnings of others, and his pain, he continued his search for wounded, exposing himself to hostile fire; and, as bullets dug up the dirt around him, he held plasma bottles high while kneeling completely engrossed in his life saving mission. Then, after being struck a second time and with a bullet lodged in his thigh, he dragged himself over the battlefield and succeeded in treating 13 more men before his medical supplies ran out. Displaying resourcefulness, he saved the life of 1 man by placing a plastic bag over a severe chest wound to congeal the blood. As 1 of the platoons pursued the Viet Cong, an insurgent force in concealed positions opened fire on the platoon and wounded many more soldiers. With a new stock of medical supplies, Sp6c. Joel again shouted words of encouragement as he crawled through an intense hail of gunfire to the wounded men. After the 24 hour battle subsided and the Viet Cong dead numbered 410, snipers continued to harass the company. Throughout the long battle, Sp6c. Joel never lost sight of his mission as a medical aidman and continued to comfort and treat the wounded until his own evacuation was ordered. His meticulous attention to duty saved a large number of lives and his unselfish, daring example under most adverse conditions was an inspiration to all. Sp6c. Joel's profound concern for his fellow soldiers, at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty are in the highest traditions of the U.S. Army and reflect great credit upon himself and the Armed Forces of his country.

Historiclemo note: Long before Mr. Joel was immortalized in a country song by Big and Rich, I came across his name while doing a show in Winston-Salem N.C. in 1985. He was a favorite son; his name adorns a stadium, an auditorium at Walter Reed, two clinics at military bases, and a street near the hospital in Ft. Campbell KY.

"Greater Love Hath No Man.....Then To Lay Down His Life For a Friend."

Farewell, Bobby Wheeler.....

2011-05-29T06:01:00.003-05:00

My memory is as deep as a well, and as shallow as a thimble.

And yet it wanders.

Back to 1981 or so, I believe, and an episode of TAXI.

If you've never seen TAXI, you are missing a comedy gem, in my opinion; a great ensemble cast, wonderful writing that that never (with some exceptions) depended upon one single character for material.

At least, not at first.

Andy Kaufman became a household name as Latka; catch phrase after catch phrase that are, in some cases, still being used today. They played to him a lot as things went on, so I tend to abuse my own statement.

Christopher Lloyd as Reverend Jim, who's slow delivery and occasional lapses into hyper-sanity were guffaw inducing.

But it was the other characters taking center stage that was so fascinating.

Alex (Judd Hirsch) going to Europe for the first time, with glorious dreams, but winding up doing nothing but solving a Rubik's Cube.

Elaine (Marilu Henner) having a terrible day and stating that there are no Princes or Castles or White Knights left in the world; only to find that Jim has built her a castle in her living room, out of the metal in his van.

Louie (Danny Devito) and his on-again off-again girlfriend Zena. And his Mother.

But the one that comes to mind today is Bobby Wheeler: struggling actor, talented, but always just out of the reach of success.

There was an episode where he reads a review by a pompous critic, and is so incensed that he writes a letter to the newspaper, but his better nature takes over, and he disposes of it.

And Louie takes it out of the trash and sends it to the paper, which makes Bobby both a hero to the theatre world, but an enemy of said critic. And the next night, the critic is attending Bobby's one man show on Charles Darwin.

He sweats through it, and that night the critic meet him, and lets him read the review. It's a beautiful review; the kind any actor would want to get. And through the conversation, you find that the critic is genuine; Bobby's performance was incredible, and it makes the critic believe in Off-Broadway theatre again.

And then, the critic tears it up.

A bad review, he explains, would make Bobby a martyr. A good review would make him a star. But no review at all....would make him disappear as if he'd never been.

It was a great episode, and it spoke loudly to a young man with dreams of being an actor himself.

Jeff Conaway, who played Bobby Wheeler in those Halcyon days, passed away yesterday at age 60, from a combination of pneumonia and sepsis. He ended his life as an on-again off-again drug user, famous in his infamy and alas, the very portrait of the modern Icarus.

He will be missed by the grown up young man who still has dreams of being an actor.

pacis exsisto vobis.

A view from the bluff.

2011-05-27T09:07:00.003-05:00

The Missouri River is being a pain in the Western Part of the Northern State's ass.

Yes, I'm aware that the mental image of that sentence is terribly skewed. But the feeling remains.

Lots of rain in Montana; a slow snowmelt in the Rockies, and now we are literally bursting with water and no place for it to go. So, they're opening the damn this weekend, and 85,000 square feet per second will soon be making it's way south.

And then, they'll increase it later in June to 105,000 sfs.

Yeah, it's going to be a little difficult for some of the houses along the river to stay afloat; but the city itself is going to be reasonably okay. They've evacuated the zoo, and the sandbags are being stacked in the hope that they can hold it off for awhile.

They say it'll be high water until....August.

Mother Nature has been particularly angry this season; huge wildfires, floods in the entire Midwest, tornadoes everywhere. There is, of course, no logic to it, and trying to apply rhyme or reason is futile. All we can do is hold on tight and ride it out. And hope for the best. And pray, if you've a mind to.

And live.

Live with the knowledge that nature is what happens when we're busy making other plans. Live with that knowledge, but not with the fear that it's just around the corner. Assist and support when you can.

Life is equal portions of Tragic and Magic.

Remember the latter when you're dealing with the former.

Return.

2011-05-24T13:20:00.003-05:00

And back home again in the Northern State, where the weather isn't predictable, but I know where the basement is.

For those of you following along, I just recently returned from a sojourn to Kansas City, Missouri, where I saw a wedding, a plethora of old friends, and a couple of interesting museums. There were pictures taken, and souvenirs purchased.

One of my favorite former students, Greg, got married this weekend to the woman he's been with for three years. He claims that they got married on the 21st of May, because their first date was three years ago on the 22nd, and she didn't want to have to wait three years to get married.

Either Greg is a funny guy, or a huuuuge procrastinator.

The wedding was supposed to be outdoors, but this is what happened. There was supposed to be some kind of Rupture on the 21st, but nobody could quite figure out what time it was supposed to be; some said Noon, some said 6 PM...but nobody could tell from a close reading for clues in the bible whether it was Eastern time or Greenwich Mean Time. And then, suddenly, nothing happened.

So much for the Rupture.

It has also been a record for the river flooding (worst in something like 135 years), and tornadoes (worst in 60 years), and there were a couple hanging around that weekend.

So, they move the wedding indoors.

You'll never guess what happened.

Yup. Sunny and warm. All day.

But it was a lovely ceremony, well attended and I wish all the happiness in the world, and riches a-plenty both material and spiritual, to the happy couple.

I managed to sneak in a couple of visits; one to the Harry Truman Library and Museum in Independence, which is one you'll love to see. So many cool things to look at and listen to and watch. He was a fine man; made difficult decisions at the close of WWII; held the country together after that; spoke for the people between NY and LA like they mattered; and lived a purpose-filled life. One of those people on my "Fantasy Dinner Party" guest list.

I also attended the Steamboat Arabia Museum. I have always had an affinity for the old boats, ever since I heard the first stories of the Sultana (it's another story). This boat was sunk in the Missouri back before the Civil War, and was left under a farmer's field when the river changed channels. A bunch of amateur treasure hunters found it and dug it up, and the cargo was perfectly preserved. And it's all in this museum.

It was a lovely vacation, all told. Lots of old stories; I was quoted again and again, which is an unnerving experience when you, yourself, think that most of what you say is full of KakaDoodie nonsense. But I was treated to a litany of Historiclemo Quotes from the old days that made me laugh out loud. I was, apparently, a very clever fellow in my youth.

And now I'm back...mowing the jungle and weeding the beds and paying the bills and such.

England in 30 days!

Big wheels keep on turning.

2011-05-19T08:19:00.003-05:00

I enjoy traveling, I always have.

And of course, I would like to believe that it is, as all the philosopher's maintain, the journey and not the destination.

This is belied by the fact that Interstate construction ticks me off; or, more specifically, it ticks me off that people over-or-underreact to the construction. Just drive the speed they want you to, my friend...and we'll all get where we're going without rancor.

I like driving. You can see so much, even when you're behind the wheel. I like to see where people are from. I try to put together people's lives by what they wear on their car: the plates (the state their from; in some cases, the county they live in), the plate frames (where they bought the car, where they went to school, what sports teams they like, or whether or not they're a proud parent or grandparent of an honor student), bumper stickers ("you can have my gun when you pry it out of my cold, dead hands" is making a comeback), or other stickers tell much about the driver. And then, whatever you can see in the car itself: child seats, groceries, dogs, cats.....children and how many. And then, the driver.

I like giving kudos to drivers when I'm on the road. If they have a nice car, if I catch their eye, I let them know my admiration for their ride. I NEVER try to correct bad behavior...that way leads to madness. Usually somebody ELSE'S madness. And that's unpredictable.

You miss a lot on Interstates that you can see on State and County roads; but, along the Interstates in this Northern area....you can see some pretty cool stuff.

The way a farming community comes up along the road; huge houses on large tracks of land, in various states of decay. The house is sometimes in disarray, but the equipment is always shiny. The silos stand tall in the against the morning sky. And when the sun hits the highest part of the town (usually a bright white church spire) it's what Norman Rockwell always told me it would be like.

You would be amazed how many old cemeteries are built on the sides of hills.

Aside from the quaintness of the small community, there is, to me, some comfort in the crossroads, as well. It's probably the broad education I received as a younger Historiclemo: I spent half my life in the suburbs, and half of it in the rural communities of the Central Mitten. I like the small towns, but I'm also enamored of the bright lights of the Interstate crossroad...arc lights.....huge stores and fast food places with their colorful lights. Some call it blight. I don't.

I love driving by a ball park or a playing field as the sun comes down and the lights come up. It doesn't matter whether it's a Major League ball park or a Friday night High School football game. I roll down the window in the hopes that I can get a whiff of the air, or a cheer for the home team.

I'm traveling now, if you haven't guessed; and this morning, there came a cool rain. I sat at the window with my cuppa coffee and simply...watched the rain fall.

My mind is quiet.

Sigh.

In Ignarus , Illic Est Gaudium

2011-05-17T06:30:00.004-05:00

I cannot claim to be an economic wizard. I have a hard time balancing my checkbook, but since most of my life was living hand to mouth, there really wasn't that much to keep aware of.

The National Debt is so large, it ceases to be a real number. I do know that the country has been in debt since before the Civil War.....and of course, we need to be able to feed the electorate something easy to swallow....so, debt it is.

There was a poll conducted back in the 1970's...I believe it was concerning the need to find alternative energy sources, such as Solar, Hydro-electric, etc.....and the results of the poll showed that...well, we're pretty selfish. We are not swayed (I speak in generalizations, mind you, and not specifics.....you, unwitting reader, may be swayed by the following argument) by entreaties for the welfare of the generations to come. Most Americans at the time felt that they wouldn't know anybody a century from now...so, we need to do what we need to do in the here-and-now and not start thinking in terms of Science Fiction.

So. If the debt is over a century and a half old; and generally speaking, we're not that sympathetic to the plight of the future Americans.....

Hmn.

The final, funny part of this whole thing is that Mr. Trump has declined the invitation to join in the Republican Gavotte (To the right.....Ever to the right....Never to the left....Forever to the right....), seeking the need to make more money for himself, the network and oh, yeah...the charities that are represented on Sell-ebrity Apprentice.

He was supposed to bring new insight into the debt, and the deficit.

This guy who's been in bankruptcy three times.

Isn't that a little like asking Jack the Ripper for surgery tips?

What Do You Watch After 2 AM?

2011-05-16T02:09:00.003-05:00

There is a pretty sizable crap buffet when it comes to late night/early morning television.

There is only so much news one can watch; especially since, with rare exception, there is a recurring loop of news on the major news networks...unless something unusual happens, like an earthquake, a flood, or the accidental killing of a terrorist.

Tonight, the Oprah Network is running ROXANNE. One of my favorite movies. I love the Cyrano story, but when you add the Steve Martin secret ingredient, it's just a wonderful film.

I recently acquired the soundtrack of the film; apparently, it's rare, but it's lovely. And I paid far under the market price for it; thank you, EBay, and your sellers that don't really know what they have.

Which leads me to wondering what my list of favorite "After 2 AM Movies" would be, if I were to create one.....

In no particular order, and assuming that ROXANNE is one of them....

EDDIE AND THE CRUISERS.....I can't explain it, really. It's a movie about music; it's a mystery; it's a 'look back to look forward' film. I just enjoy seeing it after 2 AM.

GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD LUCK.....even before 2 AM, this is a great film. Great performances, historically accurate (taking into consideration the condensation of events for the sake of time and conflict), and a very nice blending of actors and kinescope.

RAISING ARIZONA.....Oh, my God, this is a funny film after several dozen viewings, over twenty years.....and it contains, by far, the greatest chase sequence EVER. With Yodeling.

THE BIG CHILL.....I don't know what to say that hasn't already been said; great cast, great soundtrack.....

ONCE UPON A TIME IN AMERICA.....if you get the director's cut, it's about 4.5 hours long, but you'll never feel the time passing. One of the best "gangster" films ever made, with DeNiro, James Woods, and a cast of thousands.

FORBIDDEN PLANET.....one of the classic sci-fi films of the 1950's; it's THE TEMPEST in space.

AMAZON WOMEN ON THE MOON....if you like KENTUCKY FRIED MOVIE or THE GROOVE TUBE, then you must see this film. It's episodic, sketch comedy based upon, well...late night television. This movie got me through Graduate School.

THE ABOMINABLE DR. PHIBES.....one of those campy horror films starring Vincent Price. It's far too difficult to describe, but it's great fun.

THE HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY.....I have re-considered my original assessment of this film; at first, I wasn't fond. Too many American accents, probably. But having seen it a couple of times, I have developed a new fondness for it.

THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE.....the original, with Sinatra. The height of Cold War paranoia, well paced, well acted, edge-of-your-seat suspense. And Angela Lansbury.

and finally,

THE SEVEN PERCENT SOLUTION.....a Sherlock Holmes tale that answers the question of how Holmes overcame his cocaine addiction...with the help of Sigmund Freud, or course! A wonderful story within a story...within a story. And Alan Arkin as Freud; and Olivier as Moriarty.

Oh, well....back to CNN.

Have a good morning, all!

This is not a revelation; it's not even an original thought. We frown on original thought here.

2011-05-12T10:58:00.000-05:00

I first read George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four in...well....1976.

At the time, as a young man of (AGE REDACTED), and in the time of upheaval that was the end of the Nixon administration and the push-back that became the Carter administration that later became the push-back that became the Glorious Day of Reagan....

Well, needless to say that although I was fairly attuned to what was going on (I was an incorrigible 'need to know' kid), but had no idea on how things ran until....

Wait.

I still don't REALLY know how things run.

And if I do, I can't tell you.

And if I do, and I can't tell you...I have to say that you DON'T WANT TO KNOW.

I know and I DON'T WANT TO KNOW sometimes.......

But there is digression here.

The whole idea at the time seemed absurd....how could a country such as ours, who had served as a beacon for the world, could be turned into what we perceived our enemy to be? And by enemy, I mean the Soviet Union, frozen in the image of Stalinistic Creepiness.

A country where 85% of the population answers to the other 15%, which controls all the media, the economy, and the military forces.
A country that has boiled it's language down to the very basics, eliminating art, and poetry, and drama.
A country perpetually at war, with enemies that may, or may not exist.
A country who's government monitors everything, including the thoughts of the populace.
A country where torture is acceptable at even the lowest levels.

Surely, this would never happen here.

Sometimes, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

When in doubt....make Shadow Puppets!

2011-05-10T03:25:00.003-05:00

Well, this is awkward.

There is nothing in the goings-on here on the Great Mudball Satellite that has peaked my curiosity and interest.

CNN and FAUX News have let me down.

Or, I'm not paying as much attention as I used to.

It's raining here right now; the kind that's accompanied by the percussion of the thunder.

So, that's your weather update from the Northern State.

In sports:

The Tigers are on a 3 game winning streak.

The Red Wings are playing like every game is Game 7. Tonight at the Joe is game 6. Frankly, I didn't expect it to go five. We don't just have Winged Wheels...we have Winged Wheels on FIRE!

When the sun is golden and the leaves are green.

2011-05-08T03:34:00.001-05:00

As you well know, or can gather from the time and date stamps on some of these entries, I work in the dead of the night. And recently, we changed the schedule a little bit...the upside is that I only work four days a week; the downside is that each day becomes two hour longer.

Today is a grand experiment, so to speak. Lately, the days have been almost unbearable. And by days, I mean nights. And by unbearable, I mean suicide inducing. So, today....is the first of the ten hour shifts.

But that's not what I want to talk about.

I sleep during the daytime. I get to bed sometime around 1 PM, and I awaken sometime around 9 PM. And in my youth, I could sleep at a moments notice. I could drop off for twenty minutes, and I'd be good for awhile. In fact, I could work around the clock for several days if I got a 20 minute nap every so often. But in my age, I've found that sleeping in the daytime is hard.

Largely, because people feel it's their right to be loud in the daytime.
Selfish bastards.

Actually, a little of it might be that my adult-wired brain hasn't quite put down the idea that when the sun is up, you're supposed to be working.

Either way.....night's are hard when days are awake. I'm no longer that young guy.

But I did dream last night (afternoon). I was sitting under a tree, in a quiet park, with a stream running through it. It was a very temperate day, so I assume Spring or Fall.....and I was reading THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING.

Heaven.

What's in a name, exactly?

2011-05-06T05:11:00.003-05:00

So...the various tribes of Apache are looking for an apology for the naming of a recent action by Navy Seals as "Operation Geronimo."

Remember when I was talking about perspective the other day? Here's another example...

When I saw that they had named the Operation "Geronimo", I was very impressed that they had named the operation after a character from Thomas Kyd's THE SPANISH TRAGEDY; the character of Jeronimo (sometimes spelled Heironimo and yes, Geronimo) is driven mad by the machinations of those around him, and eventually does unthinkable crimes (let's just say that some of the fun of TITUS ANDRONICUS was influenced by THE SPANISH TRAGEDY).

The name made perfect sense to me, given that perception.

I would also like to point out that Kyd named his character sometime between 1582 and 1592....some 237 years or so before the famed Apache was born.

It would be insensitive for me to go any further on this subject.

I'm just going to put on this parachute, and let myself out...

JERONIMO!

I like my Cinco de Miracle Whip.....

2011-05-05T10:15:00.003-05:00

Cinco de Mayo!

For those that assume it's Mexican Independence Day....it's not. It is the day in which they commemorate a victory over the French in the Battle of Puebla.

They commemorate with large amounts of Tequila, apparently.

Americans tend to simply commemorate that it's the Fifth of May....with large amounts of Tequila.

On the Fifth of May, everybody becomes a Mexican, similar to the way that everybody becomes an Irish Catholic on St. Patrick's Day.

Of course, St. Patrick had to drive the Snakes (Druids) out of Ireland (by slaughtering them, no doubt). The Mexicans simply had to defeat the French.

And we all know the history of French warfare. It's best summed up by Janitor Willie, who refers to them as "Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys."

Those of my brethren often refer to days like this as "amateur night." When far too many people drink far too much and wind up doing far to many stupid things.

Be careful, my friends.

Most of you are funny to watch when you're drunk; and I would miss that if you were jailed or in otherwise incapacitated.

Ole! And whatnot.....

In the silence between the act and the aftermath.....

2011-05-03T12:05:00.004-05:00

Oh, the nightmares I had last night, my friends.

And all the thoughts that run through my head.....

It isn't pleasant in the corners of my mind this morning:

I have images of grieving families all over the world.

I have a quiet pride for the men and women who stand on front lines and do unpleasant things to protect me and my right to speak my mind....but I hold their bravery in the highest of esteem.

I have images of people celebrating in the streets at the destruction of people and property in the early days of the last decade; and I have images of people celebrating the killing of a single man in the desert.

I was angry when I saw the first. And I was ashamed when I saw the second.

Yes...a few days ago I vented my feelings at the results; and I stand by them not as an exultation of joy, but as a guy who's life was complicated by the man's presence, and will be further complicated by the man's absence.

I'm reminded that we are all of us, Americans, descended from those that used violence to break from what they considered their oppressors. We dumped tea into the harbor dressed as Indians. We stood behind rocks and trees when most armies still met in long lines on the field of battle.

I'm also reminded of a great novella written by Richard Matheson, called I AM LEGEND; and one of the guiding principles of the novel was the fact that when everybody turns into vampires....then the humans are actually the disease. It's a question of perspective.

I have done my best in my sobriety to remove malice from my heart; but I am human and the need for vengeance runs in our blood. I have turned to Faith to help out, but religion rears its ugly head from time to time and that confuses the issue. But I bear no malice for those that seek to avenge themselves upon us for whatever reasons they need to justify the behavior.

I seek, as I have always sought, to understand. And understanding requires knowledge; and knowledge requires conversation.....not preaching, or pontification, but honest conversation.

When knowledge is achieved, and parity is met, then through that a comfortable peace will be achieved.....

Then I'll dance in the streets.

And I would be pleased if you would all join me; it's been far too long since we all danced with spirit and love and abandon.

a quck note.

2011-05-02T00:53:00.001-05:00

I take no satisfaction in the death of any man.

But Farewell, you Bastard.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?

2011-04-30T06:25:00.002-05:00

I do not envy, in fact my heart hurts a little for the citizens of the south that have been whipped about by the severe weather lately.

It has been quite strange, weather-wise, and winter becomes spring...and then reverts again to winter....and then reverts back to spring for a couple of hours, and then crushes us back into winter with another blizzard.

Yes, you heard that right....another BLIZZARD.

On the 30th of April.

The first signs of it came through my workspace this morning, at just around 0445 (most, if not all of you, should have either been asleep, or past caring by that time of the morning). A small town in the northwest corner of the Northern State is being crushed by a blizzard that will make its own way to the East as the day progresses.

We expect 4-6 inches of snow before the sun rises on Sunday.

Lucky for me my lawn is done....but I do fear that the water in my sprinkler system might freeze, and explode. But probably not after two days of this stuff. I hope.

I am so tired of this, I could just strangle a penguin.