Limerick Friday LXXX: Who The F Is Jeremy Bentham?

A new name unveiled last night on “Lost”
And a truth to be protected at all cost
Ben destroyed the freighter without a care
Then moved the island to god knows where
Yet the fates of the Oceanic Six are still crossed

Promises made but not kept
Clients lost while management slept
Pharma deals with additions
So agencies deal in fictions
Can I finally be through with companies that are inept?

The Clintons perpetuate myth after myth
Lies as big as Hillary’s thighs’ width
It’s time for her to give up the ghost
Admit Obama is the candidate with the most
If you think Barack can’t beat McCain you need another fifth

Mortgage rates continue to rise
Leaking money right before our eyes
The timing has been less than stellar
Let’s hope there’s no dampness in the stellar
Our peaks and valleys are due for some highs

“Sex And The City” hits the box office, preening
Women will search it desperately for some meaning
“Skanks in the City” might be a better title
I guess unthinking “girl power” is vital
Balance it with Indy Jones is how I’m leaning

Last time …

Basement Dwellers Dig MySpace

Thanks to Hulu.com for finally unearthing this new-school gem. Talk about the SNL sketch featuring the MySpace class at the Learning Annex was all the rage around the watercooler that Monday morning. People were trading lines like, "I went to college early ... like Doogie Howser!" and "Oh no. I don't want that. Why would I want that?" and "What's the best way to make sure that Dateline's not going to be there?"

Plus, Elaine's involved. She always brings the funny. Giddyup.

* Sorry about the insufferable Wal-Mart commercial beforehand. It starts out like the sketch about "Mom Jeans," doesn't it?

Reviews Don’t Quite Tell The Story Of “Gone Baby Gone”

On general principle, I would surmise that a movie like "Gone Baby Gone" that boasts Morgan Freeman and Casie Affleck would likely be assured of more success by using Freeman moreso than Affleck. So when I found out that not only was Casey Affleck the lead actor, but his brother Ben was the director and co-writer, I was pretty sure this was going to be a stinker … something along the lines of “Gigli” meets “Good Will Hunting.” That’s why I was somewhat surprised at the positive vibes that the flick generated, bolstered by a rave review from Rolling Stone and a good one from the New York Post. The favorable criticism was punctuated by an Oscar nomination for Amy Ryan, who portrayed Helene McCready, the drug-addled mother of a kidnapped four-year-old girl. And since Dennis Lehane has become one of my favorite writers, and since it was his book that inspired the film, I was intrigued enough to check it out.

The immediate impression for me was that Affleck was pretty good, but it was rather unbelievable to view him as a tough-guy private detective named Patrick Kenzie, and his relationship with his girlfriend, Michelle Monaghan, was awkward at best. Kenzie is tasked with helping to find McCready’s daughter by using contacts from every level of society that he has made in the Dorchester neighborhood of Boston. Freeman is always great, but he was only spottily used in the movie, and Ed Harris’s character was very good as well.

However, this was one of those flicks that tried to be about four different movies in one. It seemed like it was ending after less than an hour, but a few unforeseen plot twists allowed it to play out to nearly two hours. The major plot point (a fake kidnapping, not to give away too much) was not believable and very hard to swallow, and since it was the impetus behind the entire second half of the movie, that lack of credibility brought the movie down quite a bit in my estimation. The film did incorporate some elements of “Se7en” into it (always a good thing), including a variety of difficult moral choices that faced Kenzie throughout.

At the end, in somewhat abrupt and confusing fashion, Kenzie loses his relationship as a ramification of one of his decisions, and the ending scene involves him sitting on a couch, seeing that his decision may have been sort of pointless and seemingly questioning whether he had chosen correctly. The final message is one that we all learn one way or another, at one time or another: people don’t change.

"Gone Baby Gone" had a few bright moments (when Lehan’s involved, you were always assured of a tremendous story), but I was left not quite understanding some of the hubbub surrounding it. The end result is likely to be that the Affleck brothers will be afforded even more cinematic opportunities in Hollywood; I’ll let you decide whether that is a good thing or not.

"Last Comic Politician Standing"

Obama at the Apollo ... ?

Dolphins Toe The Line As Sellout Taylor Tries To Have His Cake And Dance On It, Too

“Once you are dancing with the devil, the prettiest capers won’t help you.”
–E.T.A.W. Hoffman

For years, I’ve tried to embrace my Miami Dolphins fandom by forcing myself to like Jason Taylor. I could never argue that he wasn’t one of the elite defensive ends in the game, a difference-maker with a non-stop motor. I did my best to ignore his seemingly every-other-year disappearing acts early in his career. I looked the other way when he seemed to emphasize modeling and doing local commercials over conditioning. I stuck up for him when he kept finding himself in strange, dangerous situations, involved in road-rage incidents, violent confrontations with family members, multiple and messy public separations from his wife. Because he was articulate and charismatic, these incidents were mostly glossed over by a media that preferred to focus their attacks on people they didn’t understand, like Ricky Williams. His ability to offer a great quote or a memorable sound byte seemed to make Taylor a Teflon man in the Miami area. But there was always something about him that bothered me, a sensed selfishness, a perceived phoniness that made it harder than it should have been for me to like him.

So when Taylor elected to take part in “Dancing with the Stars” over working to erase the stench of a 1-15 season and adapting to a new system implemented by executive vice president of football operations Bill Parcells, coach Tony Sparano and general manager Jeff Ireland, I certainly wasn’t surprised. As the losses had piled up in Miami over the past few years, Taylor had increasingly distanced himself from the franchise, outwardly expressing his disappointment and, last year, seemingly losing some of the trademark fire that had propelled his game. With an eye toward an assumed Hollywood career that seems built on a house of cards, football had become secondary to Taylor, and the proof of that was cemented when Taylor traded in his helmet for a tutu and cast aside his presumed role as team leader for a twinkle-toed chance at reality show “stardom.” His role models had gone from Butkus to Baryshnikov, from Lawrence Taylor to Tinker Bell.

When Sparano recently tersely announced during a mini-camp that Taylor had decided to skip team activities (even though “Dancing with the Stars” had ended) and had made it clear he would not even participate in training camp a few months away, I was again unsurprised. Word is that J.T. had fallen in love with the idea of becoming the next sports “star” to make the transition to a film career, with his eyes on making romantic comedies along the lines of the Rock. I won’t even get into how ridiculous it is to want to model yourself to “actors” like the Rock; that’s a completely different column. As laughable as it is to consider all the “reports” that he has multiple multi-million dollar movie deals just waiting for him to say the word, what is perhaps most chapping is that Taylor thinks he can have it both ways. He thinks he can turn his back on his team, choose the bright lights of the movie industry and then slide his way onto another team so he can steal a championship ring before he ducks out of the game and into a series of horrible movies.

He wants to have a winning team handed to him so he can further boost his Hollywood stock. He wants to use football as a hobby to further his acting aspirations, without having to work too hard in either. The reality is any sense of honor or nobility or manhood would mean that he would choose one or the other. Pissing down the leg of Bill Parcells is certainly not the way to try to force your team’s hand; the Tuna is just stubborn and red-assed enough to force Taylor to retire purely out of spite. And I don’t blame him.

Perhaps most laughably, the Miami media has nearly to a man jumped on Taylor’s side, in a clear and disturbing example of sportswriters getting too close to the players they cover and sacrificing objectivity for some type of tenuous “friendship.” These writers seem so thrilled with the idea of having a buddy in Taylor (“He likes me! He really likes me!”) that they haven’t considered the fact that J.T. is using them to fight his battles through articles, columns and blogs. Not helping the matter is that there is a left-over, pissed-off sentiment arising from the media freeze-out imposed by Nick Saban and somewhat continued by the Tuna, and that’s leading the writers to take unwarranted potshots at the new administration. And that’s why some of these “journalists” wind up sounding like spurned eight-year-olds in discussing Sparano’s tactics and questionable experience (“What he said and did to get players in line at New Haven, and to freeze some squeaky campus newspaper reporter in his tracks, doesn’t fly here,” wrote one local hack).

The reality is the Dolphins can fine Taylor as much as $300,000 if he skips every day of training camp. For a guy who is slated to make $15.5 million over the next two years, that certainly doesn’t sound like much. But he’s the team’s lone remaining marketable commodity after the unceremonious departure of Zach Thomas, so why should Miami be forced by a part-time football player to accept a deal for less-than-value to simply grant his wishes and trade him to a team that is already a contender? What do the Dolphins have to gain by helping a 34-year-old prima-donna achieve his Hollywood dreams while stepping on their backs to get to a Super Bowl with a different team?

Admittedly, blame lies on both sides. J.T. elected to act like a bitch-ass because of a perceived snub from the triumvirate of Parcells, Sparano and Ireland, while the Dolphins brass decided to air this dirty laundry during a time when Miami has some good stories going (they’ve signed five of nine draft choices already, far and away the best start in the league; Ricky Williams and Ronnie Brown look good; competition is fierce at all positions in mini-camps). But while one would expect players to take Taylor’s side in this to a man, former Dolphins All-Pro defensive end Manny Fernandez nailed the situation perfectly when he said, “Jason’s got a very inflated feeling of self-worth. He’s setting himself up as the perfect martyr.”

At this point, I’d prefer to see Miami force Taylor’s hand and force him to spend his days sipping lattes with Paulie Shore in San Bernardino as the football season shockingly goes on without him. A fourth-rounder so Taylor can try to bleed a few more dollars out of a questionable and fledgling acting career? Or taking a stand against the Nancy-fied, entitled, prima-donna bullshit that we see so increasingly in professional sports?

I’m with the ‘Fins on this one, so tap-dance your punk ass into the sunset, J.T. That’s Dennis Rodman on line one, by the way; he’s got some exciting ideas for sequels to “Double Team” and “Simon Sez” that he’d like to talk to you about.

Miami Herald: “Taylor, Dolphins Head for Showdown,” Jeff Darlington

Miami Herald: “Nothing has changed since news that Taylor won’t be in camp,” Armando Salguero

Miami Herald: “This ending is unfitting for Dolphins’ Taylor,” Israel Gutierrez

South Florida Sun-Sentinel: “The dance with Taylor takes an ugly turn,” Ethan Skolnick

South Florida Sun-Sentinel: “Jason Taylor tango nears end with Dolphins,” Harvey Fialkov

Palm Beach Post: “Dolphins raise many questions with suspicious JT statement,” Tim Graham

Palm Beach Post: “Dolphins miss chance at best trade value,” Greg Stoda

Palm Beach Post: “Dolphins coach Sparano clumsy in handling first big test,” Dave George

Guinness & Shamrocks: Wrapping Up The Irish Tour, 2008

With the Ireland trip fading nostalgically in the rear-view mirror, I wanted to share a few random thoughts that I had hastily scribbled in my journal, but hadn’t been able to find a spot for in the daily wrapups. I’ve also included a few pix that I hadn’t previous found a home for. So, casting organization, pertinence, relevance and timeliness to the wind, here goes …

*** Reviewing the pictures at the end of the day was really cool. Sometimes you get lost in all the incredible things you’ve seen, to the point where your head is spinning and it’s hard to form coherent thoughts on it all. So reliving some of the experiences through the images at the end of the day was not only helpful, but awesome.


*** Largely, the B&Bs were actually better than the hotels we stayed in. The B&Bs were much less intrusive and offered much more privacy than we expected. Basically, if you wanted to chat it up with fellow guests and compare notes, the opportunity was certainly there. If you were just looking for a home base to come back to between seeing the sights, without having to deal with, you know, people, that avenue was there as well. All of our hosts were gracious, informative and funny, while the hotels we encountered were both cold and subpar (one much more than the other).

*** Street signs basically don’t exist in Ireland. Even in Dublin, the signs are usually located on adjacent buildings, if at all, so it takes some patience, sense of direction and a dash of lucky guesswork to get where you want to go.


*** It’s exactly 300 kilometers from Dingle to Dublin, or 187 miles. This basically means that you can roughly go from one coast to the other in southern Ireland in a decent amount of time.

*** Personal space isn’t always valued by tourists. At one point, we had basically the entire second deck of the Hop On, Hop Off, double-decker bus to ourselves, so we sat in the far back seat to take some pictures and enjoy the sights. Well, at one stop, a coupla over-eager fellow tourists came bounding on with goofy smiles—and proceeded to walk down the aisle of the near-empty deck to sit right freaking next to us. Then, as if that wasn’t exasperating enough, they unknowingly spilled something at one point, and I got off the bus and noticed my pants were soaking wet. Jackasses.

*** In Ireland, you can get tax money back at the airport for buying Irish merchandise. Of course, the lines were very long and the people working them less than helpful, but considering the horrific exchange rate, any and every little bit helped.


*** We noticed that a lot of the music we heard in stores and restaurants was actually very cheesy late-70s, early-80s American easy listening. Do they really think that is what Americans listen to? If so, it only adds to the embarrassment and shame I already feel courtesy of W.

*** Tipping bartenders is not only discouraged, but is actually considered bad form. Having bartended and waited tables in the past, that was very weird and took some getting used to. Of course, not having to tip on an $8 Guinness is a little anti-climactic.

*** When you’re doing a whirlwind tour of a country, sometimes it’s good to stop and (literally) smell the coffee. Taking a stroll through St. Stephen’s Green with a mocha, watching the pedestrians and planning out the day was one of the most relaxing and fun times I had.


*** Keeping an open mind and a sense of flexibility is also key to immersion travel. When you have spent so much time and energy researching and working out an itinerary, it is natural to want to follow it as closely as possible. But sometimes, things are so different from expected when you get to where you’re going that you almost have to throw everything you planned out the window and start from scratch. So that willingness to bend and make changes on the fly can not only help you avoid some potential obstacles, but can also add some excitement and spontaneity to your trip.

*** Dubliners can be rude, aggressive, unaware and oblivious—like the citizens of any really large city. As a whole, the Irish people that we dealt with were humorous, overly helpful and grateful for your patronage. It’s just that going with the flow in Dublin itself can require a little more patience … and sarcasm.


*** One unique thing in Dublin was it was easy to notice a real and constant effort to keep things clean. Street-sweeping machines were everywhere, fitting with the environmentally conscious signage, advertisements and commercials that we saw along the way. The U.S. has a long, long way to go to reach the European standards of global and social consciousness.

*** We did encounter a multi-floored mall on Grafton Street that had pay toilets on the second floor. People were actually standing in line for the right to pay to use the bathroom. Amazing.

*** I saw a man riding a bicycle with a three-legged dog running behind him on a leash in Phoenix Park. I took a picture to be sure that I wasn’t making it all up in my head.


*** Dublin is incredibly pedestrian-friendly, and after you sort of get your bearings, it is easy to find any and everything. In fact, I must have passed for someone who looked like they knew where they were going and what they were doing, because by my last night, I was actually giving out directions! Someone stopped me outside of O’Neill’s and asked where the Auld Dubliner was, and before I knew it, I was directing him down to the Temple Bar district and around bends, even throwing out the correct street names. Osmosis, maybe? Perhaps, but either way, I think my directions might actually have even been right.

I hope these little write-ups have succeeded in somewhat passing along the feelings and experiences we had in Ireland. I’m enclosing the day-by-day links below if by any chance you want to check them out again …

Erin Go Bragh!

Ireland, Day 1
Ireland, Day 2
Ireland, Day 3
Ireland, Day 4
Ireland, Day 5
Ireland, Day 6

Swell Season Descends On Raleigh For A Swell Session

"We're five men and one woman singing our hearts out for you, and we're just hoping it's translating." – The Swell Season

Before launching into their epic song, “Falling Slowly,” last week in Raleigh, Swell Season frontman Glen Hansard offered up a meditation on the ages-old struggle between staying true to your music and selling out, disguised as a neatly designed metaphor. He said that watching the success of such a song is like wanting to kick a football to the end of your garden … but then you watch as it goes to the edge of the garden … then over the wall at the back of the garden … then over the river … then over the field … then over the next town … and then over a town you’ve never even heard of. And he said that about seven-eighths of you thinks, “I can’t believe I just kicked that football that fucking far.” And that overpowers the one-eighth of you that says, “I want my fucking football back.”

It’s the ideal metaphor for Hansard, who has toiled in relative musical obscurity for a quarter of a century. It’s been a long road from busking on the streets of Dublin at 13 years old to putting together the Frames to appearing in the phenomenal “Once” to winning the Oscar for Best Song with “Falling Slowly.” The humility that comes along with such a jaunt is apparent in Hansard’s demeanor and stage presence, and it was partly thanks to that humility and self-deprecating style that made the May 15 appearance of the Swell Season at Meymandi Concert Hall in Raleigh’s Progress Energy Center for the Performing Arts perhaps the best and most genuine concert experience I’ve ever had.

The crowd of 1,700 braved the rain (and $6 beers) to be entertained first by indy folkster Dawn Landes, accompanied by drummer/jack-of-all-trades Ray Rizzo. Best known for her song “Twilight,” Landes is originally from Kentucky, but lives in the Bronx now. She played about a dozen songs prior to a brief intermission to allow Swell Season to prepare to take the stage.

Hansard wasted little time in captivating the audience. He walked onstage, waved, picked up his battered guitar, strolled to the very edge of the stage, and launched into a searing, microphone-free version of “Say It To Me Now,” my favorite song from “Once” (even though it was technically first recorded a dozen years ago).



With the crowd still rumbling from the emotional kickstart to the show, Hansard welcomed band member, girlfriend and “Once” co-star Marketa Irglova onstage, and they proceeded to unveil a new, soulful duet arrangement for “All the Way Down.” By the time they got to a phenomenal, hold-your-breath version of “When Your Mind’s Made Up,” I was just about reeling already.

After a new song called “Your Love Makes Me Cheerful,” Irglova, who was battling allergies all night (to the point where she wasn’t sure she’d be able to make the gig; but ever the trooper, she managed a “Thanks, y’all,” poking fun at the South in a Czech accent), introduced another new number, the beautiful “On My Mind.” Later, Hansard shared yet another new song called “Go With Happiness” in which he had no accompanying guitar and hammed it up (a little too much, in my opinion) as the lead singer/band director.

Yet despite some of the joking around and story-telling, you got the sense that this was a band that was truly feeding off the crowd. Not only did they play “Rise” after an audience member requested it, but Hansard constantly made changes to the set list, playing songs on feel and filling in his bandmates on the fly. The performance had a very improv feel to it, with lots of banter with the crowd and even some audience participation. This wasn’t some choreographed extension of an independent movie gone blockbuster—this was an expression of incredible music pouring through a couple of people who happened to be in a surprise film once (pun intended). Hansard has the unique ability to appear to be singing from somewhere not only deep inside, but perhaps even underneath that and outside of himself. The result is stunning at times, bringing the emotions that must have surrounded the creation of certain songs to the forefront, channeling it into the listener.

As Hansard’s metaphor points up, there can be a fine line with a song like “Falling Slowly,” a balancing act between sharing a wonderful song and having it become too commercialized and overplayed. Perhaps to combat falling off that fence, Hansard and Irglova have come up with a few different versions of it that have allowed them to at least partially keep “Falling Slowly” fresh. Also, just when you think you’ve seen the movie and heard all the songs, they’ll smack you in the face with something unexpected and incredible. Hansard delivered perhaps the show’s most indelible moments when he crashed, banged, screamed and soared through a stunning cover of Van Morrison’s “Astral Weeks”: (“If I ventured in the slipstream/Between the viaducts of your dream/Where immobile steel rims crack/And the ditch in the back roads stop/Could you find me?/Would you kiss-a my eyes?/To lay me down/In silence easy/To be born again/To be born again”):



That was followed quickly by another tremendous cover, a Hansard/Irglova duet on the Pixies’ “Cactus” (“I miss your kissin' and I miss your head/And a letter in your writing doesn't mean you're not dead/Run outside in the desert heat/Make your dress all wet and send it to me”). The band brought the two-and-a-quarter-hour show to a close with an eclectic encore that included Irglova favorite “If You Want Me,” dedicated to the women in the audience; a solo for Con Iomaire, the violinist, called “The Blue Shoes”; and even the freaking tour manager got into the act, making a political statement about America with Steve Earle’s “The Mountain”:

I was young on this mountain but now I am old
And I knew every holler, every cool swimmin' hole
‘Til one night I lay down and woke up to find
That my childhood was over and I went down in the mine

There's a hole in this mountain and it's dark and it's deep
And God only knows all the secrets it keeps
There's a chill in the air only miners can feel
There're ghosts in the tunnels that the company sealed

By the time bassist Doyle got into the act on the finale, “Star Star,” I figured Hansard would eventually let an audience member have a crack at a song. I was ready to go with “Creep” on the triangle, but I never got the call. Oh well.

The show was made even cooler since I had recently been to Ireland, where Hansard hails from. I’ve walked some of the same streets where “Once” was filmed, so I understood a few of the references he made between songs. He mentioned that if you go to Dublin, you’re not going to Ireland — you’re going to Dublin. He said that Dublin is like any big city, so you need to go somewhere like Doolin to really experience Ireland. Having been to Doolin, and been to Dublin, and been to Ireland, I totally got this.

One of the funniest aspects of the show is that, still, no one seems to know where Swell Season ends and the Frames, “Once” and/or the Hansard/Irglova duo begins. Many of the songs overlap from album to album for the various collaborations. I do know that Swell Season features three members of the Frames: violinist Colm Mac Con Iomaire, bassist Joe Doyle and guitarist Rob Bochnik. However, drummer Graham Hopkins is not affiliated with the Frames. However, former Frames member John Carney wound up directing “Once,” and sort of spearheaded the creation of “Falling Slowly.” Carney said in an interview that he knew that, in order for “Once” to be a success, the music had to be almost transcendent, to carry the film. Not only was he right, and not only did that happen, but it wound up being the genesis for this new collaboration, this new creative machine that eventually turned into Swell Season.

And I found out for myself that Swell Season can kick a fucking football one hell of a long way.

Deep Thoughts On Belicheat, By Mr. Cartmenez

This latest “South Park” classic deals with Eric Cartman summoning his inner Edward James Olmos from “Stand and Deliver” (“How do I reach these kids?!”). When using the Patsies’ Bill Beeeeelichek as an example, Mr. Cartmenez says, “If you cheat and fail, you’re a cheater. If you cheat and succeed, you’re savvy.”

This should be required viewing for NFL commissioner Roger Goddell, who comes across as a taskmaster for wayward players but rolls over like a bitch for the “untouchable” franchises. Enjoy …

Jedi Church Protects World From Everything ... Except Metal Crutch

Stop me when you reach a fact that is not believable.

There is such a thing as a Jedi religion. It claims close to 400,000 members. There is a Jedi church in Wales. It has 30 members. A guy dressed up as Darth Vader, cleverly substituting a garbage bag for a cape. He attacked two members of the Jedi church. With a metal crutch. In the head and thigh. He was drunk on wine-in-a-box.

This might be the greatest story ever told.

Despite his sneaky costume, a 27-year-old named Arwel Hughes had to pay $507 in court costs and damages to two victims (Masters Jonba and Mormi Hehol—pronounced HEE-HAW) he assaulted with a metal crutch. Luckily (I guess?), the victims had previously set up a camera to videotape themselves in a light saber battle (*cue video of painfully awkward dork playing with light saber*), so they captured the “real” attack on film. In a brilliant and memorable defense tactic, the perp claimed that he knew the behavior was wrong, but he had no recollection of it. He had good reason, according to the AP (wait for it):

“Hughes claimed he couldn’t remember the incident, having drunk the better part of a 2 ½-gallon box of wine beforehand.”

I mean, this sounds like the plot of an episode of “The Office,” an event that should have rightfully taken place on Dwight’s beet farm. “In the name of You’re Not My Father, Leia’s illegitimate son, and the Holy Chewbacca …”

Amazingly, the Church of Jediism has existed since 2003, when the above-mentioned Masters Jonba and Momi were joined by Masters Morda Hehol and Jonar Magway in creating a church that offers personal Jedi training and monthly Jedi teachings. Can you imagine the merchandising opportunities here? Yoda on a cross? Jabba the Hutt as Satan? Arriving at the pearly gates in a landspeeder? Dressing as a Jawa on the Sabbath? A groundbreaking civil union between R2-D2 and C3PO? Natalie Portman arriving at your door in a short-sleeved dress shirt and tie, asking for a few moments of your time to talk about the Force?

In a 2001 United Kingdom census, 390,000 people listed Jedi as their religion—0.7% of the population at the time. You, too, can join those numbers right online … but a word of warning: “[PLEASE NOTE DUE TO THE LARGE VOLUME OF EMAILS WE RECIVE (sic) PLEASE BE PATIENT FOR A REPLY]”

According to the church’s site, “Our aim is to bring all the world’s believers in the force together for the power of good.” Just beware the dark side. And, well, crutches.

Cast off your old name! Your Jedi name is VOGSC JOWAU of the planet Midol! Find your Jedi Name!

“August Rush”: Three Chords And The Truth About Music

Sometimes the driving idea that propels a movie from underneath is enough to overcome errors in execution and gaps in believability. It is during those times when we have to be willing to suspend the standard criticisms that we normally heap on films that don’t live up to what we have come to expect. “August Rush” signifies one of those times, and one of those movies.

Boosted by a phenomenal opening scene, this film is a 114-minute love song to the power and magic of music. Freddie Highmore is remarkable in the title role, an 11-year-old musical prodigy whose life is comprised of notes, chords and sounds that serve to cover up the circumstances that have landed him in a rough-and-tumble orphanage, forgotten and neglected. “I believe in music the way some people believe in fairy tales,” he says, clinging to the idea that music will one day allow him to track down his parents. The first 10 minutes of this movie are both moving and memorable.

There are certainly some implausible moments and a few too many coincidences for comfort. Jonathan Rhys Meyers is a bit of a Creepy McCheese as the father, Louis Connelly, and not only is he not believable as an Irishman, but the chemistry between he and Keri Russell (Lyla Novacek) is awkward at best. The “rock star” wooing the classical cellist, the bad guy chasing the good girl, is trite at best, and Meyers in particular is a tough sell as the music-is-my-life, down-and-out busker. Then, things get a little more uncomfortable when August makes his way to a musical pseudo-Neverland, ruled over by a previous Peter Pan, Robin Williams as Maxwell “Wizard” Wallace. Williams is alternately portrayed as a paternal protector of the arts and an abusive, possibly pedophilic lunatic. He’s never clearly defined, and the idea of an unknown, underground village of homeless orphans with outrageous musical ability is another tough pill to swallow. By the time we are taken to a party where Irish guys are standing around drinking Dos Equis, it’s almost time to give up on this one.

However, something about “August Rush” keeps pulling you back in. It’s “Cider House Rules” meets “Little Man Tate” meets “Finding Forrester,” with enough inspiring moments to keep dragging you along. There are some neat plot parallels, especially the usage of the “I’ve been counting” line by both the mother and the long-lost son. Highmore redeems enough of his flick, with the help of a nuanced, soulful performance by Terrence Howard as Richard Jeffries, August’s case worker.

Again, the implausibility factor is through the roof at times and the coincidence warning bell rings like Three Mile Island toward the end, but this is an original, cool movie that begs to be liked. “August Rush” is a reminder of the raw, emotional, impactful strength of music, and who can’t use such a reminder every now and again?

Here’s a film that can be enjoyed as long as it isn’t too closely analyzed … one that can soar if you are willing to suspend that disbelief and shrug off your built-in cynic. If you try, and if you can, you’re sure to be glad you did.

I've Worked For A Blind Midget, But This Is Ridiculous ...

I share this one to commemorate the passing of SNL into irrelevance, an occurrence that I once would have never dreamed possible considering the list of considerable talent that has walked through the doors of Studio 8H ...

This clip features a coupla my favorites in Will Ferrell and the eminently underrated Chris Parnell. Enjoy.

G'Lo Continues To Fight The Good Fight

Unfortunately, our little guy has taken a drastic turn for the worse.

After completing his fourth of five rounds of chemotherapy on Friday, I picked him up from the vet and took him home. He seemed to be doing fine, but later on in the evening, we noticed that he was panting heavily and was not interested in eating – even treats. He was even having trouble getting around, so we called our doctor and arranged to meet her at the clinic around 8:30 or so.

As Gallo jumped out of the car to enter the clinic, he yelped, an indication that he was having some type of internal difficulty. It reminded us of the initial time that we had to take him to the vet before this rollercoaster started, months ago. After an initial exam of his stomach (involving poking and prodding) did not cause him any noticeable pain, the doctor arranged an X-ray. When the X-ray showed that there appeared to be an unidentifiable mass near his liver, the doctor elected to do a sonogram. We were allowed to be with Gallo during this procedure as they put him on his back and smeared the jelly on his tummy. Our doctor decided that it was a tumor that had ruptured, leading to internal bleeding, but could not determine whether there was just one or more. When she asked us what we would like to do, we asked her what she would choose if it was her dog. She said that she would perform surgery to see whether it was just the one tumor, and if it was, they could remove it and give Gallo a little more time. However, if there were multiple tumors, we could have G-boy put down right on the table. The overriding prognosis was that, since Gallo was getting a tumor even as he was enduring chemotherapy, it was simply a matter of time before G passed on. Knowing how far we had gone with G’Lo along this road, I gave the go-ahead for the surgery. I had to give him one last chance to prolong his life. They would give us updates as the surgery progressed, and allow us the right to decide whether to have him put to sleep if necessary.


As they prepared him for surgery, Gallo was overly lethargic, tired and panting. They attempted to locate several veins to draw blood and establish a catheter IV. Even as they poked him repeatedly with the needle, he didn’t seem to notice or care either way. Having finally drawn the necessary blood and begun an IV designed to provide him some strength to handle the surgery, they left us alone with Gallo, who was having trouble moving and simply lay on the floor, his head on our lap.

As he was led back for the operation, G’Lo pity-hopped along, overreacting to a bandage that had been placed on his back leg. We took this as a good sign. Yet at this point, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I didn’t believe Gallo was going to make it through yet another surgery. Chemotherapy followed by significant blood loss followed by emergency surgery … from reading his body language and behavior, it just didn’t feel like a combination of obstacles that he could overcome in his weakened state.

Yet, though Gallo’s blood pressure dropped precipitously to a point where it reached a number that the doctors didn’t feel comfortable sharing with us, he pulled through the surgery. They gave us a few different updates, then brought in the piece of liver they had cut out of him, which included the tumor. The tumor itself was very small, the size of a blister or wart. It had latched on to an artery within G’s liver, so when it burst, it caused the artery to start spurting blood into his chest cavity. Had we not made the quick decision to bring Gallo in that evening, he likely would have bled to death overnight. The insidious nature of hemangiosarcoma and how it so quickly impacts the bloodstream and organs is frightening.

We were told that, despite losing 25% of his liver, G would be able to do fine in terms of liver function. However, the job now was to raise his core temperature, stabilize him and elevate his blood count. If necessary, since his marrow was depleted already due to his chemo earlier in the day, he would need a blood transfusion. Wrapped in blankets, heating pads and water blankets, Gallo lay with his tongue out. He was hooked up to a morphine drip, a blood pressure monitor, an EKG machine and another catheter. He yelped in pain when they tried to move him a little so they could take his temperature, but he eventually recognized us a few minutes later, and even managed a wag of the tail. We were told that they felt he was too fragile at the moment to transfer to an overnight clinic, so the doctor and vet techs would alternate checking in on Gallo at 2, 4 and 6 in the morning. Saying goodbye to G-boy around midnight, we made the weary trek home, to a sleepless night and a too-quiet house.

We returned at around 8 a.m. on Saturday, with coffee and donuts from Dunkin Donuts in hand for the doctors and techs who had been working so hard on Gallo’s behalf to all hours. Everyone marveled at his strength, while we were amazed at the impact he has had on so many people: one vet tech who has grown particularly attached to our little man (the doctors refer to her as Gallo’s “girlfriend”) told us that she was called late at night to come in early and told of G’s condition, and she couldn’t sleep. One of the doctor’s dogs had come in to provide the transfusion for G’Lo, who was still lethargic and panting, but had gone outside briefly earlier in the morning. He was doing a little better, but still in a lot of pain and understandably exhausted. We were told that he would be very, very sore for a few days, but that he should pull through and be able to come home on Monday.


Obviously, since Gallo had been attacked by a tumor even during his chemotherapy sessions, we have ended his chemo treatment plan. I could not endure seeing him suffer through more pills, needles, shots, cones, bandages, medications, special foods, sprays, thermometers in the butt … it is time to allow Gallo the dignity of living out his life the best way he can. He continues to fight and cling to life, so we’ll give him the freedom to retain the energy he needs to maintain his personality and be the dog I have come to love and adore over the past seven years. We are taking him to the Outer Banks next weekend, a place he loves, to let him trot on the beach, bark at golfers and put his nose in the wind.

If Gallo had nine lives like a cat, he has used up a few of them already. His strength has been an awe-inspiring, emotional thing to see. Yet before his surgery, I leaned over and whispered to him that if he had to go, he could go. That he didn’t have to be brave for me anymore. That he didn’t have to prove his love or strength anymore. That he had fought longer and harder than I ever could have dreamed of asking.

Still, we treasure the opportunity to spend a little more time with him, and to enjoy the precious moments he has left, no matter how many or how few they may be.


Thanks as always for the kind words, thoughts and prayers. They have meant the world to us.


UPDATE, MONDAY, MAY 12: We went and saw Gallo three times on Saturday, just to check on his recovery and say hello. He received a blood transfusion from one of the vet's dogs on Saturday afternoon, which helped him to bounce back from a falling blood count precipitated by his chemotherapy and subsequent blood loss from the tumor. He was on a morphine drip and in a lot of pain for the entire day, so our visits mostly consisted of us giving him encouragement as he supported his body by leaning against the side of the cage. However, I spoke to the doctor later in the evening and she told me that his PVC count was up to 30, which meant that he was officially making his own red blood cells. This was a pleasant surprise to her, and one that she had trouble explaining, considering the trauma to Gallo's liver coinciding with the chemo. We took it to be very good news.

Unfortunately, his awkward sitting style as he was drugged out on morphine resulted in him sitting on his leg in a strange way that pinched off his IV tube. So they had to put a splint/aircast on his left rear leg. On top of everything else, this makes him hop around in a sort of funny way. We checked on him two more times on Sunday, and he looked to be a completely different dog, much closer to his normal, energetic self. The doctor let us know that, if Gallo would just start eating, she could release him to come home on Monday night.

We went by this morning before work to say hello to G'Lo, but we found that he still had not eaten. To aid in the process, the vet tech (Gallo's "girlfriend") had even put out three different varities of food for G to sample. But he still was not much interested, so after we took him for a brief walk and he hopped around pitifully, we told him that he could come home this evening if only he would begin eating. We think it's just a matter of time, since he is mostly likely feeling "full" from all of the intravenous fluids he has been taking. We remain hopeful that Gallo will eat at some point today so we can bring him home tonight and begin helping him to heal.

UPDATE, TUESDAY, MAY 13: We were able to get Gallo last evening from the vet and bring him home, armed with more medications. The bill was (as expected) huge, but G'Lo had achieved the ever-so-rare "miracle dog" discount ... apparently, all you have to do is survive two emergency surgeries, make it through chemotherapy, endure having 1.5 organs removed and lose most of your hair to be labeled a "miracle dog." Whatever the criteria, I think G'Lo fits the bill -- and we'll certainly take it.

Upon arriving home, G was (understandably) very tired, after spending the previous 3.5 days in a rather small cage, surrounded by barking and meowing jailmates. He wasn't much interested in eating initially, but when I began feeding him by hand, he did manage to eat enough to make us feel better. He has made it difficult to give him all of his medications by not readily accepting his Pill Pockets, but we're hoping that is just a phase brought on by the fact that he is still a wee bit drugged. Due to the near-constant fluid intake he has undergone, he has had some pees that have lasted roughly 20 minutes since arriving home.

Gallo managed to eat a little bit more of his breakfast this morning and eventually took his meds. Unfortunately, to guard against the possibility of him biting at his stitches, we had to put a hood/cone on his head and lock him in the bedroom. That was very tough to do considering how much he has already been through, but we'll check on him at lunchtime and spend some time with him. He is scheduled to have a blood count check on Friday and then have his stitches removed the following Monday, so we'll concentrate on helping him heal the rest of this week. He can handle stairs, but we have to stop him every time he tries to run and/or play, since he doesn't have the reserve of red blood cells necessary to make up for the ones he loses when he expends a lot of energy.

Obviously, there is still a ways to go before our big guy is feeling all the way back to normal and completely pain-free, but he is getting there. It was wonderful to have him home and nearby, as you might expect. Thanks as always for the kind words and prayers, as somebody is listening and acting on behalf of our own little miracle dog.

Limerick Friday LXXIX: Kim Jong Gets Il With Proliferation

North Korea hands over some nuclear records on a whim
Those looking over them are wondering, “Hmmm”
18,000 pages, but is there anything new?
Will this stop them launching a missile or two?
Like in “World Police,” Kim Jong Il knows no one believes him

A nice day on the lake for ill-fated running back Ced
But as the water police approached, the boat filled with dread
Pepper-sprayed and kicked for no apparent reason
Not quite the way he wanted to spend his offseason
Hope the Bears give him a chance to rise from the dead

Myanmar struck by a devastating cyclone
Disaster relief was promised over the phone
As 100,000 citizens have been lost
The government stole the aid with no cost
Now the U.N. looks for another way to answer every cry and moan

Not just Myanmar that is dealing with weather that caused a fright
A powerful tornado hit central North Carolina last night
The rumblings were as hard to miss as a code red
Poor Gallo tried to claw his way under the bed
Minimal damage around the Triangle was a good-to-see sight

Sergio Garcia rocked a 66 at the TPC
A two-shot lead had him grinning with glee
But when he chokes he’ll talk about how it’s unfair
Then whine as he puts another commercial on the air
The “Spanish Spitter” is no better than his immature loogie

Last time …

The Empire Strikes Barack

Sticking with the political theme, here's a bangup mashup to enjoy.

"For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, Barack, everywhere, yes."

Obama B-ar-acks The Pack?

No matter what your political affiliation, you had to get a kick out of this: Democratic presidential hopeful Barack Obama threw up the wolf sign during his victory speech at NC State's Reynolds Coliseum last evening.



Go Wolfpack. Go Obama. Yes we can.

Bardem Ensures “No Country” Is No Place For The Faint-Hearted

The first gut reaction you have when watching “No Country for Old Men” is a two-word impression of Javier Bardem: Holy. Crap.

His character, mercenary Anton Chigurh, immediately takes his place among the most fearsome, menacing roles in cinematic history. He’s dubbed “the ultimate badass,” a cross between Keyser Soze and Jason Vorhees, the pivotal fulcrum in a number of scenes that leave your mouth gaping and your heart pounding. The Coen brothers, Joel and Ethan, use a number of parallel scenes throughout the movie, perhaps none more powerful than Chigurh’s forcing two separate potential victimes to flip a coin for their lives. They even essentially assign Chigurh his own soundtrack—the sound of his airgun thudding through the silence.

Josh Brolin was an inspired choice as Llewelyn Moss, a risky casting decision that could’ve easily gone bust. However, Brolin fits well as the drifting Texan who suddenly finds himself in way over his head after stumbling across a drug deal gone way wrong and discovering a huge pile of money in the process. His wife, Carla Jean, is played by the always-amazing Kelly McDonald (“The Girl in the Café”,”Trainspotting”), who shrugged off her Scottish roots to effect a terrific Texas accent, showcasing her variety of talents.

Tommy Lee Jones as Sheriff Ed Tom Bell was phenomenal, blending folksy humor with a kind of bone-weariness that pervades every wrinkle on his weathered face. Here’s a man closing in quickly on the heels of retirement, a guy who could have done without the amazing turn of events that have bled one final, epic investigation out of him. As his Uncle Ellis tells him at the end, “This country’s hard on people. You can’t stop what’s coming; it ain’t all waiting on you.” In a conversation with Carla Jean, Jones seems to sense the impending doom that is coming the way of Llewelyn and Carla Jean, ending a metaphor about cattle with the line, “Point bein’, even in a contest between man and steer, the issue is not certain.”

The Coen Brothers put on a clinic on how to build tension throughout various scenes, and delve into the issue of the role of morality in desperate men. Llewelyn’s decision to bring water back to the injured Mexican drug runner is one he knows is really dumb, and it eventually costs him his life, a fact that he seems to suspect beforehand. “If I don’t come back, you tell my mother I love her,” he tells Carla Jean, who answers, “Your mother’s dead.” After a pause, Llewelyn finally answers, “Well, then I’ll tell her myself.”

Also, the immense car crash at the end that shatters Chigurh’s left arm puts a couple of young kids directly in harm’s way when they encounter him hurting on the sidewalk, but despite his sense of the walls closing in on him, he still gives them money in exchange for a shirt, and saunters off into the proverbial sunset. The ending is very moving, with a resigned Bell trying to come to terms with his retirement by sitting at a breakfast table, describing a couple of emotional dreams he had about his father to his wife.

There were some seemingly strange casting choices, however. Though he had a number of terrific lines (“I guess I would say he doesn’t have a sense of humor”) Woody Harrelson as gun-for-hire Carson Wells seemed like an unnecessary stretch. Stephen Root, as “Man Who Hires Wells,” is best known for his comedic turns in “Office Space” and “News Radio,” while Deputy Wendell, Garret Dillahunt, is memorable only for weak characters in HBO originals “Deadwood” and “John From Cincinnati.”

The Coen brothers also made some interesting decisions in terms of what was and was not shown within the film. Not only was the ending rather sudden, but the duo elected not to show Llewelyn’s death. There is also a highly confusing scene near the end, when Bell enters the hotel room where Llewelyn was killed, and Chigurh is shown lurking behind the door. Bell sits down on the bed, notices that the grate near the ceiling has been removed and simply walks out of the room. For whatever reason, there is no encounter between Bell and Chigurh, which threw many viewers for a loop. The use of the receiver/transmitter in the found bag of money is also slightly problematic; though it only registers when it is within a certain relatively close distance to the bag, Chigurh somehow still seems to too-easily track Llewelyn with it.

Based on the novel of the same name by Cormac McCarthy, “No Country for Old Men” won four Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay. Yet for all its accolades and nuanced direction, this is purely a Bardem vehicle and one that will be remembered most for his stunning performance. At one point, Carson Wells is asked just how dangerous Chigurh is, to which he answers, matter-of-factly, “Compared to what? The bubonic plague?”

Chigurh not only brings the tension with him, but he seems to live within it, to be a de facto by-product of it. His approach to life sans soul is summed up by his final interaction with Carla Jean, when he tells her to call heads or tails for her life on a coin flip.

“The coin don’t have no say,” she says, trembling. “It’s just you.”

Pause. Cold stare. “Well, I got here the same way the coin did.”

Indeed. And you carried an entire movie with you.

Say It Ain't So, Scarlett ...

The guy from freaking "Two Guys, A Girl and a Pizza Place"? Really? Well, you and Katherine Heigl can both go to hell. You are both dead to me.

I'm crying on the inside ... and the outside.

It Was A Coors Cutter, I Swear

It seems that the relationship between the University of Texas and its student newspaper is getting more than a little heated lately. This development jibes well with the current book I'm reading, Meat Market by Bruce Feldman. While it is littered with grammatical errors (it is an ESPN book, whatever that means), it follows the recruiting-trail adventures of former coach Ed Orgeron during his time at Ole Miss. Feldman receives near-unprecedented access to the inner workings of a major college football program, touching on many of the things that the Daily Texan appeared to look at in the article that got Longhorns coach Mack Brown in a huff.

One can't help but think of the firestorm started by Oklahoma State coach Mike Gundy when he attacked a female reporter during a press conference. While he's still a punchline in many quarters (including here), Gundy and his tirade brought to light the issue of the tenuous, tension-filled relationship between college programs and the media. Of course, some enterprising Cowboys students (peep the fat kid they got to hold the camera like a statue of "The Penguin") couldn't resist turning down the opportunity to get a few more laughs out of Gundy's outburst ...

Ireland, Day 6, April 11: St. Stephen’s Green, Writers Museum, Prick With A Stick

What better way to kick off our final full day in Dublin than by grabbing a mocha at Butler’s Chocolate Café and then crossing the street to stroll through nearby St. Stephen’s Green. After passing through Fusiliers Arch, we walked down the beautiful paths of the historic old park that is such a vital character in much of Irish literature. Fittingly, we saw a tribute to W.B. Yeats early in our meanderings.


We began to formulate a plan for the day as we continued to make our way all the way around the park. A Joyce statue stood rather nondescriptly and discreetly alongside one of the walkways.


It was time to grab the Hop On/Hop Off bus once again, with an eye toward eventually making our way to Parnell Square. We didn’t mind taking the long route through 1,760-acre Phoenix Park again, where we could see the Irish President’s residence and the front gate to the Dublin Zoo. We also took in Wellington Testimonial (or Wellington Monument), built in memory of the Duke of Wellington, the Dublin native who defeated Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.


Enjoying yet another beautiful morning in Dublin, it seemingly took us no time to get to Parnell Square, home to our next stop: The Dublin Writers Museum.


Our walkthrough tour of the Dublin Writers Museum included a handheld radio that gave you a guided tour when you punched in numbers that correlated to individual exhibits. Among many other highlights, we viewed old copies of “Gulliver’s Travels” and “Dracula,” whose author, Bram Stoker, was actually born in the Clontarf area of Dublin in 1847. In fact (t the risk of sounding like Cliff Clavin from “Cheers”), the Irish words “Droch Ola” translate to “Bad Blood,” leading many to believe that is the basis of the title.

The museum was housed in a beautiful old home that featured intricate art on the ceilings, and upstairs we found one of Joyce’s original pianos. No photography was allowed, but it was amazing to see some of the collected works of groundbreaking Irish authors like Joyce, Shaw, Yeats, Pearse and many others.

The tour was even cooler than we imagined it would be, and took a bit longer than expected. Sticking with the literary theme, we journeyed on to the nearby James Joyce Centre.


There wasn’t a whole heck of a lot to see in this mini-museum (photography was supposedly off-limits, but there weren’t many people and no one seemed to care), but there were some definite highlights. On a smaller outside patio area, we found the original door from 7 Eccles Street—the home of Leopold Bloom in “Ulysses” and reputed to be “one of the more famous addresses in literature.”


Also on exhibit at the James Joyce Centre was some of the original furniture from Paul Leon’s apartment in Paris, where Joyce stayed while he wrote “Finnegan’s Wake.” We stuck around for a documentary on the impact of “Ulysses” on Irish and international literature before departing.

Walking along the north-side quay for a few blocks, we eventually found our way to North Earl Street, where we encountered the Joyce statue that is alternately referred to as “The Prick with the Stick.”


Hungry after a morning of browsing centuries-old manuscripts and pictures, we decided to make our way back across the Liffey to the Brazen Head, which some claim to be the oldest pub in Dublin, having been established in 1198. Among many other things, it is famous for its carvery, which is basically a cafeteria-like line where you choose what you would like to eat. I had a toasted roast beef sandwich with lettuce and peppers, with roasted potatoes. We grabbed a coupla Guinnesses and found a seat in one of the interior rooms, finding the walls completely covered in dollar bills scrawled with names, college and pro teams, etc. This noted landmark was also mentioned in “Ulysses,” and you could feel the sense of history throughout the pub, restaurant and courtyard.


After the lunch and a coupla beers, we decided to walk a coupla blocks up the street to do drive-bys on Christ Church Cathedral and Dublin Castle. One of two medieveral cathedrals in Dublin, Christ Church Cathedral is a stunning structure. It’s also believed that Anglo-Norman warrior “Strongbow” is buried somewhere in the grounds of the church.


Dublin Castle was around the next corner, so we quickly made our way through the gates and onto the Upper Yard. Now a major Irish governmental complex, it was originally built as a defensive stronghold in 1204, under orders from King John. The looming Records Tower sticks out amidst some modern architecture; as the sole surviving tower of the castle, it dates back to 1228.


Following these quick visits, we walked along the quay for a while, taking in the understated Liffey. We wanted to check out a shop or two on the other side of the river, which would also give us a chance to cross the famous Ha’Penny Bridge.


Our long wanderings eventually brought us all the way back to Nassau Street and Grafton Street, near our very own Brooks Hotel. After making a few purchases for friends and family, we made our way back to the hotel. We made a quick stop inside to get out of the light rain and change (our door keys didn’t work, leading to having to deal with an unpleasant jackass at the front desk), then headed back out to the shopping district to try to find a couple of other souvenirs we wanted to grab before our early flight the following morning.

Unfortunately, this venture was fruitless, so we returned to our room to avoid the misting rain and catch our breaths before supper. Since it had come pretty highly recommended from a few places, O’Neill’s Bar was our dinner destination. We missed the side street it was on, so made a lap around the Temple Bar area, doubled back and found O’Neill’s on Suffolk Street. Ducking inside, we found it to be an unbelievably crowded and enormous place. Surprisingly, we also discovered that it was another carvery, which was fine with us. We went through the line, placed our orders and finally found a cozy (that’s Irish for “tucked into a tiny corner next to a smelly walkway”) spot. The food took forever and the bar lines were extremely long (complicated by the fact that a proper Guinness can’t be poured correctly in less than three minutes), but no worries -- we were on vacation, after all, and there are few things worth waiting on more than an expertly poured Guinness. The food was very good and we stayed for a coupla extra rounds of Guinness, since we didn’t want our vacation to end and we wanted to savor the last coupla “true” Guinnesses we might ever have. And with that, we bid O’Neill’s adieu …


Though the night had turned pretty cold, I got us back home pretty easily. I watched some Masters at that point (it came on the air at like 10 p.m. in Ireland) while I filled out a comment card on our stay at the Brooks, complete with crude cartoon figures and some angry American insults for the rude front office attendant we had encountered earlier in the day.

We also looked up bus rates and times for our early-morning trip to the airport tomorrow. Could our Irish stay really be coming to an end already? It seemed like only yesterday that we were taking roads on two wheels, dodging horses in the road and stumbling into the staggering Cliffs of Mohr.

Alas and alack, all good things must come to an end …


The final (really) installment of the Irish adventure will be forthcoming in a coupla days, in which I’ll wrap everything up with some final thoughts. P.S. You can click on the pix for bigger versions if you like. All photos taken by the Scoot. Giddyup.

Limerick Friday LXXVIII: Perrilloux’s Fall, Bobby’s Dive And Tyler’s Will’s Flop

Handed a national championship team on a silver platter
Yet chose to gamble, pursue counterfeiting and get even fatter
This is the story of rocket-armed and rock-brained Ryan Perrilloux
At LSU, his name was always followed by “Now what did he do?”
At least now we won’t have to hear about his arrests and other Internet chatter

No doubt, Tom Friedman is a colossal prick
No one falls for his bombastic schtick
Yet his column about energy policy was right on
A Hillary-McCain merger shows common sense is gone
Petty bickering as the clock on our planet goes tick, tick

Fox News is more used to hot water than a sauna
The latest involving putting up an image that was wrong-a
Can’t tell the difference between Frederick and Stephen Douglas at a squint
Well, you insufferable, uneducated jackasses, here’s a hint:
Frederick is the other black guy you’d attack racially, like Obama

Never thought that San Andreas could be topped
But Grand Theft Auto IV just recently popped
And it’s supposedly even better than GTA 3
Now that’s something that I’d really like to see
Looks like GTA is a franchise that just can’t be stopped

Jumping from a house to a small pool
Is that part of ACL rehab, you tool?
Tyler’s “will” apparently thought he could fly
As frat row was accosted by a flopping guy
No wonder he’s 30 and still needs to stay in school


Last time …

“The Boss” Pushes Back The Years In Greensboro

Three days after checking out the Panic at the Creek, I found myself hurtling down I-40 through a rainy Monday night to see “the Boss” in Greensboro. My seats this time weren’t exactly second-row, center, but hey … no complaints. It would be the memorable capper to a riproaring weekend—or what passes for a riproaring weekend for someone stumbling through his mid-30s.

Having never seen Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band before, it was one of those opportunities that’s difficult to pass up, since you just don’t know how much longer he’ll be willing to hit the road. That sense of wistfulness pervaded the show at Greensboro Coliseum, cemented early on when the show opened with a video tribute to Danny Federici, the keyboardist who had passed away just 11 days prior after a three-year battle against melanoma. A recording of “Blood Brothers” played in the background as the band, clad all in black, prepared and the images flashed across the big screens, documenting the 40-year musical relationship that Federici and Springsteen had.

Rumors had been swirling that Democratic Presidential hopeful Barack Obama was going to open the show by introducing the band before helicoptering on to Chapel Hill for his appearance there, and since the E Street Band doesn’t like to start until nearly an hour after everyone is seated, there was plenty of time for the buzz to escalate. Alas, Obama never materialized, yielding the stage fully and completely to Springsteen.

Quickly launching into full concert mode, the band opened with “Roulette” and “Don’t Look Back,” two songs which hadn’t been played yet on the tour. It was slightly jarring to see Tony Soprano’s righthand man, Silvio Dante, tearing it up on guitar as Steven Van Zandt, and it was equally off-putting to see Harold Ramis lookalike Max Weinberg beating the crap out of the drums. Springsteen’s wife and band member, Patti Scialfa, was nowhere to be found, with reports that she was back at home with the couple’s three kids. However, guitarist and violinist Sister Soozie Tyrell was a welcome addition to go with old standbys Clarence “Big Man” Clemons (who sort of gingerly walks around the stage every now and again before returning quietly to his corner) on the sax and Niles Lofgren on guitar.

Some of the many highlights of the two-and-a-half hour show were a frenzied “Radio Nowhere,” “Long Walk Home,” “Devil’s Arcade” and “The Rising,” as well as the playing of “Waiting for a Sunny Day” for a young female fan, after which he signed her poster. Another small girl had on a “I Like U Better Than Hannah Montana” T-shirt, which drew a laugh from the Boss. Perhaps my favorite moment was when Springsteen introduced “Magic” with the line, “Here’s to the end of eight years of bad magic,” before playing the song as an amazing duet with Sister Soozie. I’m not a fan of extended solos on each and every song like the E Street Band is, so that didn’t enhance things for me, but I was still blown away at the seemingly endless energy put forth by the band, careening from one song to the next without a break, and no intermission.

Most of the 25 songs—including a pulsating five-song encore—came off of two albums separated by 35 years: 1973’s “Born to Run” and this year’s “Magic.” Springsteen continues to belie his age, throwing his 58-year-old bones about the stage, leaping into the air, sliding along on his knees, maniacally attacking his guitar, sweating profusely and basically throwing everything he had into the performance. They say that fewer bands give more back to the crowd or play more to their audience than Bruce’s Boys (and girls), and I would have to agree with that following my one E Street Band experience. The awesome “American Land” was the perfect song to end the show, an Irish jig-sounding tune that brought back recent memories of Ireland.

And with that ended Scooter’s mini-musical three-day marathon … it should take me no longer than six weeks to fully recover.