update

Okay, I survived Saskatoon, Regina, and Brandon. I am now on my way to Edmonton where I will get some tests done. I am okay.

okay, this is new

My dizzy spells continue and there is talk of hospital visits. I can't describe to you what it's like other than to say that I feel like I am hungry, sleepy and about to fall over, all the time. It's hard to concentrate at the moment so forgive me for the next few days until I get this worked out.

It's weird going on stage feeling like this. It's even weirder being in Canada, having to go on a stage, and feeling like this. Fortunately, I can't tell if it's cold or not, and everything is funny to me.

we could keep this frozen theme going for a while

It's a six hour drive in warm, human-accomodating conditions. In a light snow - maybe 7 hours. In a driving, two day long, snow storm - it's just best not to go at all. But this is comedy, people gots to have their giggles, so off I go.

Day One of Mission Canada.
Calgary to Saskatoon. Miles - Well, kilometers - a whole bunch. Not that it matters, every inch is covered with two feet(not sure what the meterage coversion is) of snow which makes it hard to count the miles as they go by. You measure distance by time in this weather.

If you were ever a praying type, get to it. Or, if you are a kill-a-lamb-on-an-altar type - start chopping. If you would rather throw a small child into a fire pit - start chuckin'. I am going to need all the mojo I can muster. These roads no longer exist. I am just expected to read a compass and end up in Saskatoon before 8 PM.

I am heading across the tundra in conditions that only get seen in Disney movies to emphasis - nasty, cold, death winters. It's those scenes you see in movies that make you think that all is lost and that there is no escape. But somehow, a boy and his dog (in this case, a boy and his opener) survived by finding an ancient cave filled with gold. I would settle for donut gems, but gold is nice too. If we run low on food, the opener might not make it back. I'm sorry, but I have to eat and I am a star. This is called paying your dues on the comedy road. I promise not to kill him. I am just going to eat his legs.

Start chanting people. If you like this blog, start chanting....

dancing in the frozen moonlight

I have been really, really dizzy lately. Really dizzy. The kind of dizzy that indicates intoxication or decreased levels of oxygen to the brain. True, I was sick with a funky virus and I let my temperature rise without checking it. I don't know what to say... I just don't like to take aspirin.

So there is that theory. I cooked my brain and it's just fried. If so, I am the luckiest guy in the world. I am constantly stoned and I didn't spend a dime. In fact, I got this constant buzz by NOT taking drugs.

If it's not that, then I don't know what it is. The other rationales are darker and more menacing, so I will pretend it's something simple and just live with it.

Living with it means driving 12 hours to Calgary, giddy. So giddy that at one point, I just stopped the car and let it out. I know I was in Canada. I don't remember crossing the border, but I know I'm in Canada. (It smells better here)

I also know that I am in Alberta. It could be Saskatchewan, but I'm pretty sure I haven't been driving that long, so it has to be Alberta. It's too flat to be British Columbia.

It's cold. It's dark. The road is spinning up a fine mist of snow which looks a lot like cool steam escaping off of melting ice. The cloud of fine mist is twenty feet high and dancing in the blasts of wind. The moonlight spotlights moments in the darkness that if you're quick enough, you can play in for just a moment before it's swallowed up and disappears. The natural beauty of this roadside attraction is too much for my dizzy mind.

Thank the Gods for the Ipod. With the light-hearted words of Snopp Dogg being performed by the band, Phish, I am jumping from spotlight to spotlight and laughing my ass off. It's a little piece of heaven in the mind of a dizzy person. Dancing and singing. Footloose and fancy free.

The remainder of my drive into Calgary is filled with a blasting stereo and without it I would have no way of measuring time or distance. Without it I would still be in the car driving north across the barren wasteland of northern Alberta wondering why Calgary was playing hard to get.

I arrived some time after midnight and feel asleep thinking of the dancing snow and flashing moonlight. The sound of the mandolin, a fiddle and the refrain of "gin and juice" ringing in my head.

I may have cooked something important in my noodle. It may be like this forever. I do hope so. I would never leave the house. I wouldn't have a reason to. I would be legally disabled and the feds would send me a crazy check to stay home and suffer. THAT'S right. I would have my "mind on my money and my money on my mind!!!!!" Laid back! Crazy and paid for it. Which is more than I can say for all the hours I spend doing other things.

Thank you Snopp Dogg, for your inspirational words. Thank you Kevin Bacon for reminding us all that we have the right to dance in rural parts of the world(in his case, Utah). And thank you virus of unknown origin, you made my privates tingle.

passing like the wind

I am packed, racked and fully prepared for my trip to Europe. I have worked for weeks on travel arrangements and housing and I think I have it all figured out. I have put together tours in my head, of places to see and in which order and I want to make a reality out of as much of it as possible while on the white meat continent. To be safe, I figured out where I knew I didn't want to go, that way it couldn't distract me while on my Griswald-esque tour. I know where I am not going just was well as where I am going. The list of "not on this trip" cities far outweighs the "three days and then get on the bus" cities, but that's just the way it goes sometimes. I have all my money issues figured out, so I figure I'm set.

I want to see the Tesla museum in Belgrade. The Works of Da Vanci in Florence. The Regal House of effective and effecient Christian slaughter in Rome. The Mona Lisa in Paris. The attic of Anne Frank in Amsterdam. The Waterloo of Napeleon in Waterloo. The Beer and Fetish dream land that is Germany. The musical majesty of Salzberg and Vienna. The Picasso home in Barcelona. Guernica. The works of art alone would be a four month trip. (This is why I watch PBS... to fill my heart with dreams and then watch them dashed by Delta Airlines. Damn you Sister Wendy!!!!)

I want to see it all. But I am not going to be in Europe long enough. Instead I get; Paris, Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Venice, Florence, Rome and all stops in between.... Okay, well I had to drop Paris because I couldn't find a way to get there from Frankfurt.... And that means no Amsterdam either... But I still have Venice, Florence and Rome. Well, not Venice. They wanted too much for the return ticket. But I am still in Frankfurt, Florence and Rome. Which means Da Vinci, Dead Christians and Perversion. I think I am going to love Europe. Guernica is overrated. Tesla has a musuem in Buffalo and I still have PBS.

Of course, before I head to Europe, I have to work on my Canadian accent a bit so I can mask my Americanness thus enabling safe passage through Italy. So I have three weeks of touring up in Canada to get proficient. There is nothing like prepping yourself for the largest festival of "culture" in the world by heading to Saskatoon to work on your "I'm sorry I'm American" monologue. By the time I get to the airport to head to the White meat continent, I should be so full of shame about being American, that I should be able to walk off the plane and not offend anyone at all. I should be able to take in the statue of David and not make any snarky comments like "he needs some MetRx" or "where's his dick?".

Again, I head to Canada during the Olympics. I don't know the Olympics in America. In fact, the last time I remember the Olympics on an American telvision, the Olympics were in Barecelona, or Seoul... (Where were they in 92?)

The most nationalistic moment in a country's life and I am always in Canada trying to make a Bronze medal country laugh. Not an easy task for someone with a Gold medal pedigree. Instead of actually telling jokes, I spend most of my time trying to convince them not to hurt me. (This sounds hard, but you can distract most Canadians with donuts or by asking them to recall the names of each Canadian Olympic Hockey player for the past twenty years. They love trivia and it should give you enough time to slip away, unscathed as they try to figure it out.)

I leave America in the capable hands of it's well educated, healthy, sexy exchange students to run in my abscence. During my drive, I have been advised that I need a tee shirt to sell, so if anyone has any good ideas for a tee shirt to sell... let me know.

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Final note: I enjoyed your emails about your best and worst days. If I get to a day with more time, I will make a post of just those... Please indicate if you want your name on it or not.

the birth of a bad idea

There are reasons that we are given menus at restaurants. There are reasons that we are only allowed limited control over decision making. There are good reasons. Reasons that extend into the parts of history that are unrecorded. The fact that it's unrecorded could explain why we repeat these mistakes so often. It would seem that even cavemen had a sense of themselves and didn't want to be remembered as a fuck up.

Raw ingredients. Each in their own little bowl under a sneeze guard. You take an empty bowl and fill it with raw ingredients that you would love to eat; Carrots, broccoli, noodles, chicken, water chestnuts, corn - Hmmmmmm. Each one of these is yummy... On it's own. And some of them are okay when mixed with a limited number of the other items... but never with all of them at the same time. (HEY! You're hungry, who cares...)

Then you need to choose your "flavor"; Curry, teriyaki, Something called "House BBQ".. Garlic. And then add as much of this "flavor" as you like to your bowl of raw ingredients. Then hand these goodies to a man with a huge hot plate that will cook "your" Asian meal, for you. It will take about five minutes.

The bowl is steaming with your goodies. For some reason it doesn't look as yummy as it did when it was raw. The veggies are darker and the meat has absorbed camouflage qualities and has disappeared into the mess. It doesn't smell the way you want it to smell. You are starting to doubt your meal, but you're still hungry.

If you're with people, you can watch their facial expression slowly begin to embrace confusion over their Asian meal. Everyone will still eat their meal, but no one is eating what they want to and their faces show their displeasure.

In order to keep all meals equally bad, the cooks add hot peppers to every meal so that every meal is so hot you could sweat out parasites, colds, flus and bad personality traits. I think the cooks at these restaurants know that everyone is going to mix the wrong flavors and that they will need to be remedied with lava if the consumer is going to be able to eat it.

The displeasure is found in the fact that you made this dish and there is no one to blame for it but you. You cook bad food like this all the time when you are at home, and that didn't cost you ten bucks. You looked forward to this, like it was a job interview, or a hot date, and it soured on you because you wore shorts, brown socks and white loafers. The fact that you paid for this humiliation makes each bite even more bitter.

Menus are good. Menus are there to protect you from you. Menus do not have items with curry and teriyaki mixed together and there is a reason for that. (ask that first Asian dude that tried it 2000 years ago. He could have been one of the first cave dwellers not because he wanted to, but because no one could stand his aroma) There are reasons that we order off the menu.

Your whole life you have waited for the control that would allow you to get a larger dessert when you order it. You have waited for an extra meatball without asking for it. You have waited to create your own dishes - Your way. And even with the failure of a Mongolian You-pick-it-we-cook-it, dish, you still feel like you are going to find success in your endeavors... Fool!

With that triple curry, triple teriyaki, steaming pile of "meal" still stewing in my tummy, I have asked a fellow comic to build my web page for me. I have doubts that I will make the right choices and I need someone that had eaten at this restaurant before to order for me. So, YES, coming soon - danielrock.com. Leave it alone until she finishes it. I'm serious, don't type it in until she's done with it. She doesn't need your shit at this time. Leave it alone until she figures out how many scoops of curry to mix in with the House BBQ sauce. It should taste just like General Tsao's Chicken by the time it opens to the general public.

If it tastes like shit, then I can kill her and we can all blame her for the meal. Isn't that how we like to do it?

take a deeeeep breath... and let it out

Well... Wasn't that a lot to soak in. I can see from the emails that no one read, or doesn't remember any of the good days that I wrote about. Apparently, the bad days are the only days that any of you feel made a difference in my life. That could be my fault for being such a dark guy or it could be you that are a dark audience and you just like stories of strife.

The days I picked were not the only bad days I ever had, and they are not the only bad days in the history of man, so please don't make them the cornerstone of your impressions about me. If these were consecutive days, I could understand your sentiments. Hell, my heart would ache too. But these weren't consecutive days and for every bad day, there are a dozen great days that were far more interesting and influential on my growth as a human being. I guess a bad day just carries more weight with readers. Perhaps they speak to us of things such as survival, which is always something that amazes us and leaves an emotional memory. (think I'm kidding... everyone remembers the baby in the well stories and quickly forgets the cripple that climbs the mountain stories).Is it that? Or maybe it's the discovery of another of societies' little secrets that enthralls us. Whatever it is, the darker the tale, the easier it is to remember. A good day - everyone has good days, big deal. Dime a dozen.

What I wanted to do was show that you can never know ANYONE, completely. I gave you 9 days of my life. Just 9 out of a possible 12,100 and from that you felt you were able to understand me better. But if you are not willing to accept that great days affect me just as strongly as bad ones, then you would only know half the story... And that was point of this week's posts - To show that I give you all I want anyone to know. I give you the cookie and not the individual ingredients that make up the batter.

"You can tell a lot about someone from the shoes they wear... The company they keep... The LOOK in their eye... The depth of their laughter."

Wrong. You can tell very little about someone from these attributes. These are only momentary indicators. So too are the moments that they share with you. I can tell you the details of the day, but I can not describe their impact or the lessons learned. Here's a better idea... Stop trying to look for windows into the soul of strangers and just work with what you have in the moment.

It's not important for you to know someone so thoroughly. Not that you should keep everyone a mystery either, but there is no need to spend every waking moment trying to feel out each and every day of someone else's life just to understand them. You don't know yourself that well so why waste your time on someone less important than yourself?

For every bad day that my path crosses through, I see twenty great days that trump it. For every broken dream, or painful hospital stay, there is the experience of a new landscape, a fresh conversation with someone that I enjoy, or the birth of a new dream, or, my personal favorite - the feeling of surprise.

I will not answer any questions about these days, so don't ask. I say this because those questions will only inspire more questions, which invites more questions, and more...

For those of you who already know me as a friend, I hope you see that no matter how well you think you know... I think you know the rest.

And for those of you that didn't know me, Happy Valentine's Day. I hope that I didn't ruin your week.

10 days that make the difference - part five

My hands hurt. My eyes hurt. My pen is warm and it's sweaty from my fingers holding it so tightly. My tongue tastes like glue from all the stamps. It must be Monday.

I love writing letters and I love receiving letters. I try to keep friends and family up to date with what I am doing and these letters seem like the best way to combine all these loves .
into one effort.

A phone call from a friend and the next thing I know I have a blog page. It seems simple enough. I just type the letters that I would normally write to my friends and it saves me time and my fingers. Lovely.

It starts off slow. The posts are crippled and it shows. I love writing them, but I am never sure if they are good or not and I am constantly worried that someone else is going to read them.

Ten months later, the ratio of readers I know to readers that I don't would be 100:1. It will balloon into something that I could have never imagined. Strangers would email me and tell me what they think of me, my writing, my life and my opinions. Their words would carry a weight that I could have never imagined possible. I find myself writing out of fear and responsibility.

When a stranger's words talk of importance, prolific natures, profound importance, humor and inspiration you feel like you have to keep up the work to keep the compliments coming. When their words are scathing, they cut deep and you work hard to win them over.

I have no idea what I am writing about and most of the time I forget what I have written moments after I have finished writing it. I always think about that when I get comments from the readers.

A door I didn't know was even there, opened and I walked through it. I love where it has taken me and I love where it has taken everyone else. It scares me and thrills me and I would still do it if no one read it.

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I am the biggest shit of all time. I am not the one that is behind the evil, but I enable it. I have used my talents for all the wrong reasons. I'm smart. I'm calm. I'm a survivor. I'm a communicator. I'm a fixer. I just convinced a family to let a film crew use their house.

It was a dream of mine since I was a child. I wanted to be a film maker. I wanted to direct films or write them or act in them. I just wanted to work in the film industry. When I got my chance to work in the legitimate industry, I jumped at it. It was small work, but I made the best of it and I quickly showed my importance and value to those I worked with.

Over time I got more and more legitimate work. My resourcefulness was what kept me in the game and my ability to smooth things over between rival factions made me invaluable in negotiations. And negotiations are what making films is all about. Beyond the stars, the stories and the award shows, there is a job. And that job is convincing a lot of people to get along to make a little "picture". It can take months, years of this to get just one movie made. It takes less time if you have a smooth talking, problem solver. A fixer.

In the beginning it was small things; demands by stars or above the line participants. Then it became more unusual things; dates, drugs, late night bars that will stay open. Then it got to the point that my talents could be best served when what was needed was a miracle; talking to the police to clear a cast or crew member, talking a family into letting us use their property or home, or, in the darkest case scenario - convincing someone not to press charges for a particularly heinous crime.

All you need to convince someone to bend their morals is fame and money. Money will go along way to erasing a rape charge or a drug charge. The idea, or promise, of fame to compensate for same, is just as powerful and what the studios would rather have you use. If you promise a beating victim or the owner of a mall that you will make up for what you have done by letting them meet Morgan Fairchild or to have a bit part in the film, that works.

I ceased to be human. My whole life was covering things up and smoothing things out. Things got dark and people knew that I could clean up a large mess pretty quickly and quietly, so they were running amok.

It was a simple white house. One half day of shooting. The family said no. I made them say yes. We were there two days and we dismantled a hardwood floor, cabinets, tracked in mud, destroyed their lawn and went through their stuff. The family did it all for money. They sold their lives to me.

I felt like shit. I wasn't making movies, I was buying and selling souls. There was no one and nothing I couldn't have.

I had a black heart and the dream was dead. Six months later I would be sitting in a hallway, constantly using the bathroom to insure that I wouldn't shit my pants if things went wrong.

10 days that make the difference - part four

I have been told three times to put them on. I keep refusing. I am told if I don't put them on, they will force them on me.

It's been a long week for me.

I didn't want to take the medication because they said it would make me break out and I was too good looking to let that happen. My vanity was superior to any mental health issues I might have had. I would hide the pills in my mouth and spit them out later. The nurse finally got wise to my deception after the dosage began increasing and there was no noticeable difference in either my behavior or my skin tone. She forced me to swallow the pill in front of her.

Ten minutes later I am lying on the floor, breathing heavily and without any way to communicate other than slamming a door against a wall to signal that I was in trouble. They found me twenty minutes later. An ambulance was called and I was rushed to an emergency room where they labeled me just another run-of-the-mill OD. Medical staff feels the best way to deal with an OD if it doesn't look like there is any danger of it becoming dangerous, is to leave the person alone and let them suffer through it as a lesson. The agony was incredible. There are periods that I can't see or hear. I can't stop dry heaving. The nurses are loving it.

Two hours later my blood screen came back clean of all narcotics and the staff freaked out. Further tests were inconclusive and I was put on "watch". Two hours later, my blood pressure surged to 220/120 (normal is 120/80) and I suffered a mild stroke which caused me to convulse and eventually my heart just stopped. It had had enough. I would like to say that I didn't want to die and I put up a good fight, but the amount of pain I was in, death was really the only way I could see that I was going to get any sleep that night.

I came to in a soft, quiet room. A black man entered the room and took off my respiratory and disconnected the life support unit. He was taking tubes out of my body and I thought he was an angel. I asked him if he was and he chuckled softly. Then he gave me a spinal tap and I knew he wasn't an angel.

I was in a MRI for hours before it was discovered that I had a tumor and it was the cause of all my problems. It was determined that it needed to come out or I could experience the same fate as before. The tumor lived in my adrenal gland and was pumping out outrageous amounts of adrenaline into my blood stream. The oncologist would say that it was the 100 times the dose it would take to bring a dead man back to life.

The main complication with removing the tumor was that it was active and there was some major concern that I wouldn't survive the surgery if the tumor got hostile in the middle of the procedure. I had five days to think about it. I can risk the surgery and hopefully live a full life, or I can skip it and accept fate as it comes. The negative of dying again was rarely brought up in words, instead it was left to gestures and uncomfortable facial expressions by the medical staff.

I spent the time before the surgery contemplating my death. The surgeon hadn't done the procedure since 1968, and that was in a field hospital in Vietnam. He wasn't really sure what was going to happen and didn't have a one word of hope for me other than, "hey, at least you won't be back in our ER again...". There was nothing in my favor except my youth and my vanity, which dictated my will to live.

For five days, I listened to U2's The Joshua Tree album and reflected back on my life. I was only 17.

In the bed next to me was a 52 year old man that was about to have a triple bypass. His family was constantly in the room with him. They cried together, they laughed together and he and his wife shared their fondest memories with each other. It was touching.

Three people came to visit me; A singing nun, A student from my high school that I barely knew and a hospital administrator that had to act as my legal guardian. He helped me fill out a will. I filled out a will at 17. It was pretty easy to do, I was pissed at everyone for not visiting me, so everyone was cut out of my will and what I could remember owning, I gave to my Sociology professor.

A nurse kept coming in to my room and telling me to put on support hose that was necessary to maintain my blood pressure during the surgery. I kept refusing as I didn't want to die in support hose.

The night before the surgery my roommate was taken out of the room for his surgery and he never came back. I was left in the room alone. So... I looked out the window and listened to my CD over and over. I never went to sleep.

At 5 o'clock in the morning, they arrived to take me downstairs. The student from my school was there and she held my hand as they rolled me down to the operating room. At the final door, she kissed my hand and waved.

They rolled me into a white room and stuck something in my IV and asked me to count down from five. I got to fi...

I was no longer scared.

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It was a long week. I just had a heart attack and survived it. I was in a lot of pain, but I was alive. I was alone, but I was alive. I was completely shocked, but I was alive.

The fear and pain that had filled my head for 8 hours had passed and I was at peace. Things felt like they were going to be okay. I was dead for about 15 minutes. Long enough for tubes to be shoved into my mouth and for people to pump my chest and bring me back to life. I don't any of their names. I don't even remember what any of them look like.

Doctor after doctor came in and looked over my chart and discussed with me the rare nature of my ailment. It turned out that I had a tumor in my adrenal gland and it was causing my adrenaline levels to spike causing me to experience drastic mood swings, long periods of hyper-activity, and long periods of inactivity. Each doctor wanted to know more about me. What kind of life I had lived. Was I smart? Was it hard for me to concentrate? Did I have a temper? Did I wet the bed? Was there a history of cancer in my family. I had to admit to them, I had no idea, I explained, My father was adopted and my mother's father died before she was born and I don't really talk to my mother to find out.

When the doctors weren't there, a nun with a guitar was. She had no idea what my problem was, but she was there to play and not to judge. She was shocked that I was thirty years younger than the rest of the patients in the Cardiac Care Unit. I'm sure she thought I had survived an OD, which is what everyone thought, but she never let on how she felt about it.

She played songs that I didn't know. They were sappy and Christian, but her voice was calm and sweet and she smiled all the time. I needed that.

I had five days of waiting before the surgery that would either kill me or save me. It was rough. I didn't have friends or family around to share with, but I could hear the words and sentiments of my roommate's family and I just pretended that their words were mine. It filled me up. When I needed to relax, I could listen to U2's The Joshua Tree and that was enough to make me feel like life was worth it, even if it was going to end soon.

Life redefined itself in those five days. I was being rolled down into the OR wearing support hose and holding the hand of a girl that I didn't know, and life was worth it. I had fun. I knew people. I had been places. I had lived. It was short, but it was worthy. Yes, no one was here with me, but that is how it goes sometimes. You can pick the wrong people.

I never thought about what I would do if I survived. I never made any claims to be a better person or to do this or that better if I lived. But I did. I did survive and I did make it better.

The day I died, was the day my temper died. It was the day that little things that mattered to me, ceased to matter. The day I died, was the first day that I was ever able to appreciate life for what it was. The day I died, something new was born. For no other reason, I survived just so I could insure that I was able to take off the support hose before anyone saw me in them.

10 days that make the difference - part three

It's a cold day. There is a light snow falling in the wind. The sky is grey. There is a small gathering of distant relatives assembled. My father is there, but we aren't speaking to each other. My grandmother is there, but she's not speaking to anyone. Well, not with words anyway.

She has shrunk to a paltry 85 pounds. She's so small that they had to put her in a children's coffin. It's barely five feet long, if that.

The last time I saw her she couldn't move. She couldn't laugh. She couldn't remember my name and she couldn't hug or kiss me. She couldn't have done anything on her own. She was a shell of her former self. A little frail body, laying in a stale nursing home bed, lost without any ability to communicate or to live a life.

This woman had been my family rock and the symbol of all that I felt I was supposed to aspire to. She was my biggest fan and I adored her. We spent years together before she was placed in a nursing home and the impact of this day was indescribable.

I took her for granted. I would only visit her twice in the last two years of her life and both visits were empty. What stings me is that I never fought for her. I never tried to improve her life. I never saw her off. She died without me and without the comfort of even knowing if anyone still loved her. She died alone. Her family, which she had shown nothing but affection and support for, had turned on her and left her to rot. And I was just as guilty as the bastards that were standing around her grave next to me. Their crime had been to liquidate her assets and leave her without any way to take care of herself.

In a final act of betrayal on my part, I left the ceremony in the middle of it and never looked back. To this day, I have never spoken to any conspirators of my grandmother's demise. As I see it, the only person I wanted to talk to was in that small blue casket and there was no way that I could ask her to forgive me or to tell her that I loved her. I sat back and watched her world get dismantled and I did nothing to stop it.

It was a cold day. The ground was frozen. Snow was falling to emphasis the tone of the day. I didn't need to see her funeral. I left her there in that cold ground, by herself... Years earlier.

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It was a huge car. Green, seating for 12. Behind the wheel was a small southern woman smoking a cigarette and trying her best to look over the steering wheel at the road in front of her. She's loving the time with her grandchildren and she could care less what is being asked of her.

My older brother and I are sitting in the backseat. We are carrying on as young boys will. There is excitement in the air. We are so amped that we running laps in the backseat. The lady in front seat thinks it's cute and charming.

The ark stops in front of a huge blue building. The front of the building is being held up by huge white pillars. My brother and I file out of the ark and our grandmother leads us toward the palace. We walk in the front doors and the strong smell of popcorn fills my nose. The lobby is filled with people eating from large tubs of popcorn or candy, and sipping on sodas. It's exciting but I'm scared. My tiny hand is grasping my grandmothers as she purchases tickets and is still grasping her hand when she buys a huge tub of popcorn for us to enjoy.

I have never been in a movie theater before. The screen seemed larger than the building and the darkness rattled me a bit, but with the look of enthusiasm on my grandmother's face and the apparent lack of interest on my brother's, I knew that everything was going to be alright.

The room got darker and the screen came to life. Cartoons started to play, which made me happy. Then suddenly there was a loud noise and the words, "Star Wars" scrolled up the screen.

For the next few hours, I knew nothing of the world around me. I didn't know where I was or what I was thinking. All I knew was that when I grew up, I was going to be Han Solo.

The film ended and we left the theater with half of tub of popcorn and big 4 year old dreams. The door opened on the outside world and the brightness of the day blinded me. It almost single-handily erased the experience.

My grandmother is the only reason that I carried my love of that film to this day. She was a constant reminder that one day I was going to be her Han Solo and fly across the universe.

I have spent more time in movie theaters than I have spent in love. It may not seem like much, but the selflessness of one grandmother has been the strongest magic I have ever known.

10 days that make the difference - part two

It's St. Patrick's day. Seventh period. I am in a drafting class. I am nervous and watching the clock. At 2:00 o'clock, I go to the bath room. Instead of walking the twenty steps to the left which will take me directly to the bathroom, I walk to the right and down the stairs to the back hall way of my school.

When I get to the bottom, she's there waiting. I wave at her and begin to open a door with a stolen key that is in my possession. I am so nervous that it takes a few tries to get it to work. She doesn't see this as she is still walking over. It finally opens and we walk into an athletic supply closet. It smells like gym class.

We kiss and begin to take off our clothes awkwardly. She lays down. I lay down on top of her and for the first time, I have sex.

Her name is Layla. She's Korean. We would end up meeting in the same spot, every other day for the next two months. We got pretty good at it. But our world was only meant to be in that smelly closet at 2 o'clock. We would never know each other outside of that closet.

That closet and I would get to know several dozen other women over the next two years before it was discovered that I the key and it was taken away from me. It didn't matter, my reputation was established by this point and I had taken my sex life outside of that closet. I missed it's convenience, but I found other places in the school that smelled better and had more sound proofing.

This sounds really stilted, but it's a good memory with very little fan fair. If it hadn't been the first, it wouldn't have been that memorable. Well, if it hadn't been the first and in my school.

-------------

I am sitting in a hospital, bleeding and scared. I'm pretty sure that I have overdosed or that I have been shot. I can't tell anyone my real name or how I got here, and I know that if I don't, they will put my in the lockdown for three days for observation or until I do tell them what they need to know. I have two hundred dollars in twenties in my hand. My ass hurts. I hyperventilate from the fear and pass out.

It was a time of debauchery and limitless opportunity. There was hedonism everywhere and all you had to do was have long hair and you could have as much of it as you wanted. My hair was down to the middle of my back and I was cashing in every chance I could.

I was pretty well known for my exploits and my reputation extended past the walls of my schools. I had been frequenting a home in the rich part of town, that was well known for it's seedy behavior every night of the week. I was there every night, after night, after night. There was always a party going on and I loved parties. I loved damage. I loved finding the edge. I loved new things. I had no reason to go home or a home to go to. School was my only obligation and I was young and sexually active, which trumped all other obligations.

It was the daughter of the home owner that brought me in. She had a thing for me and I could have cared less about her, I just wanted in to that famous den of sin. Her father was the one I needed to know. He was a drug dealer, a smut peddler and an all around cool guy. The fact that his daughter introduced us didn't mean a thing to him. And she soon moved on to some other long haired guy.

Her father and I took to each other right away. He was a business man who knew all the angles and in me, he could see that we were going to make a lot of money. I was so single minded of purpose that I didn't care about the money, I just wanted the sex.

"Sheppard" as I knew him, introduced me to people that wanted to watch me "dance". From there is was people that wanted to "film" me and from there to people that wanted to "date". All of these people were willing to pay me. I was too stupid and too excited to know better. I did it all. This made Shep happy and it kept me in the money that I needed to continue to party.

I was too excited to learn any valuable lessons, the only thing I needed to know was - Money meant success. Success meant that I was popular. Popularity meant more money. My night life lasted so long that I started missing school so I could make it to film shoots, arranged dates and to take extended trips with clients. Money - success - popularity - more money... Who cares, I was getting laid.

Sure, they weren't people that I wanted to sleep with, but they made it possible fore me to sleep with the ones I did want too, so it all worked out.

My evenings became a blur and the days that I didn't work I spent in a parked car with a rich friend of mine taking acid, drinking robotussien and cheap beer, smoking pot and endless amounts of cigarettes and for reasons that I still don't understand to this day, sniffing Vick's Vapor Rub. It was an all-night undertaking and I loved it. This is what I called unwinding from my daily grind.

The night started with a me in Anatomy class. It's was 8 and I needed to get to the shoot by 9. I was a pretty good distance away, so I chose to skip out so I would have time to get high before the shoot.

It was a different director. A different set of actors. A different feel. Sheppard had vouched for them, but I wasn't cool with it. Of course, this is what I do and it is never wrong, so why worry. The first thing to go wrong, the director is walking around with extra money. That never happens. Not unless something really weird is about to go down. Directors are famous for saying, "hey, for some extra cash would you be willing to do.. blah, blah, blah?" You're so high or greedy that you say yes to anything.

There are four other male actors in the room. Three black guys that I have never heard of and some white dudes that look really scared. I assume that this is their first or that they are cops, either way, I don't care. A cop on film is a cop in jail. If it's their first time, big deal. Grow up or get out! I don't have time for whiners in my fantasy world.

There is never a script, just scene descriptions and some pointers. This is supposed to be some simple one-on-ones for compilations. Instead the director thinks we should do something more "creative".

I am driving to my rich friend's house and I can't see. My head is spinning. My pants are wet. I can barely sit and I am 500 dollars richer. The shoot took a lot of weed and a lot of wine to get through. It was rape scenarios and they all got nasty. I was so fucked up, I don't remember what happened or how long it lasted or who was involved.

When I arrive at my friend's house, he sells me what I need and we get to it. In the pitch black of his car, he can see that I am pale and that I don't look right. Never tell someone that is fucked up on drugs that there is something wrong, it will turn on them and make the experience a bad one. Best to keep the status quo and go with the flow.

Neither one of us can drive, but we have to get me to Truman Medical center and see what's wrong with me. It's a long drive and we make it in record time for someone so screwed up behind the wheel. When I get out of the car there is a lot of blood on my pants and my friend sees this and freaks out. He's so scared, that he drives off and leaves me there. When I saw him again, months later, he told me he didn't want anyone to think that he had been the one that had done that to me.

I was torn up pretty badly and I was trying to lie as to who I was and what was wrong with me. I was trying to act sober, which was all but impossible, but I tried. They assumed I had been assaulted and were going to call the cops. I tried to convince them that it was an accident, but nothing I was saying was coming out right. Somehow I told them that things had gotten rough, but it wasn't an assault. It was the first time in my life that I had to be ashamed about something I had done sexually. The first time.

Of course, the examination revealed what was wrong and suddenly no one was too worried about how I had injured myself, it was pretty obvious and it could have been the drugs, or my imagination or it could have happened, but the staff was laughing at me. Laughing at me. Someone who gets paid to fuck for a living. Someone living the dream life that you will never have. How dare you laugh at me!

I had the flu. I was bleeding, but that's because I agreed to do something stupid. It was all the partying, the drugs, and no rest or food that had led me to grow to weak and to sick to fight off a fucking cold.. It didn't matter to me. Two days later I tried to work on another film and was fired. It would be the last time I ever worked on camera. I continued to have dates for a few more years, and I continued to take drugs, but never with the same enthusiasm as the days before the fall.

Sex ceased to be pure. As much as I had done, I had never been ashamed or wrong. Now, I had seen the darker side of sex and I felt dirty and ashamed.

10 days that make the difference - part one

I am in an airplane bathroom, looking into the mirror, crying. I am on a flight that is sending me from my home in Washington state to a new home, a new family and a new life in the Midwest. I know that things are wrong and I am crying because I feel like I fucked everything up and brought this on myself. I am crying because I know that there is nothing I can do to remedy the situation, it has gone past the point of no return and this moment in the airplane bathroom is the last moment I will ever have to let my feelings out. From now on, I have to live with it. Sometimes the bad guys win, the truth is lost, the wrong guy gets the girl, and sometimes the best thing that can happen is to let the worst possible nightmare become the dream.

A few weeks before this I am pointing a gun at my mother and telling her how much I want to kill her. I have already used ski poles and glares to make my point, but this gun seems to be making the biggest impact. Eventually it will be a test of wills that will bring about the necessary changes. Not the ones that need to be made, but changes nonetheless.

That summer, my family had taken in a Japanese exchange student and there was a lot of family activity that I had not seen in a long time. Normally the family lived in several different places and were busy with other things. Occasionally we would all be together, but not in a long, long time. It was pretty standard for me and my brother to be left to fend for ourselves. Now, with the addition of an exchange student, we were a family. Sort of. We were together, or at least we were in the same house every night, which was pretty abnormal, but the family planning ended up not involving me a lot of the time. I was feeling pretty left out of the family deal and it pissed me off. It finally boiled over when I woke up one day and found the entire family had gone swimming and left me at home. That was the final act and I barricaded myself in the basement and demanded to be traded to another family.

My protest lasted four days before my demands were met and I was on a plane a few weeks later.

If you think I over reacted to the situation or was acting hastily remember this - I was 11. That's 11 years of being viewed as an outsider in my own family. An 11 year old had a reason to want out. How does that happen?

I am crying in that bathroom because I felt it was my fault. Abuse is something that builds and the wounds calcify the soul. The weight of the emotional scars wear down the soul until it can take no more and it has to break free. I was fortunate to be on that plane, even though it set a tone for my family relationships that lasts to this day.

I remember that day like it was yesterday.

-------------

I am driving a beat up Buick Century that is running on only 5 of it's 6 cylinders. That car is barely doing 66 miles an hour and it's eating gas like a stock car as we roll down the highway to Hutchinson, Kansas. In the car with me is Dave Free, another comic that I have come to know as a good friend and great man. We are both broke, starving, unprepared and feeling like this night will make us famous.

A few weeks earlier, I was pacing in a small hallway thinking of what I wanted to say in the next three minutes. For some reason, my stomach isn't upset, I am not sweaty and I am not overly nervous, but I can't stop going to the bathroom to clear out my bowels. And for the weirdest reason of all - "If something does go wrong, I don't want to shit my pants". I have never shit my pants before, but I have never performed comedy before, so it could happen. Of all the things that could go wrong, that is the weirdest thing to be worried about at that moment.

They call my name, I went on stage. I was funny. I crammed two hours of material into three minutes and I felt pretty good about it. The audience approved. I was on my way.

We arrived in Hutchinson and found the bar that we would be performing at later that night. It's a small road house in the downtown corridor, but it feels more like Madison Square Garden to us. The owners direct us to a hotel and tell us that show time is at 8. We leave there smiling and feeling like rock stars.

We share a room at the hotel because neither of us is aware that they got us both a room of our own. Our ignorance is staggering, but our egos and our ambition is even more staggering.

It's 2 o'clock in the afternoon. We had left so early that we got there light years before we were supposed to. Again, ignorance and excitement. Both of us had packed a full suitcase of clothes and bathroom essentials and we were only there for one night.

We decided to "tour" Hutchinson and see all the sights in our free time. This was our New York, our Paris. Our big time. We were in a town hours away from home, walking down it's main street, sight seeing. Comedy had brought us here. We were not working in cheap restaurants or car washes. We were sightseeing, and getting paid for it. (If you have never been to Hutchinson, Kansas, I suggest you go. They have a great aerospace museum with the original Apollo 13 capsule and other amazing pieces of flying nostalgia.) We were loving it.

The our meal was the best meal in the world because it was free. The crowd was small. The laughs were small. Our impact was small. The memory was huge. My first road gig. I was a huge flop in terms of entertainment value, but it was the first step in a weird and new career that I am still involved with today. I was paid 50 bucks. A fortune at that time.

Later that night, we were invited to a banquet at a bingo hall and people came up to us and wanted autographs because they had heard that we were "comics" and somehow that meant we were famous. We were famous. My first autograph... "To Rebecca... I'm glad you enjoyed my show. I hope to see you next time I'm in town. Thanks for everything. Daniel Rock."

I don't remember the drive home or the next show, or the one after that.

inside the mind of daniel

I have done the requested writing. I have answered your questions. I have read most of your blogs. I have tried to read most of your emails.

Do you feel like you know me yet?

Is there some part of my life that I haven't told you about? Is there something about my life that I am leaving out?

For those of you that have met me, you can hear these words coming from my lips and you can hear the accent. You can see my face dance around. You can see me smirk.

For those of you who have never met me, you have no idea what I am like, what I might be hiding, if I am a recluse, or shy, or unassuming. You don't have any idea if the things I am writing are false bravado or if they are the ramblings of a madman that is hellbent on taking over the world. Am I cult leader, a drug user, a slacker or a child molestor.

If you want to know what's going on with my mind... give me two days to come up with a two part post where I will let you in on what I think you need to know. Look for the first post on Tuesday.

Hopefully we can clear up some pressing issues.

chicken sneezes

The Borden family was murdered. To this day, it is unsolved. The only member of the Borden family to escape the grizzly murders of that day was Lizzie. The murders were committed during the day and the family was chopped up with an axe. Nothing was stolen from the house and Lizzie didn't see or hear anything during the grizzly crime spree.

Lizzie played it cool and was actually viewed as a victim and someone who was fortunate to have survived the brutality. She was embraced by the community which did not doubt her claims of innocence for one second. At the time there was no way that a woman could have been guilty of such a horrendous crime and Lizzie was from a respectable family, and respectable people don't commit crimes. Nice people don't use axes. Nice people never lie.

Lizzie was eventually tried because there was no other suspects to point the finger at. The case was so high profile for the day, that the public demanded a trial and they wanted it to clear Lizzie and uncover the real killer. It was not unlike the Scott Peterson Trial. It meant nothing to anyone that wasn't a friend or relative of those involved, but everyone in the world felt like they were invested in it.

The trial cleared Lizzie, but it never solved the puzzle and the people of the world were shocked! This was too juicy of a riddle not to have an answer. When you read a mystery novel, or watch a movie, you don't expect to walk away from it without a resolution. You expect to walk away with some answers. If you knew the novel was going to leave you with questions that didn't have answers, you wouldn't read it.

Lizzie got off because people could not and would not allow themselves to believe that one of their own could commit such an act. Lizzie got off because the town would rather live with the illusion of living in a utopian society than to admit that there was a flaw in their design.

The town fell apart after that. People who had once championed Lizzie and defended her, would no longer accept in her in social circles. Lizzie was the missing piece of the puzzle that no one wanted to put in place. Everyone knew she was guilty, but could not say it out loud. They could treat her like an outcast, but to admit her culpability in the matter would be acknowledging their own.

On any given day in the wonders of nature's backyard, you can walk through the world and be a witness to a secret, or a missing puzzle piece. Such as... Chicken sneezes. Do they sneeze? Is it something that they can do? Do chickens have a reason to sneeze? Do chickens have allergies?

On a regular day here in the forgotten mountains, I am sitting and stewing on the unexplained mystery of Lizzie Borden scandal and I am given the gift of witnessing a solution to a mystery that has been millennia in the making. Chickens... Sneeze. Yes, they do. Right in front of me! This mystery novel has finally been revised to include a resolution. The bad guy in the movie is killed in the final act. Lizzie Borden is found guilty. A town full of utopians finally sees that their social fabric is made of cheese cloth. I could care less about Lizzie's guilt! I have seen a chicken sneeze!

A chicken that was nearby almost said, "Excuse me". Caught up in the trivial nature of human behavior, I almost forgot about the most interesting mysteries that life has to offer. Not the weird ones that Time/Life makes books about, but the little ones that we overlook like, "do chickens sneeze".

Yes they do... and Lizzie killed her family.

i know oscar

Here are my picks for the upcoming oscars and a little bit extra for you to ponder.

Performance by an actor in a leading role
Philip Seymour Hoffman in "Capote" (UA/Sony Pictures Classics)
Terrence Howard in "Hustle & Flow" (Paramount Classics, MTV Films and New Deal Entertainment)
Heath Ledger in "Brokeback Mountain" (Focus Features)
Joaquin Phoenix in "Walk the Line" (20th Century Fox)
David Strathairn in "Good Night, and Good Luck." (Warner Independent Pictures)

WINNER: Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Heath isn't ready. Joaquin could take it, but no one likes a hair lip. Terrence and David are filler nods. Note: None of them have previous nods. Phillip is a Caine Murray award winner.

Performance by an actor in a supporting role
George Clooney in "Syriana" (Warner Bros.)
Matt Dillon in "Crash" (Lions Gate)
Paul Giamatti in "Cinderella Man" (Universal and Miramax)
Jake Gyllenhaal in "Brokeback Mountain" (Focus Features)
William Hurt in "A History of Violence" (New Line)

WINNER: Paul Giamatti. They snubbed him in "Sideways" so it's make up time. Clooney is political. Dillion and Hurt are Career vote choices and cancel each other out and Jake is trumped by Heath. Where is Mickey Rourke for Sin City?

Performance by an actress in a leading role
Judi Dench in "Mrs. Henderson Presents" (The Weinstein Company)
Felicity Huffman in "Transamerica" (The Weinstein Company and IFC Films)
Keira Knightley in "Pride & Prejudice" (Focus Features)
Charlize Theron in "North Country" (Warner Bros.)
Reese Witherspoon in "Walk the Line" (20th Century Fox)

WINNER: Reese Witherspoon. She's a damn fine woman. Judi already has one and is a "Dame" to boot. Felicity is in a movie no one watched. Charlize already has one and is in a movie no one watched.

Performance by an actress in a supporting role
Amy Adams in "Junebug" (Sony Pictures Classics)
Catherine Keener in "Capote" (UA/Sony Pictures Classics)
Frances McDormand in "North Country" (Warner Bros.)
Rachel Weisz in "The Constant Gardener" (Focus Features)
Michelle Williams in "Brokeback Mountain" (Focus Features)

WINNER: Catherine Keener. Amy Adams? Who? Frances has one. Rachel will have another year and is just too weird. Michelle Williams is trumped by Heath and that Toby McGuire looking dude.

Achievement in art direction
"Good Night, and Good Luck." (Warner Independent Pictures) Jim Bissell, Jan Pascale
"Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" (Warner Bros.) Stuart Craig, Stephenie McMillan
"King Kong" (Universal) Grant Major,Dan Hennah and Simon Bright
"Memoirs of a Geisha" (Sony Pictures Releasing) John Myhre, Gretchen Rau
"Pride & Prejudice" (Focus Features) Sarah Greenwood, Katie Spencer

WINNER: KING KONG. Period pieces are boring. So are Asian pieces. Harry potter can't win every year. Cough - cough - ahem.... Hello... anyone ever see Sin City????

Achievement in cinematography
"Batman Begins" (Warner Bros.) Wally Pfister
"Brokeback Mountain" (Focus Features) Rodrigo Prieto
"Good Night, and Good Luck." (Warner Independent Pictures) Robert Elswit
"Memoirs of a Geisha" (Sony Pictures Releasing) Dion Beebe
"The New World" (New Line) Emmanuel Lubezki

WINNER: The New World. Never, EVER go up against Terrance Malick. Ever. Cameras get nervous when he's around. He's that good. But Sin City was a close second. These other films are shit visually.

Achievement in costume design
"Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" (Warner Bros.) Gabriella Pescucci
"Memoirs of a Geisha" (Sony Pictures Releasing) Colleen Atwood
"Mrs. Henderson Presents" (The Weinstein Company) Sandy Powell
"Pride & Prejudice" (Focus Features) Jacqueline Durran
"Walk the Line" (20th Century Fox) Arianne Phillips

WINNER: Charlie and the blah, blah, blah. Naria should be here. Sin City too(Check out the girls in old town)

Achievement in directing
"Brokeback Mountain" (Focus Features) Ang Lee
"Capote" (UA/Sony Pictures Classics) Bennett Miller
"Crash" (Lions Gate) Paul Haggis
"Good Night, and Good Luck." (Warner Independent Pictures) George Clooney
"Munich" (Universal and DreamWorks) Steven Spielberg

WINNER: Ang Lee. Fact: To be the best picture, you have to win best director. There have been very few exceptions to this rule. Robert Rodriguez needs some love.

Achievement in film editing
"Cinderella Man" (Universal and Miramax) Mike Hill and Dan Hanley
"The Constant Gardener" (Focus Features) Claire Simpson
"Crash" (Lions Gate) Hughes Winborne
"Munich" (Universal and DreamWorks) Michael Kahn
"Walk the Line" (20th Century Fox) Michael McCusker

WINNER: Crash. When they look at editing the look for new techniques. Munich loses because of Speilberg. Line was nothing special. Ever edited live action and made it look like a comicbook.. Sin City did it!

Best foreign language film of the year
"Don't Tell" Italy
"Joyeux Noël" France
"Paradise Now" Palestine
"Sophie Scholl - The Final Days" Germany
"Tsotsi" South Africa

WINNER: Toss up each and every year. Doesn't matter. Let's say Germany. Why not? Note: There were no foreign languages spoken in Sin City, so for that reason alone, I will accept their snub in this category.

Achievement in makeup
"The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" (Buena Vista) Howard Berger and Tami Lane
"Cinderella Man" (Universal and Miramax) David Leroy Anderson and Lance Anderson
"Star Wars: Episode III Revenge of the Sith" Dave Elsey and Nikki Gooley

WINNER: Naria. No question. No one likes George Lucas and fighting make up is boring. Again, Where in the hell is Sin City?

Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original score)
"Brokeback Mountain" (Focus Features) Gustavo Santaolalla
"The Constant Gardener" (Focus Features) Alberto Iglesias
"Memoirs of a Geisha" (Sony Pictures Releasing) John Williams
"Munich" (Universal and DreamWorks) John Williams
"Pride & Prejudice" (Focus Features) Dario Marianelli

WINNER: John Williams has the most oscars of anyone in history. But let's go Brokeback here. Just for fun. Sin City had a good score, but it wasn't sweeping enough for a nod.

Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original song)
"In the Deep" from Music by Kathleen "Bird" York and Michael Becker
"Crash" Lyric by Kathleen "Bird" York
"It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" from Music and Lyric by Jordan Houston, Cedric Coleman
"Hustle & Flow" and Paul Beauregard
"Travelin' Thru" from Music and Lyric by Dolly Parton "Transamerica"

WINNER: PIMP. Reason, think Shaft and Superfly. The academy loves them some jungle fever and there was no singin' in Sin City.

Best motion picture of the year
"Brokeback Mountain" (Focus Features) Diana Ossana and James Schamus
"Capote" (UA/Sony Pictures Classics) Caroline Baron, William Vince and Michael Ohoven
"Crash" (Lions Gate) Paul Haggis and Cathy Schulmanon
"Good Night, and Good Luck." Grant Heslov, Producer
"Munich" (Universal and DreamWorks) Kathleen Kennedy, Steven Spielberg

WINNER: Brokeback Mountain. Everyone loves a scandal. Again, Sin City? Hello!!! Fucking fruit cakes in the academy love to keep it close to the closotomy bag, don't they? Fools!!!!

Achievement in visual effects
"The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch Dean Wright, Bill Westenhofer, Jim Berney and
and the Wardrobe" (Buena Vista) Scott Farrar
"King Kong" Joe Letteri, Brian Van't Hul, Christian Rivers and Richard Taylor
"War of the Worlds" Dennis Muren, Pablo Helman, Randal M. Dutra and Daniel Sudick

WINNER: KING KONG. No reason, just prettier. Sin City anyone???

Adapted screenplay
"Brokeback Mountain" (Focus Features) Screenplay by Larry McMurtry & Diana Ossana
"Capote" (UA/Sony Pictures Classics) Screenplay by Dan Futterman
"The Constant Gardener" (Focus Features) Screenplay by Jeffrey Caine
"A History of Violence" (New Line) Screenplay by Josh Olson
"Munich" (Universal and DreamWorks) Screenplay by Tony Kushner and Eric Roth

WINNER: A History of Violence. Again toss up votes. Sin City??? Perhaps just one goddamn nod???

Original screenplay
"Crash" Paul Haggis & Bobby Moresco
"Good Night, and Good Luck." George Clooney & Grant Heslov
"Match Point" Woody Allen
"The Squid and the Whale" Noah Baumbach
"Syriana" Stephen Gagh

WINNER: Syriana. The others are fillers. This is a catagory that looks for smart. Woody has never been smart. The others are dull. Missing in this one.. Star Wars 3.

The votes are usually only serious when it comes to the big eight: Movie, Director, Actor, Actress, Sup Actor, Sup Actress, Screenplay, and Best Foley. After that, no one in the academy cares. Honestly. If you are going to put money down, keep it to the big eight and nothing more.

Each year there are notable snubs. This year is full of them. Quite possibly the most outrageous snub was US, the viewing audience. There should be an award for having to sit through this dribble. Note: Sin City was a damn fine film. Damn fine!

because i nailed the superbowl

Well... my score was almost on the money, but I was not able to foresee the involvement of the officiating staff and that changed the outcome of the game. Had the refs not carried an agenda into the game, the final score would have been the 20 - 13 final that I promised. Damn the man! It's always something! I guess we should rank bookies as one of the more powerful entities working behind the curtain.

So, with that in mind, I will now prognosticate on what I think will happen at the upcoming Oscars. I usually miss one out of the biggies, but that's still enough of a record to make some money in your office pool. The few ringers that have stumped me have haunted my soul and they make me sweat every time I lay down my picks. I can never tell which ringer it's going to be. I think I have this down to a science, you tell me...

First, I need to tell you how oscar voting works and what trends we have seen in the past.

Oscars are voted on by the academy of motion picture arts and sciences which is made up of former actors, directors, editors, etc. People that have been involved in film making in one way or another and have, what the academy feels, is an insider knowledge into the craft that we, the lowly nobodies, have no clue about. It starts back in December when the major studios start to lobby the members in the trade magazines such as the Hollywood Reporter and Variety. They take out full page ads asking members to nominate their film for respective categories. The members are then sent a nomination ballot and they write in their choices and send in whom they feel ought to be recognized. I say recognized, and not "win" as being nominated carries with it just as much clout as actually winning. Sometimes it carries more weight. If you won once. That's nothing. If you have never won, but have been nominated five times, that means you are something. Anyway, the top vote getters are announced in January and then the real campaigning begins. Miramax is usually the best at campaigning for their films. They could take that talent to politics and make a real impact on the world stage if they wanted too. They're that good. (Clint Eastwood is second best)

If you are a member that has not seen one of the films nominated, don't worry, the studios send out a special version of the movie to your house. If you prefer to see them on the big screen, you can go to one of hundreds of special screenings of the film that the studios put on specifically for you. Most of the members are well into their late 60's or 70's and they rarely watch most of the movies. Who has the time? In any year, there are fifty films, that you haven't seen, that are nominated and you don't want to watch half of them if you are just looking at their "editing".

The final voting is done with another mail in ballot and that's usually finished off before the end of February. The votes are sent to Price Waterhouse in New York where they are tabulated and the winners name is printed on a card for the big show. These cards are held in a vault which is sealed and guarded by elderly ladies that love to talk your ear off, which prevents most people from coming anywhere near the vault.

The votes are then sent to Hollywood the day before the show and are held in a briefcase which is handcuffed to a representative of Price Waterhouse. The statues that are handed out have nothing printed on them and are just replicas of the actual awards which the winner will finally receive. It's not until you send the replica back in do they print your name on it. This can take up to nine months. Most people forget to send them in.. Odd isn't it? If you have never seen an actual oscar, or held one, they are pretty dull looking compared to the SAG Award or the Golden Globe, but the Oscar is heavier, both spiritually and literally.

The academy votes following these guidelines... Traditionally.

1. Two for one. If two people are nominated in the same category for the same film, they negate each other and neither one wins. Example: Susan Surandon and Geena Davis in "Thelma and Louise". One can not win over the other. It has never been done.
2. Ugly, age, and disability are always front runners. Examples: Geoffory Rush in "Shine". Daniel Day Lewis in "My Left Foot". Charlize Theron in "Monster". The few times that this hasn't been the case: Tom Cruise in "Born on the Fourth of July" and Brad Pitt in "12 Monkeys". Otherwise the academy loves a crippled old ugly person. If they're gay. BINGO! The deeper the debilitation, the stronger the chances for the award. Example: Dustin Hoffman in "Rain Man" and Tom Hanks in "Philadelphia".
3. Career. If an actor has been around awhile without ever having won the award, they are automatic winners. The only time this hasn't been true is with that old lady from "Titanic". Other than that, old "friends" always get the nod. It's a charity vote and it sucks.
4. Dark Horse. There is a streak of youth in the academy that somehow is always able to show that "impact on the art" is more important than actual, "talent". This was true in the case of "Midnight Cowboy" and "American Beauty". Both films were average in skill level, yet both won the big award. This sentiment is what wins Clint Eastwood most of his awards. "Unforgiven" and "Million Dollar Baby" were not the best films of that year by far, but Clint is a publicity machine. He spends little on his films so he can spend three times as much promoting them to the academy. Not you! The academy. He loves to play the Career card with the Dark Horse twist. "My films are not showy, just great!" ... Very broody. Very Clint.
5. If you ain't never heard of them, don't vote for them. The only category in which a nobody will win the academy award is "supporting role". These categories are set up to recognize nobodies that may be something in the future. Sadly, this can also be a kiss of death for some. Examples: Mira Sorvino, Marisa Tomei, Cuba Gooding, Timothy Hutton. These are people that shined in one role and then fell off the face of the planet. If they hadn't won the award, you wouldn't even know who I was talking about. (Do you remember the name of the guy from "The Crying Game" that lost?) Sometimes this award is also were they will recognize an old friend on his way out, or so it would seem. Example: Paul Scofield in "Quiz Show".
6. Politics are bad. If your film, or you personally, or your performance has political overtones, forget it. No one likes a preacher. This is also called the Oliver Stone/Tim Robbins condition. Both men have made interesting films but they always have secret agendas to them and so therefore they rarely get nods. Tim Robbins does get nods, but he is not as "loud" politically as he used to be.
7. Don't show, or reject the award, and it's never again. The award has been given out to two big named stars that refused it; Marlon Brando and George C. Scott. Neither man ever won the award after their snubbing.
8. Never been done before. The academy loves to shock you, as they see it. In their minds, voting for the first black actor or the first Latino actor or a child, is always a good way to mix things up. However, once it's done, it takes twenty years before it will happen again. So, as they say, "Don't bet on the young colored horse to win." This trend is actually disappearing as of late because the old bigoted members are dying off. Thankfully.
9. The best sunset always wins the best picture. Historically, the film with the best vision of the sun setting or rising or breaking through the clouds, is always the winner. Old people love a good sunset as they see sunsets, metaphorically, as the best part of life, which is where most of them are. So it's tongue in cheek to them.
10. Money. Or the Jerry Bruckeheimer rule. If you make shit, you are shit. The academy doesn't like money makers. They like film. If you're using film to make money, then don't look for a nod.
11. Television. If you are a television star or dabble in television with a certain amount of frequency, forget it. The lesser art of television is enough to screw you out a nod.
12. One face, one role. If you are one dimensional and can only pull off one character, forget it. This could be called the Keanu Reeves/Christopher Walken award. True, Walken did get a nod earlier in his career, but never again. He is going to have to wait for the "career" nod and win.

Okay, that's it. Take these rules and apply them to this year's nominees. See what you come up with. If you were worried about the other spots....

As far as the technical awards. They don't even make the show. They are usually handed out a day before in a small ceremony which is held in a hotel ballroom and they only get a small mention on the nationally televised award show. These awards are all voted on by technical specialists and so therefore, are genuine awards. Thankfully, the aging academy had no say in this department.

I will post my choices for the winners tomorrow. For now, take the rules from above and visit oscar.com to size up who you think will win and then we can compare notes tomorrow. Be advised, the academy does nominate people that they know will never win. The nomination is their reward... That's the way they see it. Look at them as fillers.

i'm not sure i love the 90's that much

VH 1 used to be a modest version of MTV. When it first started in the 80's, it specialized in showing adult contemporary videos that were too tame for the youngsters watching MTV. VH 1 wanted to corner the market in showing Basia, Chicago and Elton John videos. The only programs that they would show were designed to break up the non-stop videos. In fact, I can only remember one show in all that programing and it was a terrible comedy show hosted by Rosie O'Donnell. In yet another twist of fate in my life, I never watched that comedy show as I was not a fan of stand up and yet, look at me now... I'm still not a fan of stand up and I am still not a fan of Rosie O'Donnell, perhaps because they both represent a break in the regular programming.

If you want to watch adult contemporary videos these days, you will be hard pressed to find an outlet. Of course, if you want to watch any kind of videos, you will be hard pressed to find an outlet. MTV and VH 1 have both abandoned videos for creative programming that is as mentally stimulating as booger sculptures. I'm not really sure when the creative powers (and I use the term creative, very loosely) decided that they should abandon the programming that made them successful and take up a new approach. I guess they could see the future and could sense that people would rather remember their past than to make a future or exist in a present. All of the shows that they started programming were flashback shows and required very little effort to produce, just some decent memory recall.

It started simply with "Behind the music" which did a good job of making every band that you ever loved look like greedy, little drug addicts. From there it sprouted into top 100 lists; best rock songs of all time, of the ninties, of the eighties. best female rockers of all time, of the ninties, of the eighties. Most rock and roll moments of all time, of the fifties, of the sixties, of the seventies, etc.. From there it mutated into a show that I just don't get at all. The "I love the (random decade)" series. It started with the 80's and mutated into seven sequels. A 90's edition, a 70's edition, another 80's edition, another 70's edition, another 90's edition and then with the success of these shows, we have been given "best week ever". A sort of "I love last week" show, staring the biggest idiots and the weakest comics ever. I guess it's true... we do have terrible memories. Bad enough that we have to be reminded about what happened last week and we get giddy about it.

Today, if you see a video on VH 1 or MTV it's probably only a clip in a "remember when" show. It makes you wonder what kind of show they are going to come up with when they film the "I love the 00's". I guess it will be filled with clips of clip shows.

Perhaps I am being a little critical and I should embrace what VH 1 is doing. Perhaps I should look at what they are doing from a different angle. Maybe what VH 1 is doing is creating a historical record and they are trying to preserve cultural icons for future generations to appreciate. I'm sure that when our great great grandchildren look back on our little corner of history and compare it with other corners of history, they will see that we had much better soda than the dullards of the 1490's. Hopefully they will see just how hard we worked to make the future better for them. Perhaps they will see how selfless we were. I'm sure that our distant relatives will look back on our days on this planet and see just how impressive we were. How we all worked together. How we took all that talk of peace, love and understanding from the previous generations and made it a reality. How we were the generation that learned from the past and put an end to repeative and destructive behaviors. Yes, I think our great great grand children will see just how amazing we were.

Of course they could look back on us with the same sentiment that we do when we look back on those lazy bastards of the... of the... well, you know who they are. Perhaps our great great grandchildren will look back on us and scoff at our inability to travel in space, breath under water (or on land for that matter), or vote effectively. Perhaps our great great grandchildren will think us to be dullards and idiots... All because we let Rosie O'Donnell ruin VH 1.

aunt winnie signs off

My cousin emailed me the other day... Our Aunt Winnie died. She had been battling to stay alive for years, but finally her heritage caught up with her and she laid down her sword. Aunt Winnie represents my native heritage and succumbed to genetics. This is something that anyone with native genes understands - our blood, for all of it's purity and noblity, has a short shelf life. It wasn't always this way. With the introduction of white explorers and their foreign diseases and their sugar rich diet to the native experience, an unknown deal was brokered and it would signal the end of healthy living for every native. They should have killed whitey when they had the chance. Or, at least, stayed away from his twinkies.

Winnie died of complications from cancer, diabetes and other genetic nightmares.

I never knew her. By the time I knew I had an Aunt Winnie, I was mourning the loss of my father who had just died from his dance with the unknown genetic nightmare and I wasn't in a position to really appreciate her. Winnie would be one of several siblings that my father would never know that he had or get the chance to meet. It would take him getting sick to open the doors to his past and it would bring his secret heritage to light. Before he could fully appreciate who he was, he died. He never knew where he came from or what kind of past he was a part of. That left me to meet those that he never knew and that never knew him. It was difficult position to be in for me, and for his new relatives. They didn't appreciate the blind-siding and were not all that crazy about embracing their lost sibling. At least, not right away. Then add to the fact that they only learned of his existence after he died.

One of his sisters and one brother would come to his funeral and from there a new family history was exposed to me. Relatives that carried with them answers to questions that had haunted my family for as far back as anyone could remember, were introduced to me. They had questions, I had questions. We both got answers and most of them were hard to swallow. It all added up to a dark family secret that was never meant to see the light of day. However, with all those involved already dead, it was left to us to pick up the pieces and figure out what to do.

It was hard for both sides of this secret to reconcile with the truth and it was left to me and my cousin to do most of the "getting to know you" part. It's this same cousin that emailed to tell me that one of the few people on her side of the family that didn't mind the scandal, had passed away.

It's been over seven years since my father's passing and Winnie had been suffering long before my father died. Her age.. I don't know exactly, but somewhere close to 50. My father died at the age of 48. The average life expectance of an American.. 72. A Native American... 49. Diabetes owns us. Cancer seems to be jealous of this and fights to make it's mark on us as well. It's a bitter reminder that this show isn't going to last forever and that there might not be a curtain call.

I never knew Winnie... but she lives in me in ways that I can't not describe to you. It's in moments like this that I am reminded that I cannot let difficult and awkward questions scare me from discovering who and what I am. If I am going to rail on about being honest and embracing one's self, then I think I should dig deeper into my own past and see what it means for my future. I would hate to think that if I died, that a branch of my family's tree would be lost forever because I was too much of a coward to find out what kind of wood my family tree is made of.

when beauty gets a headache

If you have never seen the Oregon coast I suggest you get here as soon as you possibly can and then feel free to curl up and die. It will be a peaceful passing for you, I promise. The vision of the Oregon coast can bring you that kind of peace.

I shall start my description of the coast by saying that "The Goonies" was filmed on the Oregon coast, so if you need a good staring point, that would be it. For those of you that have not seen the Oregon coast, this is for you....

Rain forest. Thick, lush, green rain forest. Filled with pines, ferns, and other lush shrubbery that absolutely dominates the towering mountains of the coast line. You can't see the tops of these mountains as there is a permanent fog bank that lives just below the summit of each mountain. The mountains meet in pristine river valleys filled with rain water and what appears to be a river of fog floating just above it. Most of the streams become waterfalls every forty feet or so, and they are far superior to the wimpy little waterfalls of Hawaii.

The streams flow down from the mountains and straight into the ocean. From the edge of the mountains to the ocean can be a distance of twenty feet or half a mile, but both sizes of landscapes are delicious in their construct. If the mountain falls straight into the ocean, huge cliffs are created and the rentless waves have crashed into them for centuries, carving hollowed out "water spouts" that channel the power of the incoming waves and send them skyward with each powerful set. It's quite a sight to see. If the mountain is set back a ways from the ocean, then you have acres of squeaky sand to appreciate. It's incredibly soft to the touch and is so fine that when you step on it, it "farts". These beaches can run for miles in either direction and there is no hope of actually seeing the beginning or end of it. You can walk or jog for hours without crossing one rock.

When possible - sea lions, seals, and other sea creatures will gather around to entertain you. It's not their ture intention, but you can pretend. It would seem that their common nature and design is to keep you captivated for hours. They know this is the Oregon coast, that's why they moved here. Seals know good oceanside real estate when they see it. But sea lions and seals mean sharks are hovering around just off shore, but the water is too cold for you to get into anyway, so shark attacks here are very rare. And again, the sharks know this is the Oregon coast, they like to keep the peace too. They wouldn't want to devalue their time share by attacking locals.

When I hear that I get to come to the Oregon coast I get pretty giddy. It's where I want to have my ashes spread when I die. It's that meaningful to me. I have the beach picked out - Oswald park. (If you ever get the chance - go!) AND NOW, I am back.... And the ocean has decided to reclaim control over the coast line. It's as if the ocean has had enough of the salt water taffy stores and the bike rental kiosks.

40 foot waves. 60 miles per hour winds. NOT ONE SEAL IN SIGHT! If you spread my ashes now, you'd be wearing them with the first wave and there would be a good chance that you would be joining me with the next wave.

It's easy to forget that we didn't create this place, we just found it and tried to make it our own. We put up slick little houses with fireplaces in them, We screw next to those fires and have the sexy Oregon coast in the background and pretend that we are one with nature. Rarely do we screw without a window in between us and the coast, but it's the best we can hope for. With these present conditions, it would be the last nookie you would ever have. However, it might be the best nookie you ever had - if you have a fear fetish. The ocean has decided that it has had enough and it is going to wipe the slate clean of these dens of debauchery. A 40 foot wave can remove any stain, even one as tough as our vanity.

The tour ends here. I have a few days of rest before the next big bounce. The next tour--- Canada and Europe. That is as far away from the recently cleansed Oregon coast as you can get. While I'm gone, make a trip to see this place, don't stay too long, but take in what you can and then leave with a happy heart.

I hope that these waves can remove the memories of angry, bitter, crazy, drunk women that I have met on this tour. If they can reclaim the side of a mountain and entire towns, then they can erase every type of ugliness that our species can come up with.